The Last Knight (30 page)
Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
I haven't changed my mind. But how can I wed you if both my family and my lord would see me given to another?
You can come away with me.
His words hung in the air, frightening, tempting, and damning. She felt an aching rush in her chest, as if her heart were torn and bleeding inside of her. She couldn't bear to look at him; it hurt too much, knowing she might lose him. But she couldn't bear to look away, either. Don't you understand? If I run away with you, I will dishonor not only myself but my family as well. I don't know if I could live with that.
She heard the hissing intake of his breath. He stared down at her, his face cold and tense. Oh, I understand all right. But you could live without me, is that what you're saying?
No.
That's what it sounds like to me.
I
love
you, she said, her voice thick with tears she didn't dare let fall, for fear that once they started she'd never be able to stop them.
But not enough.
She brought her hands back together to press them to her chest. How can you say that? I love you more than my own
life
. But how can I betray my family and my lord both? Simply for my own selfish happiness?
So you would betray me instead?
Her breath caught in a loud gasp as he spun away from her, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezing shut, his jaw tightening. I'm not some chivalric knight out of a troubadour's idealized romance, Attica. My love for you might be pure and sweet and holy, but it's also earthy and passionate and physical. His eyes came open slowly as he swung his head to look at her over his shoulder. She was shocked to see a gleam of wetness there, faintly visible in the cold starlight. Shocked to hear the rough, raw pain in his voice as he said, I'm not the kind of man who can love you chastely from afar, Attica. Don't ask it of me.
Damion She went to him, her cheek pressed to his hard chest, her arms coming up to wrap around his taut neck. For one endless moment, he held himself aloof. Then a groan tore up from inside him and he swept her into his arms. His hand fisted in her hair to yank her head back, his mouth taking hers in a deep, violent kiss that left her so shaken, she might have fallen if he hadn't been holding her. She clung to him, listening to the wind ruffle the thatch of the stable roof beside them, and the soft nicker of a horse, moving restlessly in its stall.
Mother of God, Damion. What am I to do? She buried her face in the soft cloth of his tunic, her hands clutching him, holding him to her. What am I to do?
He held her close. But he didn't answer her. And she knew that was his way of telling her the choice was hers, and she was going to have to be the one to make it.
She found him there in the early morning. The sun streamed through the lancet windows high in the wall, heating a room almost as austere and simple as a monk's cell. He had been sitting at a table, working. He'd stripped off his tunic, and his shirt was awry and his fair hair tousled, as if he'd been clutching it the way he used to do when they were children and his tutor had set him a particularly difficult passage of Latin to translate.
Oh, it's you, he said with brotherly negligence when he answered her knock at his door. He swung away from her, his hand indicating one of the stools near the table. Come in. Sit.
She stood just inside the closed door, her hands gripped together before her. Stephen I've come to ask youto beg you She sucked in a deep breath and pushed the words out in a rush. Please don't make me marry Fulk of Salers.
He stared at her across the width of the chamber, his thin face troubled. Wordlessly, he went to the table where a ewer and cups stood near a wax tablet and lute, and poured
himself a drink. Do you want some? he asked, glancing up at her as if in an afterthought.
She shook her head and watched as he raised the cup to his lips and swallowed. The silence between them stretched out, became taut.
Attica He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, a sigh lifting his narrow chest. Please try to understand. Even if I wanted to release you from this betrothal, I couldn't. It's all gotten tangled up in the negotiations between Philip and Henry. It's out of my hands.
She took a step toward him. If you were to speak to Henry, to ask him
He let out a humorless laugh as his hand fell away from his face. God's death, Attica. The man is willing to give Alice to Richard, if that's what it takes to reach a settlement with Philip. Do you honestly think he would allow consideration for your personal inclinations to sway him?
She felt the harsh reality of what he was saying, the implications of it, deep within her, deep enough to bruise her very bones and leave her aching. She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself, but the ache remained, ominous and frightening.
Stephen turned away, draining his wine. It isn't as if you love another, he said, setting the cup away from him.
