The Last Knight (21 page)
Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
She heard the smile in his voice as he walked up to her. Because they're too afraid of the malevolent spirits of the unquiet dead. Here He reached for the bundle of clothing she still clutched. Give me those. You're getting them all wet.
She realized she'd virtually forgotten the clothes she held, and surrendered them unresisting. She was so cold and tired and sore. The tomb behind her beckoned like a bed, and she knew an overwhelming urge simply to lie down and close her eyes. Hitching her hips higher, she eased sideways until her upper body lay prone along the elevated slab. Her feet were still dangling over the edge, but she didn't care. It seemed more of an effort to swing them up than it was worth.
Oh no you don't, said that irritatingly energetic voice beside her. You've got to get out of those wet clothes first.
She groaned. I can't.
Strong hands seized her feet and swung them up onto the slab. In case you hadn't noticed, he said, working off first one boot, then the other, it's dark in here, Attica. I won't be able to see a damned thing, if that's what you're worried about.
It wasn't. She was simply too cold and tired and stiff to move, let alone struggle with knotted ties and heavy wet cloth. I will take them off, she promised vaguely. I'll just sleep awhile, first.
She heard him swear under his breath, then felt his
hands at her belt, opening it. When he went to work at the tangled ties at her throat, she did not resist, only murmured an incoherent protest when he forced her to lift her shoulders so that he could draw first surcoat, then tunic and shirt over her head. She was dimly aware of his swift, sure touch untying the points of her hose and easing the wet cloth of her braies down over her naked hips. She thought vaguely that she should feel some embarrassment, but she didn't. Only profound gratitude and a sweet, unfamiliar sense of being cared for and cherished as he wrapped one of the purloined cloaks around her.
Thank you, she murmured, and rolled over onto her side, hugging the warm, dry cloth to her.
Again she felt the touch of his fingers, on her cheek this time. Felt their gentleness and an odd, unexpected tremor as he smoothed her wet hair away from her face.
Go to sleep, lordling.
She awoke to the clear, melodious notes of birdsong and a luxurious sense of warmth she gradually realized came from the large male body cradling her.
She lay on her side, her back snuggled against de Jar-nac's chest, his hand resting on her hip. All her life, Attica had slept alone. A luxury, she knew, for many slept five or six to a bed. And yet it was a fine thing, she thought, to wake up next to someone. To a man.
To a man she loved.
She kept her eyes closed a little longer, drawing out the moment, reveling in the warm intimacy of his hard man's body so close to hers. Still faintly smiling, she opened her eyes, then felt her heart lurch at the sight of the pale glow lighting the vaulted gloom. Dawn was breaking.
She squeezed her eyes shut again. She didn't want morning to come. She knew a futile sense of wishing she could reach out and stop time, hold off the coming of the dangerous day and cling to this moment. This moment of peace and warmth and safety.
He hadn't moved, yet she somehow sensed from the aura of coiled alertness about him that he was awake. Is it time? she asked quietly.
Not yet.
He drew back, as if he meant to put some distance between them now that she was awake. She caught his hand, stopping him. Hold me. Please.
There followed a tense pause filled with the quiet exhalation of his breath and a strange, quivering tension. Then he said, as if to break it, That's only false dawn you're seeing. Try to go back to sleep.
She shifted her shoulders until she lay flat on the hard stone beside him. Her body ached with scrapes and bruises and an intense physical weariness such as she'd never known. She closed her eyes. But sleep seemed to elude her.
De Jarnac? she said softly, glancing toward him. He lay with his head resting on his upflung arm. His eyes were open, and he was looking at her.
Yes?
She let her gaze rove over him. She could see him now in the growing light, see the darkly brooding eyes, the fiercely beautiful line of cheek and jaw. His neck was bare, and his shoulders, and she realized suddenly that he was as naked as she beneath the covering of cloaks. The thought brought her a strange, forbidden thrill that sent heat surging into her cheeks, so that she found she couldn't look at him anymore.
She stared at the stones of the vaulted ceiling above them.
Do you think it will work? she asked. What she meant was, Do you really think we'll be able simply to walk through the city gates unchallenged, dressed as Pepe the Stiltwalker and his lute-playing companion?
But she didn't need to say all of that, because he knew exactly what she was asking. I don't know, he said. How good are you on the lute?
She let out a low, nervous laugh. Good enough, I think. How are you on stilts?
Well, I have used them before.
She swung her head to look at him in surprise. You have?
Mm-hmm. At Acre, in Outremer. When I was serving as squire to Sir Rauve. I think I was fifteen.
Sir Rauve? Is he the knight with whom you took the cross?
Yes. He had the devil's own temper when roused, but I stayed with him because he was one of the best men with a horse and a sword there ever was. He shifted his weight so he could glance down at her. I wanted to be the best myself, you see.
She imagined de Jarnac as a brash fifteen-year-old and smiled. So what happened?
He lay on his back beside her, his elbow bent behind his head. I had some free time one Sunday afternoon, so a couple of the other squires and I decided to go into the city. To the market. That's where we saw him.
A stiltwalker?
De Jarnac nodded. Ponce and Sigibertthat's the other squires with methey knew I had a pretty high opinion of my athletic abilities
You mean, you were insufferably cocky?
Something like that. At any rate, the other boys bet me that I couldn't walk the length of the leather souk on those stilts without coming to grief.
So of course you took them up on it, she said, unable to keep the laugh out of her voice.
He frowned at her, but she saw the wicked gleam in his eyes. Well, I couldn't hardly not, now, could I? I mean, I had a reputation of my own to keep up.
She rolled over onto her side so that she was facing him. And you did it?
Mais oui
. I paid the stiltwalker a few coins for the use of his stilts and some quick pointers. It's not as hard as you'd think, if you know what you're doing and if your balance is good.
