Heather Graham (32 page)

“Held in your name!” she reminded him, her words muffled against his chest, and he didn’t know if there was a bitter twist to them or not.

“Held in my name!” he agreed, then shuddered fiercely as he held her. “But by God, lady, I am not gone as yet!” He fell to his knees there upon the fur before the fire, bearing her down with him. He caught the sweetness of her lips, easing her down upon the softness that seemed to engulf them both, along with the red-gold heat of the fire. The shining ebony darkness of her hair splayed out over the whiteness of the fur, entangling him as he held and caressed her, his love-making passionate, aggressive. Slender, silken fingers touched his cheeks, dug into his shoulders, stroked over his back. Her lips, liquid, her tongue, a touch of fire, brushed his flesh. Climax threatened him; he withdrew from her and began again, lips upon hers, down the length of her body, intimate, mercurial. He spread her thighs, his caress still slow, merciless. He heard her whispers, heard her cry his name, he felt her touch, and knew that it would never leave his heart. He came to her again at last, and the world exploded into shimmering flames, his body searing into hers. He eased from her, savoring her beauty upon the fur, and when her eyes touched his again, he took her into his arms. “Hold all in my name!” he warned her vehemently. She didn’t reply, but curled against him, and as the fire continued to lap and burn its golden, warming glow, they slept.

When Danielle awoke, the fire had all but died. She shivered, but realized that the tapestry from the bed had been wrapped around her.

Still, the room seemed so chill, so empty.

And then she knew. Adrien was gone.

T
HE DAYS SEEMED TO
pass peacefully enough at Aville. The circle of life turned, with peasants working the fields and tending their sheep and cattle and chickens while masons repaired walls. Women bore children, the old sickened and died, the sun rose in the morning and set at night.

But every time a traveler came by Aville, each time a pilgrim en route to a shrine, a juggler, a poet, a cleric, or other passed by, Danielle found herself in turmoil. The news visitors brought was alarming. Adrien had said that Prince Edward’s forces were determined to put down rebellion in the English king’s ducal lands. The situation seemed to be growing far worse. The English were amassing in great force. The French king meant to expel them. They didn’t plan to leave.

Danielle had learned that war killed with more than weapons. Invading armies levelled crops and decimated livestock. Whether friend or foe, an army was deadly to the land. Men and horses needed to be fed. Strategically, armies often swept the land barren to see to it that their enemies starved. Sometimes, the victors of a battle were decent—and merely pillaged the villages they took. Sometimes, men were tortured, women were raped, and children were left to be orphans. Such was war, and such was life for lesser men when kings became greedy.

It was bad enough to worry about the country and the people, but her turmoil was inner as well, for despite herself, she missed her husband. In his absence, it seemed that life went on as normal, for Aville was like a well-oiled wheel, as it had been for years and years. Her mother had made it so, she had made it so—and Adrien had made it even more so. For even though he was gone, his strength could be felt in the subtle changes he had made to the fortifications, and in those he had left behind to guard it. Aville, though border land, had long been claimed by the English kings. And since her mother had long ago lost her battle with Edward, the people had gained a greater loyalty to the English king. If there was ever to be war within the walls, the English might well win.

She prayed each morning that a miracle might occur to make King Jean of France and Edward of England reach an arrangement.

And she prayed each day, even as she damned him, that her husband would return.

She despised the fact that she missed him. She felt his absence in the cold at night. She lay awake remembering his wry comments, his smile, and the way his eyes looked sometimes when they fell upon her. Aye, she lay awake far too long and far too late in the darkness, wishing she could feel his warmth and his touch. Yet day by day, she forced herself to appear tranquil. Aville was hers, it remained hers, it would always be hers. With or without him.

He had been gone several weeks. She was sitting in the great hall, listening to one of the masons explain an extension to the parapets which would give them a far greater view of the countryside, when Daylin appeared with the news that a party carrying the banner of Comte Langlois, one of King Jean’s able supporters, was approaching. She accompanied Daylin to the parapets and watched where Sir Giles stood like a stern sentinel as the Frenchmen approached. The comte was riding with five other men, a small party of horsemen, and they displayed their colors in the peaceable manner of a diplomatic delegation.

