by Sara Bennett
“There was another reason I asked,” he was saying. “Lord Henry is not a trusting man. He will never be completely convinced your father knows anything about this hidden secret until he has more proof. You must give him the name of this friend if you are to master him.”
His tone was persuasive, and his words made sense. But more proof? That would mean she would have to speak to her father again, wangle the name from him somehow. It was not something she relished. However, Rhona nodded brusquely and stood up, the fire flickering from the movement of her skirts. “Very well, Reynard, I will find out. Will we meet here next time?”
“Not here. The Black Dog, at Gunlinghorn Harbor. We will be safe there, and it will be more comfortable. Send me word when you are ready to join me there, my lady.”
Was it Rhona’s imagination, or did he mean something more than just her readiness to hear further information? Nay, she did not think it her imagination—there was that gleam in his eyes again. She pretended not to notice.
“The Black Dog. Very well.”
Reynard smiled into her eyes. “Remember,” he said softly, “I want you to enjoy me as much as I will enjoy you.” And then he turned and led her from the hut. Rhona found herself stumbling behind him, confused, angry. Outside it seemed colder than before, and Rhona waited while he fetched her mount, trying to still her trembling. As she moved to place her foot into the stirrup, Reynard caught her about the waist before she could protest, and tossed her up into the saddle.
Rhona steadied herself and turned, grasping the reins, feeling breathless and flushed. He must not know how he affected her. He must not realize how close she was to admitting the truth. That she would like nothing better than to lie in his arms and lose herself in the kisses of a churl.
“Farewell, Reynard.”
“Adieu, my lady.” He bowed, but not before she once again caught the dark gleam of his eyes and the teasing smile curling his mouth.
He knew.
God rot him! God curse him! Rhona cantered away from Uther’s Tower, her anger keeping her warm. But by the time she reached the bottom of the hill, her bad temper was forgotten and she was daring to dream of the next time.
Thoughtfully, Reynard walked back toward Uther’s Tower. Lady Rhona had shown remarkable candor; clearly the need to have Lord Henry leave Gunlinghorn was of much importance to her. Rhona, and through her, Baldessare, wanted the Lady Jenova alone and vulnerable. Reynard frowned, feeling the anger he had been holding back begin to burn. He could guess what that monster planned to do, and it was not pleasant.
Would Henry go? Reynard did not think Henry was the sort of man who would leave a woman defenseless to save his own skin. Besides, Henry would not go anywhere until he knew the name of his enemy, this friend Baldessare had spoken of. Rhona had promised to get that name for him, but he had seen the spark of fear deep in her eyes. Even Baldessare’s own daughter was afraid of him, he thought with disgust.
Mayhap she can be turned to our side?
The voice in his head gave him pause. Mayhap she could be turned. Reynard did not think she was evil at heart. She was proud, aye, and she had been hurt, and if half the stories about her were true, she had few scruples. But beneath her chilly exterior was a flesh-and-blood woman. He had held her, felt her tremble, seen the confusion in her beautiful face.
Lady Rhona was very troubled.
Was Reynard the man to save her from herself?
Chapter 15
Far beyond the keep, the sea pounded against the cliffs, white spray caught on the wind and tossed up onto the wharf at Gunlinghorn Harbor. The weather had deteriorated during the night, and although Henry had paid it little heed with Jenova wrapped in his arms beneath the warm furs, early this morning word had come to the castle that another ship had gone aground, a coastal trader seeking shelter from the storm.
“I am worried,” Jenova said, and her green eyes were candid as they met Henry’s. “Not for the seamen, thankfully they are safe. I am worried that my harbor will fill with silt and be no more. I had such plans, Henry!”
It was a very real fear. Many thriving, busy ports along the coast formed bars or spits that prevented craft from entering, and in some places the deep channels had silted up entirely. There were villages now where once, a hundred years ago, the sea had ebbed and flowed.
“Do you wish me to take a look, sweeting?”
