Peony

by Traci E Hall

  “Is this stick sharp enough?” Gaston said. “I can do another one.”

  “That’s your fifth already,” Jacques said, lightly shoving the boy’s shoulder.

  “Lady Catherine said she wanted it sharp!”

  “Sharp enough to pierce a boar’s hide,” Jacques said with a grin. “I think she meant our lord.”

  Payen raised a brow. “Enough of that. Stay here while I see to the lady’s return.”

  Catherine stepped from the royal tent, peering from side to side before nodding at Larissa and going to the right, where a smaller canvas tent had been erected.

  The queen’s ladies slept close, he noticed with approval. Catherine dipped inside.

  When she returned, she’d changed her crimson cloak for a dark brown, her hair plaited. Her flowery scarf knotted at her throat, a hint of color. Pink.

  To his dismay, she walked directly toward him. “I saw you waiting, so if you think to hide in the shadows, you should try harder. Was there something you needed before I fill a plate? I find myself ravenous after a long day’s ride.” Her voice was smooth yet held a hint of spice. Like her kiss.

  He’d tried to stay away. Circumstances forced his hand. “I had a few questions, since I am new to the vanguard.”

  “And you couldn’t ask the queen?”

  So she’d seen him go into the woods with Eleanor. The queen had sworn him to secrecy to protect Catherine’s pride. “I would prefer to speak to you.”

  Catherine swallowed, and he noticed the flowers designing her scarf were peonies. He held her gaze. Did she remember the feel of his arms around her?

  “Three questions,” she said.

  The air between them was heavy. He had to be able to think—and breathe. He stepped back. “How do you guard the queen at night?”

  She turned sharply and studied his face. “Why do you want to know?”

  Why was she so suspicious? “I would offer to take a shift, if needed.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Does the queen sleep alone?”

  Catherine stepped away from him and toward the fire. “You deserve to fall into a ditch.”

  He held her arm and pulled her back, the touch sending a jolt through his entire body. He didn’t let go, though he knew he should. “I was not asking if she had a lover,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Did you kiss her and run too? And now you think to sneak inside the tent and finish the deed?”

  He controlled his temper. Barely. “I am not in the habit of kissing women.”

  “You said you didn’t prefer men.” She gave an exaggerated pat to his arm. “You are a very good kisser for a novice. Well done.”

  “I wanted to know where your guard slept in relationship to the queen. I am new to her retinue.” He expelled a breath. Once again he had acted the fool.

  “And inquisitive, as always.” After a considering pause, she continued. “Larissa sleeps with the queen inside. The king posts men outside. We are all light sleepers.” She jerked her arm from his grasp. “You have one question left.”

  His thoughts were like a waterfall thundering against sharp rock. All he could see was her mouth, her pink mouth. He had to come up with something or risk pulling her into his arms and kissing her until neither of them could breathe. She fought her feelings, he knew. The walls around her heart were worthy of the ancient Romans. “I wondered if—”

  Cheers erupted behind them, and Catherine pointed to the torch-lit trail into camp. “Look! King Louis and Emperor Conrad.” She walked toward the royal friends.

  Because she was going where Payen wanted to go, he followed, greeting both men as they dismounted and handed reins to waiting squires.

  “Payen, how was it riding with the queen today?” King Louis clasped his arm.

  “It gives a man a different perspective, certainly. And you?”

  “Conrad and I had an amusing time chasing rabbits. Rabbits!” Louis stomped, peeling off one glove and then the other. “Not a Turk in sight.”

  “I pray the entire journey goes as smoothly, though perhaps I jumped at a few shadows.” Conrad rubbed his injured back.

  “For good cause,” Lady Catherine said in a sultry voice. She held out her hand, which the emperor accepted, bringing her gloved fingers to his lips.

  Payen’s jaw clenched. Could the lady not see the man was besotted with anything female?

  “Thank you for excusing my enthusiasm. I let loose quite a few arrows.” Though older than King Louis, Emperor Conrad had a charm that set people at ease.

