Princess Of France (The Queen's Pawn Book 2)

by Christy English

  Phillipe caught my eye and smiled down the table at me. I was seated above the salt, but barely. My husband sat across from me, as if Phillipe were forgotten, engrossed in conversation with an old lord from Lorraine.

  Phillipe met my eyes and quirked a brow, allowing a little of his good humor to show. I saw that the birth of his son had lifted a great burden from him. I remembered the bells that had pealed when Phillipe had been born. Every Sunday for six months they had rung across the land in celebration that the royal house of France was safe for one more generation.

  My brother was not as religious as that, or not as superstitious, as he himself would have said. Still the country rejoiced, and I knew that for the first time Phillipe would turn his mind to something other than war. He would build for his son’s future.

  He had already begun a new palace on the right bank of the river, so secure was he in his rule. It would have high walls around it, but his Louvre would not have the river to shield it as his current palace did, tucked safe away on the Ile de la Cite. Paris was changing even as I watched, and I knew that I would not come back often, if ever. Now that the succession was secure, I thought to retire to the country to enjoy my children, and the love God had seen fit to grant me, in all its flawed forms.

  Phillipe saw something of this in my face, I think, for his eyes softened as he looked at me. He spoke to a footman, and as I watched, he had a choice bit cut from the boar in front of him. The footman brought the meat to my chair and with a bow so low that it might have been offered to a queen, he laid it on my trencher.

  I felt tears rise in my eyes at the tender gesture. My brother and I had never been close, and he had never been one to show tenderness publicly, as it was often taken as a sign of weakness.

  I watched as the rest of the table saw the favor that he granted me and whispered about it behind their hands. A few raised their glasses to me, and I nodded to each, still steeped in the manners I had been raised with. I seemed to feel my father’s presence, as if he stood behind me looking down the table at his son.

  Jean Pierre’s breath was warm on my cheek as he spoke. “Love, there is news from Germany. I have just heard that King Richard was released this spring.”

  I swallowed the tender venison I had been chewing and took a sip of my wine, reveling in the sweet flavor of the Anjou vintage. My brother’s steward had remembered my favorite and had it ready in a chilled flagon beside my chair.

  As I met my lover’s eyes, no sign of my old love and pain showed in my face. I was careful, for he knew me well. Jean Pierre searched my face for some hint of the past, but I kept it from him, hidden away in my heart. My love for Richard was a matter between me and God.

  When I spoke, my voice was even, warm with concern and good wishes, but nothing more. “That is welcome news indeed. Though I doubt my brother thinks so.”

  Jean Pierre smiled, glancing down the table to where my brother sat enthroned. “I think nothing can mar this day for him. And this is old news. We are buried in the country, or we would have heard it sooner.”

  “Happily buried.” I offered my lips for him to kiss. And for the second time before my brother’s court, I felt Jean Pierre’s lips on mine, warm as a welcoming sun, and sweet as the wine I drank.

  Though it was sin, I thanked God for him. Jean Pierre’s love blessed me all my life, and I was most aware of this blessing as I sat beside him at my brother’s table.

  The rest of the court saw the favor I granted him, though no one cheered as the people by the river had done. They looked away, and laughed quietly among themselves, certain that our love was a passing thing, like any other affair at court, burning bright but brief. I looked into Jean Pierre’s blue eyes, and my brother’s court faded. Let them laugh.

  It was then that the bard stood to tell tales and to sing songs of heroes. I waited to hear a newly composed song about the grace of our house and the strength of my brother now mirrored and perfected in his son. Jean Pierre thought the same, for he settled back with me, his hand over mine.

  But when the minstrel strummed his lute, we heard a different tune.

  It began prettily enough, a light air praising love and beauty. The words moved from generalities about the bliss of love onto specifics. At first, I doubted my hearing, that such a song would be sung in my presence. But as I looked around the hall, I saw that this bit of music was one everyone else had heard before, for it had been sung many times in my brother’s hall. Only my husband, my lover and I were the first to hear it.

