Any trepidation that she might have felt at the arrangement was quickly dispelled, for Jordan seemed determined to show himself the gentleman. He conceded the bed immediately to Alienor, pleasing his landlady enormously when he requested a straw pallet for himself.
He left Alienor alone for the remainder of that day, though it took her a long time to convince herself that he was truly gone, Alienor was amazed by how deeply she finally slept. It had been weeks since she had enjoyed the luxury of a bed or a full night’s rest. She awoke to the aroma of fresh bread the next morning, feeling refreshed.
She had no time to dwell on her misfortunes, for no sooner had she washed and dressed than Jordan appeared to escort her to the markets.
Trinkets and baubles from all over the world glinted within the dark stalls but Alienor was blind to them all. Her sole thought was that she might find Eustache and she anxiously sought a glimpse of his stern countenance. Bolts of brilliantly hued sendal silk from Canton, hammered brass bowls and urns from the realm of Prester John, emerald samite from Persia, oranges piled high from Valencia, fluffy balls of woolen roving still pungent with the scent of sheep from Saxony, heavily perfumed roses from Provins, early onions and chervil from local gardens—none of these marvels could capture her attention as she searched for one familiar face.
Over the next few days, they visited the market often, for Alienor told Jordan that the variety of goods and bustle of people fascinated her. In truth, she examined more than the goods for sale, studying the crowd streaming through the streets in the hope that she would catch a glimpse of a friend. Once in a while, she would spot the back of a man who stood just as Guibert or catch a whiff of scent like Iolande’s and her heart would leap to her throat, but each time the person would turn and she would see the fullness of her error.
She had even tapped an older knight on the shoulder one afternoon while Jordan was otherwise occupied, thinking him the very image of Eustache. He had turned slowly, just as Eustache would have done, but Alienor found herself looking into the eyes of a total stranger, the color rising in her cheeks at his open disgust with her audacity.
And each night as she lay alone in bed, she watched the night sky through the open window and caressed the fullness of her belly. Her thoughts were entirely with Dagobert as the sound of Jordan and the widow’s merrymaking carried to her ears. She had no way to know if her husband was fit or ill, even alive or dead, though she imagined there would be a great public fuss over an execution. She wondered if Dagobert thought of her, if he waited impatiently for her and Eustache to assist him. When she thought thus, her eyes filled with tears at his plight, knowing she had no way to help him alone and that Jordan would never assist her.
She often recalled that last night together, her husband’s tenderness and possessiveness, the magic of loving him in the soft lamplight and seeing his face taut with passion above her. Never, she knew, would she find another to dislodge him from her heart, and she wished that he had found room in his heart to think of her as more than the mother of his child.
She knew that she would never know if he did.
“You are indeed most kind,” Alienor said weeks later as she admired her new ocher kirtle. She checked that the fullness of the wool adequately hid the ripening of her belly.
Jordan watched her from the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, an indulgent expression in his eyes that Alienor was rapidly becoming used to. For nigh on three weeks he had treated her with polite deference, insisting now on presenting her with new garments.
“I thought the color would suit,” he commented in response to her gratitude, and Alienor threw him a smile.
“You had no need to spend the coin,” she chastised him, but he shook his head.
“You were sorely in need of a garment and I saw you take no effort to see yourself suitably attired.”
The color rose in Alienor’s cheeks. She had no coin and Jordan knew it, or she would indeed have seen to the matter herself. The kirtle she had worn from Montsalvat was all she possessed and it had been in need of replacement before her incarceration.
“Aye, you speak the truth,” she conceded, wondering if this gift might have a price. “Still, you had no need to acquire a new chemise and shoes for me.”
“The dressmaker assured me that always did a lady shop thus.”
“Only her favored customers shop thus, the ones who line her purse with silver,” Alienor corrected. She saw the twinkle in Jordan’s eye then and realized he had not been fooled. “I would thank you again for your generosity. ’Twas unnecessary but appreciated.”
Jordan fumbled with something in his purse and Alienor realized that she had never seen him so clumsy, even when he had feigned drunkenness at Montsalvat. The color rose on his neck as he produced a finely wrought tumble of gold and handed it to Alienor in a tangle.
Puzzled, Alienor lifted the slim links and the girdle fell out to its full length, the cabochon topaz stones set along it catching the light. She looked up at Jordan, certain he only asked her approval before presenting the finery to some lady he held in high regard, the compliment on his selection dying on her lips when she met his eyes.
The stones matched the wool of her new kirtle and the warm regard in Jordan’s eyes left no doubt that the girdle was intended for her. The sounds of Jordan coupling with the widow each night had convinced her that he no longer had any interest in her, but this could not have been so.
“I cannot accept this,” she said, shoving the girdle back into Jordan’s hands.
“I would ask you why,” he demanded.
Alienor was too distraught to take note of the anger in his tone.
“’Tis inappropriate,” she argued, backing across the room to put some distance between them. She had been a fool to forget that the time would come when Jordan would demand compensation. To think that she had been addle-pated enough to trust this man who had attacked her in her own chambers. Had he not declared his desire to lie with her when he had won her release?
