Claire Delacroix (2 page)

“I am Bayard de Villonne,” he roared, “son of Burke de Villonne and nephew of your lord Rowan de Montvieux.”

“What business have you here?”

“I come to visit my kin.”

There was a delay. ’Twas a considerable delay and Bayard did not doubt that his name was known and that the lord had been consulted. The boys exchanged a glance. The rain fell more steadily, a drizzle that soaked through their clothes and chilled their flesh.

Bayard did not move, he did not flinch. He stared unswervingly at the shadow, daring his uncle to deny him entry. He showed only impatience and expectation, nary a doubt that his request would be granted.

And it worked, as so oft it did. Andrew sighed with relief when the hinges on the great gates groaned. They opened slowly, revealing a formidable portcullis.

Rowan was silhouetted behind it, hands propped on his hips. Typically, Bayard’s uncle was not garbed for war. He wore naught but a chemise, cut full of white linen, dark chausses and tall boots. His russet hair was shot with silver and there were lines in his tanned face that had not been there all those years before. His gaze held a new shrewdness though, or perhaps Bayard had been too young to see that his uncle possessed more than a playful side.

Bayard urged his steed forward, and the beast tossed its head with disdain as it trotted along the muddied road to the gates. He halted before the portcullis, closer than many a man would have come, the steam of the steed’s breath nigh dampening Rowan’s chemise. “Greetings, Uncle.”

“So, you have returned.” Rowan’s tone was harsh. “Does your father know of it?”

“I have naught to say to my father and I doubt he would welcome any news of me.” Bayard spoke dispassionately, that part of his life far behind him. “Will you grant me entry or nay?”

Rowan studied him warily. “What do you want here?”

“Can a man not visit his family without suspicion?”

“Nay, he cannot, not if he is you. What do you want of us?”

“I would speak with you,” Bayard said carefully.

“So that you might sway me to your view against your sire? ’Twill not work, Bayard.”

Anger crackled within Bayard though he strove to hide it. “Are you so enamored of my father in these days then? Time was you defied your own father, or so I have heard told.”

“My father was a bloodthirsty wretch devoid of decency.” Rowan lifted one brow. “Time was you remembered as much.”

“So, if a man is good and honorable, ’tis impossible that he might err?”

“If a son is bent upon irresponsibility, ’tis impossible that any father might bend such a wayward will.”

Bayard had not expected such indomitability from his uncle. Rowan had always been the rebel and the rogue, the son who had defied expectations. “I see you are resolved in this, then.”

Rowan shrugged. “You left. ’Tis as good a sign that you knew yourself mistaken as any.”

“Or a sign that a battle cannot be won by honorable tactics.”

Rowan waved him off. “You have always been one who loved dearly to win. Do not pretend otherwise, Bayard. You lost this. You were wrong and your father was right. Have the grace to grant him that much, if not your obedience.”

Anger boiled hot within Bayard and he kept his expression impassive only with the greatest of efforts. They knew naught of what faced a knight in these days, naught of what he had seen, naught of what he had been compelled to do and to witness. They were innocent and ignorant, these lords who lived in deceptive peace, these lords whom he had defended from the infidel encroaching upon Christendom from the east.

Worse, they were ignorant of the ambitions of a foreign king. He saw now that Rowan would not listen to him, not about his father, and not about King Richard.

Yet that changed naught. Bayard still would not see Montvieux besieged and its defenders slaughtered.

Perhaps one matter changed - his tactic. He would protect them from the fullness of the threat against them, but he would do so without them even realizing what he did. Let them think him wicked, if it assuaged their fears.

They knew naught of true fear -- and the truth of it was that he preferred to not have them learn.

“Why are you here?” Rowan demanded.

“I came to see my grandmother, of course,” Bayard said smoothly, and managed a thin smile.

Rowan snorted. “You seek out Margaux, of all people? Is it true, then, that like appeals to like?”

“She was always good to me.”

“You mean that she always favored you. Do you think to persuade her to take your cause? If so, know that none will agree with her, regardless of the respect her age calls as its due.”

Bayard stiffened. “I know Margaux is aged and I would see her once again while yet I can. Is there aught amiss with that?”

“Naught save that it is unanticipated. Sentiment is not what I would have expected of you.”

Bayard was unwilling to argue this perception of him. “But then, you know so little of me, do you not?”

Rowan frowned. “That was your choice, Bayard.”

“Was it?”

“You
left
.”

“I believed then that I had no choice.”

“And now?”

Bayard almost smiled. “I know that I had no choice.”

Rowan’s expression tightened and Bayard knew ’twas not the answer for which his uncle had hoped. But ’twas the truth and the truth was not always comforting. Bayard had no regrets and doubted that he ever would.

Rowan’s gaze danced over him and Bayard knew what his uncle saw. He was a knight and a crusader, a champion and the companion of a king. He was larger and stronger and more hardened than he had been when last he saw his family, and he had no doubt that his experiences had left their mark upon him. He had waged war and won, he could afford the finest weaponry and steeds, and he had them.

Rowan looked, but said naught for the longest time.

The rain began to fall in earnest, slanting coldly against the trio outside the gates, splattering against the stone. The destrier did not move, but the palfreys ridden by Bayard’s two squires began to flick their ears restlessly.

Then Rowan stepped abruptly away, gesturing to the sentry. “’Tis in good faith that I take you at your word and grant you admission - take care that you do not forget as much.”

“And what is that to mean?”

“Have the courtesy not to turn Margaux against me,” Rowan said harshly, then strode away.

He did not wait for Bayard to pass beneath the gates, but disappeared into a side entry. ’Twas one that Bayard knew entered the great hall itself.

The sentries stood back, wary, weapons at the ready, as the horses passed beneath the arch and through the tunnel of stone behind the gates. No ostler ran to take their reins, not so much as a stable hand came to tend them.

