The Last Knight

by Candice Proctor

  “What will Richard do to him?” she asked, opening her eyes to stare out over the silver-brown, placidly drifting waters of the Loire. “To de Jarnac, I mean.”

  Sergei shrugged, his gaze swinging away to where a small page was scrambling down the riverbank toward them. “I don't know. He can be a cruel, brutal man, Richard, especially when he's thirsty for revenge.”

  Attica turned. The page, a small, round-cheeked boy of no more than nine or ten, was out of breath, his fair hair tumbling over his eyes as he bowed low. “My lady Attica d'Alérion?”

  Attica shakily rose to her feet. “Yes?”

  “King Richard commands your presence.”

  Her face a serene mask, her heart thumping so wildly in her chest that she wondered it didn't kill her, Attica d'Alérion walked toward the English king.

  The staring crowd of courtiers parted before her, but she was careful to look only straight ahead. She noticed Gas-pard Beringer, standing to one side, his fair-headed handsomeness arresting even in this crowd of primped and pampered nobility. Next to him, Yvette looked like a small round partridge, the disconcertingly predatory gleam in her sharp eyes camouflaged for the moment by maternal concern, for she was busy fanning Fulk's face. Fulk, normally so pale, had a tendency to flush bright red in the heat. He would have had his birthday by now, Attica realized with a start, seeing him. He was fourteen and ready to be wed.

  She sucked in a deep breath at the thought, and when one breath wasn't enough, she took another and then another. Still she felt as if she couldn't get enough air, as if a great weight pressed on her chest, crushing her, crushing. Her step faltered, and she would have stumbled if the page hadn't grabbed her elbow to steady her.

  “Come, daughter,” said Richard, stretching out his hand to her. “Come sit beside us.” He smiled at her, but his grip on her hand was uncompromising as he pulled her down to settle on the cushion at his feet.

  “With the death of your father and brother, you have become our ward, Attica d'Alérion,” he said, his voice deeper, less hurried than his father's. “You needn't fear that we will be careless of the trust imposed upon us. On the question of your brother's lands which have been declared forfeit, we settle them on you again, in recognition of your family's long allegiance to us.”

  Attica sat very still, her hands clenched together in her lap, her head bowed as she concentrated on the seemingly impossible task of maintaining her composure. At the king's words, she felt nothing, neither surprise nor pleasure, for whether she was forced to wed Fulk or allowed to seek refuge in a convent, the lands would not be hers. She wished they could have gone to Damion.

  “The question of your marriage appears more complicated,” continued Richard, “for our father promised you to Damion de Jarnac, while Robert d'Alérion betrothed you to Fulk of Salers. Is this correct?”

  She swallowed, trying to remove the treacherous lump that had appeared in her throat. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  At a barely perceptible movement of one ringed, royal finger, a herald's voice boomed out, “Fulk Beringer, of Salers.” A page prodded Fulk forward until he stood, red-faced and sweating, some ten feet in front of the king. No one offered Fulk a cushion.

  “Damion de Jarnac,” boomed the voice again.

  Attica's head came up, her breath catching with joyful anticipation.

  He was there, at the edge of the meadow, seemingly unaware of the ripple of interest that passed through the crowd of tired, jaded courtiers. His head held high, his gaze steady and calm, Damion approached the king with a sure, measured tread. He wore a dark, midnight blue tunic and embroidered velvet surcoat worthy of a courtier, but no one seeing this man could ever mistake him for anything but the knight he was. It was there in the lean, athletic grace of his stride, in the breadth of his shoulders, in the unselfconscious pride with which he bowed low before the new English king. For a moment, she thought he must not have seen her, seated at the king's feet, for he didn't look at her, only stared at the man before him. But then she saw the pulse beating hard and fast in his neck, and she knew by the stiff way he held himself that he was as aware of her as she was of him.

