What Wild Moonlight

by Lynne, Victoria

  Katya gazed about her in wonder. The square had been transformed into a bustling medieval keep. In one corner, knights paired off, displaying their prowess with swords. In another corner a cluster of peasant women spun wool into yarn. She saw hunters and horsemen, milkmaids, shepherds and plowmen, farcical court jesters and obsequious courtiers, queens and fishwives, lowly serfs and haughty nobles. A beautiful maiden paraded serenely through the grounds atop a gentle white mare whose forelock bore the single horn of a unicorn. Children scampered and played underfoot, pigs and goats rooted through piles of straw for scraps of food. If not for the grim circumstances that had brought her here, the setting would have captivated her entirely.

  As she scanned the crowds, her attention was caught by a rather stoic-looking friar who stood alone. Monsieur Chatelain was not by nature a jolly man. He looked even more pained and conspicuous than usual standing in a crowd of boisterous celebrants. Although her gaze momentarily fixed on him, he was professional enough to look right past her, displaying the same level of interest in her that one might show toward a fence post. But his presence and that of his men was reassuring nonetheless.

  Remembering Chatelain’s advice that she act as though nothing at all were amiss, she turned to Nicholas and placed her hand on his forearm, asking in a tone of false brightness, “Is there anyone in particular you would like me to target this evening?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Is there anyone you would like me to check for the scroll?”

  “Ah, yes. The scroll.” His tone sounded slightly distant, as though he were speaking more to himself than to her. Then he met her gaze and smiled softly. It wasn’t the lazy, sexy sort of smile she was used to receiving from him, however. It was more the blank sort of smile one might give while exchanging empty pleasantries with a stranger.

  “Come,” he said. “The tournament is about to begin.”

  He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward a large field overlooking the harbor. As they neared, Katya heard the blare of trumpets, followed by the low mummer of an excited crowd. Banners fluttered in the strong breeze. Large tents had been set up to encircle the field, beneath which were gathered Monaco’s most distinguished citizenry, all dressed in an exquisite variety of medieval finery.

  Nicholas paused at a table to retrieve two chalices brimming with spiced wine and passed one to her. They made their way into the crowd and watched as the jousting commenced. In a magnificent display of thirteenth-century pomp and pageantry, two men outfitted as warrior knights mounted their powerful steeds, lowered their lances and shields, then charged each other at full speed. The audience collectively held its breath as the charge ended in the center of the field in a brutal clash of armament.

  Although the spectacle was impressive, it did not hold Katya’s attention. Nor, she sensed, was Nicholas entirely captivated. A restless energy seemed to consume him, just as it did her. From time to time his fingers moved to the dirk and leather pouch that hung suspended from his belt, as though reassuring himself that the items were still there.

  Once the jousting had ended they moved across the grounds to watch a display of crossbow and archery. Then on to exhibits of medieval candlemaking, dyeing of wool, and falconry. They watched jugglers and acrobats perform feats of great daring and skill, listened to a medieval choir, sampled grilled meats that had been dusted with cinnamon and curry, and witnessed a spectacular demonstration of swordsmanship. But despite the remarkable quality of the exhibits, Katya could see that Nicholas was no more interested than she. Like her, he seemed to be moving mechanically from display to display as though it were nothing but a chore that must be accomplished.

  At length they reached a wooden stage that had been constructed near the grounds that overlooked the harbor. A group of minstrels, dressed in multihued jackets with peacock feathers bobbing from their caps and bells strung about their ankles, stood on an elevated platform above the stage. They called out to the passing crowds, beckoning their audience to draw closer. As soon as a sufficient number had gathered they lifted their instruments and commenced playing a merry tune, filling the air with the sounds of their lutes and viols, lyres and tambours. A group of dancers stepped onstage and swung about in a festive, whirring dance as the audience clapped along.

