The Last Knight (34 page)
Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
Richard's eyebrows lifted. From the crowd came a maternal, warning hiss.
I beg your pardon, Your Grace, Fulk stammered, his head bowing.
Richard continued. We could, of course, emulate King Solomon of old and offer to split the lady in two with our
sword. But we think He fingered his beard, as if considering the problem. Yes, we really think we prefer to allow the lady to choose.
Attica's head whipped around, her eyes widening in shock as she stared at him.
Stand up, daughter, he said, his hand cupping her elbow to urge her to her feet.
If I might interrupt, Your Grace? said Damion.
Attica froze, while Richard's eyebrows lifted again.
His hands on his hips, his head thrown back, Damion said, Your late father offered the lady Attica a third choice, that of becoming a bride of Christ. I would ask that she be given that option now.
For the first time, Damion's gaze met hers, and everything that was in his heart spilled into his eyes. She saw his love for her, so much love it made her chest ache to see it, and she saw the pain of the sacrifice he'd just made by insuring she had a safe refuge if her anger and hurt were still too great to enable her to choose him.
Yet she also saw a desperate flicker of hope. Hope, almost drowned out by a deep, lingering hurt that both startled her and shamed her. She'd been hurting so much herself these past few days that she hadn't realized he'd been hurting, too. Hadn't realized that she had hurt him.
Very well, said Richard. She may have the veil as a third choice. His hand tightened on her arm, drawing her around to face him. Lady Attica?
She sank into a deep curtsy, although her knees felt so shaky, she feared they might collapse beneath her. Your Grace.
He smiled at her. You have three alternatives, Lady Attica: Which will you choose?
She spun around, her hands fisting in her heavy velvet
skirts, her heart pounding in her chest. All her life, she had been taught to think of others, not of herself; to serve the interests of her house and conform always to the expectations of her parents. She had chafed against the restrictions they imposed upon her, but she had always sought to do her duty, had always buried her own wants and needs and desires in the name of honor and loyalty. Now suddenly everything she wanted was within her grasp. All she had to do was reach for it.
Already her heart was flying across the meadow to the man she loved. It was a strangely difficult thing to do, to put one foot in front of the other. But the second step was easier, and the third required no conscious thought. She was only vaguely aware of Yvette's angry, blotched face; of Gaspard's mouth, working soundlessly in consternation and confusion; of Fulk, looking sulky and hot.
And then she was running, running like the child she had once been, with the sky blue above her and the wind fresh in her face. She saw the leap of guarded hope in Damion's eyes, followed by a sweet exultation that swept his face. With a deep, joyous laugh, he caught her up in his arms, lifting her feet off the ground, her momentum spinning them round and round. She braced her forearms on his shoulders, her back arching so she could look down into his face. I choose you, she said, her eyes misting with sudden, unshed tears, her laughter joining his to float up, up to the cloudless heavens. Forever. Forever and ever.
Lilting and clear, the sweet notes of the familiar melody drifted away on the fresh sea breeze. The day was glorious, Attica thought, glorious and fine, the sun warm, the sky a vivid blue. She drew the clean April air deep into her lungs, her gaze lingering on the distant swell of white-capped waves rolling in toward the rocky shore below. Even as a child, this daisy-strewn hillside overlooking the sea had been one of her favorite places at this, the d'Alérions greatest castle. She still came here often, whenever they were in residence. She would bring her sons, and a hamper and cloth, and spend the afternoon at peace with her memories.
Sighing contentedly, she turned her head, a smile touching her lips as she watched her older son's fine-boned, sure hands move nimbly over the strings of the lute. You have your grandmother's gift, she said softly. Your grandmother's and your father's.
Father? Stephen de Jarnac looked up, his fingers suspended over the strings, his bright green eyes widening in surprise. But Father doesn't play.
Not anymore. Attica shifted awkwardly, for she was
big with child, and she found it hard to sit anywhere for very long. But he did once. Her smile turned wistful at the memory. Like an angel.
Then why doesn't he play now? asked six-year-old Simon, tweaking the instrument from his older brother's slack grasp.
I suppose because he no longer finds joy in it, she said, gently but firmly separating the squabbling brothers. Or perhaps, she added, half to herself, he is afraid to allow himself to find joy in it.
Father? Afraid? Stephen scoffed. Father isn't afraid of anything.
Even the bravest man is afraid of losing the ones he loves, she said quietly.
Stephen stared at her, his young face unnaturally solemn. The wind gusted up from the sea, loud and blustery, then dropped again. In the sudden silence, they could hear the sound of a horse's hooves coming toward them fast. Attica glanced up to see a horse and rider cresting the hill above thema dark, desert-bred horse, carrying a tall, dark knight who reined in sharply to swing out of the saddle with a lean, athletic grace that still took her breath away. Still, after all these years.
