by Mary Daheim
He lifted his head just enough to look at Sorcha’s face, which still nestled against his shoulder. “Can you imagine what marriage means to me? Can you think how I must feel about women? Do you believe I could ever trust another one?” Sorcha gave him a little shake. “God’s teeth, Gavin, what proof of my fidelity do you need? I haven’t even thought of another man since I met you! And I’ve spent a year in a convent doing nothing except wait for the day you’d return to me! Your wanton Marie-Louise was a foul mockery of womanhood. I’m no more like her than you’re like … Brother Jacques!”
Napier turned on the bench, his arm tentatively going around Sorcha’s waist. “I’d like to believe that,” he said slowly, “but I’ve spent eight years thinking otherwise.”
“Then think again,” Sorcha persisted, the green eyes boring into his as if she could compel him to change. “Be honest. Do I strike you as faithless?”
The storm clouds seemed to lift from his face. “No.” Napier leaned down to brush her temple with his lips. “Yet I would live in fear that someday you would leave me.”
“Pah,” retorted Sorcha, though the word was muffled by Napier’s beard. “I could never belong to any other man, not even in my thoughts.”
“I want to believe you.” He was speaking low, into the masses of black hair that tumbled over her shoulder. “I want to make you mine, yet love exacts a terrible price.”
Sorcha leaned closer, purposely letting her breasts touch his chest. She was jarred by the contact, unprepared for the surge of desire that enveloped her body. But, she reminded herself, there was far more to this moment than sensual gratification. Gavin Napier’s heart and soul were in her hands; she must convince this haunted, tortured man that love could be kind, not cruel, and that despair could be dispelled by hope.
Though Sorcha didn’t draw back, she willed her racing pulse to slow down. Carefully studying Napier’s face, she asked herself why him, why this perverse, baffling, agonized man who had deceived her, abandoned her, avoided her? Who had no money, no rank, no visible prospects?
There was no explanation, save for that dark wolflike face, with the sharp, broken nose, the secretive peat-brown eyes, and the long mouth, with its infrequent but devastating smile. Perhaps it was the rigid self-control, which, when broken, could sweep them both away like a spring flood. Or the inner strength of conviction symbolized by the tall, broad-shouldered body of muscle and sinew. Then again, Sorcha realized, it was the very elusiveness of him, like a great, wily salmon—or the Master of Ness.
“Love is what it is,” she said at last, watching his brow furrow slightly. “It’s there. Or it isn’t.” Lightly, she touched her breast, just above where it met his shirt. “I can’t will it away.” Her hand brushed his chest. “Can you?”
Slowly, vehemently, he shook his head. “No. Though I thought I could, for I feared it.” Napier’s arms pulled Sorcha close, his mouth seeking the curve of her throat. She went limp as he lifted her off the bench and carried her to the soft mound of hay in the corner of the stable. “Hold,” he whispered, going to the door to bolt it from the inside. “Let’s hope that Monsieur Bertrand’s patrons are enjoying a lengthy repast.”
Sorcha knew she should protest, for this was not the place, yet it was the time, and past time. She was too exultant in her triumph over Gavin Napier’s memories to exercise restraint. Sorcha had waited too long, with so little hope, while loving and wanting him so very much. This time there was no shadow of forbidden passion, nor, Sorcha fervently hoped, the specter of a faithless wife. There were only the two of them, lying breath to breath in the fresh summer hay.
Napier cradled her head under his arm and gazed into her expectant face. “You are changed,” he said, and while his voice was serious, it had lightened considerably. “I left a lass at Fotheringhay. I find a woman in Compiègne.”
Reaching up to tease the dark hair that curled just slightly where his neck met the cambric shirt, Sorcha smiled. “I hope it’s a change you like. I sensed Rob merely found me more obdurate.”
“No!” Napier grinned, and Sorcha realized how long it had been since she’d seen those white teeth flash in the dark beard. “It seems to me,” he went on, letting his free hand caress her hip through the fabric of her rumpled kirtle, “that while you might grow more bonnie, it would be well-nigh impossible for you to become more stubborn.”
“Never half so stubborn as you,” Sorcha said on a little sigh as Napier nibbled at her ear and let his hand wander into the secret recesses of her skirts. She savored the male animal smell of him, the hard, lean body against hers. Until this moment, the memory of their first lovemaking had seemed hazy, almost dreamlike. Now she recalled every nuance of his touch, of how he felt and moved.
