by Brit Darby
He shrugged. “Some say Lord de Lacy is a mad dog, aye, but let us not be hasty to judge the man. He does have the sense to admire your rare beauty.”
Alianor ignored the compliment. She had seen Quintin de Lacy only from a distance. The Norman lord resided in Ireland and came to court with his men to compete in the occasional tourney. She remembered little of de Lacy save his piercing stare. Isabella had teased her, saying she must have ensorcelled the poor fellow.
“De Lacy has pestered us for your hand ever since Walter’s death,” the King said.
“Never speak milord husband’s Christian name again,” Alianor snapped. “You are not worthy of it crossing your lips.”
King John threw back his head and laughed, but the tone held no mirth or warmth. Whether her outburst prompted outrage or delight was unclear.
“When we packed you off to a creaky old knight, we expected you to shiver and cry whenever his gnarled hands pawed you,” he said. He looked at her with a cruel glint in his gaze. “Did you, sweet Alianor? Did you shudder with repulsion whenever the old goat mounted you?”
“Your words disgust me, but they are not nearly as vile as the man who speaks them.” She knew her words were treasonous, but she had little left to lose now. He had already taken everything from her.
He smiled at her retort but, unlike the glint, it never reached his eyes. “We will have your choice, Lady Coventry.”
“Else what?”
“Else our men pay a visit to St. Martin-le-Grand. We hear rumor of a particularly troublesome monk residing there. One who defies the Interdict. A King mustn’t tolerate treasonous actions, even from the pious.”
She drew in her breath. “You would not. The Queen —”
“Knows better than to interfere, even for your sake. We grow weary of your defiance. Have a care, Lady Coventry, for accidents have a way of befalling those you hold dear.”
ALIANOR FELT THE COLOR leave her face and her breath vanish as if snatched away. The smug look on the King’s face told her his words held hidden meaning.
Flashes of the day when Walter was injured paraded across her mind. She and Isabella were watching from the solar one autumn afternoon as the men took turns jousting in the courtyard. The knights practiced often to keep their skills sharp, and even at his age Walter was still one of the most skilled.
Late in the day, King John rode forth into the yard clad in his royal armor ready to join the practice. He had done so before, though of course his knights did not try too hard to unseat him. They knew better than to hurt or humiliate their liege.
From the window high above the yard, Alianor strained to hear more conversation in the yard but she could not. She had an odd sense of foreboding when the King pointed his lance at Walter in challenge. Walter bowed his acceptance and mounted his charger, taking the lance brought by his squire.
As the horses cantered to opposite ends of the yard and their riders wheeled them about to face one another, Alianor rested her palms on the windowsill above, her fingernails digging into the stone. Beside her, the Queen was prattling something about babies.
Isabella leaned against her and whispered, “Methinks I am enceinte again.” She giggled with delight but spoke so the other ladies would not overhear. “But Nora, I would not have it bandied about court until I’m certain. John will be furious if my courses come instead of another son.”
Distracted by the proceedings below, Alianor murmured, “What if it’s a little princess this time?”
“Nay, John would never permit it,” Isabella sighed, her words heavy with worry.
Alianor patted the Queen’s tiny hand resting beside hers on the windowsill. “It will all work out,” she assured Isabella, and they heard a clang from the yard below.
Both women gasped as the knights thundered past one another on their war horses, helmeted heads low and lances aimed. They saw Walter’s lance strike the King’s shield dead center. There was a mighty crack! and Alianor’s knees weakened with relief when Walter rode by and tossed aside his shattered lance.
Thank Jesu they only used practice weapons. She laughed a little nervously as Isabella exclaimed, “My John will seek vengeance for that skilled blow.”
Again the two men circled their steeds, and a squire ran out to give Walter another wooden lance to replace the one lost in mock battle.
During the break, Walter pushed up his face shield and looked at Alianor in the window. Grinning, he waved his lance. “I beg thy favor, fair lady!”
“How sweet,” Isabella cried. Before Alianor could react, the Queen had pulled a ribbon from her hair and tossed it out the window. The red ribbon rippled down in the wind, and Walter caught it on the shaft of his lance.