  Heedless of whoever might be watching her, Attica let herself drink in the sight of him. She knew him so well, knew the hard lines of his dark, taut profile and the gentle curve of his lips. She knew what those lips tasted like, knew the soft touch of his battle-hardened hands on her body. It brought her such a sad, sweet ache, looking at him. But she couldn't bear to turn away. The desperation of her fear for him had washed away the lingering remnants of her hurt and anger. Now she knew only a profound sense of loss and the bitter taste of regret.

  Beside her, Richard put his fingertips together and leaned forward in his chair, as if the knight before him piqued his interest as well as the crowd's. “You have caused us much grief these last months, Damion de Jarnac,” he said.

  Damion smiled. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  To Attica's surprise, an answering gleam lit the young king's eyes. “While others betrayed our father and scrambled to gain favor in foreign courts, you stayed at his side. Such loyalty and courage is as rare as it is admirable, and well deserving of reward.” Richard shifted his weight to rest one arm along the side of his chair, while Attica, who hadn't even realized she'd been holding her breath, let it go in a long sigh that left her feeling almost dizzy with relief.

  “Unfortunately,” continued the English king, “the lands and titles of the comte d'Alérion have been restored to the comte's rightful heir, Attica d'Alérion, so that we are unable to confirm the gift granted you by the late king. However …” Richard paused, drawing out the moment in a way that told Attica he was enjoying this.“… there remains the question of the lady Attica herself, who has been promised to both you and to Fulk of Salers.”

  “But she is betrothed to me,” said Fulk, stepping forward impetuously, only to be brought up short by a pair of crossed pikes that caused him to lose whatever color the heat had brought to his face.

  Richard's eyebrows lifted. From the crowd came a maternal, warning hiss.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Fulk stammered, his head bowing.

  Richard continued. “We could, of course, emulate King Solomon of old and offer to split the lady in two with our sword. But we think …” He fingered his beard, as if considering the problem. “Yes, we really think we prefer to allow the lady to choose.”

  Attica's head whipped around, her eyes widening in shock as she stared at him.

  “Stand up, daughter,” he said, his hand cupping her elbow to urge her to her feet.

  “If I might interrupt, Your Grace?” said Damion.

  Attica froze, while Richard's eyebrows lifted again.

  His hands on his hips, his head thrown back, Damion said, “Your late father offered the lady Attica a third choice, that of becoming a bride of Christ. I would ask that she be given that option now.”

  For the first time, Damion's gaze met hers, and everything that was in his heart spilled into his eyes. She saw his love for her, so much love it made her chest ache to see it, and she saw the pain of the sacrifice he'd just made by insuring she had a safe refuge if her anger and hurt were still too great to enable her to choose him.

  Yet she also saw a desperate flicker of hope. Hope, almost drowned out by a deep, lingering hurt that both startled her and shamed her. She'd been hurting so much herself these past few days that she hadn't realized he'd been hurting, too. Hadn't realized that she had hurt him.

  “Very well,” said Richard. “She may have the veil as a third choice.” His hand tightened on her arm, drawing her around to face him. “Lady Attica?”

  She sank into a deep curtsy, although her knees felt so shaky, she feared they might collapse beneath her. “Your Grace.”

  He smiled at her. “You have three alternatives, Lady Attica: Which will you choose?”

  She spun around, her hands fisting in her heavy velvet skirts, her heart pounding in her chest. All her life, she had been
taught to think of others, not of herself; to serve the interests of her house and conform always to the expectations of her parents. She had chafed against the restrictions they imposed upon her, but she had always sought to do her duty, had always buried her own wants and needs and desires in the name of honor and loyalty. Now suddenly everything she wanted was within her grasp. All she had to do was reach for it.

  Already her heart was flying across the meadow to the man she loved. It was a strangely difficult thing to do, to put one foot in front of the other. But the second step was easier, and the third required no conscious thought. She was only vaguely aware of Yvette's angry, blotched face; of Gaspard's mouth, working soundlessly in consternation and confusion; of Fulk, looking sulky and hot.

