The Mistress Of Normandy (18 page)

Rand absorbed the gruesome tidings with the odd detachment of a doomed man.

She tossed her head. “Oh, my, I’d quite forgotten that flooding occurs after a long rain. I must get some men to remove the gunpowder from the chamber just above here, so the ordnance doesn’t get wet.” She cast a worried look at the low, crumbling ceiling. “Tonight’s full moon brings a high tide.”

“Quite so,” said Gervais, backing toward the door. “Farewell, my lord. Perhaps when your king learns of your failure, he’ll think twice about invading France.”

Casting a last, oddly frantic look at Rand, and then at the crumbling ceiling, Lianna turned to follow Gervais. The cloak fell from her shoulders and whispered to the floor.

“Merde,”
she said. “My cloak.”

“Bring it along,” said Gervais. “Perhaps the filth can be laundered out.”

She shook her head. “Not even Bonne’s industrious hand could remove the stink of this place. Leave the cloak. Perhaps it will keep the
god-don
warm as he drowns.” She stepped daintily over the sodden heap.

Gervais smiled at Rand. “The very soul of mercy, isn’t she, my lord?”

Fired to mindless rage, Rand lurched forward, his fists doubled.

One of the men levered a sharp halberd at his chest. Rand kept his cold, raw hands at his sides to stay an impulse to drive his fist into that smiling face. But he did nothing to check the murderous glance he settled on his wife.

His fierce look seemed to discomfit her. She moved back; her throat worked as she swallowed. “What did you expect?”

“I didn’t expect you to gloat.”

She sent him a long, unreadable look. “Curb your temper. You’ll set the place afire with it.”

They left without another word. As he heard the key grinding in the lock, Rand smashed his fist against the wall, wishing it were instead the face of Gervais Mondragon. Coldness stole into his veins; the walls seemed to close in on him. Half-crazed with impotent rage, he snatched up Lianna’s cloak and rent it in two with a savage tug.

But as he prepared to shred the garment further, to destroy it as she had destroyed him, something made him hesitate.

“Oh, God,” he said raggedly, burying his face in the velvet folds. “It smells of her.” Memories washed over him. Could she have changed so quickly, so completely? Before their marriage they had celebrated their love with sweet embraces, intimate kisses. Now she reveled in the thought of his demise.

As he crumpled the garment, his hand closed around something hard and sharp. At the same moment, water seeped through the cracks in the floor, swirling with the chill of death around his ankles.

He clawed through the folds of velvet until he found a pocket. Inside lay a length of steel, curved to fit around the knuckles of a clenched hand.

Somewhere in the depths of his soul, a faint spark flickered.

Working by touch, he discovered a square of flint and a tinderbox with bits of charred material inside.

Lianna’s preoccupation with gunnery accounted for the presence of the flint and steel. No doubt losing her tinderbox would vex her more than losing her cloak.

“By the rood...” he breathed, his feet shifting restlessly in the deepening water. He remembered her conversation.
I must get some men to remove the gunpowder from the chamber just above here....

The spark of hope inside him flared.

The idle taunt from a vindictive woman was actually an offer of mercy from a wife who possessed a heart after all. Shoving flint, steel, and tinderbox into his baldric, he reached up and worked at the loose mortar on the ceiling.

What else had she said in malice, yet meant in warning?
Leave the cloak. Perhaps it will keep the god-don warm....

By the time his raw, bruised hands had loosened a large chunk of stone, the water was swirling around his knees. He burrowed his hand upward, scraping his wrist. He felt the taut bulge of a full sack, like a sack of flour. Yet it wasn’t flour; it reeked of sulfur.

Curb your temper, Englishman. You’ll set the place afire with it.

With a powerful tug, he rent open the sack and drew forth a handful of sticky gunpowder. The water crept higher, soaking him, lapping at his hips.

He waded to the door.

* * *

Lianna strained to keep her attention on the conversation at the high table. Gervais and Gaucourt debated politics; both men were firmly in favor of the Armagnac ruling party in Paris yet in conflict over minor points.

