The Last Knight (32 page)
Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
A movement near the altar drew her attention to a monk who rose, genuflected, then came toward them, his hands together before him as if in prayer. Welcome, daughter. Your brother lies there, in the Lady chapel.
But she had already seen him, a still, darkly robed form lying on a trestle table before a side altar.
She walked up to him on shaky legs, her breath rasping harshly as she gazed down on him. In place of his armor, he now wore the habit of an Augustinian monk, the cowl drawn up around his face like the hood of a mail hauberk. The monks had bathed the blood from him, and the cowl hid the gaping wound in his throat. In the gentle light of the candles, he looked so young, she thought; young and, oddly for one who had met such a violent death, at peace.
You do not mind that we have dressed him as one of our order? asked the monk, coming up quietly beside her.
No. She reached out a trembling hand to touch the sleeve of his habit. He was actually consecrated to God once. But our elder brother died, and so Stephen became our father's heir.
Yet he had never really delighted in the sport of knights, she remembered, even though he had done his best to live up to Robert d'Alérion's expectations. They had both been taught to bend themselves to their father's genial but implacable will, to put the needs of the house of Alérion ahead of their own wishes and desires.
Oh, Stephen, she thought. My poor knighted monk.
She sank to her knees beside his body, her hands folded together and resting on the cloth of his robes, her head bowed in prayer. She was aware of Sergei and the monk
moving off down the nave, their voices lowered to soothing murmurs. She was glad they had not left her entirely alone.
She did not know how long she knelt there in prayer. She felt a touch on her shoulder and looked up into Ser-gei's anxious face. We must get back, my lady. We must not risk letting your brother's location be known before the monks can bury him in the morning.
She crossed herself and rose stiffly to her feet, but she found she could not bear to leave him. She stood gazing down at his boyishly handsome face with its prominent cheekbones and delicately sculpted mouth. He would never grow old now, she thought. He would always look thus in her memory.
She was vaguely aware of Sergei stepping back, of a sudden charge of energy humming in the air, as if a flash of lightning were about to crackle through the chapel.
She lifted her head, her gaze locking with that of the man who now stood, tall and straight and silent, on the far side of the bier. He must have only just ridden in, she thought, for he still wore his hauberk, and his cheeks and nose still bore the faint black smudges left by his helm. The air around her filled with the scent of the night wind and warm horseflesh and cold steel.
Why have you come? she asked, her voice a harsh whisper.
He leaned toward her, his fingers curling over the edge of the bier, his face hard and intent. I had to see you.
Here? Her hand swept through the air, flickering the candles that burned beside her brother's body.
Yes, here. The dancing candlelight flared over the fierce bones of his face and glittered in the frightening depths of
his beautiful, beloved eyes. I thought you ought to know that Henry has declared Stephen's lands forfeit.
She was aware of a curious inner emptiness. She knew she should feel somethinganger, dismay, perhaps even fear. As Robert d'Alérion's only surviving child, she would have inherited all his lands after her brother's death if Stephen hadn't died taking up arms against his liege lord. Yet she felt nothing. It was as if the losses she had already borne had hollowed her out inside, so that she couldn't care about anything.
He has settled both lands and titles on me, Damion said, still staring at her hard.
She forced her lips into a travesty of a smile. So now you have everything you've always wanted. Land. Titles. Power. Congratulations.
She saw his brows draw together in a confused frown, as if he couldn't understand her reaction. But then, she couldn't understand herself. She felt dead inside. As dead as her brother before her.
No, Damion said, his head swinging sharply, once, from side to side. Not everything. I don't have you, Attica. Henry has said I might take you to wife, but He paused, his breath pushing out in a long sigh. It's your choice. You must agree to have me.
She stared at him, her heart beginning to pound wildly in her chest. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to her that with the death of both her brother and her father, she had become Henry's ward. Her mother might still be alive in Aquitaine, but women meant nothing in such matters. Attica was now in the king's gift. And Henry had given her to Damion.
She licked her suddenly dry lips. And if I refuse?
