They passed that first night at Nell de Montfort’s small house, Hugh bedding down in the great hall with the other servants while Bran stayed up till dawn, talking with his mother and sister. He’d slept late the next day, then startled Hugh by insisting that they take up lodgings in the village. The move made no sense to Hugh, and he was still puzzling over it several hours later, while helping Noel to unpack Bran’s belongings in an upper chamber of Montargis’s only inn.
“If we’d stayed at the nunnery, it would have been easier for our lord to visit with his lady mother and sister, so why—”
“Jesú, what an innocent you are!” Noel slammed a coffer lid down, giving Hugh a look of withering scorn. His initial wariness had congealed into open hostility, all chance of rapport gone from the moment he overheard Bran telling the women that he owed Hugh his life. “What would you have Lord Bran do—couple with a wench under his lady mother’s own roof? That might be the way it is done by you English, but the French have more style!”
Hugh swallowed the insult as best he could. “You mean he has a whore in the village.” He sought to sound knowing; nothing less than torture could have gotten him to admit to the supercilious Noel that he was still a virgin.
“A whore? Well, the priests would call her that, for certes, though she lays with no man but Lord Bran. I daresay he could tumble her in a church if he wished, so hot is she for him!”
“You are describing a mistress, not a whore,” Hugh objected. “She lives in Montargis, then?”
Noel’s smile held a glint of mockery. “No…the convent.”
Hugh stared, and then flushed. He was not easily provoked, and had been willing to overlook Noel’s snide barbs, his lordly asides, for he had no false pride, knew that he was a green country lad with much to learn in the ways of the world. But enough was enough. “I am not so simple as that,” he snapped. “Did you truly think I’d believe so outrageous a lie? Lord Bran would never seduce a nun, for that would be a mortal sin and he’d burn in Hell!”
Now it was Noel’s turn to stare. But after a moment, he roared with laughter. “You dolt, I was not talking of a nun! I was talking of the Lady Juliana!”
Hugh gasped, then took a threatening step forward, “Liar! Take that back!”
Noel jumped to his feet, suddenly aware that the younger boy was four inches taller and twenty pounds heavier. “Make me,” he said, and grabbed for the nearest weapon, a brass candelabra. But Hugh was surprisingly fast for his size. He got to the candelabra first, jerked it out of Noel’s reach, and flung it across the room, where it crashed into the opening door, missing Bran by a hairsbreadth.
For an endless moment, Bran looked down at the candelabra, then back at the horrified boys. “Playing catch with a candelabra? My brothers and I always used a pig’s bladder football,” he said lightly, and Noel’s relief was such that he almost made a serious blunder.
“It was Hugh’s—” He choked the accusation back just in time, as Bran’s head came up sharply. Noel knew that Bran did not give a fig for what his squires did between themselves, was not likely even to notice unless the blood began to flow in earnest. But he had only contempt for those who tried to divert blame onto others. “Nothing, my lord, nothing,” Noel said hastily, chalking up one more debt to Hugh’s account.
Bran’s smile was sardonic. “Well, if you lads are done with this game of yours, you’d best be off, Noel. I told Juliana you’d be there by Vespers.”
“I’ll have your lady here in a trice, my lord,” Noel promised, shooting Hugh a look of triumphant malice as he headed for the door.
Bran moved to the table, poured himself ale. “There are some sugared quinces here, Hugh. Help yourself if you fancy any,” he said, and the boy mumbled his thanks. Sugared quince was a rare treat, but he had no appetite for it now. He was genuinely shocked that Bran should be bedding a woman of good birth; it was not seemly. As he busied himself in tidying up the chamber, he tried not to look at the bed, tried not to imagine Juliana and Bran sprawled naked upon it. Thinking now of Juliana, of her sultry smile and midnight-black eyes, he realized that some of his indignation had been fueled by his own guilty lust. And it occurred to him, too, with a jolt of dismay, that he was going to have to offer the loathsome Noel an apology for having called him a liar. Honor demanded as much.
Juliana was a light sleeper. Although Bran’s moan was soft, muffled by the pillow, it was enough to awaken her. Sitting up, she pulled the bed hangings back, groped for the bedside candle, and held it over her lover’s face. It was as she suspected; Bran’s breathing was rapid, uneven, his mouth contorted, dark hair drenched in sweat. She placed the candle in a niche of the headboard, then touched him gently on the cheek. “Bran?”