Jenova was very proud of her position as lady, and Henry was careful to not assume more than she was offering. But this time she seemed so woebegone, so in need of help, that he reached out and touched her cheek, his fingers sliding back into her long, curling hair.
She leaned into his palm, nuzzling against him with perfect trust. Like Raf. It made his heart hurt, and the bitterness of his own unworthiness tasted like ashes in his mouth.
“That is generous of you, Henry. I know…I know you must have been wishing yourself home in London for many weeks now.”
Her dark lashes swept down, hiding her eyes, and she bit her lip. Henry caught his breath. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, breathing in the scent of her, feeling the softness of her body, experiencing being with her. He wanted to tell her he would stay with her at Gunlinghorn forever, if she would let him.
But he did not; he dared not.
How could he, when he did not know what secrets Baldessare held? It might not be possible for Henry to stay. Tomorrow, he might be gone, riding north, leaving all this behind him. Leaving Jenova behind him. And yet…
“I would do anything for you,” he said quietly, and meant it with all his heart.
Jenova looked up at him, pleased surprise widening her green eyes, her mouth curving into a delighted smile. “Anything?” she asked, a little breathless.
Henry made himself smile back, made his voice teasing. “Well, almost anything. I refuse to empty Raf’s chamber pot again.”
Jenova’s lips quivered and she put her fingers to them, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “Oh, Henry, he did not ask it of you?”
Henry sighed. “He did. He did not want Agetha to think he was a baby, needing to relieve himself in the night. I had to pretend the piss was mine.”
Jenova gave a giggle, and then another. “Oh Henry.” Her laughter faded, and she rested her brow against his. He felt her trembling. “You say you will do anything for me, and I ask you now, before I lose my courage…. Will you stay at Gunlinghorn?”
He went cold and hot, one after the other, and suddenly he was trembling as much as she. “Jenova,” he whispered, “you know my place is in London. As much as I want to stay, I fear you would grow weary of me and be wishing me gone soon enough. I am…you do not know me so well as you think.”
He swallowed, wondering if the lump in his throat was from misery or fear; mayhap both. She had asked him to stay, she wanted him to stay, and he should be shouting with joy. Except that she did not know, and if Baldessare let free his secrets and she found out what sort of creature he really was, she would hate him. He would rather not be here to see that in her eyes.
A tear ran down her cheek. “Oh Henry,” she said again in a shaky voice. Another tear slid after the first.
This time Henry did take her in his arms, holding her. She dissolved into more tears, and yet he didn’t ask why.
He didn’t have to.
The sea rolled in, sullen and gray, matching the clouds above. The boat that had struck the sandbar had been dragged clear and now rested against the wharf, unloading its cargo. Master Will was much in evidence, casting his eye over everything, playing at being in charge. He nodded at Henry, but it was clear he was wishing him anywhere but here.
“Not a friend of yours, my lord?”
Henry smiled at Reynard without humor. “He blames me for his failure to swindle Lady Jenova. He does not realize she is far too clever to be swindled by him or anyone else.”
Reynard gazed out at the sea. “So, what is it you intend to do here? The silt will continue to come, unless something is done to stop
it.”
“You are aright, Reynard.” Henry cast his eye over the entrance to the harbor. “What we need is a sea groin, a narrow wall striking out into the sea, a barrier to stop the currents from washing the silt into the harbor entrance.”
“There was such a thing here before, long ago.”
Henry looked to him with interest. “How do you know that?”
“Matilda, my aunt, at the Black Dog. When the first ship ran aground she said her husband had told her that at one time there had been a timber and stone wall, running out into the sea. It was old, very old, and rotted even when her husband’s father was a boy. Roman built, perhaps.”
“The Romans have been busy at Gunlinghorn. Do you know where it was? Exactly?”
“I can find out, my lord. There will be signs still, and memories are long here.”
“Then that is where we will build our sea groin.”
Reynard nodded. “It will take many men, and much hard work, quarrying the rock and carrying it here. And we will need timber from the woods. Have we enough men for it?”
