The Mistress Of Normandy

by Susan Wiggs

  “As for us, Baroness, we will forgo the fireworks tonight and make our own.”

  Fourteen

  The keening whistle of an ascending rocket sliced the silence and struck a flash of light in Lianna’s solar. She shivered, wrapped her robe more tightly around her. Flames from a pair of candles caused her shadow to dance nervously on the painted gesso wall.

  She studied the mural. Familiar images, a frieze of life from another age. The young mother laughed with her infant; the knight on bended knee paid reverence to his lady.

  Now she looked upon the scene with new eyes. Rand the Gascon had made her believe that the painting spoke of real feelings, of dreams answered. Enguerrand the Englishman had shown her that such fancies were the stuff of fools.

  Perhaps that was what she regretted above all. Though she could fight for her home, the loss of her dreams was permanent, irrevocable. Or was it? She had a future with him; she’d have a baby with blond hair and leaf-green eyes.... She banished the image. Damn him for making her want a life with an Englishman.

  For that she hated him most of all. For that she had barred her chamber door to him.

  The crackle of the feu d’artifice and the cheers of the crowd grated on her nerves. Everyone accepted Rand and the gifts of King Henry. Everyone except her and Macée. Lianna felt a stab of compassion for Gervais’s wife. Tomorrow, Lianna would do what she could to reassure Macée. But tonight...

  The metal of the door latch grated. Lianna’s head snapped around to the thick door, stoutly secured by her own hand. She took a step back, her gaze locked on the door.

  “Lianna?” Rand’s deep, rich voice called. He worked at the latch again.

  She fell still, mute, and tried with all her might to crush a niggling spark of fear. The long silence, punctuated by fireworks, calmed her. Perhaps he had realized she would not submit to him and had gone off to make his pallet elsewhere.

  Her sigh of relief became a gasp of astonishment when something heavy slammed against the door. The sound thundered again. She jumped. With horror and awe she watched the iron latch give, rent from its anchoring.

  The door crashed open.

  His face calm, his hand idly rubbing one shoulder, her husband stepped into her chamber.

  He seemed no more distraught than a man entering the hall for his noontide meal. Then he jerked the damaged door shut. Candle flames, flaring in the breeze generated by the motion, lighted his face. And Lianna saw that he was not calm at all.

  His eyes glittered, keen and formidable as tempered steel. Never had anger looked so magnificent on a man, nor so fearsome. She forced herself to stand still, her chin jutting defiantly, her eyes unblinking.

  “Never,” he said softly, “never bar this door to me again.”

  “Did it wound my lord husband’s pride?”

  His hand stopped kneading his shoulder and dropped to his side. “Your pettiness wounds us both, and all who serve us. If I lack harmony with my own wife, the poison of dissension will eventually taint this entire household.”

  “I am not interested in achieving harmony with you.”

  Anger flashed in his eyes. Again he began rubbing his shoulder; again she had the impression that he was forcing his temper into submission. Despite his dark fury, he looked tired. Mentally she reviewed his day. Up before dawn to make the trip from Eu, surrounding, subduing, and capturing armed knights, unloading a cog, extracting oaths of fealty. That she’d crowned such a day with her defiance left her feeling strangely guilty.

  “Salic law is much more stringent in France than in England,” he said. “I would be well within my rights if I beat you or punished you publicly for your defiance.”

  She swallowed. “You’d do that?”

  Letting out his breath with a hiss, he came to stand in front of her, rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. She felt the chained power in those hands. “I don’t have to.”

  The gentle pressure of his hands unnerved her, as did the light, insistent kisses he feathered over her brow.

  “But I do not want—”

  “You do,” he insisted, reaching for the hand she held clutched at her throat. He forced her fingers open. “I know you’re angry. You feel betrayed. I understand your loyalty to King Charles and your disappointment in your uncle. But I do not see why you refuse to admit you care for me, why you deny yourself the pleasure I can give you.”

  “It’s not right,” she said. “I shouldn’t feel—”

  “It is our right as husband and wife to feel all the pleasure we can give each other. It is your right as a woman, a wife.” He bent and kissed her briefly, lightly. Passion-heated blood roared in her ears. “We differ over many things, but not in this. Let us have peace, at least, in the bedchamber.”

