Awaken My Fire (52 page)

That did it. She spun on her heels and stormed out. Unmindful of her waiting women, or of the continuous stream of guests arriving each hour at Gregory Castle or, indeed, of the rumor that put Henry himself only miles away; unmindful of what all this entailed—the idea that she should be getting dressed, minding the servants and attending to a thousand and one details of the feast tonight—she stormed out.

Tomorrow was the day. The image of her son's tiny face emerged in her mind; she felt a synchronous leap of her heart and she turned toward Gregory Castle where he slept, Cisely watching over him. Somehow, some way, she must change his father's mind before tomorrow. "For you," she vowed with all the love she felt for the boy. "For you I will not let him win this!"

Roshelle kicked the horse's side. Etoile neighed, as if in complete agreement, which because of the horse's nationality she did not doubt. Feeling the loosened reins, her mistress's weight as she leaned forward for flight, the spirited creature leaped into a lightning gallop toward home.

From Gregory Castle, an interested gaze peered from the alcove window overlooking the lawns on which the horse and rider flew like the wind. A surprised brow lifted. The girl appeared like a blur of blue velvet. The mane of the spirited horse matched perfectly the girl's hair, and as mane and hair were entwined like a banner with the speed of flight, horse and rider looked like one.

A wild creature of enchantment.

His breath caught as the girl reined in the creature hard, and before the horse even stopped, slippered feet jumped to the gravel courtyard. Few men could manage that trick. A groom rushed up to take the reins. Her women waited anxiously at the grand doors to the entrance hall, bursting out in a flurry of pretty colors made by their gowns, greeting the duchess with excited admonishments and how fare thees and the news that, "He is still asleep, milady."

"Still! He sleeps still!"

"Come and see . . ."

The girl in blue velvet followed her women through the doors below. Smiling, the man returned to the tall-backed chair before the long, austere desk of the Duke of Suffolk. Plain brown suede boots came to the tabletop. He leaned back, hands holding his head, savoring the precious few moments of privacy.

Within minutes footsteps sounded outside the doors.

"Milady, you will not believe—"

"Please do not bother me with another title or name, there are so many spinning through my head now." Half of England had arrived for her son's christening, it seemed, which was the root of her trouble. "I must be alone to think. Cisely will tell me when he wakes. That is all."

"But, milady—"

"Please, please, leave me be."

"Very well, milady."

With a slight creak, the door opened. There she stood. Unaware of another's presence, she pushed the door shut and lowered the latch. Leaning against the door, she closed her eyes.

Vince, you devil, the stranger thought as he almost laughed out loud, observing the famous girl up close. The duke's steward, Bogo le Wyse, had said Lady Roshelle Marie was indeed a fair and pretty maid, and Louis, of course, had agreed in a flurry of French superlatives, and still he had not expected this. Thick dark lashes brushed against flushed cheeks; thin brows arched with dramatic influence over her closed eyes. Delicate lines drew the comely face. Dark red lips made a hard line, as if she were troubled by something. The long russet mass of hair tumbled in chaotic disarray around her slender shoulders and down her back, falling in silken streams over the bodice of her gown. The ample curves of her breasts strained against this cloth, and yet that was the only sign she had just a month ago given birth to a healthy, bonny young boy, the young Viscount of Suffolk, heir to Gregory Castle and the Suffolk lands beyond.

Roshelle always came to this room to think and read. While Gregory Castle was every bit as grand as Vincent had told her those sad days back in Reales, more even, and each of the countless rooms was lovely, decorated with sunlight and gay, festive colors, none was as fine as this room. Large and spacious, in the shape of a rectangle with a huge stone hearth and tall, wide windows looking out on the lawns and the pastures and the lake beyond, this room had the distinction of housing most of Suffolk's hundreds of precious manuscripts. The Duke of Suffolk paid three scribes annually to copy and illustrate manuscripts. Piles of scrolls and leather-bound copies of famous works sat in the dark wood, gold-trimmed and glass cases against one wall; the illuminated manuscripts lined another whole wall. She had only read twenty-nine so far; she had the rest of her life to read the next two hundred. Expensive Persian rugs kept the room warm, and Vincent had his mother's famous tapestries in here, perhaps the most beautiful items of all.

Roshelle's favorite hung on the opposite wall: done in rich blues and greens and grays, it depicted the mythical unicorn standing in a silver and white fog, staring off at its observers with sad, wild eyes. Papillion would have treasured the work of art; he would have claimed its creator had been touched by the great mystery of life. It was Vincent's favorite, too, and as she stared at the haunting sadness in the creature's doleful eyes, she wondered how Vincent could love her so, and yet do this to her.

Her son, her son. She closed her eyes and her mind produced a vivid picture of her son's plump face, rosy cheeks and impressive, hawk like nose—yes, one saw this distinguishing feature already—all in all, a perfect little replica of his father, except for the bright blue eyes, beautiful eyes that were so like Papillion's. The image brought a swell of emotion through her, and with the emotion came her desperation.

She began pacing in front of the cold ashes in the hearth. "He cannot! He cannot," she cried out loud in her distress, stopping, turning again. "Dear Lord, help me, help me…"

A brow rose, a smile followed. "Madame, pray tell—"

Roshelle jumped visibly and her hands flew to her heart.

"A thousand pardons, milady. I did not mean to startle you!"

"I thought I was alone."

"I fear I could not help but overhear your distress. Pray tell, madam, what is amiss?"

Her blue eyes studied the strange man. She tried to place him at the holy feast last night, but could not. "Beg pardon, sir, do I know you?"

"Methinks not."

