Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
The Last Knight (33 page)
heavy in his hands. He touched his fingertips to the strings but could not bring himself to play it.
He had lost her. The knowledge of it echoed like a scream in his mind, an agony in his heart, an unbearable grief in his soul. He had lost her. With a shudder, he drew his finger, once, across the lute's strings, drawing forth an aching chord.
Damion stood just inside the curtained doorway of the king's chamber, a rolled parchment held loosely in one hand.
Henry's head turned on the fine linen of his pillow to display an ashen face, ravaged by pain. Well? he said, his once gruff, booming voice reduced to a faint scratching. Has it come, then?
Damion moved forward, slowly, and held out the scroll. Yes, Sire.
Henry reached out a shaky hand, only to let it fall to his side again. I can't read it. You must tell me. Is John's name there? Has he in truth betrayed me along with the rest?
Damion stared down at the scroll in his hands. How do you tell a king that the son he loved above all others has
betrayed him? he wondered. How do you break a dying man's heart?
The silence in the room hung heavy and damning. Henry let out his breath in a long, painful sigh. It's true, then.
Yes, Your Grace. He was aware of Henry's hands clenching at the bedcovers, but he could not bring himself to look directly at the old man's face.
And why have you been chosen to bring me this news? Henry asked after a moment, his voice brusque.
Your son Geoffrey has gone to the priory to pray, while William Marshal sees to the defenses of the castle.
No, said the Old King impatiently. I mean the others. Where are the others?
Damion let his face go blank. The others? he repeated, raising his eyebrows.
So they've gone, have they? Henry's mouth twisted into a bitter line. Faster than a priest can chant matins. Scrambling over one another in their eagerness to gain favor with the new king. His gaze narrowed as he studied Damion's face. They are wise, you know. I am an old man, and unwell, and soon Richard will be king. If not tomorrow, then the next day.
Then tomorrow or the next day I will pledge Richard my fealty.
You are a chivalric fool, said Henry.
Damion smiled. I know.
Amusement flared in the older man's eyes, then faded as he reached out to clasp Damion's hand in a surprisingly strong grip. I have promised you rich rewards, Damion de Jarnac, he said, his head lifting off the pillow. But I fear I may not live long enough to see that you receive them. You should take Rosamund. With her safely wedded
and bedded, Richard will have had no choice but to accept you as Earl of Carlyle.
If I can't have Attica d'Alérion to wife, I will take no other, Damion said simply.
The Old King grunted. You may feel that way now. But believe me, in another twenty years, you'll be glad enough to have Rosamund's estates and titles as your own, even if you have found no joy from having the girl herself in your bed.
Damion forced his lips into a travesty of a smile. Perhaps I simply can't abide the thought of drinking English wine for the rest of my life.
Henry's eyes opened wide as he laughed out loud. But the laugh turned into a cough that rumbled in his throat like a death rattle.
Attica was at the priory of Saint Rémy, lighting a candle in the Lady chapel, when the bells began to ring. She raised her head, her hand tightening around the taper as she listened to the slow death knell.
One toll for each year of Henry Plantagenet's life.
They had traveled up the Vienne to the Abbey of Notre Dame de Fontevrault, a handful of loyal knights, one royal bastard, and the body of a dead king decked in royal robes and wearing a crown of gold. Now they waited, these men who had remained faithful to the Old King, to see what the new king would do with them.
The sound of a heavy booted tread echoed down the nave, punctuated with the clink and rasp of spurs. Richard, King of England and Wales, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou, had entered the church. He strode to the head of the bier, his face a frozen mask as he stared unflinchingly down at the father he had helped to kill. He had much the look of his father, Damion thought, this new king, although he was taller, and his features more fiercely drawn. He stood very still. Then a shiver of emotion contorted his face, and he dropped to his knees.
He did not pray for long. Pushing to his feet, he took one
last look at the dead king, then turned on his heel and left the church.
Damion did not look up. He had made his decisions, knowing well the probable outcome. Now he would bear the inevitable consequences. It was as simple as that.
Monsieur le chevalier de Jarnac? said a small man with a thin, pointed nose and an officious manner, stepping forward.
Damion raised his eyebrows. Yes.
King Richard commands your presence.