  Once the music ended the dancers stepped back and the minstrels struck up a new tune. A sweet, haunting melody floated out over the crowd. A troubadour moved to the center of the stage and began to sing, telling the story of a wandering knight who had lost his lady love. The final lilting notes of the song drifted away, but the musicians continued to play as dancers once again took the stage. But this time there was no merriment in their movements. Their bodies swayed in time to the melody in a graceful, almost hypnotic series of twists and turns. After a moment the dancers gestured for a few members of the audience to join them onstage.

  To Katya’s astonishment, Nicholas immediately placed his hand on her elbow and propelled her toward the stage. “Come,” he said. “Let us show all of Monaco that the Lord of Barrington and his lady are in attendance.”

  As Nicholas generally preferred to remain in the background, the move was very unlike him. Then again, Katya remembered the first ball they had attended together. He had been determined to make them both as conspicuous as possible. For whatever reason, this seemed his intention once again.

  As they reached the platform he swept the indigo cape over his shoulder and wrapped one arm around the small of her waist, then grasped her hand in his. Katya’s body pressed against his as they swayed in time to the minstrel’s melancholy tune. The troubadour softly resumed his song, telling the wistful story of love and loss. Following the lead of the performers who remained onstage, Nicholas guided her through the dance, executing a series of sweeping motions that drew them near then pulled them apart.

  Until then, Katya had managed to keep her feelings tightly in check, maintaining a polite, cordial distance between her and Nicholas. But now she discovered just how fragile were the walls she had put up. She couldn’t say whether it was the words of the song that were her emotional undoing, or the fact that she was once again in Nicholas’s arms. All she knew was that her resolve to remain aloof was shattered.

  They moved as only lovers could, swaying to an inner rhythm that had long ago been established between them. With each brush of his body against hers, a sense of aching tenderness and desire blossomed within her. She was overwhelmingly aware of every motion, every slight touch, every breath that fell against her cheek. Her senses were almost too heightened; a rush of warmth swept through her body and a knot of sexual expectation coiled tightly within her belly. She remembered how safe and secure she had felt within his embrace, how profoundly correct their bodies felt together. As the troubadour sang of false pride and loss, she longed to throw caution to the wind, to tumble heedlessly back into the sanctuary of Nicholas’s arms.

  But sanctuary was no longer to be found there, she realized with a jolt of pained awareness. They had come full circle. There was nothing between them any longer but the ancient legends. The greed and mistrust that had kept their families apart for centuries had risen once again.

  As they swayed together she felt the brush of his hip against hers. The small dirk and the leather pouch that hung suspended from his belt pressed between them. In that instant curiosity combined with icy determination. He had checked and rechecked that pouch several times already that night. Whatever it contained must be of some importance.

  Her scroll, perhaps?

  There was only one way to find out. Emboldened by the success she had enjoyed to date with her sleight of hand, she removed her hand from his shoulder and let it slide ever so gently down his back. As they swayed in time to the medieval melody, she brushed her body against his. “You seem quite familiar with the steps to the dance,” she said, hoping to distract his attention.

  “Do I?”

  She moved her palm lightly over the thick leather of
his belt. “Indeed. One would almost think that—”

  His hand immediately came up to clamp on top of hers as her fingers made contact with the small pouch. “Your touch is smooth, little gypsy,” he whispered against her ear, “but not undetectable.” He gave her hand a light squeeze, then released it. As he brushed a kiss over her forehead he mummered softly, “Leave it alone for the moment, will you?”

  Shock, disbelief, and anger coursed through her. Her cheeks flamed and she stiffened her spine, withdrawing slightly from his embrace. “I was merely curious,” she said.

  His indigo eyes reflected only cool amusement. “You couldn’t have asked me?”

  “I thought—” Katya began, then stopped and looked away, her thoughts and emotions in turmoil. Short of accusing him of stealing her scroll, murdering her parents, and attempting to murder her, what could she possibly say?

  Fortunately the moment quickly ended. The minstrels finished their tune and set down their instruments. Anxious to retreat, she turned away and moved off the stage, Nicholas following behind her. As they merged back into the crowd, she scanned the area for Monsieur Chatelain. She found him only a few yards away, standing near a pen of livestock. Because her focus had been on Chatelain, she did not notice Corrina Jeffreys and Philip Montrose until they materialized at their sides.