The way Jordan’s gaze hardened told Alienor that she had made a mistake but ’twas too late to recall her words.
“They will not come, you know,” he declared, propping his hands on his hips. She stared at him. “From Montsalvat. They will not come.”
Alienor turned away, which only irked him further.
He crossed the room in two strides and lifted her to her toes, his hands locked on her upper arms. Alienor tried to retreat but his grip only tightened as he leaned closer.
“Only an idiot could miss your survey of the crowds in the market,” he informed her. Alienor’s heart sank that she had been so transparent. “’Tis clear you expect someone from Montsalvat to ride to your husband’s rescue, but you deceive yourself, my lady.”
“What do you mean?” Alienor managed to ask, her voice a mere whisper.
“They cannot come, even should they be willing,” Jordan declared and she suddenly dreaded his next words. “Montsalvat has been under siege since the first week of May.”
“Nay, it cannot be!” Alienor pulled away so savagely that she managed to break free of his grip.
“’Tis so,” he confirmed.
Alienor still shook her head. It was impossible, unthinkable for anyone to attack that fortress. “Why attack Montsalvat?” she demanded. “It has no wealth that another might covet.”
“But its inhabitants have value.”
It took a moment for Jordan’s meaning to become clear to Alienor. The first of May, had he said? Only a week after she and Dagobert had ridden out of the courtyard? A chill stole around her heart.
“’Twas Dagobert they sought,” she breathed. The steadiness of her companion’s regard was the sole confirmation she needed. “But he is here,” Alienor argued. “Will they not retreat?”
“Too many men are assembled there.”
She saw that he was unable to meet her gaze.
How many men? She wanted to ask, but Jordan’s grim expression made her suspect that
she would not like his response.
“Too much gold has been expended for them to turn back so soon,” he added.
Alienor’s heart sank. A considerable force would be needed to encircle that fortress on its lonely mountain. And even with Dagobert gone, Montsalvat remained under siege. Did the attackers not believe the truth when they were told that Dagobert was gone?
“Even if they receive word that Dagobert is captured, they will ensure the destruction of Montsalvat so that this threat cannot rise again,” Jordan said.
Had Dagobert anticipated the attack? Was that why he had taken to the road? But if he had known, why would he leave his friends and family to face the king’s army without the assistance of his blade and leadership?
These tidings gave a chilling warning about her child’s future. Alienor could guess the fate of her child, should the king learn of its existence. She stared out the window, struggling with what she had just learned. How had the king known to send his forces to Montsalvat? Her anger rose and she turned furiously to confront Jordan. The blame for Dagobert’s fate belonged at this man’s door.
“’Twas you who sent them,” she accused.
Jordan’s lips tightened. “I had a task and ’twas fulfilled honorably.”
“Honorably?” Alienor echoed, hearing her voice rise. “What honor is it to betray a noble knight’s hospitality? You stayed more than a fortnight at our board, with your squires and knights alongside and your steeds stabled comfortably, then you betrayed my lord husband. ’Tis clear that those of the north have a differing notion of honor, for I see no honor in your deed.”
“What honor is there in exploiting the folktales of the people for one’s own end?” Jordan replied. “Explain to me the honor that prompts a lord to urge simple people to throw themselves to their death defending his fictitious claim to the throne.”
Anger rose in Alienor’s chest at Jordan’s suggestion that Dagobert lied about his heritage, but she bit her tongue. Should there be others who thought Dagobert’s claim was merely ambition, not divine birthright, he might survive this ordeal.
“The king is right and good to see such ambition laid low,” Jordan continued.
“I did not know ambition was a crime worthy of execution,” Alienor replied. “But then, perhaps it is not. Why is Dagobert’s trial so delayed? Perhaps the king knows of his innocence.”
“Perhaps the king fears the power of a so-called ancient king over a superstitious people. Perhaps he wishes to see some of Dagobert’s reputed sorcery.” Jordan sneered. “After all, did he not turn himself to a unicorn when he so desired?”
“The unicorn!” Alienor murmured, eying Jordan with new understanding. “’Twas you who killed that gentle beast!”
Jordan folded his arms across his chest. “Of course,” he conceded without a trace of regret. “I could dally no longer, waiting for someone in your loyal household to err. ’Twas time to force the matter into the open.”
“And your visit to my chambers?” Alienor demanded.
Jordan nodded with a slow smile. “Another call for your husband to show himself, my lady.” His deliberate perusal of her left Alienor feeling violated. “But make no mistake, the second task was far easier than the first.”
“Touch me not, Jordan de Soissons,” she hissed when he stepped toward her.
To her surprise, he halted but looked to be amused by her manner.
“You destroyed our lives,” she whispered.
“Your husband preyed upon his people’s superstitions,” he argued. “’Twas only a matter of time before he was called to task.”
“He did naught of the sort...”
Jordan shook his head. “Even you, my lovely lady, were fooled.”
Alienor knew that he was wrong. Their gazes held for a moment, Alienor as convinced in her point of view as Jordan in his, then the knight turned and strode quickly from the room, pausing on the threshold to look back.
“The trial will be tomorrow morning,” he informed her.
