* * *
Gilles de Magnat-Vaulmier hosted a banquet, the newlyweds side by side at the head of a long, refectory table, the treasurer opposite the marshal, the knights and nobility seated by order of rank, then Guthric across from Quillon. But it didn’t end there, for Christiane had asked her father to find room for the members of their household, a request he’d granted without the flicker of an eye.
Even so, with the meal chewed to the bones, the servants took their leave of the family and friends, the talk then turning to the future of the Kingdom, the continued absence of King Philip and King Richard, the trouble King Guy was having down at Acre.
An hour of that and Jobert de Blanchefort heaved himself to his feet. A man who could take his drink, his words were none the less slurred as he wished Tremellion success as the castellan of Yarash. ‘You brought credit to the Cause when you served the army at Acre, my Lord Baynard… My fault I sent that irres – irres – that hot-headed Gaumar de Garin… Glad to see you’re walking next-to-normal… Prettiest lady this side of – this side of anywhere, you ask me…
‘I hope you will visit us at Yarash, my lord Marshal. And you, too, Gerard. And you others, who thought to ride hard and attend our wedding.’
‘Fastest in all m’life,’ Jobert repeated. ‘Save for the one time – much younger then – when this German came home unexpected an’ found me an’ his wife…’ Then he clutched at Passerel’s shoulder, barked with laughter at his youthful indiscretion and weaved his way uncertainly from the chamber.
Turning to Christiane, her husband-of-hours asked quickly, ‘Have you ever counted Germans among your friends?’
‘I, my sweet Baynard? Die Deutschen? Überhaupt niemals! How could you think so!’
* * *
The banquet over, the celebration continued. Conrad de Montferrat’s representative excused himself from the festivities, ducking away from the slow, unsteady procession that crossed town. But Vaulmier and his guests and their knights and Quillon and Guthric were still attentive, wending their way in noisy escort as the newlyweds were led to Jobert’s dwelling.
It amused Christiane to see her own father somewhat unbalanced by the wine; the first time, so far as she knew, he had ever missed his step. She loved him all the more for letting it happen, then giggled aloud as she watched the men who meant most to her in the world, the limping Baynard – sober in expectation of the night – and the aristocratic Treasurer of the Kingdom, leaning and lurching together along the street.
Abandoned for the moment by her husband – that didn’t take him long! – she watched the twitch and swirl of his mantle as he preceded her to the house. He wears it well, she thought; even now he wears it well. So imagine how it’ll be when he’s thrown away his cane. Falkan striding! The predator strutting the ground!
* * *
Another hour of drinks and sweetmeats; Guthric and Quillon gorging themselves on the sly. Magnat-Vaulmier abstained, once again the calm and courteous Comte d’Almé, friend and mentor of Tremellion.
‘We have overstayed our welcome,’ he told his daughter, then shrugged aside his apology to say, ‘These past few weeks – I’ve been working on reams of advice – phrases I planned to slip in at a time like this. But all of a sudden – seeing you together – the advice seems old-fashioned, somehow out-of-style. I remember, when I married your mother, the Lady Isabel, how both her father and mine lambasted me with advice.’
‘Did you take it?’ Christiane murmured, the coolness of her hand on his.
‘Take it?’ Vaulmier smiled. ‘A night with my wife, and I couldn’t recollect a single thing they’d said. No, my dear, nor ever regretted not knowing.’
He leaned down to kiss her, crossed the room to break up a gathering around Baynard, then once again managed to leave the young man blinking in confusion. ‘You were not what I’d expected, my Lord Tremellion – my Lord of Yarash. But I’m not so old that I can’t admit my faults. Not what I’d expected when my daughter started yawning, but a sight better than I myself would have chosen. May God bless you both, and grant you His protection. And now – before you see this man turn maudlin – I’ll attend your presence at dinner a week from today. Though I trust not to see you before.’
With a motion of authority, the treasurer cleared the room. The silk-smooth Aubery saw the guests on their way, locked and barred the door, jerked his head at Guthric and Quillon, sending them to the jovial warmth of the kitchen. Then he paused in the entrance to the ground floor chamber, bowed in silence and signified that henceforth the Lord and Lady of Tremellion would be alone.
* * *
Gazing about him, Falkan said, ‘He’s as fine a man, your father, as I—’
‘But away from us for the week.’
‘And good of de Blanchefort—’
‘But now returned to Acre.’
‘And seeing young Passerel! Decent of him to ride all this way—’
‘But also departed. As everyone’s departed. And aren’t you a little cold?’
He seemed not to hear her, gesturing at the shuttered windows with his cane, moving to sweep the room with it, walking to poke at the doorway that led to the stairs. He’d covered the width of the chamber before she realised he was limping, though no longer leaning, the bride of Tremellion humming with pleasure as the Lord of Yarash propped his stick against the wall.
‘Cold?’ he retorted gently. ‘Yes, it is, down here. But it needn’t be – upstairs.’
* * *
They behaved with a fine and greedy disregard. Whatever the rules, they ignored them, far too enwrapped in each other to care what the world might think, what the world might say; Baynard moaning, Christiane gasping, the proximity of their bodies excluding all else. Their discoveries were too sensitive, too rewarding, their eyes blinded, their hearing deafened, their nakedness conveying the totality of their senses – their appetites fed, their hunger at last assuaged.
