Pausing in the doorway, he let himself drink in the sight of her. She wore a plain, dark wool gown and a veil that covered her short hair. She looked thinner, he thought, and disturbingly pale. Then he must have made some small sound, or perhaps she simply sensed his presence, for she whirled suddenly to face him, one hand flying up to press against her breast.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her eyes wide, her body heartbreakingly tense.
He pushed away from the door frame and walked toward her. “I must speak with you.”
She turned away from him. “We have nothing to say to each other.”
“Sweet Jesus, Attica—” He caught her arm, but dropped it when she spun to confront him, her eyes blazing. He sucked in a deep, calming breath. “Will you listen to me? Henry isn't just ill. He's dying.”
She shrugged, that brief flame of animation fading from her features. “Men die. At least Henry is old.”
The cold, shattered look in her beautiful brown eyes was terrible to see. “For the love of God, Attica.” He started to reach for her again, then thought better of it. “Try to understand. Time is running out for you. When Henry dies, Richard will become king. And Richard will give you as bride to Fulk of Salers. Make no mistake about that.”
She walked away from him, toward the small window set deep into the tower's thick walls. The golden light of the late afternoon sun washed over her, illuminating that oddly calm, blank face. “I have decided to take the veil,” she said, her voice as flat and emotionless as her features.
The veil. Oh, my God. A wild terror leapt within him, tore at his gut, chilled his soul. “Attica—” He took a step toward her, then stopped. “You don't need to do this. If you cannot bear the thought of being my wife in truth, then become my wife in name only. I am willing to swear upon every holy relic known to man that I will never touch you—that if you will it so, once we are wed I will simply ride away and leave you alone in possession of your lands. You need never see me again.”
“Damion—”
“No, hear me out. Let me do this for you. As my wife, you would be safe from anyone's attempts to marry you off against your will. You have no need to take the veil.”
She shook her head. “I will be no man's wife. Even a king cannot force a woman to marry when she has pledged herself to God.”
“You underestimate the man who will be king,” he said dryly.
Her chin lifted in that way she had. “I shall have the Pope behind me.”
“The Pope is in Rome.”
“But God is in my heart.”
“Cross of Christ,” he swore, bringing his fist down on the top of the small table beside him hard enough to make the few items scattered across its surface jump. “This is not God's will, and you know it. God gave us our love. He wouldn't have created something so beautiful between us if not for a purpose.”
She walked toward him to pick up a small, ivory-fronted book from the top of the table. “Do you know what this is?” she asked softly, holding it out to him.
He shook his head.
“It's a book of days. I gave it to Stephen when he was knighted.” She turned the book in her hand. “It's ironic, isn't it? I risked so much to come here, thinking to save my brother's life. Instead, I brought Stephen his murderer.”
Her words hit Damion like a vicious blow, low to his gut. He braced his outstretched arms on the table between them and leaned into it, his voice coming out strained, almost savage. “I did not murder your brother and you know it, Attica d'Alérion. Stephen signed his own death warrant by the decisions he made and the actions he took.”
“No,” she said quietly. “Were it not for me, he would be alive today.”
He straightened with a jerk and stepped around the table toward her. “Attica, don't blame yourself.”
She backed away from him. “How can I not?” Silent tears coursed down her cheeks, although she seemed unaware of them. “Don't you see? If I hadn't listened when you asked me not to tell Stephen that we knew about the code, he'd still be alive. Now he's dead, and I …”
Her voice broke suddenly and she turned away, her shoulders hunching as she brought her hands up to her mouth.
“I betrayed him. I betrayed him as surely as he betrayed Henry. And in so doing, I have destroyed my entire house.”
“What madness is this?” He seized her by the shoulders and swung her around again, his grip on her tightening when she would have wrenched away from him. “What do you think?” He searched her beautiful, beloved face. “What do you think? That the line between loyalty and betrayal is always clear and immutable and easy to follow? Well, let me tell you, it's not. It's shifting, and it's dim, and I swear at times it disappears altogether. There are times when we can only do what seems right in our hearts. And in your heart, you have betrayed no one.”
“Haven't I?” She searched his face, her eyes dark and deep with anguish. “Isn't our very love a betrayal?”
His heart felt so heavy in his chest that it ached. “Don't say that. Attica …” His voice cracked, and he had to swallow before he could continue. “I will always love you. You are my heart, my life, my soul.”
A sob shook her thin frame, and she bowed her head as if she could no longer bear to look at him. “Please leave me,” she whispered. “If you love me, please just … go.”
It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, to go away and leave her then. Outside, the yard lay oddly empty and silent in the rosy hues of the setting sun. He crossed the castle to the Knights’ Tower, his footsteps echoing hollowly as he climbed the tight spiral of steps to his chamber. The room stood almost empty now, the cots stripped, the rough wooden crosses bare of their mail shirts and helms. Sergei must have been cleaning again, Damion thought idly, noticing the freshly strewn rushes and the lute that lay as if it had just been set down upon his bed.
Feeling like a dead man, he picked up the lute almost absently, turning it in his arms. It felt cool and strangely heavy in his hands. He touched his fingertips to the strings but could not bring himself to play it.