His hands trailed sensuously up and down her linen-covered thighs, and he delighted in the little shivers he provoked. “Wondrous strange, we mortals,” murmured Napier, claiming her lips in a deep, possessive kiss that seemed to go on forever. Sorcha wrapped her arms around his neck, straining him closer, welcoming the throb of her body, which begged for fulfillment.
At last Napier released her lips and began unlacing her bodice. He paused before slipping the camisole from her shoulders to grin at her again, this time a mischievous, conspiratorial exchange that captured the joy they found in each other. With one swift, sure movement, he uncovered her, savoring the ripe flesh in silence with those hunter’s eyes. Then his hands engulfed her breasts, molding them into aching mounds of desire. His tongue lavished fuel to the flame, stretching each peak full and taut. Sorcha writhed beneath him, moaning with unbridled pleasure. Still suckling at her breasts, Napier reached down to pull the garments away from her lower body. The fragrant hay tickled her skin and somewhere in the stable, a horse pawed anxiously at the ground, but Sorcha was conscious only of her need for Napier. Her hands tugged at his shirt until she could cover the dark hair of his chest with kisses and knead his hard-muscled back with her searching fingers. He had clasped the core of her in his palm, exploring the secret, tender flesh until she cried out with yearning. “Gavin! I’ve waited too long! Take me now, or I’ll die of longing!”
Sorcha’s head was thrown back, her body arched, her legs spread wide to welcome him. He entered her, slowly, deliberately, with a sensitivity that suddenly gave way to passionate abandon, elevating Sorcha to a place apart, a burnished realm of joy. At last, he unleashed the gift of his love, wrenching shuddering cries of exultation from them both. They trembled in each other’s arms, then went still, and lay together in the exhausted peace of total fulfillment.
It was the loud banging on the stable door that finally roused them. Startled, Sorcha lifted her head just enough to peer over Napier’s shoulder. “God’s teeth! What shall we do?”
Napier made a face, then disentangled himself from Sorcha and hastily put his clothes back on. “Un moment, monsieur,” he called out as Sorcha frantically pulled on her own garments. Moments later, Napier was at the door, lifting the bolt. “Forgive us,” he said with a self-deprecating smile for the group of travelers from the inn, “but my betrothed and I have not seen each other for some time.”
The men responded with wry, knowing glances. One of them bowed to Napier and murmured something about “l’amour” while the others chuckled indulgently. Though she knew she was blushing, Sorcha marched briskly to Napier’s side. He put a protective arm about her, thanked the men for their true Gallic spirit of understanding, and led Sorcha out of the stable.
Finding an exit directly onto the back street, Sorcha and Napier headed in the direction of the monastery. His arm still held her close, and Sorcha reveled in the sense of belonging. “I love you,” she whispered, ignoring the stares of two young girls carrying big baskets of brown eggs.
Napier smiled down at her, though his expression was in sharp contrast to his solemn tone. “Dare I love you? Will you swear to be mine?”
Sorcha squeezed his arm. “Don’t be absurd! I am yours always.” They stepped aside as a stout w
oman wearing a mound of petticoats and pushing a cart laden with fresh-cut flowers barreled past them. Sorcha paused, forcing Napier to stop, too. She turned to look up at him, the green eyes unwavering. “Did you mean what you said? Do you truly want to make me yours?”
Napier was no longer smiling. His hand still rested on Sorcha’s waist, though lightly now, silent evidence of his uncertainty. “You speak of … marriage?” The word was almost inaudible.
Forgetting she wore no shoes, Sorcha stamped her foot and felt the rough cobblestones bruise her sole. “Aye, marriage! Damn your ancient nightmare. Think of today; think of all our tomorrows! Will you marry me or not, Gavin Napier?”
He was staring over her head, in the direction of a fishmonger’s stall and a candlemaker’s shop. Beyond, the bulk of Compiègne’s great castle was outlined against the flawless blue sky. The long face might have seemed emotionless to a casual observer, but Sorcha recognized the haunted eyes and the tightening of his neck muscles. There had been a time when she had paid no heed to those storm signals, but no longer. Sorcha pointed a finger at his face and spoke in a low but compelling voice. “Would you go on using me like a strumpet, or salvage my honor in holy matrimony? I had considered you something more than a callous seducer.”
