The Mistress Of Normandy

by Susan Wiggs

  Red-faced, the man stammered, “But...but my lady—”

  “I wouldn’t marry that English god-don if the moon fell out of the sky. And if he thinks to force me, tell him to think again. I am already married to Lazare Mondragon.”

  Cade’s jaw dropped. He grabbed a second cup of wine and drained it. “Married?”

  She nodded. “I’ve had a copy of the marriage contract drawn up, so there can be no question as to its validity.” Drawing the document from the folds of her gown, she thrust it under Cade’s nose.

  She couldn’t resist a slow smile of dark satisfaction. Today she would dispense with the Englishman; now she could turn her mind to the problem of Lazare. “There is nothing your master can do. Even King Henry cannot undo what has been wrought before God. Begone, now. The sooner you and that god-don you serve leave our shores, the better!”

  With jerky motions he pocketed the contract, sent a look of longing at Bonne, took the last of the wine, and left the hall.

  “You were a bit hard on the poor fellow,” said Bonne, staring after him. “He’s only a messenger, after all.”

  “He’s an English god-don.”

  An impulse of wicked mischief seized Lianna. She ran to the armory, put on her gunner’s smock, and climbed to the battlements. The new culverin, on its rotating emplacement, was small enough to be discharged by a single gunner. She loaded a ball and a modest charge into the chamber, lit a piece of tow, and waited until the Englishman passed under the gatehouse and crossed the causeway. She aimed the gun well away from him; the firing would be just for show.

  The charge crackled, then rent the morning air with a powerful report. The ball passed wide of the rider and came down harmlessly in the woods. The horse reared; Cade spurred him and disappeared down the road.

  The shot brought half the residents of the keep running out into the bailey, stumbling over milling chickens and squealing pigs. Wrapped in a hastily donned robe, Gervais appeared below, red-faced, shaking his fist.

  Lianna didn’t care. Like potent wine, the heady sensation of triumph warmed her. How good it felt to vent her wrath, even on that worthless messenger. She half regretted that she’d never meet the master; she longed to see that damned horzain humiliated, wallowing in the mire of defeat, an Englishman bested by a Frenchwoman.

  * * *

  A gray mist drizzled over the Toison d’Or as she nosed up the coast from Eu to Le Crotoy, a stronghold of the Duke of Burgundy. Standing at the rail, Rand felt a chill seep into his bones. He barely heard the shouts of the crew as they made ready for landfall, because he was thinking of Lianna. Like a recurring melody, her name played in his mind. How tempting it had been, after seeing the demoiselle’s marriage contract, to seek Lianna out, to...to what? Locking his hands around the rail, he scowled. He was no more free now than he had been this morning when he’d sent Jack to Bois-Long. King Henry needed the ford; Rand was honor-bound to secure it—if not by marriage, then by might. Perhaps Burgundy, who had sent a cautious message to Eu, inviting them to come in secret, would provide an answer.

  For now, though, Rand needed answers from Jack. The scutifer had returned a few hours ago, too drunk to do more than place the demoiselle’s message in Rand’s hand. “Fetch Cade for me,” he called to Simon.

  Hand over hand, Jack Cade struggled along the rail toward Rand. “Please, my lord, not now.”

  Rand scowled. “From the looks of you, if you put me off much longer, I’ll be talking to a corpse.”

  Gulping air, Jack sank into a crouch. Rand took out a skin flask of wine. Jack waved him away. “I’m still drunk from this morning. Drunk and seasick. Fried to my tonsils.”

  From his belt Rand drew Lianna’s ashwood catapult and a stone. He flung the missile into the sea. “Speak, Jack. Tell me of your interview with the demoiselle. What was she like?”

  “Beautiful,” Jack mumbled sottishly.

  “The demoiselle?” But she was Burgundy’s niece.

  “Hair like flame...breasts like fresh cream... God, but she did fling a cravin’ upon me.”

  “The demoiselle?”

  Jack blinked. “Oh, that one. I was speaking of her maid. Bonne, that’s her name; means ‘good,’ don’t it? I’ll wager she’s very good indeed.”

  His patience gone, Rand snapped, “It’s the demoiselle I want to hear of.”

