Claire Delacroix (25 page)

The old knight snorted. “Have they a whit of sense, they will.” His lips thinned grimly. “But we will be ready.”

“‘Tis more than clear you know something more of this matter,” Thierry observed.

“And evident that you do not,” the older man replied.

“And equally evident that ‘tis a factor of import I do not know,” Thierry snapped in growing annoyance. “Surely if you knew my sire, you would feel some compunction to confide in me this truth.”

The older man’s eyes blazed with unexpected anger. “Surely if I knew your sire as I did, I would respect his decision.”

“What decision?” Thierry demanded.

“I will say naught of it,” the older man retorted. “Mind the road!” he shouted suddenly over his shoulder to his knights. “Singly will we pass, if you please.” With that, he urged his horse ahead of Thierry’s mount and the conversation came to a frustrating halt. Naught was there wrong with the road that two could not ride abreast and Thierry knew Eustache was avoiding his questions.

But why? Suddenly Thierry realized that ‘twas when he had revealed his mark that all had gone awry.

“What is the import of my birthmark?” he shouted at the back of the man ahead of him. Eustache stiffened, telling Thierry he had found the crux of the matter, but naught did the older man say.

Eustache touched his spurs to his mount as though he would outrun the question, but his opponent had no intent of being so easily avoided. Stubbornly Thierry kept his horse hot on the heels of the knight’s destrier and they began the climb up the steep road to the fortress well ahead of the others.

“Tell me, Eustache,” he called, but no sign did the knight make he had heard. “Well do I know that you know the truth of it. Confide it in me.”

Eustache touched his spurs to his mount in response and raced up the twisting road to the gates.

“Would you have me pay the price of my life for your stubborn silence?” Thierry demanded impatiently, to no avail. Eustache reached the barbican gates and passed beneath the shadow of the tower with reckless speed.

“My father’s mark is exactly the same,” Thierry shouted as he rode into the bailey behind him. Boys came running from the stables as Eustache leaped from his destrier’s back. The beast panted from its exertion but the older knight merely cast the reins impatiently aside.

“What means this cursed mark?” Thierry asked in frustration as he followed suit. Eustache glared at him.

“‘Tis no
curse
to bear the mark of your line,” he spat indignantly. Thierry sensed the thread of the tale.

“What line?”

“Ask your sire,” Eustache ordered in disgust as he turned away.

“I cannot,” Thierry retorted. The older knight spun on his heel and granted him a wary glance.

“Dead is he?” he growled. He propped his hands on his hips and Thierry imagined the matter meant more to him than he might be willing to reveal.

“I know not,” Thierry admitted. Eustache’s eyes narrowed.

“Then you had best find out,” he concluded harshly, and turned away once more.

“Well do I know that you know this tale!” Thierry shouted as the other man stalked to the portal to the hall. “And well do I see that you hold my father in regard! Is it not a travesty of your respect for him to not confide this in me?”

That question struck the flint.

“Travesty?”
Eustache whirled around furiously and stomped back across the bailey to confront Thierry. So angry was he that Thierry wondered what he had wrought with his accusation, just before he found a meaty finger poked into his chest.

“Travesty? Well would it be a
travesty
of respect to tell you this tale, boy, and had you a whit of sense about you, you would know it. Twenty-one years past, afore the Yule, were you born in
that
tower—” the finger jabbed to the château behind the indignant Eustache “—and not four months later a fire was lit in
this
very bailey that you might be granted the full legacy of your line.” The finger swept to encompass the deadened grass in the bailey and returned to wag beneath Thierry’s nose as Eustache’s voice dropped. “Your sire chose to wait.”

“What say you?”

“He granted you
naught
of your legacy at your birth or your naming,” Eustache clarified, slowly enunciating each word. “Well had he paid the price for its burden and he wanted you to make the choice yourself of shouldering its weight.”

“Well, I would choose it now,” Thierry asserted firmly, folding his arms across his chest. “Tell me the tale.”

