She waited for his body to shudder through several tight spasms before she frowned at the pearly ooze dripping down the front of his hose.
“As usual.” She sighed disparagingly. “You are too eager, my lord. We are going to have to start all over again.”
She spun the little metal ring in her fingers and melted deftly down onto her knees in front of him. He spasmed again when he felt the cold sliver of steel tighten around his flesh, and then again when her hands, tongue, and teeth began to work their torment. For half an eternity afterward he was aware of nothing. Nothing but the reverberating echoes of his own screams bouncing from one damp wall to the next.
Solange stood back and surveyed her handiwork. The elegant and distinguished Count of Saintonge hung limp from his shackles, his mouth ringed in froth, his chin hung with strings of spittle. His hose was bagged loosely around his knees and the tops of his hairy thighs were mottled red. She had upturned the hem of his tunic and tucked it into his belt, and the blotched, exposed strip of pale white flesh between his belly and thighs looked ludicrous in the midst of the fine gold silk embroidery and expensive woolen hose.
A fine hour’s work, she mused, and wiped the back of her hand across her own mouth and chin. Her gaze remained fixed on her lover’s drenched, pallid face as she gently smoothed the wet locks of his hair back off his brow and bathed his skin with a damp cloth.
“Thirsty?”
His mouth worked a few moments but he had difficulty forming a coherent word. She smiled and found his wine goblet, still half full from before. She tipped up his chin and tilted it to his lips and he swallowed the contents slowly at first, then eagerly, greedily, finishing with a great, shuddering gasp.
She licked away the drops that trickled down his chin and inquired solicitously, “Shall I send for your squire to help restore you?”
“Jesu, no. No,” he rasped. “We would never be able to explain …”
She offered up a throaty laugh. “I could explain for you, my lord. I could explain how the sight of pain and blood excites you, how the sound of screams—especially your own—bring forth a veritable floodtide of pleasure.”
The cerulean blue eyes were as yet unable to focus, but he glared at her anyway. The lids were polished with moisture from his exertions, a drop of which stung his eye, and when he attempted to wipe it free, he was painfully reminded of the shackles.
“You may release me now. I believe I offered petitions to every saint and martyr whose name I could recall.”
“Indeed you did. And with such frantic desperation too. I gather you liked my newest little amusement?”
He only grunted an acknowledgment as one wrist, then the other was freed from the manacles. He flinched and stiffened when he felt her hair brush his thigh, but she was only bending down to loosen his ankle rings, and when she straightened he allowed himself to breathe again. A further clutch of courage was required before he could bring himself to inspect her handiwork. His sigh was heartfelt and somewhat incredulous when he found his flesh intact. Shrivelled, drained as a dried udder and red-raw from abuse, but intact.
“Is there more wine?”
She disappeared into the shadows a moment then returned with his goblet refilled, taking a sip first to sweeten her own mouth before she passed it to him.
“A shame Gerome is taking so long to answer your summons,” she mused. “He might have been the one jealous of you, for I warrant you could have filled this tankard yourself.”
“God’s blood,” he muttered, and glanced again at the dishevelled state of his clothing. “Help me, witch, then make haste to cover yourself.”
Her laugh was brittle with sarcasm. “Would you not prefer to return the favor and see Gerome scald himself red with envy?”
“Cover yourself,” he ordered sharply. While he fumbled to refasten his hose and straighten his tunic, Solange fetched the clean blanchet and cotte she kept hanging on a peg and slipped them over her head. Both garments were silk and clung to the curves of her body like water flowing over smooth stones. Long before she was finished braiding her hair and winding it into a regal coronet, she could feel the heat of Malagane’s eyes on her, following every gleaming movement of the cloth. His own tunic was made of samite, woven with six depths of sky-blue silk that flattered the color of his eyes, and when she finally deigned to glance his way, he spread his arms and posed for her inspection, tall and elegantly lean in his restored finery.
“Well?”
