The Shattered Rose (21 page)

Jehanne glanced sideways again and her lips twitched. "If her interests lie that way, surely it is as well that she find that out now."

"She is not pledged to the Church?"

"No. It was completely her own idea. Uncle Hubert is pleased, of course. Being devout, he likes the idea of having a daughter to pray for his soul. But if she changes her mind, no one will force her to it."

"I fear Raoul is just amusing himself, though. I can put a stop to it if you wish."

Jehanne thought about it. "No. As I said, it will be as well for Aline to discover her true nature. She may still choose to take vows, but at least she will do so knowing her weaknesses. I assume we can trust your friend not to ruin her."

"I believe so. But I'll make sure of it. He might hurt her feelings, however."

"Break her heart? That is excellent training for life."

Galeran concentrated on draining his wine. What did that mean? Though he stamped on its every appearance, deep inside he still wondered whether Jehanne loved Lowick and would rather her husband were dead.

Chapter 11

As the trestles were broken down, the household relaxed, chatting and flirting. Jehanne watched Galeran strolling among his people, taking time to talk to each and catch up with their news. She had missed Galeran during his absence. Selfishly, she had not thought of how much he must have missed Heywood, or of the many events that had taken place while he was gone.

She'd been sorry he'd missed Gallot's birth and brief life, but she knew he would also have wanted to be here for the hilarious courtship of Hugh and Margaret. He was laughing now as he was told the tale, but he'd have laughed more if he'd lived through those weeks.

And he'd want to hear the story of how Sven lost his hand, and how Ann rescued a child from the river. . . .

With an ache in her throat she turned, and saw the way Aline's eyes kept flickering to Raoul. Oh, dear. She strolled over to her cousin. "Raoul de Jouray is certainly a handsome man," she said casually. "Unfortunately, he knows it."

"It would be hard not to. Just as you know you are beautiful."

"Since you are very like me in looks, you must know your own charms too."

"But no one will ever describe
me
as slender as a willow wand." For the first time, Aline sounded rather glum about it.

"Poetic nonsense. Would any sensible man want his lady to behave like one of those sweet, gentle willow maidens?"

"Probably," said Aline with a grin. "She'd be less trouble. She'd wait patiently at home while her man went adventuring. Or she'd obligingly put herself into danger so her hero could show his prowess. And when her swain declared that he was unworthy of her, she'd not tell him how true it was." She sighed. "Being the only girl in a household of men warps a woman, I fear."

Jehanne laughed with relief and hugged her cousin. "I suppose you could do worse than to test your vocation against Raoul de Jouray, for he's tempting as the apple in Paradise. Just take care not to go too far. And never think he'll marry you. Landless men like that cannot marry."

"He'd make a sorry husband, anyway, with his roving eye." And Aline glared at the handsome wretch who was teasing a giggling lady.

It seemed Aline still had her sensible head set right on her shoulders. All the same, when Jehanne declared the midday rest over and sent everyone about their work, she went out of her way to catch Raoul before he left the hall. "If you hurt my cousin, sirrah, I'll gut you."

He looked down at her with a raised brow. "Galeran has already given me that message, my lady, though rather more doucery."

Jehanne felt color rise in her cheeks. "I can be sharp-tongued."

"Lady Jehanne, virtue comes not from confessing our faults but from trying to correct them." He walked away, leaving her gaping.

Galeran came to her side. "Did Raoul say something to offend you?"

"No." She looked at him. "How can you love me? I'm not lovable."

His hand went to his knife at his belt. "What did he say?"

"Nothing to offend, but . . ."

"But?"

"But I
do
take pride in my vices. I don't try to change them. I like to speak my mind. I'm afraid to be weak, afraid to depend on you. . . ."

"Why should you want to be weak? And I could die tomorrow."

"I've already proved unable to handle that event well."

He sighed. "Jehanne. We have to stop picking at all this like the scab on a healing wound."

"When it heals, there will be no scab. If it heals." She studied him, trying to see beneath the calm exterior. "Everyone is still waiting for you to do something."

