The Mistress Of Normandy

by Susan Wiggs

  Cloaked in shadows, they ran across the inner ward. A dog barked somewhere. Rand and Jack slammed themselves against the wall. Neither breathed until quiet took hold again. Jack skulked off to wait at the base of the inner gatehouse while Rand made another harrowing climb to the window of the demoiselle’s solar. This time he could use no rope, as the sound of the hook might awaken her. Reaching, he grasped the stone corbels projecting at intervals from the wall.

  Streaking knifelike from the sky, lightning dogged his progress. He prayed no one was about. At last he gained a tenuous hold on the window ledge. Silently he hauled himself up.

  On light feet he dropped into the room and stood still as a marble effigy on a tomb. It was dark; no coals glimmered in the hearth. His eyes were wide open, yet he could see nothing beyond a dense, inky shape. The bed.

  Moving like a wraith, he stayed hard by the wall. The plaster felt cool beneath his fingers; the wood of the door seemed rough to the touch. He nearly stumbled over a heap of clothing. A faint aroma wafted to him—that of lilies and, sweet God, sulfur. An image of Lianna came crashing into his mind. Had she been attending her mistress? Dear Lord, what if she slept in this room? What if she saw him?

  No, he thought. Burgundy had assured him that the demoiselle’s servants slept outside the solar.

  His steps slow with caution and reluctance, he withdrew his blunted weapon and approached the bed. Pulling back the curtain, he saw only darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he picked out a small shape.

  A wisp of sound issued from the sleeping figure—the softest of female sighs. Leaning forward, Rand discerned the sweet scent of hippocras and knew she slept soundly.

  With fingers as light as cobwebs, he brushed aside a length of braid. By the rood, but it was soft. He gritted his teeth. Swiftly, emptying his mind of all thoughts of honor, he brought the pommel down.

  * * *

  Pain and terror ignited an explosion of awareness. Putting together shards of sensation and fragments of foreboding, Lianna realized that she was bound, gagged, and blind. A whimper of horror erupted from her throat, stanched by the dry cloth clogging her mouth. She moved slightly, felt the rough fabric of hopsacking on her face, smelled its dampness. Sainte Vierge, she wasn’t blind, but trussed and bagged like a plump partridge. She stiffened in alarm.

  “She stirs, my Lord.”

  Lianna went still. Her heart flopped over in her chest. She stirs, my lord. English words. Furious, she bucked and writhed. The surface began to lurch curiously. Heavy hands reached out to subdue her; the rope binding her wrists bit into her flesh.

  “At last,” whispered the voice. “Here’s where we land.”

  Land. Lianna froze. Starting somewhere deep in her center, a trembling began. The rocking, bobbing motion made sense now. She was on the water. On the water. Terror clenched her stomach and raked her sense until her entire being felt ripped open, raw.

  “Gaucourt’s men.” A new whisper filtered through the shroud of Lianna’s horror. A bizarre sense of awareness tickled at her mind.

  The Englishmen fell silent; even through her cold cocoon of horror she sensed their tension. Gaucourt’s men. Hoping wildly that the hobelars were close enough to hear, she drew a deep, musty-scented breath, coiling a scream in her throat. She let loose with a furious burst of sound that, despite the cloth filling her mouth, came forth as a desperate cry.

  “Woman’s got a goddamned pair of lungs,” came the cautious whisper. “Rants like a fishwife. Think you we can reach the horses, my lord?”

  A pair of arms like thews of iron wrapped around her. Thunder cracked the air. She heard the splash of rain and a string of English oaths. “It’s a bad landing, my lord. Too goddamned deep here to wade ashore. We’ll have to swim it.”

  “No!” Lianna screamed against her gag. Strong arms lifted her.

  Water.

  Terror clawed at her gullet with talons of steel. She saw herself drowning, the water closing over her head, stealing her breath and her life.

  Her life...and the new life she suspected was growing inside her. She’d never see Rand again, never bear his child. The thought made her fight harder. She jammed her elbow against her captor’s body. A gust of breath whooshed from him.

  “Jesu, don’t drop her. She’ll sink like a millstone.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he grunted.

  Hatred added force to her movements. She twisted, struck out with her bound feet. The men began whispering urgently, but she couldn’t hear their words above the hammering of fear in her ears. Just when death seemed a certainty, the movements steadied. The water receded.