“The king is not whole,” Gervais said in annoyance. “He should be compelled to abdicate in favor of his son.”

Gaucourt yanked a portion of meat from the joint of mutton in front of him. “Mad he may be...”

“Raving mad,” Gervais muttered. “Stark, slobbering, staring-at-the-sun mad.”

“But he is still a king anointed before God and France. He needs only able advisers to govern properly.”

“Able advisers? Queen Isabel is depraved, fickle. She and the Dauphin Louis are mere puppets manipulated by Armagnac, while Burgundy has gotten away with murder.”

Gaucourt’s pale, lashless eyes went wide, then narrowed. “Consider whereof you speak.”

“Murder,” Gervais repeated. “I’ll call it nothing else.”

Lianna heard rage in his voice, and fear, too, and knew he dreaded that Burgundy would treat him as he had treated Lazare. Ordinarily she would have joined in the conversation. She hated the dissension among the princes of France, deplored the failures of justice, the corruption that caused the income of her country to be sucked dry by warring factions.

But she couldn’t speak out now, tonight. Above the murmur of conversation and the clatter of cutlery she heard the hiss of rain, and she thought of Rand. Her enemy...but no man deserved the dark, drowning fate that was the stuff of nightmares.

Had he, she wondered feverishly, discovered the tinderbox in her cloak? Had he understood the message she’d tried to relay? Or were her words too bitter, too flippant, for him to discern her purpose? Did he hate her too much to hear her warning?

She didn’t want him dead. She merely wanted him out of her life so she could set her mind and her energies to the task of purging the château of Gervais’s influence.

She slid a sidelong glance at her late husband’s son. Gervais was as much her enemy as Rand. Mondragon was French, and loyal to King Charles, yet like Rand, he was determined to wrest Bois-Long from her control.

Pressed to discomfort by the weight of indecision, she let her gaze wander to Macée. She flirted with Gaucourt’s master crossbowman, whose bright, avid gaze attested to the allure of Macée’s lush figure, raven hair, and creamy skin.

“Did you truly rout a company of mounted knights with your crossbows,
Capitaine?
” Macée leaned across the table toward him, the rounded tops of her breasts visible above her square-cut bodice.

The captain kept his eyes fastened on the velvety bulge of flesh. “Oh, aye. A knight is only as good as the steel that encases his body. An archer depends on subtlety and skill.”

Sensible words, thought Lianna, if he were truly speaking of battle. But of course his wet mouth and sharp eyes spoke of other things.

Macée said, “Oh,
Capitaine,
you are so masterful—”

“Macée!” Gervais’s eyes glittered with anger, yet he smiled as he patted the empty space on the bench beside him. “Come here, pet, and keep my wineglass filled.”

An odd look of satisfaction flitted across Macée’s pretty features as she moved to obey.

Lianna understood not the strange bond between Gervais and Macée. He was sparing with his affection, yet she seemed inexorably bound to him. He must hold some fascination for her, some power that drove her to flirt with archers to gain his attention. Like an unhungry dog with a bone, he worried about losing Macée only when another threatened to take her away.

Lianna, too, was at odds with her husband, yet their wedding night had proven that the bond of passion must be reckoned with. Would she one day be reduced to submitting to Rand like a trained spaniel?

The hiss of the rain rose to a thick, heavy spatter against the oiled-canvas window coverings. Her stomach knotted. What was Rand doing now? Had the tide risen? Did he feel the cold waters closing over him, sucking his breath, stealing his soul? While she sat drinking wine with her French allies, was he fighting for his life?

The thunderbolt of a distant explosion rent the air.

Startled, the company fell silent. Lianna sat stiff, cold, and unbearably hopeful. Then a murmur rose while the noise was dismissed as a singularly close strike of lightning.

She clutched the arms of her chair. The impulse to bolt down to the cellars was stayed only by the relentlessly watchful eyes of Gervais. He’d never let her leave the hall unattended.

Pray God Rand hadn’t injured himself, she thought wildly. Pray God he’d gotten free.

