Mary Gillgannon (35 page)

Marguerite gave a whoop of laughter and then sobered suddenly. “You certainly nailed Rathstowe’s balls to the floor. What about Isabel? Are you sure she’s not happy about this turn of events?”

Astra shrugged. “Oh, she’s happy. Rathstowe serves her purposes better than Richard. She would rather have a rich husband than a handsome, valiant one.”

“Doesn’t that bother you? Don’t you want to see Isabel suffer as much as Rathstowe?”

Astra shook her head. “I don’t believe Isabel is deliberately cruel, merely misguided. Besides, she played her part in getting Richard and me together. If she had not aroused my jealousy, I might not have realized as soon as I did how much Richard meant to me.”

“No regrets then, Astra?”

“No. No regrets.”

G
od’s blood! As if he was not miserable enough, now it had to rain. The sunny southern lands of Gascony were behind them, and they were riding wearily through the barren brown countryside at the heart of France. The nearer they came to Paris, the colder it grew.

A gust of wind blew rain into his face. Richard swore. It was obvious his luck had left him. From the moment he had fled London, nothing had gone right. The channel crossing had been miserable. He was not normally afflicted by seasickness, but when the storm blew up and turned the sea into a wicked gray maelstrom, he had been almost as useless as Nicholas. The courage had drained out of him even as the nausea had reduced him to a quivering, retching mess. He had spent the night sweating and puking in the foul-smelling hold, praying he wouldn’t die before he reached France.

Shaky and weak, he and Nicholas had disembarked at Calais and began their long journey to de Monfort’s headquarters at Beam. It had taken several weeks of traveling to reach the English forces, and their luck had not improved there. At first, the man Henry had appointed as the seneschal of Gascony had refused to see him. Then, when de Monfort finally relented and granted him an audience, things had not gone as Richard expected. Instead of welcoming him to join his force, the Earl of Leicester had rudely interrogated him. Why was he in Gascony? Did he have orders from the King? Why had he left England?

Arrogant bastard, Richard thought bitterly. He could still see de Monfort’s cold, haughty face, his jutting jaw set stubbornly, his keen gray eyes narrowed in suspicion. He had treated Richard like an errant page rather than an acclaimed knight, and in the end he had announced he had no use for him. He needed men of tact and diplomacy, de Monfort said, not a knight famed for his ruthlessness and savagery.

Richard’s own jaw clenched as he remembered. He had not been dismissed so rudely since his days as an unwanted bastard, and the insult rankled sorely. He consoled himself by recalling the contemptuous gossip he had heard at court about the dour nobleman who was the King’s brother by marriage. De Monfort was a grim, humorless man who had angered Henry on numerous occasions with his priggish self-righteousness. Few at court liked him, and the men took wagers on when the King would finally see fit to crush de Monfort’s intolerable conceit.

Scant comfort he could take in that, Richard realized morosely. He had been in France nearly a month, and he still had not found anyone to hire him. It did not help that he had no letter of introduction, no title or troops. As a lone, unknown knight, he inspired no trust or confidence in the few noblemen he had met, and he was vulnerable in a way he had never been before. He tensed each time they had to pass through a forest or other sheltered ground, half expecting ambush. In the open fields it was worse. He watched the other travelers they encountered with gnawing dread, fearing they would be thieves or bandits. As in England, the roads were dangerous and most people traveled in groups for protection.

At least he had Nicholas. Richard glanced back through the side-ways slanting rain and observed the miserable expression on his squire’s face. Nicholas was an awkward, quiet sort. He wasn’t much of a horseman and his mastery of swordplay left something to be desired, but he never complained and his loyalty was unquestioning. The awe with which Nicholas regarded him helped soothe his wounded pride over the confrontation with de Monfort.

It was also good simply to have the younger man’s company. As it was, there were times when he thought he might go mad with loneliness. He was used to the noisy camaraderie of an army camp or soldiers’ barracks, and out in the open country, the silence was deafening. His thoughts strayed constantly to Astra, and sometimes he so ached with longing he wanted to weep. Her memory was a constant throbbing agony. He could not seem to rid his mind of her sweet mysterious scent, the exact shade of blue of her eyes, the feel of her flesh melding with his. The more he thought of her, the more he wanted her, until he felt he was starving, wasting away without the sustenance of her being.