  And then she was running, running like the child she had once been, with the sky blue above her and the wind fresh in her face. She saw the leap of guarded hope in Damion's eyes, followed by a sweet exultation that swept his face. With a deep, joyous laugh, he caught her up in his arms, lifting her feet off the ground, her momentum spinning them round and round. She braced her forearms on his shoulders, her back arching so she could look down into his face. “I choose you,” she said, her eyes misting with sudden, unshed tears, her laughter joining his to float up, up to the cloudless heavens. “Forever. Forever and ever.”

  EPILOGUE

  Normandy, 1199

  Lilting and clear, the sweet notes of the familiar melody drifted away on the fresh sea breeze. The day was glorious, Attica thought, glorious and fine, the sun warm, the sky a vivid blue. She drew the clean April air deep into her lungs, her gaze lingering on the distant swell of white-capped waves rolling in toward the rocky shore below. Even as a child, this daisy-strewn hillside overlooking the sea had been one of her favorite places at this, the d'Alérions’ greatest castle. She still came here often, whenever they were in residence. She would bring her sons, and a hamper and cloth, and spend the afternoon at peace with her memories.

  Sighing contentedly, she turned her head, a smile touching her lips as she watched her older son's fine-boned, sure hands move nimbly over the strings of the lute. “You have your grandmother's gift,” she said softly. “Your grand-mother's and your father's.”

  “Father?” Stephen de Jarnac looked up, his fingers suspended over the strings, his bright green eyes widening in surprise. “But Father doesn't play.”

  “Not anymore.” Attica shifted awkwardly, for she was big with child, and she found it hard to sit anywhere for very long. “But he did once.” Her smile turned wistful at the memory. “Like an angel.”

  “Then why doesn't he play now?” asked six-year-old Simon, tweaking the instrument from his older brother's slack grasp.

  “I suppose because he no longer finds joy in it,” she said, gently but firmly separating the squabbling brothers. “Or perhaps,” she added, half to herself, “he is afraid to allow himself to find joy in it.”

  “Father? Afraid?” Stephen scoffed. “Father isn't afraid of anything.”

  “Even the bravest man is afraid of losing the ones he loves,” she said quietly.

  Stephen stared at her, his young face unnaturally solemn. The wind gusted up from the sea, loud and blustery, then dropped again. In the sudden silence, they could hear the sound of a horse's hooves coming toward them fast. Attica glanced up to see a horse and rider cresting the hill above them—a dark, desert-bred horse, carrying a tall, dark knight who reined in sharply to swing out of the saddle with a lean, athletic grace that still took her breath away. Still, after all these years.

  “It's Papa,” shrieked Simon. The boys jumped up, the lute thrust aside, forgotten, as they ran to him. Attica stayed where she was and watched her husband come at her, enjoying the way the wind lifted his dark hair from the collar of his rich velvet mantle, and the sight of the sun shining warm and golden over the strong bones of his face. Across a distance filled with the call of gulls and the sounds of the sea, his gaze met hers, and his eyes smiled.

  “Wait for me,” called Simon in frustration as he lagged behind his older brother. Laughing, Damion tore his gaze from hers and reached to lift his younger son high into the air. Then he swung the little boy up onto his shoulder, so that he had a free hand to ruffle Stephen's dark head when the older boy leaned into him. Watching them, Attica felt her heart fill with such joy, she thought it might burst.

  He spent a moment listening to the boys’ excited chatter, then left them to care for the Arab and walked up to her.

  “I didn't think you were coming, monsieur le comte,” she began teasingly. But the welcoming smile faded from her lips as she searched his face. “What is it?”

  “A messenger just rode in, from Aquitaine.” Stripping off his gloves, he dropped smoothly onto the cloth beside her and plucked the jug of cider from the hamper. “Richard the Lionhearted has been hit by a crossbow bolt, at the siege of Châlus, and is not expected to recover. Which means”— he paused to fill a horn with cider and throw it back with a quick flick of his wrist— “that John will be the new Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and King of England.”

  A sick, hollow feeling yawned deep within her. “What will you do?”