“You know naught of what you speak,” Eustache sneered. “All my knighted life I have served your family, and even now, in tending this keep, I hold to the word I granted your sire and his sire before him. Can you not see that confiding in you this tale would be the greatest travesty of all? Your sire chose to be the one to confide the tale in you himself, and well did I know of his intent.” Eustache took a step away and resolutely held Thierry’s regard.

“‘Tis out of respect for your sire that I decline your request.”

With that flat assertion, Eustache turned to walk more slowly to the hall. The other knights passed through the gates then, the jumbled activity of their arrival doing naught to clarify Thierry’s thinking on the matter. Had his father declined him as heir? It sounded not that way, but he knew not what to think.

“What if he is dead?” He blurted out the question afore he thought. Eustache spun slowly and met his gaze assessingly.

“Then your legacy died with him,” he said so softly that Thierry had to strain to hear the words.

Nay. It could not be. Destined he was for greatness and well he knew it. This was his chance! No one could steal that from him and Thierry would not permit another opportunity to be lost to him by some whim of the fates.

“Time do we waste!” he cried to the older man in undisguised frustration.

Eustache grimaced. “Time has been wasted afore,” he said. “My word did I give to your father.”

His father.

Khanbaliq. Thierry’s mind wrenched back to those days and those angry words even as Eustache disappeared.

Surely Dagobert still drew breath. Surely ‘twas not too late to seek him out and hear the fullness of the tale. Anger raged briefly within him that his sire had not already granted him the tale of his legacy, until a thought dismissed the accusation before it could fully form.

Likely ‘twas Thierry had stolen the opportunity for his father’s confidence by leaving so abruptly those long years past. He released a long, slow breath and turned to face out over the hills, blind to the stunning view as he remembered his departure from Khanbaliq. Thierry winced in recollection of the accusations he had hurled at his sire that fateful day and rubbed one hand across his brow. He halted mid-gesture as a thought abruptly occurred to him.

Was this what the shaman had meant when he had said that Thierry’s success would be sacrificed by his own hand?

* * *

If Kira had thought Thierry distracted before, ‘twas naught compared to his manner after his argument with the older knight on their arrival. He was upset beyond anything she had seen before and she wished she knew what to say.

Indeed, though she had understood much of old Eustache’s words, his talk of tales and legacies was a complete enigma to her. Kira suspected that Thierry knew little more than she. Though somehow it all had to do with his curious mark.

He frowned, lost in his own thoughts, as they were shown to a large room in the tower. Kira waited but no others joined them and she felt a thrill of pleasure that they were to have some privacy. A civilized place this Montsalvat was undoubtedly. Time enough ‘twas that they reached one.

A box made of drapes sat in one corner of the room and Kira regarded it with curiosity. When ‘twas evident that Thierry was not in the mood to explain Frankish matters to her, she investigated on her own, leaving him scowling at the floor.

She pulled back the drapes, not knowing what to expect. To her surprise, ‘twas merely a place for reposing, from all appearances. Cushions were scattered across the raised base of the box, those heavy drapes hanging all around. Kira felt the bottom of the box, pleased to find it quite soft beneath the blankets.

Privacy, in truth. She smiled with satisfaction as she tugged the drapes closed once more. A strange contrivance ‘twas, indeed, though with the coldness the stone floors took in this country, it mayhap was quite sensible. And well was she ready to have Thierry to herself during the night.

“‘Tis a bed, Kira,” Thierry informed her, his voice unusually flat.

She spared him a glance to find him no more happy than he had been moments before. Well could Kira do something about that. And mayhap ‘twas time to show him that she could grant him more than one might expect from a whore. She purposefully closed the distance between them and stretched to her toes to frame his concerned face in her hands.

“Nay, Kira,” he said, shaking his head slightly as he frowned. Kira ignored him, reaching up to smooth the furrow from his brow with a gentle fingertip. She shook her head in mock disapproval and he smiled absently at her antics.

“Everything will be fine,” she told him solemnly, wishing she was articulate enough in Frankish to tell him yet more. “‘Twill all work out in the end,” she added confidently, telling him precisely the opposite of what she had been feeling these past days. But clear ‘twas that he needed some reassurance, and mayhap if she played the role of wife and mate, he might see the appeal of the idea. Impulsively she stretched up and kissed him gently.

