Lady Knight (17 page)

“Did you?”

The head shook. Aveline felt the tendrils of loose, long hair against her arm.
“No, madam. You might’ve been having a true dream.”

Aveline hoped not. “Fetch wine.”

The girl scrambled out of bed and slipped through the gap in the hangings.
Aveline took a deep breath to try to steady herself.

Had it been Sight delivered to her as she slept? Such a phenomenon had been
known to occur rarely to chosen individuals. Aveline bent her concentration on
remembering. War. Unsubtle imagery. Much as she would like to interpret the
nightmare as a sign from the Dark-Faced One that her crusade was coming, Aveline
judged it a bad dream. She felt none of the chill shadow inside which signalled
the whisper of the Goddess. More likely the cause of her nightmare was the rich
dish of lampreys she had eaten for supper.

When the girl returned, there was a moment, as she passed back through the
hangings, when moonlight lit her from behind and limned her in an unearthly
beauty. Aveline reached for her and drew the warm body close. The hot young
mouth responded eagerly to her kiss. Resilient flesh moved into the touch of her
hand. The novice’s moans and cries formed a fresh, gentle, living barrier
against the fading screams of Aveline’s nightmare. Instead of blood, the warmly
pungent juices of sex oozed onto her. Aveline drifted into heavy, dreamless
sleep.

The next morning, Aveline lingered beside the sacred pool after the conclusion
of dawn devotions. She remembered the dream of war, and frowned down at her
reflection. No, it had not felt like the Lady of Destiny had murmured to her in
her sleep, much as she would have liked to be the recipient of more divine
messages. She was favoured more than most.

“I do your will,” Aveline said. “To the best of my ability, sparing none –
myself included. I shall endeavour to let no mortal obstacles block your
wishes.”

She lifted her hand to trace a blessing. Her mirror-self in the pool held a tall
staff with a symbol of the quartered circle on the top. Aveline froze and
stared. Her image on the pool surface wore a chaplet of flowers. An indistinct
figure stood close behind her reflection. She could make out no features, merely
an impression of great size and power. Between one blink and the next, the
illusion vanished. Her reflected self was simply a faithful copy of her
surprise. She whirled around. No one else stood in the clearing.

Aveline put a hand to the quartered-circle symbol hanging against her front.
Her fingers gripped the gold. She had seen herself wearing the trappings of the
matriarch, the first mother of the Order of the Goddess.

I shall endeavour to let no mortal obstacles block your wishes.

Matriarch Melisande. She attempted to bar Aveline from following the path of the
Goddess’s will. She could not be removed, save by death. That might not be long
in coming, for Matriarch Melisande was an old woman. The new matriarch would be
elected from one of the twenty mother-naers. Aveline needed to become one of
them. Yes, she was young, but she was able, and acting for the good of the
order. Her rise to the leadership of the order was clearly the Lady of
Creation’s will. The Goddess had bidden her to chew that bitterest and sweetest
and most addictive meat called ambition.

“So be it,” Aveline said.

She strode out of the grove with heightened purpose and strengthened conviction.
Her only doubt lay in the identification of the large indistinct figure who had
stood behind her matriarch self. Had it been an avatar of the Goddess? Or had it
been Riannon?

Aveline set that aside for later contemplation. One strand of her efforts to
bring about the crusade hovered on the brink of success. The tinder neared
readiness for her to strike the spark that would start the conflagration.

After the wedding feast, Mathilda had raged about the insolence and idiocy of
Master Nuon the troubadour. Aveline had listened calmly as her sister threatened
to have him hanged from the gatehouse. Unmoved by her sister’s temper, Aveline
remembered the bristling of the hairs on the back of her neck when her toast of
“Vahldomne” had been shouted back at her from hundreds of throats.
Oh, Lady of
Destiny, yes!
They called the name of their hero who would lead them in a new
holy war. From the look on Riannon’s face, Aveline had guessed truly who that
hero was. How the imperial ambassador’s face had pinched with an insult barely
tolerated. Did he also hear the roar of a war cry coming?

The ambassador had looked no happier yesterday in the tourney stands when a pair
of dwarf fools from the entertaining troupe had reenacted the climactic duel at
the siege of Vahl. The dwarf representing the emperor’s son wore a pig’s head.
The dwarf in the part of the Vahldomne beat him with a leg of red hose stuffed
with straw and made to resemble a penis. Crude, and vastly ironical to one who
knew the Vahldomne to be a woman, but it had served its purpose. The imperial
ambassador retreated from the stands amidst raucous laughter and hoots of
derision. Aveline judged him on the brink and needing but a gentle shove to push
him into incaution.