A guard burst into the hall. His face pale, his clothes spattered with rain, and several teeth leaving his mouth on a stream of bloody spittle, he clambered to the high table.

“My lords!” he said, his words piteously skewed by his wounded mouth. “The Englishman has escaped!”

* * *

Lianna glanced over her shoulder at the mounted knight following her. When Rand hadn’t been recaptured in the nightlong search, she’d insisted on riding out with the morning reserves, who had instructions to kill the Englishman on sight. In a wild gallop, she’d led the marshal to the reaches of Bois-Long. His massive size and plain, blunt features belied his talent for outstanding horsemanship. He made no complaint about the pace she set.

With every furlong she traveled, her hope grew. She didn’t want to find Rand, wanted only to ascertain that he’d gotten away safely.

In private pain, she admitted the truth. She loved her English husband. The notion brought her no joy, only a deep, sharp pain. She could never love him without restraint, for he meant to bring English rule to France.

She’d saved her final destination for last. The sun rose to a warm, noontide position. She waved to Roland and urged her palfrey westward, to the place of St. Cuthbert’s cross.

The glade lay peaceful, rain-washed and open to the sun, unsullied by the deception and political machinations that had thrown her life into upheaval. The familiar loamy scent of damp earth and the faint fragrance of wildflowers teased her senses. Larks chittered in the branches of the ancient spreading oaks. A breeze ruffled the dew-damp strands of long green grass.

She halted her horse and looked up at the canopy of branches. The leaves, shot through by sunlight, glowed with a color so pure and so familiar that she clapped both hands over her mouth to muffle a strangled cry of grief. The color matched that of Rand’s eyes.

“My lady, are you well?”

Uncovering her face, she lowered her head to hide her tortured expression. “My head aches a little.”

He dismounted and helped her from her saddle. Producing a wine flask, he handed it to her. While she drank, he scouted about, kicking in the weeds. “My lady, look what I’ve found,” he called.

Fearfully she crossed to his side. “What is it, Roland?”

He held up a length of silver chain. Suspended from it was a winking jewel, framed by intricately worked gold. She squinted, made out a design of a leopard rampant and the motto
A vaillans coeurs riens impossible.

She knew immediately that the talisman had belonged to Rand. When had he lost it? Careful not to reveal what was in her heart, she feigned disinterest. “Possibly a stolen token dropped by a brigand,” she said.

“I’d best give it over to Gervais.”

She nodded. It mattered not that Gervais would recognize the leopard device on the bauble; his real prize had escaped.

“Odd place, this,” remarked Roland. “A bit out of the way for a pilgrim seeking sanctuary.” He strolled over to the ancient stone cross and stooped. “But someone’s been here.”

Quickly she went to the cross. Lying atop it was a single wild lily with raindrops still clinging to its lavender-and-white petals.

Roland scratched his head. “Can’t imagine what the devil it means.”

She picked up the lily. Like cool tears, the raindrops anointed her hands.

“But I can,” she murmured, too quietly for Roland to hear.

Thirteen

“Y
ou’re back!” Lajoye stood framed by the rough-hewn doorway of his seaside inn. He had a daub of fresh plaster on one wrinkled cheek.

“
Oui, mon vieux.
Was my return ever in doubt?” Rand grinned—his first smile after two days of traveling by foot and by stealth through the forests and fens of Picardy.

“Only by those who know you not.” Lajoye subjected Rand to a close, dubious scrutiny. “What befell you?”

“I paid a visit to my new home.”

Lajoye frowned. “A bath, a meal, some doctoring for the burns and bruises. Have you been to Le Crotoy?”

“Aye, the rest of my men await my orders.”

“Rand! Rand!” A gaggle of unkempt children pushed past Lajoye and tumbled into the dooryard.

“Where have you been?”

“Look how my kitten’s grown!”

“Why are you so dirty?”

“Did you bring your harp?”

“I lost two teeth last month!”

He stooped and somehow managed to enclose them all in the circle of his arms. Laughing, he looked up at Lajoye.

The old man sketched a bow. “Welcome back, my lord.”

