by Beleaguered
He thought a moment then grunted. Put thusly, he could see it now as plain as day. “Not even close. I see.” He nodded. “Then I really should not be jealous, should I? Had I asked Thomas if he were jealous of my friendship with Patrick, he would have thought me quite mad.”
“’Tis perhaps a bit more complex than that, my lord, but I will agree you have no need for jealousy.” She smiled into his eyes and her soft lips met his in a kiss that spoke of love and regret and repentance. When they finally parted, Alyse laid her head on his shoulder. Where it belonged. “You should never have had cause to doubt my love, Geoffrey. For you know I chose to live after Thomas died.”
Geoffrey paused as he stroked her tumbled locks. “What do you mean, sweetheart? Of course you lived after Thomas died.”
“Aye. But I had decided if you became ill and died, I would have followed you into death.”
Geoffrey sat her up in his lap. She could not mean what she said. “You would have killed yourself if I died?”
Alyse nodded and rubbed the place just above his heart. “As you would have done.”
A metallic taste flooded his mouth. He could feel the knife sinking into his chest just before she had spoken his name. “But there might have been a child. There is a child.” His hand went to her belly, though it was still as flat as the day he had first met her.
“But I did not know that, my love. Nor would I have wanted to wait to find out. I could not stand the thought of being without you, Geoffrey.” She laid her head back on his shoulder and clutched his neck.
“You could, however, stand the thought of being without Thomas.” It was a ridiculous kind of logic, but he had to admit it was compelling.
“While you were in the world, even married to Mary, there was hope. And Geoffrey,” she paused to seek his eyes, “I never wished for Mary’s death. I could not do that, even as much as I was jealous of her. Even as much as I loved you.”
He pressed her head back against her shoulder, savoring the feel of her against him once again. Two insane days without her touch. Had he really thought he could have held out? Could have left her altogether? He shook his head at his folly.
Alyse was silent for a moment. “Does it still make a difference to you, Geoffrey, who the child’s father is?”
He sighed. She had given him the truth. He could do no less. “If you will have the truth from me, Alyse, then aye. It does make a difference, for in my heart, I truly wish for you to be carrying my babe.” He gripped her shoulder and held her closer. “However, I cannot deny the hope that a part of my friend lives on. If this is the price I have to pay for his sacrifice then it is little enough.”
“Thank you.” She pressed closer to him, a warm bundle on his chest.
“I only hope we will know for certain when the child is born. An he look like his mother, we may never know his sire.” ’Twas the greatest thing that troubled him now.
“Then we will trust to God to reveal it in his own time. ’Twas his hand in this all along, I believe.” Alyse stroked his arm then wound it around her.
“Aye, my love. I believe you may be right.” He kissed her head and settled into the chair. He had her again, never to let her go. The warmth of the fire soothed him and, for the first time in a long while, he found contentment washing over him.
Chapter 17
Four weeks later, during a blinding snowstorm on the first day of December, Alyse and Geoffrey arrived at her father’s estate, Beaulieu, just south of the port town of Calais. Travel had been excruciatingly slow, for Geoffrey had insisted she ride at a sedate pace and for only six hours a day, sometimes reducing it to five if the roads were bad or the winds too chill.
The weather too had been against them. Early storms had made them linger in lodgings several times, turning a three weeks’ journey into almost two months of travel. They had, however, arrived with little harm to either her or the baby, for which God be praised.
Only a matter of hours had passed since their noon break, although the light was failing as the snow intensified. They had turned north, bypassing the town of Gavonne and striking out toward the de Courcy estate. The thought of home, while still comforting to Alyse, raised a frisson of worry. Was her family still alive? And if so, how would her father take the news of her marriage to Geoffrey? The insult of the broken betrothal in June would not have been forgiven easily by Etienne de Courcy. Although she longed for a warm, safe shelter, if she could have put her feet down, she would have dragged them to forestall the inevitable arrival at Beaulieu.
