The Mistress Of Normandy (25 page)

“Are you happy with the way of things?” she asked, folding her hands on his chest and cradling her chin in her hands.

He smiled and mussed her hair. “Supremely. When we first met you were bruised, hurting. That I can give you love brings me more happiness than I can say.”

“You’d not change a thing?”

He outlined her torso with his hands. “I might ask for more time with you. More times...like this.”

“That can be arranged. I’ve discovered a wealth of eager nursemaids.” She leaned up to nibble at his ear. “But otherwise?”

“Otherwise I’d change nary a thing.”

She dared push him no further. She sighed and bent to trace his chest with her tongue, tasting him, tasting hope. Tonight he belonged to her, not King Henry, and when the time came, she prayed Rand would favor her.

* * *

Hours later, the light of a big summer moon guided them back to the château. Listening to the call of a nightingale, the hoot of an owl, they moved beneath the thick, twisted arms of giant oaks, between the sighing fronds of willows. The river slipped peacefully beneath the causeway, and for the first time ever Lianna forgot to hug her mount and clutch the pommel in fear of the water. Rand’s love wrapped around her heart, protecting her from doubt and fear. At times such as this she knew a contentment so deep it almost frightened her.

The great hall buzzed with activity. Macée was not present. She was doubtless sitting with Aimery in the nursery.

Jack and Bonne stood surrounded by well-wishers. French and English toasts resounded as horned drinking vessels were lifted high in salutation. Jack’s proud smile and Bonne’s flushed cheeks gave evidence of their joy.

Rand reached for Lianna’s hand. “A fine match,” he said, “though I’d never have suspected a French maid could tame my Jack. But then, I never thought a Frenchwoman would steal my heart, either.”

Briefly, Lianna wondered about Justine again. “Would you like something to eat?”

He glanced over at Jack and Bonne. “Let’s leave them to celebrate.”

Waving away a pair of servants, they left the hall and climbed the wide stone staircase to the upper galleries.

Lianna said, “This is the first night I’ve not seen to Aimery’s bedtime myself.”

Together they visited the small nursery adjacent to Lianna’s solar. The room lay in stillness, the fire in the hearth banked.

Didn’t Macée know she must sit with the baby? If he cried, no one below would hear him above the sounds of revelry.

She glanced at Rand, whose face had gone taut. Skirting the moonlit form of a leathern chair, they approached the cradle. Lianna leaned down, moved the coverlet aside, and bent to see her son.

The cradle was empty.

Seventeen

L
ianna’s world exploded. Glancing wildly at Rand, she saw her own awful terror and guilt mirrored in his eyes. “No,” she said. “Please God, no.” She pulled the baby’s shawl out of the cradle, buried her face in the soft-woven wool, and inhaled the sweet scent of Aimery. She looked up at Rand. “Perhaps he was fretful. Perhaps Macée took him to her bed.”

Rand led the way to Macée’s room. The hearth was cold, the room empty, the bed unmussed. He strode out of the room. “We’d best alert everyone.” Dread and worry built as they pounded downstairs and dashed into the great hall. Lianna’s breath came in short, terrified gasps.

Rand burst upon the feast, startling the revelers. “Macée and the baby are gone,” he said.

Murmurs of disbelief rose to babbles of fright. Rand found Mère Brûlot, held her by the shoulders. The old woman shrank back. “My lord, she said she’d put him to bed herself. I never thought she’d—”

“When did you see them last?”

Mère Brûlot hung her head. “Hours ago, my lord.”

“God, if anything’s happened to my son—” He broke off, the fury in his eyes more threatening than words.

Knights and damsels scurried in all directions. Lianna tugged at Rand’s arm. “Sweet Mary, she’s taken Aimery.”

“Doubtless she’s gone to Maisoncelles to find Gervais.”

“Then why do we stay here?” she asked wildly. Together they bolted outside and across to the stables. Macée’s favorite mount, a swift roan palfrey, was missing.