He had lost her. The knowledge of it echoed like a scream in his mind, an agony in his heart, an unbearable grief in his soul. He had lost her. With a shudder, he drew his finger, once, across the lute's strings, drawing forth an aching chord.
Without you,
My sun dies
My prayer falters
My song ends …
With a savage curse, he whirled to hurl the instrument against the bare stone wall. The impact smashed the delicately inlaid wood into a thousand splintered, irreparable shards that lay scattered among the rushes like the shattered dreams of a ruined man.
Damion stood just inside the curtained doorway of the king's chamber, a rolled parchment held loosely in one hand.
Henry's head turned on the fine linen of his pillow to display an ashen face, ravaged by pain. “Well?” he said, his once gruff, booming voice reduced to a faint scratching. “Has it come, then?”
Damion moved forward, slowly, and held out the scroll. “Yes, Sire.”
Henry reached out a shaky hand, only to let it fall to his side again. “I can't read it. You must tell me. Is John's name there? Has he in truth betrayed me along with the rest?”
Damion stared down at the scroll in his hands. How do you tell a king that the son he loved above all others has betrayed him? he wondered. How do you break a dying man's heart?
The silence in the room hung heavy and damning. Henry let out his breath in a long, painful sigh. “It's true, then.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He was aware of Henry's hands clenching at the bedcovers, but he could not bring himself to look directly at the old man's face.
“And why have you been chosen to bring me this news?” Henry asked after a moment, his voice brusque.
“Your son Geoffrey has gone to the priory to pray, while William Marshal sees to the defenses of the castle.”
“No,” said the Old King impatiently. “I mean the others. Where are
the others?”
Damion let his face go blank. “The others?” he repeated, raising his eyebrows.
“So they've gone, have they?” Henry's mouth twisted into a bitter line. “Faster than a priest can chant matins. Scrambling over one another in their eagerness to gain favor with the new king.” His gaze narrowed as he studied Damion's face. “They are wise, you know. I am an old man, and unwell, and soon Richard will be king. If not tomorrow, then the next day.”
“Then tomorrow or the next day I will pledge Richard my fealty.”
“You are a chivalric fool,” said Henry.
Damion smiled. “I know.”
Amusement flared in the older man's eyes, then faded as he reached out to clasp Damion's hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “I have promised you rich rewards, Damion de Jarnac,” he said, his head lifting off the pillow. “But I fear I may not live long enough to see that you receive them. You should take Rosamund. With her safely wedded and bedded, Richard will have had no choice but to accept you as Earl of Carlyle.”
“If I can't have Attica d'Alérion to wife, I will take no other,” Damion said simply.
The Old King grunted. “You may feel that way now. But believe me, in another twenty years, you'll be glad enough to have Rosamund's estates and titles as your own, even if you have found no joy from having the girl herself in your bed.”
Damion forced his lips into a travesty of a smile. “Perhaps I simply can't abide the thought of drinking English wine for the rest of my life.”
Henry's eyes opened wide as he laughed out loud. But the laugh turned into a cough that rumbled in his throat like a death rattle.
Attica was at the priory of Saint Rémy, lighting a candle in the Lady chapel, when the bells began to ring. She raised her head, her hand tightening around the taper as she listened to the slow death knell.
One toll for each year of Henry Plantagenet's life.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Damion stood beside the royal bier, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back. The sweet sound of nuns’ voices singing Kyrie Eleison floated up to the soaring, honey-toned stone vaults of the abbey church. The scents of incense and beeswax and fear hung thick in the air.
They had traveled up the Vienne to the Abbey of Notre Dame de Fontevrault, a handful of loyal knights, one royal bastard, and the body of a dead king decked in royal robes and wearing a crown of gold. Now they waited, these men who had remained faithful to the Old King, to see what the new king would do with them.
The sound of a heavy booted tread echoed down the nave, punctuated with the clink and rasp of spurs. Richard, King of England and Wales, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou, had entered the church. He strode to the head of the bier, his face a frozen mask as he stared unflinchingly down at the father he had helped to kill. He had much the look of his father, Damion thought, this new king, although he was taller, and his features more fiercely drawn. He stood very still. Then a shiver of emotion contorted his face, and he dropped to his knees.
He did not pray for long. Pushing to his feet, he took one last look at the dead king, then turned on his heel and left the church.
Damion did not look up. He had made his decisions, knowing well the probable outcome. Now he would bear the inevitable consequences. It was as simple as that.
“Monsieur le chevalier de Jarnac?” said a small man with a thin, pointed nose and an officious manner, stepping forward.
Damion raised his eyebrows. “Yes.”
“King Richard commands your presence.”
The hot July sun shone out of a clear blue sky, baking the broad riverside meadow where the new king had set up court for the day. Scores of milling boots and restlessly tapping slippers had quickly crushed the tender grass underfoot, grinding it into dust that drifted up to fill the air with a faint haze. Starched wimples and linen chainse began to wilt, lead-based makeup ran in white rivulets down ashen faces, slim courtiers swooned in unaffected faints.
Neither the heat nor the passing hours had any discernible effect on Richard, who plowed through the business of the day with cold efficiency. But then, thought Attica, he was sitting down, and beneath a canopy, too.
