The Mistress Of Normandy (27 page)

Dreadful anticipation gripped Lianna as she sat holding her child and waiting to meet Justine Tiptoft. Lianna kept her eyes fastened on the cobbled surface of the yard while a nun went to summon Justine.

A soft, feminine voice and trills of childish laughter rang through the square.

A procession of children approached. In their midst walked a young woman wearing a coif that shaded a wide, pretty smile and bright, twinkling blue eyes. A breeze molded her gray habit against her generous curves.

Not a mouse, Lianna thought instantly. Nor yet a girl. Justine Tiptoft. Lianna’s heart plummeted. So this was Justine. Justine, whom Rand had loved when the Demoiselle de Bois-Long was but a hated obligation.

Rand smiled and held out his arms to Justine, who moved into his embrace with a familiar ease that turned Lianna’s stomach to stone.

She’s a novice, Lianna thought. She’ll be a bride of Christ; she has no hold on Rand. Still...

They kissed briefly. Lianna tried to tell herself it was a kiss of friendship. Rand stepped back, took Lianna’s hand, and brought her forth.

“Jussie, this is my wife, Lianna. And our son, Aimery.”

Jussie?
A pet name, a lover’s name, spoken with obvious ease.

“Hello, Mistress Tiptoft.” Lianna expected the soft loveliness of Justine’s face to harden, her smile to fade. What must she be feeling, facing the woman who’d stolen Rand from her?

Justine’s smile broadened. “Please, call me Justine, or better, Jussie.” Merry blue eyes swept Lianna from head to toe. “You’re beautiful, and your baby looks like an angel.” She glanced at Rand. “You’ve been blessed. Truly.”

“Aye,” he said, his voice gruff with sincerity. “More richly than I deserve. Jussie, we’ve come to ask a great favor of you.”

She turned to the group of children. “Go help Sister Frances in the orchard,” she instructed. “I’ll fetch you at vespers.” She made a shooing motion with her apron, and the children scampered off.

Quickly Rand explained what had come to pass, how they had come to be there, and what they wished of Justine.

“I’ll care for your Aimery as my own,” she promised, reaching out her arms. “The lamb. Let me hold him.”

In spite of herself, Lianna felt confidence in Justine. The orphans in her care were clean, well fed, and cheerful. She handed the baby to her. Aimery stared curiously at Justine and waved a fist at her coif. “He favors you, Rand,” she said. “Though he has his mother’s chin.”

Justine was everything Lianna was not. She was compliant where Lianna was argumentative; her sunny temperament contrasted with Lianna’s seriousness. Justine was simpler, and softer. She’d never borne the burdens of a chatelaine, of a country torn by war.

Rand turned to Lianna. “I’ll see that our horses are fed and watered, and make an offering to the abbess for the baby’s keep,” he said. “Doubtless you’ll want to speak to Jussie at length about caring for Aimery.”

* * *

Justine stared thoughtfully at Lianna. “Come. I hope to ease your mind about leaving Aimery with us.”

They sat on a curved stone bench in the shade of a pear tree. Aimery crawled contentedly in the soft grass at their feet. “How old is your son?” asked Justine.

“Nearly eight months.”

“Is he weaned from the breast?”

Lianna blushed at the frank question. “In part, yes.”

Justine nodded. “The first few days might be hard on you both. Yet I’ve had luck with honey teats and a wineskin of goat’s milk for nursing. Your Aimery is sure to thrive here.”

Lianna heard herself describing, in anxious maternal detail, the baby’s sleeping habits, the likes and dislikes that made her child unique. “He does favor a soothing song at bedtime,” she concluded.

Justine’s eyes softened with memories. “I would expect as much from Rand’s son. He does play the harp so beautifully. Did he ever sing to you of Héloïse and Abelard?”

So Rand had shared love songs with Justine. What else had he shared?

You are my first, my only.

Could he have lied? No, not Rand. And yet...

“I suspect you know Rand and I once planned to wed,” said Justine.

“’Twas not my choice to take him away from you. In fact, I did everything in my power to avoid marrying him.”

Justine looked surprised. “You did not take Rand away from me.”

“Aye,” Lianna forced out, “for in his heart he never left you.”

Justine shook her head vigorously; the white coif bobbed. “How can you think that? Jesu, he never held me in his heart. He never truly belonged to me.” She clasped Lianna’s cold hands with her warm ones. “We could have married years ago, yet we didn’t. We both claimed we wanted to wait until his campaigning with the Duke of Clarence was done.” She spoke with confidence and bore herself with dignity in spite of the drab gray novice’s robe she wore. “I think we both knew that we simply weren’t meant to marry.”

