Devil's Consort (90 page)

What did he see, I wondered, that reduced him to silence? A woman silk-gowned and bejewelled for the occasion, her hair as rich as it had ever been, her skin flawless, her beauty without question and now her power restored to her. I felt that power surge through me in counterpoint to the glitter of anticipation of an unknown future. Louis no longer had a responsibility to me or I a duty to him. And I smiled.

Fifteen grim years of marriage. Finished.

It was not reciprocated. Louis’s scowl was that of a thwarted child.

Within the hour I had I left Beaugency for Poitiers, tightly surrounded by an escort of my own men. Before I left I made a few necessary adjustments to my garments and sent word to Henry Plantagenet.

I knew that I had never been as vulnerable as I was at that moment.

I rode. Fast. My escort was pared down to the barest essentials. No palanquin or litter on this journey, but fast horses, frequently changed, leaving Beaugency within the hour of the lifting of my sentence. Even Agnes was left behind, for speed was of the essence. I knew the dangers. I might keep my movements secret but news of my impending freedom would be spreading like fire through the undergrowth in a summer drought. As I drew near Blois, determining to request food and lodging within the sanctuary of the abbey, the memory flooded back, myself a young girl in flight
from Bordeaux on the day of my marriage, Louis urging me on towards Paris for fear of revolt and imprisonment from my vassals. Now I fled back to Aquitaine to safety, with no man at my side.

Alpha and omega.

I felt the unquenchable excitement again, the breathless exhilaration. My little escort of Aquitanians rode in tight protection around me; within two days I would be safe within the Maubergeonne Tower in my capital. In Poitiers, where I could defend myself, staring down from my ramparts at any fool who thought himself capable of taking me by storm. No one would stop me.

And then I would see if Henry Plantagenet was man enough to fulfil his promise. And if Henry Plantagenet should find that he had better things on his platter—well, so be it. I might prove that I did not need him after all.

I urged my escort on, the towers of Blois in sight through the gathering dusk.

Freedom beckoned, as glittering as my own ducal diadem.

It was too good to be true. Perhaps Blois was not the wisest of routes.

‘Ambush!’ Raoul, my captain warned.

Theobald of Blois, no less, second son of the Count of Champagne, Louis’s old adversary, barred the route, lying in wait with a force of men and the kidnap of my person in mind. An ill-advised young man with
visions of grandeur but with a far stronger force than I possessed. How he would crow if I fell into their hands. My reins were slick between my fingers as I imagined my fate. A forceful abduction followed by a conscienceless rape and a hasty marriage to give Champagne control of Aquitaine.

And where would Henry Plantagenet be to save me from such a fate?

Totally invisible! Damn the man! I set my teeth against the flood of disappointment that he should have failed me. My mettlesome stallion had fallen at the first obstacle.

But did I need him? My lips curved into a tight smile as I rapped out my orders. I’d had the presence of mind to employ outriders who had spied the waiting trap. So, warned of Theobald’s plan, turning my back on the lure of soft comforts to be found in Blois, I fled on through the night, trusting myself in pitch blackness to a leaking barge along the Loire into Touraine. A wet and dangerous journey it proved to be, without lights to draw attention, but Touraine seemed safe, one of Henry Plantagenet’s possessions. Perhaps a good omen. Wily Theobald never came within earshot of me. I admitted to feeling smug at outwitting him and my spirits rose. If I could escape Louis, I could outrun and outwit the jackals.

I sent out scouts again as we rode on south to cross the Creuse at Port des Piles, an easy fording place, knowing that this would be the spot if any man had a
mind to it, a perfect setting for a full-scale ambush. We slowed as we approached the river, moving stealthily, halting frequently to listen. Nothing but the ripple of water, the wind in the reeds. The call of some night bird. Nothing more. Once across, my own lands would be within my grasp.

‘Do we cross now, lady?’ Raoul asked, low-voiced and tense.

After the night of rain the river was fast enough to deter all but the foolhardy, lit infrequently as clouds scurried over the waxing moon. Pale faces of my men glimmered around me. A rustle of undergrowth off to our left made us all start, but it was nothing more than a hunting animal. Nought to be gained by waiting, I decided. I dared not wait.