She stared still, distracted. A rugged, not unhandsome face stared back! He had piercing black eyes, a fine large nose and wide lips, curving with the suggestion of a smile, all set on a round yet distinguished face. He wore richly made but common clothes, no coat of arms on his plain tunic or spurs on his boots. Despite his boldness in taking the duke's favorite chair, she assumed he must be one of their landed guests' stewards or perhaps just a valet, and with that, she dismissed him as inconsequential.

"Perhaps I can help?"

She shook her head, her thoughts returning in force to her dilemma. "I think not. Unless you have a cure for stubbornness?"

"And whose would that be?"

"My husband, that's who!"

"Ah." The man's eyes filled with amusement. "I know it well. He is indeed famous for it."

"Aye," she agreed, supposing all the world was familiar with the fault. "Not only is it the cause of my present despair, but it shall be the cause of my lifelong unhappiness if I do not find a cure for it."

He, too, had felt considerable grief from this very fault of the lady's husband and so, with a sympathetic sigh, "I fear I know no cure, milady."

"Aye, I did not think you did."

"Do tell me, milady, what has the wretched man done now?"

She waved her hand in agitation, and seemed to be speaking as much to herself as she was to him. "He has threatened to do something to my son that will cause me great pain. And, as I said, not just a passing pain," she assured him, shaking her head as she resumed pacing. "But rather a pain and an insult I shall have to endure my whole life long!"

"Yes? And what could this grievous insult be?"

The man appeared sympathetically alarmed, and with feeling, she told him in a high melodic French voice: "He has signed the church's baptismal records and christened our son with the name, the name of his king!" She flushed with a fresh rush of emotion just thinking about it. "Oh, 'tis too awful to contemplate. He has named him Henry, in honor of Henry, the King of England!"

The man blanched upon hearing this apparent horror. "Dear Lord!"

Roshelle misunderstood his response. "I suppose you do not see this insult as so bad, since you are obviously English, like my husband. No doubt you feel, as all Englishmen do, that the only thing better than Henry is God and heaven!" Her impassioned voice rose with anguish and she clenched her fists. "Yet my husband has completely ignored the fact that I am French. French, and not only am I French, but I have lived in that poor country all my life. I have lived through Henry's army's purges and plunderings and wars. I have witnessed my people falling victim to his ungodly quest for the French throne, and so perhaps you can imagine how I will feel if I have to call my son that name! Dear Lord, I can hardly pronounce 'Henry' without cursing in the same breath—"

The man suddenly tilted back in the chair with a roar of laughter and Roshelle stopped instantly, turning to him with a start. Confusion lifted on her face as he continued to laugh; indeed, for a long minute it seemed he could not stop. Irritation replaced her confusion. "I fail to see anything amusing in my dilemma, sir!"

"No, no, I beg your pardon, madam." He wiped his eyes, his chest bouncing still, though he managed to quiet the roar. "Of course not. There is nothing amusing about a young mother cursing her first born son every time she calls his name." Yet, the thought made him laugh again and he swore, "Oh, heaven help me here..."

"Heaven help you?" She looked confused and uncertain still before she returned to the problem. "I am the one in need of heavenly intervention."

"Is your husband quite adamant?"

"Aye. He has already signed the papers. Dear Lord, what am I to do? What can I do?"

The question remained unanswered for several long minutes. Perhaps she could change Vincent's mind if she discovered a worthy alternative. 'Twas a small chance, granted, but it seemed the only hope. The name would have to be English, of course, for Vincent's surname was French and he felt that was quite enough honor to his mother's country of origin. So! There was the name Oliver or Richard or George or John or Calvin or Peter, but, dear Lord, a distressed hand went to her forehead, she did not like any of those names.

Yet she would choose any one of them over the dreadful name Henry!

The man stared off at the tapestry as he turned the dilemma around in his head. He had more than one reason for helping the lady. Yet how could he? How could he change her mind about the famous English name Henry?

It came to him all of a sudden. He slammed his fist against the tabletop, struck as he was by an inspiration. "I have it! By God, I have it! Milady, being somewhat of a history buff, I happen to know that one of the first kings of your beloved country was also named Henry, was he not?"

Her blue eyes focused on him instantly.

"And was he not a valiant, brave and just king, too?"

"Aye," she said slowly. "Aye, he was." She nodded. "Many knowledgeable people think he was our best and greatest king. Papillion did. I have been told the history of his campaigns many times and, why, why—"

The name echoed in her mind. Henry the First of France, Henry the First of France! She stopped, her hands going to her cheeks as she considered the name in this new light. 'Twas perfect! Her son did not have to be named after the King of England just because he was christened Henry; he could easily be called after Henry of France! And "Henry" was a goodly, strong and noble name for a boy...

"Would it work, madam? Could you not think of Henry the First of France when you call your son, while your husband thinks of another namesake?"

Roshelle's smile grew, a happy light filling her eyes. "Why, I could. Henry of France. Henry." She repeated the name, clasping her hands together and turning to him with all her great excitement. "Why did I not think of this? I believe it is a perfect solution. I could even come to like the name Henry- if I thought of it that French way. Why, 'Henry' is a goodly, just and strong name for a boy and, and now that I think of it, I believe my boy does look like a little Henry!" She laughed with pleasure and gratitude. "Merci, monsieur! Merci! I am indebted to you and so grateful!"

The man grinned at having served the duchess so well. Roshelle noticed for the first time the merry sparkle in his gaze: eyes, she saw suddenly, that were shrewd and clever and not so simple, really...

She was suddenly curious. "I shall tell your master of my gratitude."