by Susan Wiggs
Bonne protested again. Rand ignored her. He laughed harshly. “I’ll need a strong woman for my next wife, to give me healthy sons. Aye, a plump English maid.”
“You bas...tard,” said Lianna.
He continued in a loud voice. “My first action will be to send some of the light cannon and mangonels to King Henry.”
Her hands clenched around his. “No...no, I won’t let you....”
He bent closer. “Fight me. Show me your mettle. Fight me, else the artillery goes to King Henry.”
“Damn...you...” A red mist of determination flooded her pale cheeks. As if strength poured into her from some untapped reserve, she arched her back and screamed.
The midwife rushed to the bed, flung back the covers. “Take hold of that swathe band and lift her.”
Half dragging her, he brought her from the bed. “Walk,” he commanded. Swearing, she stepped forward. Fluids rushed from her. The powerful muscles of her laboring body clamped hard; he felt the tension. She gave a screaming gasp.
The contractions renewed, hard and fast. “Take me to...the birthing stool,” she said, panting.
Ermengarde touched Rand’s sweat-damp sleeve. “If you please, my lord, your part is done.” Amazed by the profusion of fluids, and a little embarrassed, he turned to go.
“No.” Lianna’s voice stopped him. She narrowed glazed, pain-ravaged eyes at him. “You bully me into birthing your babe, Englishman. I would have you stay and see this through.”
In the next hour, he came to understand what a mercy it was that men were banished from the birthing chamber. He stood holding her hands, watching her body racked by pain, feeling each convulsion of agony as if it were his own. Blood and fluid soaked into the rushes on the floor, wetted his boots.
She seemed to forget his presence but clung unthinking to his hands, digging furrows into his flesh with her broken nails. Her face, sweat-sheened and fiery red, grew stiff with total absorption.
Tears burned Rand’s eyes. His warrior’s detachment from another’s pain served him ill when the pain belonged to his wife, his love.
The pile of soiled cloths by the stool grew. He’d seen men disemboweled, set afire, their heads hacked off, yet the blood and gore of childbirth was a new horror for which he was unprepared. Just when he was certain Lianna would burst asunder with her efforts, she emitted a savage scream. Then, beaming, Ermengarde held out a bundle of linens.
“Your son, my lord.”
He gazed from Lianna’s exultant face to the tiny object in the midwife’s arms, to the slick crimson-and-purple mass that slid thickly from between his wife’s legs.
He took a step, tried to speak, failed. The floor sped up to meet him as he pitched forward in a dead faint.
Sixteen
Shovels and flails over their shoulders, voices raised in ribald song, the men of Bois-Long marched home from the fields. His voice louder and truer than all the rest, Rand rode a sturdy haqueneé at the head of the contingent.
Watching from the steps of the great hall, Lianna held Aimery in her arms. At seven months, he squirmed at the sound of voices and tramping feet.
Anticipation swelled in her breast as Rand dismounted. A sweat-stained tunic clung to his brawny shoulders and arms; a broad smile of greeting lit his face as he approached. The late-afternoon sun haloed him with gold.
“How fares my lady?” he asked.
“She fares well, my lord.”
“And my little warrior?” he boomed, taking the child and swinging him gently in the air. Aimery crowed with delight.
“He’s been fretful with teething.”
“Have you thought more on a wet nurse?” Rand grinned. “I’d not have him biting you on a tender spot.”
She lowered her eyes. Even now guilt plagued her when she remembered her reluctance to bring Aimery into the world. “I’ll care for him myself.” She reached for a chubby fist. “His grip is tenacious as a terrier’s jaw,” she said, laughing. “Thank God he hasn’t a temper to match.”
She leaned up to kiss Rand’s cheek. The salty warmth of his flesh sent desire rippling through her. Aimery’s arrival had changed their routine. Hours of leisurely lovemaking had become but wistful memories; they now contented themselves with quick, impassioned couplings, inevitably interrupted by their demanding son.