This morning, she must turn her attention to another strand of her plans – her
need to ingratiate herself with Mother-Naer Katherine of Fourport. She would not
only be useful in taking Aveline to the Quatorum Council, but was also just the
woman to nominate Aveline for the next vacancy amongst the mother-naers. In
light of her gift image in the pool, this took on additional importance. The
greater good of the order depended on Aveline’s success.

Aveline did not rise from her chair when her attendant ushered in Geoffrey of
Howe and his son, Ralph. The son openly looked around and bristled an arrogance
whose wellspring Aveline could not begin to imagine. He was a dull, boastful
boor with no achievement in life to show for his thirty-odd years unless,
perhaps, he prided himself on winning some drinking contest in a whorehouse.

“Your invitation to an audience does us great honour, your Eminence,” Geoffrey
said.

Aveline indicated that he might take a seat. The son stood, feet planted apart,
and stared down at her. Ill-mannered pig. What a pity this arrangement would
benefit him.

“If we can be of service,” Geoffrey said, “to yourself or our queen, its
discharge would be a privilege, madam.”

“Yes,” Ralph said. “We stand ready to serve.”

“I was saddened to hear of your recent bereavement,” Aveline said.

“You’re most kind, madam,” Geoffrey said. “My daughter-in-law was young and in
good health. But, alas, as is lamentably common, childbirth proved stronger than
she.”

“The babe died with her,” Ralph said. “A man child, it was. The damned midwife
should’ve been whipped and hanged for her incompetence.”

Aveline stared at him. A fool without the wit of a sheep as well as boorish.
Did he not recall that midwives were trained by, if not initiates of, her order?
Still, neither brains nor good sense were necessary requirements for undertaking
a marriage.

Aveline addressed the father. “He has no heir, has he?”

After a couple of heartbeats to digest the remark, the old man’s eyes widened
fractionally with realisation. However imbecilic the son, his dull wits were not
inherited from his sire.

“I need a new wife,” Ralph said.

“We’ve made no firm choice yet,” Geoffrey said. “We will, of course, consult our
liege lady before any settlement. Is that not right, Ralph?”

Ralph grunted agreement.

Aveline smiled. “Have you heard, lately, from your sister-in-law?”

“Mother-Naer Katherine is in good health, Eminence,” Geoffrey said. “She
continues vigorous at Wermouth. Are you acquainted with her, madam?”

“Not as well as I wish to be,” she said.

Aveline watched comprehension creep across the father’s features with avarice as
its shadow. He couldn’t suppress a toothless smile.

“I’m sure she’d be honoured and delighted in your interest, madam.”

“My sister, the queen, has in her power of gift the marriage of a widow who
might suit your son,” Aveline said.

“Who?” Ralph said.

“I’m sure our family would all feel the truest and deepest gratitude for any
favour from our sovereign lady, madam,” Geoffrey said.

“Is she wealthy?” Ralph asked.

“The woman is Eleanor of Barrowmere,” Aveline said.

“Oh ho!” Ralph clapped his hands together. “Rich and beddable.”

Geoffrey beamed and looked indulgently at his son. “She is, indeed, quite a
notable prize, madam. Extensive lands. She holds a third of the honour of
Torhill, does she not?”

“Aye, money is important,” Ralph said. “But my sap has not dried, father, like
yours. I value a woman for her body as well as her other attractions. I’d find
no hardship in getting sons on Lady Eleanor. When may we wed?”

“Perhaps you ought to leave the dull matter of settlements to me,” Geoffrey
said. “Have you not a tourney challenge this day?”

Ralph looked torn. “I do. We’ll talk again ere we approach the lady’s lawyers
and men of business about settlements, father. You’ll need me to ensure we get
what we can.”

Aveline watched with concealed contempt as Ralph kissed her ring and strode out.
Geoffrey sat absorbed in thought and appeared to take no offence from his son’s
overbearing rudeness.

“My son has the right of it in saying that the Lady Eleanor is comely and
vivacious.” Geoffrey tugged his white beard. “Is it not true, though, that she
is barren? She must be nigh on thirty years. Possibly more, though not a whit
less handsome for her maturity.”