‘Twas the first time she had initiated a kiss, although she had demanded many, and Kira rather liked the sensation. Thierry responded naught for an instant, telling her that she had surprised him, as well.

Kira deliberately nudged her tongue invitingly against his and gained the response she sought. Thierry inhaled sharply and lifted her against him as he deepened his kiss. Kira pulled him closer with satisfaction, rubbing his neck soothingly and liking the way the tension was easing from him.

Something there was that she could give Thierry. Something more than sexual release, for here she gave him comfort. And more, he accepted it from her. She dared to take encouragement from that meager offering. Mayhap he did hold her in higher regard than the Persian woman had implied that all Mongols held their women. Kira closed her eyes and dared to dream that one day she alone would be Thierry’s woman.

Though she needed not his love, for love had already left its furrows in her back.

She smiled softly when he lifted his head and he traced her cheek with that roughened fingertip again. A habit ‘twas becoming, and one Kira rather liked. She nestled her cheek against Thierry’s palm contentedly.

“Kira, I must go down to the others for a time,” he explained quietly. Kira nodded understanding. She could not restrain the urge to rub her fingertips speculatively over her lips as she watched Thierry go, unable to completely stifle her budding optimism.

Mayhap she could be Thierry’s woman alone. Should the thought not have occurred to him as yet, she would endeavor at every opportunity to make it so. Indeed, Kira could not imagine that their thoughts were not as one when she met the warmth in his silver gaze. Dare she even wonder whether he already thought of her alone?

‘Twas almost too much to be believed, but Kira dared to indulge her whimsy. She spun about the room happily, pausing to poke at a trinket box or a tapestry in gleeful disinterest. Here would they stay, she fantasized, here would they make their home, simply the two of them together. The two of them and their babe, and mayhap more babes after this one. ‘Twas fitting that they stay here at Montsalvat, where Thierry had been born, himself. And ‘twas a place she suspected that she could find amenable, as well.

Kira closed her eyes and imagined telling Thierry of the child. Mayhap ‘twould be all the impetus he needed to cast aside his wandering ways and settle here to live. Mayhap he would be delighted that they had wrought another so soon. Mayhap he would feel as wondrous of the new life forming within her as she did.

Mayhap. Kira’s eyes flew open and her gaze landed on Thierry’s saddlebags. Did she dare to make her desire known? She hesitated for but a heartbeat before deciding to unpack his belongings. Liked it here, Kira did. More, she would raise her child here within these sturdy gray walls. She would lift her babe high and show him the wonder of the view from this perch high above the land, let him fill his lungs with the scent of the sea.

What better way to show Thierry thus than to spread about his belongings as though they lived here in truth?

The rationale was inescapable and Kira set to her task with relish. The blankets she shook out and folded atop the bed. Thierry’s brass pots and cooking implements she arranged neatly on the cold hearth. She ensured that they were clean, though she did not imagine he would cook anything here. Already the smell of roasted meat rose from the hall below to tempt her stomach and Kira found herself happily humming at her task.

His silk
kurta
that she had worn that long-ago night came next from the bag. She rubbed her nose in its softness and draped it over a stool with a smile of reminiscence. Always would she remember those first little fishes.

On the morrow she would wash their garments, Kira resolved, reaching into the bag yet again. A small bag she retrieved and assumed it contained coin. But nay, ‘twas too light and its contents not bulky enough. With a frown Kira spilled the contents out into her palm and caught her breath at the sight.

‘Twas an
aljofar.
She would have known the token anywhere.

A gift for a bride. The very fact that ‘twas hidden away told Kira in a heartbeat that ‘twas not meant for her.

Having the evidence for what she feared most cradled within her palm unnerved Kira more than she would have expected. Indeed, she felt that she had been dealt a telling and unexpected blow by this discovery. Would Thierry not have given the token to her already if he had meant her to have the gem?

Kira’s hand shook at the truth of that and she hastily dumped both the pearl and its chain back into the small sack. Her vision veiled with tears and she shoved the bag back into his saddlebag. Bittersweet was the realization of how much she had longed to have Thierry as hers and hers alone.