It's Papa, shrieked Simon. The boys jumped up, the lute thrust aside, forgotten, as they ran to him. Attica stayed where she was and watched her husband come at her, enjoying the way the wind lifted his dark hair from the collar of his rich velvet mantle, and the sight of the sun shining warm and golden over the strong bones of his face. Across a distance filled with the call of gulls and the sounds of the sea, his gaze met hers, and his eyes smiled.
Wait for me, called Simon in frustration as he lagged behind his older brother. Laughing, Damion tore his gaze
from hers and reached to lift his younger son high into the air. Then he swung the little boy up onto his shoulder, so that he had a free hand to ruffle Stephen's dark head when the older boy leaned into him. Watching them, Attica felt her heart fill with such joy, she thought it might burst.
He spent a moment listening to the boys excited chatter, then left them to care for the Arab and walked up to her.
I didn't think you were coming,
monsieur le comte
, she began teasingly. But the welcoming smile faded from her lips as she searched his face. What is it?
A messenger just rode in, from Aquitaine. Stripping off his gloves, he dropped smoothly onto the cloth beside her and plucked the jug of cider from the hamper. Richard the Lionhearted has been hit by a crossbow bolt, at the siege of Châlus, and is not expected to recover. Which means he paused to fill a horn with cider and throw it back with a quick flick of his wrist that John will be the new Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and King of England.
A sick, hollow feeling yawned deep within her. What will you do?
Damion poured himself another cupful and raised it to his lips. They say Philip is in Paris. I would go and pledge him my fealty. His gaze met hers questioningly over the rim of the cup. Do you think me disloyal?
Attica shook her head. No. Richard was a hard, brutal man, but at least when he rebelled against his father, he did it openly.
And
he proved himself to be a strong lord. But John She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. John is devious and weak. In the end, he will lose this land to Philip. I would not see you sacrifice everything, simply out of a sense of loyalty to such a man.
Tossing the cup aside, Damion reached for her, a wry
smile twisting his lips. I fear you have been married to me for too long.
No, not nearly long enough, she said as he came to sit behind her, her back against his chest so that he could put his arms around her. I intend to keep you tied to my side until you're too lame and battle weary to sit a horse, and I'm a withered old crone worn out from breeding.
Laughing, he placed his spread hands high on her swollen belly. And how is my daughter today?
Father Sergei had told them this baby would be a girl, and Attica believed him, for Sergei had always known such things, even before he'd become a priest. Your daughter is restless, she said, just as the baby kicked hard enough to make Damion laugh again.
He turned his face into Attica's hair. My daughter is always restless.
Music soothes her. Attica nudged the discarded lute toward him. Why don't you play for her?
Damion went suddenly, utterly still.
She turned in his arms, her hand coming up to touch his cheek. It's been ten years, Damion. Henry and my brother are long in their graves, and soon Richard will join them. What happened all those years ago at Chinon it belongs to the past. But your music She paused, struggling to put her thoughts into words. Your music was a gift from God. A gift, like our love. And like our love, God gave it to you for a purpose.
A purpose? The exhalation of his breath wafted warm and moist against her knuckles as he brought her hand to his mouth. Because of music, I almost lost you. He turned her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm.
She shook her head. Because of music, you were able to save a dying old man from treachery. She traced the
hard, proud curve of his lips with her fingertips. Don't you see? No matter what happens, you'll never really lose me, Damion. You are my soul. And you always will be.
High on the hill above the sea, the two brothers paused in the midst of arguing over who should hold the Arab's reins, their heads turning together at the sound of an unknown, haunting melody plucked from a lute with such unearthly skill that it stole their breath. It's Father, whispered Simon in awe, while Stephen only stared, his eyes shining with some emotion he could not have named.
I die for you,
sang Damion, his gaze locked fast with his wife's.
You are my hope, my life, my love.
After a moment, her voice joined his.
It is important to remember that the Normans and Angevins of twelfth-century France, like the gently-born across the Channel in England, spoke an archaic form of French. Rather than invent some anachronistic, pseudo-medieval English, I have, for the most part, simply translated the characters speech into modern English or, in some cases, modern French.
I would like to thank John Galbraith of Catholic Online for his help in fixing medieval church dates. The song in old Provençal sung by the trouver in the inn is by Arnaut and can be found in René Lavaud,
Les Poésies d'Arnaut Daniel
(Toulouse, 1910). Damion's love song, although inspired by contemporary models, is my own.
An Ivy Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright Š 2000 by CP Trust
Ivy Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
[http://www.randomhouse.com/BB/] www.randomhouse.com/BB/
Library of Congress Card Number: 00-190470
eISBN: 978-0-30756592-1
v3.0
I beg your pardon, Your Grace, Fulk stammered, his head bowing.
