‘Sir Simon has more washin’ for you, Maudie.’ The sergeant was clearly put out by her behaviour.
‘Ah, ain’t you the courteous knight, my lord earl,’ murmured Maud, ‘an’ to come in person, too, but as you see, I’m indisposed.’
‘Then this wench can do it.’ The sergeant tossed the bloodstained bundle at Adela’s feet. ‘Get on down to the river!’
‘Actually, no,’ intervened Derwent, swiftly stepping in front of Adela and setting a restraining, comradely arm around Richart’s waist. ‘We only launder words, press irony, wring out jests—long or short—scrub up buffoonery, paddle the juste mot and air the lyric. In truth, my lord, we three are trouvères in the wrong place at an unfortunate time, washed up like wrecking on the bank of the Orb River.’ He bowed and Adela curtsied again. ‘It’s true, my lord earl,’ she agreed in Norman French. Inside her heart was drumming with fear at what this Simon might do to them.
‘Indeed?’ he sneered, frowning at his untouched washing, and then with equal distaste at Derwent, ‘and where are your instruments and juggling balls?’
‘Here, my lord, our instruments are God-given.’ Derwent lifted his fingertips to his throat.
‘Sing and prove it!’ Beneath the gingery eyebrows, the cold blue eyes seemed to be already measuring Richart for a noose.
Adela held her breath. Surely the Lord of Mirascon’s repertorium was in the southern tongue? To her amazement, he calmly bowed and then began to sing in Latin.
His voice was strong, beautiful, ringing out beyond the tent walls.
Te Deum laudamus,
Te Dominum confitemur.
Te æternum Patrem omnis
Terra veneratur.
Beside Adela, Derwent drew a relieved sigh, and outside all conversation had ceased. Somewhere nearby, a deeper voice joined in the repetition of Sanctus, then other men began singing with them, until across the entire camp the soldiers took up the anthem.
Richart ceased singing before the multitude of voices, speaking the last words like a prayer: ‘In te, Domine, speravi: non confundar in æternum.’ ‘ His voice was husky with emotion, his unreadable expression visoring the appalling irony as he reached out to Adela. Her cheeks were awash with tears as she surrendered into the comfort of his arm. Had the angels heard? Were they, too, weeping as they beheld the queue of souls at Heaven’s gate?
Outside, hands came together in applause beside every camp-fire, in every tent.
The hard zeal of faith that had burned in Sir Simon’s eyes cooled into speculation. ‘We will keep you,’ he said gruffly, drawing out some coins from his purse in thanks. ‘Any man who can do that is worth a city. I’ll see you get extra rations tonight for these people, Peter.’ But as he pushed aside the canvas flap to leave, there was a sudden hubbub outside that had Adela gripping Richart’s hand, then an older man in a costly scarlet tunic with a distinctive golden cross stitched upon it strode in.
‘They tell me that the singer …’ Astonishment flooded his face as his gaze fell across Derwent then Richart. ‘Holy Mary!’ he exclaimed with such vehemence that Sir Simon changed his mind about leaving, hostility once more rampant in his eyes.
‘Troubadour, my noble lord,’ corrected Derwent quickly with a fulsome bow to the stranger. ‘Had the whole camp singing.’
‘He did, did he?’ muttered the newcomer cryptically, his eyes not leaving Richart. Adela, still in her lord’s embrace, felt the furious tabor-stick of his heartbeat against her shoulder. A commander who recognised Richart? Little wonder her beloved rescuer was as taut as a crossbow string. Would they drag him to grovel for his life before the abbot?
‘You know this man?’
‘Oh yes, Sir Simon.’ An assessing stare flicked over Adela in her borrowed attire and did not linger.
‘Who is he, then?’
Raising his eyebrows, the noble stranger gave the Norman a nonchalant stare as if the question was of little consideration, but he did deign to reply. ‘A troubadour, much favoured by my comtesse.’
‘A heretic?’ the earl prompted with a bigot’s hunger.
‘No.’ Lordly eyebrows arched in distaste. ‘Nor a good servant of Holy Church like many were this day, but then, minstrels are known for their disrespect. Come and amuse me, friends. God knows I need distraction.’
