Valentine

by Heather Grothaus

  “He is thought to be in hiding.”

  “Of course.” Valentine hoped he looked as unimpressed as he felt.

  “He is also being hunted by his own family.”

  Valentine frowned. Then he glanced around the table at his friends. They were all staring at him; Roman’s blond eyebrows were raised.

  Victor’s next words drew Valentine’s attention once more. “The same family who witnessed the agreement, which was entered into a score and six years ago, in the Spanish kingdom of Aragon.”

  And then memories that he hadn’t visited for years bloomed in Valentine’s mind:

  Playing on the damp shore, watching the black clouds race off toward the horizon. The small wooden ship floundering on the reef, listing dangerously. The big bearded man rowing ashore, his words foreign but his anxiety clear.

  “The man she seeks,” Victor said, interrupting his thoughts of the past, “is none other than Valentine Alesander.”

  “Valentine is married?” Roman asked, his disbelief clear in his tone.

  From his window seat, Adrian Hailsworth chuckled. “To a lovely English lady, no less.”

  Valentine still could not find any words. The woman in the red confessional had come all this way to find him? And she was his wife, who needed him to accompany her back to England?

  She needed him to accompany her back to England.

  “Valentine?” Stan prompted. “What say you? If we refuse the woman, surely she will raise a hue and cry and betray our location.”

  “And divulge to her betrothed the sordid details of her marriage to a criminal?” Adrian challenged. “I do doubt it.”

  Roman held out a large palm. “Perhaps Valentine should not have the arrangement annulled. What if he were to remain married to her? Perhaps it would alleviate his boredom with our captivity, and, if she is wealthy, any resources she possesses might benefit us.”

  Adrian snorted. “Oh, yes, let’s do keep her. Like a pet. May we, Victor? May we?”

  “She cannot stay here,” Victor said, choosing to ignore Adrian’s snideness. “She is missing from her home, and now from the group of pilgrims with whom her priest arranged for her to travel. Should she not return before her wedding, her betrothed will surely retrace her journey to Melk. It would not do to have authorities from the Crown sniffing about the abbey.”

  “Valentine?” Stan prompted again.

  “What can I say?” Valentine said, forcing a great sigh and holding out his hands. “I must go.”

  “The journey will be dangerous,” Roman warned.

  “No worry, my friend—I am a dangerous man myself.” He looked to Victor. “She will pay me for my trouble, yes?”

  “That I do not know,” Victor said. “Perhaps once the agreement is terminated, she might compensate you for your return journey. I’ve given her a chamber for the night so that she might evade the group she came with, and she has agreed to leave at first light so as not to be seen. I have prepared a letter for you that you might take to some friends of mine in Vienna to outfit yourself properly for your journey. You’ll continue on to Prague from there, I assume. It will be cooler in the north.”

  Valentine looked at the priest and raised an eyebrow. “You were so certain of my cooperation?”

  “Yes.”

  Valentine felt his mouth pull downward at this admission, but he had to agree. Stay at this damnable abbey for an unknowable amount of time or accompany a beautiful woman on a journey across the map—leaving tomorrow, no less? No choice at all.

  Happy birthday to me, indeed.

  Chapter 4

  Lady Mary Beckham waited in the abbey’s great courtyard in the darkness before sunrise, the mount beneath her and the quiet abbot her only companions. Her nerves jangled as she checked and rechecked her seat on the saddle of the small horse she’d bought from the religious house, adjusted her skirts, patted her purse beneath her kirtle, looked over her shoulder at her small satchel strapped behind her.

  Valentine Alesander was here. Here, at Melk.

  And in a few moments she would at last come face to face with the man she had traveled a thousand miles to find. She should have been triumphant at her amazing good fortune, but instead she felt only like a bundle of raw nerves. A notorious criminal. A disgraced Spanish noble. For the next several weeks, her husband.

  She wondered what he would look like.

  Then her heart leaped into her throat as a shadow emerged from the darkened arch near the abbey’s wide gates. Two shadows; three.