A muscle leapt in his tightened jaw. Then you are to become a bride of Christ.
She spun away, the candles on the altar blurring into an arc of golden-white light as she brought her hands up to cover her mouth and nose.
His voice came from behind her. Will you, Attica? Will you refuse me? Would you rather take the veil?
She swung slowly back to face him, only to discover she could endure no more than one look at the intense longing burning in his eyes before she had to drop her gaze to her brother's peaceful features. I would rather take the veil than marry anyone but you. She paused, trying to swallow the sob that burned like a live coal in her chest. Except how can I marry the man who killed my own brother? She heard the swift intake of Damion's breath and pressed on, before she lost her courage.
I love you, Damion. Beneath all the anger and hurt I'm feeling, I know the love is still there. But don't you see? Somehow, she found the strength to look up at him again, although what she saw in his face almost destroyed her. Don't you see? she said again, her voice breaking. Stephen's death will always lie between us. As surely as his body lies here between us now.
Stephen lies here on his bier between us now, yes, said Damion, his hand stabbing downward, the color riding high on his cheekbones. But tomorrow he will be in his grave. And if he continues to come between us, then it is only because you have willed it so, Attica d'Alérion.
My lady, said Sergei, stepping forward again. We must go.
For one intense, unforgettable moment she held Dami-on's gaze. Then she bent to kiss Stephen's cold cheek.
She turned away almost blindly, pushing a small leather
bag of coins into the monk's hand in alms. She was grateful when Sergei took her arm to guide her up the darkened steps.
The door opened to the restless night, the air fresh and cool and damp with the promise of rain. But at the top of the steps she paused and glanced back for one brief instant to see Damion still there, beside the bier, the candlelight glimmering soft and golden over the sun-darkened planes of his face as he gazed down at Stephen's body. And then he did the strangest thing: That hard, dark knight sank to his knees and bowed his head to pray.
The door slammed shut behind her, and she saw him no more.
Outside, the night wind tore at her mantle, whipped at her hair, thrashed the branches of the trees on the far side of the priory's high wall. A shutter banged in the distance, startling a dog into barking. She tipped back her head, staring up at the storm-tossed sky with wide, painfully dry eyes. Lightning cracked, splitting open the clouds, tearing at her heart and laying bare her grieving soul.
Early the next morning, Attica stood on the windblown battlements and watched Henry and a small party of knights led by Damion de Jarnac ride forth from the castle of Chinon, their horses richly caparisoned, their pennants and banners snapping in the wind.
When they returned, the English king was no longer on his horse but in a litter.
Rumors whipped around the castle. They said Henry had reached a humiliating agreement with his son Richard and the French king, then collapsed. They said Henry had demanded that Richard and Philip furnish him with a list of the names of those who had conspired against him.
They said Henry had cursed his son with the same breath as he had presented him with the kiss of peace.
They said Henry was dying.
Damion didn't see her again until early the following evening.
He came upon her in the chamber that had once belonged to Stephen d'Alérion. It looked as if she had been gathering her brother's things together into a neat pile on a narrow bed oddly reminiscent of what one might see in a monastic cell. But now she simply stood half-turned away from him in the center of the room, her hands thrust into her sleeves, her head thrown back, her eyes closed as if she were lost in thought. Or in prayer.
Pausing in the doorway, he let himself drink in the sight of her. She wore a plain, dark wool gown and a veil that covered her short hair. She looked thinner, he thought, and disturbingly pale. Then he must have made some small sound, or perhaps she simply sensed his presence, for she whirled suddenly to face him, one hand flying up to press against her breast.
What are you doing here? she demanded, her eyes wide, her body heartbreakingly tense.
He pushed away from the door frame and walked toward her. I must speak with you.
She turned away from him. We have nothing to say to each other.
Sweet Jesus, Attica He caught her arm, but dropped it when she spun to confront him, her eyes blazing. He sucked in a deep, calming breath. Will you listen to me? Henry isn't just ill. He's dying.
She shrugged, that brief flame of animation fading from her features. Men die. At least Henry is old.