  Outside, rockets soared and missiles exploded, but she barely heard.

  * * *

  His heart full of agonizing love, his arms full of Lianna, Rand blinked in the predawn darkness. He lay still, sorting through his feelings, resurrecting images of the night before. So angry had he been to find the chamber locked against him, he’d barely felt the crunch of bone and muscle as he’d heaved himself against the door. His rage had been so deep, so tearing, that at first he hadn’t trusted himself to touch her. Even with Lianna his patience had a limit. Thank God she’d not fought him, for she might have found his limit.

  He tightened his hold on her. Pain twinged in his shoulder. She stirred, sighed, and burrowed sweetly against him. He pressed his lips to her temple.

  She wakened then, uttered a soft sound of dismay, and pulled away. He caught her against him. “Stay,” he murmured. “It’s early still.”

  “You’ve become complacent too soon,” she said, trying to squirm from him. “Gaucourt is not a man to countenance the insult you dealt him.”

  Her movements revived a fierce surge of desire in Rand. Doggedly he steeled himself; he knew he’d get nowhere with her in her present mood.

  “Gaucourt and his men are out of the way,” he said, “awaiting ransoming or riding for parts unknown on their repurchased mounts. He’d need weeks to gather the men and mount an attack.” Rand toyed with a gossamer strand of her hair. “Thanks to your guns, Bois-Long is no easily won prize. Gaucourt will be reluctant to return. He’s too practical to fight merely to salve his wounded pride.”

  “You know little of Frenchmen, then.”

  Anger nipped at him. “Would you have him back? Even knowing he allowed his men to sack Eu?”

  “They adhere to the same lofty ideals of chivalry you embrace,” she shot back, snatching her hair from his fingers.

  “Do not liken me to a French raider. I’ve forbidden my men to practice thievery, chicanery, and rape. Women are not to be accosted unless they earnestly invite attention.”

  “Oh?” she said harshly. “And was I earnest in my invitation last night, my lord?”

  Remembering the ardor that had followed her defiance, he moved his hand gently over the curve of her hip. “Earnest enough.” He laid his lips briefly over hers. “You refuse to admit your feelings for me, yet your body tells a different story.” His hand moved upward, fingers skimming her breasts. “When we make love, the world falls away.’

  “So you say.” Her voice sounded slightly breathless. She batted his hand aside. “And what of Gervais?”

  Rand ground his teeth. “Let us not discuss politics in our bed.”

  “Think you he’ll stay away?” she persisted.

  “He’s doubtless begging an audience with the Dauphin Louis. But surely Mondragon’s influence is too slight to merit anything but the smallest show of force, if any.”

  He stared into her resentful silver eyes. He longed to stay abed and coax her out of her mood, but she looked pale and tired, and other matters called for his attention. He gave her a long kiss, ripe with promise, then rose.

  Minutes later he walked through long corridors. The rooms smelled sweet with fresh rushes and verbena polish. Servants moved about in quiet order, pausing to
greet him. Pride settled over Rand. What an efficient chatelaine Lianna was. He imagined his children growing up here, learning the tale of how the leopards of England and the lilies of France had been united under this roof.

  Unfurling a mental list, he forced his thoughts to more immediate matters. After prime he would acquaint himself with the castle—its defenses and routine. Stores must be laid in and inventoried in case of siege. A letter must be dispatched to King Henry; the cog would be leaving with the evening tide.

  As he descended the staircase to the great hall, a female screech stopped him short. “St. Appolonia’s bloody teeth,” said a shrill voice. “Release me!”

  He recognized Jack and the maid Bonne. “By my troth, Jack,” Rand said irritably, “must you bind your conquests? I gave express orders—”

  “Hold, my lord,” Jack said. “’Tis but an innocent game we play. I but tried to amuse her with the game of Jacob’s ladder.” He stuffed the string into his pocket and held up his mutilated right hand. “Alas, in this I still have no prowess.”

  She looked away from the hand, the two sound fingers and the scarred stumps where the others had been. “I suggest,” she said tartly, “that you find a task more suited to a cripple.”