Sweltering herself in scarlet velvet heavily embroidered with silver thread, she moved restlessly around the edges of the crowd of gaily plumed lords and ladies, bright in their silks and satins and sparkling with jewels, who fluttered about the new king's faldstool like the hovering wings of some giant, gaudy peacock. She kept scanning the crowd for one familiar, beloved face, a face she was desperate to see just one more time. For Attica was in the king's gift, and she was here so that this new king could give her away.
Don't think about it, she told herself, her hands curling into fists she hid beneath the rich cloth of her skirts. You can't avoid it, so all you can do is face it with dignity and courage.
But her courage and dignity were both fading fast beneath the strain of this interminable wait and a rising spiral of fear. Fear that something had happened to Damion, that Richard had already dealt with the dark knight in some hideous way, that she would never see him again.
She found her gaze drifting desperately to the calming silver sheen of the Loire, just visible through a thin screen of trees. Her head held high, her gaze focused on the cloudless sky, Attica backed away from the royal assemblage. Backed until she was far enough away simply to turn around and walk rapidly through the grove of scrub brush and elms that lined the river.
Sliding down a grassy embankment, she came to a gravel shore lapped by the gentle waters of the Loire and sheltered by a big old elm that leaned out over the river at a drunken angle. With a sigh, she sank down on a driftwood log and hunched over, hugging herself, trying to stop the fine trembling going on inside her as the fear she'd held in check now reared up, fierce and all-consuming.
Oh, God, she thought, let him be all right. Please let him be all right. He had betrayed her trust and killed her only brother. And still she loved him, still she would give anything to see him safe and well.
With a stifled moan, she pressed her hands against the bones of her face. Pressed and pressed. And saw, through her splayed fingers, the unsmiling face of Damion de Jar-nac's enigmatic young squire, dressed for court.
“Sergei,” she said, dropping her hands, her breath leaving her chest in a painful rush. “Is he here? Is he all right?”
“He is coming,” said the squire enigmatically. He stood some five or six feet before her, a burgundy colored, jauntily plumed cap dangling from one hand to lay against his leg, an unusually solemn expression pulling at his young-old face. “How can you still blame him?” demanded Sergei, exactly as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud. “I could understand it at first, when you were still struggling to come to terms with your brother's death. But you should have seen some reason by now.”
Attica felt angry color rise to her cheeks. She made no effort to pretend not to understand his meaning. “Damion could have told me, Sergei. He could have told me he suspected Stephen.”
“Could he have indeed?” The boy took a step toward her, the expression on his face furious enough to make her draw back unconsciously. “And what would you have done if he had told you? Would you have gone to Stephen and warned him his treason was about to be exposed?”
She opened her mouth to say yes, then shut it again.
“That's right,” said Sergei, his changeling eyes narrowing down to two accusatory slits. “You have to think about what Stephen would have done, don't you? Oh, he might simply have slipped out of Chinon in the dead of the night and fled to Richard. But then again, he might have decided to use the dead of night to slip a dagger into de Jarnac's back instead.”
“Stephen wouldn't have done that.”
“Wouldn't he?” The squire moved to prop one booted foot on the end of her log and lean into it. Lean into her. “Could you have been certain enough of that to risk de Jarnac's life on it?”
She lifted her chin. “I
needn't have told him de Jarnac was involved.”
“No? So you imagine, do you, that even if you hadn't told Stephen where the exposure was likely to come from, he couldn't have figured it out?” He dropped his foot to crouch on the gravel before her, his head coming level with her own, the anger fading to be replaced by a boyish earnestness. “Don't you see, my lady? If de Jarnac had told you, you'd have been faced with a terrible choice. You'd have had to decide whom to betray, your brother or the man you loved.”
She heard the wind rustling through the spreading limbs of the elm overhead. She didn't look up.
“He spared you that,” said Sergei. “He kept his suspicions to himself, hoping he was wrong, hoping that even if he wasn't, he might somehow manage to help Stephen avoid suffering the consequences of what he'd done. But de Jarnac couldn't simply close his eyes and stand back while your brother brought down the king. He wouldn't be the man you love, were he capable of that.”
She shook her head, her jaw tight. “You forget, Sergei; I was there. I saw Damion spur his horse after Stephen—”
“And you saw him rein in, too. Perhaps it's because you're a woman, or because you've never been in a battle, but any man would understand what happens to a knight fighting hand to hand like that. De Jarnac might have begun to give chase, but he pulled up. That's what's important. Stephen could have ridden away. It was his choice to turn and fight. What do you think de Jarnac should have done? Stood there and let Stephen kill him?”
“No,” she said, her voice a raw whisper.
The squire's strange, changeling eyes captured hers, refusing to let her look away. “It was a mad thing, what Stephen did. He must have known he was likely to die.”
Attica swallowed a painful lump in her throat. She had replayed that scene on the road to Loudun over and over in her mind. And although it made no sense, the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Stephen had wanted to die, had made up his mind to die. She didn't want to believe it, she'd raged against it, and still … Oh, Stephen, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut against a threatening sting of tears. Why?
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