Sir Simon did not like that. ‘But we’ll need to talk about tomorrow, my lord. Burgundy, Nevers and our abbot are expecting you to sup with them.’
The newcomer’s lips lifted into a tepid smile. ‘Of course, Sir Simon. Be assured I shall be there. Come!’ He clapped a firm hand on Richart’s shoulder. Was there a choice? Richart seemed willing, drawing Adela to follow, yet Maud’s look was begging her to stay.
Stay with the crusaders as a servant? Or was it a warning? With the earl and the sergeant watching, she freed herself and stooped to kiss Maud’s cheek. ‘Dearest, God bless.’ Hard-worn fingers tightened meaningfully, persuasively, around her shoulders. No! To remain was to condone the slaughter. How could Maud expect that of her? With a swift curtsey to the English earl, she joined Richart outside.
‘I thought maybe … No matter.’ He took her arm. ‘Stay close!’
The nobleman in scarlet divulged nothing as he led them through the camp. Soldiers rose from their cooking fires and touched their foreheads to him as he passed.
Are we in danger from this man? Derwent’s expression asked. Richart grimaced and scraped a finger across his own lips.
When they reached the south-west edge of the camp where horses were paddocked, the noble lord ordered two to be saddled, picking out a dull-eyed rouncey and an ambler. Then, making sure no one was within earshot, he demanded in a fierce whisper, ‘Were you spying, Richart, you young fool?’
‘He was rescuing me,’ Adela asserted.
An autocratic eyebrow rose. ‘And who might you be, his washerwoman?’
‘Alys,’ she answered, pride spurring defiance as she galloped in further. ‘Lady Alys, his bride from England. Who might you be?’ Oh fool, fool! It was Richart’s decision who she was. However, the great lord’s lips twitched and he condescended to answer.
‘Raymon, Comte de Toulouse.’
Richart’s overlord! Leonor’s husband, the cote-changing Judas? Improvising a gracious nod, Adela murmured, ‘King John sent you his greetings, my lord.’ Behind her skirt, she heard Derwent burst into coughing.
‘Ha!’ retorted the comte. ‘Much good that does me. And I’ll not seek the wheres and whyfores of your half-starved appearance, Lady Alys.’ He was looking past her at Richart, his gaze indulgent. ‘Well, young man?’
‘Haven’t you heard that my brother and uncle deposed me?’ Richart’s hand was round Adela’s wrist, pressing her to be silent.
‘How in—’ The question stayed broken as one of the horseboys scampered past at his elbow and his forbidding hand slammed the air before Richart could draw breath. ‘No time for explanations. You’d better go and amend things, boy! Ride as if the Devil were after you. Come to me at Toulouse when this horror ends—if it ends. Be gone!’
‘Not before I know where this bloody army is heading.’
‘Carcassonne, of course, but some of them may come your way. Go! And God be with you, for he certainly was not here this day.’
‘Nor you should have been!’ growled Richart. ‘The slaying of that papal legate begat all this, innocents dead, our land pillaged. You let loose a dragon that cannot now be caged.’
The comte grabbed him by the tunic. ‘You throw this in my face when I’m trying to save your lives?’
‘It was on your watch, Raymon.’
‘Please!’ Adela pushed her hands between them. ‘Let him go to save Mirascon, my lord.’
‘If he can,’ sneered Comte Raymon. Grabbing the horse’s leading rein, he set it in Richart’s hand. ‘Go, before I change my mind.’
Chapter Twenty-six
I have kept nothing for myself, save this, to be now completely yours.
Héloïse to Abel
ard
‘Well, there’s a goodly outcome,’ whispered Derwent as they stealthily led the horses out to the western road. ‘Voilà, my friend, if only you had warbled at King John, he might have given you half his empire. Ouf!’ Tossed onto the saddle by a still-fuming troubadour, he grinned at Adela and held out a hand. ‘Your pardon, Lady Alys, you’ll have to ride with me. With your knees and my voice, we might just about manage.’