  Jack hiccupped. “Oh. Well...she’s...cold, my lord.” He grimaced. “Cold as the teat of a cockatrice.”

  Unbidden relief spilled through Rand. Thank God she’d married another. “What did she look like?”

  The ship listed. Jack closed his eyes and began to tremble. “Like...a cockatrice?”

  “Jack—”

  “My lord, what know I of the high nobility?” Jack opened his eyes. “She looked upon me with scorn. She was all tricked out in gauzy stuff, such as we saw on the ladies at Eltham.”

  Rand could see the line of questioning was going nowhere. “What did she say?”

  “She called you a god-don. What the hell is that?”

  “A nickname we Englishmen have earned among the French, referring to our habit of calling upon God to damn whatsoever displeases us.”

  “Well, she’s wrong about you. You’ve never taken the Lord’s name in vain. I do so often enough for us both.”

  Rand sent another stone flying. It skittered across the iron-gray swells and was swallowed by a white-crested wave. “What else did she say?”

  “She said she wouldn’t marry you if the moon fell out of the sky.” Jack watched him curiously but did not comment on the little weapon.

  Robert Batsford, who had been standing nearby, joined them. “Her defiance is impressive,” said the priest. “Few men, still fewer women, would dare flout a king’s edict. Your bride is certainly bold-spirited.”

  Jack mumbled. “She’s got the damnedest maid....”

  Furious, Rand squinted through the stinging mist. He’d been duped by a woman; he’d failed in his knightly duty. “Oh, she’s a bride all right, Father. But not mine. She wed some Frenchman called Mondragon.”

  “Good Lord, is the woman mad?”

  “Having never met her, I wouldn’t know.”

  Batsford let loose with a low whistle. “Married. Blessed St. George, I’m beginning to feel a grudging respect for the woman. What will you do now?”

  Like ghosts in the mist, the four round towers of Le Crotoy hove into view. “Burgundy and I will find a solution,” said Rand.

  Five

  Rand was gone. For two weeks the glade where St. Cuthbert’s cross stood had been empty, save for the lonely presence of a confused young woman. Still Lianna went there; she waited at the hour of the woodcock’s flight, hoping to see Rand.

  Her remembrance of him turned to longing, and longing to obsession. She couldn’t forget that smiling face hewed by angels, his lips whispering endearments before closing over hers, the rich caress of his voice as he sang her a love song. Standing in the glade, she moved her hands over her ribs, her neck, her breasts, remembering, wanting, needing. Her body cried out for him with a passion so strong it hurt. He’d plumbed a well of deep, secret longings inside her—longings only he could fulfill. A timeless, mystical bond had linked them from the first, and even if Rand never came again, she knew she would never be free of him.

  She could think of only one reason for his disappearance. The Englishman had quit the coastal town of Eu; obviously her Gascon knight had known about the invading foreigner and had gone after him. He’d wanted to break lances for her. Perhaps, unwittingly, he was doing just that.

  Swathed in dreamy sadness, she returned to the château one day and walked her horse to the stables. Absently she noticed a gilt leather bridle had been left in the yard. Roland, the marshal, snatched it up.

  “Sorry, my lady, I must have overlooked that,” he mumbled, and scurried aside as if to escape the expected dressing down. But she said nothing as she gave him the reins of her palfrey. What mattered the loss of a bridle when her own hear
t was breaking?

  An excess of equine noise penetrated the sorrow-spun web of her thoughts. Looking about, she saw that every empty stall was now occupied.

  Catching her curious look, Roland said, “The Sire de Gaucourt has arrived, my lady. Best soldier in France, and right fussy about his horses, he is.”

  Lianna froze inside. She’d expected Gaucourt; the château was prepared for his visit, but now that he was here, her defiance against her uncle was real, irrevocable. Swallowing a feeling of uncertainty, she went to the hall to greet her guest.

  Raoul, the Sire de Gaucourt, sat by the hearth with Gervais. The knight had a strong, arrogant face and an oddly lashless stare of deep calculation. His eyes were pale stones washed by the ice of command. The sight of him sliced through Lianna’s defiance with a blade-sharp sense of apprehension.