The hot July sun shone out of a clear blue sky, baking the broad riverside meadow where the new king had set up court for the day. Scores of milling boots and restlessly tapping slippers had quickly crushed the tender grass underfoot, grinding it into dust that drifted up to fill the air with a faint haze. Starched wimples and linen chainse began to wilt, lead-based makeup ran in white rivulets down ashen faces, slim courtiers swooned in unaffected faints.
Neither the heat nor the passing hours had any discernible effect on Richard, who plowed through the business of the day with cold efficiency. But then, thought Attica, he was sitting down, and beneath a canopy, too.
Sweltering herself in scarlet velvet heavily embroidered with silver thread, she moved restlessly around the edges of the crowd of gaily plumed lords and ladies, bright in their silks and satins and sparkling with jewels, who fluttered about the new king's faldstool like the hovering wings of some giant, gaudy peacock. She kept scanning the crowd for one familiar, beloved face, a face she was desperate to see just one more time. For Attica was in the king's gift, and she was here so that this new king could give her away.
Don't think about it
, she told herself, her hands curling into fists she hid beneath the rich cloth of her skirts.
You can't avoid it, so all you can do is face it with dignity and courage.
But her courage and dignity were both fading fast beneath the strain of this interminable wait and a rising spiral of fear. Fear that something had happened to Damion, that Richard had already dealt with the dark knight in some hideous way, that she would never see him again.
She found her gaze drifting desperately to the calming silver sheen of the Loire, just visible through a thin screen of trees. Her head held high, her gaze focused on the cloudless sky, Attica backed away from the royal assemblage. Backed until she was far enough away simply to turn around and walk rapidly through the grove of scrub brush and elms that lined the river.
Sliding down a grassy embankment, she came to a gravel shore lapped by the gentle waters of the Loire and sheltered by a big old elm that leaned out over the river at a drunken angle. With a sigh, she sank down on a driftwood log and hunched over, hugging herself, trying to stop the fine trembling going on inside her as the fear she'd held in check now reared up, fierce and all-consuming.
Oh, God
, she thought,
let him be all right. Please let him be all right
. He had betrayed her trust and killed her only brother. And still she loved him, still she would give anything to see him safe and well.
With a stifled moan, she pressed her hands against the bones of her face. Pressed and pressed. And saw, through her splayed fingers, the unsmiling face of Damion de Jar-nac's enigmatic young squire, dressed for court.
Sergei, she said, dropping her hands, her breath leaving her chest in a painful rush. Is he here? Is he all right?
He is coming, said the squire enigmatically. He stood some five or six feet before her, a burgundy colored, jauntily plumed cap dangling from one hand to lay against his leg, an unusually solemn expression pulling at his young-old face. How can you still blame him? demanded Sergei, exactly as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud. I could understand it at first, when you were still struggling to come to terms with your brother's death. But you should have seen some reason by now.
Attica felt angry color rise to her cheeks. She made no effort to pretend not to understand his meaning. Damion could have told me, Sergei. He could have told me he suspected Stephen.
Could he have indeed? The boy took a step toward her, the expression on his face furious enough to make her draw back unconsciously. And what would you have done if he had told you? Would you have gone to Stephen and warned him his treason was about to be exposed?
She opened her mouth to say yes, then shut it again.
That's right, said Sergei, his changeling eyes narrowing down to two accusatory slits. You have to think about what Stephen would have done, don't you? Oh, he might simply have slipped out of Chinon in the dead of the night and fled to Richard. But then again, he might have decided to use the dead of night to slip a dagger into de Jarnac's back instead.
Stephen wouldn't have done that.
Wouldn't he? The squire moved to prop one booted foot on the end of her log and lean into it. Lean into her. Could you have been certain enough of that to risk de Jarnac's life on it?
She lifted her chin. I needn't have told him de Jarnac was involved.
No? So you imagine, do you, that even if you hadn't told Stephen where the exposure was likely to come from, he couldn't have figured it out? He dropped his foot to crouch on the gravel before her, his head coming level with her own, the anger fading to be replaced by a boyish earnestness. Don't you see, my lady? If de Jarnac had told you, you'd have been faced with a terrible choice. You'd have had to decide whom to betray, your brother or the man you loved.
She heard the wind rustling through the spreading limbs of the elm overhead. She didn't look up.