“Yet you planned so long—”

“Only because my family wished it so fervently. To Rand, I was someone to care for, to protect, much as he was always protecting a stray cat, a bird fallen from the nest. But you...” Justine looked deep into Lianna’s eyes. “You are someone he can love, someone who won’t be lost in the shadow of him.” Her gaze was clear and steady. “Has he ever given you cause to think him untrue?”

“No,” said Lianna quietly, remembering the honesty of his emotions. “Never.” For a long moment she stared at Justine. She wanted to hate the girl, but found her wholly likable. She wanted to find flaws but discovered only good qualities.

“You must think me a jealous harpy,” Lianna confessed.

Justine laughed. “I think you a woman who loves her husband.”

Lianna glanced down at Aimery, and her eyes filled with tears. “But how can I love his ambition to open my home to English invaders?”

“If he did not have that ambition, he’d not be the man you love.”

Lianna snatched up the baby and hugged him. He grabbed for her chin. “Why can’t he just—” She bit back her wish for him to embrace the cause of France. The notion suddenly seemed petty, impossible.

Justine reached over and stroked Aimery’s cheek. “Don’t force him to choose. He’s a man of great heart, but that heart can be broken.”

Nineteen

F
or many long moments since she’d climbed from a bobbing tender onto the crowded deck of the
Trinité Royale,
Lianna stood frozen with terror. The rough, cannon-plagued crossing to England had hardly prepared her for the voyage she faced now. Leaving her son had opened a well of misgivings inside her, rendering her cheeks pale, her face expressionless.

Rand stayed at her side, his hand drawing soothing circles on her back. “Easy, love. We’re on the king’s own ship; no ill can befall us.”

The lump of misery in her throat held her mute. She stared at Spithead harbor. The sun, bright as a new coin, gilded the sails of fifteen hundred warships.

“’Tis the greatest fighting force ever to leave English shores.”

Lianna fixed her eyes on the capstan adorned with a huge scepter bearing the fleur-de-lis. In displaying the lilies of France so prominently, King Henry shouted his objective to the world. Her gaze flicked to a carving on the deckhead: a gold leopard wearing a crown of silver. And, looking at the armada crammed into the harbor, she admitted for the first time that an English victory was possible. Could her uncle of Burgundy have been right all along?

Noblemen strolled the decks; some paused to greet Rand and stare at Lianna. She bit her lip. “They think me weak.”

“My love, they think you beautiful.” He gestured at a portly nobleman who stood astern with his household knights. “When Edward of York saw you, he all but dropped the loaf of bread he was eating.”

She studied the Duke of York. A scheming ex-traitor who had once led a revolt against the king’s father, Henry Bolingbroke, York had managed to insinuate himself back into royal favor. Distasteful of the man’s self-serving nature, she looked away.

“You say so to be kind.” Irritation edged her voice. “A man half-blind could see my...my fear.”

“You bore yourself like a queen,” he said.

Gulls screeched and flitted through the mastheads. On the decks milled a company of nobles, priests, artisans, yeomen, and mercenaries who anticipated battle with an eagerness that distressed Lianna. Irish warriors, wild of hair and beard, their skin tattooed, ran to and fro. The crack archers of Sir Thomas Erpingham sat fletching arrows. She studied the great guns and siege engines lashed to some of the decks. The men who would operate those machines behaved for all the world as if they were embarking on a fine adventure instead of a mission to kill and conquer.

“By my faith, Longwood, I’d heard you and your lady were aboard!” A handsome, big-boned man greeted them. A jeweled broach with the arms of Lancaster identified him as a royal personage. His broad, welcoming smile as he yanked Rand into a hearty bear hug identified him as a friend.

“Lianna, this is Thomas, the Duke of Clarence and King Henry’s brother.”

She curtsied respectfully but could not keep the irony from her voice when she remarked, “This is not your first voyage to France, Your Grace.”

Thomas struck his chest, feigning a broken heart. “And I was going to admire your wife’s looks. But that voice...her accent puts me in mind of lilting breezes over the Norman fells.” Taking her hand, he placed a fervent kiss in her palm.

“Is this your way of evading my remark?”

“A man can always try.” He studied her face closely. “At least your quick tongue keeps me from envying Rand too much. I prefer that my women concern themselves only with domestic matters.”

“I’d gladly do so, but your brother the king has forced me to turn my attention to political affairs.”

“I do pray this conquest ends in peace for both our countries.”

“France
is
at peace—”

Clearing his throat, Rand encompassed the fleet with a sweep of his hand. “Lord Scrope must be lamenting the state of the royal treasury.”

Thomas’s face paled. “My God, you haven’t heard, then.”

“Heard what?”