If
your balance is good.
Mine is. I put on quite a show. Before I was halfway through the souk, I'd collected a considerable crowd around me, heavy on dogs and little boys. The boys were all laughing and yelling, and the dogs were all barkingwhich wouldn't have been a problem, except for this camel.
A camel, repeated Attica, not sure whether to believe him or not.
A camel. Right at the end of the leather makers alley. I came charging out of that leather souk on my stilts, with all those barking dogs and shrieking boys leaping around me, and that camel, she took one look at me and knew she wanted nothing to do with me. She threw back her braying head, showed me an ugly mouth full of yellow teeth, and bolted.
She?
Of course it was a she. She ran right into me.
And? Attica prompted, trying hard not to laugh.
De Jarnac sighed. It's a long fall from up on stilts. I
went flying. And when I came down, I was on top of a pastry stall. Smashed the stall, of coursenot to mention all of those sticky pastries,
and
the pastry seller's head, too. Oh, and I broke two of my own ribs. But not the stilts.
Attica let out an ungenteel sound, rather like a snort. And Sir Rauve?
I was his squire, so he was held responsible for all the damage and had to pay for it. Of course, he took every last sou of it out of my hide. But at least he waited until my ribs healed before he thrashed me.
At that, she couldn't help it: She laughed out loud. But as her laughter floated away into the dark columned recesses of the crypt, she sobered suddenly, her fingers clutching at his hand. If this doesn't work, she said, her voice low and earnest, if something goes wrong and they take us at the gate, you must tell my uncle what he wants to know.
He sucked in a hard breath that lifted his bare chest. I can't, Attica.
She sat up, hugging the cloak to her breasts as she turned toward him. Buthe'll torture you!
Torture you to death
if you don't.
I know. He took some pains to outline the entire procedure for me in great detail, presumably on the assumption that knowledge of the particulars might increase my willingness to cooperate.
She searched his features and dark, shadowed eyes, looking for some sign of the fear he must surely
surely
? be feeling. But she saw nothing. Nothing except a wry, bitter kind of self-mockery. Her own fear for him trembled through her. I don't understand. Why not tell him? Whatever reward Henry has promised you for your loyalty, it won't be of any use to you if you're dead.
He shoved himself up on his elbow, the cloak falling away from his broad, naked chest as he leaned into her. Sweet Infant Jesus. Is that why you think I'm doing this? For some damned royal reward?
She stared at him. Why else? Don't tell me it's out of loyalty to Henry, because I won't believe it. You're the one who is always saying you're loyal to yourself and no other. The documents in that book aren't worth you dying for.
He sat up completely, swinging his legs over the edge of the stone slab and taking one of the cloaks with him in a swirl of dark cloth as he stood up. It's not a matter of what's in the book. He reached for his braies. It's who has it.
Sergei, she whispered in sudden understanding. You're protecting Sergei. You gave him the breviary when he met us in the square, and then you sent him ahead to warn Henry of Richard's plans for the conference.
De Jarnac paused to throw her a hard glance over his shoulder. Do you really think I'd send your uncle's men after that boy, just to save my own hide?
She felt the blood drain out of her face, her gaze falling away from his to her own, clenched hands. No. No, of course not.
She could feel him staring at her, even though she was no longer looking at him. Then he picked up one of the gaily colored tunics and tossed it to her, along with her own underwear. You'd best get dressed. We need to get through that gate before Pepe and friend wake up and find their clothes and the articles of their profession gone.
Attica caught the bundle of clothes. But we paid for them. Far more than they're worth.
De Jarnac grunted. Making me go back to leave your gold necklace at Pepe's bedside might have eased your
conscience, lordling, but somehow I doubt it'll stop him from setting up a howl when he finds he's nothing left but his underwear.
Wordlessly, she pulled on her shirt and braies, then suppressed an inward cringe when she reached for the lute player's red-and-yellow tunic. The wool cloth was old and coarse; it reeked foully of cooking fat and woodsmoke and stale sweat, and it was doubtless infested with lice and other vermin. Gritting her teeth against a wave of revulsion, she jerked the tunic over her head, pulled on the coarse hose, and stood up.
The tunic had been made for a much broader man. It hung on her awkwardly, so that she had to pad it out with her own clothes and de Jarnac's, too, wrapped about her torso and tied in place with their hose. The effect was less than realistic.
This is never going to work
, she thought, fastening the lute player's worn leather belt with fingers that suddenly began to shake violently.
It's not going to work
.
De Jarnac? she said quietly.
Mmm?
She swung to face him. I'm scared.
He came to her, his gaze intensely serious as he searched her face. I know, he said softly, resting his hands on her shoulders. He took her mouth in a swift, sweet kiss. Then he smiled. Look at it this way.
She cocked her head. How's that?
His grin widened into a low laugh. At least there are no camels in Laval.
His long sticks flashing, his tall, athletic body unbelievably lithe and controlled, he charged down the hill from the church of Saint Sulpice, a circle of laughing, excited children darting around his stick-extended legs like ragged brown bumblebees about a giant yellow-and-red flower. Behind him came Benno the Lute Player, his white mask a frozen grin of black thread on coarse linen, his cold-numbed hands working hard to coax a tune from the battered old lute.
Look at that, said the younger of the two guards at the River Gate. Now, that's one way to stay out of the mud. But the other guard, wet and chilled and foul-tempered after a long night spent chasing shadows across the rooftops of Laval, simply grunted and retreated farther beneath the sheltering archway of the gate.
Hey, Benno, called the younger guard, bobbing up and down on his toes to keep warm.
The lute player, looking dumpier than ever in his ill-fitting yellow-and-red tunic, spun about to face the guard and froze.