Riding side by side, they turned into the lane that led to her childhood home. She raised her head, pulling the cloak away from her face that she might see if a light shone through the thickening swirl of snow. “Do you see anything?”
“Nay. Mayhap we are not yet close enough to see a light.” Geoffrey shot his hand out to close on hers where it rested on the saddle horn, hidden beneath her thick cloak. “They will be there, love. Some must have survived.”
She sighed and nodded. Hope and trepidation. Could there never just be hope?
At the manor house entrance, Geoffrey jumped down from Saracen, his boots sinking up to the ankles in the deepening snow. He lifted Alyse down from Mirabelle, setting her carefully and holding on to her waist lest she fall in the slippery mess.
She smiled her thanks and stepped away, heading resolutely for the main door. She had seen no lights in the windows and steeled herself for the horrible sights she might find here. A moment at the threshold to gather her courage. Her life had changed drastically so many times since that long ago day when she had left this house for Merwyck Castle. She shivered in the cold. Best to press forward. She straightened her shoulders and knocked.
Minutes crawled past as Alyse stood before the massive doorway. Snow drifted about her legs as the wind whipped it around the courtyard. She stamped her feet, but could barely feel them. Geoffrey had left, leading the exhausted horses around the building in search of a stable.
She rapped again, harder and with more urgency. The cold seeped into her bones now that her horse was no longer sharing her warmth. She reached out a third time, to grasp the door latch, when the door was jerked inward. She reared back and slipped on the icy stone portico. A strong hand shot out to grasp her arm. The other hand held a lantern high over her face.
“What call have you to be trespassing here, girl?” The older man glared at her in the shaky light. “’Tis not a night to come calling where you are not wanted.”
Alyse smiled, steadying herself with the elder’s aid. “I scarcely expected not to be wanted, Gaston. I thought because I had not visited home in all these years, mayhap my family would want to see me.” She smiled even more broadly at the puzzled look on the old man’s face. “’Tis I, Gaston, Lady Alyse, come home to seek refuge with my mother and father.”
At her words, the grizzled old man peered closer at her. “Lady Alyse! Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu!” The deeply seamed face broke into a wide grin. He hugged her close with one arm, and with the other carefully kept the lantern a safe distance. “Oh, my lady, we were all sure you were dead of the pestilence. Riders from King Edward reached us in early November with the news of the disaster in Bordeaux. We feared you and all the company were lost.”
“Nay, Gaston, although almost all the company either died or ran away when the disease was at its worst. I nursed the princess when she fell ill, and when she died, I set out to come home.” She hugged the old man again, a dear, familiar face from her childhood. How better to be welcomed home? “I am so glad to be home. Where are Father and Mother?”
The old retainer gently pried her hands from his shoulders and, after shutting the door, led her into the entry hall. Although torches burned around the chamber, it was damp and cold, completely different than she recalled it from her youth. “It is so cold. Why is the fire not burning on the great hearth?” Her heart gave a lurch. She met Gaston’s eyes. “They died of the plague, then?”
Gaston shook his head, took her arm
, and led her toward the small solar off the Great Hall that her father had used to conduct the business of the estate. “Mais non, my lady. They did not both die. Your father lives, mostly here in this room. There are few servants left, just me, and Louis in the stable, Marie, the kitchen maid, and Madame Renee. She is still the difficult one, but the cooking is excellent. One can put up with much these days if the food is well prepared.”
Alyse smiled, thinking of her sojourn in the kitchen in Loremo. She could certainly put up with a good deal if only the meals were prepared by another.
She shook off these frivolous thoughts. And steeled herself for the question she dreaded to ask, but must. “Maman did not survive, then?” Despite her own experience with the massive deaths caused by the plague, her mother’s death still twisted her heart.
The old man lowered his eyes. “Non, my lady. She succumbed almost two months ago, when the illness first swept through Calais. By God’s grace, she was taken swiftly.” He paused and shifted from foot to foot. “Others were not so blessed.”