She glided up to him and pushed a thick lock of silvered hair off his brow. She pressed a long, wet kiss over his lips and smiled. “Good as new. Better, in fact, for you have been looking quite dour these past few days.”
His gaze went to the corpse where it still steamed faintly in the cool air. “I have been given a great deal to think about in that time. Our friend here may have inadvertently provided the clue to a puzzle that has gone unsolved for nigh on twelve years.”
“A puzzle?”
“Mmm. The answer to which could bring us power and wealth beyond our wildest imaginings.”
“How so?”
“As you know, I pay a great many men a goodly sum of money to keep me well informed about a great many things. I, in turn, am paid handsomely that others might profit from that information. This brave but foolhardy fellow, for example.” He strolled over to the table and stared at the body for a long moment. “I have suspected for some time he has been the source of communication between Amboise and Pembroke. A seemingly simple linen merchant who traveled with regularity and ease across the Channel, always with lengthy intervals between so as not to draw too much notice, and always following an established route through Normandy and Touraine. This time, however, his ship barely docked at Portsmouth before it was turned around to catch the next tide. Even more unusual, he did not land at Cherbourge or St. Malo, where he maintains the pretense of a business, but came by way of Le Havre and Rouen.
“I have left him alone until now because frankly, both William Marshal and Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer have always taken great care in choosing their couriers. In most cases, you could feed them their own entrails and they would not tell you anything you wanted to know. But this … this sudden erratic behavior by one of their most trusted pigeons suggested something out of the ordinary, something that might have been urgent enough or important enough to cause even the bravest of tongues to fall victim to panic The king of France pays me exceptionally well to know how his barons are thinking, what they are planning, how they will respond to events fomenting across the Channel, and should the Black Wolf of Amboise or any of his brood be showing any inclination to turn their sentiments toward England’s plight, our liege would want—nay, need to be the first to know.”
“Why would you suspect La Seyne Sur Mer’s loyalty at all? He has given his blood oath to Philip of France. We were there in Paris, not two months ago when he pledged homage alongside his sons, presenting his sword that it might be called upon again whenever, wherever needed to defend the sovereignty of the French king.”
“They pledge homage and loyalty to Philip only because they hate John of England more, but I wonder: how soon would the echo of those pledges fade if William Marshal were to whisper four small words in their ears.”
“Four words?”
“I need your help.”
“You believe the Marshal would appeal to the Black Wolf?”
“He has done so before with much less to lose. And I believe he would appeal to Lucifer himself if the effort were required to safeguard the throne of England. This despite the fact the devil’s spawn currently resides in Whitehall.” Malagane’s mouth turned down in a sneer. “His own son has even turned away in disgust. I heard only last week the younger Pembroke has joined FitzWalter’s rebelling barons. Indeed, there are few men with William Marshal’s fortitude. Fewer still I can recount by name.”
“Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer,” Solange provided dryly. “Eduard FitzRandwulf of Blois, Robert Wardieu d’Amboise, Richard and
William Dagobert Wardieu … and lest we forget, his ally FitzAthelstan.” She paused and regarded him closely. “I am still of the opinion you credit the Marshal with too much influence. The black-and-gold will do nothing to aid the cause of the English king.”
“Ahh …” Malagane smiled and held up a finger like a lecturing prelate. “But he might be inclined to aid the cause of an English queen. Especially if that queen had a more legitimate claim to the throne than John Plantagenet. Doubly so if that queen’s name was Eleanor and she was the granddaughter of the old dowager, Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
Solange objected with a bewildered shake of her head. “The Princess Eleanor of Brittany? She died eleven years ago with her brother.”
“No.” Malagane’s eyes glittered in the half light. “I do not believe she did. I suspect she is very much alive and living somewhere in the north of England. Biding her time, I would imagine, quietly gathering support among the barons who have grown disenchanted with her uncle’s ineptness and flagrant misuse of power.”
“How the devil do you surmise that? And why have we not heard of this resurrected princess before now?”
