The Mistress Of Normandy (29 page)

She swallowed hard, nodded. “There was talk of an English advance guard at Blanche-Tacque, but I understand Marshal Boucicaut outmarched that force.”

“You understand correctly.” A tight smile tugged at the corners of the dauphin’s mouth. “Boucicaut littered the Blanche-Tacque ford with chevaux-de-frise and left the river guarded by a sizable force. So...” Louis eyed her through a rippling veil of shadows. “That leaves Bois-Long as Henry’s only hope.”

Dry-mouthed, she stared down at the moon-washed surface of the river. Ordinarily the sight discomfited her; at the moment the dauphin’s face seemed more forbidding.

“Belliane... Look at me, cousin.” Though soft, the request rang with the timbre of royal command.

She glanced up. Long before he spoke, she knew what he would ask. Silently she pleaded with him not to make the demand.

“I want you to tear down the causeway so the English army cannot get across.”

She took a step back. “My husband means to keep the ford open.”

“Open to what?” he demanded. “Surely you’ve heard of the condition of Henry’s army. His men are sick, starving, dying by the score. The march of triumph he planned has degenerated into a funeral procession. He’s finished, cousin.”

“Can you be so certain?”

He lowered his voice and said, “The Dukes of Alençon and Bar have joined forces with Bourbon and Berry. The King of Sicily has arrived with his own men. The Duke of Brittany has pledged twelve thousand men. The Count of Richemont brings five thousand lancers. Burgundy, plague take him, is off at a christening feast in Tournai. But his brothers, the Count of Nevers and Antoine, the Duke of Brabant, will uphold the Crown. Even at this moment Constable d’Albret’s army lies just north of here, ready to smash the straggling English to a bloody pulp. Archers,” Louis snorted. “What can a handful of lowborn archers do against the might of French nobles?”

“’Twas English archers, Your Grace, who conquered Bois-Long.”

“Trickery,” he retorted. “Longwood waited until the knights were trapped in the jousting lists.”

Before she could pause to ponder the source of Louis’s knowledge, he spoke again. “Cousin, I’ve revealed secrets tonight that not even my own captains are privy to. I come because I want Henry thwarted, aye, but I come because you are my kinswoman and I’d not see you suffer for your husband’s mistakes. Doing my bidding will spare not only you, but many lives as well.”

“If the English prevail, Rand will be beheaded for disobeying the king.”

“You speak an absurdity,” snapped Louis. “Henry’s force has dwindled to five thousand, and most of those archers. France has five times that many, trained warriors all. When Henry is crushed, not even my intercession will spare your husband. But you can avert his death if you do as I ask.”

Indecision tore at her. Could she trust the dauphin? Could she, even for the sake of France, betray Rand? “And what do you suppose my husband will do, sit idly by and watch the causeway being destroyed?”

“I leave it to you to dispense with him. You’re a resourceful woman. You have until sunset tomorrow to do the deed.”

“And if I refuse?”

They stared long into one another’s eyes. Lianna could not help but compare the dissipated Louis with the spare strength of King Henry. Louis, who at nineteen had already gone to fat, whose penchant for fleshpots and feasting already tainted his reputation. A chill went through her at the thought that the crown of France would one day rest on this man’s head. This man, whose father was a lunatic. Would that Louis possessed a tenth of Henry’s shrewdness, his heart....

“Have you forgotten Maisoncelles?” the dauphin asked softly.

Her eyes narrowed. She remembered that frozen moment outside Gervais’s lodging house, when Louis could have detained her and the baby but instead had waved them on to Calais.

“I cannot do it,” she said helplessly.

“You can. You will. Tomorrow at sunset, one of my captains will bring a small force to garrison the château. If you value your husband’s life, you’ll see that he’s well away from here by then.”

“Your Grace, you know not what you ask. Rand would never—”

“Then don’t tell him.” Louis placed a cold, moist hand under her chin and brought his fleshy face very close to hers. “Belliane.” His voice dripped with a sickeningly soft note of threat. “I know where your baby is.”

* * *

Lianna raced up the steps from the water gate. Louis had said nothing more; after issuing the soul-shriveling words, he’d melted away into the shadows.

He hadn’t had to say more. His threat had turned her from indecisive bystander to reluctant conspirator.

