Claire Delacroix (40 page)

“I am a man who believes in what he sees and what he can hold within his hands,” Angus said quietly. “But in my time, I have learned a respect of the unseen.”

He turned to face Bayard, his gaze quelling despite the fact that one of his eyes was hidden behind a patch. “I recognize the presence of magic when I see it. This vine is not natural, and its like has never been seen in these parts. Its root was undoubtedly a gift to my mother - as so many of the roots within that garden are - probably from some guest, perhaps a guest from France. I know only that it has never flourished here.” Angus kicked the vine with his boot, holding Bayard’s gaze all the while. “Until you sang for Esmeraude.”

Bayard took a step back in horror at the implicit accusation. “Are you accusing me of witchery? I am not responsible for this!”

“Are you not?” Angus seemed unpersuaded. He took a step back and almost smiled. “Then sing, and prove me wrong.”

“’Tis nonsense.”

“Prove it.”

Bayard glared at the other knight. He stood straight, threw back his head and sang, knowing that he would prove this foolishness wrong.

But Iseut found that Mark’s embrace,

Tristran’s sweet kiss did not replace.

The old potion meant naught at all

For Tristran held her heart in thrall.

To his horror, the vine sprouted as soon as the first line left his lips. It grew with vigor all the while he sang, twining across Angus’ boot and sprouting leaves as it went. Bayard halted, staring at it in astonishment, and the vine halted as well.

This monstrosity was of his own making!

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

“This cannot be!” Bayard wished his denial would make it so. He stared at the vine, stunned that he could be responsible for its presence.

“Nonetheless it is,” Angus retorted.

“But ’tis illogical. No plant grows in this manner. No song prompts a plant to grow!”

“’Tis not so devoid of sense as that.”

“What is that to mean?”

“Why do you court my sister-in-law?”

Bayard felt his gaze narrow, for he was not prepared to confess his secret to another, not even this knight of such similar experience as his own. “Because I have need of a bride,” he said mildly.

“Bah!” Angus kicked the vine. “That would not account for your diligence. Nay, there is another reason for your suit, a greater reason than the mere desire for a wife.”

Bayard feared the man knew the truth about Montvieux and Richard, that he might confess it to Esmeraude and destroy the tenuous victory Bayard had won. “You cannot know that.”

“Nay, I cannot know your secret desire, but I can look with the eye I have got.”

“And what do you see?” Bayard challenged, fully expecting Angus to claim knowledge of Margaux’s pledge.

Angus flung out a hand to encompass the range of the vine. “This is conjured by a man’s love. Look, how it moves to bar the gate, to keep Esmeraude from departing this hall without accepting you.”

Bayard was astounded. “That is madness!”

“Nay, ’tis not. The vine grows when you sing for Esmeraude, it grows when you seek to enchant her with a tale, it grows when you offer the one gift that you believe will persuade her to accept you.” Angus shook his head. “Esmeraude’s love of tales is well known, Bayard de Villonne, but a song is not sufficient to coax a woman to your side. I would suggest that if winning Esmeraude means as much to you as this that you offer her more than a mere tale.”

“What do you mean?”

“Offer yourself.” Angus held his gaze for a long moment. “Tell her that you love her. ’Tis that alone that will persuade her.” He smiled slightly. “Eglantine has raised her daughters with a healthy esteem for love.”

“But I do not love her!”

“Do you not?” Angus surveyed the vine and shook his head. “And I had hoped that you might confess the truth of it to her before we are all sealed within these walls forever.”

“I cannot confess what is not true.”

“Not true?” Angus smiled. “The vine is a testament to the truth, Bayard.” He dropped his voice and let his hand rest on the younger man’s shoulder. “There is no weakness in confessing to love of a woman. Indeed, you might be surprised at the strength her love can grant you.”

“You did not seem strong when Jacqueline cried out,” Bayard felt compelled to observe.

The lord’s smile faded. “Because I know that all the treasures of my life would be as naught without my Jacqueline. There is naught worse for a warrior than to know that his skills are insufficient to affect any outcome. I cannot aid Jacqueline in this labor, though I do what I can. The finest midwife I could find is with her now.” His manner was so grim that Bayard touched the man’s sleeve.

“She has borne four children. Surely this one will arrive without incident.”

Angus nodded briefly. “I hope so.” Then he slanted an incisive glance at Bayard. “And what would your life be without Esmeraude? Would your riches seem as dust in your hands if she wed another?”

Bayard blinked. Had he not thought much the same just the night before?

Surely he could not love Esmeraude?

The truth hit Bayard like a blow to the chest. Aye, the reason he pursued this woman beyond all rhyme and reason was more than the loving of all her characteristics, more than honor and duty and reason.

He loved her.

’Twas a stunning realization, all the more stunning for his long-held determination to never love another. He understood with sudden clarity the desire to have an especial woman by his side that had driven his own father for years. He understood that ’twas unthinkable to wed another, to live out his life without the sparkle of Esmeraude. He had known many women and not one of them had caught him so securely, nor so quickly.

Bayard loved how Esmeraude made merry; he loved how she laughed. He loved the agility of her wits and the passion of her kisses. He loved her hunger for adventure and her willingness to pursue new experiences. He loved her determination to not accept less than her true desire.

Bayard loved Esmeraude. He rolled the thought through his mind, marveling in it, familiarizing himself with it. ’Twas, indeed, an unexpected development. Though he had had his suspicions, he had ignored their portent well.

But what was he to do about the matter?

Angus studied him for a long moment, as if he wondered much the same, until another cry of pain rose from the solar. The other man inhaled sharply, then turned away, gripping Bayard’s shoulder before he left. “Pray for my Jacqueline,” he whispered, then left Bayard alone upon the crest of the wall.