  “Well done, Duvall,” said Montrose, a thin smile on his face as he brought his hands together in slow, sardonic applause. “And you as well, Miss Alexander,” he added, giving her a graceful bow. “What a stunning medieval pair the two of you make.”

  Corrina appeared as exquisitely feminine as usual, Katya noted, her gaze moving over the other woman’s gown of ice-blue brocade. In the past, Katya had based her dislike of the pair on their constant disparaging remarks toward Nicholas. Despite the fact that those remarks had proved to be accurate reflections of his character, she found she felt no more warmth toward them than before. Their presence amounted to nothing more than a vague annoyance that must be temporarily tolerated—like a summer cold, unruly children, or ants at a picnic.

  Therefore she paid little attention to the conversation, turning instead to watch the troubadour as he once again resumed center stage. Rather than singing, he knelt down on one knee before a young maiden. In a fervent demonstration of courtly love, he began to extol her many virtues, praise her beauty, and promise to devote the remainder of his life to demonstrating his unending adoration.

  Katya was only half listening until she heard Montrose turn to Nicholas and dryly remark, “Rather bland, don’t you think? Surely even you could do better than that, Duvall.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “I fear I have no poetic abilities”—he paused and lifted Katya’s hand, pressing the back of it to his lips—“even when gifted with so beautiful a subject upon which to lavish my words.”

  “In the spirit of the occasion, name one virtue,” insisted Montrose. His gray eyes moved over Katya in wintry appraisal. “Tresses of spun moonlight, lips as soft as rose petal, skin smoother than freshly churned cream… What is the virtue you would praise above all others?”

  “Therein lies my problem. How does one narrow it down to one single virtue when there are so many from which to choose?”

  “Try.”

  Nicholas turned to Katya and regarded her steadily for a long moment, a flicker of undisguised deviltry glistening in his ebony eyes. “I suppose if I had to name one virtue that I hold dear above all others, it would have to be her honesty.”

  The distinct glimmer of challenge contained within his words was unmistakable; a private thrust and parry of sorts. “Indeed,” Katya mummered, refusing to allow him the upper hand, “clearly Lord Barrington admires in me that quality which I find so compelling in him.”

  “How very refreshing,” said Montrose in a tone of infinite boredom. “Lovers who are drawn to beauty of the soul, rather than the baser lure of the flesh.”

  A dull roar coming from the grounds south of them drew their attention away from the conversation. Katya saw a rapidly swelling mass of people moving toward them, laughing and jeering as they ran alongside a huge green-and-gold monster that writhed slowly through the crowd, swishing its tail and spewing flames of red tissue paper from its mouth.

  “It appears the evening is drawing to a head,” remarked Montrose as he gestured toward the frenzied crowd. “It must be time for the taming of the Tarasque.”

  The mythical beast was preceded by a group of mummers dressed in black robes, their faces covered by grotesquely distorted animal masks. They raced in the forefront of the crowd, performing feats of random foolishness and acrobatic skill, then dashing off from time to time to pull in a woman from the onlookers and spin her around in a frenzied dance while their audience roared its approval.

  As they approached, Corrina grasped Katya’s hand and pulled her along beside her into the path of the celebrants. “Do hurry, Miss Alexander,” she urged. “The mummers select the maiden who will have the honor of taming the Tarasque.”

  Although Katya had no interest in taking part in the festivities—particularly not in so principal a role—it seemed easier to play along for the moment than to attempt to break the grip Corrina had on her hand. In any case, Nicholas and Philip Montrose waited for them only a few feet away.

  In what seemed like mere seconds the crowd reached them and they were swept up in the jubilant melee. Two mummers broke free from the group. One took Corrina by the hand, the other reached for Katya. His face was completely covered by the ferocious and rather gruesome mask of a wild boar. He held her wrists in an iron grip as he whirled her around, spinning her until she was nearly dizzy.