  “And greatly added to our supply of fresh meat.” King Louis smiled, then looked at Lady Catherine. “And how did you fare?”

  “It was as enjoyable for me as for you, though without the added entertainment of rabbit hunting,” she said with a dimpled smile. “Tomorrow I should ride with you. We could trade: I for your Lord de Montfer.”

  Payen wondered what she was up to.

  Emperor Conrad grinned, seemingly anticipating a tasty morsel.

  “Non,” King Louis said decisively. “My wife would never forgive me for breaking up her loyal guard. Speaking of which, where is she?” His gaze went immediately to the royal crimson and white tent.

  Odo and Thierry were not with the king, Payen noticed. “Did you two sneak away from your own camp?”

  “We had to,” Louis said with a broad smile. “The queen sent a private message for her husband.”

  Conrad roared. “Go to her then, man. Lady Catherine, I was promised a feast. And singing. I’m told you play the fiddle.”

  “But I don’t sing.” She leaned close to him. “You will have to do that for us both.”

  Conrad took Catherine’s arm and led the way to the bright fire, leaving Payen to follow like the ugly sister at a dance.

  Laden makeshift tables nearly buckled beneath the weight of roasted fish and hare. Couples flirted and talked in the dark. Jacques and Gaston played a game of dice. Where had they gotten them? With Gaston around, there was no way to know. Whatever the boy wanted, he knew how to steal. And gamble, from the looks of it.

  With a sigh, Payen joined his men around the periphery of flames, accepting a mug of ale and a leg of hare. From his vantage point, he saw everything. The royal tent, the boys, the ladies of the guard. He kept Lady Catherine in sight at all times. She acted like a noblewoman, laughing, talking. It was difficult to remember that beneath her cloak she wore hose and a short tunic. Possibly a sharp blade.

  Conrad lapped up the attention like a thirsty hound, though Payen noticed the emperor rarely released Catherine from his gaze. And when he did, Mamie was there.

  Payen drank another mug while Mamie grew bored sharing Conrad’s favor. The redhead flitted away from the cluster of people around the trestle table of food and found another group of men to entertain her.

  Directly across the fire, Sarah and Jonathon argued. If Payen’s lip-reading in the dark was anything to go by, she didn’t want to get married. What woman did not want marriage, especially when expecting a child? Lovesick Jonathon moped at her feet, wanting nothing more than to tie his life to hers.

  Payen might have a talk with the man and point out the opportunity to escape from his mistake unhindered.

  Fay, hand in hand with Hector, slipped into the shadows. Payen lifted his drink in salute. At least somebody was happy.

  Chapter Ten

  The moon hid behind clouds, stars shining dimly in the dark sky. The fire crackled, and the embers glowed. Catherine sat on a comfortable, wide rock by the pit, tired after a long day and even longer evening of trying to get information from Emperor Conrad while evading his advances. She was losing her touch.

  Mamie might have better luck.

  Wood smoke lingered, mingling with the scent of roasted hare.

  Gaston tore into a juicy leg. Her heart warmed at the sight, despite his messy face and hands.

  “Are you full yet?” She laughed quietly.

  “I don’t think I will ever be full.”
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  Most everyone else had found a place to sleep. The noblewomen shared tents. Some of the men slept on the ground, enveloped in coarse blankets and cloaks.

  De Montfer insisted he was not tired, and she didn’t want to call him a liar in front of the boys. Jacques said he wasn’t tired either, though she’d caught him yawning.

  Gaston refused to leave the dying fire and plentiful meat. He tossed the bone into the coals and wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand.

  She reached over and ruffled his hair. “You are such a boy. You make me miss my brothers.”

  Stephen, the youngest of her brothers, who were all older than her, would be twenty-three now.

  Jacques sat up straighter. Sixteen? The dark scruff at his jaw marked his entry to manhood. “Don’t worry. I won’t ruffle your hair.”

  He gave a shy smile and exhaled.

  “You will be a heartbreaker.” She tapped her chin. “Do you already have a girl?”