It was an apt description, he thought grimly, rubbing at the dirty stubble of his whiskers. He no longer resembled the proud, sleek Black Leopard. He had turned into a gaunt, disheveled wraith, furtively crossing the bleak, sodden landscape.

“Sir Richard!”

He turned in the saddle and then cursed. While he was musing on his misery, a troop of men had been riding up behind them. Even from a distance, Richard could guess they meant no good. Their clothes were ragged, their mounts inferior and underfed. They had no reason to ride so close except treachery.

He urged his horse into a gallop and glanced back for another look. They were about fifty paces back. If he had not let them get so near, the destrier and mare could likely have outrun them. Now he would be forced to fight. Richard reached for his sword, deciding on his course of action in a second. He turned his horse. “Nicholas! Leave me! Take the mare and run!”

The young squire’s startled blue eyes met Richard’s. Then years of obeying orders made Nicholas dig his heels into the mare’s sides. The horse took off like an arrow released from a bow. Richard saw his pursuers hesitate, thinking to follow. Then they spurred their ragged mounts straight for him.

Richard jerked the destrier to a halt so sharply the men shot past him, swearing. They turned their horses and hurried back, surrounding him. There were five of them. Richard met their wary glances with the most ferocious battle glare he could manage. They hesitated, then threw off their fear and charged him from all sides.

The red raging fury of battle lust was upon him. For a few moments, Richard was aware of nothing but the throbbing feel of his sword in his hand and the flash of bodies around him. His sword found the soft target of his attackers’ flesh more than once, but he could not tell how much damage he had done.

They attacked, retreated, attacked again. Each time, Richard fought them off. Like a pack of wolves they came at him, snapping and snarling, sapping his strength. The sweat poured down his face, his muscles screamed in agony. There were only two men down, he had three left to go. Despair gripped Richard. He was going to die like this, alone, brought down by a pack of slavering jackals. Astra would never know what had become of him.

The thought enraged him. He summoned up the last of his strength and charged the two nearest men. The well-trained destrier caught Richard’s mood of desperation and reared, lashing out with its huge hooves. The hooves came down, crippling one man’s mount. As the man slid from the sagging horse, Richard’s sword cut through the air, neatly decapitating him. But the move left Richard’s back vulnerable. Before he could twist away, he felt a sword pierce his hauberk. A burning sensation seared through his chest. The intensity of the pain nearly made him faint, but his sword arm was already lifted. As he sliced down with it, another man slumped to the ground, mortally wounded.

Now there was just one enemy left. Richard faced him dizzily. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and his whole body was a mass of quaking agony. The man’s eyes glittered with triumph before he lunged.

Richard did not see the man’s grip on his weapon loosen nor his eyes roll back into his head as the knife found his heart. Even as his enemy fell dead with Nicholas’s knife buried between his shoulder blades, Richard was swooning. His shoulders slumped, his head drooped. He slid off the destrier in a graceless tumble.

* * *

“I don’t understand why you’re doing it? Why you are going there now? Wouldn’t it be better to wait at court, to see if Richard comes back?”

Astra smoothed the satin banner that lay across her lap. She was pleased with it, finally. Deciding on the black leopard on crimson had been easy. It had been much harder to settle upon a design for the border. She had finally chosen buttercups, a border of gold flowers encircling the lunging leopard.

“And why you trouble with
that
,” Marguerite added disgustedly when Astra didn’t answer. “Richard abandoned you, left you like an unwanted mistress. Why go to the bother of sewing him a silly banner?”

“Because I want to,” Astra answered calmly. “Just as I want to go to the manor. Riversmere is mine now. I intend to make it my home.”

“I told Will you were mad, utterly mad. The Queen is perfectly content to have you stay at court. You’d be waited on like a princess, mingle with all the nobility of Europe, wear the latest fashions...”

“You don’t understand, Marguerite. I’m tired of court. I miss the countryside, the forest and open fields, the fresh breezes. London is exciting, but I would not want to live here forever.”

“But what if Richard doesn’t come back? What will you do then? It’s not fitting for a young woman to live alone and undefended in the wilds of England.”

Astra had to stop herself from laughing in disbelief. Since when had Marguerite worried about what was “fitting?”

“I won’t be alone. There will be servants. Your father assures me that the steward of the place is a very competent and loyal man.”

“You won’t find another husband at Riversmere,” Marguerite said, making a face. “It’s a complete backwater. There’s probably not a knight under fifty living within twenty miles!”