He jerked upright, eyes wide and staring, chest heaving. “You’re all right, beloved,” Juliana said soothingly, “you’re awake now.” After a moment, he reached for a corner of the sheet, wiped the perspiration from his face, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. She watched as he crossed the chamber, moving barefoot through the rushes so as not to awaken his squires, snoring on pallets by the hearth. When he returned to the bed with a wine flagon, she was touched to see that he’d remembered to bring a cup for her. No matter how much he was hurting, she thought sadly, his manners never failed him.
After Bran propped pillows behind his back, Juliana rolled over into his arms. She knew better than to ask questions, for in the three years that they’d been sharing a bed, only once had he been able to share with her the dream, too. But she had no need to hear it again. She could still recall each and every word he’d uttered, haunted by that one harrowing glimpse into the desolation, the guilt-ravaged depths of Bran’s soul.
She knew that bad dreams came to all men, dreams of demon spirits, a dread of the unknown. But not for Bran such phantom fears and shadows. For him, reality was the nightmare. It was not enough, she thought bitterly, that he must live with the knowledge that he’d failed his father and brother when they’d needed him the most. No, the fates had decreed that he must also reach Evesham in time to see his father’s head on a pike.
Her anger was unfocused, futile, for whom could she blame? She loved this man so very much, and yet that love was tearing her apart, for she could not help him. She could do naught but break her heart trying.
She knew Bran would not be able to sleep again; he never could after one of the Evesham dreams. She sought now to banish drowsiness, to keep him from dwelling upon his own dark thoughts. “Tell me more about Ellen’s Welsh Prince,” she teased. “What does he look like? Is he handsome? Would I be smitten at sight of him?”
That coaxed a shadowy smile. “Well, I cannot say that he set my heart aflutter, but I suppose women find him pleasing enough to the eye. He is tall for a Welshman, and dark, of course. Ah, and he is clean-shaven, save for a mustache, after the Welsh fashion.”
She leaned over, touched her lips to his cheek, for he, too, was clean-shaven. Most men wore beards, but not Bran, for Simon had not. “Why do you think Llewelyn has never married? Passing strange, is it not?”
Bran shrugged. “In earlier years, I suspect he was too busy fighting his brothers for control of Gwynedd, then defending what he’d won against the English Crown. I suppose he would eventually have taken a wife had he not been compelled to make peace with Davydd. Scrape away the gilt from Davydd’s promises and you’ll find naught but dross. Llewelyn knew that as well as any man, knew he had to imprison Davydd for life or else make it worth his while to stay loyal. And so he offered to make Davydd his heir, which is either an act of sheer inspiration or one of utter desperation.”
“Which do you think it is?”
He shrugged again. “You’d best ask Ellen that. When it comes to Wales, she is the family sage, not I.” He drained his cup, set it down in the floor rushes. “You called Llewelyn ‘Ellen’s Welsh Prince.’ Was that a jest, Juliana? Or does Ellen still harbor false hopes? She always did dote on those foolish romances, those minstrels’ tales of lov
e unrequited and eternal. Does she still see Llewelyn as one of those gallant heroes, a Tristan or Lancelot?”
Juliana did not respond at once, pondering his query. She felt no conflict of loyalty between her lover and her friend, for she knew how much Bran loved Ellen. She sometimes wished he loved his sister a little less, for she knew, too, that each time he looked at Ellen and his mother, he could not help thinking of all they’d lost, lost because of him. And neither Nell nor Ellen nor Juliana had been able to convince him otherwise. Indeed, it seemed to Juliana that the less they blamed him, the more he then blamed himself. Amaury de Montfort had once told her of a powder made from the opium poppy, a strange powder that men craved more than food or money or women. Juliana occasionally found herself wondering if grieving, too, could possess a man’s soul, become a habit impossible to break.
“Juliana?”