  The jogging motion of running feet jarred her. A distant shout rose. Hope surged within Lianna. Perhaps the hobelars would come to rescue her.

  “No time to unbind her, my lord, and she fights like the devil anyway.”

  She was lifted onto a horse, slinging her like a sodden sack of grain over its withers. The Englishman mounted behind her. The horse jolted forward. Hoofbeats rumbled. She tried to discern the number of horses and men, but pain and remembered fear overwhelmed her reason.

  Bouncing against the saddle, she wondered with horror if she might lose the child. Her terrified mind clung to thoughts of Rand. He’d be waiting for her tomorrow in the forest. She gathered memories of him, the sun bright on his hair, his hands gentle on her body.

  How long they rode she did not know but expected a catalog of bruises to tell the tale.

  Something hissed overhead. One of the men said, “Sweet Mother, that arrow was damned close, my lord!”

  Lianna longed to tear the sacking from her face. More frightening than arrows was the fact that she could not see, might at any moment be skewered.

  “Just keep riding,” said a gruff voice behind her. The English sounded so crude, yet that voice...

  Shouts rang out. She heard a grinding sound, then the clamor of iron-shod hoofs on wooden planking.

  “Hurry, my lord! We must secure the gate against them.”

  Lianna heard more hissing, a slashing sound, a gasp of indrawn breath. The gate groaned closed. The horse drew to a halt. Strong arms pulled her from the saddle, and her battered body was transferred to another pair of arms. She bent like a bow, fighting still.

  “Your niece, sir,” said a grim, ragged voice.

  * * *

  Walking blindly into the night, Rand strode across the courtyard of Le Crotoy. Jack followed, his gamin face bright with the gleam of victory and streaming with the sheen of rain.

  “We did it, my lord,” he exclaimed. “I never doubted for a moment...” His voice trailed off when he caught a glimpse of Rand’s face. He offered a skin flask. “Drink. ’Twill help you forget.”

  Wordlessly Rand grabbed the flask and stalked away, deep into the shadows of the courtyard. Leaning against a wall, he unstopped the wineskin and drew deeply at its rich contents.

  He felt sick with the deed he’d done. The stealth, the betrayal, the murder of the elder Mondragon, and the loss of Lianna all combined into a wave of nausea that nigh overcame him. He sucked at the flask, tried to assure himself that the demoiselle would emerge unscathed from the indignity he’d forced on her. But the outrage he’d committed might scar her for life. She’d defied a king, opened her home to outlaw knights; yet she didn’t deserve what he’d done.

  He flattened his lips into a grimace. Only when the burn of wine entered his vitals did he look at his arm.

  In the gloom, the blood looked like ink. Peeling away his tattered sleeve, he stared with cold disinterest at the angry slash of an arrow wound. He squirted wine on the gash as he’d seen surgeons do in battle. It might have been another man’s arm, for he felt no pain. And then he knew why.

  He did not know himself at all.

  * * *

  The damp sacking fell away. Lianna squinted against the light. Her first sight was the rich, figured velvet of ducal raiments. The first word she uttered when her mouth was unbound was an oath so vile that her uncle blinked.

/>   His face, illuminated by cresset lamps, quickly assumed a chilly mask of power. “Tais-toi. I’ll not have you railing at me like a beggarwoman.”

  She made a sound of impatience as someone behind her fumbled with the ropes binding her wrists. Soreness engulfed her. Looking about, she recognized a well-appointed hall―Le Crotoy, twenty miles from home.

  “You did not hesitate to have me trussed and dragged from my bed.” She cast her eyes about the grande salle. “Where is the English god-don who jumps like a spaniel to do your bidding? Has he skulked away like the coward he is?”

  Burgundy propelled her toward a staircase. “He found his task every bit as distasteful as you did. Doubtless he didn’t want to add to your indignity by seeing you in such a state.”

  She gripped the wet fabric of her bliaut. “It is because of him that I am in this state!” She wanted to weep, to scream, to run. But although retainers in Burgundy’s livery stood in deferential silence, she knew they’d not hesitate to restrain her. She would escape, certes, but not at a wild, headlong run. Still, she vowed that nothing would keep her from returning to Bois-Long...and Rand’s arms. With stiff, resentful steps she followed her uncle up the stairs.