She came up beside him, hope flaring anew in her heart. Would it make a difference if I did?
He shook his head, a sad smile curling his lips as he stared down at his empty cup. No. It would only make the situation more tragic.
He looked up then, and their gazes met and held in a long silence filled with a lifetime of shared memories, good and bad. Do you ever wish, she said suddenly, her voice such a broken tear it didn't sound like her own voice
at all, did you ever wish that you'd been born someone else, not a d'Alérion at all?
Something shifted deep in his eyes, something secret and shadowed and wretchedly unhappy. But he only shook his head.
Chased by a welling of desperation and confusion, Attica ran. She ran the way she hadn't run since she was a child, arms reaching, legs stretching high and wide to swallow the distance. The sun beat down hot and golden on her shoulders, and the wind whipped her short curls about her face. She knew people turned to stare, but she ran anyway, through the cobbled tunnel of the barbican and into the open country beyond.
The air was sweeter here, scented with the ripe goodness of the wheat and barley in the fields where peasants straightened their backs to watch her pass. She ran until she reached an open meadow beside the river. Sucking in air, her face damp and hot, she waded deep into the high grass and sank down into it, letting it part and close around her.
She folded her arms on her upraised knees, her head bent, her forehead pressing into her bony wrists. As her breath steadied, she became aware of a deep shuddering within her that she knew had nothing to do with her running.
The chattering call of a tern sounded from someplace nearby. She lifted her head, her gaze drawn to the sandbar of the slow-moving river beside her, but the dense leaves and drooping branches of a big willow hanging over the water hid the bird from sight.
She felt so terribly alone, sitting there in the sun-spangled field beneath the vast blue sky. Alone and lost. Oh, Papa, she whispered, missing him with a sudden, swift awareness of loss that took her breath away. She wished she had him
here now to wrap one of his great arms around her and somehow lead her back to the sense of order and security and certainty that had been hers as a child. She closed her eyes, picturing Robert d'Alérion's big, bearlike frame and open, pleasant face. He had always seemed so sure of himself, so grounded in what was right and true and noble.
Yet he must have known this dilemma, she thought, this wrenching agony of being pulled apart by conflicting loyalties and impossible choices. She wondered if he had suffered when he betrothed her to Fulk, if he had felt the pain of putting his loyalty to his land and his house ahead of his love for his own daughter. He certainly hadn't let it stop him from sacrificing her.
She let her head fall back, her eyes wide and painfully dry as she stared up at the vast blue sky above. But she was still alone. Alone and torn apart by indecision and the bitter knowledge that whatever she chose, the result would be heartache and loss.
Damion stood with one shoulder propped against the bare stone wall at the entrance to the narrow window embrasure, a lute dangling forgotten from one hand as he watched Henry pause beside the mews in the yard below, his old falconer at his side, a hawk on his wrist. In the chamber behind Damion, Sergei moved about softly, gathering up clothes and bits of armor from Damion's corner of the Knights Tower. The room was crowded with cots and wooden crosses hung with mail shirts, and smelled strongly of sweat and horses and liniment. But for the moment, they were alone.
Sergei put away the leather gloves he'd been cleaning, and came to stand beside him. You've deciphered the message from last night's performance.
Damion sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly,
his gaze still fixed on the bailey below. Two days from now, Henry will visit the Shrine of the Virgin at Loudun, to pray for his health. None but the king's inner circle have been told of his intention, yet Richard knows of it. There will be some ruse to draw off the main body of knights, thus reducing Henry's escort. Richard and his men will be waiting at a stream a league or so from the castle.
An ambush?
Damion nodded. Henry will ride straight into it. Everything has been arranged. The message only confirms the details.
Sergei sank down on the bare stone seat opposite him, a troubled frown drawing his brows together. There is nothing in the message to indicate who the traitor might be?
Damion shook his head. No. It could be one of half a dozen men. All were at the banquet last night.
What will you do?
Damion swung to face his squire. Tell Henry, of course. He may simply decide to cancel his visit to the shrine. But I suspect it more likely he'll play along in the hopes of trapping this traitor.