Alyse sighed. “I know, Gaston. I nursed several of the courtiers, including my late husband. And though I mourned, I too thanked heaven when God’s mercy did not prolong their suffering.” She brushed back tears and straightened her shoulders. “But my father lives? He was spared?”
“Oui, my lady. He is within.” Gaston gestured to her father’s solar.
“Merci, Gaston, for taking care of him throughout this…difficult time.”
“Mais bien sûr, my lady. The de Courcy family is as my own. What else was I to do?”
Alyse patted his arm. “What else indeed, Gaston.” She looked up at him. “Will you please ask Madame Renee to prepare something hot for dinner? I am chilled to my bones and hungry enough to eat your cooking!”
The old man smiled at this and nodded.
“I will go see my father now. Just announce to us when it is ready.”
Again, Gaston nodded and opened the door for her.
She stood at the threshold, peering into the gloomy room, lit by a single candle.
He has shrunk.
Etienne de Courcy had always seemed to loom over her, perhaps because most of her memories of him came from her very early childhood. Now, as she crossed into his office and strode to his desk, she found she in fact towered over him. Where was the forbidding giant of old? The harsh realities of life and death had opened her eyes to the real world, where her father was, in truth, a very ordinary man. One who had, seven months ago, betrothed her to Geoffrey Longford. An ordinary man who had done an extraordinary thing for her.
“Papa?”
He looked up, but made no sound. His eyes widened, and he arose, not taking his eyes off her. Then the spell broke, and he ran from behind the desk and wrapped his thin arms around her, his sobs wracking his slight body. “Ma fille! Ma fille! We thought you lost, Alyse. Taken by this illness that claimed—” He stopped short, but Alyse nodded, her tears now flowing also. “Gaston told you of your Maman? Mon Dieu! I was insane with grief. I thought I had lost you both. And I still have had no word from Phillipa. I know not if she lives.”
“Where is Phillipa, Papa?” Her younger sister had been at home when Alyse had last had word from her mother. “You sent her away to save her from the pestilence?”
“Non, ma petite. She was summoned by Queen Phillipa to the court in August, to attend her after Princess Joanna left. The princess needed an additional courtier and had taken one of Princess Isabella’s ladies. Princess Isabella demanded one of her mother’s ladies, and so the queen sent for your sister, her namesake.”
Icy fingers traced a path down Alyse’s spine. Her sister had gone to fill the position of Lady Mary when she had married Geoffrey and sailed for Spain. If her sister yet lived, it may have been due to God’s hand in the events He set in motion so many months ago. She shook her head. “Life does seem to go on, Papa. I do hope Pippa is well and happy at court.”
“We can only pray for that, ma fille. But you are correct, life does go on despite its trials. Ah! Gaston!” He shouted for his steward and moved back to sit at his writing desk. He pulled a piece of parchment toward him and scratched something on it. He had just sanded and folded it when the servant appeared. “Give this to Louis and tell him to take it straight to Belle Chasse.”
“Mais, seigneur! The snow comes down so thick. Louis will lose his way or freeze to death.”
“Now, Gaston! I will have them back here before breakfast tomorrow.” The imperious edge to his master’s voice was apparently not lost on Gaston, who frowned but hurried from the room to seek Louis.
She had stood through this exchange, half paying attention, half wondering where Geoffrey was and how she would explain his presence. When the servant quit the room, she shook herself and asked, “Why have you sent to Belle Chasse, Papa?” She had known the estate since childhood. It was Guy’s home.
Oh, that must mean—
“Guy! Guy has survived the pestilence, Papa? How splendid! You sent to tell him I am home?” Dear Lord, what would Geoffrey say to that? “You could have waited until the snow stopped. I planned to stay here, if you will allow it, and rest for…some days.”
Her father glanced at her curiously, but smiled and said nothing. He continued writing on another piece of parchment, ignoring her.
From long experience, such actions did not bode well for her. She drew closer to the desk, leaned over, trying to see the document. “What is that, Papa?” He drew it away from her, but continued to write. “Papa, you have not yet given me leave to stay here. Do you not wish me to stay?”