Walter nodded thanks and a moment later his wife’s ribbon dangled from his sleeve. He slammed down his face shield, couched his lance underarm and set his heels to his prancing sorrel.
At the opposite end of the yard, the King followed suit and dug his golden spurs into his white mount. With fury he charged at Walter, and though Alianor could not see his piggy little eyes due to the helmet shield, she knew they were fixed upon his opponent.
A metallic flash blinded her. Perhaps the King’s shield reflected the sun? Another ringing blow, but this time there was no laughter or good-natured shouts in the yard. Instead, as if in a dream, she heard a collective gasp from the onlookers. When the dust cleared, she saw Walter lying crumpled in the yard.
A page ran and caught Walter’s runaway horse but Alianor saw little else. Instead confusion reigned, as the other knights and apprentices swarmed over the yard and obscured her view of her husband.
“Walter,” she screamed, unaware of the Queen begging her to stay calm or the slippers she lost as she tore through the halls and down multiple flights of stairs, bursting out into the fall sunshine with a wail of frantic denial.
She remembered the King still sitting upon his chuffing horse, watching from a distance. Unlike the others, he made no move to rush to Walter’s aid. Alianor fought through the milling crowd until she reached her fallen knight.
“Lady Coventry, do not —” one of the young squires began, but she slapped aside his hands and flung herself to the ground beside her unmoving husband.
Someone had removed Walter’s helmet, and she cradled his dear gray head in her lap, brushing his damp hair and her own tears from his craggy face. She heard other voices buzzing around them, but it seemed as if from a great distance away. She recognized one in particular.
She raised a tear-streaked face as King John strode over to them. “God’s tooth,” he swore. “The sun blinded us but a moment, and our lance slipped …”
“This lance, Sire?” one of the knights asked, looking grim as he held forth a bloody lance found in the grass. The glint of the weapon in the sun revealed it to be a metal-tipped lance, not one normally used in practice.
But the King did not seem to hear the question and blustered on. “Surely our good knight is only winded from the fall. His age, y’know.” He hovered, watching and wringing his hands.
The squires removed Walter’s armor to examine his injuries. He was as yet unconscious, but when the armor was taken away Alianor saw her husband’s chest still rose and fell. Relief swarmed over her.
“Faith, we did not mean to deal a mortal blow,” the King cried, pacing back and forth and fretting like a youth caught in a lie.
“Coventry’s not dead, Sire,” someone said.
“He’s not?”
Thinking back, Alianor realized the King’s response held disappointment, not worry. He assumed Walter lay dead or dying. Now, all these months later, she understood the emotion she had seen in his eyes before he turned and departed the yard, crushing the remnants of her red ribbon favor beneath his heel.
She also recalled the flash she’d seen earlier from the window. The King had come to training with a metal-tipped lance used in battle, rather than those sported in tournaments. He had meant to kill Walter.
WHAT HAPPENED A
FTER, OF course, was known by all. While the wound in Walter’s side was not fatal, within a week it festered. Despite Alianor’s skills and others in attendance, the fever and infection spread, robbing the already aged knight of his strength.
All winter Alianor tended Walter, distrustful of any save herself or Edie to see to his care. King John had even sent his personal physic, but she sent the man away. Perhaps, her woman’s instincts sensed he sought a means by which he could harm Walter further.
Tears filled her eyes at the memory. Determined to hide her distress from the King now, Alianor blinked the moisture away and considered her present position. She knew he was threatening Cam, and forcing her to choose between his bed or de Lacy’s. He delighted in twisted games. Which was the lesser of two evils? How could she possibly choose?
“A wager,” she said. It came to her lips as if inspired. Or, perhaps, insane.
“Wager?”
King John looked irritated but saw she had sparked his interest. It was well-known he fancied himself a brilliant strategist and she depended on his ego dominating common sense.
“Yes, Your Majesty. I propose we play a game for the chance to rule my fate. It’s only fair. And you are reckoned a fair man, are you not?”
