Claudia Dain (3 page)

Avice grinned and shook her head in delighted censure. "Your name will be made if you can withstand Ulrich."

"Oh, I can withstand him, and I shall mortar my name into the flow of time by not only withstanding him, but by defeating him. It shall be done, Sister, and it shall be done beautifully. Checkmate."

"Checkmate?" Avice looked down at the board. Her king was exposed and trapped by Juliane's queen. "Did you cheat?" she playfully accused.

"Nay, Avice, it is only that I have won," Juliane said. "I do not need to cheat to win."

"You speak of Ulrich again," Avice teased.

Juliane grinned. "For some little time to come, all will be of Ulrich. I hope he is flattered by the hours I shall give him."

"From what they say of him, I think he will expect
you
to be flattered."

"Then he has many surprises coming to him, does he not?"

"I think our father will not be pleased," Avice said. "It could be said that you have carried this game of yours too far, too often."

Juliane moved the heavy chess pieces around on the board in a random pattern. "Can I do aught as to that? I did not create this game, I only find myself a player in it. And when I play, I play to win. If our father cares not for the game, then let him only forbid the players entrance into his hall. All games would cease then."

"You know he will not," Avice said.

"Nay, he will not," Juliane said easily. "Can he deny his wish to see me wed?"

"He only wants what all fathers want: to see his daughters set well within a good betrothal and a profitable marriage," Avice said, laying a light hand on Juliane's arm.

"I had my betrothal," Juliane answered, standing. "And my marriage. I did my duty as a daughter. Once. It will not happen again."

"You heard?" Lunete said as she ran into the hall. She was ruddy from running up the stairs to the tower. The pink in her cheeks was lovely against the cool, pale blond of her tumbling hair and the light gray of her eyes.

"Do not say it! Let me tell it!" Christine said, bursting in behind ten-year-old Lunete. Christine was all of fourteen and should have had more dignity, though there was no one in the hall of Stanora who would rebuke her for her outburst.

"I am certain it is known. There is no need to shout," Marguerite said, coming into the hall last. Of the three girls fostered at Stanora, it was Marguerite who claimed dignity and solemnity as her mantle, when she could remember it. At thirteen, determinations were fleeting things.

"Did you tell her, Avice?" Christine asked.

They stood, the five of them, in the high-ceiled hall of Stanora. The fire was soft and slow, heating stones that had not felt the cold of winter for months and yet were still cool to the touch. Much like Juliane, always cool, ever impenetrable.

"Aye, I told her," Avice said. "I could not wait for you to regain consciousness; the news was too wonderful to wait."

"Swooning is a sign of high birth," Christine said in her own defense.

"Then you are daily proven to be highborn," Avice said, laughing.

"What do you think of Ulrich's coming?" Marguerite asked.

"I think that," Juliane said slowly, pausing for effect, "he comes to Stanora with a name for prowess in the games of courtly love, and that he will leave Stanora with a new name altogether."

Christine laughed, as did Avice. Marguerite only smiled with polite dignity.

"Yet of all the men who have come against you," Avice said, "he is the most fearsome in games of love."

"Then it follows that he will fall the farthest," Juliane said.

The fire flickered as if in shared laughter as the light and playful voices of the women stirred the air. Even the stones of Stanora seemed to warm themselves in the easy confidence they exuded.

Juliane had been many times tested and as many times declared the victor in this oft-played battle of love. Could any man stand against the power of Juliane? Nay, none could. None had. Yet... Ulrich was a man with a legend of his own, and it was not for defeat in matters of love. Of all men, this one might challenge the legend of Juliane le Gel.

What a fall that would be.

Chapter 2

"No matter what man is brought against her, she tumbles not," Philip said.

"You do not truly want her to tumble," Father Matthew said.

They stood in the open sunlight of summer, the wind pressing at their backs and through their hair upon the heights of the battlements. It was quiet and they were alone and it was a place that brought his heart more ease than the solemn shadow of the rood of Christ, though it might be sin to confess it. Philip would not confess it. Had not God made the sun? 'Twas no sin to stand in the light when his thoughts were so heavy and dark.

Juliane must marry.

He could find no man to marry her. With this chain of legend wrapped about her, no man would try. No man wanted to be the next man linked in legend with her, not when his part in it would be only of his falling against her cold regard.

He had not foreseen that.

And he would not leave this earth with Juliane unmarried. He would not leave her defenseless against the devices of Conor.

"Nay, perhaps not," Philip said, looking at the distant treetops as they swayed in the wind. "But it would not hurt her to be tempted."

"Lord Philip, you cannot want your child to be tempted into sin. She is a woman and weak; temptation would bring her too close to a fall. Pray not for such."

Philip made a noise of dissent. "Juliane is not weak, woman though she is. No man can topple her; that is becoming certain. Many have tried. The ranks grow thin and weak. I do not know what man will come to her now. Hugh of Normandy was my best hope, and he ran from here a month past, his confidence shattered against my daughter." Philip sighed and looked down at his hands upon the stone battlements. "Conor would have her wed Nicholas of Nottingham, but I would not have Conor make a betrothal for my eldest child again. The first marriage he arranged for her was not to my liking and had no good end. Yet Juliane must wed, and I can find no man to stand against the chill of her legend. I cannot find my way out of this maze."