The cold, shattered look in her beautiful brown eyes was terrible to see. For the love of God, Attica. He started to reach for her again, then thought better of it. Try to understand. Time is running out for you. When Henry dies, Richard will become king. And Richard will give you as bride to Fulk of Salers. Make no mistake about that.
She walked away from him, toward the small window set deep into the tower's thick walls. The golden light of the late afternoon sun washed over her, illuminating that oddly calm, blank face. I have decided to take the veil, she said, her voice as flat and emotionless as her features.
The veil. Oh, my God.
A wild terror leapt within him, tore at his gut, chilled his soul. Attica He took a step toward her, then stopped. You don't need to do this. If you cannot bear the thought of being my wife in truth, then become my wife in name only. I am willing to swear upon every holy relic known to man that I will never touch youthat if you will it so, once we are wed I will simply ride away and leave you alone in possession of your lands. You need never see me again.
Damion
No, hear me out. Let me do this for you. As my wife, you would be safe from anyone's attempts to marry you off against your will. You have no need to take the veil.
She shook her head. I will be no man's wife. Even a king cannot force a woman to marry when she has pledged herself to God.
You underestimate the man who will be king, he said dryly.
Her chin lifted in that way she had. I shall have the Pope behind me.
The Pope is in Rome.
But God is in my heart.
Cross of Christ, he swore, bringing his fist down on the top of the small table beside him hard enough to make the few items scattered across its surface jump. This is not God's will, and you know it. God gave us our love. He wouldn't have created something so beautiful between us if not for a purpose.
She walked toward him to pick up a small, ivory-fronted book from the top of the table. Do you know what this is? she asked softly, holding it out to him.
He shook his head.
It's a book of days. I gave it to Stephen when he was knighted. She turned the book in her hand. It's ironic, isn't it? I risked so much to come here, thinking to save my brother's life. Instead, I brought Stephen his murderer.
Her words hit Damion like a vicious blow, low to his gut. He braced his outstretched arms on the table between them and leaned into it, his voice coming out strained, almost savage. I did not murder your brother and you know it, Attica d'Alérion. Stephen signed his own death warrant by the decisions he made and the actions he took.
No, she said quietly. Were it not for me, he would be alive today.
He straightened with a jerk and stepped around the table toward her. Attica, don't blame yourself.
She backed away from him. How can I not? Silent tears coursed down her cheeks, although she seemed unaware of them. Don't you see? If I hadn't listened when you asked me not to tell Stephen that we knew about the code, he'd still be alive. Now he's dead, and I
Her voice broke suddenly and she turned away, her shoulders hunching as she brought her hands up to her mouth.
I betrayed him. I betrayed him as surely as he betrayed Henry. And in so doing, I have destroyed my entire house.
What madness is this? He seized her by the shoulders and swung her around again, his grip on her tightening when she would have wrenched away from him. What do you think? He searched her beautiful, beloved face. What do you think? That the line between loyalty and betrayal is always clear and immutable and easy to follow? Well, let me tell you, it's not. It's shifting, and it's dim, and I swear at times it disappears altogether. There are times when we can only do what seems right in our hearts. And in your heart, you have betrayed no one.
Haven't I? She searched his face, her eyes dark and deep with anguish. Isn't our very love a betrayal?
His heart felt so heavy in his chest that it ached. Don't say that. Attica His voice cracked, and he had to swallow before he could continue. I will always love you. You are my heart, my life, my soul.
A sob shook her thin frame, and she bowed her head as if she could no longer bear to look at him. Please leave me, she whispered. If you love me, please just go.
It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, to go away and leave her then. Outside, the yard lay oddly empty and silent in the rosy hues of the setting sun. He crossed the castle to the Knights Tower, his footsteps echoing hollowly as he climbed the tight spiral of steps to his chamber. The room stood almost empty now, the cots stripped, the rough wooden crosses bare of their mail shirts and helms. Sergei must have been cleaning again, Damion thought idly, noticing the freshly strewn rushes and the lute that lay as if it had just been set down upon his bed.
