“Both ends may be accomplished with one stroke. Chinon stands north between here and Normandy by almost any route. I would see Her Grace, offer what comfort I may, then accompany you to the king.”
“I planned to leave ye here.” He scowled at the cold hearth. “Devil take it, this is no fit lodging for a lady! I’d clear yer name, lass, if I could—for Theobold’s sake.”
“My good man, it shall be cleared,” she said more surely than she felt. “I shall give you no cause for dismay. You have my word of honor.”
“See that ye don’t,” he grunted. “I’ll leave orders. Be ready to sail at dawn.”
A thrill of triumph sang through her veins. If they traveled swiftly, perhaps she would yet manage to reach the king before Ponce found her. That much of her plan she could still salvage. When the duke finally overtook her, her rumored defilement must surely cool his ardor.
Yet conscience prodded her toward her duty—such as it was—toward the scurrilous knight who’d entrapped her.
“If I may inquire, what do you intend to do with Lord Raven?”
Halfway to the door, Sir Guy halted. “What do ye think? There were enough eyes to see what I saw. I can’t still so many flapping tongues, no matter what I threaten.”
And that must suit her all to the good. What use to sacrifice her virtue, if she concealed her ruin?
She drew the shreds of her dignity around her. “Do you mean to present his case to the king?”
“I suppose,” he said, without enthusiasm. “Until then—God’s truth, I hardly know what to do with him.”
Well, she would ensure his case came before Henry—which was more than she felt like doing in her current temper. If the villain was what he claimed, the king would restore him. Her honor would allow no less, for the debt she owed him.
Still, he had schemed to betray her. She’d been a sparrow-brained idiot to fancy herself in love with the Devil of Damascus.
The bells had fallen silent, smothered by gathering night. Kneeling beside her pallet, Alienore composed her anxious heart for prayer.
A covert rustling, like a mouse’s scurry, whispered in the corridor. Remus uncurled from the hearth, a growl rumbling through his chest. Her heart lodged in her throat as the door eased open, admitting a slender shadow.
She could not discern the intruder beyond her circle of candlelight. But the Raven’s bold features sprang to mind. And why should that villain make her heart race—except with rage at his betrayal!
Warily she rose, one hand slipping to her knife. “Who goes there?”
“Quietly, my lady!” the shadow hissed.
Her heart sank with an odd disappointment. Her nocturnal intruder, whoever he was, lacked the Raven’s unmistakable sense of presence. Remus bristled protectively before her, snarls rumbling behind his teeth.
“Who goes, I say?” Her knife gleamed a cold warning. “Identify yourself.”
“Call off your beast!” he whispered before the wolf’s crouching menace. “For mercy, Alienore.”
“Thierry?” Grimacing, she knelt to restrain the wolf. Remus had never cared for him—unlike the Raven, to whom the wolf had quickly taken. She’d trusted the one and despised the other, but now her heart had turned topsy-turvy. She could no longer follow the compass of her instincts.
“Sieur de Beaumont.” She gathered her composure. “Why have you come?”
“Am I not welcome?”
“Let us say, you are not expected.” Dryly, she glanced at her threadbare surroundings. “I can hardly receive you properly.”
“This is no social call.” His surcoat glittered as he slipped into the light—every inch the comte’s son, with all the surface splendor that had dazzled and blinded her to the character within.
Truly seeing him for the first time, she searched his boyish features and wondered why she’d never noticed his weak chin. She’d been too enchanted by the idea of him. Now it amazed her that she’d mistaken girlish infatuation for the tumultuous pull of love.
To behold him now, she felt nothing—only impatience for the silly child she had been, to believe this pretty youth could save her. She hoped she’d not made too great a fool at court—the Earl of Lyonstone’s daughter, throwing herself at this boy’s head.
“Well?” he asked, tight-lipped. “Have you nothing to say?”
Sighing, she squared herself for an unpleasant encounter. “What would you have me say? I am condemned by all as a traitor, it seems. Therefore I cannot be trusted.”