“We can bring in more from my estates. And it will be worth it in the long run. Gunlinghorn has the chance to grow rich on profits from this harbor. We cannot afford to lose it.”
Henry heard the we too late to keep himself from saying it. We, as if he and Jenova were a pair. As if Gunlinghorn belonged to them both. She had asked him to stay, and he was too much of a coward to explain why he had to go. She had said she would forgive him almost anything, but Henry did not believe her. The cold, hard truth was that, deep inside, Henry honestly believed he was not worthy of a woman like Jenova.
“Then any amount of trouble is worth it,” Reynard agreed. “And if it fails, then at least we will have tried.” He did not seem to be aware of Henry’s silence, or if he was, he was too clever to give himself away.
“Aye, sometimes one has to try.”
He should tell her, but the very thought of opening that door to his past made him shake and tremble. The risks were too great. He could bear it if the king turned away from him, or if his friends scorned him, but not Jenova. If Jenova lost her faith in him, then Henry knew he would die.
The two men stood a moment, looking out to the sea, both deep in their own thoughts. The cold, salty air blew against Henry’s face, clearing his mind. He would build the sea groin. Even if he did no more and was not here to see it finished, he would begin the task and order its completion. It would be for Jenova, something that would last for many, many years to come, long after Henry was gone. And mayhap, when she looked upon it, she would remember him kindly.
“Lord Henry?”
Reynard was still standing beside him, but he was no longer looking out to sea. He was gazing beyond the wharf and the timber buildings that lined it, to the narrow track that led across the sand dunes and up onto the clifftops.
Henry followed his gaze. There were a horse and rider coming swiftly in their direction. The wind was blowing the rider’s cloak back behind him like a pair of large black wings. Beneath them he wore some sort of dark robe, a priest’s robe, and his face…
He had no face.
“Jesu,” Reynard whispered, crossing himself. Several of the seamen working close by also crossed themselves, as if they were in the presence of evil.
The man and horse reached the wharf, hooves clattering across the timber surface, before drawing to an abrupt halt only a few yards from where Henry and Reynard stood. Henry realized now that the man was not faceless, as he had first thought. Where his face should have been, he wore a cloth hood, with holes cut for his eyes and mouth. It was the sort of thing Henry had seen worn by lepers. Was that what this priest was? A leper? Or one who had worked among them, and then been taken by that dreadful sickness?
And yet there was something threatening about him that caused Henry to think this was not a friendly visit. “Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded loudly, resting his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
The priest settled his restive mount, his gloved fingers stroking the beast’s neck. It was a fine animal, a black stallion, and more suited to a wealthy and powerful baron than a mere priest. He had lifted his face in Henry’s direction, and although Henry could not see his features, he felt his stare. There was a stillness about him, a silence, that was entirely menacing.
Henry felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
“Who are you?” Reynard repeated and also stepped forward, half drawing his sword from its scabbard.
“I am Jean-Paul. Father Jean-Paul.”
He spoke in a husky voice. It was not one that Henry recognized, and yet…there was something. He began to tremble, deep inside, and his breath came quick and fast.
“I am Lord Baldessare’s chaplain,” the grating voice went on. It was impossible to see his eyes through the cloth mask, only dark holes where they should have been. The effect was unsettling. Henry wanted to tear the mask aside and see the face beneath.
“What are you doing here, Father Jean-Paul?” Reynard was sliding his blade back into the safety of its scabbard. “Have you come to buy wool or wine?” He nodded at the coastal trader.
“I have come to speak with Lord Henry of Montevoy.”
“Then it is me you want,” Henry said, taking a step forward, although the wharf seemed to be swaying beneath his feet. His eyes were fixed on that cloth mask with a mixture of longing and terror, and he was not certain if he wanted to gaze upon the face beneath.
Silence. The head tilted to one side, as though the eyes within were examining Henry’s person, taking careful note of him. Henry’s sense of foreboding grew. This is not right, there is something very wrong with this priest.
“I have a message for you.”
“From whom?”
“From Lord Baldessare.”
