Her voice rang out. “As your faithful vassal, I appeal to the crown for justice! I ask you to uphold my rights, confirm my inheritance, and—invalidate my marriage, which was made under duress.”
It had proven difficult to force out the last, but she’d done it. She must make him view her seriously, as a powerful vassal whose regard was worth something. Else she would have no hope of wringing any concession at all from him.
He listened to her gravely—she’d won that much. Her gaze dropped to his hands: great sun-bronzed paws horned with calluses from sword and rein, covered with a mat of curling copper hairs. Physically, he and Jervaise were utter opposites.
“Marriage is no affair of the heart, madam, but a matter decided for a woman by her male relations. You’re worldly enough to know that.”
“Aye, but my father—”
“Is dead these four years,” he said flatly. “By wedding you to Ormonde, I give him the incentive to guard my realm as he guards my person. Now more than ever, I need loyal men around me. Why should I risk losing his loyalty to suit a lady’s fancy?”
“My loyalty is also valuable. The Scots press your English flank. You’ve said you expect Philip of Flanders and his army to set sail any day. Between the two of them, they will crush your troops like a walnut. You stand at risk of losing your English throne.”
She paused to draw breath, heart kicking like a fractious stallion. “Lyonstone is the greatest shire in Northumbria. We sit less than a day’s march from Carlisle, where Scots William is certain to try you. And the north is where the English rebels hold sway. With Lyonstone to ward your flank, you may free your loyal troops to deflect the Flemish assault. I can give you Lyonstone—and by extension, I give you the north.”
“I already have Lyonstone.” His eyes narrowed, two beams of piercing light. “All my vassals’ holdings are subject to royal jurisdiction—including yours. You offer me nothing I don’t already hold.”
Carefully she navigated between conflicting loyalties, struggling to bump against none of them, while she marshaled the arguments to sway him.
“Must I list those barons whose loyalties lie with your treacherous sons? Roger de Mowbray and his ambitious brother, Earl Hugh Bigod, the lords of Huntingdon and Tutbury, the bishop of Durham, and many others. All these will support the Scottish king when he surges south.”
“You’re well informed,” the king said, dangerously quiet. “As well informed as my wife.”
“Lyonstone is the key to your northern defense. The current earl is a well-meaning lad of sixteen who has never commanded troops on English soil. He places his trust in an ambitious counselor who has no reason under heaven to defend your interests—”
The king thrust to his feet and paced like a caged lion. “Even if everything you say is true, how can you aid me? Unless you plan to lead Lyonstone’s army yourself, hey?”
He pinned her with his gaze, eyebrows hoisted. She itched with sudden discomfort. He could not possibly know about her exploits on the tourney field—could he? He’d merely launched a bolt at random that struck close to home.
“That is not my intent, Your Grace. There resides at Wishing Stone Manor a seasoned knight: my mother’s kinsman, Raoul d’Albini. With me to enforce his authority, this great knight would lead your troops to victory.”
Still he pinned her with those penetrating eyes. She prayed her anxiety did not show.
Raoul was everything she claimed him. But he was also a cripple, legs crushed by the same tower collapse that had maimed Marguerite. He could only crutch along with the aid of wooden sticks. Yet he could fight and command troops from horseback with all the skill of a whole man.
The king’s thick fingers tapped against his thigh. “Wouldn’t I do better to dispatch Jervaise to Lyonstone?”
“You require him in Normandy, you have said.”
Henry grunted and resumed his pacing. Even at this hour, restless energy pulsed from him. She could only admire his stamina.
For her part, dark clouds of weariness hovered at the edge of vision. Flagging, she sagged in her chair, eyelids drooping. When he spoke, her eyes snapped open.
“Frankly speaking, Lady Alienore—which I’m told you prefer—that seems to me a shaky bargain. Is there nothing more you’d offer?”
She hesitated. “What does Your Grace have in mind?”
Henry bared his teeth in a smile. “Does my queen still trust you, privy chancellor?”