  The chamber, high in the round Tour du Roi, dripped with opulence, from the arras cloth on the walls to the fluted posts of the massive bed. She stared at the duke. He looked less fierce in the subdued light of the hearth fire. Lines of care creased his face. Taking a deep breath, she sought to forget that this was her uncle Jean, the man who had taken her into his lap and dazzled her with tales of his exploits in Paris and at Nicopolis. Childhood indulgences belonged to the past. The Demoiselle de Bois-Long and Jean Sans Peur were enemies now.

  “What do you mean to do with me?” she demanded.

  Burgundy eyed her coldly. “I intend to see that you do your duty. You will marry the Baron of Longwood tomorrow.”

  She laughed humorlessly. Her throat ached from screaming. “Would you force me into bigamy, Uncle?”

  “Bigamy? I think not.”

  The certainty in his voice chilled her. A stiff sea breeze blew in through the window. She chafed her arms. “I am still married to Lazare Mondragon.”

  Burgundy leveled an implacable stare at her. “He’s dead.”

  She stumbled back, groping at a bedpost. “You killed him?”

  “I did not. He drowned by accident in the Seine.”

  In an ice-cold voice she said, “An accident. I wonder, Uncle, if the mishap was anything like what befell King Charles’s brother, Louis of Orléans?”

  He sucked in his breath as if she’d struck him. Anger burned brightly in his eyes, and she knew her words had reopened the wound of an old disgrace. “You have ever forgotten your place. I suggest you remember it now.”

  Deep inside, she wanted him to deny that Orléans had died at his command, but his fury confirmed what she’d never wanted to believe. And now Lazare. She pitied the man. He’d used her, betrayed her, yet his life was too high a price to pay for his scheming.

  “So I am a widow,” she said hollowly.

  “Tomorrow you will be a wife.” He took her chilled hands in his. “You were promised to Enguerrand of Longwood first.”

  She yanked her hands away. “A pretender’s lackey. I spit on him. You pledged me to him without my knowledge, against my will.”

  “Your own stubbornness brought this about. Soon after the wedding Longwood’s forces and my own will ride out to take Bois-Long back from Gaucourt.”

  She drew herself up despite the indignity of being in wet bedclothes, her hair in disarray. “You presume much, Uncle. Think you I’ll go meekly to the altar?”

  “Of course.” He smiled, yet his eyes glinted with sadness. “I am the Duke of Burgundy. If you refuse the marriage, then I will have you sent to a nunnery and gift Bois-Long to the baron.”

  Her heart pounded. “You cannot take my home.”

  He said nothing, only fixed her with a powerful stare. The meaning of that look seeped into her. She stood still, empty, unfeeling, for she knew her uncle’s will would prevail. She leaned against the bedpost. “I don’t suppose,” she said tonelessly, “you’ll allow me a mourning period.”

  The mail shirt beneath his raiments rustled as he took a step toward her. “You gave up any right to my indulgence when you garrisoned Gaucourt at Bois-Long.”

  “You gave up any right to my loyalty when you forced my betrothal to an English god-don.”

  His manner thawed the slightest bit. “Calm yourself. I’ll send for a bath and a sleeping draught.”

  A haze of bone-deep exhaustion settled over her. The baby, she thought. Dear Lord, was she bringing Rand’s child to this forced marriage?

  As Burgundy turned to leave, she spoke again, softly. “How can you do this to me, to France?”

  He turned back, and in his eyes she recognized—and tried to discount—a deep, abiding concern. “Because I love you, p’tite, and I love France. I would not see you wed to such a man as Mondragon, and I will not see France sink into despair because the Armagnacs control King Charles and play upon his madness.” He opened the door. She caught sight of two guards placed like stone stanchions outside the door.

  “Rest,” Burgundy said. “Tomorrow is your wedding day.”

  Nine

  “I will not wear the clothes the Englishman has foisted upon me.” Lianna pulled away from the waiting damsel who was attempting, with sorely tried patience, to plait a string of pearls into Lianna’s hair.

  “You have no choice.” Margaret of Bavaria, Lianna’s aunt by marriage, stood beside a huge open chest. Noontide light from the chamber window streamed over the duchess’s handsome Germanic face.

  Lianna glared. “It was not my choice to be dragged here in my bedgown.”