  Rand tensed. For milder insults, Jack had trounced strong men. Yet her fetching figure, her dulcet voice, seemed to amuse rather than incense him. “I am adept at other things,” he said. “More than one satisfied woman has dubbed this—” he flourished his hand “—my other love tool.”

  Bonne gave a little squeak and blushed to the roots of her soft auburn hair. “You shall roast in hell, Master Cade.”

  Jack pinched her backside. “I’d rather heat things up on earth with you.”

  Rand bowed slightly to the maid. “If you would see to your mistress...”

  Still blushing, she scurried off.

  Rand and Jack began walking toward the hall. “I want you to go to Rouen,” said Rand.

  “Now, my lord?”

  “Aye, today. It would behoove us to keep close watch on Gervais Mondragon. ’Tis unlikely he’ll win the dauphin’s ear, but if he does, I would know about it.”

  Jack looked crestfallen. “Why me, my lord? I was just...” With longing in his eyes, he glanced at the screens passage. “I was just getting to like our new home.”

  “I need to send a man I can trust, a man who understands French.”

  Eyes lighting, Jack held up his right hand. “Too conspicuous, my lord. I am marked.”

  “True.” Rand wavered on the verge of indulgence.

  “Piers Atwood!” Jack said suddenly, slapping his thigh. “He speaks French. Has a bit of an accent; his dam was Flemish, I believe, but he’d do nicely, my lord. And he does so want to redeem himself for blundering upon that Asian chap and getting himself shot.”

  Rand laughed. “Why is it I’m so loath to say you nay, Jack Cade? Very well, Piers Atwood it is. You may stay and try to entice that feisty maid with your other love tool.”

  * * *

  Lianna wished her pride would allow her to stay abed longer. She felt nauseated and achy, and to bestir herself at dawn set her insides to roiling. Still, she refused to have Rand think her lazy and neglectful. She rose moments after he had left. Finding Bonne absent as usual, she shrugged into a tunic and surcoat and pulled her hair back with combs.

  Pausing at the door, she swayed. She felt worse than usual today and unhesitatingly laid the cause at Rand’s feet. Unlike normal people, he seemed to have little use for sleep. Following a long night of ardent lovemaking, he’d bounded from the bed as if refreshed by hours of slumber. Would he, she wondered idly, still have that drive when his golden hair turned silver?

  So much, she thought, for the old Norman saying, “A guilty conscience makes a restless bedfellow.” Either he had no conscience, or he truly believed he had the right to claim her. She clutched the door frame while the wave of nausea ebbed; then she went to Macée’s room.

  “The small beer is flat,” Macée said to a serving maid. “I’ll not break my fast with flat beer.” Spying Lianna, the dark-haired woman glowered and waved a hand to bid her enter.

  They sat in an embrasure furnished with a laden table. Sunlight streamed in through the window, aiming radiant heat at the back of Lianna’s neck. Sounds drifted from the yards; prayers were over, and the workday had begun.

  “Well,” said Macée, breaking off a piece of pungent goat cheese and stuffing it in her rosebud mouth. “Have you come to gloat over your husband’s victory?”

  Lianna dragged her eyes from the bountiful table and wished for a breeze to carry away the odor of food. “You know better than that.”

  Macée finished her cheese and nibbled on a comfit, licking the stickiness from her fingers. “Do I?” She bit down hard on the sugary fruit. “Gervais had the Englishman well in hand. Yet you helped him get free.”

  “I did no such—”

  “You did. Gervais might have been fooled by your false innocence, but I was not. The Englishman used gunpowder to blast his way out.”

  “The English know much of gunpowder.”

  “Why did you not tell Gervais you and Longwood were wed at Le Crotoy?”

  “Gervais would have slaughtered him in cold blood and we’d have forfeited the ransom.”

  Macée’s look took on a keen edge. “Ransom? Ha! Perhaps you love this Englishman. He’s fair as a prince and doubtless excels at bed sport.” She spoke half to herself. “Aye, I know what it’s like to love a man so much you’ll do anything for him.”

  “Love has nothing to do with it,” Lianna said defensively. “He would have drowned in that cell.”