“Deliver it then. You are wasting my time.” That was better; some of his usual authority had returned to him.
The priest’s shoulders shook slightly, although he made no sound. He was laughing! Anger spiraled through Henry. By God, he would remove this man’s hood and see him for what he was! But just as he moved forward to do so, that husky voice came again, sly and intimate, and stopped him in his tracks.
“Baldessare knows the truth about you, Lord Henry. He knows about le château de Nuit. He will spread the story of your past among your powerful friends, and I have no doubt it will soon reach the ears of the king. What will become of you then, Lord Henry? Who will stand by your side then?”
He couldn’t breathe. Henry could not breathe. And then suddenly the air whooshed back into his lungs, filling them, making him cough. Jesu, he knew! Baldessare knew! It was exactly as Henry had feared. Baldessare knew, because someone had told him. Someone else had survived that appalling place. Someone who was prepared to hurt Henry, to destroy him, for some secret purpose of his own.
Henry took another breath. “No,” he said, and wondered if that was really his own voice, trembling like an old man’s. He closed his eyes, gathering his strength, reminding himself of who and what he was. He was a phoenix, raised from the ashes. He was a great and powerful lord. He had no reason to be afraid of Baldessare and his friend.
“No.” He repeated it more firmly. “Baldessare knows nothing of me. You lie. If he means me mischief, then I will deal with him. Tell Baldessare that, sir priest. Tell him that he had best watch his back if he wants to start a war with Lord Henry of Montevoy.”
The shoulders shook again in silent amusement. “And what of Lady Jenova, my lord? Will she believe you? Or will the doubt that is sown in her head be your destruction? You will lose her, and Gunlinghorn, too. You will never be able to return here. How will you feel then, Beau Henri?”
Beau Henri.
Henry felt the nausea strike within him and a sudden grinding pain behind his eyes, making his vision blur. He had not heard that name for a very long time, except sometimes in his nightmares. Now he lifted a white and ravaged face toward his tormentor and whispered, “W
ho are you?”
“I am the messenger, that is all,” the voice went on, indifferent to his pain. No, that was not so, not indifferent. Enjoying his pain. Reveling in his pain.
The priest’s cruelty steadied him; his realization that this man was his deadly enemy made him stronger.
“Baldessare would be generous,” the priest continued. “He would give you a choice.”
“What choice?” Henry said.
“You can leave here. Leave Gunlinghorn. If you do that, you can keep your reputation and your high place in the king’s court. Nothing will be said of your past. But you can never return here, and you cannot take Lady Jenova with you. And before you go, you will persuade her that it is in her best interests to marry Lord Baldessare—my lord has decided he would make a better husband than his son, Alfric. The lady needs a stronger hand. Indeed, Lord Henry, he asks that you give them your blessing before you leave. My Lord Baldessare will do the rest.”
For a moment the nausea was so intense that Henry thought he was going to be sick right there on the wharf, in front of the priest and the curious crowd. The priest wanted him to leave Jenova. Abandon her to her fate. Encourage her to marry that beast Baldessare. Not Alfric, who was weak but could be molded into an acceptable husband. Nay, not Alfric, but his father, who was good for nothing but savagery and inhumanity.
She wouldn’t do it, not willingly. Jenova was no fool. But if Henry wasn’t here…
He was being given a choice. A choice between keeping Jenova and keeping his present, comfortable position at the court. In short, he could have one or the other, but he could not have both.
But it was far more diabolical than that. Baldessare was not just asking for Henry to give up being Jenova’s friend and lover; he was asking Henry to help make Jenova his prisoner. As Baldessare’s wife, Jenova would no longer be the independent woman she now was, able to oversee Gunlinghorn and its people, to rule as she saw fit. She would no longer be able to stand in the role of protector to her son, to Raf, until he was old enough to rule for himself. That, too, would be taken from her, and Raf would undergo training as Baldessare saw fit. And having seen Alfric, Henry shuddered to think what Baldessare would do to Raf, or what he would become.