“I thought to take a ride this evening,” said Rand, interrupting her thoughts. “Charbu is in need of exercising.” He moved his lips over the soft golden fuzz of the baby’s hair. “One day you’ll be astride a percheron of the best Norman bloodstock.”
Lianna laughed. “I’d as lief wean him first.”
“As to that, the sooner the better.” He gave her the baby and pressed his lips to hers. “I’d best go wash the sweat off me. I wouldn’t want to offend Charbu.”
“Shall I bathe you?”
He lifted one eyebrow. “If you do, I’d as soon forget the ride, or settle for one of a different kind.”
She glanced at the westering sun. “’Tis the hour of the woodcock’s flight.”
“Will you come along?” asked Rand. “You’ve not sat a horse since before Aimery’s arrival.”
She sighed. Her lying-in had been long, her recovery from the birth longer. The baby tugged at her braid. Reluctantly she said, “He’ll be crying for his dinner soon.”
Rand looked disappointed, yet his smile softened with understanding. “I’ll take Jack, then, if I can entice him away from his nightly gambling. He did say he wanted to speak to me on a matter.” He kissed her again and strode inside.
She stayed on the steps, smelling the ripening apples in the orchard, hearing the lazy hum of bees in the arbor. A warm contentment stole over her, a sense of belonging. She found the role of wife and mother unexpectedly agreeable; with frightening ease she ignored the fact that, this very month, King Henry had formally declared war on France.
Presently Rand emerged, in a fresh tunic, his hair wet and gleaming. He stopped to take another kiss from Lianna, to give one to the baby, then strolled, whistling, toward the stables.
She stared after him, wishing for once that her maternal duties didn’t bind her to the castle.
“I’ll take our little Aimery,” said Macée, stepping from the hall. “Go, Lianna.”
Lianna handed the baby to her. “Am I that obvious?”
Macée nodded, bent to coo affectionately at the child, and looked up. “I know a woman’s longing when I see it,” she said.
“Oh, Macée.” Lianna put her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “You do miss Gervais terribly, don’t you?”
Macée’s raven hair contrasted with the translucent down of the child. “He’s refused to send a sauf-conduit to bring me to Maisoncelles. Sometimes I’ve half a mind to...” Her lip trembled. “I’m sure he had his reasons.”
Aye, reasons like the wenches he undoubtedly kept, or perhaps even ladies of the dauphin’s entourage. Gervais’s status with the king’s son had diminished since the failed attempt to seize Bois-Long, but Gervais had not given up trying to win support. The dauphin, captain-general of the military, was conducting a progress to marshal troops against the imminent English invasion. Gervais, bent on revenge, followed Louis and at present was in the town of Maisoncelles, some forty miles to the north.
“It is easy to hate Gervais for ignoring me. Yet I long for him....” She snapped her fingers. “Damn him, he has the power to make me forget I ever had cause to resent him at all.”
Once Lianna would have found such an attitude incomprehensible. Yet now that she’d tasted love, unreasoning passion and the deep, abiding joy of motherhood, she knew the emotional power one person could hold over another.
The baby grasped Macée’s hair in his fist. Laughing, she said, “Why not go riding with your husband?”
“I mislike leaving the baby, even for a short time.”
“I never thought you’d turn out to be such a mother hen, my lady,” said Bonne, joining them.
“He needs me.”
Lianna knew it well. “Aimery will crave nursing—”
“Nursing!” Mère Brûlot, too, stepped from the hall. “He’s sprouted his first tooth. Time enough for a man’s meal of oat porridge.”
Grinning, Lianna shook her head. “The three of you have been plotting against me.”
“You hold him to your breast, yet your eyes follow the men out to the fields. You dangle baubles for him to play with, yet your hands itch for your pen. You walk the floors with little Aimery, but betimes I think you’d rather walk the battlements with Chiang, discussing your gunner’s arts.”
Mère Brûlot said, “You are a fine mother. But you are chatelaine and baroness, too.”
“Go on,” Macée urged. “Your palfrey will think you are a stranger.”