“What kind? Dice, draughts? Cards, mayhap?”
“Chess.”
This made him laugh with his donkey-like bray. “Chess? The Royal Game? Oh, a rich jest indeed, milady Alianor. For it’s commonly known no woman has a head for it.”
“Then you should not fear losing, Your Majesty.”
John considered her challenge. Why was she so damned confident? Did she plan a trick to gull him when his back was turned? Well, it would never happen. He reached for a bell-pull and summoned his servant. He ordered the man to bring a table, two chairs, the game — and three witnesses. With witnesses to her defeat, he thought, she would have no choice but to accept her loss and her fate.
He still had not decided which he preferred — Alianor as his mistress or trundled off to warm de Lacy’s bed. The wealthy and powerful Norman lord was ever a thorn in his side, but the fool had vowed his fealty if the King of England would give him Lady Alianor as a bride.
De Lacy was said to be rich, richer even than Croesus. John knew he could secure another valuable alliance using Alianor’s beauty and de Lacy’s lust. Was it worth abandoning his plan to make her his royal whore? Aye, he thought. For now. He was King of England, Lord of Ireland. One day he would have both de Lacy’s wealth and Alianor in his bed — this much he vowed.
Assured of his success, he sat and faced Alianor over the board. She played white, he black. Her first moves were foolish, and he captured two of her pawns. He chortled with glee and looked at the three witnesses. Obedient servants all, they politely applauded to acknowledge his genius.
Alianor frowned in concentration. Her slender hand moved again, and again, and before John knew it, he had lost a knight.
“God’s foot,” he swore, looking at the board and her in disbelief. “Who taught you that move?”
“You need not ask.”
His lip curled. “The very name you forbade your King speak?”
In response she claimed his bishop. Angry, he took her castle.
Alianor’s lips twitched, for the King’s arrogance was his undoing, leading him into her trap. Now she sprang it. She moved her queen for the kill. “Check.”
The King sputtered, staring in dismay at the board and at her and back again.
“You are in check, Sire,” Alianor said. “Have a care for your next move.”
The witnesses watching grew nervous as the mounting tension and the King’s mounting ire became obvious.
“It cannot be,” John muttered beneath his breath. He studied the board in desperation. Long minutes passed, but nothing came to him. How could a mere woman master a game of war, of pure strategy? Surely Coventry only trained her like a parrot to memorize and mock the movements. ’Twas impossible she understood the game. He saw an opening and with triumph seized her remaining knight.
Knocking her white horse aside, he gave a victorious cry. “Ahh-hah.”
Alianor did not respond for a long moment. He looked at her in disappointment, having expected tears or at the least, a moan of ladylike dismay or delicate sigh of defeat.
“Checkmate,” she said instead, gentle like a leaf settling upon a grassy knoll.
John looked down and through a rising red haze saw the white queen had moved to confront, trap, and defeat the black king.
“Nay,” he whispered. His face flushed to a deep red as he studied her move. “No!” This time he shouted his denial then swept the board and its contents onto the floor. Alianor jumped as the marble board shattered, pieces flew, and a pawn spinning through the air nicked her left cheek in passing.
“You cheated,” he declared hotly. “A mere female is incapable of comprehending the game.”
Shocked by his accusation, she said, “I assure you, Sire, I am quite knowledgable of chess and its complicated maneuverings.”
Like a child hurling a tantrum, the King sprang to his feet and defiantly cried to the onlookers, “In light of Lady Coventry’s deceit, we are hereby declared victor.” He whirled on Alianor. “We have won, and you, my dear, have lost!”
Alianor almost laughed but the crazed look in his eyes made her quash the urge. Everyone knew she had fairly won the game. This moment would pass and sanity would be restored.
Two words froze her blood. “Congratulations, Sire.”
One witness, a callow youth with a shock of brown hair, looked at his feet when Alianor’s stare confronted him. The others murmured their congratulations to the King.
Panting, John looked at them one by one. He calmed — they dared not defy their sovereign. He had won. He had won. He had won. The rhythmic, silent chant in his head soothed his battered pride.