She had no time to wonder how Louis had come by such information. Surely his spies roved everywhere, had perhaps tracked her from Maisoncelles to Calais to England and back. In the wake of that thought came an unexpected and shattering yearning to disobey, to abandon her plan to interfere with Henry’s crossing, and keep Rand’s heart. But she must obey or face peril to her son.

Rand was lost to her. What healing they’d achieved at the wedding was doomed to become a blistering wound again once she executed her plan. He’d despise her for tricking him, but she could live with his hatred more readily than she could bear his death.

She wrote a desperate note to her uncle of Burgundy and sent a scurrier to Tournai. If anyone could get to Aimery before the dauphin’s lackeys, Jean Sans Peur could. Then she went to find Chiang, whose help would be vital to the success of her desperate plan.

By the time she returned to her chamber, the ruby tinge of dawn streaked the sky. The fire in the hearth had burned to cold ash, and shadows hung in the room.

Wearily brushing a strand of hair from her brow, she found a wine bottle at the sideboard. Without pausing to pour, she put the bottle to her lips and took a long drink.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

The bottle slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor. Blood-colored wine seeped into the rushes. Slowly she turned toward the curtain-draped bed.

Fully clothed, hair rumpled, eyes shadowed by fatigue, Rand reclined on the lambskin coverlet.

Oh, God. In her panic she’d forgotten he was coming to her room. She watched his eyes flick over her disheveled hair, the mud-spattered hem of her gown.

“I...was called away. Mère Brûlot took sick after the feast, and I went out to the orchards to fetch her some medlar fruit.”

“I asked around the château. No one had seen you.”

“Jufroy was sleeping at his post when I passed by.”

“I see.”

She twisted her fingers into the fabric of her dress. “I waited for you, too,” she said, “before I had to leave.”

The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. “The men became unruly. I couldn’t leave the hall until I was certain they’d not kill one another.” Swinging his long legs over the side of the bed, he rose and came to her side. “I daresay their tempers will cool once they see we’ve reached an accord.”

“We have...reached an accord.”

“No more talk of treachery?”

“No more.” She forced the lie past trembling lips.

“It will be for the best. I promise.” Gently he plucked at the laces of her surcoat and brushed the garment from her shoulders. He bent to kiss the skin revealed by the square-cut bodice of her tunic. “You taste of fresh breezes.”

“I was a long time searching for the medlars.”

“You should have fetched me.”

“I knew you were busy in the hall.” Terrified that her duplicity was stamped on her face, she flung her arms around his neck. “I just want to forget. Forget that the English army is south of here, that the French are gathering in the north.... I want to shut the world away. Make me forget.”

His searing kisses wrapped her in a powerful enchantment. His gentle motions as he carried her to the bed fanned a flame of long-suppressed desire. Burning in the intimacy of his embrace, she shook loose the shackles of betrayal Louis had forced upon her. I’ll have this time with my husband, she vowed fiercely.

“I’ve missed you, wife,” he said.

“As I’ve missed you.”

Hungry for him, she tore at his clothes. Laughing, he helped her dispense with hosen, tunic, and smallclothes; then he lay beside her.

She turned on one side to look at him. Even through a mist of passion, unslaked these many weeks, she understood what he could not.

This was their last time. They’d never love again, for she was doomed to slay his love for her.

Desire and regret brought her surging into his arms and turned her kisses from merely warm to blazing hot. He gasped as she laid her body into his, pressed him down on the bed, and anointed his flesh with kisses. She dared not speak, for tears burned her throat and sobs would betray her if she spoke her heart. A dark, calculating voice inside her warned that if she blurted her love to him now, he might suspect her coming treachery.

Deprived of the chance to voice her devotion, she let her hands, her mouth, her heart, speak. Like a mantle of silk, her hair trailed over his body as her kisses went lower. Rand moaned, tried to bring her back to his lips, but she continued tasting and touching, every caress a statement of her adoration.

“Lianna, no more,” he gasped. “It’s been too long; you push me too—”

“Hush,” she murmured. “Let me...” She wanted to give him this memory of her, so that perhaps when the sting of her betrayal had dulled to an ache, he might remember her with something other than hatred. Perhaps they might fuse a covenant in their hearts, fan a flame that would never die. She branded him with her mouth, pouring all the adoration she felt into the searingly intimate kiss.