  Damion poured himself another cupful and raised it to his lips. “They say Philip is in Paris. I would go and pledge him my fealty.” His gaze met hers questioningly over the rim of the cup. “Do you think me disloyal?”

  Attica shook her head. “No. Richard was a hard, brutal man, but at least when he rebelled against his father, he did it openly. And he proved himself to be a strong lord. But John …” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “John is devious and weak. In the end, he will lose this land to Philip. I would not see you sacrifice everything, simply out of a sense of loyalty to such a man.”

  Tossing the cup aside, Damion reached for her, a wry smile twisting his lips. “I fear you have been married to me for too long.”

  “No, not nearly long enough,” she said as he came to sit behind her, her back against his chest so that he could put his arms around her. “I intend to keep you tied to my side until you're too lame and battle weary to sit a horse, and I'm a withered old crone worn out from breeding.”

  Laughing, he placed his spread hands high on her swollen belly. “And how is my daughter today?”

  Father Sergei had told them this baby would be a girl, and Attica believed him, for Sergei had always known such things, even before he'd become a priest. “Your daughter is restless,” she said, just as the baby kicked hard enough to make Damion laugh again.

  He turned his face into Attica's hair. “My daughter is always restless.”

  “Music soothes her.” Attica nudged the discarded lute toward him. “Why don't you play for her?”

  Damion went suddenly, utterly still.

  She turned in his arms, her hand coming up to touch his cheek. “It's been ten years, Damion. Henry and my brother are long in their graves, and soon Richard will join them. What happened all those years ago at Chinon … it belongs to the past. But your music …” She paused, struggling to put her thoughts into words. “Your music was a gift from God. A gift, like our love. And like our love, God gave it to you for a purpose.”

  “A purpose?” The exhalation of his breath wafted warm and moist against her knuckles as he brought her hand to his mouth. “Because of music, I almost lost you.” He turned her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm.

  She shook her head. “Because of music, you were able to save a dying old man from treachery.” She traced the hard, proud curve of his lips with her fingertips. “Don't you see? No matter what happens, you'll never really lose me, Damion. You are my soul. And you always will be.”

  High on the hill above the sea, the two brothers paused in the midst of arguing over who should hold the Arab's reins, their heads turning together at the sound of an unknown, haunting melody plucked from a lute with such unearthly skill that it stole their breath. “It's Father,” whispered Simon in awe, while Stephen only stared, his eyes shini
ng with some emotion he could not have named.

  “I die for you,” sang Damion, his gaze locked fast with his wife's. “You are my hope, my life, my love.”

  After a moment, her voice joined his.

  “Give me yourself.

  If not your body,

  Then your heart.

  Make me your soul.”

  Low and sweet, the music rose up into the cloudless sky, their voices entwining with the warmth of the sun and the excited laughter of their children to weave a garland of healing joy that wrapped around them like the springtime fragrance of a lover's bower. And then their song turned into laughter, and the laughter drifted out to sea to be brought back to them on the surge of the endless, cleansing tide.

  AUTHOR’S

  NOTE

  The historical events against which this story is played out—the revolt of Richard, the conference at La Ferté-Bernard, the burning of Le Mans and the retreat of Henry II to Chinon—are portrayed for the most part as recorded in the chronicles, although some have been compressed in time and space. Likewise, the Saintly Guido is a historical figure, although the Catalonian nun is not.

  It is important to remember that the Normans and Angevins of twelfth-century France, like the gently-born across the Channel in England, spoke an archaic form of French. Rather than invent some anachronistic, pseudo-medieval English, I have, for the most part, simply translated the characters’ speech into modern English or, in some cases, modern French.

  I would like to thank John Galbraith of Catholic Online for his help in fixing medieval church dates. The song in old Provençal sung by the trouver in the inn is by Arnaut and can be found in René Lavaud, Les Poésies d'Arnaut Daniel (Toulouse, 1910). Damion's love song, although inspired by contemporary models, is my own.

  An Ivy Book

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2000 by CP Trust