  The minstrel sang of my beauty, hidden away in a nunnery until brought to light by old King Henry. He went on to sing of how the light of my eyes and the sweetness of my face had driven the king into a frenzy of courtly love that was only assuaged when he possessed me.

  Though overly romantic, the song was mostly true. The song went on to mention how my beauty had overcome Prince Richard, bringing even that warrior to his knees. The song told flowery tales of wars that had been fought in my honor, between Richard and his father, tactfully leaving out my brother’s involvement. The bard knew well which side his bread was buttered on.

  There was even a verse about the lovers I had taken since my marriage, sighting both of my lovers by name, and naming many more men of whom I had never heard. When I looked across the table at my husband, William only seemed amused, not surprised.

  I caught the gleam of laughter in his eye, and I started laughing too, a deep well of amusement rising from my belly into my throat. I tried to swallow it, out of deference to the bard, but he saw my smile and bowed to me, his story finished.

  Phillipe was not offended, for plainly he had heard the song many times. He raised his golden cup to the singer, drained it, then sent it over to the bard as a gift.

  The singer bowed, overcome at such generosity, but the christening had put Phillipe in a giving mood.

  The bard lifted his lute to sing again, but Jean Pierre rose beside me and crossed the hall so quickly that I could not clutch his arm in an effort to stop him. His glove was on the ground before the bard could draw his next breath, and all the court stared at my lover as at a mummery.

  Only then did I feel myself color in shame. For songs are harmless and pass as quickly as the air that gives them breath, but a challenge before all the court was a story that would live on for years.

  I looked to William, and though he tried to move through the crowd to stop what was happening, men-at-arms prevented him, blocking his path with their pikes, sending him back to the high table. He returned to stand at my side, his hand under my arm in case I should faint. I was not faint of heart, but angry as I have seldom been, then or ever.

  Dark rage rose like bile to choke me. If anyone had been in doubt of the song’s truth, my lover standing to defend my long-lost honor would illuminate them.

  The minstrel looked stunned, for clearly no one had challenged him before. It simply was not done. Singers and bards were not warriors. The thought was absurd, as well as an unimaginable faux pas. The court sat in total silence, so that when my brother stood, the scraping of his chair on the stone floor sounded in the hall like a trumpet.

  Phillipe did not cross to the combatants, for another man rose and came to stand before the bard. The man was large with dark hair and hard eyes. His arms when crossed in front of him resembled great hams, their strength evident in their massive muscles. I looked to William but saw that he could do nothing now that my brother the king had stood to listen to the challenge.

  “I challenge this bard to trial by combat, in defense of the honor of my lady.”

  The huge man who dwarfed Jean Pierre was more politic. He looked across the hall and bowed to my brother. “I would accept this challenge, for the sake of Raymond, master of song, with my king’s permission.”

  I turned to Phillipe then, hoping that he would turn this nonsense away with a laugh. But I saw from the tight lines around his mouth that he was angry that the peace of his hall had been violated on what had been such an auspicious
day. His son was forgotten in this melee, and Phillipe’s wrath would only be appeased by letting the trial go on, as Jean Pierre had asked.

  “I grant my permission. The trial will happen on the morrow. For this is a holy day of peace, sanctified by the christening of my son.”

  I saw in Jean Pierre’s face that he had truly forgotten the reason we were in Paris. His color darkened then, but his anger did not leave him, and he stood his ground. The matter touched his honor. At times like these, among the people of my brother’s court, he sorely felt the loss of it. He had turned away from his honor for my sake.

  He, too, bowed to the king, though he was late in remembering to do so. Phillipe returned to his throne, and Jean Pierre returned to my side. My husband met his eyes and some understanding seemed to pass between them that only men might grasp, for William squeezed my hand and left me.