  The men moved into the light cast by the torch attached to the nearest support column, and one by one Mary took measure of them:

  The first man was stocky, well built, his expression serious beneath his mane of tawny hair. He moved with the confidence of a noble. But this was no Spaniard.

  Mary came to the same conclusion as the wide black shadow that followed revealed itself to be a mountain of a Norseman, with white-blond hair and a hooded falcon, of all things, perched on his shoulder.

  She held her breath as the third shadow limped into the circle and revealed itself to be a long-haired man of aquiline visage, his gaze upon her blatantly suspicious. His skin was ashen, his eyes circled from either lack of sleep or heavy mental burdens, and Mary thought that if it were true, what the abbot had said—that Valentine Alesander and those he traveled with had been unjustly accused—then this man certainly had reason to lose sleep.

  The first man stepped to her side and bowed. “Lady Mary, I am Lord Constantine Gerard, Earl of Chase. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “How do you do,” Mary responded, startled. “Chase? I do believe we are neighbors.”

  “Indeed,” Constantine Gerard said, and something like hope flickered across his face. “Are you familiar with Benningsgate Castle, Lady Mary? Or perhaps my wife, Patrice? She is known far and wide as a most generous hostess.”

  “I’m sorry, no,” Mary replied. “I’ve not gone farther than our village more than a handful of times. I have heard of your wonderful estate, though.”

  The giant man stepped forward, Mary thought to cover the earl’s almost palpable disappointment. “Then you most certainly are having a grand adventure, are you not?” The man bowed, and his falcon twitched its wings to steady itself. “Roman Berg, my lady. I consider your”—he paused and seemed to reevaluate his words—“Valentine is my closest friend.”

  “How do you do?” Mary said, giving the man a slight smile, but she could not keep her gaze from flicking to the shadows, waiting for a fourth man to emerge. She looked to the abbot. “Perhaps we should send for him? The sun will soon rise and—”

  “Fear not, my lady,” the third and heretofore brooding man said. “He shall arrive at the very last moment; it is his signature. Adrian Hailsworth, at your service.” But he inclined his head only slightly.

  “Indeed, last-moment arrivals are Valentine’s specialty,” Constantine Gerard said, having apparently regained his composure. “His . . . expertise has been invaluable to us. There is no one better able to guide you unseen back to England.”

  “He saved our lives,” Roman Berg volunteered.

  Adrian Hailsworth shook his head once, a mere flick. “I do believe that distinctive honor lies with you, Roman.”

  “I could have never come to Damascus without Valentine,” Roman argued. “We would have never known of Melk.”

  “He is a man of honor,” Constantine agreed. “Although oft times that is not the appearance he presents. You would do well to remember that when perhaps he behaves . . .”

  “Badly,” Adrian Hailsworth finished in a flat tone.

  Now Mary was thoroughly confused. Her nerves were so fresh already, and she suspected the hardest part of her adventure had yet even to begin. Was this Alesander a criminal or not? Father Victor had assured her that she had nothing to fear from this man, and as the priest had once been a close friend to her own Father Braund, Mary had no choice but to put her faith in him, as well as in Valentin
e Alesander.

  If he ever arrived...

  “Perhaps he has changed his mind?” Mary fretted to the group.

  “And forsake the opportunity of a journey with a woman of such remarkable beauty and passion?” The voice came from beyond the circle of light.

  That accent. She’d heard it before. A tingle raced up her spine. No, it couldn’t be . . .

  Then he stepped from the shadow, and Mary was shocked into silence at the embroidered tunic of blue and gold, his silken, fringed belt, the tight breeches, which fit his lean legs like a second skin, the fine tooling of his boots. Her eyes traveled back up and saw once more the angular jaw, the sparkling eyes, the dark, silky-looking hair.

  “I would never.” He smiled at her and then swept into a grandiose bow. “So we meet again, my lady.”

  “You?” Mary said. “You are Valentine Alesander?”