  “Non. Lord de Montfer says women are a distraction.”

  Catherine glared across the embers at Payen, who scratched his ear without comment. She bit her lip and turned back to Jacques. “Really? Well, someday you will find a woman who makes you realize differently.”

  “I hope she is as pretty as you, Lady Catherine.”

  She leaned to kiss his cheek, noting the heat of a blush and finding him adorable.

  “My father liked lots of women,” Gaston said. “But it never went well when the abbot found out.”

  Catherine nodded empathetically, afraid to speak for she might laugh.

  Payen stood, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. “I think I’m tired after all.”

  The boys grumbled.

  Payen pointed toward the river, his cool expression brooking no argument.

  After a whispered good night, the boys walked to the river to wash the grease from their hands and faces before racing back to their tent.

  Payen stretched his arms over his head, his joints cracking. She noted the width of his chest and the length of his muscular legs.

  Catherine nipped her thumbnail and sighed, her gaze traveling up.

  In his amber eyes, desire was tangible.

  She immediately looked away. Sweet angels of mercy, keep me from flinging myself across the fire and into his arms.

  The air was thick. She stared at her brown boots scuffed with dirt. “Sleep well,” she told him via the ground.

  Her necklace heated. Would Ragenard never let her rest? Perhaps if she could sleep, de Montfer could not so easily break through her defenses.

  “I can come back once the boys fall asleep.” Payen’s voice was husky.

  “Non, non,” she said, clearing her throat. “That won’t be necessary. I will seek my own pallet soon.”

  “Catherine?”

  She dared to meet his eyes.

  He hesitated, as if uncertain, which made her wary. Payen was always certain. “Emperor Conrad will use you, then discard you.”

  “What?” She tossed a small rock into the fire pit, and smoke plumed. Had Payen been jealous of the way she’d spoken with the emperor? “Why do you say that?”

  “You think nothing of flirtatious laughs, casual touches.” Payen spoke dispassionately. “But I think he wants more from you. If the emperor demands your body, would you, as subject, feel compelled to give him what he wants?”

  She rose on shaky legs. She sought only to gain Conrad’s trust and invite a revealing conversation about Emperor Manuel. What would she do if he asked her for more? She crossed her arms. “And how would you respond if a royal wanted you in bed?” She glared. “Or did you already comply?”

  His jaw tightened before he deliberately relaxed and laughed. “Whatever a monarch wants, oui?”

  She trembled, staring at his back as he left the dying fire.

  She kicked at the embers until she found a piece of charcoal cool enough to touch. She searched for a piece of tree bark smooth on the inside, perfect for drawing on.

  Sweet Virgin Mary, give me strength to see this journey through.

  Catherine propped herself against a tree, settling the bark on her knee so she could sketch the surrounding night tableau. Crickets chirruped, and fish splashed in and out of the river. A frog sang in baritone while an owl screeched.

  She let her mind wander, studying the shading of a limb over the rushing water, remembering the times she and Ragenard bathed and swam, frolicking as if their love would never end.

  In the span of a week, she’d lost her husband in a joust and killed his only brother. George, his only surviving relative, attacked her. As she sketched, she allowed herself to remember the pain of losing Ragenard, which had become so entwined with self-condemnation. Grief and guilt were as one in her soul.

  She drew absently as her mind quested. Could she forgive herself? She had sought absolution by the pope. Now she and de Montfer were taking care of the pope’s illegitimate grandson. Eleanor’s wily nature saw the child as a pawn, but her maternal nature would see the pawn treated with love.

  Catherine’s eyes drooped, her body exhausted after so many sleepless nights. She didn’t feel the charcoal fall to the dirt.

  Panic. Fear. She faced George for the first time since running away with his brother. Now she brought him more sorrow. “I’m sorry, George.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No!” She splayed her blistered fingers. “I sold everything to bring Ragenard to you. He asked if he could come home.”

  After being strong for days, her knees buckled.

