The Mistress of Normandy

Jack hiccupped. “Oh. Well...she’s...cold, my lord.” He grimaced. “Cold as the teat of a cockatrice.”

Unbidden relief spilled through Rand. Thank God she’d married another. “What did she look like?”

The ship listed. Jack closed his eyes and began to tremble. “Like...a cockatrice?”

“Jack—”

“My lord, what know I of the high nobility?” Jack opened his eyes. “She looked upon me with scorn. She was all tricked out in gauzy stuff, such as we saw on the ladies at Eltham.”

Rand could see the line of questioning was going nowhere. “What did she say?”

“She called you a god-don. What the hell is that?”

“A nickname we Englishmen have earned among the French, referring to our habit of calling upon God to damn whatsoever displeases us.”

“Well, she’s wrong about you. You’ve never taken the Lord’s name in vain. I do so often enough for us both.”

Rand sent another stone flying. It skittered across the iron-gray swells and was swallowed by a white-crested wave. “What else did she say?”

“She said she wouldn’t marry you if the moon fell out of the sky.” Jack watched him curiously but did not comment on the little weapon.

Robert Batsford, who had been standing nearby, joined them. “Her defiance is impressive,” said the priest. “Few men, still fewer women, would dare flout a king’s edict. Your bride is certainly bold-spirited.”

Jack mumbled. “She’s got the damnedest maid....”

Furious, Rand squinted through the stinging mist. He’d been duped by a woman; he’d failed in his knightly duty. “Oh, she’s a bride all right, Father. But not mine. She wed some Frenchman called Mondragon.”

“Good Lord, is the woman mad?”

“Having never met her, I wouldn’t know.”

Batsford let loose with a low whistle. “Married. Blessed St. George, I’m beginning to feel a grudging respect for the woman. What will you do now?”

Like ghosts in the mist, the four round towers of Le Crotoy hove into view. “Burgundy and I will find a solution,” said Rand.

Five (#u7d520697-4991-57ed-b557-ff347843aa77)

Rand was gone. For two weeks the glade where St. Cuthbert’s cross stood had been empty, save for the lonely presence of a confused young woman. Still Lianna went there; she waited at the hour of the woodcock’s flight, hoping to see Rand.

Her remembrance of him turned to longing, and longing to obsession. She couldn’t forget that smiling face hewed by angels, his lips whispering endearments before closing over hers, the rich caress of his voice as he sang her a love song. Standing in the glade, she moved her hands over her ribs, her neck, her breasts, remembering, wanting, needing. Her body cried out for him with a passion so strong it hurt. He’d plumbed a well of deep, secret longings inside her—longings only he could fulfill. A timeless, mystical bond had linked them from the first, and even if Rand never came again, she knew she would never be free of him.

She could think of only one reason for his disappearance. The Englishman had quit the coastal town of Eu; obviously her Gascon knight had known about the invading foreigner and had gone after him. He’d wanted to break lances for her. Perhaps, unwittingly, he was doing just that.

Swathed in dreamy sadness, she returned to the château one day and walked her horse to the stables. Absently she noticed a gilt leather bridle had been left in the yard. Roland, the marshal, snatched it up.

“Sorry, my lady, I must have overlooked that,” he mumbled, and scurried aside as if to escape the expected dressing down. But she said nothing as she gave him the reins of her palfrey. What mattered the loss of a bridle when her own heart was breaking?

An excess of equine noise penetrated the sorrow-spun web of her thoughts. Looking about, she saw that every empty stall was now occupied.

Catching her curious look, Roland said, “The Sire de Gaucourt has arrived, my lady. Best soldier in France, and right fussy about his horses, he is.”

Lianna froze inside. She’d expected Gaucourt; the château was prepared for his visit, but now that he was here, her defiance against her uncle was real, irrevocable. Swallowing a feeling of uncertainty, she went to the hall to greet her guest.

Raoul, the Sire de Gaucourt, sat by the hearth with Gervais. The knight had a strong, arrogant face and an oddly lashless stare of deep calculation. His eyes were pale stones washed by the ice of command. The sight of him sliced through Lianna’s defiance with a blade-sharp sense of apprehension.

Spying her, Gervais smiled. Unexpectedly, Lianna had discovered a tolerance for her husband’s son. He’d relaxed his father’s interdict against her gunnery and lately seemed content to leave the running of the château to her. “Come greet our guest,” he said. His eyes lingered on her stained homespun smock, but she saw no disapproval in his gaze.

She swept toward Gaucourt. “Welcome, mon sire.”

He took her hand and leaned down, brushing his lips over the backs of her fingers. “Madame,” he murmured.

She extracted her hand from his. “Thank you for coming to my aid.”

His chilly, pale eyes crinkled at the corners, and she realized he was smiling in his own bloodless way. “I could not but come when I learned of the brave deed you did for France.”

Despite her instinctive distrust of Gaucourt, Lianna was pleased that the knight offered none of the warnings and recriminations her uncle of Burgundy had dealt her. “Under the circumstances I had no choice. I couldn’t possibly wed the Baron of Longwood and cede Bois-Long to the English Crown.”

“I agree, madame. King Henry needs a stronghold on the Somme to give him access to Paris. He may have his sights set on France, but thanks to you he’ll get no farther than here.”

“And thanks to you, mon sire,” Gervais said, “the English will not take Bois-Long by force.”

Lianna sent him a cool look. So, Gervais did have some understanding of the lay of things. She turned to Raoul. “The Englishman was seen to sail away from Eu, where he landed, but I fear he’ll be back.”

“The presence of fifty of my best men will stay his hand.”

Her eyes traveled down the length of the hall. Servitors were setting up the trestle tables for the evening meal. In a far corner of the room, the elderly Mère Brûlot sat crooning to the two babies she held in her arms. At one of the tables Guy, the seneschal, labored patiently over a livre de raison, his record of the daily events of the château.

Fear rushed over her like the shadowy wingbeats of a dark bird. Not for herself, but for the many people under her protection. How many of their fields would be burned if Henry acted? How long would they survive if the marauding English leveled their homes and slaughtered their livestock? Even Chiang’s guns might not hold back Henry’s wrath.

Gaucourt must have understood her unspoken thoughts, for he patted her arm reassuringly. “I’ve sent a number of hobelars out to scout the area. They’ll report to me at the first sign of an English contingent.”

“I’m deeply indebted to you.” She wished she felt more confident. The greatest battle commander of France had come to safeguard her château. So why did his presence evoke such an odd, ineffable feeling of dread?

Gaucourt lifted his mazer of wine. “There is no price too high to preserve the sovereignty of France, my lady.”

“At the moment I can but concern myself with preserving Bois-Long,” said Lianna.

“With my help, you shall,” Gaucourt promised. His eyes coursed over her, fastening on her waist. “Slim as a willow withe,” he murmured with slight accusation. “You’d best call your husband back from Paris and see about getting an heir.”

Lianna hoped her light laughter didn’t sound as forced as it felt, issuing from a throat gone suddenly tight. “I wish you’d leave such concerns to my women and the soothsayers who haunt the marshes.”

“I jest not,” said Gaucourt. “A child is a political necessity. It would solidify a marriage your uncle of Burgundy opposes.”

Gervais cleared his throat. His customary congenial smile seemed strained. “Bois-Long has an heir apparent,” he said.

Gaucourt shrugged. “Belliane has the blood of both Burgundy and Aimery the Warrior in her veins. ’Twould be a shame to let the line die out.”

That night in her chamber, she felt out of sorts as Bonne helped her prepared for bed. “Gaucourt’s mention of an heir is all the talk, my lady,” said the waiting damsel.