“Damn her to hell,” Lianna wailed. “He’s so little. He’ll be cold. The ride will jostle him.” She wrung her hands. “He’ll need me....”

Rand gripped her shoulders. Behind him torches bobbed; men and castle folk rushed about the yard. “And you shall have him before the sun rises.”

She clutched the front of his tunic. “I’m going.”

He shook his head. “Go back to the hall.”

“Nay, I cannot—”

“Damn you, woman, can you not for once do my bidding? Think you I cannot find my own son?” His eyes ablaze with determination, Rand walked off, bellowing orders to grooms and knights.

With a quick glance to be sure no one noticed, Lianna knotted the shawl around her shoulders, grabbed a rusty knife from the wall, and led her palfrey into the darkened yard. Unnoticed by the men in the stables, she leaped astride and departed.

One thought hammered in her head. Aimery was gone; she must get him back. As the night-shrouded forest closed around her, she came to know the sound of true terror: the ringing, hissing sound in her ears, the rasp of disjointed prayers from her throat. Damp air sailed over her. She considered its effect on Aimery and urged her horse faster.

Before she’d traveled half a league, she heard a shout. Bending low over the neck of the palfrey, she pounded onward. With each explosive stride, her desperation built.

Low branches tore at her hair and plucked at the shawl knotted at her throat. The sinuous road, faintly lit by the summer moon, echoed with the frantic sounds of hoofbeats.

A horseman gained her side, angled his mount to bar the road, and drew rein. “Rand!” she gasped, and tried to maneuver around him, but he snatched her reins.

“Go back to the château,” he ordered.

She tried to jerk the reins from his hand. “Let me go. I’ll not sit idle while my son is in danger.” She pulled great gulps of air into her lungs, tightened her legs around the palfrey as the animal sidled and bumped against Rand’s percheron.

Jack Cade galloped up. He showed no surprise at seeing her. “It’s about time we caught up with her,” he remarked.

She kept her angry, fearful eyes trained on Rand. “If you wish me to turn back, you’ll have to force me.”

He glanced at Jack, who shook his head. “Not I, my lord. No good comes from getting between a lioness and her cub.” He eyed Lianna, who sat her palfrey with defiant strength. “She rides as well as most men.”

Rand growled an oath. “Leave the task to me. Have I not outwitted Gervais before, won two bloodless battles?”

She glared. “Macée has several hours’ lead. You’re wasting time arguing.”

Swearing again, he dropped her reins and spurred his horse. Jack and Lianna followed.

The mounts devoured the distance at a bone-crunching pace. The bouncing made her milk-filled breasts sore. Tortured by images of Aimery being taken on the same jostling ride, Lianna flew northward, crossing bridges over the rivers Authie and Ternoise. Night gave way to the dull gray of fog-shrouded dawn. The forest thinned to cultivated fields. In the distance, the spires and walls of Maisoncelles etched the hazy horizon.

What could
be Macée’s purpose? Did she, in her barrenness, mean to claim Aimery for her own? Or worse, did she hope to earn Gervais’s love by taking the child hostage? That her son might be part of some mad plan added a hideous edge to her terror.

Full of wariness and trepidation, the travelers approached the Porte de Blangy, the south gate to the city. Farmers and peasants, awaiting the trading day, eyed them curiously. Rand addressed the fat, sleepy gatekeeper. “Have you seen a woman, dark, riding a good horse? She had a babe with her.”

The man blinked. “Not since I took my watch.”

“Open the gate,” he said. “We’ve urgent business within.”

The gatekeeper shrugged indolently. “Nothing’s so urgent it can’t wait for the church clock to ring prime.” He glanced at the sky. “Another twenty minutes—”

“That’s too damned long.” Shoving his hand into his tunic, Rand pulled out several silver
niquets
and tossed them at the man’s feet.