Gently, still laughing, Rand sent the children off with a wink and the promise of a rousing bedtime ballad. He followed Lajoye into the Sheaf of Wheat.

The smell of fresh plaster and baking bread assailed him. His senses reeling with fatigue and lack of food, he put one hand to his head, swayed, and stumbled.

“Merde,”
swore the innkeeper, huffing as he reached for Rand. “’Tis like supporting a falling oak.” While he helped Rand to a stool, he bellowed, “Marie, bring our lord food and drink.
Sang de Dieu,
be quick about it, woman.”

Only after he’d consumed three trenchers of Marie’s stew and then the bread plate itself did he feel himself again.

“So,” said Lajoye, eyeing him keenly, “you’ve been a guest of Gervais Mondragon. We had the news only yesterday.”

Rand stiffened. “Who told you?”

“I don’t know, and he didn’t say. He came down from Agincourt. He was one of those Asian types, or Persian, such as the Crusaders met on their forays in the East.”

Rand knew no man of that description. He must ask Jack about him.

“How long were you imprisoned?”

“Eight days, in the belly of the château.” Remembering how close that cell had come to being his watery crypt, he shivered. But for Lianna...

Tenderly Lajoye touched a swelling on Rand’s brow. “You were beaten?”

Rand nodded. “And a stray fragment of stone caught me. I found some gunpowder and made a charge to blow open the door.”

“
Parbleu,
you might have been killed!”

“My death would have been a certainty otherwise. I knew what I was doing. I was trained by a master gunner.” Oh, Lianna, he thought, how much we could teach one another if we could but regain the love and trust we once shared.

“Jack and Dylan are well?” he asked Lajoye.

“I fostered them as my own sons. Of course, when Cade heard you’d been taken, he almost went charging off to rescue you. But the Asian said you’d already gotten free.”

“The archery training?”

Lajoye’s aging face split into a grin. “You’d liken the men of Eu unto the best company of Welsh or Cheshiremen. We’ll not lie undefended against brigands again, my lord.”

Rand swallowed a gulp of cider. “Lajoye,” he said in a low, calm voice, “I ordered the training so the men could defend themselves. But there is another reason, far more selfish, far more dangerous...”

“I know.” Lajoye smiled sadly. “We all know.” He refilled Rand’s tankard. “Drink, my lord. ’Twill ease that startled expression off your face.” Rand drank deeply while Lajoye continued. “Burgundy left you to claim Bois-Long without his aid. And you
will
wrest the château from Gaucourt and Mondragon—with the help of the men of Eu.”

“God, but Jack has a loose tongue,” Rand said ruefully.

“Your man said nothing of the plan.” Lajoye laughed at Rand’s confused frown. “I’m an innkeeper, for pity’s sake. Think you I’m deaf to the gossip of the countryside? Weeks ago I realized the brigands were Gaucourt’s men.” He pursed his lips and shrugged with Gallic fatalism. “They found a place to bide at Bois-Long, and the attacks ceased.”

Rand drove his fist into his palm. “I did suspect Gaucourt.” Suddenly the idea that Lianna harbored brigands chilled him. Women of Eu had been raped. Forcing himself to calmness, he drained his tankard. “The others...”

“Are willing. You won their loyalty by securing the town against Gaucourt’s outlaws. We Normans are a cautious lot. We distrust the
horzain,
but once an outsider wins our confidence, he keeps it forever.”

“Thanks be to God...and Eu,” said Rand. “Where are Jack and Dylan?”

“The Welshman spends his evenings fletching arrows at the home of Pierre, the tanner. Your Jack...” Lajoye winked. “’Tis any man’s—or woman’s—guess.”

Rand went to search for Jack. Geese strolled about the dooryard. He noted with satisfaction that most of the geese were missing a number of feathers—a sure sign of arrows in the making. But likely not by Jack Cade.

Nearing the byre, he heard his scutifer’s voice. “Now, lay your body into it,” said Jack in his rough French.

Hearing the familiar command of a master archer, Rand smiled. He’d misjudged Jack after all. His scutifer was instructing a pupil to put his weight into the bow.