“There have always been rumors that Eleanor survived her uncle’s murderous purge. As many as there were stories of her having been tortured, beheaded, poisoned, or impregnated by Celtic faeries.”
“So what makes this one worth repeating—or believing?”
Malagane gazed down at the corpse again. “Do you recall the words he babbled each time you cut off a toe?”
“He babbled a good deal of nonsense, as I recall, mainly to do with taking some jewels out of some little shire in middle England.”
“One jewel,” Malagane corrected her softly. “A pearl, to be precise. And his exact words were: ‘There is danger. Remove the pearl from Nottingham.’ I would have thought it nonsense also had he not mentioned a name at the same time—a name I had not heard in over a decade.”
“He mentioned dozens of names,” she remarked caustically. “Screamed them, actually, faster than Aelred could scratch them down.”
“So he did—a credit to your improving techniques, I am sure. But only one—Henry de Clare—fit the puzzle.”
“De Clare? Is he someone important?”
“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Lord Henry de Clare was, according to one of the more romantic rumors, among the party of nameless knights reputed to have rescued the princess from her uncle’s donjons at Corfe Castle all those years ago. There was never any proof of his involvement, naturally, and since the king never actually admitted to having taken her out of Normandy—and certes not that she had escaped his custody—the story was given little credence.”
“Why give it any now?” she asked bluntly.
Malagane studied a torn nail on one of his long, tapered fingers. “Did I neglect to mention … Henry de Clare was the nephew of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke?”
“Was?”
“He reputedly died too. And was buried with great pomp and ceremony … at Amboise.” Solange’s eyes narrowed and Malagane smiled.
“It could just be a happy coincidence, I suppose, but then we would have to regard the sister’s circumstances as being somewhat fortuitous as well.”
“The sister?”
“Lady Ariel de Clare. Some years ago—about the same time the princess disappeared—it seems she took a sudden dislike to the betrothal arrangements made for her by King John and, while on her way back from Normandy—after appealing to her uncle, William Marshal, for reprieve—she was kidnapped just outside of Corfe Castle and went missing for a time. She reappeared, a month or so later at Château d’Amboise, wedded and bedded to—”
“Eduard FitzRandwulf of Blois,” Solange breathed. “The Wolfs bastard son.”
Malagane stroked the backs of his fingers affectionately down her cheek. “The same bastard son who, as it happens, was a close, intimate friend of Princess Eleanor.”
“Then this is more than just a guess. You believe the Lost Princess of Brittany is alive and living in England and about to challenge her uncle, King John, for the throne?”
“I am saying only that two dead people with such close links coming suddenly to life are two too many for my liking.”
“You think the funeral at Amboise was a ruse?”
“And a good one, for it stopped the king’s hounds from sniffing after him. It also gave him the freedom to assume another guise and return to England—if, indeed, he ever left.”
“But if there was some question of his involvement with the princess’s escape, does it not stand to reason he would want to disappear from sight?”
“Of course he would. Which makes it all the more curious for him to have remained in England, where the chance of discovery was ten times, a thousand times greater than if he had retired to France, or even remained at Blois with his sister.” He touched his finger to the side of his nose. “Unless there was something … or someone of great importance keeping him there.”
“The Lost Princess? But the Welshman said nothing about her. Furthermore, if what you say were true for Henry de Clare, would it not also hold true for her? Why would she remain in England when she would have been welcomed with open arms in Brittany, or Normandy, or France? My God, even Philip would have taken her in and guarded her life with his own.”
Malagane gave the wine in his cup a thoughtful swirl. “I confess, I wondered about that myself, but then I reasoned: one of the strongest arguments against Arthur of Brittany becoming king was the fact he had never set foot on English soil, had never heard the voice of the English people, had never acted upon a thought that did not first come from King Philip’s head. If Eleanor is indeed alive, and if she did elect to remain in England to better acquaint herself with the ways of her English subjects, it will be seen as a repudiation of her brother’s French alliances; further, that she has chosen to sever ties completely with Philip. Her claim to the English throne is valid and stands before John’s. The barons might well be desperate enough to accept her, especially if she agrees to marry a consort of their choosing and thus put the balance of power in their hands. In that unhappy event, England would have a beautiful young queen and Prince Louis, who is all but ready to lead his army across the Channel and assume the role of regent, would be left waving his flags from the shores of Normandy.”