The guard grinned. Play something by Isabelle d'Anjou.
The masked head nodded, the sewn black starbursts around its eyeholes seeming to explode in a parody of alarm. He swung away, his fingers flying over the lute strings, while Pepe the Stiltwalker, not content simply to walk, began to dance, his long stick legs moving in a stately parody of a courtly promenade that brought shrieks of delight from the children.
The young guard laughed.
Merci bien,
he called, and tossed the lute player a coin.
Benno caught the coin neatly from the air and threw back his head to yap like a happy dog. The yapping could still be heard, growing fainter in the distance, as the two performers twirled their way through the gate to be lost in the tangle of tents that filled the open fields between the city walls and the wood beyond.
Mother of God, youyou cocky Attica sputtered, searching desperately for the right word.
De Jarnac's eyes sparkled at her through the slits of his mask.
Méchant diable?
he suggested, then ducked as she snatched off her masked hood and used it to whack him across his shoulders.
She felt almost breathless with lingering fear and a queer, trembling sense of triumph. What in the name of God did you think you were doing? she demanded as he pulled off his mask and backed away from her, his hands up as if to ward off more blows, a smile tugging at his lips. She wanted to reach out and trace the curve of that smile. She wanted to hit him hard enough to wipe that smile off his face. There I was, so afraid you were going to come tumbling down on top of one of those guards that I could scarcely play the lute, and you start
dancing
?
Laughing, he feinted sideways as she threw her hood at him. I told you I was good, didn't I? He tugged off Pepe's parti-color tunic and tossed it aside, his hands settling on his lean hips as he paused a moment to stare at her. Besides, I wanted to put on a good enough show that neither of those guards would get the bright idea that they ought to make us take off our masks.
Huh. She yanked off Benno's filthy tunic and reached for her own, her hands still shaking so badly, she found it difficult to do up the laces. They had paused to change in the shelter of a small grove of leafy green poplar trees some half a league from Laval. The rain still fell in a light drizzle, pattering softly on the overhead branches. But the mist was lifting from the low ground and the sky had lightened until the wet leaves and vivid green grass seemed to sparkle with jewels.
She looked up from tying her laces to watch him bend over and pick up his own tunic. The great rents in his shirt showed her a back strapped with muscle and marked with purpling bruises. Don't tell me you learned to dance like that after one pass through the leather souk? she asked.
He swung to face her as he pulled on his torn tunic. Not exactly. You remember that stiltwalker in Acre I told you about? Well, after I came to grief with the camel, he set up a screech that I'd cracked his stilts. I hadn't, of course, but in the end, Sir Rauve bought the things, just to shut the man up.
You mean, you used them more than just the once?
He looked up from tying the points of his chausses and grinned. That's right. By the time we left Acre, all of Sir Rauve's squires could do a jig on stilts.
You could have told me.
Huh. Then what excuse would I have had if I had fallen off ?
She scooped up his boots and threw them at him. He caught them neatly. Where is Sergei supposed to meet you, anyway? she asked.
Balancing against the trunk of a nearby tree, de Jarnac tugged on first one boot, then the other. He's not. When I gave him the breviary, I told him to take his own mount and the Arab, and kill both horses if necessary, as long as he reaches La Ferté-Bernard in time to warn Henry about Richard and Philip's plans to attack after the conference.
She felt as if someone had just kicked all the wind out of her. You mean, we have no horses?
One, hopefully. Sergei was supposed to leave the roan at a cottage not far from here. He finished lacing his boots and straightened. Are you ready? We need to put as much distance as possible between us and Laval before your uncle realizes we've left the city and organizes his men to come after us.
She swung one of the purloined cloaks over her shoulders and turned toward the road. But we'll have only one horse between us.
That's right, he said, keeping to the grassy verge that flanked the muddy track.
She stopped. Then you must go on without me.
Keep walking, Attica, he said, not missing a step.
Listen to me. She caught his arm to jerk him around.
He swung to face her, his eyes hooded, his jaw set. All right. I'm listening.
If Renouf catches you, he'll
kill
you.
He flashed her his devil's grin. If he catches me.
He would have turned away again, but she stopped him,
her grip tightening on his sleeve. He'll be far less likely to catch you if I'm not with you.
She watched the smile leave his face. That's true. He took a step that brought him right up to her. But if you think he will be gentle with you, I wouldn't count on it, Attica. His life's on the line here, and by helping me to escape, you've shown yourself to be his enemy.
He is my kinsman. He would be angry, and he might very well beat me. But I doubt he would kill me.
That's not what you thought last night, when you fled the castle.
She brought her chin up. It doesn't matter. I'm willing to take the chance.
Well, I'm not. Something flashed like quick lightning in the depths of his fiery green eyes before he hooded them with his drooping lids. I might have to stand by and watch you sacrifice your happiness out of a sense of honor and duty to your family, but I'll be damned if I'll have you sacrificing your life for
me
.
She took a step back, her hand coming up to hold the edges of her cloak together at her neck. Oh? And what makes you think I'm willing to let you risk your life for me?
He gave her a slow, unexpected smile that clutched at her heart. I'm a knight, remembereven if I do seem to have temporarily misplaced my horse, armor, and sword. Rescuing damsels in distress is what I do.
Her breath caught on a startled laugh as he reached out to snag her around the neck with the hook of his elbow and draw her to him. Ah, lordling, he said, his breath wafting warm against her cheek. I'm not abandoning you, so you'd best make up your mind to it.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, her gaze on his hard face outlined against the low gray clouds above
her. Beneath her cheek, she felt his heart beat, felt him
live
. And she was suddenly so terribly afraid for him afraid for them both. At least we know that even if we don't make it, Sergei will have warned Henry.
He touched his sword-callused fingers to her lips, silencing her. We'll make it.