Aveline wondered where this was headed. Surely he would not turn down the lady’s
wealth? “She has no living child. Any children your son got on her would be her
heirs as well as his.”

“My son needs an heir,” Geoffrey said. “Mayhap it would be best if he found a
younger wife to bear his sons. I could marry Lady Eleanor.”

Aveline made no attempt to conceal her surprised smile.

“After all,” he said, “my sister-in-law will be just as gratified with a new
sister as she would a niece.”

After he left, Aveline fleetingly wondered how his son would take the news that
his “beddable” bride would be going to his father’s bed. Still, that was their
problem, not hers.

She went in search of Mathilda. It was time to tell her how they were going to
dispose of Lady Barrowmere. Best not delay the wedding, not the way Riannon was
hanging so closely on Lady Eleanor’s sleeve. Aveline needed Riannon free of
entanglements when the imperial ambassador snapped. And that should happen any
day now.

Eleanor sighed and turned a lazy smile across the pillow to Riannon. She was in
love. Passionately. Deeply. Dizzyingly. Just like the love she had told Cicely
so rarely afflicted people outside bards’ songs. Her body responded to Riannon’s
touch, her presence – a look, even – as if the gods had given her a sixth sense
that had lain dormant until it collided with Riannon. Now it leaped to life at
the slightest stimulus. Even the thought of her could set it singing. Eleanor
had stigmatised love as a sickness or madness. She had been right. But, oh, what
a glorious madness.

She studied Riannon’s profile. Riannon dozed. Her enviably long, dark lashes
curved upwards. This was the unscarred side, of course. Even in bed, Riannon
remained conscious of her disfigurement. Her left side was not without battle
mark, though, for a faint white souvenir of a cut angled across her cheek from
just below her ear. Even Riannon’s blemishes were precious and fascinating.

Eleanor smiled at her own folly. Definitely madness. Riannon sighed and her
eyelids fluttered, though she did not open her eyes. Eleanor levered herself up
on an elbow so that she could lean across to lightly kiss Riannon’s lips. Her
hair fell around her shoulders and stroked Riannon’s face.

“How your fair hair shines gold in the sun,” Riannon said, “dearest Margaret.”

Eleanor’s mouth dropped open. Riannon opened her eyes and grinned.

“You!” Eleanor grabbed a pillow.

Riannon surged up to hold her. Laughing did little to hamper her reflexes and
strength. She quickly overpowered Eleanor and held her pinned to the bed.

“Wretch!” Eleanor said.

“You should have seen your face,” Riannon said.

“Oh! I did not suspect, until this moment, how easy it would be to dislike you.”

“Passing strange, for I adore you.”

Eleanor felt herself soften and smile. “So much for chivalry and fairness. You
use the most underhanded stratagems. How could I possibly feign anger when you
tell me that you adore me?”

Riannon released her and sagged to the side, chuckling to herself. She did not
notice that her shirt had pulled up. Eleanor could see Riannon’s hips, with the
wedge of black hair marking her groin, and up to the bottom of Riannon’s ribs.
A scar as puckered, shiny, and angry pink as that cloven into her face ran down
from beneath the shirt to Riannon’s left hip. From the angle, Eleanor could
imagine it cutting across Riannon’s right breast. She remembered the difference
in the feel of Riannon’s breasts, and how much smaller the right was than the
left. Even the lie of the linen against Riannon’s chest showed the disparity.
The weapon that had sliced through Riannon’s face and body had cut most of her
breast away. Eleanor winced at the idea. Was that what Riannon hid?

Riannon lifted Eleanor’s hand to kiss.

Eleanor drew her gaze up to Riannon’s face again. As much as she wanted to know
what had happened, and what Riannon concealed, she did not want to think about
Riannon wounded. Lying bleeding and taut with pain, as Lionel had when he died.

“You shiver,” Riannon said. “If you’re cold, come here and let me warm you.”

Eleanor gladly clung to Riannon. She felt warm, hard muscles and a strong
heartbeat.

“How I long to ride with you along the shore of Burn Lake,” Eleanor said. “And
watch a fiery orange sunset from the top of the keep at Barrowmere with your
arms around me. And to have you return home from hunting. Flushed with victory,
and possibly wine, but boisterous and happy. And knowing that you come to me.”