Though not for long, for newlyweds are greedy.
They made love again, this time starting gently, though with the urgency increasing, Christiane now moaning, Baynard gasping, this second disregard of the world even better than the first.
It was at Baynard’s suggestion that she turned.
At Christiane’s request that they tossed the coverlet aside.
With mutual agreement that the Master of Yarash padded naked to the window, opening the shutters to let the curiosity of moonlight seep into the room.
This way, they agreed, this time, then later slept.
A while beyond and one or the other came awake, excited the body that lay alongside and whispered in sweet temptation – the world forgotten, though the moon a remembrance of the candles in the chapel of the cold and vaulted cathedral…
* * *
In the morning, the daughter of Magnat-Vaulmier murmured her memories aloud. ‘Those stories I heard in the past; from women who knew. They told me the good and bad of it, how rich or wretched it could be. But you know what I think, my husband? I think their stories were dismal in the telling!’ Then she stretched in abandon on the tormented and love-stained sheets, her slender limbs made languorous by their eager consummation.
Baynard Falkan busied himself with his clothes, turning away to conceal his glow of masculine satisfaction. That she should be pleased with me, he thought, when I’m the one who’s drained by this lissome creature! Good God! Should we continue like this, we’d garrison Yarash with our own!
* * *
The grouping of towers that was Yarash.
Derelict now, it had once been governed by a neighbour of Magnat-Vaulmier, the force withdrawn when the Saracens swept onward from their victory at Hattin. Perched on the shoreline, it had evaded the troops of Islam, the outpost protected by the close proximity of Tyre.
Offered to Baynard Falkan, it would be the greatest test of his initiative and skills, for there was much about the place that needed improvement. The structure was really no more than a castle on the sand. Its turrets and wall-walk
s, gates and watchtowers, all of them were in need of someone who could unify their defence. Turn the abandoned face of Yarash into a strong and arrogant scowl.
Three days after their marriage – the newlyweds brimming with their hollow-eyed lack of sleep – they rode the short distance from Tyre to their future dwelling.
Baynard carried pens and charcoal and parchment in his saddlebag. He helped his wife ascend the ramp to the castle, then left her to explore the huddle of towers, whilst he wandered away to take measurements, sketch his designs, extend his gaze to the horizons of his future.
Christiane came to tell him the tower she thought they should live in was that one, over there.
He told her yes, why not, then crowded her into a sheltered corner, shamelessly lifting the pleated drape of her gown.
Not meaning it, she said no, the couple clutched tight together within sound of the sighing surf.
The hell with the world! The hell with Heaven! The hell with Hell itself! The pleasure he gave her – the thrill she offered in return – the driving, accepting excitement of their desire could do nothing but sharpen the ecstasy of their feelings. Vaulmier’s only daughter and Tremellion’s second son. Yet now allowed to do what they wanted – even this – in their turreted home of Yarash.
* * *
They returned to Tyre with Christiane repeating that the tower they should live in was that one. And with Baynard saying maybe, it would all depend, let’s see how the plans work out.
Meanwhile, their master preoccupied with his bride and his building, Quillon and Guthric thought themselves in Paradise. The Saxon was much admired by one of the statuesque cooks, the safeguard favoured by a pair of dark-haired maids.
They were as well off here, they decided, as they’d ever been in Spain, or the island of Cyprus. Maybe better, for the women were closer at hand.
* * *
Then Christiane told her husband there was a show to be witnessed in town. ‘Conjurors and magic-men, performing tonight in the shelter near the square. Shall you come with me, my love? And spoil my enjoyment by explaining how it’s done?’
He smiled at her, his lean face underlit by the candles he’d set at the corners of his desk. ‘I tell you what. Busy as I am, why don’t you go ahead with Guthric—?’
‘I hate to say it, but your Guthrie’s already gone ahead with one of Jobert’s cooks.’
‘With Quillon then. Give that idle man a shout. He’ll see you safe to the square.’
She did as he asked, the jaunty safeguard summoned to the room. He told his master he’d be happy to see the Lady Christiane to the shelter— ‘Though you should know, m’lord, it’s once again tippin’ with rain.’
‘So wear your warmest cloak,’ Baynard told his wife. ‘And as for you, young Quillon, take my own. Swing it about and who knows, it might get you both the best seats in the place.’ Then he waved them off to the evening’s diversion, his gaze returning to the detailed plans of Yarash. Lots of work to be done to improve the defences. To make the castle worthy of Vaulmier’s confidence. And as a home to please Christiane.
* * *
On his way to the street, Quillon raised the hood of the borrowed cloak, grinning mischievously at Aubery. ‘Conductin’ the lady. Off to see the conjurors, an’ that. Looks good on me, this garb, wouldn’t you agree? All these birds; I might just take off an’ fly!’
Unamused by the safeguard’s manner, the keeper of de Blanchefort’s household saw Christiane and Quillon from the building. He wished the Lady of Yarash a pleasant evening, then watched as they made their uneven way along the cobbles.