Napier gritted his teeth and looked down at Sorcha. “I was never clear about who seduced whom,” he asserted so somberly that Sorcha almost missed the glint of humor in his eyes. “But since you have a father to avenge your virtue and I do not, I shall have to take the blame.” He leaned his head to one side, regarding her with irony. “As you will, mistress, I’ll consent to marry you.”
Sorcha was torn between elation and chagrin. Never in her wildest dreams had she envisioned her betrothal occurring in such an unorthodox fashion. “I’m overcome,” she declared with some asperity. “Shall we name the day?”
At last, Napier grinned and cuffed her chin. “Any day you like. The sooner the better, lest I grow skittish. The Feast of the Transfiguration, mayhap, to celebrate the change which has overcome me.”
“Most fitting,” agreed Sorcha, taking his arm. “Let’s tell Rob and Rosmairi.”
They took up the pace again, more swiftly, and suddenly Sorcha burst out laughing. The high, joyous sound turned the heads of two goodwives who’d been gossiping across from the abbey, and set a spotted hound to howling. But Sorcha paid no attention; she went right on laughing while Napier eyed her with amused indulgence.
“God’s teeth,” she exclaimed, catching her breath and turning a radiant face on Napier, “I’m so happy! I’ve never felt like this before.” They were at the abbey gate, where the same porter still sat, his white cowl now virtually pink from the strawberry juice. Napier was as oblivious of the rest of the world as Sorcha, as he caught her to him and kissed her soundly on the mouth.
“By the Mass,” he murmured into her hair, “I’d forgotten what happiness was! I feel like Lazarus, as if I’d been raised from the dead!”
Sorcha’s face was pressed against his chest. This is where I want to be forever, she thought fiercely, and jerked her head up. “Don’t let this be taken away from us,” she demanded in a voice that shook with intensity. “Swear it, by all you hold sacred!”
Startled by her vehemence, Napier soothed her with his hands. “I hold you sacred. And I hold you now. I do swear it,” he averred with absolute conviction.
Sorcha grew quite still, her breathing slowed, her body relaxed. At last, she pulled gently away, and her smile was touched by a faint tremor. She nodded toward the abbey gate. “Does the porter think we’re mad?”
Napier glanced over his shoulder. “Aye. No doubt he’s right.”
Chapter 20
It had not rained in the vicinity of Paris for over two weeks. The horses’ hooves spewed dust in thick clouds along the road that passed the great forest of Compiègne, by Creil, Saint Leu d’Esserent and above Chantilly, where the Oise turned in its westerly course to join the Seine on its voyage to the sea. Sorcha closed her eyes for a moment, to ward off the late afternoon sun, which was settling down over the fields of golden grain beyond the hedgerows. Her teeth felt gritty, her already soiled clothing clung to her body, and the boots she’d borrowed at the abbey were too big.
It was distressing enough not to have had the opportunity of announcing her joyous news to Rob and Rosmairi, but it was even more upsetting to find herself galloping across the Île-de-France under a hot sun in a hopeless cause.
When Sorcha and Gavin Napier had joined Rob at the abbey, they found him in an uncharacteristically grim, even frantic mood. Word had reached Compiègne that the barricades were up in Paris, that Catholics and Huguenots were fighting to the death, and that while the situation was dire, it wasn’t entirely hopeless. If King Henri could retain control of Paris, peace might still be preserved. But, as always, the city was as capricious as a courtesan, surrendering her allegiance not to her acknowledged master, but to whoever pleased her present whim.
For now, Paris chose the protection of Spanish troops. Overwhelmingly Catholic, the city’s inhabitants were less interested in the bogus claims of Philip II’s daughter, Isabella, or the befuddled Cardinal de Bourbon than the fifty thousand crowns a month the Spanish king paid to quarter his troops in the city.
While Sorcha had argued that none of this religious or political turmoil should disrupt their own lives as Scots subjects on French soil, Rob had vehemently disagreed. “As long as I have responsibility for Brother Jacques, I must remain involved. If,” Rob had declared heatedly, “Brother Jacques has headed for Paris, my conscience dictates that I must at least try to avert tragedy.”