"With God, there is ever a way out," Matthew said. "There are women who do not marry. Send her into seclusion, into a life of productive prayer. A worthy life for a woman, a life which meets her skills most well."

Philip looked askance at his priest. They were of an age and had been almost friends for twenty years. Almost, for a priest's devotion was set upon his vows, and Philip's mind was of the world and its ways. Yet there was much common ground between them and many shared years.

"Her skills?" Philip said with a wry grin. "You know her not if you say Juliane would be content to spend her life on her knees, her eyes cast heavenward. She is all of the earth, that one, though she chills every man who touches her."

"Then find a man who is hot enough to withstand her chill," Matthew said, "For everything under God's eye, there is a match. Find the man hot enough to warm her. That is the answer to the riddle of Juliane."

"You speak my very thoughts, yet where dwells such a man?" Philip said. "Not within the bounds of England. Who has not passed through my gates? What man of merit and of means has not felt the ice of Juliane's regard?"

"Henry's domain is larger than England," the priest said. "Though perhaps not as large as he would like."

Philip only chuckled. "All kings want more, as do all men. There is no fault to be found in wanting."

"My lord!" came a cry from below.

Philip looked down at the porter, who pointed toward the river, and there he saw them. A small host of men were trotting toward Stanora, their mounts commendable, their armor in good state; more men come to Stanora. It was well, and well timed, God be praised. Philip squinted against the sun, taking their measure, counting them out. A knight, nay, two, and a bundle. Nay, no bundle, but a boy, he saw as they came closer, crossing the golden plain that stood between his tower and the river.

"God is quick in answering a righteous prayer," Philip said with a grin. "I can only pray that these knights are well suited and well matched to Juliane. I would see her married well and married soon."

"'Tis too soon to talk of marriage," Father Matthew said with a smile, "when they are half a league from your gates and you do not know their merit or even their names."

"I know they are men," Philip said with a shrug and an unrepentant grin. "That is enough to know for a start."

And as they watched from the heights of the battlements, another rider came sprinting from out of the bordering wood. A cry was loosed, and all riders rode hard for the gates of Stanora. It seemed a rout from this vantage point, though there was nothing of fear in it, even from this distance. Nay, they rode hard yet they rode joyously too.

The pack of men and horses slid to a dusty stop just shy of Stanora's outer gate. Aye, they were laughing. There was naught prompting their charge but manly play and manly wagers of superiority. A good beginning, if any one of them would stand and face Juliane. Without a goodly dose of proper male superiority, no man stood a chance of standing true and hard when facing his daughter.

"My lord?" the porter called. "Shall I admit?"

"Your names and places?" Philip called down from the battlements. "I will admit no rough men into my domain."

A lie. He would admit any man of sound health and bulging arm.

"Ulrich of Caen," said a knight, calling up his name and place to the hazy sky. A tall man, by the measure of his stirrup, broad in the shoulder, long in the arm. His gear was fresh and polished, his cloak of finely woven azure wool. Well turned out and free of mud. He would do.

"Roger of Lincoln," said Ulrich's knight companion. Thicker, broader, and more ruddy than Ulrich of Caen, Roger wore a cloak of nut-brown wool with a band of crimson at the hem. His mount was breathing lightly from their charging race, as was the man. A good judge of horses was Roger, or fortunate. A man would need to be fortunate to meet well with Juliane. He would do.

"Edward of Exeter," said the man who had begun the race from his run out of the wood. Tall and fair, riding a horse of pale gray, Edward laughed up into the sky, his humor still running high. A jovial man, then, if only with his knight brethren. He would do.

"My squire, William," Ulrich offered, gesturing to the boy at his back, his voice a trumpet against the stone of Stanora. "We are here at the king's direction. May we enter? Will Stanora welcome the men of King Henry?"

"Aye, and that is the question," Roger murmured, the wind snatching his words and lifting them to the lord of Stanora and Stanora's priest. He might as well have whispered into a funnel, the words rose so clear and sharp. "Will Stanora, that oft-sung Juliane, welcome this man of Henry's?"

"Lay coin upon it, if you doubt," Ulrich answered. "I could use some extra coin and would spend your money most well upon a cloak of scarlet."

Roger laughed and said, "The deal is struck, brother. I will not add nor subtract from our bargaining."

"Losing heart so soon?" Ulrich said as he looked up at the battlements, awaiting entry. "My lord?" he said loudly. "We are of Henry, king of England. Will you admit us?"

"Open the gates," Philip called down to the porter.

As the knights urged their mounts into the dark stone portal of Stanora, Philip heard, "It is not
my
heart which must be lost, Ulrich, but the lady's."

"And so it shall be," Philip heard in answer.

Aye, Ulrich of Caen would do most well.

* * *

"He is come!" Christine cried, rushing into the hall. For all her propensity to faint, Christine was an able runner.

Juliane looked up from her sewing. "Who is come?"

She knew who was come. They had spoken of nothing but Ulrich since his name had first been mentioned. Long hours they had been, too.
He is come, he is come.
So they all came, fell, and left. 'Twas a game that was beginning to bore, except that winning was still so sweet. And Ulrich of Caen would be a victory most treasured.