Sergei's dark, exotic eyes shimmered with some emotion that was there and then gone. And if the traitor is Stephen d'Alérion?
Damion's hand tightened around the neck of the lute, drawing it up. Wordlessly, he swept his right fingers over the strings to produce a harsh, discordant sound.
You could warn him, said Sergei leaning forward. Find some way to let him know that the code has been broken, the plan betrayed. Give him a chance to flee before he is caught.
Damion looked up. Could I? And if he's not the only traitor next to Henry, then what? We would have lost our
means of monitoring the conspirators movements, so that the next time they decided to strike at Henry, they would likely succeed. Once more, Damion drew his fingers across the lute, then thrust it aside. No. If Stephen has turned traitor, then the most I can do is hope that in the turmoil of battle I can find some way to let him escape. For Attica's sake.
Sergei's gaze dropped to the lute, although he made no move to pick it up. And if you fail? If her brother is killed? She may never forgive you for it. You realize that, don't you?
Damion felt the pain of it, the awful truth of it, like a sword thrust to his heart. I know, he said on a harsh expulsion of breath. God help me, I know. But if I were to sacrifice Henry for such a reason, I could never forgive myself.
Attica stood in the lower bailey, her hand clutching the throat latch of her cloak as she watched the royal cavalcade prepare to move off. The morning mist that hung heavily over the river was thinner here, drifting through the yard in insubstantial wisps that curled around the horses darkly restless legs and obscured the jutting stone parapets looming above.
The yard was full of mounted knights, the damp air ringing with the tramp of horses hooves, the creak of saddle leather and jingle of mail, the low murmurs of men. She saw the king emerge, cloaked and hooded against the cold and leaning heavily on Alice's arm as she helped him down the steps from the hall and into the litter. His condition had worsened, someone had said, which was why he had agreed to use a litter to make this pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Virgin near Loudun. He must be very ill indeed, Attica thought.
The men in the yard began to separate into two parties. Only some six or eight knights, led by Stephen, would actually be escorting the king to Loudun, for word had come that morning of a threat against one of Henry's loyal castles on the Vienne, and Damion was leading most of the knights and a number of sergeants south to its relief.
A dark warhorse reared before her, its great hooves slashing the gray sky. Attica took a step back, her breath hitching in her chest as she looked up into Damion's glinting eyes. The cold steel and jutting nosepiece of his helm seemed to accentuate the sharp bones of his face, making him look fierce, frightening. He held his shield before him, the jagged flash of lightning standing out bold and bloodred against the black background.
She hadn't seen him since the night of the banquet, had avoided seeing him, avoided letting him see her. She was afraid he'd look into her woman's eyes and
know
. Know that hours spent prostrate on the chapel floor in prayer had brought her neither peace nor relief. Know that she still felt torn apart by conflicting loyalties and agonizing choices. Know that she might decide, in the end, that the impossible choice was the one she must make. But, oh God
He was her heart and soul, her passion and joy, her life. She looked at him, and all the torn, tormented bits inside her twisted, hurt. Hurt like a slow, living death.
He brought the big stallion under control, one forearm resting on the saddle's high pommel as he leaned into it, his face hard and unsmiling. You've been avoiding me, Attica. Why?
The wind blew, flapping the hem of her cloak out, making the stallion snort and throw its head. I've needed to think.
He tightened his hold on the reins. And have you? Thought, I mean.
She glanced beyond him, to where Sergei waited, a sad, anxious look shadowing his young face. She tried to smile at him, only she couldn't. She stared into his dark, exotic eyes, and it was as if the shouting men and trampling horses around them faded queerly into a soundless world where movement slowed and noise dimmed to faint distant echoes that roused some nameless, unreasonable terror from deep within her.
I suppose I have my answer, Damion said, his voice brutally clear and cold, although not so cold she couldn't hear the raw thread of pain within it.
She jerked her gaze back to stare up at him, her chest rising and falling with her suddenly agitated breathing. Damion She took a step forward, reaching for him, but he turned his stallion away.