A wave of shock and outrage rolled through her. God and Mary, I was a fool not to foresee this. “If you are asking me to betray that trust and spy upon her, my answer to that is nay.”
“Nay, madam? You would say nay to me?”
“I say nay.” She poured all her resolve into the word. “Honor is not solely the province of men.”
The moment the words left her lips, the implications crowded in. She might have just flung back in his face the only terms the King of England was prepared to offer. Still, there was nothing he could say that would persuade her to do that. Now she braced to withstand the fatal onslaught of royal temper.
He stood before the casement, one hand cupping his chin, fingers tapping against his jaw. When he met her gaze, he smiled.
“Splendid,” he said. “What a magnificent creature you are, my lady. You must have half the men of Aquitaine, including a son or two of mine, at your feet.”
Her gaze faltered. “I am a virtuous woman. As you have remarked, I spent six years in a convent.”
“But you’re no nun,” he chuckled, striding toward her. “Not with your passion. It occurs to me, Alienore, there’s something of value you can offer me after all.”
Wary, she eyed him. “Your Grace—”
“You’re a married woman, albeit much against your wishes. Jervaise’s wife, of all women, but that may prove convenient.”
He braced a hip against the writing table and looked at her—close enough for her to smell the forthright odor of horses in his garments. She held rigid, refused to retreat, as he caught her chin against his calloused palm.
Only the fact that he held her gently kept her still beneath his touch. That, and the knowledge of what he was: King of England, Duke of Normandy, and commander of her fate.
He angled her face so the firelight spilled across it. His fingers against her jaw were rough from the hunt, the horse, the sword.
“God’s eyes, you’re something,” he murmured. “You must have Jervaise on his knees for you. He and I share similar tastes in women. Did you know that?”
“Nay.” Her voice came out strained. “I pray you, release me.”
“You must stand up to defy a king properly.” Lightly, he exerted pressure beneath her chin.
Determination flooding through her, Alienore rose to her full height—taller than he, by God!
“I do not defy you. I am your loyal subject and vassal. I ask only to be treated with the dignity my rank demands.”
Releasing her, Henry gave a good-natured shrug. “You must’ve known what was expected when I summoned you here—alone, at this hour. You’re no innocent maid, a woman of your years. You’ve just spent half a year in Eleanor’s decadent court . . . to say nothing of your nights in Jervaise’s bed.”
Embarrassment surged through her. Here was her moment to play that card, so lack of consummation could bolster her objection to the marriage. Yet now the moment was upon her, she found she could not do it. She could not confess to this man of the world with his knowing smile that she stood before him a virgin. He would never believe she’d deterred the Devil of Damascus from claiming his bride.
Yet now she must dissuade the King of England from his own carnal expectations—like father, like son. Anger kindled as she recalled how Richard, too, had dishonored her.
“I could hardly deny your summons, Your Grace, no matter the hour or the proprieties. Nor could I expect another opportunity if I refused this one and angered you. Pray do not read more into my presence.”
She stood with the master
of two realms before her. Unlike Richard, he made no attempt to lay hands on her—merely stood with restless fingers drumming his thigh and offered a rueful smile.
“Jervaise and I have shared more than a woman or two in the field. Didn’t he tell you? I suppose it’s not quite the thing for wooing a reluctant bride.”
Inexplicably, it irritated her to hear it. She mustered what dignity she could, though her face was burning. “You have a liege lord’s jurisdiction over me—my body, my estates and all that is mine—even my life. If you command me to perform in your bed, I have no choice but to obey, or fling myself from yonder window to preserve my honor.”
“Good to see you understand that.” He smiled.
“If I must go to your bed, I tell you plain ‘twill be done unwilling, and a mortal sin! Double adultery, to say it straight out—betrayal of my husband and your wife.” She pressed to the heart of the matter. “Do you intend to release me from my marriage?”
Admiration glimmered in the eyes that studied her.
