The Emerald Swan (47 page)

Elizabeth was rarely startled but when the earl of Harcourt presented the Lady Miranda d’Albard she simply stared in silence for what seemed an eternity. Then she rose from her chair and demanded, “Explain, my lord. I do not understand this.”

“I have been trying for many years to discover what had happened to Maude’s twin sister, madam,” Gareth said smoothly. “I’ve had people asking the length and breadth of France and I’ve followed various reports, but until a few months ago they all proved fruitless. But then I received news of a young woman living with the Cistercian nuns in Languedoc. I took the opportunity to follow up the report on my recent sojourn in France. You can imagine my delight when I found Miranda.” He drew Miranda forward. “You can see, madam, that there can be no doubt that she is the missing d’Albard twin.”

The queen examined Miranda closely. She walked all around her as Miranda remained in a deep curtsy, praying that this time she’d be able to recover without awkwardness. “Well, I must congratulate you, Lord Harcourt,” Her Majesty pronounced eventually. “The resemblance is quite extraordinary. But you must have been amazingly vigilant in your pursuit of the mystery. I wonder why I had no idea that the girl existed?” Her plucked eyebrows rose and her vibrant eyes flashed. Her Majesty was not best pleased. She didn’t like surprises.

Gareth bowed and humbly apologized. “An oversight, madam. The search was something of a hobby of
mine. I never expected it to succeed. I assumed as did her father that Miranda had been murdered with her mother and her body had somehow disappeared.”

“I see.” Her Majesty continued to examine Miranda with a frown. Maude stood silent and unregarded. Miranda wondered desperately how long she would have to remain in a curtsy. The position was growing increasingly uncomfortable, even for an acrobat. Finally, the queen turned away from her and she was able to rise. She glanced sideways at Maude, who grimaced sympathetically. The queen had not acknowledged Miranda’s presentation; she might just as well have been inanimate.

“So you’ll be making another advantageous connection for the d’Albards,” the queen said. “Do you have an alliance in mind, my lord?”

“Not as yet, madam. Lady Miranda is still very new to the world outside the convent. I had thought to give her some time to become accustomed to her new life before looking for a suitable husband.”

“I see.” Elizabeth’s mouth was very small, her eyes still flashing displeasure. “And on that subject, I understand from Lady Mary Abernathy that your engagement is broken.”

Gareth bowed again. “To my regret, madam. But Lady Mary felt that we would not suit.”

“I see,” Elizabeth said again. “I find that passing strange, my lord. Such an advantageous connection will not come her way again.”

Gareth said nothing. Miranda held her breath, aware that Maude was doing the same. Then the queen said, “Well, I’ll have to see if I can’t find someone for her. She’s been languishing at court for too long.” She waved a hand in irritable dismissal and Gareth backed
to the door. Miranda and Maude needed no encouragement to follow suit and finally they were safely on the far side of the door.

Gareth exhaled slowly. “Christ and his saints! May I never go through anything like that again.”

“But it was all right?” Miranda asked. “She did accept the story.”

Gareth smiled down at her and brushed the curve of her cheek with his knuckles. “Yes, she did, love. But what she will do when she hears that you and I are to be wed, I daren’t imagine.”

“I doubt it’ll be as bad as when she discovers that the duke of Roissy is really Henry of France,” Maude said.

“Oh, she’ll get over that,” Gareth said definitely. “Her Majesty is a very pragmatic sovereign. The advantages to herself in such a connection will soon outweigh any annoyance she may feel at being deceived. And you may be assured she’ll understand absolutely why Henry felt it necessary to disguise his presence in England … Come, let’s return to the garden, I find this atmosphere a trifle oppressive.” He laughed and he didn’t sound in the least oppressed as he swept them ahead of him back outside to where Henry was waiting for them.

“You seem a trifle abstracted, my lord duke,” Miranda observed as they rejoined Henry.

He shook his head in disclaimer, but his eyes were still speculative as he looked between the two sisters. “I am just wondering,” he said slowly, “if I have ever met you before, Lady Miranda.”

This king of France was far too sharp for anyone’s good, Miranda thought, even as she smiled and said, “I assure you, sir, that if you have, it was without my knowledge.”

“Mmm.” He sounded unconvinced. “Maude, let us
take a walk.” He took her hand abruptly and marched away with her, Maude having to skip to keep up with his long stride.

In the seclusion of a quiet arbor, dominated by an ancient oak tree, Henry stopped. He turned Maude to face him and looked gravely into her eyes. “Now, tell me the truth. Has it always been you?”

Maude’s cerulean blue gaze met his steadily. “Always, my lord. How could you doubt it?”

“I require convincing,” Henry said, and pinpricks of light began to flicker behind the gravity in his black eyes.

“In this fashion, my lord duke?” Maude inquired as she reached up to hold his face between her hands and then stood on tiptoe to kiss him. She had intended a light, brushing kiss but Henry gathered her to him, crushing her against his broad chest, his tongue against her lips demanding entrance, and Maude opened her mouth to him with a little sigh of pleasure. This kiss was like none that had gone before. Henry was demanding something from her, a commitment, a promise, a declaration of her own passion. For a fleeting moment, Maude thought of the Benedictine convent. It was the last time she ever gave the religious life a second thought.