He spared you that, said Sergei. He kept his suspicions to himself, hoping he was wrong, hoping that even if he wasn't, he might somehow manage to help Stephen avoid suffering the consequences of what he'd done. But de Jarnac couldn't simply close his eyes and stand back while your brother brought down the king. He wouldn't be the man you love, were he capable of that.
She shook her head, her jaw tight. You forget, Sergei; I was
there
. I saw Damion spur his horse after Stephen
And you saw him rein in, too. Perhaps it's because you're a woman, or because you've never been in a battle, but any man would understand what happens to a knight fighting hand to hand like that. De Jarnac might have begun to give chase, but he pulled up. That's what's important. Stephen could have ridden away. It was his choice to turn and fight. What do you think de Jarnac should have done? Stood there and let Stephen kill him?
No, she said, her voice a raw whisper.
The squire's strange, changeling eyes captured hers, refusing to let her look away. It was a mad thing, what Stephen did. He must have known he was likely to die.
Attica swallowed a painful lump in her throat. She had
replayed that scene on the road to Loudun over and over in her mind. And although it made no sense, the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Stephen had wanted to die, had made up his mind to die. She didn't want to believe it, she'd raged against it, and still
Oh, Stephen
, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut against a threatening sting of tears.
Why
?
What will Richard do to him? she asked, opening her eyes to stare out over the silver-brown, placidly drifting waters of the Loire. To de Jarnac, I mean.
Sergei shrugged, his gaze swinging away to where a small page was scrambling down the riverbank toward them. I don't know. He can be a cruel, brutal man, Richard, especially when he's thirsty for revenge.
Attica turned. The page, a small, round-cheeked boy of no more than nine or ten, was out of breath, his fair hair tumbling over his eyes as he bowed low. My lady Attica d'Alérion?
Attica shakily rose to her feet. Yes?
King Richard commands your presence.
Her face a serene mask, her heart thumping so wildly in her chest that she wondered it didn't kill her, Attica d'Alérion walked toward the English king.
The staring crowd of courtiers parted before her, but she was careful to look only straight ahead. She noticed Gaspard Beringer, standing to one side, his fair-headed handsomeness arresting even in this crowd of primped and pampered nobility. Next to him, Yvette looked like a small round partridge, the disconcertingly predatory gleam in her sharp eyes camouflaged for the moment by maternal concern, for she was busy fanning Fulk's face. Fulk, normally so pale, had a tendency to flush bright red in the
heat. He would have had his birthday by now, Attica realized with a start, seeing him. He was fourteen and ready to be wed.
She sucked in a deep breath at the thought, and when one breath wasn't enough, she took another and then another. Still she felt as if she couldn't get enough air, as if a great weight pressed on her chest, crushing her, crushing. Her step faltered, and she would have stumbled if the page hadn't grabbed her elbow to steady her.
Come, daughter, said Richard, stretching out his hand to her. Come sit beside us. He smiled at her, but his grip on her hand was uncompromising as he pulled her down to settle on the cushion at his feet.
With the death of your father and brother, you have become our ward, Attica d'Alérion, he said, his voice deeper, less hurried than his father's. You needn't fear that we will be careless of the trust imposed upon us. On the question of your brother's lands which have been declared forfeit, we settle them on you again, in recognition of your family's long allegiance to us.
Attica sat very still, her hands clenched together in her lap, her head bowed as she concentrated on the seemingly impossible task of maintaining her composure. At the king's words, she felt nothing, neither surprise nor pleasure, for whether she was forced to wed Fulk or allowed to seek refuge in a convent, the lands would not be hers. She wished they could have gone to Damion.
The question of your marriage appears more complicated, continued Richard, for our father promised you to Damion de Jarnac, while Robert d'Alérion betrothed you to Fulk of Salers. Is this correct?
She swallowed, trying to remove the treacherous lump that had appeared in her throat. Yes, Your Grace.
At a barely perceptible movement of one ringed, royal finger, a herald's voice boomed out,
Fulk Beringer, of Salers.
A page prodded Fulk forward until he stood, red-faced and sweating, some ten feet in front of the king. No one offered Fulk a cushion.
Damion de Jarnac,
boomed the voice again.
Attica's head came up, her breath catching with joyful anticipation.
