The Mistress Of Normandy (30 page)

“Stop him,” someone shouted.

The weight of ten determined men dragged him down. The thud of a well-aimed blow to the temple stunned him. He reeled, lashed out wildly with his sword. Someone wrested the weapon from his grip.

“We cannot let you ride to your death,” said Jack.

Another blow, and darkness closed.

Twenty-One

L
ianna had wanted this all along, but victory left her hollow. She prayed Chiang was holding Rand and the English soldiers in safety. She prayed Rand would understand, that he’d not hate her for what she’d done. She prayed her urgent missive to Burgundy had resulted in a passage to safety for little Aimery.

Standing atop the barbican, she stared at the wreckage of the causeway, which for generations had spanned the deep, wide river Somme. Once, the bridge had been an avenue to the long woods and water meadows to the south. Now all that remained were twisted splinters of oak, pieces of wood whirling seaward on a path that had no return.

She’d packed the charges herself, seen to their placement beneath the bridge supports, and ordered the wary and baffled household knights to ignite the slow matches.

Then, with the gate closed, people and livestock confined to the safety of the inner ward, she’d seen the stout structure reduced to kindling.

“How could you?” Bonne’s face, streaked with tears and drained of color, was a picture of accusation.

Lianna took Bonne’s hands in hers. “Do not censure me. Too much is at stake. The dauphin himself gave the order.”

“Saint Louis’s dysentery take the dauphin! My Jack is gone. We had not even a day to live as man and wife.”

“He’d be a dead man if Chiang had not tricked him and the other Englishmen away from here.”

“But King Henry—”

“Is finished.” Lianna derived less satisfaction than she’d expected from that fact. “The English force has diminished to less than six thousand, and those sick and starving. Constable d’Albret is but a few miles north of here, ready to smite the English advance. Jack’s life would be worth not a sou if he were discovered here.”

“You’ve stolen his honor by not allowing him to stand and fight!”

Lianna’s hand flashed out and struck Bonne on the cheek. “Don’t you understand?” Regret rushed over Lianna as the maid’s face crumpled. Hugging Bonne, soothing her reddened cheek, she said, “Forgive me. Please. I was angry because you speak the truth.”

“Where are they now?”

“Safe with Chiang. He’ll hide them until the English retreat to Harfleur.”

“What happens now, my lady?”

If Henry retreated, he might call Rand back to England. She’d never see her husband or son again. “The dauphin is sending a small force to garrison the keep.”

“To repel the English when they arrive?”

“I trust in Henry’s wisdom. When he sees that the causeway is impassable, he’ll turn back to Harfleur.”

“Pray God he does. But what if he fights? And what if Rand and Jack are with him?”

“Chiang will see to it that they aren’t. Henry’s goal is to reach Calais. He’d not risk his small army to take so minor a prize as Bois-Long.”

Trumpets blared. Lianna and Bonne hurried to the postern gate, which overlooked the moat-wrapped north side of the keep. Household knights and castle folk formed an anxious cluster in the bailey. As Lianna passed, resentful whispers drifted to her ears. Rand had been their lord, and they knew only that she had betrayed him.

She nodded to Jufroy. With a grinding of axles and chains, the iron portcullis rose. She stepped beneath the archway. Duty compelled her to assume a welcoming stance. These were her countrymen; they’d come to protect her home from foreign invaders. Yet apprehension thrilled through her veins.

Armor glittered in the sunlight. The scarlet oriflamme of St. Denis fluttered on a pennon borne by a herald. At the rear rode a woman. Did they bring their wives, or their whores? At the head rode a knight, his plumed helm marking him as captain of the force of some thirty men. The captain wore no
cotte d’armes,
only a plain tabard over his breastplate. Lianna realized the dauphin would not send his best men; those knights would await the higher glory of field combat.

The captain rode to the edge of the moat, waved a hand to form his men into a single line. Then he crossed the bridge and stopped.

“Well done, my lady,” he said, his voice echoing within the metal basinet. A gauntleted hand reached up and opened the visor.

Shock, rage, and then an icy sluice of terror washed over Lianna. She stumbled back, clutching wildly at a brattice thrusting out from the wall.

“Sweet Mary,” she gasped. “Gervais.”

* * *

The effort of dragging his eyes open proved too great, so Rand lay still. The cawing of rooks and the cry of gulls added to the cacophony of pain in his head. Kitchen smells and the odor of stale cider wafted from some nearby source. A ringing at his temple reminded him of the blow that had felled him.