Attica watched de Jarnac lead the saddled roan across the muddy farmyard toward her. The rain had settled in hard again, pounding on the broad leaves of the old oak overhead and splashing into the broad brown puddles that littered the yard.
Through the gloom, she saw a jagged blaze of red that confused her until she realized it came from the lightning bolt of de Jarnac's shield, dangling from the saddle. She supposed it made sense for Sergei to leave the knight his shield. But how did one explain the simple sword now buckled to de Jarnac's hip?
Merci bien,
de Jarnac called to the peasant woman who shuffled back to her thatched-roof cottage, her hooded head bent against the rain, her fist clutched tight around the coins he had given her.
The horse's hooves made little sucking noises in the mud as de Jarnac stopped before Attica. She caught hold of the cheekpiece of the roan's bridle. Where did you get the sword?
You'll have to ask Sergei that, he said, vaulting into the saddle. He left it.
But how could he know you'd be needing it?
De Jarnac shrugged. I stopped asking myself questions like that a long time ago. He slung his shield by its strap across his back and reached down his hand to her. Here.
She hung back, staring up at him through the driving
rain. She thought she'd probably never wanted to do anything in her life as much as she wanted to take his hand now. I still think you ought to ride on without me, she said, her voice husky but calm.
Trčs bien.
He leaned his right forearm on the pommel as the horse moved restlessly beneath him. He was no longer smiling. You've told me what you think, and I am impressed with your nobility even if I'm not particularly flattered by the implication that I am so lacking in honor that I'd even consider riding off and leaving you to face possible death. Now give me your hand and put your left foot on mine.
She held out her hand. His big fist tightened around her wrist, and she scrambled up into the saddle in front of him.
You are a fool, she said, clutching the gelding with her legs as de Jarnac's arms came around her to hold her close against him. His body felt so warm and comforting around hers. She tilted her head back against his shoulder, felt his chest hard and strong against her spine.
His breath tickled her ear as he pressed his lips once against her neck. Don't worry, he said, his voice deep with amusement. When the horse gets tired, I'll make you walk.
She laughed softly as he spurred the reluctant roan out of the yard.
The direct road to Le Mans and La Ferté-Bernard ran in an almost straight line to the east, down a slope to the broad valley beyond. They turned instead toward the grass-covered hills that would lead them to the higher, wilder country stretching northeast in a wide arc to Sille-le-Guillaume and Beaumont-sur-Sarthe before curving back toward No-gent and down to La Ferté-Bernard.
Raising her hand to shield her face from the rain, Attica
studied the distant hills. Even without the rain and with two good horses, the roundabout route was a journey of at least five or six days. But with only one horse between them and the need to stay away from the main roads
Why are we stopping? she asked when he drew up beside a copse of chestnut and beech, not long after they'd dropped over the rise from the farm.
He jumped down to the wet, spongy ground and handed her the reins. I'll walk from here.
She reached out to grab his shoulder when he would have strode ahead. But you can't.
He swung to face her, the rain running in rivulets down his hard, tanned cheeks. Attica, this horse will never last carrying us both.
She grabbed a handful of mane, ready to scramble down herself. Then we'll take turns. I'll walk first.
His big hand closed over hers, stopping her. Oh you will, will you? And can you walk eight leagues a day, day after day?
She paused. I don't know, she answered honestly. I've never tried.
Well, I have. He let her go and started walking. So you ride.
She nudged the gelding after him. She watched him striding through the grass, his long legs swinging into an effortless rhythm. There was so much she didn't know about this man, so much she wanted to know.
You never told me how long you've been with Henry, she said at last, when she could no longer contain herself.
About six months, he said, not looking at her. Why do you ask?
Instead of answering, she said, Why Henry?
He glanced up at her, a smile curling his lips as his
head fell back. Why not Henry? He's the greatest king in
Christendom. And only a king can give me what I want.
What do you want? she asked quietly.
The smile hardened, although his voice stayed light as he answered her. Land. Titles. What every younger son turned knight-errant wants.
She kept her gaze on his face. Your brother left a son and heir of his own, didn't he?
He swung his head away from her, so that she could see only the sharp line of his cheekbone. He doesn't matter. I want nothing from the de Jarnacs, he said, his tone suddenly harsh. I will be the man I make myself.
The silence that followed was hard and brittle and unwelcoming of disturbance. She rode beside him, her hands clenched tight about the reins. She felt restless and unsettled, wanting to know more but reluctant to press on. In the end, he was the one who spoke next.
Why are you still unwed at the age of nineteen? he asked suddenly, surprising her.
The rain had eased up, and she pushed back the hood of her cloak before she answered. I told you, I was betrothed as a child to Ivor of Chauvigny. He went on Crusade, while I was sent to his mother to be trained at the courts of Aquitaine and Poitou, and to await his return. Only, he wasn't particularly anxious to come back. He was gone for six years and finally died in Antioch.
If I remember correctly, my dear Atticus, de Jarnac said, the warmth of amusement returning to his voice, you told me
Elise
had been betrothed to Ivor of Chauvigny.
Recalling her earlier deception, Attica felt her cheeks heat. I spoke of myself.
Hmph. He kept his gaze on the distant hills. So it was
after the death of Chauvigny that your father betrothed you to Fulk of Salers?
Yes.
Something in her voice brought his head around, his eyes narrowing as he stared up at her. He must be a hard man, your father, to use his only daughter so.
Her throat felt suddenly thick and tight. My family has many estates in eastern Brittany, but they are scattered and not easily defended, and the times are troubled. The d'Alérions need this alliance with Salers, and my person and the three castles I bring as my dowry are what secured it. She paused, lifting her head to let the damp wind fan her cheeks as she drew the cold air deep into her lungs. I have never doubted my father's love. But I have always known his first loyalty is to his house, and to his lord, Henry. He expects no less from me.