“Higher now,” Jack advised. “Higher! We’ll shoot wholly together.” He laughed. “That’s it. Worry not. I never undershoot. But I always loose quick and sharp.”

If Jack’s lusty mirth aroused Rand’s suspicions, a feminine sigh of satisfaction confirmed them. He rounded to the back of the cow byre.

The hay mow seemed to be in motion. Stepping closer, he spied Jack. The scutifer knelt thigh-deep in hay, buried to the waist in a woman’s skirts.

“Oh, lamb of God,” muttered Rand.

Chuckling, Jack extricated himself and nonchalantly laced his trews. “I was wondering when you’d get here, my lord. Worried sick about you, I was.”

“You sought comfort for your woes, I see.”

Jack had the grace to blush.

Seeing that Jack had apparently forgotten the girl in the hay, Rand reached for her hand. The plump woman leaped up and began smoothing her skirts.

“Run along now,” Jack said ungallantly. “We’ve manly matters to discuss.”

Rand stooped to retrieve a short-brimmed hat from the pile of hay. He set it lopsidedly on Jack’s head and said, “Would that you labored so diligently at training archers.”

“But I have. You’ll see.”

“Tell me first of the man who brought news of me to Eu.”

Jack rubbed his chin. “Bloody odd lot, but we’ve not the leisure to choose our allies. He said we’d all meet again.”

While Rand wondered about the mysterious stranger, Jack went to call out the people of Eu for a display of arms.

An hour later twenty men, their ages spanning from four and ten to threescore, their sizes ranging from skinny to brawny, aligned themselves at the edge of a long, willow-skirted meadow. Feet planted, sleeves rolled back, the long yew bowstaves held in front of them, they stood at attention.

Jack paced at the rear of the line, hands clasped behind his back. “The enemy’s yonder,” he barked in French, “at that brake of willows.” Twenty pairs of eyes fastened on the distant woods. Dylan moved among the men, adjusting this one’s stance, that one’s alignment. Jack plucked a feather from an arrow and tossed it in the air to reckon the force of the wind. “Mild as a virgin’s breath,” he muttered, then stalked purposefully to the end of the line.

“Draw your arrows,” he shouted. “Nock your arrows.” As one, the line moved to obey. A satisfied smile slid across Jack’s face,
“À St. Georges!”
he bellowed. “Keep your eye to the string and the string to the shaft. Loose gently now. Pluck not the string with your drawing hand. Let fly, lads!”

A high-pitched whine rose above the nasal twang of bowstrings. The arrows flew in a dark swarm toward the willow brake. Shouts of pride and satisfaction burst from the men.

“Bien fait, les gars,”
said Jack, moving through their ranks, slapping shoulders, pumping hands. “Well done!” Grinning broadly, he approached Rand. “So, my lord?”

Pride and affection surged through Rand. “Jack, I know not what to say. ’Tis a miracle you’ve wrought, no less. You’ve transformed a group of farmers into a lance of archers.”

“So I have,” Jack said with a remorseless lack of modesty. “A few have become crack shots. Come, we’ll show you.”

Aiming at a painted bull’s hide stretched over a wooden frame, the archers displayed their marksmanship. Arrows shredded the hide until the target hung by a thread.

Jack bowed comically. “Now, the pièce de résistance.”

Rand watched as his scutifer calmly took up a bow, nocked an arrow, and, with the remaining two fingers of his mangled right hand, drew a yard of string.

His throat tightening with pity, Rand saw blood crease the joints of Jack’s fingers. He took a step forward. “Jack, my God—”

“Hush, my lord, you’ll spoil my aim.”

Jack let the arrow fly. With a hiss it drove straight and sure, its iron-wrought tip neatly severing the last string holding the bull’s hide. The target thudded to the ground.

Cheers erupted from the men. Jack planted his bowstave, leaned against it, and crossed one leg, the toe pointed negligently toward the ground. “Not bad for a crippled scutifer, eh, my lord? They took my fingers, but not my aim.”