She folded her arms across her chest, the mist cool and damp against her face as she watched him ride away from her. She wanted to call him back, but she knew there was nothing she could say to him. And she wondered, in despair, if her decision had already been made and she was only trying to find the courage to admit it.
Attica?
She turned, looking up as Stephen reined in beside her. Wish me well, he said, curbing the impatient capering of his big, dun-colored stallion. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright with the kind of wild excitement she remembered from their childhood whenever he'd been about to embark on some mad, dangerous adventure.
Of course I wish you well, she said, and this time when she tried to summon up a smile, it came.
She followed the men through the gateway to the grassy
hillside to watch them ride away. But the mist swallowed them almost at once, and they were lost to her sight.
She returned to the yard to find Alice still there, beside the hall, her head bowed, her shoulders slumped in exhaustion.
With so many of the men gone, the castle servants were busy throwing open shutters and sweeping out old rushes to be replaced with new. Their shouts and laughter mingled with the rumble of hand carts and the banging of the wheelwright's hammer and the screech of strutting peacocks to fill the bailey with a tumult of sound and activity. But the French princess sat alone on a bench against the hall's side wall, one hand held up to cover her eyes.
Alice? Attica touched her arm. Are you all right?
The other woman looked up, startled, showing a face strained by sleeplessness and worry. Oh, I'm fine, she said, visibly struggling to regain her normal composure. Simply tired. Henry was so dreadfully sick last night, he's only now fallen into a fitful sleep. She gave a shaky half laugh that ended in a kind of sob. Imagine
Henry
spending the day in bed. A man who never even sat down in his life but to eat or ride a horse.
Attica sank onto the bench beside the other woman. But how can this be? Henry has gone to the Shrine of the Virgin.
Alice shook her head. No, that wasn't the king, only his old falconer, wrapped up in Henry's robes.
I don't understand, said Attica, a nameless sense of unease hovering over her.
Someone near to Henry has been betraying his movements to Richard. There was to be an ambush, at a stream east of the castle.
And now?
The other woman's face set into hard lines. Now, it is Richard and his supporters who shall find themselves ambushed, for de Jarnac does not ride south, as all think.
You can come away with me.
His words hung in the air, frightening, tempting, and damning. She felt an aching rush in her chest, as if her heart were torn and bleeding inside of her. She couldn't bear to look at him; it hurt too much, knowing she might lose him. But she couldn't bear to look away, either. Don't you understand? If I run away with you, I will dishonor not only myself but my family as well. I don't know if I could live with that.
She heard the hissing intake of his breath. He stared down at her, his face cold and tense. Oh, I understand all right. But you could live without me, is that what you're saying?
No.
That's what it sounds like to me.
I
love
you, she said, her voice thick with tears she didn't dare let fall, for fear that once they started she'd never be able to stop them.
But not enough.
She brought her hands back together to press them to her chest. How can you say that? I love you more than my own
life
. But how can I betray my family and my lord both? Simply for my own selfish happiness?
So you would betray me instead?
Her breath caught in a loud gasp as he spun away from her, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezing shut, his jaw tightening. I'm not some chivalric knight out of a troubadour's idealized romance, Attica. My love for you might be pure and sweet and holy, but it's also earthy and passionate and physical. His eyes came open slowly as he swung his head to look at her over his shoulder. She was shocked to see a gleam of wetness there, faintly visible in the cold starlight. Shocked to hear the rough, raw pain in his voice as he said, I'm not the kind of man who can love you chastely from afar, Attica. Don't ask it of me.
Damion She went to him, her cheek pressed to his hard chest, her arms coming up to wrap around his taut neck. For one endless moment, he held himself aloof. Then a groan tore up from inside him and he swept her into his arms. His hand fisted in her hair to yank her head back, his mouth taking hers in a deep, violent kiss that left her so shaken, she might have fallen if he hadn't been holding her. She clung to him, listening to the wind ruffle the thatch of the stable roof beside them, and the soft nicker of a horse, moving restlessly in its stall.
Mother of God, Damion. What am I to do? She buried her face in the soft cloth of his tunic, her hands clutching him, holding him to her. What am I to do?