"Perhaps one day they will stop. The well needs dredging, I'm told. I'd better set some men to it."

Jehanne sighed and went off to supervise the scouring of the corn bins. She sympathized with Galeran's desire to let time heal, but she doubted that time alone would wipe her sin away.

* * * * *

The days were still long, so the evening meal came late, but not so late that people were too tired for entertainment. When the trestles had been broken down, music began, and then stories were told in the russet light of the setting sun.

Because Galeran and Raoul had been to mystic lands, their stories were much in demand. In addition to tales of the Holy Land, Raoul could also tell of Spain, both the Christian north and the Moorish south. He told of a meeting with the famous
Cid Compeador,
Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, mightiest warrior of Spain, who had spent his last years opposing the Moors in his own crusade.

"Perhaps I could sing you a song of Spain," Raoul said at last, looking around at his rapt audience.

A great shout answered him. He called for a gittern and plucked a tune from the strings, a delicate, floating melody.

"Some say this is the song
El Cid
sang to the Lady Jimena when he wooed her. In it, he tells her she is as beautiful as the almond blossom, as pure as water from the snows of the sierra, and as sweet to the lips as a plump, juicy grape.

He began to sing in a rich, expressive voice, and though he did not look at Aline, and she understood none of the Spanish words, she felt as if he sang to her alone. As if she were as beautiful as the almond blossom, as sweet as a juicy grape, and as pure as the water from the snows of a sierra.

When he finished and refused to entertain further, he came to sit on the floor by her knee. Why that should seem so much more intimate than him sitting by her side, she did not know.

"Did you really sing the words you said?" she asked.

He glanced up at her. "Of course, though that is just the refrain. In the verses the warrior relates his pursuit of his beautiful lady. How he adored her from afar. How he undertook dangerous exploits in order to be worthy of her. How he slew any who endangered her. And all because she was as beautiful as a blossom, as pure as mountain water, and as sweet to the lips as a plump, juicy grape."

"Why do I suspect that grapes are actually sour as unripe gooseberries?"

He twisted to look at her fully, resting his arm across her thighs. "Are you so suspicious? The grapes in Guyenne are sweet as honey. Perhaps grapes can be found in London and other southern ports. One day, I promise, I will feed you a plump, juicy grape."

Dry-mouthed, Aline turned her attention back to the center of the hall, where a knight was telling a tale of monsters and magic. Raoul's arm stayed where it was, invasive, powerful, but strangely comforting.

She even found herself wanting to put her hand on his broad shoulder. She could imagine how hard it would feel beneath the cloth. How reassuring ...

She was quite relieved to be able to retreat to the lady's chamber, where she slept safely guarded by Jehanne's five ladies.

* * * * *

After spending an appropriate length of time with their household, Galeran led Jehanne to their chamber. It was like so many other evenings, and yet unlike. Too many problems sat between them for ease. The nurse immediately brought Donata, and Jehanne sat to feed her. As soon as the babe had finished her meal, however, she called for the woman to take her away again.

Galeran decided not to comment. He removed his belt and robe, so he was only in braies and shirt. "Would you like to play chess?"

She looked directly at him. "I would like to make love."

Heat swept through him. "So would I." He held out his hand and she rose to place hers in it. He pulled her into his arms for a kiss, tasting her—he realized—for the first time in so long.

After, holding her tight in his arms, he said, "Sweet Savior, we didn't kiss. Last time, we didn't kiss!"

She clung as tight to him as he to her. "I know. I noticed. Why is kissing both the first and the last thing?"

He raised her face and rubbed his thumb over the fading bruise there. "Perhaps the kiss is universal. Even those pledged to chastity kiss, if only in peace."

But now, like a fever, he needed more than kisses. He undid her girdle and tossed it aside. Then he slid his hands beneath her tunic to find the openings provided for the babe to feed.

She gasped, relaxing back against his arm as he pleasured her breasts, first with hand, then with mouth, until she was clutching at him. Then he toppled them onto their new bed.