Turning to re-enter the house, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He glanced along the street again, blinking in disbelief as he saw Quillon sag, arrows sprouting from his back, kestrels and eagles transfixed by the shafts, others skittering crazily from the walls or bouncing up from the stones.
As if to be companionable, Christiane joined in the silly, sinking dance…
All but paralyzed by the image – unreal – impossible – the keeper moved his head slowly, gazing bland and incurious at the group of archers who now broke and fled, jostling each other as they ran to be swallowed by the darkness of an alley.
Aubery looked again at the hooded couple, sprawled and unmoving in the street. Only then did he accept the truth of what he’d seen, the veneer of a lifetime splintering apart, the keeper cawing and flapping his arms in grotesque imitation of, yes, perhaps a falcon, as he stumbled across the rounded, glistening cobbles.
The two of them were dead. Scream for help and whoever came would know at a glance they were dead. Fetch the physician and the Arab would tell him there was nothing to be done but pray for their souls, for both of them were dead.
Not realising then why he did it, the civilized keeper of de Blanchefort’s household leaned closer to the corpse of Christiane de Magnat-Vaulmier, Christiane of Yarash, Christiane of Tremellion, and jerked the three murderous arrows from her body. Later, he would know why he’d done it – offended by the obscenity of the shafts – but all he could do now was whirl to his feet, run howling to the house, in through the door, up the stairs and into the dim-lit chamber, his voice raised to a pitch of hysteria as he cried in dreadful witness to what he’d seen.
Jerked from his study of the architect’s plans – and yes, the tower his wife had chosen could be the one they’d live in – Baynard Falkan asked, ‘What? You’re telling me what?’
Chapter Thirty Three
He sent Aubery reeling hard against the wall. Saw the arrows fall like the spills of a children’s game from the keeper’s grasp. Mercifully failed to comprehend that the blood on the barbs was hers. But was anyway drawing his sword by then, a guttural sound in his throat as he stormed down the stairs, the blade clanging once as it struck the handle of the door.
He saw Tyrians in the street, grouped around the bodies.
Just in time, one of them sensed him approaching, gestured in alarm at the others and backed beyond reach of the blade.
Baynard knelt beside his wife. Laid his sword on the cobbles. Lifted her in his arms, turning her gently, then brushing at the smudges of dirt that marked her face. His lips moved, but the language was a sound only she and he could know. To the cringing spectators it was no more than a long and unbearable rending of the heart.
* * *
Removed by the mercy of God from all reality, he told her she was right; they’d furnish the tower she’d chosen, though he wanted her to know it would necessitate the building of a forty-foot length of wall to protect the outerworks. Anyone else would have settled for the other tower! But not you, my love. With you it’s the one with the kitchens already built-in – and what you said when we walked around the place – the contented sigh of the sea.
Couching her body, limp in death, yet even lighter it seemed than in life, he bored her as a husband might with talk of the expenses, the time it would take to complete the extra wall, the dust that would fill the air. She wasn’t to suppose it could all be done in the winking of an eye. So she’d better get used to weeks and months of discomfort. Cover her clothes. Protect the furniture. And for heaven’s sake smile at the builders. For you know what a damned touchy lot… what a touchy lot…. what an awkward and touchy lot…
A well-intentioned voice growled in the dark. ‘Best get her in from the damp, my lord. Her an’ her escort. Give you a hand with ’em, sire? Get ’em both in from the night?’
Falkan raised his eyes to the cautious citizens of Tyre. Saw them as a blur. Heard the well-meant voice as in the ending of a dream, the rope that hauled him for ever from communion with his young and vibrant wife.
She was dead. It was true. And she ought to be brought in from the damp. She and her escort. Both of them. Dead now and due to be sheltered from the night.
His future with Christiane banished for ever, Falkan reached for his sword. Then he came to his feet, his mind intent on murder, the weapon swinging ready in a grasp so tight it gouged blood from the palm
of his hand.
* * *
Scattering against the sides of the street, the civilians watched as the knight cut his aimless way down the cobbled slope. The more intelligent among them went to find Jobert de Blanchefort’s keeper, calming the stricken man as best they could.
It was a while before Aubery regained his self-control. Wiping the tears of shock and sorrow from his eyes, he thrust back his shoulders then pivoted to tell his neighbours what to do.
‘You – and you – and you two over there – you’ll bring the bodies. As for you women, you’ll go to the head of the stairs, the door to your right, then strip the bed of its skins.’ Calling again to the men, he said, ‘Whichever of you can do it with decency will draw the arrows from the cloak. Lord Falkan’s cloak.’ Then he added in a voice that did him justice, ‘And worn with a certain flair by his impudent safeguard.’
The neighbours hurried to Aubery’s bidding. Citizens of Tyre, they were nevertheless villagers in their street, willing to assist, eager to see the interior of Jobert de Blanchefort’s dwelling, pleased to be part of a drama that would shake the foundations of the town.
Soon busy within the house of the Marshal of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, they gave little thought to the Master of Yarash, the young man already lost in the mist of rain that dragged the hem of her gown from the sea to the inland hills.
The Edge of the Blade Page 30