He was there, at the edge of the meadow, seemingly unaware of the ripple of interest that passed through the crowd of tired, jaded courtiers. His head held high, his gaze steady and calm, Damion approached the king with a sure, measured tread. He wore a dark, midnight blue tunic and embroidered velvet surcoat worthy of a courtier, but no one seeing this man could ever mistake him for anything but the knight he was. It was there in the lean, athletic grace of his stride, in the breadth of his shoulders, in the unselfconscious pride with which he bowed low before the new English king. For a moment, she thought he must not have seen her, seated at the king's feet, for he didn't look at her, only stared at the man before him. But then she saw the pulse beating hard and fast in his neck, and she knew by the stiff way he held himself that he was as aware of her as she was of him.
Heedless of whoever might be watching her, Attica let herself drink in the sight of him. She knew him so well, knew the hard lines of his dark, taut profile and the gentle curve of his lips. She knew what those lips tasted like, knew the soft touch of his battle-hardened hands on her body. It brought her such a sad, sweet ache, looking at him. But she couldn't bear to turn away. The desperation of her fear for him had washed away the lingering remnants of
her hurt and anger. Now she knew only a profound sense of loss and the bitter taste of regret.
Beside her, Richard put his fingertips together and leaned forward in his chair, as if the knight before him piqued his interest as well as the crowd's. You have caused us much grief these last months, Damion de Jarnac, he said.
Damion smiled. Yes, Your Grace.
To Attica's surprise, an answering gleam lit the young king's eyes. While others betrayed our father and scrambled to gain favor in foreign courts, you stayed at his side. Such loyalty and courage is as rare as it is admirable, and well deserving of reward. Richard shifted his weight to rest one arm along the side of his chair, while Attica, who hadn't even realized she'd been holding her breath, let it go in a long sigh that left her feeling almost dizzy with relief.
Unfortunately, continued the English king, the lands and titles of the comte d'Alérion have been restored to the comte's rightful heir, Attica d'Alérion, so that we are unable to confirm the gift granted you by the late king. However Richard paused, drawing out the moment in a way that told Attica he was enjoying this. there remains the question of the lady Attica herself, who has been promised to both you and to Fulk of Salers.
But she is
betrothed
to me, said Fulk, stepping forward impetuously, only to be brought up short by a pair of crossed pikes that caused him to lose whatever color the heat had brought to his face.
He had lost her. The knowledge of it echoed like a scream in his mind, an agony in his heart, an unbearable grief in his soul. He had lost her. With a shudder, he drew his finger, once, across the lute's strings, drawing forth an aching chord.
Without you
,
My sun dies
My prayer falters
My song ends
Damion stood just inside the curtained doorway of the king's chamber, a rolled parchment held loosely in one hand.
Henry's head turned on the fine linen of his pillow to display an ashen face, ravaged by pain. Well? he said, his once gruff, booming voice reduced to a faint scratching. Has it come, then?
Damion moved forward, slowly, and held out the scroll. Yes, Sire.
Henry reached out a shaky hand, only to let it fall to his side again. I can't read it. You must tell me. Is John's name there? Has he in truth betrayed me along with the rest?
Damion stared down at the scroll in his hands. How do you tell a king that the son he loved above all others has
betrayed him? he wondered. How do you break a dying man's heart?
The silence in the room hung heavy and damning. Henry let out his breath in a long, painful sigh. It's true, then.
Yes, Your Grace. He was aware of Henry's hands clenching at the bedcovers, but he could not bring himself to look directly at the old man's face.
And why have you been chosen to bring me this news? Henry asked after a moment, his voice brusque.
Your son Geoffrey has gone to the priory to pray, while William Marshal sees to the defenses of the castle.
No, said the Old King impatiently. I mean the others. Where are the others?
Damion let his face go blank. The others? he repeated, raising his eyebrows.
So they've gone, have they? Henry's mouth twisted into a bitter line. Faster than a priest can chant matins. Scrambling over one another in their eagerness to gain favor with the new king. His gaze narrowed as he studied Damion's face. They are wise, you know. I am an old man, and unwell, and soon Richard will be king. If not tomorrow, then the next day.
Then tomorrow or the next day I will pledge Richard my fealty.
You are a chivalric fool, said Henry.
Damion smiled. I know.
Amusement flared in the older man's eyes, then faded as he reached out to clasp Damion's hand in a surprisingly strong grip. I have promised you rich rewards, Damion de Jarnac, he said, his head lifting off the pillow. But I fear I may not live long enough to see that you receive them. You should take Rosamund. With her safely wedded
and bedded, Richard will have had no choice but to accept you as Earl of Carlyle.