Looking at Aimery, in his glory amid a bevy of admirers, Lianna could not deny the truth. She kissed him, inhaling his sweet, babyish scent, then hurried off to the stables.
Rand stood to one side of his big, dappled horse, and watched while an eager young groom struggled beneath the weight of a saddle. Jack stood holding the bridle of another mount. He grinned indulgently at the youngster’s struggles.
As the boy slung the saddle over the horse’s back, Rand reached out surreptitiously to help. His hand, unseen by the industrious lad, pulled on the girth to ease the cinching of the saddle. Jack and Rand exchanged a wink.
Proudly the boy stepped back. “All’s ready, my lord,” he piped, folding his skinny arms over his chest.
“And a good job you’ve made of it,” said Rand. He looked at Jack. “Are we ready, then?”
“Not quite,” Lianna said softly.
Surprise and pleasure lit Rand’s face. “Hello, love.”
She inclined her head, then addressed the groom. “Saddle my palfrey. I ride with my lord today.” She turned to Jack and said in English, “That is, if you don’t mind my company.”
“I believe I’ll entrust the baron to his lady. I’ll find a way to keep myself busy.”
Rand lifted an eyebrow. “Wenching...or gambling?”
Jack puffed out his chest. “If you please, my lord. You know the former is no longer my occupation. And as for the latter, well, I’ve no need to gamble, not anymore.”
“You don’t sound like the Jack Cade I know.”
Looking down, he shuffled his feet. He removed a tattered drawstring purse and held it out. “It’s taken me months, but there you have it.”
Rand took the purse and emptied it into his palm. The dim light glinted off a handful of gold nobles and silver francs.
“Is this some riddle?” asked Rand.
“It’s the marchet fee. I wish to marry, my lord, and there’s your marriage boon.”
Lianna gasped. “Bonne?”
Jack grinned. “Aye.”
Lianna thought of her blithe, pretty maid, whose penchant for men had made her popular. Would Bonne be content with one mate, and an Englishman at that? “She’s agreed to this?”
Jack chuckled. “She demands it, my lady.”
Rand replaced the coins in the purse and clapped Jack on the shoulder. “I know not what to say. I never thought you the marrying type.”
Jack’s ruddy face softened into solemn, earnest lines. “All my life I claimed to be seeking a woman I could die for.” He stared at his hands, the left one covering the mangled one. “Bonne is not a woman to die for.” He faced them squarely, almost defiantly. “She is one to live for.”
Rand stood silent for a moment. Looking into his eyes, Lianna saw deep affection for Jack.
“Surely you understand,” Jack rushed on. “You, too, nigh made the mistake of choosing the wrong woman. Had King Henry not sent you on your quest, you’d have found yourself wed to that psalm-singing Justine.”
“Who is Justine?” The question leaped from Lianna’s lips.
All expression left Rand’s face. Jack shrugged. “His childhood love, if you could call her that.”
Rand had never spoken of this Justine, whom he’d forsaken at King Henry’s order. Questions swirled through her mind, but pride kept her silent.
Still expressionless, Rand thrust the purse at Jack.
Aghast, Jack demanded, “Do you refuse me in this?”
“No. But I refuse the boon.” He smiled. “Use your ill-gotten coin to buy a pretty dress for your lady fair. And tell Batsford to start reading the banns on the morrow.”
Jack took the purse and held Rand with a look so warm and thankful that Rand scowled. “Save your cow eyes for Bonne,” he said gruffly. “Begone, Jack. I would ride out with my lady.”
With a shout of elation, Jack left the stables. The groom had finished cinching the saddle on Lianna’s ivory palfrey.
As Rand helped her mount, she resisted the questions that tore at her, merely said, “Well. Are we all to be seduced by Englishmen?” She spoke jokingly, but a prickle of nervousness touched her. She yearned to belong wholly to Rand. Yet a small, cold voice warned her not to forget her objective—to convince him to embrace the cause of France.