  Spying her, Gervais smiled. Unexpectedly, Lianna had discovered a tolerance for her husband’s son. He’d relaxed his father’s interdict against her gunnery and lately seemed content to leave the running of the château to her. “Come greet our guest,” he said. His eyes lingered on her stained homespun smock, but she saw no disapproval in his gaze.

  She swept toward Gaucourt. “Welcome, mon sire.”

  He took her hand and leaned down, brushing his lips over the backs of her fingers. “Madame,” he murmured.

  She extracted her hand from his. “Thank you for coming to my aid.”

  His chilly, pale eyes crinkled at the corners, and she realized he was smiling in his own bloodless way. “I could not but come when I learned of the brave deed you did for France.”

  Despite her instinctive distrust of Gaucourt, Lianna was pleased that the knight offered none of the warnings and recriminations her uncle of Burgundy had dealt her. “Under the circumstances I had no choice. I couldn’t possibly wed the Baron of Longwood and cede Bois-Long to the English Crown.”

  “I agree, madame. King Henry needs a stronghold on the Somme to give him access to Paris. He may have his sights set on France, but thanks to you he’ll get no farther than here.”

  “And thanks to you, mon sire,” Gervais said, “the English will not take Bois-Long by force.”

  Lianna sent him a cool look. So, Gervais did have some understanding of the lay of things. She turned to Raoul. “The Englishman was seen to sail away from Eu, where he landed, but I fear he’ll be back.”

  “The presence of fifty of my best men will stay his hand.”

  Her eyes traveled down the length of the hall. Servitors were setting up the trestle tables for the evening meal. In a far corner of the room, the elderly Mère Brûlot sat crooning to the two babies she held in her arms. At one of the tables Guy, the seneschal, labored patiently over a livre de raison, his record of the daily events of the château.

  Fear rushed over her like the shadowy wingbeats of a dark bird. Not for herself, but for the many people under her protection. How many of their fields would be burned if Henry acted? How long would they survive if the marauding English leveled their homes and slaughtered their livestock? Even Chiang’s guns might not hold back Henry’s wrath.

  Gaucourt must have understood her unspoken thoughts, for he patted her arm reassuringly. “I’ve sent a number of hobelars out to scout the area. They’ll report to me at the first sign of an English contingent.”

  “I’m deeply indebted to you.” She wished she felt more confident. The greatest battle commander of France had come to safeguard her château. So why did his presence evoke such an odd, ineffable feeling of dread?

  Gaucourt lifted his mazer of wine. “There is no price too high to preserve the sovereignty of France, my lady.”

  “At the moment I can but concern myself with preserving Bois-Long,” said Lianna.

  “With my help, you shall,” Gaucourt promised. His eyes coursed over her, fastening on her waist. “Slim as a willow withe,” he murmured with slight accusation. “You’d best call your husband back from Paris and see about getting an heir.”

  Lianna hoped her light laughter didn’t sound as forced as it felt, issuing from a throat gone suddenly tight. “I wish you’d leave such concerns to my women and the soothsayers who haunt the marshes.”

  “I jest not,” said Gaucourt. “A child is a political necessity. It would solidify a marriage your uncle of Burgundy opposes.”

  Gervais cleared his throat. His customary congenial smile seemed strained. “Bois-Long has an heir apparent,” he said.

  Gaucourt shrugged. “Belliane has the blood of both Burgundy and Aimery the Warrior in her veins. ’Twould be a shame to let the line die out.”

  That night in her chamber, she felt out of sorts as Bonne helped her prepared for bed. “Gaucourt’s mention of an heir is all the talk, my lady,” said the waiting damsel.

  “Fodder for idle tongues,” Lianna snapped, stiffening her back as Bonne ran a brush through her hair.

  “A child would be a blessing,” Bonne said boldly. “Perhaps it would even sweeten Macée’s disposition. She’s barren, you know.”

  Lianna stared. “No, I didn’t know. Poor Macée.”

  “Get a babe of your own, my lady.” Bonne’s eyes glinted with a sly light. “But for your womb to quicken, you must lie with a man.”

  Lianna shot to her feet and whirled, her linen bliaut swirling about her slim ankles. “I’m not an idiot, Bonne. Lazare is in Paris. What would you have me do?”

  “Take a lover. Queen Isabel herself has dozens.” Bonne moved across the chamber to the bed, whipping back the coverlet and brushing a bit of dried lavender from the pillow.

