by Susan Wiggs
Rand felt the heavy weight of duty, the burden of promises wrought a lifetime ago. He looked hard into the king’s eyes, the eyes of a man who might have died had Rand not gone a-harping and stumbled into intrigue that night at Eltham long past. They clasped hands, and Rand studied the long, elegant fingers of the king. The hand that had knighted him with a sluice of water and a blow of the sword.
“I will hold the ford for you, sire,” he said.
* * *
The hundred miles from Harfleur to Bois-Long passed in a blur of misery for Lianna.
At Fécamp, at an inn that was little more than a hovel, they learned that the royal sanity had returned; King Charles had ordered preparations for war. And Lianna discovered her husband was capable of silences so interminable, she wondered if he slept in the saddle.
At Arques, while being ferried across the river Béthune, they learned that Henry was expected to land at Boulogne, that Charles d’Albret, Constable of France, had ordered the nobles to gather a fighting force. Rand discovered his wife could ride as hard and uncomplaining as a seasoned soldier; her will defied the punishing pace he set for them.
At Gamaches, while sheltering in a convent, they learned that royal tax gatherers had begun to sweep the populace in great earnest, that Burgundy had refused to join the Armagnac resistance and had retired to his palace in Liège.
Rand realized that, despite Lianna’s mandate that he abandon the English cause, he still loved her.
Lianna realized that, despite Rand’s insistence on holding the ford at Bois-Long, she still loved him.
At the end of the third day, long shafts of sunlight streamed over the towers of Château Bois-Long.
“We’re home,” she said quietly.
“Home,” he repeated in a hollow voice. “I thought this place a home...once.”
His comment rang with agonizing truth. It had been a home when they’d presided together at table, made unabashed love in their chamber, birthed their son in pain-filled joy. It had been a home when they’d exclaimed over Aimery’s first tooth, planted a cherry tree together, fallen asleep in each other’s arms.
“It is still my home, as it has always been,” Lianna said quietly. “’Tis you who would make Bois-Long an English bastion.”
“Only to prevent it from becoming a French ruin.”
Two pairs of eyes clashed. Two pairs of determined hands clenched.
And as they entered the château, two hearts died a little.
Twenty
Working in the counting house, Lianna made a calculation on her abacus and entered the figure in her ledger. Two weeks had passed since they’d returned to Bois-Long. The crop yields this season were improved as a result of Rand’s administration. How often she had completed this task without a second thought. At one time the myriad duties of a chatelaine had filled her days. But with the baby gone and Rand turned from her, a great, empty hole lay at the center of her life.
She was learning that the loss of love was more painful than its lack.
* * *
Out in the tilting yard, Rand realigned the quintain and urged Roland to ride at the target. Then he turned to study a mock duel between Piers and Jehan. At one time the manly arts of combat had answered all of his needs. Yet now, deprived of his son’s presence and his wife’s love, he yearned for the healthy cries of Aimery and the soft comfort of Lianna’s arms.
He was learning that an imperfect love was preferable to no love at all.
* * *
The figures for the eastern tract of rye were missing. Lianna set aside her quill and corked the ink salver. Rand would know the figures; he kept records as careful as her own. But lately he’d been loath to answer even simple questions.
Thrusting back her chair, she rose and walked purposefully to the tilting yard. The men ceased their drills to stare curiously. Ignoring the onlookers, she said, “I would speak to you of the rye yields.”
His face expressionless, he led her to the garden. Bees droned lazily in the honeysuckle. The flowers of late summer bloomed in sunbursts and clusters of wild color.
He taught me to love the beauty of flowers, she thought achingly. “I need the figures for the yield.”
“I’ll have Batsford bring them to you.” Rand cleared his throat. “Is that all?”
Their gazes clashed. “Please,” she said, unable to stop herself, “please, don’t open the ford to King Henry.”
Pain ravaged his face. “You ask the one thing I cannot give.” Reaching out with an unsteady hand, he caressed the pale tendrils of hair at her temple. “Let the army cross unheeded. No Frenchman will think ill of you for doing your husband’s bidding.”
“I care naught what others say. I could not live with myself if I did not try to stop Henry’s death march.”
“And I could not live with myself did I not try to help him win the crown of France.”
Was this chilling stranger the man who had pledged to love her? Did all they had shared mean less to him than his promise to King Henry, and less to her than her loyalty to France?
“This war will be over one day,” she said. “How, then, will we live with one another after the fighting ends?”
He blinked. The ice of anger left his eyes, replaced by a deep sadness that tore at her heart. “That depends on how much we love, Lianna. And how much we can forgive.”
She struck out with ill-considered words. “I can neither love nor forgive a man who places a usurper’s ambition above his wife and son.”
“Nor can I love or forgive a woman who would ask her husband to turn traitor.”
She burst into tears. Cursing softly, he caught her against him. “Jesu, we both say things we do not mean. Can we not try to find some accord?”
“No,” she sobbed. “No, we cannot.”
In the hall that evening, as Rand and Lianna presided over supper, unspoken recriminations hung thick in the air.