She realized she'd virtually forgotten the clothes she held, and surrendered them unresisting. She was so cold and tired and sore. The tomb behind her beckoned like a bed, and she knew an overwhelming urge simply to lie down and close her eyes. Hitching her hips higher, she eased sideways until her upper body lay prone along the elevated slab. Her feet were still dangling over the edge, but she didn't care. It seemed more of an effort to swing them up than it was worth.
Oh no you don't, said that irritatingly energetic voice beside her. You've got to get out of those wet clothes first.
She groaned. I can't.
Strong hands seized her feet and swung them up onto the slab. In case you hadn't noticed, he said, working off first one boot, then the other, it's dark in here, Attica. I won't be able to see a damned thing, if that's what you're worried about.
It wasn't. She was simply too cold and tired and stiff to move, let alone struggle with knotted ties and heavy wet cloth. I will take them off, she promised vaguely. I'll just sleep awhile, first.
She heard him swear under his breath, then felt his
hands at her belt, opening it. When he went to work at the tangled ties at her throat, she did not resist, only murmured an incoherent protest when he forced her to lift her shoulders so that he could draw first surcoat, then tunic and shirt over her head. She was dimly aware of his swift, sure touch untying the points of her hose and easing the wet cloth of her braies down over her naked hips. She thought vaguely that she should feel some embarrassment, but she didn't. Only profound gratitude and a sweet, unfamiliar sense of being cared for and cherished as he wrapped one of the purloined cloaks around her.
Thank you, she murmured, and rolled over onto her side, hugging the warm, dry cloth to her.
Again she felt the touch of his fingers, on her cheek this time. Felt their gentleness and an odd, unexpected tremor as he smoothed her wet hair away from her face.
Go to sleep, lordling.
She awoke to the clear, melodious notes of birdsong and a luxurious sense of warmth she gradually realized came from the large male body cradling her.
She lay on her side, her back snuggled against de Jar-nac's chest, his hand resting on her hip. All her life, Attica had slept alone. A luxury, she knew, for many slept five or six to a bed. And yet it was a fine thing, she thought, to wake up next to someone. To a man.
To a man she loved.
She kept her eyes closed a little longer, drawing out the moment, reveling in the warm intimacy of his hard man's body so close to hers. Still faintly smiling, she opened her eyes, then felt her heart lurch at the sight of the pale glow lighting the vaulted gloom. Dawn was breaking.
She squeezed her eyes shut again. She didn't want morning to come. She knew a futile sense of wishing she could reach out and stop time, hold off the coming of the dangerous day and cling to this moment. This moment of peace and warmth and safety.
He hadn't moved, yet she somehow sensed from the aura of coiled alertness about him that he was awake. Is it time? she asked quietly.
Not yet.
He drew back, as if he meant to put some distance between them now that she was awake. She caught his hand, stopping him. Hold me. Please.
There followed a tense pause filled with the quiet exhalation of his breath and a strange, quivering tension. Then he said, as if to break it, That's only false dawn you're seeing. Try to go back to sleep.
She shifted her shoulders until she lay flat on the hard stone beside him. Her body ached with scrapes and bruises and an intense physical weariness such as she'd never known. She closed her eyes. But sleep seemed to elude her.
De Jarnac? she said softly, glancing toward him. He lay with his head resting on his upflung arm. His eyes were open, and he was looking at her.
Yes?
She let her gaze rove over him. She could see him now in the growing light, see the darkly brooding eyes, the fiercely beautiful line of cheek and jaw. His neck was bare, and his shoulders, and she realized suddenly that he was as naked as she beneath the covering of cloaks. The thought brought her a strange, forbidden thrill that sent heat surging into her cheeks, so that she found she couldn't look at him anymore.
She stared at the stones of the vaulted ceiling above them.
Do you think it will work? she asked. What she meant was, Do you really think we'll be able simply to walk through the city gates unchallenged, dressed as Pepe the Stiltwalker and his lute-playing companion?
But she didn't need to say all of that, because he knew exactly what she was asking. I don't know, he said. How good are you on the lute?
She let out a low, nervous laugh. Good enough, I think. How are you on stilts?
Well, I have used them before.
She swung her head to look at him in surprise. You have?
Mm-hmm. At Acre, in Outremer. When I was serving as squire to Sir Rauve. I think I was fifteen.
Sir Rauve? Is he the knight with whom you took the cross?
Yes. He had the devil's own temper when roused, but I stayed with him because he was one of the best men with a horse and a sword there ever was. He shifted his weight so he could glance down at her. I wanted to be the best myself, you see.
She imagined de Jarnac as a brash fifteen-year-old and smiled. So what happened?
He lay on his back beside her, his elbow bent behind his head. I had some free time one Sunday afternoon, so a couple of the other squires and I decided to go into the city. To the market. That's where we saw him.
A stiltwalker?
De Jarnac nodded. Ponce and Sigibertthat's the other squires with methey knew I had a pretty high opinion of my athletic abilities
You mean, you were insufferably cocky?
Something like that. At any rate, the other boys bet me that I couldn't walk the length of the leather souk on those stilts without coming to grief.
So of course you took them up on it, she said, unable to keep the laugh out of her voice.
He frowned at her, but she saw the wicked gleam in his eyes. Well, I couldn't hardly not, now, could I? I mean, I had a reputation of my own to keep up.
She rolled over onto her side so that she was facing him. And you did it?
Mais oui
. I paid the stiltwalker a few coins for the use of his stilts and some quick pointers. It's not as hard as you'd think, if you know what you're doing and if your balance is good.
If
your balance is good.