“Scrope is no longer the king’s treasurer. He and Thomas Grey, together with Henry Percy and Oldcastle, revived the intrigue against my brother. They sought to put the Earl of March on the throne, but March lost his nerve and confessed all to Harry.”

“Scrope was one of the king’s closest friends.”

“As of twelve days ago, he is a headless corpse,” said the duke. “As are all who dare attempt to defy my brother.”

Despite the warmth of the August day, Lianna shivered. Her plan to ask Rand to turn from King Henry did not seem so simple now. If Henry had shown no mercy to a lifelong friend, how much more ruthless would he be toward Rand?

The strong, bracing arm of Clarence interrupted her thoughts. “Come,” he said. “Harry seems to have left off his praying for a moment. He would see you now.”

A small crowd in the center of the deck parted. The young man in their midst looked unremarkable at first glance, but on closer study Lianna recognized the aura of power that emanated from him like heat from a fired cannon.

Although he wore a crown, he needed no outward sign to identify him. His confident demeanor and the fire in his eyes marked him clearly as Henry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales, Knight of the Bath, Duke of Cornwall, Earl of Chester, Duke of Lancaster and Aquitaine, King of England—and of France, if his goal were indeed fulfilled.

The blood-red eye of a fabulous ruby winked from its setting in the state crown of Henry V. Rand knelt in obeisance. Reluctantly Lianna followed suit. Henry’s shoes, she noticed, bore two familiar devices: the leopards of England and the lilies of France. This monarch could well crush both kingdoms beneath his ambitious feet.

She raised her head, keeping her gaze steady, hiding the resentment and trepidation that welled within her.

Henry held out his hand. “Baroness.”

She took his hand but could not bring herself to kiss it. She inclined her head and murmured a greeting. Henry gave her a thin, cold smile, then turned a look of inquiry on Rand.

She’d expected a self-centered monster, an imperious usurper, an uncaring plunderer of the poor. Henry seemed none of these things. He sat quiet, impassive, as Rand explained how they had come to be in England. Respectfully he asked for passage back to France.

Henry turned and subjected Lianna to a long, grave moment of speculation. “You would sail to France on one of my warships?”

“I would reach my home by whatever means, Your Grace.”

The corners of his mouth tautened in satisfaction. “I would expect such determination from Burgundy’s niece.”

“I would be lying, Your Grace, if I pretended to approve of my uncle’s alliance with you. His brothers, the Duke of Brabant and the Count of Nevers, are of like mind. France is our country, sovereign unto itself.”

A flash of ferocity glinted in Henry’s eyes. “Then why should I bear you home, my lady?”

Rand pressed his warm hand into the small of her back. “Because, Your Grace, she is my wife.”

* * *

Henry heard murmurs from the gathered nobles. He lifted one eyebrow, the stern control of his mouth momentarily lost in a sudden quirk. His gaze passed over the handsome pair before him. Despite his own scant seven and twenty years, he saw them as infinitely, unbearably youthful. The girl’s face remained composed, her attitude respectful, yet he recognized unease in the vulnerable fullness of her lower lip and yearning in the depths of her eyes. She would be a fighter, aye, this lass with the blood of Jean Sans Peur flowing in her veins.

Longwood’s face was a study of quiet dignity, never pleading, yet a request for indulgence haunted those green eyes. The man has changed, Henry thought. He’s no longer the monkish knight I dubbed at Westminster, but a man of new strength and self-assurance.

An unaccustomed softness welled in Henry’s heart, a softness heated by a subtle flare of satisfaction. He’d sent Rand forth to claim a bride and a castle. Rand had done both. But he’d found more than that. He’d found love.

Aye, the bond was written on their achingly young faces, in the fingers twined together between them, in the way the girl leaned slightly into the lee of her husband’s shoulder. But was the bond strong enough to keep her from treachery?

Henry addressed Rand, yet his gaze stalked challengingly over his whispering counselors. “Aye, my lord, I’ll allow your wife to sail with us.”

As an uproar of indignant protests resounded, the girl smiled for the first time. Not the gushing, overblown smile of a courtier, but a sweetly understated bowing of her lips.

“Nay, Your Grace,” said his cousin Edward, the Duke of York. Edward’s fleshy face reddened with resentment. “Your own interdict against women and camp followers forbids it. By your very proclamation any female found among the men is to have her arm broken.”

“The interdict is meant to deter prostitutes, cousin,” Henry snapped. “It does not extend to noble ladies.”

“But the seamen will never suffer her presence, sire. Sailors be a superstitious lot. They consider a woman unlucky.”

Henry bristled. York was a fence straddler whose loyalties shifted as easily as the breeze off the Narrow Sea. Henry tolerated him only because the support of the House of York was so vital to all of England. “Enough, cousin. You’ll say no more on the matter.”