Perhaps he had never loved her, but a puzzled hurt lingered in his turquoise eyes—as in those of a kicked puppy.
Thierry shifted the bundle he clutched—her saddlebag, kept from her since her capture. It held nothing to incriminate, except her sword. She prayed they had not taken it.
“I see they have given you my travel pouch. Am I now to beg for the return of my own possessions?”
“You needn’t beg.” A blush colored his cheeks, but he spoke with awkward dignity. “Sir Guy said they might be returned, since they yielded no contraband.”
“Saint Swithun grant mercy for that. I shall have a fresh gown, at least, in which to face the world. You may have noted I am in sore need of one.”
“I’m amazed you are not shown the courtesy due your station.” He gripped the pouch as if uncertain how to bestow it. “I’m told you’re to be taken before the king.”
“Aye, to clear my name. Since I cannot prevail by force, I must rely upon him to end this so-called betrothal.”
“You should have turned to me.”
“And how would you have aided me?” Six months of frustration rose to the fore. “That has never been clear to me, for all our discussions on the subject.”
“I would have married you!” He flung down her saddlebag. “We would have claimed your dowry. I would have shared your title. But nay, you would not hear me. Instead you turned to the Raven—him of all men. You fell into his hands like a ripe fruit!”
A flood of shame washed through her. “I was wrong to trust him.”
He hesitated. “This peculiar rumor of Ponce’s arrival that I gave you, at risk of my own allegiance. Alienore . . . he never came.”
“Never came?” Blankly, she stared. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I left Poitiers this morning with still no sign of the man nor word of him.”
Stubbornly her mind refused to grasp his meaning, even as suspicion flared. Once he had been her Lancelot, her shining knight. Weak willed he might be, but outright deceit had no part in his character.
She clasped her hands to still their tremor. “I do not understand.”
“Nor did I—at first. Someone lied to Prince Richard about his arrival. Ponce d’Ormonde is nowhere near these parts. Likely he remains at your manor, fasting and praying, or what have you.”
“But that does not make sense,” she whispered. “Why should anyone lie about such a thing, unless—”
Comprehension struck her like a blow. Unless someone would trick her to undertake what she refused to do otherwise—desert the queen in her hour of need. The Raven wished her gone from Eleanor’s court. And so she’d gone, bolting like a frightened rabbit.
The sickening truth sank like a stone in her gullet. The Raven had guessed she would flee, guessed she would be followed. How well he had plotted her downfall.
Alienore, I’m sorry, he’d whispered.
She had admired him, trusted him—even loved him, for a moment. Inconceivable that he’d betrayed her so thoroughly—a man with his unflinching valor. Unless that too had been subterfuge, all of it: his defense of her, Remus’s rescue, even his willingness to bed her. All coldly engineered to win her trust.
But why? So he could bring her to Henry for gold or recognition? To win his wretched wager? The pain of betrayal twisted her heart.
“What a simpleton I have been.” Tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them back. She would show no weakness until she was alone.
“I know you . . . v
alued him.” Thierry hovered, hand extended as if to help her—ineffectual even in this. “He showed his true character when he dishonored your cousin, didn’t he?”
“Aye,” she said numbly. She had even believed his scurrilous claim about Rohese’s easy virtue—believed him before her own blood kin. “How blind I have been! A blind, stupid fool.”
“Wiser eyes than yours were taken in—even the king, apparently. Alienore, if I may somehow assist you . . . ?”
Faintly she smiled, though her heart was splitting in twain. “You are kinder to me than I deserve.”
He turned aside, a strained note in his voice. “Consider it a final courtesy.”
“A final courtesy? How so?”
“I am leaving the queen’s court. There is no need for her courtiers now.”
No need but loyalty, chivalry and Christian kindness toward your queen.
From courtesy more than interest, she asked, “Where will you go?”
“My father summons me home. He is most displeased that I have not yet married.”