His muscles went taut. He nearly reared from the bed. “I... Oh, God, Lianna...” Love and awe radiated through her; ardor had demolished his self-control, and she felt his ecstasy as if it were her own.

He dragged her into his arms, hugged her fiercely. “Witch. You’ve left me weak as a spent arrow.”

“I...wanted to please you.”

“You have.” His hands played over her. “Now it’s your turn to be pleasured.”

With false brightness, she pulled back and said, “I’ve an idea.”

His thumbs circled her breasts. “So have I.”

She drew a deep, steadying breath. “Let’s meet by St. Cuthbert’s cross, where we first loved. You’ll be my knight-errant, and I’ll be your
pucelle.
”

“Henry could arrive any day now.”

“So he could, but not today. Dylan’s last report placed the English army thirty miles to the south.” She nibbled at his neck. “Stores are set by. All is in readiness. We’ve nothing more to do but wait.” She kissed him full on the mouth. “Let’s enjoy the waiting.”

“I’ve no quarrel with that.”

“Meet me in the glade. I want sunshine and soft breezes, just as we had when our love was new.”

He smiled and touched her hair. “I had no idea you were so sentimental
.
”

“You’ve melted me into a puddle of sentimentality.” She prayed he didn’t recognize the tears in her voice. “Please. We must arrive separately, at the hour of the woodcock’s flight, as ever we used to. Indulge me, husband. I’ve had so little joy in my life with Aimery gone.”

Tenderness softened his eyes. “What can I say? Of course I’ll meet you.”

The sun burst fully over the horizon as they dressed. He hummed snatches from the “Song of Songs,” and the words hammered painfully in her mind.

Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.

Away, she thought bleakly, not to a tryst, but to a trap.

* * *

His gaze idly following the forays of a young leveret, Rand leaned against the stone cross and let the warmth of a mild autumn seep into his bones. At last, Lianna was his again. He’d thought her lost to him, but this morning she’d proven him wrong, and proven it with a sensual power he’d only suspected before.

If only she would hurry. His heart quickened. Aye, his heart. He should have been listening to it these weeks past, instead of obeying the dictates of anger and resentment. Where was she? He’d waited nigh on half an hour; surely she’d be here soon.

Through the day she had busied herself with Chiang and spent a long time in conversation with Bonne. Doubtless the women had much to discuss on Bonne’s wedding morn.

A twig snapped. The leveret bounded off into the forest. Rand leaped to his feet, hand at the hilt of his sword.

He looked around. Long shafts of sunlight stalked the shadows of the larches and sighing willows. The smell of humus and autumn leaves wafted on the air. Yet beneath the earthy scent lurked a faint odor that did not quite belong in the idyllic setting. The smell of horses...and of danger.

He drew his sword and strode to his horse. Charbu’s nostrils flared and quivered; his legs tensed. The percheron, too, seemed to sense a new unseen presence.

He untethered the horse and drew his dagger. This could be a two-handed fight.

Leading the percheron to the edge of the glade, he eyed the tall upthrust of limestone that hid the path to the Norman cliffs. The dull thud of footstep sounded.

In sudden decision he sheathed his weapons and leaped onto his horse. But before he could spur Charbu homeward, a small army clambered over the hill.

Rand was about to test Charbu’s speed when a voice called, “Hold, my lord.”

Stunned, Rand dropped from his mount. “Chiang! What do you here? What...” His mouth dried. Not just Chiang, but Jack Cade, Piers Atwood, Simon and Dylan, Batsford and the others. A silent tally revealed that all nine Englishmen from Bois-Long stood before him.

“My lord, I’ve grave news,” said Chiang. The regretful note in his voice, the cautious look on his face, raised a prickle of alarm on the back of Rand’s neck.

The men looked too strained, too apologetic. And they moved too close for Rand’s comfort.

“My lord,” said Jack, “we are barred from the castle. By the time we guessed the trick, every gun was trained on us....”

The muffled thunder of an explosion rent the air. Birds sped aloft on a whir of wings. Rand stared above the treetops to the north. A plume of smoke surged high over the distant château.

He grasped the pommel of his saddle. “Jesu, Lianna—”