And if Bayard had been angry before, now he was furious. ’Twas unspeakably rude that he had not been invited to the board, that he was offered no cup of greeting, that his uncle chose to blame him alone for his estrangement from his father.

He had expected more from Rowan than this, far more. Rowan, after all, had always been the rebel, the one who confounded expectation. Bayard had expected at least a hearing from his uncle. Clearly it had been too much to hope that someone in his family would hear aught against his august father, or at least grant him a chance to discuss the matter. Instead they had closed ranks against him so surely that even Rowan -
Rowan!
- offered him little.

And this when he had come to aid them. Though he might have been prepared to soften, to be swayed by sentiment, now his resolve hardened. Bayard brushed down his destrier himself, his strokes vigorous in his fury. The boys hung back, sensing his mood. They stayed silent as they tended their own steeds with diligence.

Aye, the king demanded Montvieux of Bayard.

The king would have it.

For there was one person who could grant it to Bayard, and grant it without the shedding of so much as a drop of blood. So it was that Bayard had told no lie - he truly desired to see his grandmother and none other.

Perhaps the end result would be that she turned against Rowan, but for that, Bayard would not apologize. His uncle had chosen to spurn Bayard, and thus had spurned the opportunity he offered.

Winning Montvieux from Margaux was the next best possible scenario. Let them think him selfish and malicious - let them never know the fate from which Bayard had saved them. He cared naught and he would care naught, for caring was a weakness that could readily be exploited.

And once he held Montvieux, Bayard de Villonne would not tolerate a vulnerability of any kind.

His forebears would have demanded no less.

* * *

Bayard’s grandmother, however demanded a price both heavy and light. Her chamber was shrouded in shadows and thick with the smell of unguents and healing potions.

“My lady has taken to her bed,” her maid whispered as they stood upon the threshold of the chamber. “She is despondent and weakened by age.” The maid cast Bayard a shrewd glance. “Perhaps she will be cheered by your visit.”

’Twas impossible to think of his grandmother ceding to any weakness, and Bayard tried to make sense of what he had been told. He doffed his gloves and slapped the leather against his palm, eyeing the curtains pulled tight around her pillared bed. They were wrought of sapphire samite trimmed with white, their hems adorned with the fleur-de-lis of Montvieux.

“Who admits a draft to my chamber?” Margaux demanded, as querulous as ever.

“’Tis I,
Grandmaman
, Bayard.” He strode into the room as the curtains rustled, then Margaux hauled open the fabric with surprising vigor.

She stared him up and down, her gaze bright with challenge, then her lips curved slightly. “If you came for a funeral, I am not dead as yet.”

“For which I am grateful.” He bowed his head. “I came to visit you and expect your conversation will be finer while you draw breath.”

“You have taken your own time about it,” she snapped. She sat up and the maid rushed to plump cushions behind her lady’s back. Margaux ignored the younger woman, her bearing imperial and not the slightest bit despondent. Indeed, she looked prepared to argue any matter.

“’Tis not so readily done to visit from Outremer.”

“So you have been on crusade, as ’twas rumored.”

“With Richard of England.”

“Ah.” She studied him more leisurely, her gaze lingering upon his blade and his boots, his armor, the trappings of his wealth. “’Tis not the weaponry granted upon your knighthood.”

Bayard smiled. “I have seen fit to indulge myself.”

“And you have the coin to do it.” She met his gaze so suddenly that he nigh jumped. “Or the plunder.”

“Those in France know little of Outremer and her ways,” Bayard spoke mildly, knowing that the maid attended every word avidly. He gestured to a stool and Margaux nodded once crisply. “I am sorrowed to hear that you are ill,
Grandmaman
, and had thought you might find entertainment in the tales of my adventures.”

Margaux smiled a calculating smile. She waved abruptly to the maid. “Fetch wine for my guest and myself. A man of such experience must have missed the pleasures of hearth and home, and surely a man so successful deserves some acknowledgment of his triumphs.”

The maid bobbed her head and scurried away as Margaux held Bayard’s gaze. Only when the footsteps had faded beyond earshot did the crone lean forward. “You have come for a prize, a prize that only I can grant. I know this.”

Bayard said naught, merely smiled in his turn.

Margaux glanced across the chamber. “Your father is the sole fruit of my own womb. I only surrendered Montvieux to Rowan because your father would not have it. Who was to know that your mother would bear a worthy child?”

Bayard knew this was not strictly true - his father had refused to spurn his love at Margaux’s bidding and she had taken the promise of Montvieux from him in an effort to force him to her will. When Burke had wed his lady love despite the price, for the sake of pride, Margaux had had no choice but to be true to her own pledge.

Indeed, Bayard’s hopes relied upon Margaux’s dissatisfaction with that outcome. He waited, as all hunters wait, for the moment of opportunity.

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed. “And now you would ask of me what he has spurned.”

“I am the eldest of your blood grandsons.”

“And you are the most like mine own father. The blood runs true in your veins. Perhaps that is an omen that the legacy belongs in your hands.” She tilted her head suddenly. “But perhaps I should prefer greater proof of your desire than a fine new coat of mail.”

Bayard frowned, but his grandmother conjured a scroll of vellum, then fairly threw it at him. ’Twas hung with wax seals and ribbons, and clearly a pronouncement of some kind.

To his astonishment, ’twas an invitation.

Greetings to Burke, lord of Villonne, & Alys his lady wife, once of Kiltorren; to Luc of Llanvelyn & his lady wife Brianna of Tullymullagh; to Rowan, Lord of Montvieux & his lady wife Bronwyn of Ballyroyal. May the blessings of good health and God’s favor be upon all of the brothers Fitzgavin and their children.