He did not raise his eyes to her, but kept his pen busily scratching. “Mais non, ma petite. I am delighted to see you here again at Beaulieu. However, a young woman like yourself would be better served with a home of her own, not tied to her old Papa.”
So here it came. “And what better home should I have but this one, Papa? I believe this home to be my own. I am your eldest daughter, and upon your death, Beaulieu will pass to me.”
He smiled broadly at her. “Ma petite, you have learned well the business of marriage. And it is that business to which I have again set my hand. I am even now writing out the marriage contract for you.”
Alyse could only shake her head. She might have suspected he would try to marry her off as soon as he was assured she lived. “Who is it you would have me marry this time, Papa?”
“Aye, Seigneur de Courcy,” drawled a voice from the doorway.
Alyse whirled around so quickly she lost her balance and almost fell.
“Who exactly would you have your daughter marry?”
Geoffrey leaned gracefully against the doorjamb, his arms across his chest, one booted foot crossed carelessly over the other. The smile on his face was the deadly one Alyse had only ever seen once: when she had danced with Guy de Valere. She backed up until she bumped into the fireplace hearth. A hot fire blazed there, and still a cold wind whistled past her, born of Geoffrey’s gaze.
“Who the devil are you?” Etienne spared him a glance and frowned then continued to write.
“Sir Geoffrey Longford, Seigneur de Courcy.” Geoffrey gave the man his best courtier’s bow. “At your service.”
Her father shot to his feet. “Vous!” He spit the word as if it were a dagger aimed straight at Geoffrey’s heart.
“Aye, Seigneur. I am the man you did the great honor of giving your daughter to in marriage seven months ago.” He glanced at Alyse. “I regret that we have been remiss in taking too long to speak our vows properly. But we stand here before you today ready to make those vows of commitment you so wisely arranged for us in June.”
Etienne de Courcy’s blue eyes narrowed to mere slits as he came from behind the desk. “That betrothal, Seigneur Longford, was rendered null and void by your father three weeks after it was made. He broke the contract; therefore, you have no further claim on my daughter.”
Geoffrey held his hand out. “I believe that is for Alyse to say, Lord de Courcy.�
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Oh, yes, my love.
She reached for his hand, only to have it slapped away by her father.
She rounded on him, eyes blazing. “What right have you to strike me, father?” Her anger blazed at his audacity. “Your rights over me ended the day I married Lord Braeton. I am now his widow, and my decision as to who I will or will not marry rests upon me and me alone.”
Alyse looked from her father to Geoffrey. Her throat clogged with rage, and her pulse pounded. Aye, she would make them both understand that she had finished with their dominion over her. “From the beginning, I have been forced to let men choose for me, render my life in twain, even marry me to a man I did not love for the sake of honor.” She stared pointedly at Geoffrey, who looked away.
“And I will tell you both, there has been no honor in any of these dealings, with the exception of my first betrothal to Geoffrey. Lord Longford played us false and acted dishonorably in breaking our betrothal. Geoffrey acted from what he believed was right in asking me to marry his friend. He and I both know now ’twas wrong and had dire consequences for all parties concerned. But these things are in the past and can none of it be altered.” She continued to shift her accusing glare from one man to the other. “Therefore, I assure you ’twill be I who makes the decision of who I marry.”
“That would be me, would it not, chérie?” The low, sultry voice stopped her declaration, and she whirled around, as did Geoffrey, to stare into the grinning face of Guy de Valere.
Chapter 18
“Seigneur Longford, we have the pleasure of meeting again. You have managed to avoid both sword and pestilence, n’est-ce pas? I congratulate you.” The sleek Frenchman nodded once to Geoffrey, but did not take his hungry eyes off Alyse.
“As I do you, de Valere.” Geoffrey tried to keep his tone light. ’Twas difficult when all he wished to do was skewer the villain who stood before him, leering at Alyse. “May I ask what brings you here so speedily on such a terrible night and under the misapprehension that you are going to marry my wife?”