  “That is neither here nor there, Belliane. I should think you’d be grateful that the baron has brought such a magnificent trousseau.” With a wave of her bejeweled hand, the duchess indicated the contents of the chest. Venetian silks, brocaded velvets, and fine linens crammed the coffer. Stooping, Margaret picked up a royal blue cloak trimmed with gray fur. “The miniver on this must have cost a small fortune.”

  “More’s the pity for the squirrels whose bellies were robbed of their fur for the sake of fashion.” Lianna yanked her arm away from the lavish cotte a servant held out to her.

  Margaret’s wide, noble face darkened. “I’ll not see the House of Burgundy shamed by your stubbornness. A woman’s lot is to obey. My own daughters never defied me. My Margaret wed the Dauphin Louis. She stands to become Queen of France.”

  “She’ll have no kingdom to rule if I give Bois-Long to the English.”

  Margaret set her hands on her hips. “Neither you nor I may judge that. You will let my ladies dress you, Belliane.”

  Lianna stared hard at her aunt. Years of marriage to Jean Sans Peur had honed Margaret’s will until it rivaled that of her husband. “And if I don’t?...”

  “I thought your uncle made the consequences clear last night. Surely you don’t doubt him.”

  Lianna fell silent. The alternative to submitting to the Englishman was banishment to a nunnery. Unless...She slid a glance toward the window of her round tower chamber. Wooden shutters opened to an iron grille. Beyond lay a sandy peninsula, the meeting of the Somme and the Narrow Sea. The grille looked narrow, yet she might squeeze out.

  Her mind snatched at the thought, caught it, and held fast. Lazare was dead. If she could escape, if she could get to Rand, she could convince him to marry her. He was an honorable man who loved her, who’d not refuse her—especially if she told him of the baby. Love stirred in her breast; then fear invaded her. What if her uncle tried to dispose of Rand as he’d done to Lazare?

  The duchess’s ladies took advantage of Lianna’s utter stillness. Her mind racing, she barely felt the deft hands that dressed her hair in pearls and silver netting, the tug of lace points encasing her in a cotte of silver and ice-blue. Full sleeves, gathered at the wrists, rustl
ed as she turned again toward the window. The moat lay far below. The thought of water made her shudder. Could she hazard the climb?

  An ungentle jab to the ribs jarred Lianna from her planning. “My lady, your aunt speaks.”

  She looked up to see Margaret smiling. “You look passing fair,” said the duchess. “How do you keep your hair so pale? Chamomile? Saffron?”

  Her hopes bolstered by the chance of escape, Lianna returned the smile. “Perhaps ’tis the result of exposure to lime or Peter’s salt, Aunt.”

  Margaret pursed her lips. “I’d hoped you’d abandoned your ridiculous interest in explosives.”

  Lianna chafed as a maid covered her head with a silver veil and secured it with a jeweled chaplet.

  “Come, my lady,” said the brisk maid. “See what a princess you look.” Unresisting, Lianna allowed herself to be led to a gilt-framed standing mirror of polished steel.

  She stared at herself. The hasty needle of her aunt’s seamstress had tailored the gown to perfection. Ice-blue overlaid with stiff cloth of silver outlined her slim form. Pearls and aquamarines winked within the folds of her veil; one blue-green jewel descended in a teardrop on her brow. Flowing sleeves and a hem that rang with dozens of tiny bells gave her the aspect of a well-dressed courtier. But these were the gifts of the English god-don. The sumptuous costume imprisoned her as surely as the sentries who dogged her footsteps, even when she visited the garderobe.

  Margaret started off for the chapel. Wildly Lianna considered leaping for the window. But the servants within and the sentries without made her squelch the impulse. Still, the hope of seeing Rand again burned high in her heart; this forced marriage would be a minor hindrance, nothing more.

  She straightened her shoulders. Coldness swept through her. Rand had changed her, softened her, yet the Englishman was bound to turn her back into her former self. She’d revert to being the soulless chatelaine, the intrepid dreamer who hid herself from people for fear of being hurt. So be it. She might have been maneuvered into this position, but she resolved to fight back. She would wed the Englishman, aye, but he’d not find her a willing wife. A terrible smile curved her lips. If her suspicion were correct, she’d present the baron with a French heir. And the final triumph would be hers to savor. For the child was Rand’s.