“No, I think not, beloved. Oh, I grant you that Ellen did spin fantasies once, pretend Llewelyn would one day send for her, honor the plight troth. She had to have hope, something in which to believe. But you’re talking now of a woman grown, not a lass of thirteen. I think she will always take an interest in Llewelyn and in Wales, but no more than that. You need not fear for her, Bran. Our Ellen was never a fool, and she is no longer a starry-eyed child.”
Bran’s relief was obvious. “Last year, when she balked at Guy’s offer to find a husband for her, I feared she might be deluding herself about Llewelyn.”
Juliana felt no compunctions at breaking a confidence, for she was sure Ellen would want Bran to know; Ellen would do almost anything to give her brother peace of mind. “Her reluctance had naught to do with Llewelyn. It was partly because she did not want to leave your mother, not so soon after Richard’s death. And partly because she was loath to live in Italy.”
Bran showed neither surprise nor indignation, although women were rarely given a say as to whom they were to marry. He had, in the anguished aftermath of Evesham, promised Ellen upon the surety of his soul that he would never allow her to be wed against her will. “Well, now that Guy’s prospects are bright enough to blind, we ought to be able to do better than an Italian alliance. I’ll talk to Guy.”
“Bran…how long can you stay this time?”
He gave her a sideways look, alerting her that his answer would not be to her liking. “Two more days,” he said reluctantly, and then, “Ah, sweetheart, do not look like that! I cannot help it, in truth. I promised Guy I’d be back by the first week in March. Philippe and Charles have abandoned the Crusade, are on their way home. Guy thinks we ought to be on hand when they reach Tuscany.”
Juliana bit back her disappointment; she was wise enough to realize that Bran would shy away as soon as she began to make demands. She smiled, said with forced cheer, “ ‘Philippe and Charles.’ I presume you mean the King of France and his uncle, the King of Sicily?”
“Who else?” He sounded faintly bemused, and she hid a smile. To Bran, it was perfectly natural to refer to those powerful monarchs by their Christian names, and he could never understand why the familiarity sounded so strange to her ears. But then, he was the grandson and nephew of kings, not likely to be over-awed by crowns or the men who wore them. She sighed at that. How different were their worlds and how distant, for all that she lay within the circle of his arms, legs entwined, so close she could feel his breath upon her breast.
Having emptied his own cup, Bran now reached over to share hers. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmured, “mayhap even by Whitsuntide,” sealing his promise with a lingering, wine-flavored kiss.
She nodded, knowing he would if at all possible. She doubted that he truly felt at home anywhere after Evesham, but for certes, not in Italy, for there he was starved for sun, stunted and chilled in his brother’s spreading shadow. Raising up, she kissed the pulse in his throat. So often had she heard Ellen’s childhood stories that she sometimes felt as if she’d lived them herself. It had always been Harry and Bran, Bran and Harry, two halves to the same coin. They might have been twins, so closely attuned were they to each other’s moods; it was a family joke that if Harry were cut, Bran would bleed. It was not surprising that Guy had come to resent a comradeship so intense, so exclusive. With the plaintive clarity of hindsight, Ellen could see that now, see how Guy had sought in vain to impress, to belong, as young brothers have done since time immemorial.
And then, Evesham. Harry had died that day, and Guy almost did. He lay for weeks near death, a prisoner with nothing to do but to relive those last bloody moments, to watch his father fall again and again, and to wonder why Bran’s army had not arrived. He cheated death, to the surprise of all, and then escaped, which should not have been a surprise, not to anyone who knew him. Fleeing to France, he set about finding his brother, with murder in his heart. But when he did, he’d discovered that he had to forgive Bran, if only because Bran could not forgive himself.
And now, Italy. A brilliant battle commander, Guy had won a King’s favor, won a future full of promise. Whilst Bran, Juliana acknowledged, had naught but a past, one full of pain. And it seemed to her that, even with the best will in the world, Bran and Guy were yoked together too tightly, shackled by too many memories, too many regrets.
Bran leaned over, deposited her wine cup in the floor rushes. As he did, Juliana trailed her fingers along his chest, hovering over the new scar that zigzagged across his ribs. So much she’d wanted to do for him, to keep him safe from harm, to heal his wounds, to ease his pain, to stop his drinking. And she’d been able to do none of it. The only comfort she could offer was carnal, the only kind he seemed to want.
“Make love to me, Bran,” she whispered. “Make love to me now.”