  I sank down, for my legs had given out. Jean Pierre sat once again beside me, but I did not look at him until we rose to go. I stayed in that hall and drank at every toast and forced smiles when other songs were sung.

  I knew that I could not leave as I might have at home, for whatever my brother was to me, he was also king. It was not for me to leave the hall until the last toast had been drunk and the last song sung. Jean Pierre sat beside me, but we did not speak again until we were alone in the rooms that my brother’s steward had set aside for us.

  Phillipe’s face did not soften, and I stayed in my chair, my shame my only companion.

  19

  The Tilting Yard

  The meal in the great hall did finally end, though I spent the rest of the time holding myself upright, trying to keep my face scrupulously pleasant, almost blank, as I had been trained as a child. My husband and I walked out together, and he escorted me as far of the door of my room without a word in case anyone should overhear.

  At the door, he bowed to me formally, as if we had just met. His mouth quirked, and I could see that he had to work not to smile. As he bent low over my hand, he spoke low enough so that only I could hear. “Don’t fret, Alais. All this will be over and forgotten this time tomorrow.”

  I knew that what he said was not true. People would be telling tales not only of my disgrace, but of my lover’s futile defense of my lost honor long after.

  William met my eyes as he stood, his hand still warm over mine. I kissed him, still without speaking, and stepped into my rooms. There were no servants waiting for me when I closed the door behind me.

  Jean Pierre was there before me, sitting alone by the light of one candle. “Love, forgive me.”

  I faced him without speaking. It was he who came to me and drew me into his arms. I did not resist but stood like a wooden doll in his embrace, my joints stiff as if they needed oiling.

  Jean Pierre’s heart was loud in my ear. I leaned my head against him, and he relaxed, thinking that I had forgiven him. This was not true. I had not. I did not forgive him for many years to come and only then after long prayer.

  That night I stood still, mired deep in the anger that consumed me. That anger made me forget how short life is, and how fleeting all love and pleasure in this world. As I stood there, I was consumed by the sins of pride and wrath, forgetting once again that all things fade, especially the beautiful ones.

  I did not have the wisdom think of this then, however. All I thought of was the mocking faces of my brother’s courtiers and their knowing laughter. The gleam in their hawk-like eyes as they watched my lover stand to defend honor that had long since drained away, humiliating me before all who wished me ill. All of Europe would hear the story within a few weeks, how the notorious princess of France had taken yet another lover, but that this one pitied her.

  “Love, I know that you did not want me to speak, but I could not stand idly by and watch them mock you.”

  I drew back from him and paced our little room. The tapestries were old but well mended, the brazier where the fire burned was polished, the plate in the room well burnished bronze. It was a room that showed my status at my brother’s court. I was a woman who had failed in her duty, a woman destined for a royal marriage who had botched it, her life ultimately thrown away on a marriage that was beneath her.

  I faced Jean Pierre with all the rage that I had ever felt at men and their foolishness, and all that their foolishness had cost me. He faced this anger without flinching.

  “You shamed me,” I said.

  Jean Pierre blinked. Of all the words he thought to hear from my lips, these were the last three he would have considered. “Love, I defended you.”

  “You confirmed the rumors. All the world knows of my infidelity. The court thinks me a loose woman. This is nothing to us. But for you to stand up before the whole court, to risk your life defending an honor I have not had since I was fourteen, shamed me.”

  He flinched to hear me speak of the early loss of my virtue. I saw on his face that he had always thought my relationship with Henry to be blameless, that all the stories of our love had seemed to him nothing but air. I was almost sorry I had spoken of it when I saw the pain in his face, but I went on, carried along by the tide of my anger, a tide that would wash away all in its wake.

  “And now you must fight a man we do not know, a man who all at court fear, so my brother’s people were quick to tell me. You risk your life for nothing, for less than nothing, and whether you fall, or he falls, my honor is still gone.”

  He took me in his arms again, and this time he held me fast. He would not let me go. “You are afraid I will be hurt,” he said, as if that explained away my anger. The pain was gone from his eyes.