“I shall be sorry for it.” Indeed, she felt a moment’s grief for their childish love. But that was past, and her innocence was ashes.
He cleared his throat. “Your cousin Rohese is to return home as well. Her family estates lie near the Beaumont lands. Of course, I’ve offered to escort her.”
“Of course.” She eyed him. “Her only brother died on crusade, so she has a generous dowry.”
“I would have preferred to marry you, but that is no longer possible,” he said stiffly. “With the stink of scandal clinging to your name, no lord would wed you now.”
She fought down the scalding shame—still an earl’s daughter, despite everything.
“If only Ponce feels the same,” she murmured, “I swear ’tis worth it to be rid of the wretch.”
Chagrin flashed across his features, and she knew he regretted their sharp exchange.
“Never mind, Thierry. You were kind to tell me, though I have given you little cause for kindness.”
Thierry hesitated. “I should make my farewells. Lady Rohese awaits me.”
“You may rest easy.” She struggled against a tide of regret. “When I depart, the Raven remains here. I shall never lay eyes upon him again.”
Fog swirled over the river and wound through the trees. Only the muted tramp of boots disturbed the dawn. Alienore shivered as she hurried along, Remus trotting at her side, enclosed by a phalanx of Plantagenet guards. Sir Guy was taking no chance she might escape.
Did the man not know all courage had fled her? The compass of certainty that steered her life had skewed awry the night she abandoned her queen. Now she lacked a guiding star to set her course. She was adrift, clinging to the twisted wreckage of her life.
At least her virtue remained intact. She thanked God that Sir Guy had interrupted their ill-starred encounter.
The tall mast of a boat pierced the fog. Its hull scraped against the dock with a hollow sound. Shadowy figures appeared and vanished on the foredeck among the tethered horses. Her dappled Galahad whinnied a greeting when he saw her and brought a wan smile to her lips.
Let no man guess my heart is broken. She’d donned severe black velvet—the color of austerity—hair coiled low on her neck, black silk ribbon twined through the braids. Squaring her shoulders, she marched forward like a prisoner to her execution.
The barge loomed before her. Remus bounded across the gap, causing a flurry of consternation as he wove grinning among the guards. She gathered her skirts and reached for the rail.
From nowhere, a cold breeze sprang up, stirring the iron river into anxious ripples. Overhead, a raven cawed. The fog billowed and parted before her.
Heat swept through her in a scalding rush as the black knight stalked toward her, boots striking the deck like the hammer of doom. The world fell silent with dismay.
Within the hood, his scarred features were intent, fixed on her like a loaded crossbow. His burning eyes were arrows of fire, targeting her heart as he reached—
She snatched her hand away. A shaky breath spilled out as she spun toward Sir Guy.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “We both agreed this man was not to come.”
“Milady.” Looking harassed, Sir Guy ducked a bow. “I can’t twist my plans this way and that to suit a maid’s fancy. We’re about the king’s business here. Lord Raven—hah!—sails with us as far as Chinon. Then we’ll see.”
She stiffened her spine and looked down her nose at the Englishman. Discomfort and belligerence warred in his face as he glared back.
If she allowed her armor of ice to thaw, she would hurl accusations at the Raven that blistered every pair of ears in hearing.
“I refuse to travel with this unprincipled varlet,” she said coldly.
“It’s that, or return to yer cell.” Sir Guy glanced uneasily at the Raven.
She was not so great a fool to fight a lost battle. Raking the Raven with a frigid glare she hoped would freeze the extremities right off him, she swept her skirts in a disdainful hand and leaped aboard, ignoring his extended hand.
A plump wren of a girl, rosy with smiles, popped up before her. “Ooh, milady, ye look chilled right through! But we’ll put ye right.”
“Nesta!” Relief sweeping through her, Alienore embraced her tiring girl. “I thought not to find you again.”
“Sir Guy brung me here—the queen bein’ gone and all. Did I do right to come, milady?”
“You did.” Alienore smiled into the worried brown eyes.