He held her close. But he didn't answer her. And she knew that was his way of telling her the choice was hers, and she was going to have to be the one to make it.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
She found him there in the early morning. The sun streamed through the lancet windows high in the wall, heating a room almost as austere and simple as a monk's cell. He had been sitting at a table, working. He'd stripped off his tunic, and his shirt was awry and his fair hair tousled, as if he'd been clutching it the way he used to do when they were children and his tutor had set him a particularly difficult passage of Latin to translate.
Oh, it's you, he said with brotherly negligence when he answered her knock at his door. He swung away from her, his hand indicating one of the stools near the table. Come in. Sit.
She stood just inside the closed door, her hands gripped together before her. Stephen I've come to ask youto beg you She sucked in a deep breath and pushed the words out in a rush. Please don't make me marry Fulk of Salers.
He stared at her across the width of the chamber, his thin face troubled. Wordlessly, he went to the table where a ewer and cups stood near a wax tablet and lute, and poured
himself a drink. Do you want some? he asked, glancing up at her as if in an afterthought.
She shook her head and watched as he raised the cup to his lips and swallowed. The silence between them stretched out, became taut.
Attica He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, a sigh lifting his narrow chest. Please try to understand. Even if I wanted to release you from this betrothal, I couldn't. It's all gotten tangled up in the negotiations between Philip and Henry. It's out of my hands.
She took a step toward him. If you were to speak to Henry, to ask him
He let out a humorless laugh as his hand fell away from his face. God's death, Attica. The man is willing to give Alice to Richard, if that's what it takes to reach a settlement with Philip. Do you honestly think he would allow consideration for your personal inclinations to sway him?
She felt the harsh reality of what he was saying, the implications of it, deep within her, deep enough to bruise her very bones and leave her aching. She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself, but the ache remained, ominous and frightening.
Stephen turned away, draining his wine. It isn't as if you love another, he said, setting the cup away from him.
She came up beside him, hope flaring anew in her heart. Would it make a difference if I did?
He shook his head, a sad smile curling his lips as he stared down at his empty cup. No. It would only make the situation more tragic.
He looked up then, and their gazes met and held in a long silence filled with a lifetime of shared memories, good and bad. Do you ever wish, she said suddenly, her voice such a broken tear it didn't sound like her own voice
at all, did you ever wish that you'd been born someone else, not a d'Alérion at all?
Something shifted deep in his eyes, something secret and shadowed and wretchedly unhappy. But he only shook his head.
Chased by a welling of desperation and confusion, Attica ran. She ran the way she hadn't run since she was a child, arms reaching, legs stretching high and wide to swallow the distance. The sun beat down hot and golden on her shoulders, and the wind whipped her short curls about her face. She knew people turned to stare, but she ran anyway, through the cobbled tunnel of the barbican and into the open country beyond.
The air was sweeter here, scented with the ripe goodness of the wheat and barley in the fields where peasants straightened their backs to watch her pass. She ran until she reached an open meadow beside the river. Sucking in air, her face damp and hot, she waded deep into the high grass and sank down into it, letting it part and close around her.
She folded her arms on her upraised knees, her head bent, her forehead pressing into her bony wrists. As her breath steadied, she became aware of a deep shuddering within her that she knew had nothing to do with her running.
The chattering call of a tern sounded from someplace nearby. She lifted her head, her gaze drawn to the sandbar of the slow-moving river beside her, but the dense leaves and drooping branches of a big willow hanging over the water hid the bird from sight.
She felt so terribly alone, sitting there in the sun-spangled field beneath the vast blue sky. Alone and lost. Oh, Papa, she whispered, missing him with a sudden, swift awareness of loss that took her breath away. She wished she had him
here now to wrap one of his great arms around her and somehow lead her back to the sense of order and security and certainty that had been hers as a child. She closed her eyes, picturing Robert d'Alérion's big, bearlike frame and open, pleasant face. He had always seemed so sure of himself, so grounded in what was right and true and noble.