The gatekeeper darted a look at the farmers. “I’ve strict orders. The Dauphin Louis bides within, and rules must be observed.”

Lianna pushed forward. “Will you deny entrance to Burgundy’s niece?” she demanded.

He looked startled, then said, “We’re not a Burgundian town.” And in that instant she felt the full impact of living in a France divided by warring nobles.

Rand’s face darkened; his hand moved with unseen speed to the pommel of his sword. “You’ll take my coin,” he said with soft menace, “or you’ll bear my steel.”

The gatekeeper leaped to do his bidding.

“The dauphin, eh?” said Jack, looking about as they rode toward the center of town. “Wonder what he’s doing here?”

“Doubtless trying to drum up support to oppose Henry.”

Lianna bristled but said nothing. Politics mattered not to her, not with Aimery in danger. Guilt, borne on a chill wind of recriminations, gusted through her. She should have known better than to think Macée had given up all loyalty to Gervais. She should never have entrusted the baby to her. And—God forgive them both—she and Rand should not have dallied the hours away making love.

After crossing several more grasping palms with silver coin, Rand learned the location of the lodging house where Gervais Mondragon kept rooms.

They found the house in a narrow, offal-strewn street. Morning fog twisted through the alley. Eyeing the crumbling, water-stained structure, Jack grumbled, “Mondragon’s come down in the world since the pigs.”

“He’ll come down lower when I’ve had done with him,” said Rand. Turning, he fixed Lianna with a gem-hard stare. “This time you will heed me.” He gestured at a stone arch, overgrown with sweet-scented creeper vines. “Wait in that courtyard while we go inside. Keep the horses out of sight. They’re too valuable to display.”

She swallowed hard, nodded.

He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “I want you to promise me something. If things go ill, you must ride with all speed for Calais.”

“Calais! But it’s another forty miles north, and an English stronghold at that.” She tilted her chin up. “I’ll go nowhere without my son, and I’ll not ride into the arms of my enemy.”

His expression fierce, he said, “Who is your enemy now? The English, or the Frenchman who holds our son?”

“I... Yes, my lord. I promise.”

He kissed her hard. She tasted the salt of her own tears and wondered when she’d begun crying. “Have a care,” she said tremulously. “And bring back our son.”

* * *

Daggers drawn, Rand and Jack approached the house. The chained power of rage and fear tautened Rand’s muscles, overcame the weariness of his nightlong ride. He strode to the door, tried the latch, and found it bolted. A powerful kick splintered the old boards and rusting iron.

He and Jack stepped into gloomy silence. The odor of a dead fire and stale beer pervaded the air. Casting his eyes over dark corners, rickety steps, and an ash-strewn hearth. He saw no sign of Gervais, nor heard a baby’s cries.

Yet his warrior’s instincts warned him of danger. The air smelled of old wine and desperation. The back of his neck itched. Scarcely daring to draw breath, he tightened his hold on his sword hilt.

An infant’s hungry whimper drifted from the back of the house. Moving carefully so as not to spin his spurs, he walked to the ladder.

To his right, shadows flickered. To his left, a sword rasped from a sheath; metal flashed. Rand moved to lunge.

The cold steel of a pair of blades formed a cross at his throat. He froze. From the corner of his eye he saw two burly men pressing Jack against the wall.

“Welcome, my Lord of Longwood,” said the venom-laden voice of Gervais Mondragon. “We’ve been expecting you.”

* * *

Waiting beneath the weatherworn archway, Lianna longed to edge closer but dared not leave the horses. Time dragged; each passing second stretched her nerves to an intolerable limit. Were Gervais and Macée alone with the baby? She prayed they were.

But Gervais had left Bois-Long with a war-horse and a suit of Florentine armor. The trappings of a knight were worth a small fortune, enough to hire rough mercenaries.

She and Rand had given Macée plenty of time to plan her flight. She could have pilfered the coffers of the treasury. Or, with Bonne busy celebrating her betrothal to Jack, Macée might even have helped herself to Lianna’s own jewels.