The smoke of the gruesome bonfires was in their clothes, their memories scarred, their beliefs as confused and uncertain as their future. For Adela, sitting astride behind Derwent and sharing the reins, the necessity to tamper her fear of the horse and attend wholly to the practicalities of staying on the saddle distracted her from the ugly fear of being recaptured. Her other thoughts, when she was mindful of them, were gathered on the man riding ahead of her. Was she an obligation honoured and soon farewelled, or would he take her back to be his mistress? She would agree to be in his life, if that was what he desired, only until he wed. A triangular relationship might suffice for the Holy Trinity, but it made for discord in the earthly bedchamber. What she needed to understand was why he had set aside his responsibilities to seek her? What was this talk of his fiefdom being seized from him?
Derwent brushed aside her questions. ‘Ask him. I was not there.’
‘And yet you are of a sudden brothers-in-arms?’
‘I was not there.’
As they reached the wild woods and it became hard to see the ruts of the road, she was relieved that Richart decreed a halt until first light. He led them in among the trees, well away from the road.
‘I’ll keep first watch,’ Derwent offered. ‘And let the wench sleep, friend.’
Richart’s retort was concise and defensive.
Relieved that the constant bump of leather was no longer bruising her rear, Adela lowered herself stiffly onto the dry leaves. The rustling shadows, the silvered, jagged branches, fierce beneath the old half-moon, brought back harsh rememberings. She chided herself: it was not the trees but men that were her enemies. Gratitude must, would, suffice. To hear nightingales and redstart once more and feel the fingertips of evening breeze playing upon her skin were simple joys and her soul whispered humble thanks to the complexity of human courage that had given her liberty when so many others had died that day. Within her, she recognised a hungry recklessness begotten by war, the urge to snatch a brief happiness before Death intervened again. The man she loved was with her and her body was ripe with desire, yearning to be gathered into his arms.
Not surprisingly, he seemed to be thinking the same as he sat down next to her. Although he kept his sword to hand, Adela was instantly rearranged, tucked within a possessive, lordly cuddle. If she encouraged him, lying with her would release some of his unspent fury, except that Adela wanted the act to be of love not an assuagement of frustrated rage. Words would be needed to gentle him first. A man’s desire could become urgent in an instant. However, at the moment he seemed to be heeding Derwent’s advice.
‘Tell me what happened to you after you left the cathedral with Seguinus. I need to know.’
So, she told him of Seguinus’s treachery, of L’Aiguille and Giso. For her own peace of mind, she did not resurrect the verbal abuse, the cuffs and cruelty she had suffered as a kitchen slave.
‘Where do you think L’Aiguille is now?’ he asked, his hand stroking her slowly between wrist and shoulder. ‘Was there talk of her joining the crusade or travelling to England?’
‘I wish I could tell you.’ Then she dared ask, ‘My lord, Derwent says that you are turned out of Mirascon. Is that true?’
‘Turned out?’ The stroking ceased. ‘No, I escaped. Jaufré had me imprisoned in the tower cage. I’m not sure how I can take back Mirascon, Al … dela, but I’m going to try.’ A bitter huff of breath. ‘Did Grand-mère or Marie tell you that Jaufré is Seguinus’s son?’
‘What! No, I did not know.’ Now she better understood the dislike between them.
‘While my father was fighting in the Holy Land, my uncle had an affaire de coeur with my stepmother. Father was slain at the Battle of Hattin, three months before the kingdom of Jerusalem was taken by the Saracens so, mercifully, he never found out about her infidelity, and Grand-père decided, for the honour of the family, to recognise Jaufré as lawful. “Still, my own blood,” he said.’
‘But the dates would surely—’
‘The battle was in July, about half a year after he left Mirascon. My stepmother died a few months later giving birth.’ He was silent for a few heartbeats then he said, ‘Grand-père favoured me more than Jaufré because I was his heir just as he’d favoured my father more than Seguinus. That was the corruption in our midst—two generations of a brother’s envy. Seguinus wants to purify Mirascon and I’ve been preventing him.’ He dragged a hand across his brow. ‘They’ve been trying to poison me, using Yolande. I wanted their love and support, couldn’t they see that? They’re my flesh and blood and I should have contained their malice, but it would have divided our people when unity was essential.’
Remembering her father, she understood betrayal. ‘I thought Yolande loved you.’
‘I don’t know. Your—Alys’s—arrival brought matters to a head. She wanted to be Vicomtesse of Mirascon. I suspect Jaufré led her to think he’d wed her.’
‘Did you love her?’
‘She was good company, good in bed.’