  He inclined his head and brought one hand to cover the area of his heart. “It is my most sincere pleasure to meet you properly at last.”

  Mary felt as if there was a tight band constricted around her chest. “Where are your robes?” she demanded, half in a panic. She could not be expected to travel any distance with a man of such obviously forward appetites.

  He raised a slender eyebrow but replied good-naturedly. “They are in my bags. I would no risk being recognized as we leave the village. The people here know me only through my connection with the abbey.”

  The morose Adrian Hailsworth snorted. “And Brother Valentine certainly could not be seen associating with a young lady.”

  Mary frowned through her blush at the implication of Adrian Hailsworth’s comment. This was not going at all the way she had planned, but she could not determine if the surprises were of the better or disastrous sort.

  Before she could ask any further questions, a monk so pale as to be almost transparent brought Alesander’s horse to him, already laden with satchels. The Spaniard took the reins and swung easily onto the beast, and Father Victor put his blessing upon them while the albino monk disappeared without a word into the blackness of an archway.

  The sky was lightening. Pale gray, the clouds overhead rippled like steam.

  “Well, then,” Constantine Gerard said and then turned to Mary, giving her a shallow bow. “God’s speed, my lady.” He shook hands with Alesander. “Remember, you have our lives in your hands yet again.”

  “I shall do my best,” Alesander vowed.

  Adrian Hailsworth clasped hands with him next, quickly and stiffly. “Good-bye.” He inclined his head toward Mary once more but said nothing, and then limped off into the shadows alone.

  Roman was the last to wish them farewell, and he held his friend’s wrist longer than the others. “Come back to us, Val,” Roman said. “I shall not be able to endure Brother Wyn without you.”

  “It would be a long time to hold your breath,” Alesander replied with a smile. “Give the villagers my love should they miss me.”

  “I’m certain they shall.” Roman laughed. He released his friend and stepped away, bowing to Mary. “My lady.”

  Father Victor had already slipped away on his quiet monk’s feet; Constantine Gerard and Roman Berg moved back into the shadows. From the corner of her eye, Mary saw one-half of Melk’s wide gate open slowly—that was where the abbot had gone, she realized as she saw his long, bell-like shadow.

  She turned to Alesander and discovered that he was regarding her with a charming grin. She wondered if he had any other expression.

  “Shall we, my lady?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at all sure,” Mary blurted out.

  Valentine Alesander threw back his head and laughed, the merry sound filling the abbey’s bailey. Then his eyes seemed to sparkle even more brightly as he met her gaze and kicked at his horse’s sides.

  “Vamanos!”

  Valentine took a deep breath of the cool, humid air wafting up from the Danube as if he had never smelled it before. Indeed, it was different air—air he would not breathe again for months, perhaps. He leaned back in the saddle as his horse started down the narrow path toward the growing dawn and the crossroads of the village, Mary Beckham following along behind him.

  “We don’t dare go into the village,” she called out.

  “Of course no,” he assured her, unable to keep the smile from his mouth. The day was just so . . . fine.

  He urged his horse to the left of the path, cutting through a sloped field of tall grass that abutted the abbey’s steeper motte, and headed north toward a small tributary of the river.

  “How long will it take us to reach Vienna?” she called out again.

  “Three days. Perhaps four,” he answered.

  “Four days?” she repeated. “To the east?”

  “Mmm,” Valentine confirmed. Could she not simply relax and enjoy this time?

  Apparently not, for he heard the clip-clop of her horse’s hooves as she urged the animal alongside his.

  “That’s too long,” she said. “Too long, in the wrong direction. If it takes us four days to get there, that means we must travel four days west to make up for it. That’s eight days.”

  “Yes. It is,” Valentine agreed. “Unless we run into bad weather, of course. But it can no be helped. It is a glorious morning, yes?”

  “I don’t think you understand. I am in a terrible hurry.”