Feeling like a dead man, he picked up the lute almost absently, turning it in his arms. It felt cool and strangely
But she had already seen him, a still, darkly robed form lying on a trestle table before a side altar.
She walked up to him on shaky legs, her breath rasping harshly as she gazed down on him. In place of his armor, he now wore the habit of an Augustinian monk, the cowl drawn up around his face like the hood of a mail hauberk. The monks had bathed the blood from him, and the cowl hid the gaping wound in his throat. In the gentle light of the candles, he looked so young, she thought; young and, oddly for one who had met such a violent death, at peace.
You do not mind that we have dressed him as one of our order? asked the monk, coming up quietly beside her.
No. She reached out a trembling hand to touch the sleeve of his habit. He was actually consecrated to God once. But our elder brother died, and so Stephen became our father's heir.
Yet he had never really delighted in the sport of knights, she remembered, even though he had done his best to live up to Robert d'Alérion's expectations. They had both been taught to bend themselves to their father's genial but implacable will, to put the needs of the house of Alérion ahead of their own wishes and desires.
Oh, Stephen, she thought. My poor knighted monk.
She sank to her knees beside his body, her hands folded together and resting on the cloth of his robes, her head bowed in prayer. She was aware of Sergei and the monk
moving off down the nave, their voices lowered to soothing murmurs. She was glad they had not left her entirely alone.
She did not know how long she knelt there in prayer. She felt a touch on her shoulder and looked up into Ser-gei's anxious face. We must get back, my lady. We must not risk letting your brother's location be known before the monks can bury him in the morning.
She crossed herself and rose stiffly to her feet, but she found she could not bear to leave him. She stood gazing down at his boyishly handsome face with its prominent cheekbones and delicately sculpted mouth. He would never grow old now, she thought. He would always look thus in her memory.
She was vaguely aware of Sergei stepping back, of a sudden charge of energy humming in the air, as if a flash of lightning were about to crackle through the chapel.
She lifted her head, her gaze locking with that of the man who now stood, tall and straight and silent, on the far side of the bier. He must have only just ridden in, she thought, for he still wore his hauberk, and his cheeks and nose still bore the faint black smudges left by his helm. The air around her filled with the scent of the night wind and warm horseflesh and cold steel.
Why have you come? she asked, her voice a harsh whisper.
He leaned toward her, his fingers curling over the edge of the bier, his face hard and intent. I had to see you.
Here? Her hand swept through the air, flickering the candles that burned beside her brother's body.
Yes, here. The dancing candlelight flared over the fierce bones of his face and glittered in the frightening depths of
his beautiful, beloved eyes. I thought you ought to know that Henry has declared Stephen's lands forfeit.
She was aware of a curious inner emptiness. She knew she should feel somethinganger, dismay, perhaps even fear. As Robert d'Alérion's only surviving child, she would have inherited all his lands after her brother's death if Stephen hadn't died taking up arms against his liege lord. Yet she felt nothing. It was as if the losses she had already borne had hollowed her out inside, so that she couldn't care about anything.
He has settled both lands and titles on me, Damion said, still staring at her hard.
She forced her lips into a travesty of a smile. So now you have everything you've always wanted. Land. Titles. Power. Congratulations.
She saw his brows draw together in a confused frown, as if he couldn't understand her reaction. But then, she couldn't understand herself. She felt dead inside. As dead as her brother before her.
No, Damion said, his head swinging sharply, once, from side to side. Not everything. I don't have you, Attica. Henry has said I might take you to wife, but He paused, his breath pushing out in a long sigh. It's your choice. You must agree to have me.
She stared at him, her heart beginning to pound wildly in her chest. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to her that with the death of both her brother and her father, she had become Henry's ward. Her mother might still be alive in Aquitaine, but women meant nothing in such matters. Attica was now in the king's gift. And Henry had given her to Damion.
She licked her suddenly dry lips. And if I refuse?
A muscle leapt in his tightened jaw. Then you are to become a bride of Christ.