Henry drew her down onto a stone bench, pulling her onto his lap with hands both rough and yet curiously tender. Maude nuzzled his beard, inhaling the earthy scent of his hair and skin. She thought of Miranda—Miranda who knew all about this business of loving and clearly found it good. With a little sigh, she yielded to arousal, moving her body against Henry’s, aware of the hard ridge of flesh growing beneath her thighs, aware of the heat of his skin, the urgency of his touch, as his hands slipped inside her
bodice. Her breasts tingled with delight at the caress of his warm palms, her nipples hardening beneath his fingers. Maude’s last coherent thought was that her sister had been keeping these delights to herself for all too long. Henry made a valiant effort to rein himself in, but Maude’s passionate response was too much for control. She fitted her body to his as easily and readily as if it was meant to be, thrusting aside her skirts with careless haste. Amid the heated tangle of limbs and skirts and petticoats their bodies fused and Maude’s initial cry was more of surprise than pain. Neither of them noticed when the clasp on the serpentine bracelet broke open, as Maude rose and fell with the wondrous rhythm of loving.

“Do you think Henry knows?” Miranda asked as her sister was borne off by the king of France toward the seclusion of the arbor.

“Maybe,” Gareth replied. “But at the moment, I couldn’t give a damn. Come, we’re going home.”

“Just leaving, milord!” Miranda exclaimed in mock horror. “Just like that!”

“Just like that,” Gareth said firmly. “We’ll take a wherry and leave the barge for the others.”

“But what of Chip? He’s waiting in the barge.”

“You don’t really believe he won’t find us?” Gareth’s eyebrows rose in mock astonishment. “As it happens, I’m perfectly resigned to his company.” He took her hand and taking a leaf from Henry’s book began to walk swiftly toward the river.

“Fortunately, Chip seems perfectly resigned to you, milord,” Miranda said sweetly, hanging back with a mischievous gleam in her eye.

“Oh, believe me, I’m aware of how fortunate that is. Now,
march!
I grow impatient.”

Miranda chuckled and marched.

A shaft of moonlight piercing the interwoven leaves of the ancient oak in the now-deserted arbor caught the glow of pearl, the glitter of gold, the luster of emerald, amid the oak’s moss-encrusted roots.

In the Beginning …

T
HE ALCHEMIST
watched the liquefied gold swirl like mercury in the flat iron skillet. He tilted the pan over the flames of the hearth and the precious metal rolled in on itself to form a tube. He drew the pan off the fire and plunged it into the tub of water beside his stool. The water hissed and boiled as if it would spit out the thing that it had engulfed. When the alchemist raised the pan the gold was solidifying.

He took the pan to the table and dropped the gold onto its surface. A ray of sunlight fell through the chimney hole in the roof of the wattle-and-daub hut and the gold glittered. The alchemist took up his tools: the fine needle, sharp as a dagger point, the flat file. He began to shape the gold, using his fingers to begin with, and the serpentine coils appeared in rough form. Then with needle and file he created the serpent. Within each sinuous curve he embedded a pearl and the living gold took the gem into itself, hardening around it, enclosing it with its shape.

The serpent’s head, its mouth, took form beneath the alchemist’s tools. He worked deftly but quickly, before the gold could harden. And when the head was formed to his satisfaction, he took the one pearl that was left … a great, glowing, translucent, living gem … and inserted it into the serpent’s mouth.

Then the alchemist surveyed his work. Day had given way to night and the light of the evening star
now filled the chimney hole. He held the bracelet in the palm of his hand. It was a gift of love. A gift worthy of Eve. A gift to bind a woman for eternity.

So enraptured was he, he didn’t hear the shouts from beyond the hut, the screams from the beach. He was aware of nothing until the first burning brands were thrown through the doorway. He ran from the conflagration. The Norsemen surrounded the village, their longboats pulled up on the sand. Flames leaped into the sky. The screams of women, the weeping of babies, the moans of the dying, filled his ears before the ax brought his own death.

The Norsemen left the village at daybreak, taking with them the spoils of their raid. Women, a few children, what material goods they had found in this isolated village in Anglia. As they rowed away from devastation, the flames subsided, the village smoldered. Nothing lived in the ashes but the dull glimmer of gold, the glow of pearl.

The serpentine bracelet emerged untouched from the flames of destruction.

H
IGH
W
YCOMBE
, E
NGLAND
, J
ULY
1550

T
HE ATTENUATED CRY
of an infant pierced the black miasma of exhaustion. The woman on the bed was slumped motionless against pillows, her eyes closed, her skin the color of old parchment. At the baby’s cry her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open, and she sank once more into the merciful oblivion.

Not one of the three other women in the stifling chamber glanced toward the bed. The baby’s mother didn’t interest them. They worked quickly and in silence, and when they had done what had to be done, they left the chamber soundlessly, closing the door behind them.

More than three hours passed before Pen emerged from her deep stupor. She was soaked with sweat. The room was like a furnace, the windows tight closed, the fire blazing in the deep hearth. She heard whispers and with a soft moan tried to raise herself on the pillows, but her body ached as if she’d been racked, and she had barely sufficient strength to open her eyes.

“Ah, you are awake.” It was the voice of her mother-in-law. Effortfully Pen opened her eyes. The dowager countess of Bryanston looked down at her daughter-in-law. Her hard brown eyes were dispassionate as stones, her mouth a thin line above a heavy jutting
chin. She made no attempt to disguise her contemptuous dislike of the frail young woman on the bed, the young woman who was the widow of Lady Bryanston’s elder son. The widow who had just labored for some twenty anguished hours to bring forth her husband’s posthumous son, who from the moment of his birth would inherit his father’s titles and estates.

“The baby,” Pen said, her voice coming from a great distance through her cracked lips. “Where is my baby?”

Lady Bryanston said nothing for a moment, and there was a rustle of skirts as another woman joined her at the bedside.

Frightened now, Pen gazed up at the two faces bent over her. Her heart felt squeezed. “My baby? Where’s my baby?” Panic rose in her voice.