If I can't have Attica d'Alérion to wife, I will take no other, Damion said simply.
The Old King grunted. You may feel that way now. But believe me, in another twenty years, you'll be glad enough to have Rosamund's estates and titles as your own, even if you have found no joy from having the girl herself in your bed.
Damion forced his lips into a travesty of a smile. Perhaps I simply can't abide the thought of drinking English wine for the rest of my life.
Henry's eyes opened wide as he laughed out loud. But the laugh turned into a cough that rumbled in his throat like a death rattle.
Attica was at the priory of Saint Rémy, lighting a candle in the Lady chapel, when the bells began to ring. She raised her head, her hand tightening around the taper as she listened to the slow death knell.
One toll for each year of Henry Plantagenet's life.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
They had traveled up the Vienne to the Abbey of Notre Dame de Fontevrault, a handful of loyal knights, one royal bastard, and the body of a dead king decked in royal robes and wearing a crown of gold. Now they waited, these men who had remained faithful to the Old King, to see what the new king would do with them.
The sound of a heavy booted tread echoed down the nave, punctuated with the clink and rasp of spurs. Richard, King of England and Wales, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou, had entered the church. He strode to the head of the bier, his face a frozen mask as he stared unflinchingly down at the father he had helped to kill. He had much the look of his father, Damion thought, this new king, although he was taller, and his features more fiercely drawn. He stood very still. Then a shiver of emotion contorted his face, and he dropped to his knees.
He did not pray for long. Pushing to his feet, he took one
last look at the dead king, then turned on his heel and left the church.
Damion did not look up. He had made his decisions, knowing well the probable outcome. Now he would bear the inevitable consequences. It was as simple as that.
Monsieur le chevalier de Jarnac? said a small man with a thin, pointed nose and an officious manner, stepping forward.
Damion raised his eyebrows. Yes.
King Richard commands your presence.
The hot July sun shone out of a clear blue sky, baking the broad riverside meadow where the new king had set up court for the day. Scores of milling boots and restlessly tapping slippers had quickly crushed the tender grass underfoot, grinding it into dust that drifted up to fill the air with a faint haze. Starched wimples and linen chainse began to wilt, lead-based makeup ran in white rivulets down ashen faces, slim courtiers swooned in unaffected faints.
Neither the heat nor the passing hours had any discernible effect on Richard, who plowed through the business of the day with cold efficiency. But then, thought Attica, he was sitting down, and beneath a canopy, too.
Sweltering herself in scarlet velvet heavily embroidered with silver thread, she moved restlessly around the edges of the crowd of gaily plumed lords and ladies, bright in their silks and satins and sparkling with jewels, who fluttered about the new king's faldstool like the hovering wings of some giant, gaudy peacock. She kept scanning the crowd for one familiar, beloved face, a face she was desperate to see just one more time. For Attica was in the king's gift, and she was here so that this new king could give her away.
Don't think about it
, she told herself, her hands curling into fists she hid beneath the rich cloth of her skirts.
You can't avoid it, so all you can do is face it with dignity and courage.
But her courage and dignity were both fading fast beneath the strain of this interminable wait and a rising spiral of fear. Fear that something had happened to Damion, that Richard had already dealt with the dark knight in some hideous way, that she would never see him again.
She found her gaze drifting desperately to the calming silver sheen of the Loire, just visible through a thin screen of trees. Her head held high, her gaze focused on the cloudless sky, Attica backed away from the royal assemblage. Backed until she was far enough away simply to turn around and walk rapidly through the grove of scrub brush and elms that lined the river.
Sliding down a grassy embankment, she came to a gravel shore lapped by the gentle waters of the Loire and sheltered by a big old elm that leaned out over the river at a drunken angle. With a sigh, she sank down on a driftwood log and hunched over, hugging herself, trying to stop the fine trembling going on inside her as the fear she'd held in check now reared up, fierce and all-consuming.
Oh, God
, she thought,
let him be all right. Please let him be all right
. He had betrayed her trust and killed her only brother. And still she loved him, still she would give anything to see him safe and well.