3
Siena, Tuscany
March 1271
Hugh did not see how they could get to Italy in time to rendezvous with Bran’s brother. While couriers had been known to travel from London to Rome in just twenty-five days, such couriers often covered close to fifty miles a day, and most travelers managed less than thirty. Hugh soon discovered, though, that Bran’s will could be as steely as that of his formidable father. He rode fast and he rode hard, and the knights of his household were pressed to keep pace. By the time they reached the Mount Cenis Pass, they were averaging forty miles a day.
A winter passage across the Alps was every traveler’s nightmare. Bran and his companions were more fortunate than many, for they were spared the most lethal perils of alpine crossings: blizzards and avalanches. Even so, their journey was a daunting one. A local guide was killed when he ventured ahead to mark their trail with wooden stakes. It was so bitter cold that the men’s beards congealed with ice and Bran’s wineskin froze solid. At one point, the slope was so glazed that they were forced to bind their horses’ legs and lower them down on ropes. When they finally made their way to safety, Hugh was vowing that he’d live out the remainder of his days in Italy ere he’d face Mount Cenis again.
Bran had laughed, mercifully forbearing to remind the boy that ahead of them still lay the mountains of the Italian Apennines. They crossed at La Cisa, took the ancient Via Francigena that led toward Rome, and rode into the city of Florence on March 2nd, just twenty-six days since departing Montargis. There they were greeted by Guy de Montfort and the powerful Tuscan lord who was his wife’s father, Ildebrandino d’Aldobrandini, Count of Sovana and Pitigliano, known to all as “il Rosso” for the auburn color of his hair. Three days later they took the road south, reaching the city walls of Siena by midday on Saturday, the 7th of March. It was a day to banish their bone-chilling memories of those alpine glaciers, to evoke forgotten echoes of spring, a sundrenched noon under a vivid sapphire sky—Hugh’s fifteenth birthday.
Although Ildebrandino had a house in Siena, they accepted the hospitality of the Tolomei, an influential local family in uneasy alliance with the Count. Once they were settled in the Tolomei palazzo, their host suggested that they might enjoy watching a game of elmora, and in consequence, Hugh soon found himself riding through the steep, twi
sting streets that led to the Campo, listening to the applause of townspeople as they recognized il Rosso and his dashing son-in-law, the Vicar of Tuscany.
Hugh suspected that the welcome was politic, for he knew by now that these Tuscan city-states were profoundly suspicious of powerful, predatory neighbors like the Count. And Guy de Montfort was the Vicar, or Podestà, of Siena’s great rival, Florence. But even if they were motivated more by expediency than heartfelt enthusiasm, the cheers still echoed buoyantly on the mild, sunlit air, and Guy acknowledged the salutations with grace, with the polished poise of a man accustomed to public accolades. Just as his father had once been acclaimed in the streets of London, so was Guy acclaimed in the streets of Siena, as Hugh watched and marveled that this de Montfort son should have found his destiny in a land so far from England.
The fan-shaped Piazza del Campo was the converging point for the city’s three hills, the heart of Siena. Here markets were held, livestock penned up, fresh fish kept in huge wooden vats. Here fairs were celebrated. Here were played the rough-and-tumble games of elmora, in which young men formed teams and did mock battle with quarter staves, and pugna, in which weapons were barred, and palone, a boisterous form of football. Here stood the baratteria, a stockade roofed in canvas that served as the city’s gambling hall. And here were clustered the citizens of Siena, eager to take what pleasures they could in a bleak Lenten season, unwilling to squander such a spring-like Saturday on mundane matters of work.
Hugh was enthralled by it all—the noise and confusion and merriment, the circling doves and pealing church bells, the sun slanting off the red roofs and rich russet-brown bricks of the houses fronting upon the square, even the clouds of dust stirred up by the brawling elmora players. Siena seduced with practiced ease, and as he elbowed his way through the crowd, following Bran toward the baratteria, he decided that Italy was verily like Cockayne, that legendary land in which night was day and hot was cold, so completely had his own expectations been turned upside-down. For he had been utterly certain that he would dislike Italy, and just as sure he would like Guy de Montfort, his lord’s brother.
The Reckoning Page 4