Mine is. I put on quite a show. Before I was halfway through the souk, I'd collected a considerable crowd around me, heavy on dogs and little boys. The boys were all laughing and yelling, and the dogs were all barkingwhich wouldn't have been a problem, except for this camel.
A camel, repeated Attica, not sure whether to believe him or not.
A camel. Right at the end of the leather makers alley. I came charging out of that leather souk on my stilts, with all those barking dogs and shrieking boys leaping around me, and that camel, she took one look at me and knew she wanted nothing to do with me. She threw back her braying head, showed me an ugly mouth full of yellow teeth, and bolted.
She?
Of course it was a she. She ran right into me.
And? Attica prompted, trying hard not to laugh.
De Jarnac sighed. It's a long fall from up on stilts. I
went flying. And when I came down, I was on top of a pastry stall. Smashed the stall, of coursenot to mention all of those sticky pastries,
and
the pastry seller's head, too. Oh, and I broke two of my own ribs. But not the stilts.
Attica let out an ungenteel sound, rather like a snort. And Sir Rauve?
I was his squire, so he was held responsible for all the damage and had to pay for it. Of course, he took every last sou of it out of my hide. But at least he waited until my ribs healed before he thrashed me.
At that, she couldn't help it: She laughed out loud. But as her laughter floated away into the dark columned recesses of the crypt, she sobered suddenly, her fingers clutching at his hand. If this doesn't work, she said, her voice low and earnest, if something goes wrong and they take us at the gate, you must tell my uncle what he wants to know.
He sucked in a hard breath that lifted his bare chest. I can't, Attica.
She sat up, hugging the cloak to her breasts as she turned toward him. Buthe'll torture you!
Torture you to death
if you don't.
I know. He took some pains to outline the entire procedure for me in great detail, presumably on the assumption that knowledge of the particulars might increase my willingness to cooperate.
She searched his features and dark, shadowed eyes, looking for some sign of the fear he must surely
surely
? be feeling. But she saw nothing. Nothing except a wry, bitter kind of self-mockery. Her own fear for him trembled through her. I don't understand. Why not tell him? Whatever reward Henry has promised you for your loyalty, it won't be of any use to you if you're dead.
He shoved himself up on his elbow, the cloak falling away from his broad, naked chest as he leaned into her. Sweet Infant Jesus. Is that why you think I'm doing this? For some damned royal reward?
She stared at him. Why else? Don't tell me it's out of loyalty to Henry, because I won't believe it. You're the one who is always saying you're loyal to yourself and no other. The documents in that book aren't worth you dying for.
He sat up completely, swinging his legs over the edge of the stone slab and taking one of the cloaks with him in a swirl of dark cloth as he stood up. It's not a matter of what's in the book. He reached for his braies. It's who has it.
Sergei, she whispered in sudden understanding. You're protecting Sergei. You gave him the breviary when he met us in the square, and then you sent him ahead to warn Henry of Richard's plans for the conference.
De Jarnac paused to throw her a hard glance over his shoulder. Do you really think I'd send your uncle's men after that boy, just to save my own hide?
She felt the blood drain out of her face, her gaze falling away from his to her own, clenched hands. No. No, of course not.
She could feel him staring at her, even though she was no longer looking at him. Then he picked up one of the gaily colored tunics and tossed it to her, along with her own underwear. You'd best get dressed. We need to get through that gate before Pepe and friend wake up and find their clothes and the articles of their profession gone.
Attica caught the bundle of clothes. But we paid for them. Far more than they're worth.
De Jarnac grunted. Making me go back to leave your gold necklace at Pepe's bedside might have eased your
conscience, lordling, but somehow I doubt it'll stop him from setting up a howl when he finds he's nothing left but his underwear.
Wordlessly, she pulled on her shirt and braies, then suppressed an inward cringe when she reached for the lute player's red-and-yellow tunic. The wool cloth was old and coarse; it reeked foully of cooking fat and woodsmoke and stale sweat, and it was doubtless infested with lice and other vermin. Gritting her teeth against a wave of revulsion, she jerked the tunic over her head, pulled on the coarse hose, and stood up.
The tunic had been made for a much broader man. It hung on her awkwardly, so that she had to pad it out with her own clothes and de Jarnac's, too, wrapped about her torso and tied in place with their hose. The effect was less than realistic.
This is never going to work
, she thought, fastening the lute player's worn leather belt with fingers that suddenly began to shake violently.
It's not going to work
.
De Jarnac? she said quietly.
Mmm?
She swung to face him. I'm scared.
He came to her, his gaze intensely serious as he searched her face. I know, he said softly, resting his hands on her shoulders. He took her mouth in a swift, sweet kiss. Then he smiled. Look at it this way.
She cocked her head. How's that?
His grin widened into a low laugh. At least there are no camels in Laval.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
His long sticks flashing, his tall, athletic body unbelievably lithe and controlled, he charged down the hill from the church of Saint Sulpice, a circle of laughing, excited children darting around his stick-extended legs like ragged brown bumblebees about a giant yellow-and-red flower. Behind him came Benno the Lute Player, his white mask a frozen grin of black thread on coarse linen, his cold-numbed hands working hard to coax a tune from the battered old lute.
Look at that, said the younger of the two guards at the River Gate. Now, that's one way to stay out of the mud. But the other guard, wet and chilled and foul-tempered after a long night spent chasing shadows across the rooftops of Laval, simply grunted and retreated farther beneath the sheltering archway of the gate.
Hey, Benno, called the younger guard, bobbing up and down on his toes to keep warm.
The lute player, looking dumpier than ever in his ill-fitting yellow-and-red tunic, spun about to face the guard and froze.
The guard grinned. Play something by Isabelle d'Anjou.