  George reached out to support her. “You might as well come in.” He pulled her inside the dark hall of his home. It smelled musty, old.

  “What of Ragenard’s body?” She turned back toward the door. He was her responsibility. All she’d been focused on.

  “Simms will bring him inside. He can be buried in the family mausoleum, like the other Clemonts before him.”

  Relieved, Catherine swiped at her tears. “Merci, merci.”

  They reached a dusty dining hall, where George paused, as if hesitant to ask her to sit. “Where will you go now? Knowing my brother, I assume you did not live well.” He eyed her. “Frayed hems. Your hands. You have fallen far. No longer a lady.”

  “I . . .”

  His cruel observations held the weight of truth. What would she do? A widow without money or skill. She’d decided to throw herself at the mercy of her family. Surely, they could see past her youthful mistake and, if not welcome her, at least sustain her until she found her way.

  “Where will you go?”

  “I hope to go home.”

  “Your family has disowned you. Have you ever received a message?”

  “No. But where would they send one to? Ragenard and I traveled the countryside, too poor to make a home.”

  “And you never bothered to send a note either. I know.” George tsked. “I know. We all know.”

  Catherine’s shame welled. She would be forced to wander the road of fortune—but this time alone. As a young woman in love, she craved the adventure. By herself? The thought made her tremble.

  “How will you do it?” His tone mocked her misery.

  She patted the necklace Ragenard gifted her on their wedding day. “This is all I have, and I can’t sell it. Ragenard wanted me to keep it.” She covered the diamond pendant with her palm as if touching Ragenard’s hand. “He asked me to bring him home. I did not think of anything after that. I have my gown, the shoes on my feet. I traded everything else to get him here.”

  “What did he give you?” George rose to his full height. “What do you have under there?”

  “A necklace.” She pulled the pendant free from beneath her gown. “A symbol of his love.”

  George lurched toward her. “Ragenard gave that to you? I thought it stolen.”

  “Stolen?” Her belly clenched.

  George grabbed the silver bowl from the sideboard and threw it across the room into the wall. Plaster chipped and fel
l with a clatter.

  Her feet felt rooted to the carpet.

  “I never dreamed the thief would be my own brother’s wife.”

  “Non, it was a gift. When we married.”

  “Were you really? Perhaps I should call you my brother’s whore?”

  “We were!” She remembered the simple ceremony, Ragenard’s vow to protect her, love her. Why had she come here? “How could you say such a thing? Ragenard wouldn’t steal.”

  Would he? They’d run away so fast. She’d assumed the necklace had been his to give.

  George leaped at her, tearing her gown.

  She ducked but tripped over a stool.

  He hauled her to her feet. “Thief. Whore!” His gaze was distant, unfocused, as he repeated the words over and over. He gripped her throat. Black dots appeared. He would kill her. His brother’s body, her face, the necklace—the sights had sent him into the abyss.

  Not willing to die, she stomped on his foot, then his knee, freeing herself at last. She sprinted for the door.

  He chased her. Spittle at the corners of his mouth, George demanded the heirloom, but she couldn’t break free long enough to return it. He tore at her flesh, his nails raking down her neck. He squeezed again.

  She could barely breathe. “Please let me go.”

  “Never!” He pushed her back into the wall, the sideboard clipping her hip. The silver. “Die. You left me for my brother; now I send you back to him.” His thumbs dug into her airway, and she knew his anger would be her death. Did she deserve it?

  “Non!” Summoning the last of her strength, she reached out to the sideboard, finding a silver candlestick with her fingers. She grabbed it, slamming it down on George’s head.

  He dropped, blood spewing from his temple. When he tried to stand, she stomped on his gut.

  He grabbed her ankle.

  Sobbing, she tugged free, falling.

  He lunged on top of her.

  Leveraging her strength against the wall, she kicked out and rolled on top of him, bringing the heavy candlestick down once, twice, three times. Blood sprayed her face.

  She heard an inhaled breath and looked up from George’s limp body.

  The butler, Simms, stood at the threshold. “You killed him! Murderess!”