There was naught he might say to that. Bayard watched the man go, and acknowledged that he spied no weakness in Angus MacGillivray. Indeed, he offered a prayer to the survival of the lady of Airdfinnan, though he was not a man who spent much time upon his knees. He felt battered by the realization of his love, by the fact that he could conjure such sorcery as this vine by the force of his feelings for Esmeraude.

It made no sense, yet made perfect sense. He loved Esmeraude. Bayard frowned, seeing that he was in the same predicament as his father had been. He could not wed Esmeraude without incurring the risks he feared. Yet he could not countenance Esmeraude wedding another, or worse, confront the rest of his life without her.

He turned to pace and halted in horror. Before his eyes, buds unfurled over the length of the vine, one after the other after the other.

The vine knew of his realization.

Bayard’s gut chilled. Nay! He loved Esmeraude but none could guess the truth of it! He would not see his own affection used against him, as his father’s love for his mother had been used once against their family.

And Bayard remembered suddenly the terror that had passed through their household, the expression upon his father’s face, the vulnerability of Villonne that had been shown by his mother’s capture. He recalled the sense of vulnerability which had been unfamiliar until that moment, and the fear that they would lose both beloved mother and prosperous holding.

His own vehement pledge to never put himself in a similar position of weakness echoed anew in his ears; he recalled his arguments with his father, his abandonment of his family with so much still left unsaid between them.

There was naught for it. A grim resolve settled within him, a determination to keep his vow and avoid such vulnerability. A pledge of love could never pass Bayard’s lips, to the lady herself or any other. He would not grant any man - especially as the kings of France and England postured for war - any knowledge that could be used against him, any whisper that could cost him the holding he would do any deed to hold.

But as he watched, the vine grew buds at any unholy rate, as if invigorated by his decision to deny his love. Nay! It could not betray him!

Bayard drew his blade and hacked at the nearest bud. The vine, which had resisted all attempts to cut it back, surrendered to the blow of Bayard’s blade. The cut bud fell lifeless to the stone.

Because the vine was of his own devising.

And if the lord guessed its import, then so would others. Bayard slashed at the new buds with a strength he had not known he possessed, but the vine sprouted three buds for each one he cut. ’Twas as if it would defy Bayard to tell Esmeraude the truth.

Or perhaps it would challenge him to consider the price of not confessing his love to Esmeraude. She had told him of her love and he had not answered in kind, and in the clear light of morning, Bayard knew that this would trouble his lady.

But as long as she aided her sister, he could not make amends even if he desired to do so. Indeed, if he truly wished to avoid his father’s error, he could never make amends.

He sliced through another cluster of buds and they grew back with frightening speed, the vine seemingly compelling him to make a choice. ’Twas whimsy, or madness, and Bayard was sorely troubled by what great sense it made to him in this moment. Indeed, he feared mightily what his life would be without Esmeraude by his side.

But Bayard feared this outward sign of the secret of his heart. He cut back an entire branch of the vine, invigorated when it fell aside lifeless and did not grow back.

He could vanquish this menace wrought of his weakness and he would do so. He would not halt until ’twas cut back to the very root itself.

Bayard would not sing, he would not whistle, he would not so much as think about his lady love and perhaps then the vine would not grow back again.

’Twas a feeble hope, but ’twas the only one he had.

* * *

Within the solar, Esmeraude bathed her sister’s brow, wishing there was more she could do to ease her sister’s pain. Jacqueline, always sweet of nature, smiled even in this moment. “How goes your quest for the man who will hold your heart captive forever?”

“Jacqueline!” Esmeraude spared a glance for the maids aiding in the delivery, for she knew they listened avidly to every word and would repeat it in the kitchens later. She leaned down and whispered. “I have found him, but there is a small difficulty.”

“Aye?”

“He swears he will never love his wife, for ’tis a weakness that can be exploited.”

Jacqueline laughed, a most inappropriate response to Esmeraude’s thinking. She laughed heartily, then her laughter was cut suddenly short by another contraction. She gasped and Esmeraude gripped her hand tightly, watching the perspiration bead upon her sister’s brow as the pain rose within her.

“Very good, my lady,” the midwife said with approval. “The babe comes slowly, but it comes.” She looked up brightly. “Perhaps ’tis a particularly large child, as your lord suspects.”

Jacqueline fell back against the pillows and groaned. She then spoke to Esmeraude as though there had been no interruption in their conversation. “So, Bayard says he will not love -”

“I did not say ’twas Bayard!”

“You did not have to,” Jacqueline scolded, then continued. “He says he will not love but he courts you with determination, he sings for you, he charms children for your favor, he hovers diligently near your side, he is daunted by no refusal that passes your lips, and I imagine he steals kisses from you, if not more.”

Esmeraude knew her cheeks were flaming red. “Charm and lust are not the same as love.”

“But a man’s deeds oft speak more clearly of his intent than his words.”

“You sound like him.” Esmeraude watched her sister carefully, wondering whether she had overheard Bayard’s return of the chemise. Jacqueline would make much of that gallantry, Esmeraude was certain!

But Jacqueline leaned back and sighed, wincing as another contraction built within her. “I am glad you are here, and am selfish enough to appreciate whatever has brought you to my side,” she whispered, then caught her breath. Jacqueline’s grip tightened painfully on Esmeraude’s hand and she arched back to release a cry of anguish.

“’Tis fine, my lady, all is well.”

“Angus should be here,” Esmeraude said crossly. “Is it not his place to at least witness the result of planting his seed?” Though she spoke with annoyance fed by a sense of helplessness, Esmeraude knew that her sister drew great strength from her spouse’s presence.