“But, sire, what if she’s a spy for the French?”

“Then she’s better off with her English husband.”

York’s jowls quivered. “I demand that—”

“Silence!” Henry’s command fell like an ax blow. Edward tossed a smoldering look at Lianna and lumbered off across the deck. Others followed more slowly, their grumbling stifled by fear of the king’s displeasure.

Henry walked to Rand and Lianna. His special attention, he knew, would shelter them from resentment better than a shield of iron. Aye, he needed to protect them, for he needed that causeway.

“I wish I could say I acted out of sheer indulgence for the bond you two share.” His eyes flicked to Lianna in time to see a startled look cross her face. “But it was more than that. I wish for you to remember that I could have refused.”

She moistened her lips. “I shall remember, Your Grace.” Suspicion flowed beneath her words. A less perceptive man might not have recognized the veiled indignation. Yet Henry of Monmouth was nothing if not perceptive.

“You are indeed of Burgundy’s blood,” he said in admiration and annoyance, “no matter what you may think of his politics.” He saw her hand tighten around her husband’s, and apprehension reared suddenly in his mind.

He dropped a visor of indifference over his features to hide an unsettling notion. He had not reckoned on the idea that Rand could be lost to a Frenchwoman. Now he had to admit the possibility. He’d once had Rand’s loyalty, but now this impossibly beautiful niece of Burgundy had his love. Burgundy’s niece... The idea twisted around his thoughts. Jean Sans Peur would be quick to make use of so compelling an emotion as love. Would his kinswoman do the same?

Reluctant but determined, Henry forced out, “You understand that I must deal harshly with disloyalty.”

“Your brother told us of Scrope’s treason.” Lianna lifted her eyes to his. A challenge gleamed in that silvery gaze. The Baroness of Longwood was his adversary, and Rand the prize.

“I do hope,” said Henry, “you’ll not ignore that lesson.”

* * *

As oarsmen propelled the
Trinité Royale
out to sea, Lianna folded her arms, cradling her milk-swollen breasts. “I should have stayed. God forgive me, I should have stayed with Aimery.”

“We’ll be back within a few weeks,” Rand assured her.

“It will seem an eternity,” she murmured.

Several feet away, Henry stood facing the distant quay where his stepmother, Queen Joanna, and her priests kept up an endless chant. “Jesu mercy and gramercy,” he muttered, and turned his gaze toward the east and south, toward France.

Lianna’s heart lodged in her throat as she watched the monarch raise his arm, signaling the master mariner.

A trumpet blared; drums beat.

On the
Trinité
and all her sister ships, sailors scrambled up the rigging while others hauled at the staysails. Canvas snapped and cords sang through the pulleys.

Cannon fire grumbled from somewhere off to the right. “Fools,” she muttered in French. “The harbor is far too crowded to be firing the guns. They ought to know better than to—”

“Fire!” High in the rigging, a lookout screamed the warning. “A Dutch ship is afire!”

The conflagration appeared as a distant swirl of smoke among hundreds of lurching masts.

More explosions resounded. “Her gunpowder stores have blown!” yelled the lookout. “She’s set two other ships afire!”

The
Trinité
came about. Screaming men and panicked horses dove from the vessels. Some men found boards and barrels to cling to; others sank with terrifying speed. Choking with horror, Lianna buried her face in Rand’s tunic.

Behind them came a husky whisper. “A bad omen. A bad omen indeed. I did say ’twould be so.”

Rand spun around, glared into the broad, fleshy face of Edward of York. “Keep your thoughts to yourself,” he snapped.

“Your French wife casts a pall on the venture.”

Seeing Rand’s big fists double, Lianna pressed closer. “He means to provoke you. Don’t let him.”

“I’ll hear you apologize to my wife, Your Grace.”

York’s corpulent body quivered with indignation. “I speak no false apologies, especially to a Frenchwoman.”

“You’ve a high opinion of yourself,” Rand lashed out. “My God, treachery clings to you like a disease. All know of your part in the rebellions against the king’s father.”

“Harry has given back the titles Bolingbroke stripped from me. You would do well to remember my position.” York looked at Lianna again and opened his mouth as if to speak. Then, glancing at Rand’s clenched fists, the duke seemed to think better of risking another slur. He disappeared behind a jumble of barrels lashed to a stanchion.

The lookout called again, this time his voice ringing not with terror but with wonder. “Swans! The swans of Lancaster!”

Borne by the wind, the flock streaked eastward, great wings outspread, necks stretched long. The swans appeared glaring white against the brilliant azure of the sky. Sick with foreboding, Lianna watched until her eyes ached, and then she turned away.