That blow... His muddled mind sought an answer. He didn’t remember doing battle, but...his own men had felled him, because...because...

Because the causeway had been destroyed. Henry’s march to Calais would be thwarted.

Rand struggled to prop himself up. Blinking at the dim, dust-sprinkled light, he scanned the roughly furnished room. A twig broom had swept patterns in the dirt floor. A black-and-white cat mewed and padded to his side. He was in the town of Eu, at the inn of Lajoye.

He tried to rise. The swirling pattern on the floor began to spin. He dropped back and craned his neck to peer through a low-beamed doorway. Two figures sat whispering at a table across the room.

“What the hell am I doing here?” His own voice thrummed like hammers in his head.

Both men turned. Rand found himself squinting at the anxious faces of Jack Cade and Robert Batsford.

“Well?” Rand demanded, ignoring the pain.

They hurried to his pallet. Hand shaking, Jack offered a clay mug. “Drink this, my lord, while we explain.”

The liquid tasted pleasantly of honey and wine. He drained the mug and let the comforting warmth of mead seep through his veins. His scowl deepened. “Speak, Cade, and it had better be good. How long have I been here?”

The priest and the archer exchanged a long glance. Jack swallowed. “All day, my lord.”

Sick fury welled up in Rand. He grasped the flask Batsford held and sucked it dry of the remaining mead. On his tongue he detected a subtle herbal tinge.

Batsford leaned forward as if in protest, but Jack pushed the priest aside. “We had to detain you, my lord, else you’d have gone charging back to Bois-Long.”

“As any man of honor would have done.” He scowled fiercely. “Did not even one of you try to protect the ford?”

Jack flushed. “We could have made a foolhardy attempt. And would have lost our lives and the ford as well.”

Rand sat upright and tried to ignore the spinning of his head. “I’m going.” The room tilted; the faces of Jack and Batsford blurred.

“Hold, my lord,” said the priest. “We’re awaiting a report from Chiang. He’s gone back to the château to reconnoiter the area. No sense in riding headlong into God knows what.”

“
Chiang.
I thought him loyal. Was the destruction of the causeway his doing?”

“Remember, he was with us when we found you, my lord.”

Dust motes leaped and shimmered before Rand’s eyes. A hideous thought began to form; he fought it. “But Chiang must have planted the charges,” he said almost desperately.

Jack stayed silent. Batsford grew preoccupied with the falconer’s cuff he wore beneath his priest’s robe. Rand stared at his men until Jack’s face swam into focus. Finally Jack spoke. “My lord, Chiang didn’t plant the charges.”

Rand remembered Lianna, her gown streaked with river mud, feeding him a lame excuse about an errand to the orchard. Lianna, promising to meet him at the hour of the woodcock’s flight. Lianna, making love to him as if it were the last time.

“It was the last time, damn her!” Rand bellowed.

Faces taut with pity, Jack and Batsford studied him. Then Jack said, “Your wife had no choice, my lord. Chiang said the Dauphin Louis came to her in secret, ordered her to destroy the causeway and garrison French troops at Bois-Long.”

A strange dullness seeped over Rand. “And she obeyed.”

“I believe the dauphin made certain threats.”

“What sort of threats?”

“I’m not sure, my lord. But Chiang said the baroness is in no danger.”

Rand tried to struggle to his feet. His limbs trembled, his stomach lurched, and sweat broke out on his brow. “We’ll see,” he said through gritted teeth, “about French troops at Bois-Long.”

“My lord, you mustn’t go there,” said Batsford. “You cannot,” added Jack.

Rand seized the mug, sniffed it, and flung it away. Sickness and rage clouded his vision. “What the hell was in that mead?”

Shamefaced, Jack stared at the floor, at the empty mug. “Tincture of poppy.”

“Damn you, Jack.” But even as Rand spoke, he began sinking back on the pallet.

“Forgive me, my lord.” Jack’s voice was soft with regret. “I feared to detain you by trickery, but I feared even more what would happen if you went back to Bois-Long.”

His body rendered helpless by the numbing effect of the opiate, Rand closed his eyes. Sleep beckoned, promising respite from the bitter sense of betrayal.

Oh, Lianna, he said silently, slipping into darkness, I thought our love meant more to you than this.

* * *

“I thought he meant more to you than this,” said Guy.

“I had no choice,” Lianna said, repeating the defensive words for perhaps the hundredth time, now to the seneschal. Rebelling against Gervais’s insistence on double rations of wine for the French soldiers, Guy had sought out Lianna and demanded to know why she’d opened her husband’s home to these undisciplined marauders.