“William Marshal would never accept her … would he?”
“Pembroke is a realist. He can see the kingdom breaking apart before his eyes; civil war is inevitable if something is not done to salvage the dignity of the throne. The barons are committed to ousting John, and he has watched their numbers grow from a handful to an army, gaining strength and credibility every day. Even the common people have begun to support the notion of inviting Prince Louis to assume the throne—which is what we have been striving to accomplish these many years,” he added, his eyes gleaming zealously. “To unite the people of England and France under one flag, one rule!”
Some of the gleam faded as he gazed down at the body again. “But suppose … just suppose the Marshal has been hiding and protecting a legitimate claimant to the throne all these years? Not just any claimant, mind you, but a young, innocent woman of impeccable virtue whose blood ran in the veins of the two golden kings the people so loved and admired. A spirited woman as well, brave beyond measure to have lived in England all these years when the faintest breath of her existence would have drawn an assassin’s knife. A woman so beautiful in countenance she was likened to a pearl. The Pearl of Brittany she was called. A gem of incalculable value who could be used now to end the threat of civil war and unite all of England under the Plantagenet lions again.”
“You think William Marshal would condone such a thing?”
“No,” Malagane said bluntly. “Not himself. Not without breaking his solemn oath of fealty to the king, and that he would never do.”
“Then what—?”
“Such is the curse of most men with rigid codes of honor: how do they adhere to a righteous principle
when all the virtues of sentiment, reason, logic, and nobility tell them their way is wrong?”
Since Solange did not possess any of these qualities in any abundance, it was left to Malagane to supply the answer.
“They would appeal to men of similar noble qualities to help wrest them of the problem. In this case, a man not constrained by any oath to the English king, but whose life has been irrevocably bound to the queens and princesses of Aquitaine and Brittany.”
“The Black Wolf,” she whispered in awe. “Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer.”
“Can you imagine,” Malagane said, his voice strained beyond comprehension itself, “the power he would have if Eleanor of Brittany became Queen of England? Between him and his bastard son FitzRandwulf, they already control most of Blois and Touraine. The Aquitaine would instantly pledge loyalty to the English throne, as would Brittany, Poitou, Maine, and Angouleme. With the black-and-gold leading her armies, Eleanor would take back all of Normandy and Philip would be driven back behind the borders of Paris.”
Solange looked appalled. “Surely … we cannot let this happen! There must be something we can do to prevent it!”
“The only way to prevent it,” he said tautly, “is to insure Eleanor of Brittany never becomes queen, is never given the opportunity to rally the English barons, is never permitted to become more than the romantic, tragic Lost Princess of legend.”
“We have to find the bitch and kill her,” Solange said succinctly.
“Crudely put, but wisely said, for by the same token, if we remove any hope of a rallying point for the barons, they will have no choice but to accept Louis as king.”
“John has a son,” Solange pointed out.
“A seven-year-old child! Where would the logic be in deposing a king and putting a babe on the throne? No, the barons want John out of the way and strong leadership restored to the throne. They have watched him squander almost all of their possessions and territories in Normandy and France, and may see the possibility of having their castles and lands here returned if Louis takes the throne. Conversely, there will be lands, castles, titles falling into the hands of those who have remained steadfast and loyal to the French cause all these years. Men like … me,” he added proudly, “who have never faltered in our efforts to see the two countries united under the House of Capet! For that”—he slammed his fist on the table, scattering a small clutch of rats that were feeding beneath—“I will not let some half-forgotten princess spoil our plans now!”
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 107