Yet he must have known this dilemma, she thought, this wrenching agony of being pulled apart by conflicting loyalties and impossible choices. She wondered if he had suffered when he betrothed her to Fulk, if he had felt the pain of putting his loyalty to his land and his house ahead of his love for his own daughter. He certainly hadn't let it stop him from sacrificing her.
She let her head fall back, her eyes wide and painfully dry as she stared up at the vast blue sky above. But she was still alone. Alone and torn apart by indecision and the bitter knowledge that whatever she chose, the result would be heartache and loss.
Damion stood with one shoulder propped against the bare stone wall at the entrance to the narrow window embrasure, a lute dangling forgotten from one hand as he watched Henry pause beside the mews in the yard below, his old falconer at his side, a hawk on his wrist. In the chamber behind Damion, Sergei moved about softly, gathering up clothes and bits of armor from Damion's corner of the Knights Tower. The room was crowded with cots and wooden crosses hung with mail shirts, and smelled strongly of sweat and horses and liniment. But for the moment, they were alone.
Sergei put away the leather gloves he'd been cleaning, and came to stand beside him. You've deciphered the message from last night's performance.
Damion sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly,
his gaze still fixed on the bailey below. Two days from now, Henry will visit the Shrine of the Virgin at Loudun, to pray for his health. None but the king's inner circle have been told of his intention, yet Richard knows of it. There will be some ruse to draw off the main body of knights, thus reducing Henry's escort. Richard and his men will be waiting at a stream a league or so from the castle.
An ambush?
Damion nodded. Henry will ride straight into it. Everything has been arranged. The message only confirms the details.
Sergei sank down on the bare stone seat opposite him, a troubled frown drawing his brows together. There is nothing in the message to indicate who the traitor might be?
Damion shook his head. No. It could be one of half a dozen men. All were at the banquet last night.
What will you do?
Damion swung to face his squire. Tell Henry, of course. He may simply decide to cancel his visit to the shrine. But I suspect it more likely he'll play along in the hopes of trapping this traitor.
Sergei's dark, exotic eyes shimmered with some emotion that was there and then gone. And if the traitor is Stephen d'Alérion?
Damion's hand tightened around the neck of the lute, drawing it up. Wordlessly, he swept his right fingers over the strings to produce a harsh, discordant sound.
You could warn him, said Sergei leaning forward. Find some way to let him know that the code has been broken, the plan betrayed. Give him a chance to flee before he is caught.
Damion looked up. Could I? And if he's not the only traitor next to Henry, then what? We would have lost our
means of monitoring the conspirators movements, so that the next time they decided to strike at Henry, they would likely succeed. Once more, Damion drew his fingers across the lute, then thrust it aside. No. If Stephen has turned traitor, then the most I can do is hope that in the turmoil of battle I can find some way to let him escape. For Attica's sake.
Sergei's gaze dropped to the lute, although he made no move to pick it up. And if you fail? If her brother is killed? She may never forgive you for it. You realize that, don't you?
Damion felt the pain of it, the awful truth of it, like a sword thrust to his heart. I know, he said on a harsh expulsion of breath. God help me, I know. But if I were to sacrifice Henry for such a reason, I could never forgive myself.
Attica stood in the lower bailey, her hand clutching the throat latch of her cloak as she watched the royal cavalcade prepare to move off. The morning mist that hung heavily over the river was thinner here, drifting through the yard in insubstantial wisps that curled around the horses darkly restless legs and obscured the jutting stone parapets looming above.
The yard was full of mounted knights, the damp air ringing with the tramp of horses hooves, the creak of saddle leather and jingle of mail, the low murmurs of men. She saw the king emerge, cloaked and hooded against the cold and leaning heavily on Alice's arm as she helped him down the steps from the hall and into the litter. His condition had worsened, someone had said, which was why he had agreed to use a litter to make this pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Virgin near Loudun. He must be very ill indeed, Attica thought.
The men in the yard began to separate into two parties. Only some six or eight knights, led by Stephen, would actually be escorting the king to Loudun, for word had come that morning of a threat against one of Henry's loyal castles on the Vienne, and Damion was leading most of the knights and a number of sergeants south to its relief.