“It grieves me to disappoint you, but I too will be plain. The goodwill and loyalty of Jervaise de Vaux are worth more to me than yours, Alienore of Lyonstone. You’ve naught to bargain with, except what you’ve already refused to give. The rest is mine already and with God’s grace will remain so.”
Henry strode to the casement where he’d left his goblet. Ice-cold to her fingertips, she watched as he tossed back the contents. Then the King of England turned toward her.
“Take heart, my lady, for one thing you have achieved. You’ve convinced me to send Jervaise, with you at his side, to England rather than Normandy. And I intend you to go forthwith.”
She stood rooted to the floor, a riot of emotions in her heart. Bitter disappointment, anger at his cavalier treatment . . . an unnamed fear releasing its hold on her heart. She would find no easy undoing of her marriage after all. How would she manage to keep Jervaise at bay now?
She swallowed her resentment and curtsied. “I shall waste no more of your valuable time.”
She had nearly left when he called after her.
“It’s no tragedy being married to a man like Jervaise de Vaux. God’s truth, I begin to suspect you’re the perfect woman for him. I’ll be interested to see what his duchy becomes, with the two of you to shape her.”
Chapter Seventeen
The great hall yawned before her, a vast cavern of darkness. Avoiding benches and huddled sleepers, Alienore hurried through it—away from her disappointing encounter with the king. Rushes rustled as mice scurried before her.
Across the hall, a flaring torch marked the tower stair. She groped toward it, toward the bed and the man who waited.
Saint Swithun save her, she’d failed to persuade the king. And she’d promised Jervaise—sworn on her honor—that if Henry refused an annulment, she would yield. She heated to imagine what that would mean: the cinnamon spice of his mouth on hers, the sweep of his knowing hands, the ache of passion between her thighs . . .
The scuff of leather against stone arrested her. Straining to pinpoint that subtle sound, she froze. It came again, the rapid chuff-chuff-chuff of footfalls on the curving stair.
Alarm prickled through her. The stair led only to their chamber, where no other had business at this hour. The clash of steel rang out—one blow, then a clamor of parry and riposte, coupled with a man’s heavy grunt.
She did not weigh her course. Instead, she unsheathed her knife and snatched the heavy torch. The reek of pitch and blazing heat struck her together, with a choking billow of smoke. Already she was charging up the stair, surefooted despite her skirts.
Wielding her torch like a sword, she raced around the curve. The scene launched her heart into her throat.
Silhouetted against the casement, a familiar form crouched and lunged, hair swirling around him in a cloud of ink. Below him, two swordsmen battled to gain the landing, steel moaning as their blades carved the air.
And behind him, pressing from above, another pair of enemies: blond Norsemen swinging battle-axes, just beyond Jervaise’s embattled reach.
Somehow, despite his perilous placement, he was holding all four at bay. He’d put his back to the wall, scimitar tumbling end over end in its deadly dance. His other hand wielded the curved dagger, vicious backhanded sweeps confining the Norsemen to the stair. With every step, they risked losing a foot to this unorthodox defense.
Jervaise fought in grim silence, eyes narrowed to slits, white teeth bared in a grimace of effort. Yet she knew he could not maintain this defense for long.
Ahead, the first pair stood with their vulnerable backs exposed. But that was not how she’d been taught to fight. Her throat split with a racketing battle cry, warning her enemies and—she hoped—alerting the sleepers in the hall.
Above, the attackers pivoted: a wiry youth and an older man, weathered face hidden behind a rusty beard. Strangers, clad in the boiled leather of common soldiers.
But their swords would still be deadly.
They gaped at her, and no wonder—a noblewoman clad in jewels and samite, gripping knife and torch in battle readiness. Recognition leaped into Jervaise’s face.
“Allah’s blood, Alienore! Rouse the keep.”
And leave you to the tender mercies of these villains? He would be dead by the time any aid arrived.
The red-bearded brute grunted and turned his back—blatantly dismissing her. His comrade did likewise. Staring in outrage, she stood disregarded behind them. Because she was a woman, they’d concluded she posed no danger.