She spun away, the candles on the altar blurring into an arc of golden-white light as she brought her hands up to cover her mouth and nose.
His voice came from behind her. Will you, Attica? Will you refuse me? Would you rather take the veil?
She swung slowly back to face him, only to discover she could endure no more than one look at the intense longing burning in his eyes before she had to drop her gaze to her brother's peaceful features. I would rather take the veil than marry anyone but you. She paused, trying to swallow the sob that burned like a live coal in her chest. Except how can I marry the man who killed my own brother? She heard the swift intake of Damion's breath and pressed on, before she lost her courage.
I love you, Damion. Beneath all the anger and hurt I'm feeling, I know the love is still there. But don't you see? Somehow, she found the strength to look up at him again, although what she saw in his face almost destroyed her. Don't you see? she said again, her voice breaking. Stephen's death will always lie between us. As surely as his body lies here between us now.
Stephen lies here on his bier between us now, yes, said Damion, his hand stabbing downward, the color riding high on his cheekbones. But tomorrow he will be in his grave. And if he continues to come between us, then it is only because you have willed it so, Attica d'Alérion.
My lady, said Sergei, stepping forward again. We must go.
For one intense, unforgettable moment she held Dami-on's gaze. Then she bent to kiss Stephen's cold cheek.
She turned away almost blindly, pushing a small leather
bag of coins into the monk's hand in alms. She was grateful when Sergei took her arm to guide her up the darkened steps.
The door opened to the restless night, the air fresh and cool and damp with the promise of rain. But at the top of the steps she paused and glanced back for one brief instant to see Damion still there, beside the bier, the candlelight glimmering soft and golden over the sun-darkened planes of his face as he gazed down at Stephen's body. And then he did the strangest thing: That hard, dark knight sank to his knees and bowed his head to pray.
The door slammed shut behind her, and she saw him no more.
Outside, the night wind tore at her mantle, whipped at her hair, thrashed the branches of the trees on the far side of the priory's high wall. A shutter banged in the distance, startling a dog into barking. She tipped back her head, staring up at the storm-tossed sky with wide, painfully dry eyes. Lightning cracked, splitting open the clouds, tearing at her heart and laying bare her grieving soul.
Early the next morning, Attica stood on the windblown battlements and watched Henry and a small party of knights led by Damion de Jarnac ride forth from the castle of Chinon, their horses richly caparisoned, their pennants and banners snapping in the wind.
When they returned, the English king was no longer on his horse but in a litter.
Rumors whipped around the castle. They said Henry had reached a humiliating agreement with his son Richard and the French king, then collapsed. They said Henry had demanded that Richard and Philip furnish him with a list of the names of those who had conspired against him.
They said Henry had cursed his son with the same breath as he had presented him with the kiss of peace.
They said Henry was dying.
Damion didn't see her again until early the following evening.
He came upon her in the chamber that had once belonged to Stephen d'Alérion. It looked as if she had been gathering her brother's things together into a neat pile on a narrow bed oddly reminiscent of what one might see in a monastic cell. But now she simply stood half-turned away from him in the center of the room, her hands thrust into her sleeves, her head thrown back, her eyes closed as if she were lost in thought. Or in prayer.
Pausing in the doorway, he let himself drink in the sight of her. She wore a plain, dark wool gown and a veil that covered her short hair. She looked thinner, he thought, and disturbingly pale. Then he must have made some small sound, or perhaps she simply sensed his presence, for she whirled suddenly to face him, one hand flying up to press against her breast.
What are you doing here? she demanded, her eyes wide, her body heartbreakingly tense.
He pushed away from the door frame and walked toward her. I must speak with you.
She turned away from him. We have nothing to say to each other.
Sweet Jesus, Attica He caught her arm, but dropped it when she spun to confront him, her eyes blazing. He sucked in a deep, calming breath. Will you listen to me? Henry isn't just ill. He's dying.
She shrugged, that brief flame of animation fading from her features. Men die. At least Henry is old.