‘Cross now,’ I ordered, swallowing my sudden apprehension, brought on by nothing but uncertainty. Yet where were my scouts? They had not returned with bad news or good. I couldn’t wait. ‘We’ll soon be home. Safe from any predator.’

I did not hear Raoul’s reply, for a deluge of sound swamped us, the violent crashing of horses’ hooves and the thrust of heavy bodies through undergrowth. My mare threw up her head and snorted as I pulled on the rein, but there was nowhere to go. From every side came armed men to hem us in. Around us I saw moonlight glint on mail and helmet, on drawn sword and boss of shield. In front of us the only escape—into the water—dark and unfathomable. Too dangerous to ride
into it at a gallop where one misstep would result in being thrown into the fast-running current.

We were trapped.

Then impressions came thick and fast, even as panic skittered along my nerves. Too large a hostile force to withstand, too well organised to defeat, too well armed, but the plan—thank God—one of kidnap rather than massacre or we would all have been cut down. And, as I saw, there was no attempt to hide their identity. Sure of their victory, they came at us in confident array, the badge of Anjou clear in the moon’s revealing light. A hand seized my bridle, a mailed arm tightened around my waist to keep me still, my men disarmed in little more than a skirmish, all over in the time it took for me to recognise my captor. There he sat, handsome features illuminated beneath his metal helm as the moon emerged, holding his mount in check to direct operations with a sweep of his arm. By God! I knew I was in real danger, even if my life was not threatened. If Theobald of Champagne was unprincipled, any man of Angevin blood was doubly so.

‘You bastard!’ I snarled, struggling against the knight who held me, furious at my own blindness in falling into this trap. If he had been closer, I would have struck his laughing face.

Geoffrey of Anjou. Henry’s younger brother. Short in years and long in ambition.

‘The Angevin brat!’ I spat. ‘What have you done with my scouts?’

‘What do you think?’ A distinctly Angevin feral grin.

‘You are despicable!’

‘And you are highly desirable. Welcome home, lady.’

The parody of a bow disgusted me. ‘This will never be my home.’

‘Do you say? I think you’re not in a position to dictate where your home will be. I have a priest waiting for us at my castle at Chinon.’ I saw the gleam of his teeth in a self-satisfied smile. ‘You’ll be my wife before the sun rises. And then I’ll be Duke of Aquitaine.’

Such overweening arrogance. Such bloody assurance! ‘By God, you won’t.’

‘And who’s to stop me?’ The smile vanished. The young voice creaked with bitter jealousy. ‘You’re my compensation, Eleanor. I didn’t get much from my father’s death. I was promised Anjou—and I didn’t get it, thanks to my damned brother. Do you know what I got? Three castles! Instead of the whole of Anjou!’ And now the smile returned as untrustworthy as a snake. ‘So I’ll have you. Since you’re available … and in my possession.’

‘I’ll see you in Hell before I—’

But at a gesture from my abductor, the hand belonging to the mailed arm, one of Geoffrey’s knights, was clamped over my mouth to cut off my objections.

‘Quiet! Be still!’ he growled.

I struggled no more. I had enough experience of the Angevins to know that young Geoffrey would have no compassion for me. They seized what they wanted.
Within minutes we were rounded up, hustled back from the river and in a closely guarded formation we were urged into a smart trot, heading, I supposed, for Chinon, where my marriage bed awaited courtesy of a renegade priest who would not question the bride’s willingness. Neither would this be a marriage with guests and family. I was helpless. I could do nothing but comply so wasted no effort in worthless resistance. My mind seemed to be equally frozen, incapable of making any decision. I must wait until we reached our destination.

But if the bloody Angevin thought my rape and submission would be easy.

A shouted command brought us up short.

‘God’s wounds!’ Geoffrey swore.

Dark shapes, more racing shadows, the glint of moon on an entirely new thicket of sword blades. A furious descent of horses’ hooves from our flank. The hand left my bridle as my captor drew his sword. I was suddenly free, but no less bewildered. Another attack, by the Virgin! Not an ambush but a pre-emptive strike. And so different. No banners or pennons. No tabards to clothe mail with determining emblems. This force was sinister in its facelessness. No words were spoken—how ominous that was—but I sensed the tight control by the nameless lord who sat his stallion on the edge of the melee, motionless but carefully watching, one hand fisted on his hip, face covered by a closed helm. It took as little time to accomplish as my own earlier capture. A
brutal fight with some blood-letting, until Geoffrey of Anjou and those of his troops who were still standing, scattered, leaving me and my escort at the centre of my new captors. A new hand took my bridle and without a word I was swept off at a fast gallop, despite the uneven ground and poor visibility.