Edithe, bearing a mazer of mead, spilled the drink on Lianna. “Must you be so clumsy?” she snapped as the sticky honeyed wine seeped into the bodice of her gown.
The girl bristled. “Doing figures all day makes the mistress testy,” she muttered. “Ought to pay more mind to that husband of yours—”
“Go back to the kitchens, Edithe.” Rand moistened a napkin in a finger bowl filled with lemon water and began methodically cleansing her gown. “You should not have vented your spleen on Edithe. ’Tis obvious your anger is at me.”
The presence of the entire household prevented her from slapping his hand away. Tight-lipped and smoldering, she suffered the gentle strokes of his cleansing in silence.
His hand, wielding the cloth, moved leisurely and purposefully over the stain. His touch branded her with fierce yearning; his mild yet knowing smile fired her blood.
“Enough,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ll send the cursed gown to be laundered.”
“I’d be glad to help you out of it.” A swift, mortified glance told her the entire household had been watching.
The timely arrival of an English herald spared her further embarrassment. Travel-stained and breathing hard, he approached the high table and bowed. “How goes the siege?” asked Rand.
“A party led by our king’s brother, Thomas of Clarence, seized a French wagonload of armaments.”
Rand smiled.
“But the Sire de Gaucourt marched into Harfleur with three hundred men-at-arms.”
Lianna smiled.
“Have Henry’s miners set up emplacements for the great guns?” asked Rand.
“Aye, the King’s Daughter, the Messenger, and the London are all in place.”
Rand set his jaw in grim satisfaction.
“French counterminers must be at work,” Lianna persisted.
“Alas, they’ve clogged the tunnels with rubble.”
She gave a smug nod.
In the ensuing weeks, similar reports punctuated the waiting.
English guns belched a rain of rock and iron upon the town walls.
French soldiers and citizens hastened to mend each gap.
Green wine, spoiled water, and illness plagued the English army.
The Burgundy-Armagnac feud still festered. Jean Sans Peur had made an insincere offer to send reinforcements to his son-in-law the dauphin; Louis, in fear of Armagnac reprisals, had refused and stayed in the town of Vernon.
King Henry sent a desperate challenge to Vernon, offering to settle the question of succession by personal combat with the Dauphin Louis.
Predictably, the dauphin ignored the challenge. Louis’s refusal sapped the fighting spirit of the beleaguered citizens and soldiers of Harfleur.
On 22 September, the town surrendered unconditionally.
Sickness and siege had reduced Henry’s mighty force to nine hundred men-at-arms and five thousand archers.
But those hardy survivors meant to embark on a chevauchée to Calais, seizing every town and castle they passed.
Lianna confronted Rand one night in late September. “I want my son back,” she said.
A shadow darkened his face. He ran a hand through the golden mane of his hair. “It’s still not safe. Henry’s army is three weeks’ march from here. I am not free to leave, and I’ll not disclose Aimery’s whereabouts to anyone else.”
“You promised I’d have my baby back within a few weeks.”
“I could not know the siege would take so long.”
“I thought you’d keep your promise to me.”
A shaft of pain glinted in his eyes. “I miss Aimery, too. But I’ll not endanger his life to have him with me.”
Sudden shame gripped her. Rand loved Aimery as much as she did. But he might never bring her son back if Henry retreated with his diminished army. Angry, she lashed out, “Aye, you mustn’t let something so unimportant as your son interfere with your plan to give his inheritance to Henry.”
* * *
Tapers bathed the chapel in mellow light, gilding the faces of Jack and Bonne, who had just spoken their marriage vows. Batsford, who in deference to the solemnity of the occasion had shed his sportsman’s garments, wore a sweet, pious expression as he bestowed a final blessing on the young couple.
All eyes turned to Rand and Lianna. She’d thought it would be easy to sing with Rand, but Jack and Bonne had requested a singularly meaningful song―the “Song of Songs.”
Lianna moistened her lips. Their harps, carefully tuned beforehand, sent resonant notes through the hushed chapel.
They began to sing, trading refrains, voices mating, even though their hearts lay miles apart. Her voice trembled as she looked into his eyes and sang.
“Thy love is better than wine:
I am the rose of Sharon,
And the lily of the valleys.”
“My beloved spake, and said unto me,
Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.”
“By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth:
I sought him, but I found him not.”
“Thou has ravished my heart...
Whither is thy beloved gone,
My beloved is gone down to the garden,
To the beds of spices and to gather lilies....”
“Set me as a seal upon thine heart,
For love is strong as death;
Many waters cannot quench love,
Neither can floods drown it.”
Lianna lifted her pain-filled eyes to Rand and saw that he, too, had been touched by the timeless words, the haunting melody. For a suspended moment no one moved or spoke. Suddenly Father Batsford broke the silence by gathering both Bonne and Jack in his arms and proclaiming a fervent wish for their future happiness. The celebrants pressed around the altar, babbling good wishes and praise for the beauty of the bride.
Hemmed in from all sides by well-wishers, Rand and Lianna lacked the privacy to say what was in their hearts. He had but time to utter one word before they were jostled apart.
“Tonight,” he whispered, and she felt the promise like a shower of warm rain after a long drought.