  “Would that he had.”

  Lianna’s temper billowed at the cruel remark. Her stomach churned. With an effort she reminded herself that Macée was distraught over Gervais’s departure and her own uncertain future.

  The woman shoved a salver of ripe, briny-smelling olives under Lianna’s nose. “Eat something. You look pale unto death.”

  Bile rose in Lianna’s throat. She pushed the salver away. “I’ve no appetite.”

  “Why are you here? Am I being held for ransom now?”

  “Of course not.” She and Rand had not discussed it, but she was certain she could speak for him in this. “Gervais has only to come for you, and you are free.”

  “Free.” Macée snorted. “Free to retire to Lazare’s crumbling hall in Tramecourt.”

  “Until he comes, your place here is secure.”

  “Secure?” Macée chewed an olive. “How mean you?”

  “You’ll be treated as a guest of rank.”

  Macée’s hand shot out and tightened like a claw around Lianna’s wrist. “It’s not enough.” Her breath was hot and salty. “Lazare is dead. Bois-Long belongs to Gervais.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” One by one, Lianna loosed Macée’s fingers.

  “What mean you? What—”

  Suddenly the smell of the food, the heat of the sun, and the vehemence of Macée proved too much. Mumbling an apology, Lianna lurched to her feet. Knowing well she’d not reach her own room in time, she knelt over the chamber pot and spilled the meager, bilious contents of her stomach. Groping for a linen serviette, she wiped her face and stood on shaky legs.

  Macée had fallen silent. Lianna turned to face her. The dark-haired woman sat still, staring, her expression so furious that she resembled the cockatrice of legend, one of those fearsome beasts that adorned the buttresses of the château.

  The rasp of Lianna’s breathing and the pounding of blood in her ears punctuated the silence.

  Macée jumped up, oversetting the table.

  “You’re pregnant, damn you!”

  * * *

  “How long have you known?” Irritation and perhaps the smallest hint of hurt edged Rand’s inquiry.

  Lianna looked about the great hall, at the knights and servitors, the alaunt puppies cavorting under a table. Anywhere but at Rand’s face.

  “How long, Lianna
?”

  “I...had my first suspicions some weeks ago.”

  “Some weeks ago!” His fist crashed down on the trestle table. Nearby, a few people stopped to stare curiously. His hand gripping her elbow, Rand drew her into the privy chamber behind the hall.

  His anger ignited the fuse of her own. Her head snapped up, and she glared at him. “I will not countenance your interrogations, nor listen to your accusations.”

  He gripped her shoulders. “You will. By the rood, think of all you’ve done to endanger our child. Climbing down a tower wall, setting off gunners’ charges, riding hard and fast as any man—”

  “Dragging me from my bed, dropping me bound and sacked into the river, yanking me down a scaling ladder.” She took dark satisfaction in his sudden pallor. “Aye, you too endangered the child.”

  “Only because you didn’t see fit to tell me,” he roared, so loudly that she reeled back as if he’d struck her. He stared at her, and she saw the anger drain from his eyes. “No more,” he said, hauling her against his chest. “Henceforth, you will take care. We both will.”

  She stood unmoving, torn between fury and sadness, yearning and defiance. She wished he didn’t make her feel protected, secure, cherished. He lifted her hair, leaned down, and pressed his lips to the pulse below her ear.

  Dismayed by the sudden warmth that suffused her body, she searched within herself for a means to resist him. Like a general marshaling the last of his flagging troops, she dredged up bitter words. “What...” She cleared her throat and battled her guilt. “What makes you so certain the child is yours?”

  He went rigid and stared hard at her.

  She forced herself to continue in a brittle voice. “Ah. I see your male pride has not allowed you to consider the possibility. I gave myself to a stranger in the woods. What was to stop me from giving myself to other men?”

  Only when he bent and sipped the tears from her cheeks did she realize she’d begun to cry. “Oh, Lianna,” he murmured, “we both know better than that. I have only to look in your eyes and see that the child is my own.” He brushed his hands over her shoulders, her breasts. “I have only to remember last night to know you would never give yourself to another. The babe is mine, as is your heart, would you but admit it.”