The cold, shattered look in her beautiful brown eyes was terrible to see. For the love of God, Attica. He started to reach for her again, then thought better of it. Try to understand. Time is running out for you. When Henry dies, Richard will become king. And Richard will give you as bride to Fulk of Salers. Make no mistake about that.
She walked away from him, toward the small window set deep into the tower's thick walls. The golden light of the late afternoon sun washed over her, illuminating that oddly calm, blank face. I have decided to take the veil, she said, her voice as flat and emotionless as her features.
The veil. Oh, my God.
A wild terror leapt within him, tore at his gut, chilled his soul. Attica He took a step toward her, then stopped. You don't need to do this. If you cannot bear the thought of being my wife in truth, then become my wife in name only. I am willing to swear upon every holy relic known to man that I will never touch youthat if you will it so, once we are wed I will simply ride away and leave you alone in possession of your lands. You need never see me again.
Damion
No, hear me out. Let me do this for you. As my wife, you would be safe from anyone's attempts to marry you off against your will. You have no need to take the veil.
She shook her head. I will be no man's wife. Even a king cannot force a woman to marry when she has pledged herself to God.
You underestimate the man who will be king, he said dryly.
Her chin lifted in that way she had. I shall have the Pope behind me.
The Pope is in Rome.
But God is in my heart.
Cross of Christ, he swore, bringing his fist down on the top of the small table beside him hard enough to make the few items scattered across its surface jump. This is not God's will, and you know it. God gave us our love. He wouldn't have created something so beautiful between us if not for a purpose.
She walked toward him to pick up a small, ivory-fronted book from the top of the table. Do you know what this is? she asked softly, holding it out to him.
He shook his head.
It's a book of days. I gave it to Stephen when he was knighted. She turned the book in her hand. It's ironic, isn't it? I risked so much to come here, thinking to save my brother's life. Instead, I brought Stephen his murderer.
Her words hit Damion like a vicious blow, low to his gut. He braced his outstretched arms on the table between them and leaned into it, his voice coming out strained, almost savage. I did not murder your brother and you know it, Attica d'Alérion. Stephen signed his own death warrant by the decisions he made and the actions he took.
No, she said quietly. Were it not for me, he would be alive today.
He straightened with a jerk and stepped around the table toward her. Attica, don't blame yourself.
She backed away from him. How can I not? Silent tears coursed down her cheeks, although she seemed unaware of them. Don't you see? If I hadn't listened when you asked me not to tell Stephen that we knew about the code, he'd still be alive. Now he's dead, and I
Her voice broke suddenly and she turned away, her shoulders hunching as she brought her hands up to her mouth.
I betrayed him. I betrayed him as surely as he betrayed Henry. And in so doing, I have destroyed my entire house.
What madness is this? He seized her by the shoulders and swung her around again, his grip on her tightening when she would have wrenched away from him. What do you think? He searched her beautiful, beloved face. What do you think? That the line between loyalty and betrayal is always clear and immutable and easy to follow? Well, let me tell you, it's not. It's shifting, and it's dim, and I swear at times it disappears altogether. There are times when we can only do what seems right in our hearts. And in your heart, you have betrayed no one.
Haven't I? She searched his face, her eyes dark and deep with anguish. Isn't our very love a betrayal?
His heart felt so heavy in his chest that it ached. Don't say that. Attica His voice cracked, and he had to swallow before he could continue. I will always love you. You are my heart, my life, my soul.
A sob shook her thin frame, and she bowed her head as if she could no longer bear to look at him. Please leave me, she whispered. If you love me, please just go.
It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, to go away and leave her then. Outside, the yard lay oddly empty and silent in the rosy hues of the setting sun. He crossed the castle to the Knights Tower, his footsteps echoing hollowly as he climbed the tight spiral of steps to his chamber. The room stood almost empty now, the cots stripped, the rough wooden crosses bare of their mail shirts and helms. Sergei must have been cleaning again, Damion thought idly, noticing the freshly strewn rushes and the lute that lay as if it had just been set down upon his bed.
Feeling like a dead man, he picked up the lute almost absently, turning it in his arms. It felt cool and strangely
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