Handed like a basket of turnips from one abductor to another, by God! And I had no choice but ride like the wind to my new destination.

I clung to my saddle and concentrated hard. I was not brave. Fear rode me, sharp-spurred, without mercy. I was no longer certain that my life was not forfeit.

How long we rode at that breakneck speed I had no idea. Then we slowed, deliberately, and pulled to a halt at a parting of the ways to regroup. Gulping air to regain my breath, I took stock. My own men, it seemed from what I could make out, were safe but unarmed, surrounded by this efficient little unit and under no illusion that resistance might invite the kiss of a slim blade between the ribs. Free but not free. Fear continued to assault me, my misery made infinitely worse by a storm of rain that drenched us within seconds, by the now moonless darkness, and the deliberate disguise of my abductors. My exhausted limbs trembled at the unspoken threat.

A knight rode up beside me on my right. ‘A rough night, lady.’ A laconic voice I did not know.

‘Who are you?’

‘Only a man grateful to be able to rescue you.’

I was out of all patience with guessing games and almost blind with fatigue. ‘Rescue? It’s in my mind I’ve fallen from the hands of one bloody robber into the clutches of another, with nothing to choose between you. At least I saw the face of the Angevin bastard! I don’t see you having the courage to show me yours!’

A rich chuckle carried through the rain, off to my left. I turned my head but could make out nothing of the man but a distant solid shape, so rounded on the man beside me again.

‘What now?’ I snapped.

The knight looked across towards the silent watcher. Nodded, and again addressed me. ‘Now we make a run for it, before young Geoffrey takes a second bite at your person.’

Again a grunt of laughter to my left.

‘Where are we going?’ I tried, as my mare leapt forward into a gallop, my rescuer’s hand sharp on her flank.

No reply. We rode on as if the Devil himself was at our heels, changing horses as necessary. Nor did I receive any further communication until I saw towers of a substantial fortress looming in the grey dawn, and with it the reality of imprisonment. Was this where I was destined to live out my life, at the hands of a man who had snatched me up like a trophy of war?

* * *

Later, when I could, I laughed at my inability to recognise my surroundings. Bone weary and frightened out of my wits, riding blindly through a solid curtain of rain, I had not recognised my own home. Home! For this was Poitiers. I, the basket of turnips, had been delivered home. As my whole entourage, escort and captors alike, clattered into the town, then into the courtyard in the shadow of the Maubergeonne Tower, relief turned my weary limbs to water as my brain struggled to make sense of the events of the past hours. Here was my steward and my servants approaching to greet us, laden with trays bearing bread and cheese and cups of hot wine, when I had been expecting a cold restraint, an enforced marriage and an undesired consummation. Here was comfort, warmth and blessed familiarity. I slid from my equally exhausted animal, needing a conscious effort to summon all my strength, and for a moment I was forced to hold tight to the saddle, eyes squeezed tight and breathing deep, stiffening my spine. Only when I was certain my legs would hold me did I turn and face the man who had caused me such fear. Now I would have some answers. My suspicions were fast becoming certainties. I would still demand to know why.

As dispassionately as I could, I surveyed the scene, a milling bustle of armed men and horses, my captors making the most of the food and drink with enthusiasm and laughter at the expense of young Geoffrey, neatly foiled. My own escort, now released, were gulping the wine and as perplexed as I.

‘By the eyes of God!’ My head snapped round. ‘That was hard work. Damn Geoffrey for a fool—and an inefficient one at that!’

Well, I recognised that. The voice. The oath.

‘Thirsty work too. Find me a mug of ale, if you will …’

Who else could it possibly be? Who would sweep me up with such insolent assurance? Who would now be making himself at home in my own damned courtyard?

He walked towards me and bowed with more respect than his brother had shown me. He was clad in mail for hard riding and danger, indistinguishable from his men except for the confident assumption of authority. He had removed his helm, tossing it to his squire, and was scrubbing his still-gloved fingers through his sweat-matted hair. He was as filthy and rain-soaked as I.