To Sorcha’s chagrin, Gavin Napier had concurred with Rob. At first, only the two men were riding off for Paris, but Sorcha, suffused with guilt for failing to deter Brother Jacques, insisted on joining them. Gavin Napier displayed as little confidence in Sorcha’s ability to sway the mad monk as she herself did, but Rob persisted. And Rosmairi, loath to be left behind, asserted that she’d come, too. That decision prompted the gallant Armand d’Ailly to call for his mount.
“You are too delicate, too fair, to face danger without protection,” d’Ailly had told a blushing Rosmairi. “If you go, I go, too.”
So the five of them now approached the walls of the great city on the Seine. As far as the eye could see, troops ringed the outskirts with clusters of men manning the weapons that would be used to force the city’s surrender. Tents had been erected, horses were quartered in every open space, and troops in a variety of multihued dress milled about. Even from such a distance, the shouts of men could be heard, accompanied by the clang of steel and the acrid smell of gunpowder.
Sorcha leaned over the pommel of her saddle to peer at the strange tableau. “Jesu,” she murmured, holding a hand over her eyes to keep out the sun, “how will we ever find King Henri amid such disorder?”
“I should think there would be a royal insignia above his tent,” Rob said, though his voice sounded unsure.
Gavin Napier rubbed his bearded chin. Sorcha watched him in bemusement, overcome with a sudden desire to reach out and clasp him in her arms. “I wonder if King Henri wants his whereabouts known,” remarked Napier, more to himself than to the others. “It might be easier to find Henri of Navarre than Henri de Valois.”
The Sieur d’Ailly, who had moved his mount next to Rosmairi, frowned at the dust on his finely cut blue doublet. “I have heard that the leaders of the siege are positioned on the other side of the city. It would make sense if King Henri has come to Paris from one of the chateaus in the Loire Valley,” d’Ailly added in a self-effacing manner.
Napier nodded, silently cursing the heat of the late summer day. The first of August, he realized—how long had Paris been under siege? Only a few weeks, surely not enough to weaken the will of its inhabitants. No wonder the soldiers appeared to be in disarray. Between the hot, increasingly humid weather and no prospect of victory, it was a marvel they hadn’t deserted in droves. Napier turned to the others.
“We’ll ride ’round,” he announced, then noted how Rosmairi had begun to droop in the saddle. “D’Ailly, think you it might be wise to remain here with Mistress Fraser? Perhaps you can find some shelter out of the sun.”
Rosmairi lifted a hand in feeble protest, but d’Ailly leaned from the saddle to clasp her fingers. “Non, non, ma belle demoiselle,” he admonished gently. With his free hand, he made a sweeping gesture. “These rude, stinking soldiers, the lack of even the most basic comforts, the sweltering sun—none of this benefits your delicacy.” His gaze held Rosmairi captive. “Come with me; we shall refresh ourselves at Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”
With a jaundiced eye, Sorcha watched the pair canter off. Apparently, it hadn’t occurred to the Sieur d’Ailly—or her brother, or Gavin Napier—that she might also be squeamish about encountering the seamier side of military life. She wasn’t, of course, though the thought of Rosmairi resting in a cool place, drinking chilled wine and nibbling on partridge made Sorcha feel a pang of envy. But Napier was leading the way westward, still keeping their distance from the actual concentration of troops. To their right, several small farms and sturdy windmills sat untended under the August sun. No doubt the soldiers had driven off the local tenants while plundering both harvest and horses to augment the royal supplies.
“That’s the Porte Saint Victor,” Napier called out, pointing straight ahead. “From what I know of Paris, that’s the weakest point in the wall. It’s also the closest portal to the Île de la Cité and Notre-Dame.” He had reined up as Sorcha and Rob joined him on a little knoll that rose directly in front of an empty pigsty. “Strategically, that’s where I’d judge King Henri and the Duke of Navarre would set up their camps.”
Rob was looking dubious as he surveyed the scene in front of them. At least a hundred men were lolling about on what had once been a flourishing summer garden. Beyond them, another sort of garden grew, a maze of canopied tents, displaying pennons of various colors and design, none of which meant anything to Rob or Sorcha. Napier, however, pointed to a dark blue tent that bore no mark of any sort. “There—where the pious pair of ministers confer—I suspect we’ll find one or the other of our Henris.”