Richard continued. We could, of course, emulate King Solomon of old and offer to split the lady in two with our
sword. But we think He fingered his beard, as if considering the problem. Yes, we really think we prefer to allow the lady to choose.
Attica's head whipped around, her eyes widening in shock as she stared at him.
Stand up, daughter, he said, his hand cupping her elbow to urge her to her feet.
If I might interrupt, Your Grace? said Damion.
Attica froze, while Richard's eyebrows lifted again.
His hands on his hips, his head thrown back, Damion said, Your late father offered the lady Attica a third choice, that of becoming a bride of Christ. I would ask that she be given that option now.
For the first time, Damion's gaze met hers, and everything that was in his heart spilled into his eyes. She saw his love for her, so much love it made her chest ache to see it, and she saw the pain of the sacrifice he'd just made by insuring she had a safe refuge if her anger and hurt were still too great to enable her to choose him.
Yet she also saw a desperate flicker of hope. Hope, almost drowned out by a deep, lingering hurt that both startled her and shamed her. She'd been hurting so much herself these past few days that she hadn't realized he'd been hurting, too. Hadn't realized that she had hurt him.
Very well, said Richard. She may have the veil as a third choice. His hand tightened on her arm, drawing her around to face him. Lady Attica?
She sank into a deep curtsy, although her knees felt so shaky, she feared they might collapse beneath her. Your Grace.
He smiled at her. You have three alternatives, Lady Attica: Which will you choose?
She spun around, her hands fisting in her heavy velvet
skirts, her heart pounding in her chest. All her life, she had been taught to think of others, not of herself; to serve the interests of her house and conform always to the expectations of her parents. She had chafed against the restrictions they imposed upon her, but she had always sought to do her duty, had always buried her own wants and needs and desires in the name of honor and loyalty. Now suddenly everything she wanted was within her grasp. All she had to do was reach for it.
Already her heart was flying across the meadow to the man she loved. It was a strangely difficult thing to do, to put one foot in front of the other. But the second step was easier, and the third required no conscious thought. She was only vaguely aware of Yvette's angry, blotched face; of Gaspard's mouth, working soundlessly in consternation and confusion; of Fulk, looking sulky and hot.
And then she was running, running like the child she had once been, with the sky blue above her and the wind fresh in her face. She saw the leap of guarded hope in Damion's eyes, followed by a sweet exultation that swept his face. With a deep, joyous laugh, he caught her up in his arms, lifting her feet off the ground, her momentum spinning them round and round. She braced her forearms on his shoulders, her back arching so she could look down into his face. I choose you, she said, her eyes misting with sudden, unshed tears, her laughter joining his to float up, up to the cloudless heavens. Forever. Forever and ever.
EPILOGUE
Lilting and clear, the sweet notes of the familiar melody drifted away on the fresh sea breeze. The day was glorious, Attica thought, glorious and fine, the sun warm, the sky a vivid blue. She drew the clean April air deep into her lungs, her gaze lingering on the distant swell of white-capped waves rolling in toward the rocky shore below. Even as a child, this daisy-strewn hillside overlooking the sea had been one of her favorite places at this, the d'Alérions greatest castle. She still came here often, whenever they were in residence. She would bring her sons, and a hamper and cloth, and spend the afternoon at peace with her memories.
Sighing contentedly, she turned her head, a smile touching her lips as she watched her older son's fine-boned, sure hands move nimbly over the strings of the lute. You have your grandmother's gift, she said softly. Your grandmother's and your father's.
Father? Stephen de Jarnac looked up, his fingers suspended over the strings, his bright green eyes widening in surprise. But Father doesn't play.
Not anymore. Attica shifted awkwardly, for she was
big with child, and she found it hard to sit anywhere for very long. But he did once. Her smile turned wistful at the memory. Like an angel.
Then why doesn't he play now? asked six-year-old Simon, tweaking the instrument from his older brother's slack grasp.
I suppose because he no longer finds joy in it, she said, gently but firmly separating the squabbling brothers. Or perhaps, she added, half to herself, he is afraid to allow himself to find joy in it.
Father? Afraid? Stephen scoffed. Father isn't afraid of anything.
Even the bravest man is afraid of losing the ones he loves, she said quietly.
Stephen stared at her, his young face unnaturally solemn. The wind gusted up from the sea, loud and blustery, then dropped again. In the sudden silence, they could hear the sound of a horse's hooves coming toward them fast. Attica glanced up to see a horse and rider cresting the hill above thema dark, desert-bred horse, carrying a tall, dark knight who reined in sharply to swing out of the saddle with a lean, athletic grace that still took her breath away. Still, after all these years.