Alienor’s heart nearly stopped, her mouth going dry now that the day had finally arrived.
“We shall leave at dawn to attend,” he added, “for neither of us, I am certain, would want to miss one moment.”
Alienor closed her eyes against the tears that rose at his words and fell back against the wall. She barely heard Jordan take his leave. She would see Dagobert one last time, and she focused her thoughts on that alone, refusing to speculate on what would happen to her once her husband was gone.
The courts were finely appointed, tapestries hanging on the walls, the king and his advisers so well dressed that they, too, seemed more ornamental than functional. Alienor was oblivious to the majesty of the court, and was agitated as she had never been in her life. Her attention was fixed on the tiny door that Jordan had told her concealed the stairs to the dungeons far below. She was impatient for the trial to begin.
When Dagobert finally appeared, her shock at the change in his appearance tore her heart in two. He was barely a ghost of the man she had unwillingly left twenty days past, and she choked on her tears at the sight of him.
’Twas not enough that he was gaunt and pale, his eyes red-rimmed and his skin marked with the speckling of myriad insect bites. His luxuriant mane of dark blond hair had been shaved, leaving a faintly discernible stubble across his scalp. He wore a tunic crudely fashioned of roughly woven undyed wool that fell below his knees. His hands were behind his back, perhaps bound there, and his chin high despite his state. Alienor pressed her hands to her lips to silence herself, and was agonized by her inability to assist him.
But it only grew worse.
The trial was a farce and she supposed she should have expected it to be thus, but she had the faith of many in the reputed fairness of this king. It seemed this issue must be close to his heart, though, for the powers in control were taking no chances that her spouse might be found innocent. Seneschals mocked Dagobert’s claim as if he were a madman, to the great enjoyment of the assembled crowd. Their false accusations made Alienor want to leap to her feet and defend her spouse.
Jordan must have sensed her indignation for he stayed her with a restraining hand, frowning as he shook his head. Alienor settled back in her seat, knowing he was right, but hating the fact that she could not change the situation.
Dagobert remained impassive to their taunts, but Alienor saw his lips tighten when they spoke of his father in similar terms and her heart went out to him. Even silent and tonsured, he had a regal air as he stared stubbornly at the floor. His face was devoid of expression, his stance tall and straight. The king watched him with a certain wariness, Alienor noted, the crowned man winding a ring round and round his finger.
“For his impertinent posturing, Dagobert de Pereille should be burned at the stake!” concluded one enthusiastic seneschal. Some attendees applauded this suggestion and the king’s glance flicked to the man for the first time.
“’Tis a punishment for heresy,” he commented. “I have heard no charges of unorthodox religious practices against the man.” The adviser flushed scarlet at the correction, but another leapt immediately to his defense.
“Is the crime not the same, my lord, whether it be against the crown or the church?” he demanded, and the king looked thoughtful. A murmur of assent rippled through the company assembled and the king glanced to the crowd in annoyance, parting his lips to speak when a spectator leapt to his feet.
“Burn him!” the man cried with a fist flung skyward, his neighbors joining in his cry. Alienor clasped her hands together as the demand of the crowd grew to a dull roar, gasping aloud when an icy voice on the far side of the room brought the chanting to a decisive halt.
“Save your firewood,” Iolande declared with a haughty glance over the suddenly quieted crowd. “Dagobert shares no blood with Alzeu de Pereille.”
Alienor was not the sole one who gasped.
An expectant silence followed his mother’s declaration. Dagobert looked up for the first time, e
asily spotting his mother’s commanding figure on the far side of the justice chambers. Why was she saying this? He had never known her to lie willingly and he could not comprehend her intent this day.
He studied her across the justice chambers. Her slim figure was draped in pastel blue, her back was rigid with determination, and he almost thought that he could see the flashing sapphire of her eyes. Her expression was defiant, and as much as he wished her safely home, a warmth stole through him that he had the opportunity to see her one last time.
His thoughts slipped to Alienor. Encouraged by his mother’s presence, he scanned the crowd for her now as he had been afraid to do earlier. His gaze seemed to light immediately upon his lady wife, despite the odd fact that she did not sit near Iolande. His heart swelled at the radiance of her complexion. Pregnancy became her, and he almost smiled at the knowledge that ’twas his seed taking root within her.
“Who are you?” an adviser demanded of Iolande.
She descended to the floor and strolled the length of the hall like a visiting dignitary, pausing in front of the king before she spoke. “I am Iolande de Goteberg, Countess of Pereille, wife of Alzeu de Pereille and mother of Dagobert,” she declared.
Those in the crowd jostled one another at this unexpected development.
“She speaks the truth?” a clerk demanded of Dagobert.
He nodded, still wondering. “Aye.”
Iolande did not look at him when he answered, and Dagobert guessed she was composing a falsehood before she spoke.
“You make a curious assertion,” the king said.
Iolande lifted her chin with pride, apparently insulted that he would challenge her word. “The boy is my son but not of Alzeu’s seed,” she explained. “He is bastard-born, but even knowing this, my husband had the grace to raise him as his own.”
Unicorn Bride: A Medieval Romance Page 20