“Sweet Mary in heaven, I don’t want another husband!”

“It’s the annulment, isn’t it? That’s what’s holding you back.”

“Marguerite, we’ve discussed this. You know how I feel.”

“It’s done all the time, Astra. I know the Queen will help you. Her uncles have risen quite high in the Church.”

“An annulment is always granted for a reason. What one do you propose I use? Richard and I aren’t related, the wedding ceremony was performed properly—and I certainly can’t use the excuse that the marriage was never consummated!”

“Why not?”

“Is your mind addled, Marguerite? No one would ever believe that Richard never bedded me. Why, most of the court thinks he took me in the chapel ere we were even wed!”

“No one has to believe it. It has nothing to do with the truth anyway. It’s an excuse, a logical reason that the marriage should be dissolved. You pay the Church some money, and
voilà
, you’re no longer wed.”

Astra sighed. “You don’t understand, Marguerite. I don’t want to dissolve my marriage. In my eyes, Richard will always be my husband. I want no other man.”

“Mayhaps you should go back to Stafford,” Marguerite suggested in an irritated voice. “Maybe you are meant to be a nun after all.”

“I’ve thought of that,” Astra answered calmly, ignoring her friend’s sulky mood. “In my first despair, I wondered if Richard’s leaving was God’s way of punishing me for abandoning my life at Stafford. I considered going back and devoting my life to the Lord. But I’ve since realized I have given my heart to Richard, and it would be a cowardly, foolish thing to hide from my true feelings.”

Astra looked down at the banner on her lap and again smoothed the silken material. “I believe Richard will come back. I can’t tell you why, but I feel it in my heart.” She looked up at Marguerite’s skeptical face. “Perhaps I have listened to too many romantic tales of the jongleurs, but I believe love can be so strong that it binds a man and woman together for life.”

“What if Richard is dead?”

Astra felt her serenity shatter, and she blinked back tears. “I pray every day that he still lives. I remind myself of what a brave, strong knight he is, how many battles he has already survived. I tell myself that if he were dead, I would know it, because a part of me would die, too.”

“Jesu,” Marguerite muttered, clutching herself. “Sometimes you give me the shivers, Astra. If what you and Richard have is true love, I want no part of it. It seems to me that it entails altogether too much suffering!”

Astra blinked back her tears and laughed. “Oh, Marguerite, you have ever been good for me. With you by my side, I will never be able to be too serious.”

The two women shared a warm and intimate smile. Astra’s part in arranging her friend’s marriage had been quickly forgotten. As Astra had suspected, Marguerite was too inconstant to stay angry about anything. They were once again inseparable companions.

“If I am good for you, then perhaps you should come to Thornbury with Will and me. I’m planning to have my lying-in there, so that the de Lacys can welcome their new heir immediately.” Marguerite rolled her eyes, making Astra laugh again.

“I’d like to, Marguerite, but as I’ve said, I feel I should go to Riversmere. If Richard comes back, that is,
when
he comes back, I want him to have some kind of home waiting for him. He’s never had that, a real home. I think it would mean a great deal to him.”

“Bah! You’re just like my mother. You probably like all that chatelaine nonsense—cleaning, seeing to meals, making soap. You’re going to waste all your beauty, working so hard, Astra. In a year, you will be naught but a red-faced, scrawny old hag, while I will still be elegant and beautiful.”

Astra laughed again, then went to pack the banner with the rest of the things she was taking to Riversmere.

* * *

God in heaven, what was he to do? Nicholas de Ferres stood gaping at the carnage all around him. Five men lay dead, the rain washing their blood into frothy pools. A sixth man, his hero and employer, was crumpled at his feet. From the amount of blood seeping from the gash in his back, it seemed likely Sir Richard would be dead soon too.

Nicholas wiped his shaking, bloody hands on his leather jerkin and forced himself to some semblance of calm. He sought out the winded destrier and dug in the saddlebags until his hands found dry cloth. He jerked out a velvet tunic and ran to Richard. Skillfully, he tore the tunic into strips and used it to stem the bleeding. Next, he dragged the wounded man over to the destrier and tried to heave him onto the horse.

It was impossible. The horse’s back seemed to be miles off the ground, and the dead weight of Reivers’s muscular body was too much for him. After three tries he gave up. Panic overwhelmed as he realized that if he did not get Sir Richard to someplace where his wounds could be tended, he would die.