A dark warhorse reared before her, its great hooves slashing the gray sky. Attica took a step back, her breath hitching in her chest as she looked up into Damion's glinting eyes. The cold steel and jutting nosepiece of his helm seemed to accentuate the sharp bones of his face, making him look fierce, frightening. He held his shield before him, the jagged flash of lightning standing out bold and bloodred against the black background.
She hadn't seen him since the night of the banquet, had avoided seeing him, avoided letting him see her. She was afraid he'd look into her woman's eyes and
know
. Know that hours spent prostrate on the chapel floor in prayer had brought her neither peace nor relief. Know that she still felt torn apart by conflicting loyalties and agonizing choices. Know that she might decide, in the end, that the impossible choice was the one she must make. But, oh God
He was her heart and soul, her passion and joy, her life. She looked at him, and all the torn, tormented bits inside her twisted, hurt. Hurt like a slow, living death.
He brought the big stallion under control, one forearm resting on the saddle's high pommel as he leaned into it, his face hard and unsmiling. You've been avoiding me, Attica. Why?
The wind blew, flapping the hem of her cloak out, making the stallion snort and throw its head. I've needed to think.
He tightened his hold on the reins. And have you? Thought, I mean.
She glanced beyond him, to where Sergei waited, a sad, anxious look shadowing his young face. She tried to smile at him, only she couldn't. She stared into his dark, exotic eyes, and it was as if the shouting men and trampling horses around them faded queerly into a soundless world where movement slowed and noise dimmed to faint distant echoes that roused some nameless, unreasonable terror from deep within her.
I suppose I have my answer, Damion said, his voice brutally clear and cold, although not so cold she couldn't hear the raw thread of pain within it.
She jerked her gaze back to stare up at him, her chest rising and falling with her suddenly agitated breathing. Damion She took a step forward, reaching for him, but he turned his stallion away.
She folded her arms across her chest, the mist cool and damp against her face as she watched him ride away from her. She wanted to call him back, but she knew there was nothing she could say to him. And she wondered, in despair, if her decision had already been made and she was only trying to find the courage to admit it.
Attica?
She turned, looking up as Stephen reined in beside her. Wish me well, he said, curbing the impatient capering of his big, dun-colored stallion. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright with the kind of wild excitement she remembered from their childhood whenever he'd been about to embark on some mad, dangerous adventure.
Of course I wish you well, she said, and this time when she tried to summon up a smile, it came.
She followed the men through the gateway to the grassy
hillside to watch them ride away. But the mist swallowed them almost at once, and they were lost to her sight.
She returned to the yard to find Alice still there, beside the hall, her head bowed, her shoulders slumped in exhaustion.
With so many of the men gone, the castle servants were busy throwing open shutters and sweeping out old rushes to be replaced with new. Their shouts and laughter mingled with the rumble of hand carts and the banging of the wheelwright's hammer and the screech of strutting peacocks to fill the bailey with a tumult of sound and activity. But the French princess sat alone on a bench against the hall's side wall, one hand held up to cover her eyes.
Alice? Attica touched her arm. Are you all right?
The other woman looked up, startled, showing a face strained by sleeplessness and worry. Oh, I'm fine, she said, visibly struggling to regain her normal composure. Simply tired. Henry was so dreadfully sick last night, he's only now fallen into a fitful sleep. She gave a shaky half laugh that ended in a kind of sob. Imagine
Henry
spending the day in bed. A man who never even sat down in his life but to eat or ride a horse.
Attica sank onto the bench beside the other woman. But how can this be? Henry has gone to the Shrine of the Virgin.
Alice shook her head. No, that wasn't the king, only his old falconer, wrapped up in Henry's robes.
I don't understand, said Attica, a nameless sense of unease hovering over her.
Someone near to Henry has been betraying his movements to Richard. There was to be an ambush, at a stream east of the castle.
And now?
The other woman's face set into hard lines. Now, it is Richard and his supporters who shall find themselves ambushed, for de Jarnac does not ride south, as all think.
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