“Well, ye may not think so for long. Ye’ll recollect how seasick I was during the Channel crossing. I’m already feeling a bit green around the gills.”
With the girl’s assistance, Alienore found a protected seat out of the wind. The crew cast off the lines and the current tugged them forward, sweeping them past the bulk of Châtellerault toward the mighty Loire, and eventually the sea.
Ranks of oars dipped into gray water to propel them. At such speed, they should make Chinon in no time—the sooner to rid herself of the Raven’s repellant presence.
As if conjured, he emerged from the mist. Beneath the hood, his saturnine features were drawn tight, as if he squared himself against a difficult task. Nay, it could never be shame flickering in those heathen eyes. She must no longer deceive herself.
Pointedly she turned away, watching the trees slide past. If only her heart would ease its frantic tumble . . .
“Three days past, I was your champion.” His raspy voice was acrid with bitterness. “Today I’m the villain, fallen from grace.”
And do you wonder why! She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to pound her fists against his chest—the same chest she’d caressed with curious fingers, hot bronze skin stretched over muscle.
Somehow she contained the furious words bubbling on her lips. She would not lower herself by engaging him. Instead, she glared toward the shore, though she could not have described what she saw there.
Pushing out a breath, he hunkered down. “You’re right to be angry. I deserve all your curses. For whatever it’s worth—your disgrace was never my aim.”
Oh, how she yearned to shrivel him with a scathing denunciation.
“Alienore—I’d remedy this, any way I might. You comprehend me?”
He reached for her, and her composure snapped. Furiously, she turned on him.
“Can you remedy the fact that you are a liar and a knave? That your only intent in aiding me was to trick me into trusting you for your own shameful purpose? Can you restore your honor and mine with words?”
“Nothing I can do would dull the bright blade of your honor,” he said low. For a heartbeat, the keen beam of his eyes looked straight into her soul. “Any claim to honor, I lost long ago. But I never wished you ill.”
“You planted the lie that Ponce rode to Poitiers, did you not? Knowing what I would do . . .”
He stiffened. “How—?”
“Do not think to deny it! ’Twas a plo
y to send me bolting, so you could play at being my champion, to make me—trust you.” Her voice broke, but she steeled herself to finish. “Ponce never set foot in Aquitaine, did he? Thierry de Beaumont told me.”
He searched her face as though waiting for more. When she said nothing further, his broad shoulders eased. “Beaumont again.”
“How pleased you must have been! How you must have gloated to see me tumble into your arms like a foolish maid.”
“I never gloated, Alienore.” He glanced aside, one hand scrubbing his lined features. “By the Prophet, I regret my choices—all of them.”
“But you do not deny it?” She felt an odd stirring of disappointment. Surely she had not expected him to redeem himself, explain it away at this late hour?
He frowned into the distance. “I don’t deny I wished you free of the queen and safe.”
“Do not dare claim you lied for my benefit.” She drew on the well of courage, that unflinching determination to know her adversary. “Why did you do it? Was it so vital to win your wager?”
“Damn the bloody wager,” he growled, flinging back his hood with contained violence. “You think this is all for that?”
His hard-edged beauty burned her, all feral eyes and raking cheekbones, sin black hair pulled sleek at his nape. Her treacherous heart turned cartwheels.
“I never spoke you false, Alienore. Yet I’ve lied all the same, aye? The truth’ll come clear soon enough. I’ve played this game out.”
“How disappointing for you.” She turned away. “Your grand amusement shall be over.”
“Alienore—”
“Do not call me so!” She willed away the tears that betrayed her. “There is nothing between us—nothing at all, do you hear?”
Softly he said, “Now it’s you who lie.”
He was not the man she’d believed him to be. She had loved a lie, a mirage that did not exist, except in her dreams.
“Leave my presence, or I shall ask Sir Guy to remove you.” She steeled her voice. “After we come to Chinon, I do not wish to see you again.”
The world held its breath while he uncoiled to his feet. Regret darkened his tone.
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