Loosening his braies, he pulled up her skirts and thrust into her moist heat, unable this time to hold back, or be gentle, or thoughtful. This time he could only let the wild flames consume them both, and revel in every scorching moment.

When his strength returned, he drew the curtains around the bed, enclosing them in a private world where evil could never intrude. In that darkness he stripped the clothes from her limp, sweaty body, moving her limbs as if she were a child, kissing and nipping at each bit of skin exposed.

By the time she was naked, her energy had returned and she stripped him in the same way, teasing every part of him until he was ready again. Before she could mount him, however, he tried one of the eastern tricks, and pulled her to kneel over his mouth so he could torment her with his tongue.

"Galeran!" she gasped at the first touch, and then braced her hands against the head of the bed and went silent as the tension gathered in her body. He would not let her be silent, though, and held her prisoner until she cried out.

Only then did he let her down to fill herself with his flesh, so she could ride them both into blessed oblivion.

"Oh, but this is heaven," she murmured weakly at last, tucked close into his arms. "Or hell, considering the wickedness you just practiced on me! Delicious wickedness, though. If only we could stay in this hot, spicy cocoon forever."

That was impossible, and they both knew it, but they didn't expect the next day's news.

* * * * *

William of Brome rode into Heywood when they had only just broken their fast. "The king's dead," he announced as he stamped into the hall, cloak billowing, setting the dogs to barking.

Galeran abruptly abandoned a discussion on the well and waved the wide-eyed men off to get on with the work.

"Rufus is dead? How?"

"An arrow while hunting. Can you believe it?" He lowered his voice. "Can you believe it an accident?" He jerked his head toward the solar.

Without a further word, Galeran led the way there.

Jehanne and Aline were in the solar with the baby and her nurse. They all immediately rose to leave, but Galeran said, "Jehanne. You should stay."

When the three of them were alone, Galeran said, "Now, Father. Tell us what's happened."

Lord William thumped down onto a bench, hands braced on strong legs. "I've only had the official word plus a bit of gossip. Two days ago Rufus went hunting down near Winchester. Among the party was his brother Prince Henry, Wat Tyrel—who's connected to the Clares—and the Beaumont brothers. Wat Tyrel managed to put an arrow through the king."

Jehanne gasped. Galeran could have gasped himself, but only said, "How very convenient."

"Hah!" said his father. "You see it without squinting! No sooner was Rufus cooling than Henry raced off to Winchester with the Beaumonts to seize the treasury. I'm summoned to London to help choose the next king, but it hardly seems worth the trip."

"He'll have been crowned by now, unless there's been a mighty move to object to him. Unlikely, with Rufus so unpopular and the other brother, Robert, not well thought of either."

"But Robert's the eldest," said Jehanne. "Will he contest this?"

Lord William nodded. "That's what I want to know. You must have met him on the crusade, Galeran."

"I served in his force most of the time. I came back with him too, separating only when he decided to dally in Sicily."

"A dallying he may live to regret."

"Do you really think so? I suspect that if Robert had come home sooner, Rufus would have died sooner."

A silence settled on the room, then Jehanne said, "Henry had his brother killed?"

Lord William nodded. "It's hard to believe otherwise. Henry Beauclerk has always wanted England. Since he's the only son of the Conqueror born here, he's always thought it his birthright, but he was only nineteen when his father died and in no position to contest it. Now he's thirty-two and a clever, skillful man. He's doubtless just been waiting his chance."

"Chance? It looks like murder."

"Accidents can happen in hunting, Jehanne," Galeran said. "It all bears considering, though." He sat on the edge of the bed. "I arrived in Bruges with a small group of crusaders, and some of those men were heading for the south of England rather than the north. In the last week or so, Henry has received word that his brother is returning healthy from the crusade, and covered with all the glory of one who saved Jerusalem from the infidel. What's more, Robert acquitted himself quite well over there—better than he had at home. To Henry, it must have seemed that even if he managed to dispose of Rufus, Robert might be chosen king of England. Intolerable. So perhaps he had to be crude."

"The question is," interrupted Lord William, "what do we do now?"

Galeran turned to him. "What choice do we have?"