“Do we welcome them?” Daylin asked her.

“What else can we do?” she replied. “They have obviously come to talk, and no more. Jean is the King of France.”

“Danielle,” Daylin reminded her softly, “we are in a precarious situation. Edward battles rebellion and claims to be King of France himself—”

“The Plantagenets have been claiming to be kings of France for decades now—they think it gives them the right to do what they will here.”

“Surely, King Edward does have some right.”

Danielle looked down for a moment, fighting a great wave of nausea. She had seen this coming; she hated it. Edward didn’t have the right because he’d been born to be the king across the Channel. Why couldn’t Edward be content with England? And why did it seem that the French kings were always eager to taunt the English kings, claiming France to be far greater and more important a country to rule than the tiny, backward island property of England? She felt as if she were viciously tugged two ways and she suddenly wished God would reach down and strike both kings with a lightning bolt.

“I cannot refuse to see an emissary of King Jean,” she said simply. She stared at the two men sternly. “You know it as well as I do!”

The gates were opened; Danielle stood at the entry to the great hall surrounded by her own and Adrien’s men as the comte and his party rode in. She had heard of Langlois before, from Simon and King Jean, but she’d not met the man. He was tall and well-built with dark, searing eyes, dark hair, and a perfectly manicured mustache. He dismounted and approached her, bowing deeply before her.

“M’lady! I confess to hearing wild tales regarding your beauty but none come so much as close to the truth. It is my greatest pleasure to be here, having been sent by our sovereign, King Jean of France. He has sent you a roll of silk, recently arrived from Persia, and a sword of Toledo steel for your husband, as King Jean has heard he favors such weapons.”

“How very kind. I hope that my distant cousin, Jean of France, is well.”

“Indeed, he is so.”

“Comte Langlois, you are surely aware that my husband rides in the service of Prince Edward right now, but he would welcome you as I do. Will you join us for our evening meal?”

“With the greatest pleasure.”

“Come into the great hall and enjoy the wine from our vineyards. It is exceptional.”

“So I have heard,” Langlois said pleasantly.

As she turned to enter the hall, she realized that Daylin flanked her tightly and Sir Giles walked closely behind their guest.

“He’s come to cause trouble!” Daylin whispered.

Langlois heard him, but appeared not to take offense. “No, he has not come to cause trouble!” he whispered softly as well. Daylin flushed, and Danielle could not help but smile. “I have come in peace to remind the countess—”

“And what of the earl?” Sir Giles asked gruffly.

Langlois smiled. “Indeed, to remind the earl and the countess that Aville has always been friends with France, for though we are split into counties and duchies, France is our mother country. That is all.”

In the great hall, wine was served as Langlois displayed the fine, shimmering silver silk King Jean had sent for her and the handsome sword, for her husband. Danielle sat in a chair by the hearth and Langlois stood some distance away at the table by the wine decanter. While Danielle touched the silk and commented appreciatively on its beauty, Sir Giles approached the mantel, leaned low to the fire, and whispered to her.

“You must not accept it!”

“I am to refuse a gift from the French king?”

“A bribe! And Edward claims to be King of France.”

“Giles, I cannot appear to be rude. I must accept these gifts. And one could hardly be bribed by a roll of silk or even a magnificent sword.”

She rose then, taking the handsomely fashioned sword from the French soldier who offered it to her. “My cousin, King Jean, is thoughtful and generous. I thank him for thinking of us, but Comte Langlois, I must remind you that my husband is a Scotsman who—”

“Who, alas, rides for Prince Edward, when so many of the Scots have embraced the French with love over the centuries! But he is King Edward’s champion, and so his marriage to you was arranged. He is one Scot who must certainly come to appreciate all that is French.”

She smiled graciously. “Comte, it’s quite true that over the years the Scots and French have often bonded together—against the English. But my husband is overlord of lands in England as well as Scotland, so he understands the trials of Scotsmen, Englishmen, and, as we live now at Aville, Frenchmen as well.”