With a stifled moan, she pressed her hands against the bones of her face. Pressed and pressed. And saw, through her splayed fingers, the unsmiling face of Damion de Jar-nac's enigmatic young squire, dressed for court.
Sergei, she said, dropping her hands, her breath leaving her chest in a painful rush. Is he here? Is he all right?
He is coming, said the squire enigmatically. He stood some five or six feet before her, a burgundy colored, jauntily plumed cap dangling from one hand to lay against his leg, an unusually solemn expression pulling at his young-old face. How can you still blame him? demanded Sergei, exactly as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud. I could understand it at first, when you were still struggling to come to terms with your brother's death. But you should have seen some reason by now.
Attica felt angry color rise to her cheeks. She made no effort to pretend not to understand his meaning. Damion could have told me, Sergei. He could have told me he suspected Stephen.
Could he have indeed? The boy took a step toward her, the expression on his face furious enough to make her draw back unconsciously. And what would you have done if he had told you? Would you have gone to Stephen and warned him his treason was about to be exposed?
She opened her mouth to say yes, then shut it again.
That's right, said Sergei, his changeling eyes narrowing down to two accusatory slits. You have to think about what Stephen would have done, don't you? Oh, he might simply have slipped out of Chinon in the dead of the night and fled to Richard. But then again, he might have decided to use the dead of night to slip a dagger into de Jarnac's back instead.
Stephen wouldn't have done that.
Wouldn't he? The squire moved to prop one booted foot on the end of her log and lean into it. Lean into her. Could you have been certain enough of that to risk de Jarnac's life on it?
She lifted her chin. I needn't have told him de Jarnac was involved.
No? So you imagine, do you, that even if you hadn't told Stephen where the exposure was likely to come from, he couldn't have figured it out? He dropped his foot to crouch on the gravel before her, his head coming level with her own, the anger fading to be replaced by a boyish earnestness. Don't you see, my lady? If de Jarnac had told you, you'd have been faced with a terrible choice. You'd have had to decide whom to betray, your brother or the man you loved.
She heard the wind rustling through the spreading limbs of the elm overhead. She didn't look up.
He spared you that, said Sergei. He kept his suspicions to himself, hoping he was wrong, hoping that even if he wasn't, he might somehow manage to help Stephen avoid suffering the consequences of what he'd done. But de Jarnac couldn't simply close his eyes and stand back while your brother brought down the king. He wouldn't be the man you love, were he capable of that.
She shook her head, her jaw tight. You forget, Sergei; I was
there
. I saw Damion spur his horse after Stephen
And you saw him rein in, too. Perhaps it's because you're a woman, or because you've never been in a battle, but any man would understand what happens to a knight fighting hand to hand like that. De Jarnac might have begun to give chase, but he pulled up. That's what's important. Stephen could have ridden away. It was his choice to turn and fight. What do you think de Jarnac should have done? Stood there and let Stephen kill him?
No, she said, her voice a raw whisper.
The squire's strange, changeling eyes captured hers, refusing to let her look away. It was a mad thing, what Stephen did. He must have known he was likely to die.
Attica swallowed a painful lump in her throat. She had
replayed that scene on the road to Loudun over and over in her mind. And although it made no sense, the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Stephen had wanted to die, had made up his mind to die. She didn't want to believe it, she'd raged against it, and still
Oh, Stephen
, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut against a threatening sting of tears.
Why
?
What will Richard do to him? she asked, opening her eyes to stare out over the silver-brown, placidly drifting waters of the Loire. To de Jarnac, I mean.
Sergei shrugged, his gaze swinging away to where a small page was scrambling down the riverbank toward them. I don't know. He can be a cruel, brutal man, Richard, especially when he's thirsty for revenge.
Attica turned. The page, a small, round-cheeked boy of no more than nine or ten, was out of breath, his fair hair tumbling over his eyes as he bowed low. My lady Attica d'Alérion?
Attica shakily rose to her feet. Yes?
King Richard commands your presence.
Her face a serene mask, her heart thumping so wildly in her chest that she wondered it didn't kill her, Attica d'Alérion walked toward the English king.
The staring crowd of courtiers parted before her, but she was careful to look only straight ahead. She noticed Gaspard Beringer, standing to one side, his fair-headed handsomeness arresting even in this crowd of primped and pampered nobility. Next to him, Yvette looked like a small round partridge, the disconcertingly predatory gleam in her sharp eyes camouflaged for the moment by maternal concern, for she was busy fanning Fulk's face. Fulk, normally so pale, had a tendency to flush bright red in the
heat. He would have had his birthday by now, Attica realized with a start, seeing him. He was fourteen and ready to be wed.