High in Rand’s heart rose love for Jack, admiration for his devotion, his skill. Rand wanted to embrace him. Guessing Jack’s reaction should he attempt such an outrage, he merely smiled and said casually, “A scutifer no more, Jack Cade. That was the work of a master archer.”

Gratitude blazed like a banner across Jack’s face. He grinned. “So...?”

“So we take Bois-Long.”

* * *

An interlude of peace reigned at the château, and Lianna settled into a numb routine. She rose at dawn, retched into a basin, then broke her fast with cider and bread, only to be sick again. Battling the seductive lassitude of the condition she had once rejoiced in, but now despaired of, she went about the business of running the household.

Gervais seemed disinclined to attend to the myriad details of stewardship. He preferred hawking and hunting, swapping yarns with Gaucourt’s men, and winning the affection of the people of Bois-Long through lavish flattery and costly favors.

Thus the management of the estate fell to Lianna, as it ever had. She appreciated the distraction. While arbitrating a dispute between tenants or supervising the planting of hops near the riverbed, she could banish Rand from her mind—often for as long as a whole minute.

She rode out sometimes, but never as far as the glade. To go there was to yield to tender feelings she could ill afford.

Secretly she’d taken steps to deny Gervais’s claim on Bois-Long. She’d penned missives to the administration in Paris, contesting the entail of the castle and lands. But although her requests for royal indulgence were couched in flattery, she had little hope of a ruling in her favor. The Armagnac party was unlikely to indulge Burgundy’s niece.

Not so secretly, Gervais, too, had taken steps. He dictated letters of his own and dispatched them to Paris, begging to be acknowledged as Sire de Bois-Long.

Hunched over her books in the counting house early one morning, Lianna glanced from Guy’s
livre de raison
to her own account book. She counted the grain figures and slid the beads of Chiang’s odd reckoning device. Rapidly she calculated the yield of rye and notched the figure on her tally stick.

Idly she spun the beads. They were threaded on wooden dowels, set in a rectangular frame. One red stood for ten whites; one white for ten blacks. Figuring could be achieved simply by sliding the beads to and fro, here and there.

She sighed. Would that all problems were so neatly solved. But beads in a frame would not reckon her uncle’s treachery, Gervais’s presumption, or Rand’s determination to take the château for King Henry. Nor would figures on a tally stick lay out an easy life for the child she secretly carried.

What was she to do about the babe? It could be passed off as Lazare’s. People would think it only a few weeks late in coming. The necessity of lying bothered her, yet she must do so for the baby’s sake, to protect her child’s inheritance.

Yanking her attention from the anxious thoughts, she made another calculation and entered the figure in her books.

The clink of spurs on flagstone made her drop her stylus. “How efficient you are,” Gervais said smoothly. “Up even before the servants.”

“’Tis a time to work without distractions.”

“Ah, but I find you very distracting.”

She noted his bloodshot eyes, the disarray of his fine clothes. The scent of stale wine and woodsmoke wafted to her. “I was going to remark that you, too, are up early. But I see you’ve not yet been to bed.”

“Not to sleep, anyway.” He laughed at her cold expression. “Don’t look at me so. Longwood had you for two nights.” With an idle finger he fished down into his tunic, pulled for the talisman Roland had found near the glade. Lianna kept her expression carefully bland, although it galled her that Rand’s device, his lofty motto, had fallen into the keeping of one such as Mondragon.

Gervais smiled. “Surely the Englishman taught you a woman’s pleasure.”

She stared down at her books and privately swore not to let Gervais know she’d lain with Rand, married him. Such an admission would ruin her plan to credit the child to Lazare.

Moving behind her, Gervais wove his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. She fought the urge to recoil.

“Tell me,” he said, pulling her head back gently but insistently, “how was the Englishman? Did he give proper attention to your lovely neck, your beautiful breasts?” His other hand strayed over her shoulder. Although his touch was light, she sensed a latent, hidden brutality in his caress. “Have you a soft spot in your heart for him?”

She snapped, “You know naught of what is in my heart.”

“I care not,” he stated. “I am the Sire de Bois-Long.”