Adela fell silent at the male dismissal. Was that her future, to be ‘good’ in bed when he wasn’t with his noble wife? And if he failed to regain his power? She could imagine Seguinus sliding a wire around her throat and pulling.
He diverted the conversation. ‘We owe Maud, your English friend, a great debt. I am sorry you did not have a chance to make a proper farewell.’
We! Was the imperious Richart back or did he really mean
‘we’?
‘She wanted me to stay with her, you know.’
An acknowledging squeeze about her waist. ‘Yes, you had a choice.’ Grave green eyes stared down at her. ‘You still do have a choice.’ Then his gaze lifted evasively. ‘To be frank, Adela is likely to survive, but Alys may not have a chance.’
So Alys was to remain dead. Well, she had foreseen that as likely.
‘My lord,’ she said, her hand upon his arm, ‘if my presence as either jeopardises your purpose, then of my great love for you, I’ll vanish into the night. I feel everything that has gone wrong for you has been my fault.’
‘Mea culpa?’ She felt the vibration of soft laughter from him as though he drew a curtain down upon the future. ‘So said Eve, after the gates of Eden clanged shut, but I warrant tasting the forbidden apple ensured Adam a great deal of pleasure in the years following.’ He kissed her throat and added, ‘So, it was a waste of time coming to free you, then? Now the cage door is wide open, you want to flit off, bang snails to death and procreate in some other garden. Ouch!’
‘I love you, my lord,’ she declared, whether he wanted to hear it or not, ‘and may I point out that from what I gather (and you have not told me the full tale yet), you have neither snails nor a garden at the moment.’
‘No snails, no garden, yet what I am thinking now,’ his lips teased playfully against hers, ‘is that the beautiful woman, whom I believed dead, is here in my arms.’
Beautiful? No, though his kindness was a blessing.
‘And very much alive,’ she whispered, gliding her fingers through his hair and kissing him back. Although she could have dispensed with his beard, preferring smooth skin beneath her fingertips, she told him with caress of lips and surrender of breath how much she loved him.
‘Hmm, how does it feel to be resurrected?’ he asked, after he had kissed her with the authority of a man reclaiming what was his alone.
She blushed in the darkness at his blasphemy, her whispered reply enticing. ‘I cannot quite believe my good fortune, however, I do understand it carries obligations.’
Soft laughter then strong male fin
gers slid up over her breast. ‘Gratitude is such an excellent bargaining weapon, though Derwent reckons you should be put on a shelf until later.’
Derwent had also warned there might not be ‘a later’, but she did not say that aloud.
‘Is it not better to enjoy that which is within reach now, my gracious lord.’ Her hand adventured across his thigh.
‘That is what I hoped you’d say … oh, that’s good.’ The male purr was strong as she stroked him and then he was kissing her with a hunger that equalled hers. ‘Adela.’ Her name was a caress against her lips as he shifted her into the moonlight and slid his fingers beneath her chemise to fondle her breast. Then he was easing her into the isle of moonlight on the woodland floor.
Half-masked by shadow, his face was like an ancient deity of night above her. Exposed, her legs and thighs dappled by moonlight as he lifted her skirts to her waist, she felt like a pagan wood nymph surrendering to love, her parted lips desirous to be plundered, her eyes telling him that her hunger equalled his. He let his tongue and fingers pay further homage to the peaks of her breasts, sending shivers of pleasure down to her thighs, a message to make ready, light candles for his coming. Then his fingers found the cleft between her thighs and caressed her skilfully so that her yearning for him to enter her built and built, until she was quivering, ravenous, unfulfilled until … he slid into her, a deep breath of satisfaction at finding her body creamy and welcoming.
As she closed about him, his fingers caressed her until with a soft scream of glorious pleasure, her body spasmed round him, and she felt him pour into her with a great gasp of triumph. He bestowed a kiss of sublime sweetness upon her lips, before he withdrew and collapsed back beside her on the leaves and spent flowers, and they lay at peace.
She might have slept then, but his voice broke through her dreaminess.
‘Who are you, Adela? I need to know.’ The question shattered her brief content. ‘Who were your parents?’
So she told him about her father being a priest and how he had taken her to Shaftesbury and then taken holy orders at Abbotsbury.
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