The masked head nodded, the sewn black starbursts around its eyeholes seeming to explode in a parody of alarm. He swung away, his fingers flying over the lute strings, while Pepe the Stiltwalker, not content simply to walk, began to dance, his long stick legs moving in a stately parody of a courtly promenade that brought shrieks of delight from the children.
The young guard laughed.
Merci bien,
he called, and tossed the lute player a coin.
Benno caught the coin neatly from the air and threw back his head to yap like a happy dog. The yapping could still be heard, growing fainter in the distance, as the two performers twirled their way through the gate to be lost in the tangle of tents that filled the open fields between the city walls and the wood beyond.
Mother of God, youyou cocky Attica sputtered, searching desperately for the right word.
De Jarnac's eyes sparkled at her through the slits of his mask.
Méchant diable?
he suggested, then ducked as she snatched off her masked hood and used it to whack him across his shoulders.
She felt almost breathless with lingering fear and a queer, trembling sense of triumph. What in the name of God did you think you were doing? she demanded as he pulled off his mask and backed away from her, his hands up as if to ward off more blows, a smile tugging at his lips. She wanted to reach out and trace the curve of that smile. She wanted to hit him hard enough to wipe that smile off his face. There I was, so afraid you were going to come tumbling down on top of one of those guards that I could scarcely play the lute, and you start
dancing
?
Laughing, he feinted sideways as she threw her hood at him. I told you I was good, didn't I? He tugged off Pepe's parti-color tunic and tossed it aside, his hands settling on his lean hips as he paused a moment to stare at her. Besides, I wanted to put on a good enough show that neither of those guards would get the bright idea that they ought to make us take off our masks.
Huh. She yanked off Benno's filthy tunic and reached for her own, her hands still shaking so badly, she found it difficult to do up the laces. They had paused to change in the shelter of a small grove of leafy green poplar trees some half a league from Laval. The rain still fell in a light drizzle, pattering softly on the overhead branches. But the mist was lifting from the low ground and the sky had lightened until the wet leaves and vivid green grass seemed to sparkle with jewels.
She looked up from tying her laces to watch him bend over and pick up his own tunic. The great rents in his shirt showed her a back strapped with muscle and marked with purpling bruises. Don't tell me you learned to dance like that after one pass through the leather souk? she asked.
He swung to face her as he pulled on his torn tunic. Not exactly. You remember that stiltwalker in Acre I told you about? Well, after I came to grief with the camel, he set up a screech that I'd cracked his stilts. I hadn't, of course, but in the end, Sir Rauve bought the things, just to shut the man up.
You mean, you used them more than just the once?
He looked up from tying the points of his chausses and grinned. That's right. By the time we left Acre, all of Sir Rauve's squires could do a jig on stilts.
You could have told me.
Huh. Then what excuse would I have had if I had fallen off ?
She scooped up his boots and threw them at him. He caught them neatly. Where is Sergei supposed to meet you, anyway? she asked.
Balancing against the trunk of a nearby tree, de Jarnac tugged on first one boot, then the other. He's not. When I gave him the breviary, I told him to take his own mount and the Arab, and kill both horses if necessary, as long as he reaches La Ferté-Bernard in time to warn Henry about Richard and Philip's plans to attack after the conference.
She felt as if someone had just kicked all the wind out of her. You mean, we have no horses?
One, hopefully. Sergei was supposed to leave the roan at a cottage not far from here. He finished lacing his boots and straightened. Are you ready? We need to put as much distance as possible between us and Laval before your uncle realizes we've left the city and organizes his men to come after us.
She swung one of the purloined cloaks over her shoulders and turned toward the road. But we'll have only one horse between us.
That's right, he said, keeping to the grassy verge that flanked the muddy track.
She stopped. Then you must go on without me.
Keep walking, Attica, he said, not missing a step.
Listen to me. She caught his arm to jerk him around.
He swung to face her, his eyes hooded, his jaw set. All right. I'm listening.
If Renouf catches you, he'll
kill
you.
He flashed her his devil's grin. If he catches me.
He would have turned away again, but she stopped him,
her grip tightening on his sleeve. He'll be far less likely to catch you if I'm not with you.
She watched the smile leave his face. That's true. He took a step that brought him right up to her. But if you think he will be gentle with you, I wouldn't count on it, Attica. His life's on the line here, and by helping me to escape, you've shown yourself to be his enemy.
He is my kinsman. He would be angry, and he might very well beat me. But I doubt he would kill me.
That's not what you thought last night, when you fled the castle.
She brought her chin up. It doesn't matter. I'm willing to take the chance.
Well, I'm not. Something flashed like quick lightning in the depths of his fiery green eyes before he hooded them with his drooping lids. I might have to stand by and watch you sacrifice your happiness out of a sense of honor and duty to your family, but I'll be damned if I'll have you sacrificing your life for
me
.
She took a step back, her hand coming up to hold the edges of her cloak together at her neck. Oh? And what makes you think I'm willing to let you risk your life for me?
He gave her a slow, unexpected smile that clutched at her heart. I'm a knight, remembereven if I do seem to have temporarily misplaced my horse, armor, and sword. Rescuing damsels in distress is what I do.
Her breath caught on a startled laugh as he reached out to snag her around the neck with the hook of his elbow and draw her to him. Ah, lordling, he said, his breath wafting warm against her cheek. I'm not abandoning you, so you'd best make up your mind to it.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, her gaze on his hard face outlined against the low gray clouds above
her. Beneath her cheek, she felt his heart beat, felt him
live
. And she was suddenly so terribly afraid for him afraid for them both. At least we know that even if we don't make it, Sergei will have warned Henry.
He touched his sword-callused fingers to her lips, silencing her. We'll make it.