“Edward of England seeks the French throne.”

“I don’t know the workings in the minds of kings, Comte Langlois. I pray that Edward and my cousin, Jean, find a peaceful solution—cousins themselves.”

Langlois stared at her, then at Sir Giles to her one side, and Daylin at her other. He smiled boldly. “Sirs, I promise you this, I’ve not come to stir up trouble, merely to offer King Jean’s friendship. May I tell the king—the true and rightful King Jean of France—that you, milady, remain, at heart, his subject?”

“You may tell him that I love him as I did his father, and pray for his continued good health. I hold this place—Laird MacLachlan and I hold Aville together, sir, and we both pray for peace and prosperity for all the people of France.”

“If Laird MacLachlan rides with the English prince, he rides with danger. I pray, lady, that he survives to enjoy his great bounty.”

“I pray for his health and welfare daily, sir.”

Langlois appeared pleased, and she wasn’t certain why. She had been very careful to state that she was one with Adrien’s will, and she had been just as careful not to make a statement of sworn loyalty to either sovereign. Not even Sir Giles seemed to take offense at her words.

Supper was served; Langlois remained charming throughout. Yet, toward the end of the meal, he leaned slightly toward her. “If you ever have need of my services, milady, leave word at the Twisted Tree Tavern. The Twisted Tree Tavern, do not forget. I cannot come here again. For King Jean, I would serve you in any way, as I know you would risk any danger were his life at stake.”

He turned from her, and she almost wondered if she had imagined the words, so quickly was he engaged in conversation with Sir Giles to his right.

Her heart thundered. She broke a piece of bread but could not swallow it down.

Despite the late hour, Comte Langlois and his men departed when the meal was done.

She stood by the gates with Sir Giles and Daylin after saying farewell.

“Aye, and best they’re gone!” Sir Giles said.

“Now, Sir Giles, we must learn to live together, since the situation never seems to change,” Danielle said wearily.

“He came for something,” Daylin said.

“He came to find out if Danielle would betray her husband and King Edward should the French king ask her to open these gates,” Sir Giles said, and he turned to Danielle, his light blue eyes warm with pleasure. “But our lady put him in his place!”

“I wish they would all be done with battle,” Danielle said in reply. “But … aye. He came to see which way the wind blew here.”

“Perhaps we should have turned a cold shoulder to the Comte Langlois and his party. After all, Comte Armagnac ransacks the countryside, ravaging, pillaging, murdering … and it seems ever more likely that King Jean stands behind him.”

“I will not believe that King Jean encourages wanton destruction and cold-blooded murder!” Danielle protested. “And that is all supposition. We’ve not heard from Adrien—” she began, but broke off, because Daylin’s cheeks were growing red. He was a young man now, handsome, full grown, but he still blushed quickly, and gave away his secrets far too easily.

“You have heard from Adrien!” she said, fighting hard to control her temper and the hurt that welled in her.

“A messenger arrived from the front a few days ago, but with very little to say,” Sir Giles said quickly.

“So little that no one informed me?”

“You’d not have been happy, my lady.”

“I’d not have been happy, so Adrien said I wasn’t to be given the truth! Well, now I demand it. What is the truth?”

Daylin shrugged uncomfortably. “Unless an agreement is soon reached, there will likely be an all-out, terrible battle. Prince Edward is amassing more and more Englishmen on the Normandy shore. Jean, in turn, is enlarging his armies. So you see, the messenger really brought little news that we did not already suspect.”

“Whatever news a messenger brings, I must be told.”

Daylin was silent, and she realized that Adrien had sent word she wasn’t to be told anything.

Upstairs, she paced her room, looking from the fur before the hearth to the fire that blazed within it. She sat down on the fur and hugged her arms around her knees, remembering how Adrien had found her sleeping there and how he had dragged her to the crypt and wrung vows from her. Even though she steamed with new fury now since he did not trust her with the least information, she wished with all her heart that she could simply make a vow to him, and honor it. Even if Edward was wrong, as she believed in her heart.

Would there ever be peace between England and France? Or between herself and her husband?