“’Tis how whole kingdoms are conquered. One province by one.”
They left the château at a gallop. There was no communication between them; there didn’t need to be. They both knew where they were going.
A hush hovered over the place of St. Cuthbert’s cross. Blossoming blue flax and lavender wild lilies breathed a fine perfume into the air. Sunlight, touched by the orange fire of evening, slid in long shafts between the leaf-laden branches of ancient oaks and swaying willows.
The cross stood, a stony sentinel framed by high summer splendor. The sight, so laden with memories, set Lianna’s heart to tripping. Rand dismounted and helped her down.
He tethered the horses, then turned and held out his arms. Instantly she found herself wrapped in his embrace, surrounded by his strength, his scent, the tender, wordless emotions that seemed to emanate from him.
“It’s been so long,” he said at length, his voice muffled by her hair.
She nodded, his coarse-spun working tunic rough beneath her cheek. “Yet you’ve never complained.”
He smiled against her temple. “How could I, when I saw how consumed you were with nursing and coddling our babe?” He tucked his hand beneath her chin, tilted her face up to his. “The brief, bright flares of our couplings sustained me. Still, I do not deny that I’ve wanted to love you long, uninterrupted....” He kissed her. The unhurried caress of his mouth on hers, the taste of him, the firmness of his arms around her, fanned her desire.
When he finally lifted his lips from hers, he was smiling. “You had me worried, wife.”
Anxiety chilled her passion. She lived in daily fear that he would one day guess her objective. Tilting her head to one side, she affected a playful tone. “Worried?”
“I thought I’d never have you alone again.”
Smiling, she slowly began to unlace his tunic. “You thought amiss, my lord.”
“I’m glad,” he said, bending low to press his lips to the side of her neck. “I’m glad, pucelle.”
The familiar pet name washed over her like sunshine. With a cry of joy, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with fierce, sensual abandon. Her tongue plundered the moist velvet of his mouth, rediscovering secrets he’d taught her so long ago. She moved her hands down his back, tracing the firmness of his muscles. Nearly overcome by the scorching kiss, she pulled away and shed her clothes quickly.
Breathing fast, Rand did the same. But when they reclined in the soft grass and she clutched him to her, he drew back.
“Doucement. I would make love to you at leisure. Who knows when our son will next grant us the chance?”
Each slow caress was a promise, each lingering kiss a pledge of imminent fulfillment. Her insides aflame, Lianna melted willingly into a world of sensation, a world devoid of political intrigue, domestic duties, and demanding babies. Their heated flesh became one, Rand moved sensuously within her
and enclosed her with light and scent. Passion crested and broke, first shattering her heart and then making it whole again, brimming with love.
Aye, love, she thought as her body sang to the tune stroked by his tender fingers, and at that moment it was true. For at that moment no doubts touched her, no foreboding about the future assailed her.
As they lay in a soft mist of afterlove, their bodies burnished by the lowering sun, she saw him as a man, not an English knight; a husband, not a foreign invader. Gazing into his calm green eyes, she recognized a gentle glow of adoration, and love-words filled her throat.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he kissed her again, weaving magic around her senses, leaving her mute with wonderment. Only later did she force herself to face the problems he’d nearly made her forget.
Her purpose was to play the siren, not the hapless sailor trapped by a sensuous song. She was in danger of falling victim to the very spell she sought to cast. If she came to love this man too much, she might be lulled into being the compliant Englishman’s wife. Blinded by emotion, she might not have the strength to draw Rand away from King Henry. Yet she must do so—for the sake of her home, for France, for Rand himself. If he clung to an English victory, his dreams would be shattered when the French smashed Henry’s army back across the Narrow Sea.
“Are you happy with the way of things?” she asked, folding her hands on his chest and cradling her chin in her hands.
He smiled and mussed her hair. “Supremely. When we first met you were bruised, hurting. That I can give you love brings me more happiness than I can say.”
“You’d not change a thing?”
He outlined her torso with his hands. “I might ask for more time with you. More times...like this.”