She sucked in a deep breath at the thought, and when one breath wasn't enough, she took another and then another. Still she felt as if she couldn't get enough air, as if a great weight pressed on her chest, crushing her, crushing. Her step faltered, and she would have stumbled if the page hadn't grabbed her elbow to steady her.
Come, daughter, said Richard, stretching out his hand to her. Come sit beside us. He smiled at her, but his grip on her hand was uncompromising as he pulled her down to settle on the cushion at his feet.
With the death of your father and brother, you have become our ward, Attica d'Alérion, he said, his voice deeper, less hurried than his father's. You needn't fear that we will be careless of the trust imposed upon us. On the question of your brother's lands which have been declared forfeit, we settle them on you again, in recognition of your family's long allegiance to us.
Attica sat very still, her hands clenched together in her lap, her head bowed as she concentrated on the seemingly impossible task of maintaining her composure. At the king's words, she felt nothing, neither surprise nor pleasure, for whether she was forced to wed Fulk or allowed to seek refuge in a convent, the lands would not be hers. She wished they could have gone to Damion.
The question of your marriage appears more complicated, continued Richard, for our father promised you to Damion de Jarnac, while Robert d'Alérion betrothed you to Fulk of Salers. Is this correct?
She swallowed, trying to remove the treacherous lump that had appeared in her throat. Yes, Your Grace.
At a barely perceptible movement of one ringed, royal finger, a herald's voice boomed out,
Fulk Beringer, of Salers.
A page prodded Fulk forward until he stood, red-faced and sweating, some ten feet in front of the king. No one offered Fulk a cushion.
Damion de Jarnac,
boomed the voice again.
Attica's head came up, her breath catching with joyful anticipation.
He was there, at the edge of the meadow, seemingly unaware of the ripple of interest that passed through the crowd of tired, jaded courtiers. His head held high, his gaze steady and calm, Damion approached the king with a sure, measured tread. He wore a dark, midnight blue tunic and embroidered velvet surcoat worthy of a courtier, but no one seeing this man could ever mistake him for anything but the knight he was. It was there in the lean, athletic grace of his stride, in the breadth of his shoulders, in the unselfconscious pride with which he bowed low before the new English king. For a moment, she thought he must not have seen her, seated at the king's feet, for he didn't look at her, only stared at the man before him. But then she saw the pulse beating hard and fast in his neck, and she knew by the stiff way he held himself that he was as aware of her as she was of him.
Heedless of whoever might be watching her, Attica let herself drink in the sight of him. She knew him so well, knew the hard lines of his dark, taut profile and the gentle curve of his lips. She knew what those lips tasted like, knew the soft touch of his battle-hardened hands on her body. It brought her such a sad, sweet ache, looking at him. But she couldn't bear to turn away. The desperation of her fear for him had washed away the lingering remnants of
her hurt and anger. Now she knew only a profound sense of loss and the bitter taste of regret.
Beside her, Richard put his fingertips together and leaned forward in his chair, as if the knight before him piqued his interest as well as the crowd's. You have caused us much grief these last months, Damion de Jarnac, he said.
Damion smiled. Yes, Your Grace.
To Attica's surprise, an answering gleam lit the young king's eyes. While others betrayed our father and scrambled to gain favor in foreign courts, you stayed at his side. Such loyalty and courage is as rare as it is admirable, and well deserving of reward. Richard shifted his weight to rest one arm along the side of his chair, while Attica, who hadn't even realized she'd been holding her breath, let it go in a long sigh that left her feeling almost dizzy with relief.
Unfortunately, continued the English king, the lands and titles of the comte d'Alérion have been restored to the comte's rightful heir, Attica d'Alérion, so that we are unable to confirm the gift granted you by the late king. However Richard paused, drawing out the moment in a way that told Attica he was enjoying this. there remains the question of the lady Attica herself, who has been promised to both you and to Fulk of Salers.
But she is
betrothed
to me, said Fulk, stepping forward impetuously, only to be brought up short by a pair of crossed pikes that caused him to lose whatever color the heat had brought to his face.
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