  The mob swelled around them, shouting and laughing, making her feel as though she were being carried away on the crest of a giant wave. She searched for Nicholas in the crowd, but the faces that surrounded her were all a blur.

  At length the roar of the crowd faded and the mummer released her. Katya stumbled to a disoriented stop. As the mummer raced on without her she surveyed her surroundings in some confusion. Rather than keeping pace with the Tarasque, the mummer had released her in a rather solitary spot away from the masses. She had joined the crowd near the livestock bin and the platform stage. Now she stood alone on the cliffs that overlooked the harbor. She gazed about her in an attempt to place her whereabouts, but it was rather difficult to see. The only light was that of the waning moon hanging low in the sky.

  As the warm wind buffeted her skirts she turned in the direction from which it blew. Her heart leaped to her throat as she suddenly caught sight of a man standing only a few feet from her. He stood alone gazing out over the sea, one booted foot propped up on a rock. He was so still she had missed him entirely at first glance.

  She had missed him, but obviously he knew she was there, she realized, as a shiver ran down her spine. He must have heard her stumbling, awkward halt as the mummer abruptly released her hands.

  Noting his dark hair and indigo cape, as well as his height and posture, Katya softly called out, “Nicholas?”

  The man straightened and slowly turned. “I’m afraid I disappoint you.”

  His face was at once familiar and yet at the same time unknown. She took an instinctive step backward in fear, then recognition sunk in. Jeremy Cooke, she thought, breathing a sigh of relief. “Jeremy—hello,” she said with a soft laugh. “I seem to be forever mistaking you for Nicholas, don’t I?”

  “Do you?”

  She studied him with a small frown as she moved toward him. “You’re not wearing your glasses, are you?” she said. “That’s why you look so different. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without them.”

  “Somehow they didn’t seem appropriate to medieval attire.”

  “I suppose not.” Her gaze moved briefly over his clothing. “Very noble. I take it you are a knight.”

  “Alas, no,” he replied, shaking his head. “It seems times have not changed since the olden days. Armor has always been a prerogative of the upper classes, worn by only
the wealthiest of lords. I might aspire to knighthood, but I’m cursed with an inability to afford the chivalric glory of full armor. Thus you see before you a mere knight’s apprentice.” A self-deprecating smile curved his lips as he gestured to his costume. “A lowly squire, if you will.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “Fortunately those heavy suits of armor you see in museums were not long in fashion. In time, the preoccupation of fighting men shifted to weapons of offense, rather than defense.”

  “Indeed?” Katya mummered politely.

  As though abruptly recalling himself, Jeremy said, “You must be seeking Lord Barrington.”

  “How did you know?”

  He lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “From what I’ve seen, the two of you are not long parted.”

  “Actually,” she said, “we were separated when the Tarasque swept through. I believe he’s waiting for me at the site of the symbolic taming.”

  Jeremy Cooke frowned. “Are you certain?”

  “I— Yes, I think so.”

  “Odd. I saw him just a moment ago, speaking with Lord Montrose and Miss Jeffreys. I believe they stepped into the caves to see the remarkable display of medieval alchemy.”

  “Into the caves?”

  “Yes. Shall I take you to him?”

  Katya hesitated. She followed his gesture to the face of the cliff, noting for the first time the flickering light emitted from the caves below. Uncertainty gripped her as she glanced around, looking for some sign of Monsieur Chatelain, but he was nowhere to be seen. He had probably lost her when she was swept up in the wild mob surrounding the Tarasque.

  “Or if you prefer,” Jeremy continued, “I would be happy to escort you to the jousting field where the taming of the Tarasque is to take place. I may be a poor substitute for the Earl of Barrington, but it would be my honor to stand in for him until he finds you.”

  She considered his offer. Although she would feel more comfortable back among the bustling crowds, her wisest course was probably to seek out Nicholas. Even if Monsieur Chatelain had lost sight of her, undoubtedly he had kept Nicholas in view. Besides, she reasoned, what harm could come to her if the group contained not only her and Nicholas, but Jeremy Cooke, Philip Montrose, and Corrina Jeffreys as well?