  I saw again how much he loved me. Even the accumulated rage of all my life could not turn him from me. “You could be killed. And for nothing. For less than nothing.”

  He pressed his lips to mine to silence me, and the old heat between us warmed me. But my anger was still sharp, like a knife in my ribs, cutting off my breath.

  When he pulled away, I was calmer. The tide of fury had receded, leaving a dull ache that did not leave me for days. “Withdraw from this combat,” I said. “It is not worth your life.”

  “It is my honor at stake now, Alais. I cannot turn from a challenge that I myself have issued.” He said this kindly, lovingly, as if explaining to a child why it could not breathe in the night air, for fear of sickness.

  I saw that he would not be turned from his course, and for the first time, I felt fear. “But you will die.”

  He smiled a little, then hid his smile as if I were a fool and he did not want to taunt me with my foolishness. “Love, I have fought men all my life. I will not die tomorrow.”

  I tried to pull away from him, but could not, for he still would not let me go. “If you fight that man, it is from pride only. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “I fight for love of you, Alais. No man may malign you in my hearing and live.”

  I heard this last statement, and it was like the sound of a coin falling down an empty well. His words echoed in my ears, so that I thought I was fainting, as if I had lost the strength I had been born with, the strength that had helped me to endure loss all my life. I knew as I looked at him that if he fought on the morrow, I would never see him again.

  Our first and last fight ended just that way, with him carrying me to bed. I refused him my body that night, thinking as all women who do this, that it would have some effect, that he would change his mind and cling to me, as if my will had the power to change his fate. I knew in the morning that I should have let him touch me, that I should not have slept at all but seized a night of love with him, for I would never have another.

  I woke alone, as I had not in over two years. The tapestry by the window flapped once from a burst of wind that came up from the river. Jean Pierre had left the window open, for love of me. He knew that I loved the smell of the morning, and the sound of birdsong in my ears when I woke.

  When I saw him again, he was already in the tilting yard, dressed in armor, a stranger covered in steel and mail. I
almost wept to see him, but my fear of the night had fled. I thought those fears an illusion, come from my own sin and sorrow. I thought myself impious, that I would try to predict anyone’s fate.

  As I stood under my brother’s canopy, the gold fleur de lys on its field of blue shading me from the light of the sun, I felt Fate’s heavy hand. I would have screamed and run to Jean Pierre, I would have begged for him to leave that place and to come away with me then and there, in front of all those courtiers, with no thought for my brother the king or for my husband. But I had been raised a princess of France. I stood my ground in silence, certainty of pain hidden behind the blank mask I had worn since childhood. It was he who came to me.

  “Lady, I would take your favor into battle.” He spoke low so that no one else could hear. He had drawn his mount close to the stand, so that I did not have to lean down far to hear him.

  I did not answer him, but tied Eleanor’s kerchief to his breastplate, the kerchief he had long since given back to me. It fluttered jauntily in the breeze, as if he rode to a festival, and not to his death.

  “I love you.” I did not lower my voice or try to conceal what I said.

  A woman in the stand next to me laughed but had the decency to hide her smile beneath her hand. I kissed him before he lowered his halberd.

  He smiled at me, his love for me in his eyes, the certainty of his good fortune clear in his face. Had he not traveled all the way to Jerusalem? Had he not fought the infidel and lived? Surely, he would live always, in the flower of his youth, with his love beside him.

  And that is how he lives for me, when I see him in my dreams. He still comes to me, even now that I am an old woman, with almost all my loved ones dead. He sits at my bedside and holds my hand, looking on my face as if I have not aged a day, as if I am still the woman he met planting lavender, sunshine on her hair.

  Jean Pierre saw the sorrow in my face. He rose in his saddle in full armor, his borrowed horse motionless beneath him. He kissed me, his lips warm and soft on mine. For a moment, I thought that he might turn from his folly and leave that place and his honor behind him.