  Lianna shivered. The king’s brother, Louis of Orléans, had paid with his life for consorting with Isabel. The Armagnacs credited the murder to her uncle of Burgundy. “Would you have me present Lazare with a bastard?”

  “And who could call your child a bastard?” said Bonne. “The bloodied sheets of the marriage bed were duly inspected.” The maid brightened. “Perhaps you’re carrying a child now.”

  “That’s not poss—” Lianna stopped herself. If word ever reached her uncle that the marriage had not been consummated, Burgundy would waste no time in getting it annulled and forcing her to marry the Englishman. “Enough, Bonne,” she said. “It is not your place to speak to me so.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” the maid said without a trace of contrition. She patted the pillow. “Come to bed. Doubtless Gaucourt and the fifty extra mouths he’s brought to feed will keep you busy on the morrow.”

  Lianna slipped beneath the coverlet and lay back on the pillow. Wisps of gullsdown drifted around her.

  Bonne brought her lips together in a tight pout of irritation. “By St. Wilgefort’s beard,” she declared, “I told that slattern Edithe to mend the pillow.”

  Lianna patted her hand. “Leave Edithe to me.” The maid looked so outraged that Lianna tried to turn the subject. “Who, by the by, is St. Wilgefort?”

  Bonne sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward eagerly. “A new one, my lady, that Father LeClerq told me of. Wilgefort, it seems, was a matchless beauty. Growing weary of having so many suitors, she prayed to God for help.” Bonne hugged her knees to her chest and giggled. “She woke up the next morning with a full beard.”

  Though she laughed, Lianna drew a painful parallel with her own dilemma. People lauded her beauty, but they kept their distance. She needed no beard, not with her domineering uncle, her scheming husband, and her own nature—a coolness born of confusion and ignorance—keeping men at bay.

  Bonne started to withdraw, then returned to pick up a mug she’d left on a shelf. “Mustn’t forget my tonic,” she murmured, lifting the mug and draining it.

  “Are you ailing?” Lianna asked.

  Bonne laughed. “No, my lady, ’tis a draught of rue and savin.” She flushed. “Prevents conception.”

  Knowing the substance to be a mild poison, Lianna frowned. “Is Roland so careless with you, Bonne?”

  The maid shrugged. “Men. They are all alike. They spread their seed like chaff
to the wind, heedless of where it takes root.”

  That night Lianna had the dream again, the now familiar fantasy in which the husband who approached her bed transformed from Lazare into Rand. She awoke the next morning with a vague but compelling sense of new purpose.

  * * *

  During the three weeks since Rand had gone in secret to Le Crotoy, spring had pounced like a golden lion upon Picardy. Bees droned over the clover-carpeted meadow through which he walked, bearing hard for Bois-Long. In a distant field, cows stood motionless in the shimmering sunlight, and the scent of the salt marshes tingled sharply in his nose. Travel would have been quicker on horseback, but with Gaucourt’s hobelars about, Rand couldn’t risk detection.

  As his long strides carried him across fields and through forests, he discovered a deep appreciation for the beauty of the land. To the east a field of blue flax and budding poppies waved in restful harmony; to the west loomed the highlands bordered by chalky cliffs and stunted trees. The Somme coiled inland, fed by scores of tributaries. A forest of beeches and elms, their powerful trunks nourished by rich earth, sprang from the marshy valley. Ahead, a line of blazed poplars nodded in the breeze. The gateway to Bois-Long.

  His French heritage linked him to this land. His English title made him master of it. Yet Burgundy’s new plan made secrecy necessary. The duke had promised that the demoiselle would soon be free to wed; he seemed confident of an annulment of her marriage to Mondragon. Rand was only too happy to leave the intrigue to Burgundy.

  Cautiously he approached his destination. He misliked stealth; he had no prowess at it.

  As he edged along the bank, keeping to the shadows of great water beeches, he saw, for the second time, the impregnable magnificence of the château. Only now he looked at it, not as his future home, but as a fortress to be breached. He calculated the height of the walls and determined the route he’d take when he came for his bride.

  With a bit of charcoal he made a sketch on parchment, noting the locations of the sentry towers, the number of windows in the keep proper, the merlons in the battlements.