Jervaise pivoted left and right, his scimitar a whirling crescent of death. “Get help!”
Indecision rooted her feet to the stairs. Every iota of her moral fiber rose up against attacking a man from behind. Yet she’d given warning—and his life hung in the balance.
With a shout wrenched from the depths of her belly, she lunged, and felt the pull of fabric as her skirts tore. Her long-knife sliced up, plunging deep in the hollow behind the red-beard’s knee.
The man bellowed in rage and pain as his leg buckled and sent him tumbling down the stair. She twisted aside to avoid him as he vanished around the bend.
Above, the wiry youth gaped down at her. Giving him no moment to recover, she swung the torch in a blazing arc at his knees. He leaped to avoid it.
Jervaise pivoted away, clearly pouring every drop of concentration into fending off the axes.
“Lyonstone!” Fiercely, she swung her torch. This time her flame brushed a stained shirt. The lad shouted and slapped at the smoldering fabric.
Above, a man cried out. When a dark figure pitched forward, her gut wrenched.
The battle-ax tumbled from a bloody hand, and relief swept through her as the Norseman slid down the stairs. When he bumped the distracted youth, the lad fell sprawling. Alienore darted in, and his sword went flying.
She leveled her knife at his throat. “Surrender, and you shall be spared.”
Snarling, he swung an arm, knocking her blade away. Lithely he rolled aside and sprang up with a dagger from his boot.
“By the Prophet!” Jervaise dodged sweeping blows from the last Norseman. “This isn’t the tourney field. Get help.”
“I am help,” she gritted.
Jervaise lunged, and a spray of crimson splashed the wall. Unable to see who was stricken, she screamed and ran forward. When the youth blocked her, she swung the blazing torch with all her strength. It crashed against his head. With a groan, the lad toppled, and did not rise.
Panic-stricken, she floundered up, dragging torn skirts above her knees. Before her sprawled the last Norseman in a spreading sea of blood.
Jervaise stood panting, his scimitar red to the hilt. Somehow, he had survived.
With the danger passed, the strength ran out of her limbs. She stared at the knife in her shaking hand and did not watch the man shuddering through his death throes at her feet.
“God save us,” she whispered.
“Alienore, for the love of Allah.” Roughl
y, Jervaise dragged her against his hard body with one arm.
At his touch, the last of her strength dissolved. Long-knife and torch tumbled to the floor as she flung her arms around his lean waist and clung to him. He crushed her against him, his strength and bulk enfolding her with the promise of refuge.
“You’re the most maddening, stubborn woman I’ve ever known. If you were hurt—”
“But I saved you, did I not?” She turned her face into his corded throat.
“Aye, you saved me,” he rasped, his big hand cradling her head. “Though why you saved me, I hardly know.”
“Jervaise—these men—”
Below, a clamor was rising, an authoritative voice bellowing commands.
Heaving a breath, Jervaise released her. “Barricade yourself in our chamber.”
Indignant, she shook her head. “I shall not abandon you.”
“The danger’s past for now, Alienore. Let me deal with this.”
Still she felt unwilling to allow him out of her sight, given the ambush he’d barely survived. Had she arrived any later . . .
He retrieved her fallen knife and cleaned it against the Norseman’s chausses. When he pressed the hilt into her hand, she clutched it, the lion clawing beneath her fingers.
“Go inside.” Briefly, his harsh facade fractured. “My heroic lady of Lyonstone.”
Her insides fluttered strangely.
“I pray you will join me anon,” she said, breathless. “I cannot rest until this assault is explained.”
His face hardened as he bent to clean his blade. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. Be certain of that.”
When Jervaise returned to the chamber where his bride waited, his shoulders ached with tension. Long hours had passed since he’d sent her there. He was still amazed she’d heeded him.
Firelight bathed the chamber in a homey light, welcome warmth after the grim confines of the interrogation chamber. He’d spent years of his life in hellholes like that dungeon.
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