* * *
Rand yearned for the dim retreat of Lianna’s chamber. Could they forget their differences, share themselves without politics intruding? He damned well meant to try. Would she be waiting for him? Aye, he reassured himself—the dew-soft look in her eyes had been answer enough.
Frustrated, he eyed the men in the great hall. News of King Henry’s imminent arrival weighed on anxious minds. The French household knights, grappling with torn loyalties, had been edgy and combative with their English counterparts.
Tempers, bolstered by excessive drinking at the wedding feast, flared. The behavior of the men obliged Rand to remain in the hall until all the revelers collapsed of drunkenness or fatigue. Ordinarily the task of maintaining order fell to Jack, but tonight he’d retired early with his bride.
In one corner Piers and Simon sang a bawdy song; Jehan and Chiang scowled at each other over a chessboard. Watching the game, Dylan and Roland seemed to be having a reasonably civil discussion. Godfrey, Giles, Neville, and Peter Finch cast draughts with three Frenchman.
Rotating the stiffness from his shoulders, Rand decided that tempers had calmed enough for him to retire. Filled with unbearable anticipation, he walked to the wide stone staircase.
A shouted oath brought him swinging back around in time to see Roland’s fist barrel into Dylan’s stomach. The Welshman stumbled back, upsetting the chessboard.
Bellowing, Jehan surged up and aimed a blow of his own at the reeling Welshman. Instantly alert to their comrade’s plight, Piers and Godrey leaped to Dylan’s defense.
“Oh, lamb of God,” muttered Rand, and stalked back into the hall.
* * *
A faint scratching at her chamber door brought Lianna bolting to her feet. She’d considered and discounted at least a dozen phrases of welcome and explanation and had no idea what to say to Rand.
The dancing and feasting and well-wishing had kept them apart throughout the evening. For that she was oddly grateful; the fragile accord they’d struck during the wedding song might have been shattered by a careless remark, a second thought.
The scratching came again. How formal we’ve become, she thought sadly. She almost wished he’d kick down the door, as he had when she’d barred it to him that long-ago night. Or better, she wished he’d simply stride confidently into her room, a man certain of his wife’s welcome.
She opened the door. The tremulous smile dropped from her face. Her caller was not Rand, but Jufroy.
“I thought you’d been assigned to watch the gate,” she said, not bothering to keep the disappointment from her voice.
“I was, my lady.” Jufroy’s rough features creased with agitation. “But you’ve a...visitor. He awaits you at the water gate, and bids you to come alone.”
“I receive no visitors in secret,” she snapped. “If someone wishes to see me, let him come to the hall.”
Nervously Jufroy sketched the sign of the cross. “The man who wishes to see you...sent this.”
Frowning, Lianna took the bundle, unfurled the cloth, and gasped. Carefully laundered and mended, it was one of Rand’s tabards, the one he’d lost during the fight at Maisoncelles.
Her heart skipped a beat, then began slamming wildly against her rib cage. “Does my husband know of this?”
“Nay, he’s still occupied with the men in the hall. A fight broke out—”
“I’ll get my cloak.”
Hurrying down a flight of uneven stone steps, Lianna reached the visitor’s side and sank into a deep obeisance. Louis, Duke of Guienne and Dauphin of France, stood alone in the inky shadows of the water gate.
When she rose, recognition flashed in Louis’s eyes. So, she thought without surprise but with a chill of foreboding, he remembers me from Maisoncelles.
“Cousin,” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive me for coming alone and in secret. I thought it best not to ask the hospitality of an English household.”
She didn’t believe for one m
oment that he was alone; the night shadows around the river whispered and shifted with a force that mere breezes couldn’t impart. Nor did she credit Louis’s reason for not appearing in the hall. Obviously he wanted no chance of becoming a hostage in an English household.
“You...are welcome, Your Grace,” she said automatically.
“Your loyalty pleases me. Why did you not reveal yourself in Maisoncelles, Belliane? I’d have been pleased to make the acquaintance of my dear wife’s cousin.”
She cleared her throat. “Circumstances did not permit—”
“Never mind.” He waved his hand. Moonlight limned his features and picked out a handsomeness buried beneath flesh fed by overindulgence. “You’ve had reports of the siege?”
She nodded. “The town surrendered to King Henry, and he is leading his army north, to Calais.”
“He means to ford the Somme here.”
She swallowed hard, nodded. “There was talk of an English advance guard at Blanche-Tacque, but I understand Marshal Boucicaut outmarched that force.”
“You understand correctly.” A tight smile tugged at the corners of the dauphin’s mouth. “Boucicaut littered the Blanche-Tacque ford with chevaux-de-frise and left the river guarded by a sizable force. So...” Louis eyed her through a rippling veil of shadows. “That leaves Bois-Long as Henry’s only hope.”
Dry-mouthed, she stared down at the moon-washed surface of the river. Ordinarily the sight discomfited her; at the moment the dauphin’s face seemed more forbidding.
“Belliane... Look at me, cousin.” Though soft, the request rang with the timbre of royal command.
She glanced up. Long before he spoke, she knew what he would ask. Silently she pleaded with him not to make the demand.