Still chuffing hard like a horse after a race, he turned on Alianor, his mottled face twisted into a sneer.
“Prepare yourself, Lady Coventry,” he bellowed. “You leave on the morrow. By the rood, I’ll send de Lacy’s hungry cock a sample of our fine English tarts!”
Chapter Three
Ireland
Spring — 1210
“HAVE YOU LOST ALL your senses, Uilleam?”
Whenever his uncle used his full name, Liam knew Niall was unhappy with him. The two men sat side by side in the cover of Crone’s Wood, while the other eight men riding with them stayed hidden along the road.
Liam’s blood-bay gelding stirred under the saddle. Biorra acted as impatient as his master felt. “Niall, I’ve explained myself three times already. I’ll not do it again.”
His decision was made and Liam hoped his words would see an end to the argument. Unfortunately, he was not so lucky. After all, the man at his side was cut from the same stubborn cloth.
“Aye, but ’tis Quintin de Lacy you propose crossing.” Niall didn’t sound as incredulous as he had when Liam first mentioned his plans. This time he sounded worried.
Biorra snorted and Liam did, too. “De Lacy is no different than any other mark. We do whatever we must to provide for our people. Would you have me cower like a whipped cur at the mere mention of his name?”
From the corner of his eye, Liam saw Niall shake his head. “Nay,” his uncle sighed, conceding this round of battle lost.
Liam grinned, and leaned over from his saddle to slap Niall on the shoulder. “Stop harping like an old fishwife. If I wanted to hear naggin’, I’d be married, wouldn’t I?”
Niall chuckled, but his heart wasn’t in it. His brow furrowed. “I fear de Lacy’s a different animal, Liam. Best not to mess with men of his ilk.”
“Nonsense,” Liam said. “He’s a man, no different than us, other than he’s a Norman swine.” He waited for Niall to laugh and break the tension in the air. He did not.
“Aye, a man,” Niall’s voice lowered, as if he feared someone might be listening, “but I’ve ne’er heard of a more malevolent
one. ’Tis said he threw his first wife down stone steps in a fit of mad rage, and killed her right enough. An’ the child she carried.”
A chill touched Liam. Or did something cold brush up against him? Maybe a damp branch, for the forest was dense. He shook off his unease. “The tale was never proved true.”
“Witnesses paid off, no doubt, by de Lacy’s deep purse,” Niall muttered. “Is it worth the risk of provoking pure evil? Surely not.”
“You heard what Fearghas said back at the inn. This widow wed de Lacy with blessings from the Sassenach King himself. She’s traveling with the King’s own guard. What does it tell us, Niall? Her worth and thus her dowry will be substantial. So aye, I’d say the risk’s damme well worth it.”
“Poor lady,” Niall said.
“Aye, de Lacy’s bawdy preferences are legendary. A pinch-faced old widow hasn’t a prayer of pleasing him. But faced with a hag, mayhap we should pity de Lacy instead.” Again, his attempt at humor fell on deaf ears.
“Bawdy preferences?” Niall spat in disgust. “Why, the man’s touch is a curse itself. Remember when the little O’Grady twins went to work there …”
A shrill cry pierced the air, eerie enough to freeze the blood of even the hardiest men. Their mounts shied at the sound echoing through the misty trees. Neither hawk nor owl, nor anything human. The two men looked at each other.
“Bean-sidhe,” Niall said, reaching down to pat his gray mare’s shivering withers in an attempt to calm her. “’Tis She on the wind.”
“Well, if the banshee be keening this night, it doesn’t bode well for the English. After all, it’s the men of Eire She loves and protects.”
At last Niall laughed. “Aye, Liam, an’ surely Her warning is meant for the Sassenach soldiers, not the Emerald Prince.”
A COLD, DAMP WIND fluttered the curtains on the carriage sheltering two women as it trundled through the Wicklow Mountains.
Alianor flicked the curtains back and peered into the gloomy woods. Each jolt of the carriage was another nail hammered into the coffin of her destiny. She saw nothing to alarm her in the falling dusk. Still, the dread inside her grew.