That Gervais and Macée had absconded with riches meant nothing compared to the priceless treasure they’d stolen. To keep from sinking into despair, she tried to focus on the activity of the awakening town. Women threw open shutters and called to one another across the alleys. Costermongers wheeled carts through the streets, singing the praises of their fresh vegetables. A man reeled from a tavern and paused to urinate against a house. Scolding, a crone in the window above doused him with a bucket of water. The drunkard shook his fist and ambled away. Children spilled from the houses, chasing hoops or balls. Lianna strained to hear Aimery’s cries.

She heard the metallic clink of spurs instead. Fearful, she craned her neck to peer over a furrier’s pelt-laden cart. Two knights approached. Please God, not now, she thought.

Their
cottes d’armes
bore the gold fleur-de-lis, and their plumes were dyed a deep, rich blue. The costume marked them as royal knights of the House of Valois.

She shrank into the lee of the archway. A year ago the sight of French soldiers would have filled her with hope and confidence. But now she saw them through distrustful eyes, eyes that probed beneath the colorful trappings and cocky gait. These men had the hard mouths and ruthless air of soldiers accustomed to extorting respect through bullying.

Their searching eyes found her. Rand’s warning about the horses rang in her ears. She stepped out into the street.

The first to reach her was a rough-featured man of middle years, with sparse gray hair and narrow eyes. The other might have been near her own age. Yet little youthfulness clung to him; the flesh of his jowls hung loose about a cynical, dissipated face. He looked as though he’d been up all night.

Pretending to lower her eyes, she watched the men through the pale skirts of her lashes.

“Good morrow, demoiselle.” She was surprised that the younger man spoke first rather than deferring to his elder.

“Good morrow.” She dropped to a half curtsy.

“Lower, demoiselle,” the older man snapped. “Would you insult your dauphin?”

Her eyes gaped wide. She stared at the Dauphin Louis in mingled awe and disappointment. This overweight, cynical young man was heir to the throne of France?

“Well?” grumbled the knight.

She sank into the deep obeisance reserved for those of highest royal rank.

“Rise, demoiselle.”

He spoke through his nose, yet thick, unattractive lips muffled his words. Louis’s voice, she thought, as she stood, hardly suited a prince royal. “God save the dauphin,” muttered a passerby. Louis puffed out his chest.

“She has manners enough, after prodding,” said the knight. He subjected her to slow, narrow-eyed scrutiny. “And looks, too, Your Grace. Shall we bring her along for bed sport? God knows there’s little else to do in this puny town.”

Her hand strayed beneath the shawl, fingers wrapping around the knife in her belt. She stood motionless, battling a fresh surge of fear for the baby, for Rand, and now for herself.

“Not just looks,” said the dauphin, considering her lazily, “but a rare and true beauty. What is your name?”

“Bel...Lianna.”

“Speak up, girl.”

“Lianna, from the town of Blangy.” The dauphin knew of Aimery the warrior, for bards still sang of the deeds of her father. And—yet another warning stole into her mind—Louis was married to Margaret, Burgundy’s daughter and Lianna’s cousin. After the sham peace at Arras, the dauphin would not be kindly disposed to a Burgundian.

His opaque eyes shuttered whatever thoughts he might be having. “You’ve the look of a
pucelle de campagne
about you,” he said.

Grateful for her homespun smock and age-worn shawl, she nodded. “I am but a simple country maid.” Almost without thought she imbued her words with a peasant’s drawl.

“Your first visit to Maisoncelles?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

Louis glanced at his companion. “Perhaps, then, we should be certain your visit is a pleasant one.”

A high, thin wail pierced the air. Lianna lurched forward; the dauphin gripped her arm. “Not so fast, girl.”

Her gaze snapped to the tall, narrow house down the street. The broken door framed Jack Cade, who stumbled out, clutching a swaddled infant in his arms.