Attica watched de Jarnac lead the saddled roan across the muddy farmyard toward her. The rain had settled in hard again, pounding on the broad leaves of the old oak overhead and splashing into the broad brown puddles that littered the yard.
Through the gloom, she saw a jagged blaze of red that confused her until she realized it came from the lightning bolt of de Jarnac's shield, dangling from the saddle. She supposed it made sense for Sergei to leave the knight his shield. But how did one explain the simple sword now buckled to de Jarnac's hip?
Merci bien,
de Jarnac called to the peasant woman who shuffled back to her thatched-roof cottage, her hooded head bent against the rain, her fist clutched tight around the coins he had given her.
The horse's hooves made little sucking noises in the mud as de Jarnac stopped before Attica. She caught hold of the cheekpiece of the roan's bridle. Where did you get the sword?
You'll have to ask Sergei that, he said, vaulting into the saddle. He left it.
But how could he know you'd be needing it?
De Jarnac shrugged. I stopped asking myself questions like that a long time ago. He slung his shield by its strap across his back and reached down his hand to her. Here.
She hung back, staring up at him through the driving
rain. She thought she'd probably never wanted to do anything in her life as much as she wanted to take his hand now. I still think you ought to ride on without me, she said, her voice husky but calm.
Trčs bien.
He leaned his right forearm on the pommel as the horse moved restlessly beneath him. He was no longer smiling. You've told me what you think, and I am impressed with your nobility even if I'm not particularly flattered by the implication that I am so lacking in honor that I'd even consider riding off and leaving you to face possible death. Now give me your hand and put your left foot on mine.
She held out her hand. His big fist tightened around her wrist, and she scrambled up into the saddle in front of him.
You are a fool, she said, clutching the gelding with her legs as de Jarnac's arms came around her to hold her close against him. His body felt so warm and comforting around hers. She tilted her head back against his shoulder, felt his chest hard and strong against her spine.
His breath tickled her ear as he pressed his lips once against her neck. Don't worry, he said, his voice deep with amusement. When the horse gets tired, I'll make you walk.
She laughed softly as he spurred the reluctant roan out of the yard.
The direct road to Le Mans and La Ferté-Bernard ran in an almost straight line to the east, down a slope to the broad valley beyond. They turned instead toward the grass-covered hills that would lead them to the higher, wilder country stretching northeast in a wide arc to Sille-le-Guillaume and Beaumont-sur-Sarthe before curving back toward No-gent and down to La Ferté-Bernard.
Raising her hand to shield her face from the rain, Attica
studied the distant hills. Even without the rain and with two good horses, the roundabout route was a journey of at least five or six days. But with only one horse between them and the need to stay away from the main roads
Why are we stopping? she asked when he drew up beside a copse of chestnut and beech, not long after they'd dropped over the rise from the farm.
He jumped down to the wet, spongy ground and handed her the reins. I'll walk from here.
She reached out to grab his shoulder when he would have strode ahead. But you can't.
He swung to face her, the rain running in rivulets down his hard, tanned cheeks. Attica, this horse will never last carrying us both.
She grabbed a handful of mane, ready to scramble down herself. Then we'll take turns. I'll walk first.
His big hand closed over hers, stopping her. Oh you will, will you? And can you walk eight leagues a day, day after day?
She paused. I don't know, she answered honestly. I've never tried.
Well, I have. He let her go and started walking. So you ride.
She nudged the gelding after him. She watched him striding through the grass, his long legs swinging into an effortless rhythm. There was so much she didn't know about this man, so much she wanted to know.
You never told me how long you've been with Henry, she said at last, when she could no longer contain herself.
About six months, he said, not looking at her. Why do you ask?
Instead of answering, she said, Why Henry?
He glanced up at her, a smile curling his lips as his
head fell back. Why not Henry? He's the greatest king in
Christendom. And only a king can give me what I want.
What do you want? she asked quietly.
The smile hardened, although his voice stayed light as he answered her. Land. Titles. What every younger son turned knight-errant wants.
She kept her gaze on his face. Your brother left a son and heir of his own, didn't he?
He swung his head away from her, so that she could see only the sharp line of his cheekbone. He doesn't matter. I want nothing from the de Jarnacs, he said, his tone suddenly harsh. I will be the man I make myself.
The silence that followed was hard and brittle and unwelcoming of disturbance. She rode beside him, her hands clenched tight about the reins. She felt restless and unsettled, wanting to know more but reluctant to press on. In the end, he was the one who spoke next.
Why are you still unwed at the age of nineteen? he asked suddenly, surprising her.
The rain had eased up, and she pushed back the hood of her cloak before she answered. I told you, I was betrothed as a child to Ivor of Chauvigny. He went on Crusade, while I was sent to his mother to be trained at the courts of Aquitaine and Poitou, and to await his return. Only, he wasn't particularly anxious to come back. He was gone for six years and finally died in Antioch.
If I remember correctly, my dear Atticus, de Jarnac said, the warmth of amusement returning to his voice, you told me
Elise
had been betrothed to Ivor of Chauvigny.
Recalling her earlier deception, Attica felt her cheeks heat. I spoke of myself.
Hmph. He kept his gaze on the distant hills. So it was
after the death of Chauvigny that your father betrothed you to Fulk of Salers?
Yes.
Something in her voice brought his head around, his eyes narrowing as he stared up at her. He must be a hard man, your father, to use his only daughter so.
Her throat felt suddenly thick and tight. My family has many estates in eastern Brittany, but they are scattered and not easily defended, and the times are troubled. The d'Alérions need this alliance with Salers, and my person and the three castles I bring as my dowry are what secured it. She paused, lifting her head to let the damp wind fan her cheeks as she drew the cold air deep into her lungs. I have never doubted my father's love. But I have always known his first loyalty is to his house, and to his lord, Henry. He expects no less from me.
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