  “I do understand, I do,” he insisted. “But success on our journey begins with being properly equipped, and then joining with the best road. There is a major route between Vienna and Prague—well traveled, so generally passable most of the year. We will be safer, and travel faster, even considering the four days it may take us to reach Vienna.”

  To his amusement, Mary Beckham reined her horse to a halt. He obligingly did the same and looked back at her with a smile. She was completely lovely in the sunrise.

  “Can we not simply head north now and intersect the route between Vienna and Prague?”

  Completely lovely when her mouth was closed.

  “No,” he answered.

  Her horse danced, sensing her frustration.

  “Why not?”

  “Primarily because we need the sort of supplies that we can get only in Vienna. Secondarily, there is currently a little river between us and the route. Perhaps you have seen it, yes? We can no cross it except by ferry.”

  He saw her frown deepen as she looked past him. “There is a ferry in Melk.”

  “Yes, there is,” he acquiesced. “You wish to wait for the ferry master to awaken, and take the chance of alerting the party you arrived with?”

  “No.” She sighed.

  He turned forward in the saddle and kicked his horse. A moment later, he heard her follow.

  “Why can we not follow the Danube south? Perhaps meet the Rhine and then proceed through Normandy?”

  “Too crowded,” he explained. “This time of year is popular for travel, and in all likelihood we could no keep our horses with us. There are few barges that make a leg of any length that could accommodate mounts. It is tournament season in Normandy—it will be full of the nobility and even royalty. Wise to avoid in our situation.”

  “I didn’t actually mean to suggest that we travel on the rivers themselves. I don’t do well on the water,” she said stiffly and then was silent for a moment. “You seem to know an awfully lot about . . . well, everything,” she said.

  “I have traveled extensively,” he admitted.

  “While trying to evade your family?” she asked.

  He turned to look at her—she had come even with him again. It was a distasteful topic, but Valentine thought there was a chance it would come up at some point during their journey. Perhaps it was better to get it out of the way now.

  “Yes,” he said patiently. “It is true that there are some members of my family who . . . are pondering my whereabouts.”

  “Who?” she pressed.

  Valentine paused at her forwardness. “My brother. A cousin, perhaps. You are very interested in my
past—a topic I prefer to keep more or less private.”

  She smiled at him, and he was charmed at the transformation of her face. “More or less?”

  “Private,” he repeated.

  “I am interested,” she admitted. “I have no family of my own, and this is the first journey I’ve ever made from my home, not to mention alone with a strange man. Whether we like it or not, we must accept each other as part of our own pasts.”

  “Very true,” Valentine agreed, his mouth turning down at the corners as he considered her observation. And since it had been she who broached the subject of their histories, he asked, “No family at all?”

  “None. Only a nurse.”

  “Does she know where you are?”

  Mary Beckham shook her head. “Our priest told her that I have gone on a prenuptial pilgrimage. I’m certain she is mad with worry.”

  “What of the people you journeyed to Melk with?” Valentine asked. “Who are they?”

  “A group of elderly nobles eager to see the world, now that their children have taken over the duties of their estates. My personal companion was a dowager countess called Lady Elmsbeth. Very nice woman.”

  “I thought you said she was . . . pluckish?”

  Mary Beckham blushed. “You must understand the desperation I felt when we met yesterday. Our party needed to travel so very slowly to accommodate our aged members, and I feared I had come all this way for naught—that Victor would have no answers for me, if even he was at the abbey at all. Lady Elmsbeth is only lonely, and seeking someone to look after.”

  “Then she is likely despairing at your sudden disappearance.”

  “Likely,” Mary said, looking back in the direction of the village, which now had sunk nearly out of sight between the hills of the shallow valley. Valentine could see the guilt Mary Beckham felt as clearly as if she had been clothed in sackcloth and ashes.

  “You will perhaps use the time between Melk and Vienna to practice guarding your emotions,” Valentine advised.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We shall likely have to . . . tell some untruths so as to remain anonymous. For instance, in Vienna, perhaps we are brother and sister. Do you think you can imagine being someone you are not?”