“But my lady—”

“Hush,” she whispered. Moments after Gervais’s arrival, all had been summoned to the great hall. The household knights, shamed, furious, and outnumbered, had been disarmed by the newcomers. Already the dauphin’s men clamored for food and ale. “I cannot risk explaining now.”

“In the past your lord husband had no trouble dealing with Mondragon.”

She thought of the dauphin’s threat to Aimery. “I had another matter to consider, Guy.” Catching his mutinous look, she added, “I’ll speak to Gervais about the wine.”

Marauders, she thought as she surveyed the boisterous knights in the hall, was too mild a term for the self-serving Frenchmen. These soldiers were hardly the finest flower of French chivalry. Most were as rough as felons, as hardened as mercenaries.

She jostled her way through the crowded hall, touching the dagger hilt protruding from her girdle when a man’s ribald joke darkened to a lusty threat. She reached Gervais at the high table, where he sat conversing with some of his men. Macée, looking smug yet oddly ill at ease, hovered at the edge of the group.

“I would speak to you in private, Gervais,” Lianna said in a commanding voice. Without waiting for a response, she marched through the screened passage to the privy chamber.

Moments later Gervais arrived, his wife hard at his heels. “Do not flatter yourself,” he said, “that I jump to do your bidding. But I’m as anxious as you to renew our acquaintance.” Smiling, he held out his arms. In the flare of a standing candle he looked handsome, earnest, his brown eyes warm, his face sincere. At one time she had been taken in by that trustworthy look. Now she knew a serpent lurked behind the congenial smile.

She glared at him. “How did you convince the dauphin to let you come here? What lies did you tell?”

“I merely offered my services. Surely you’ve not forgotten there’s an invasion afoot.” He glanced from side to side. “Where are Rand and his men?”

“The dauphin said nothing about making my husband stay to suffer your revenge.”

The look on her face must have shown Gervais that she’d tell him nothing about Rand’s whereabouts. He shrugged. “It matters not. King Henry is sure to retreat to Harfleur, taking your cowardly husband and his motley archers with him.”

“He is not a coward. He—” She broke off. Like Gervais, many would think Rand had deserted rather than fight.

“And the Chinaman?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Chiang is gone, too.”

Another shrug. “I always figured him for a traitor. A pity, though. I should have liked to turn his guns on the English.” Gervais slid a calculating look at Lianna. “Of course, your own skill could serve the cause of France.”

She almost laughed. France, in the form of the dauphin, had threatened death to her son and sent a company of brigands to her home. “No,” she said.

“Oh? Are you saying you don’t wish to see Henry return in defeat to England?”

“I want peace, Gervais. I just want peace. And you’d best think twice before you send your knights to do a gunner’s job. Explosives are dangerous in the wrong hands.”

Macée, whose bleary eyes indicated she’d availed herself of plenty of wine, gave Lianna a simpering smile. “Aye, we mustn’t use explosives, not with the baby around—”

“Be silent, woman!” Gervais’s command resounded in the stone-walled chamber.

“Let her speak. The baby?” she repeated incredulously.

“Oh, please, yes,” said Macée in a rush. “I’ve been so worried about little Aimery since Cade snatched him from my arms. I wouldn’t have hurt the child. You know how I love him. I want to see him. Is he in his nursery, or—”

“Rants like a madwoman,” Gervais said, but his face had gone pale.

“You really don’t know where the baby is,” she breathed, uncertain whether to laugh, cry, or gnash her teeth.

Macée looked confused. “But we thought—”

A ringing slap from Gervais stopped her short. She stumbled back, holding her wrist to her mouth. Pity, unbidden and unexpected, touched Lianna’s heart. Despite her treachery, Macée now seemed a victim, twisted by the force of her dark devotion to Gervais.

As Macée ran sobbing from the room, Lianna whirled. “You scheming bastard,” she hissed.

She’d betrayed her husband on the strength of an empty threat. Cursing furiously, she lashed out at Gervais. Her fist landed squarely on his nose, unleashing a stream of blood. With a great heave, he shoved her from him. She flew backward and landed atop a pile of firewood by the hearth. Split logs dug painfully into her ribs, and the impact left her gasping for breath.

A slight tremor of his hands belied Gervais’s otherwise calm mien. Stanching his bloodied nose with his sleeve, he crossed to Lianna. She kicked, but he was quicker. His hand shot out, grasped her by the hair and yanked her to her feet.