It's Papa, shrieked Simon. The boys jumped up, the lute thrust aside, forgotten, as they ran to him. Attica stayed where she was and watched her husband come at her, enjoying the way the wind lifted his dark hair from the collar of his rich velvet mantle, and the sight of the sun shining warm and golden over the strong bones of his face. Across a distance filled with the call of gulls and the sounds of the sea, his gaze met hers, and his eyes smiled.
Wait for me, called Simon in frustration as he lagged behind his older brother. Laughing, Damion tore his gaze
from hers and reached to lift his younger son high into the air. Then he swung the little boy up onto his shoulder, so that he had a free hand to ruffle Stephen's dark head when the older boy leaned into him. Watching them, Attica felt her heart fill with such joy, she thought it might burst.
He spent a moment listening to the boys excited chatter, then left them to care for the Arab and walked up to her.
I didn't think you were coming,
monsieur le comte
, she began teasingly. But the welcoming smile faded from her lips as she searched his face. What is it?
A messenger just rode in, from Aquitaine. Stripping off his gloves, he dropped smoothly onto the cloth beside her and plucked the jug of cider from the hamper. Richard the Lionhearted has been hit by a crossbow bolt, at the siege of Châlus, and is not expected to recover. Which means he paused to fill a horn with cider and throw it back with a quick flick of his wrist that John will be the new Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and King of England.
A sick, hollow feeling yawned deep within her. What will you do?
Damion poured himself another cupful and raised it to his lips. They say Philip is in Paris. I would go and pledge him my fealty. His gaze met hers questioningly over the rim of the cup. Do you think me disloyal?
Attica shook her head. No. Richard was a hard, brutal man, but at least when he rebelled against his father, he did it openly.
And
he proved himself to be a strong lord. But John She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. John is devious and weak. In the end, he will lose this land to Philip. I would not see you sacrifice everything, simply out of a sense of loyalty to such a man.
Tossing the cup aside, Damion reached for her, a wry
smile twisting his lips. I fear you have been married to me for too long.
No, not nearly long enough, she said as he came to sit behind her, her back against his chest so that he could put his arms around her. I intend to keep you tied to my side until you're too lame and battle weary to sit a horse, and I'm a withered old crone worn out from breeding.
Laughing, he placed his spread hands high on her swollen belly. And how is my daughter today?
Father Sergei had told them this baby would be a girl, and Attica believed him, for Sergei had always known such things, even before he'd become a priest. Your daughter is restless, she said, just as the baby kicked hard enough to make Damion laugh again.
He turned his face into Attica's hair. My daughter is always restless.
Music soothes her. Attica nudged the discarded lute toward him. Why don't you play for her?
Damion went suddenly, utterly still.
She turned in his arms, her hand coming up to touch his cheek. It's been ten years, Damion. Henry and my brother are long in their graves, and soon Richard will join them. What happened all those years ago at Chinon it belongs to the past. But your music She paused, struggling to put her thoughts into words. Your music was a gift from God. A gift, like our love. And like our love, God gave it to you for a purpose.
A purpose? The exhalation of his breath wafted warm and moist against her knuckles as he brought her hand to his mouth. Because of music, I almost lost you. He turned her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm.
She shook her head. Because of music, you were able to save a dying old man from treachery. She traced the
hard, proud curve of his lips with her fingertips. Don't you see? No matter what happens, you'll never really lose me, Damion. You are my soul. And you always will be.
High on the hill above the sea, the two brothers paused in the midst of arguing over who should hold the Arab's reins, their heads turning together at the sound of an unknown, haunting melody plucked from a lute with such unearthly skill that it stole their breath. It's Father, whispered Simon in awe, while Stephen only stared, his eyes shining with some emotion he could not have named.
I die for you,
sang Damion, his gaze locked fast with his wife's.
You are my hope, my life, my love.
After a moment, her voice joined his.
Give me yourself.
If not your body
,
Then your heart.
Make me your soul.
AUTHORS
NOTE
It is important to remember that the Normans and Angevins of twelfth-century France, like the gently-born across the Channel in England, spoke an archaic form of French. Rather than invent some anachronistic, pseudo-medieval English, I have, for the most part, simply translated the characters speech into modern English or, in some cases, modern French.
I would like to thank John Galbraith of Catholic Online for his help in fixing medieval church dates. The song in old Provençal sung by the trouver in the inn is by Arnaut and can be found in René Lavaud,
Les Poésies d'Arnaut Daniel
(Toulouse, 1910). Damion's love song, although inspired by contemporary models, is my own.
An Ivy Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright Š 2000 by CP Trust
Ivy Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
[http://www.randomhouse.com/BB/] www.randomhouse.com/BB/
Library of Congress Card Number: 00-190470
eISBN: 978-0-30756592-1
v3.0
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