The Mistress of Normandy. Susan WiggsЧитать онлайн книгу.
coeurs riens impossible. To valiant hearts nothing is impossible.
Symbols and ceremonies, thought Rand. They seemed so strange to a bastard-born horse soldier.
The Earl of Arundel bent and affixed the golden spurs to Rand’s heels. “Your father would be right proud, lad, to see you thus,” he said.
“Aye,” said Rand, “he would.” But not Justine. Jussie would know the cost of his new status.
Spurs whirring, Rand approached the king and held out his hand. Henry laid the gleaming naked sword over his palm.
“On this blade,” Henry said, “depends not only your life, but the destiny of a kingdom.” He girded the sword to Rand’s right side, and Rand knelt before him.
“I do mean that, my friend,” Henry said. “I intend to grant you lands and a wife, and style you a baron.”
Rand’s heart raced. Jesu, a title and lands. And a wife. His heart stilled.
“The barony is Bois-Long—Longwood—on the river Somme in Picardy,” Henry said. “The lady is the Demoiselle Belliane, niece of the Duke of Burgundy. Her lands rightfully belong to England. I claim her as my subject, and have the right to order her marriage. Burgundy and I have an agreement.”
Belliane. She was yet faceless, soulless. But her name skewered Rand’s hopes like a flaming arrow.
Eagerly Henry leaned forward. “Bois-Long guards a causeway where an army can cross the Somme. I need a loyal noble stationed there if my campaign to win back my French lands is to succeed.”
Dashed dreams and disillusionment raked at Rand’s heart.
Henry said, “With your new rank come privileges, my lord, but also responsibilities.” His gaze held the fierce power of royal determination. “This alliance is my will.”
The king’s will. Nothing was more sacred, more compelling. Not even the promise Rand had made to Jussie. The ground beneath his knees felt as if it were falling away. His will rebelled at the idea of going to a hostile land, of marrying a stranger. As Rand Fitzmarc, he might have ducked the obligation. Yet as Baron of Longwood, he had no choice.
Staring hard at the king, he said heavily, “Your will be done, sire.”
The king smiled, bent low to give Rand the kiss of peace, and drew his own blade. Bringing the broad side down onto Rand’s shoulders, he said, “Rise, Enguerrand Fitzmarc, first Baron of Longwood. Be thou a knight.”
Bois-Long-sur-Somme, Picardy
March 1414
It was her wedding night.
A breeze from the river teased the flame of a cresset lamp, and the shadows in the room flickered. Having been conducted to the nuptial chamber by a host of besotted castle folk, Lianna stood listening until their bawdy chants faded.
She gathered a robe about her shoulders and went to sit in a window alcove. Absently tapping her chin with one finger, she listened to the lapping of the river Somme against the stone curtain walls. The dancing, the feasting, the salutes from Chiang’s cannons, the endless rounds of toasts to the newly wedded couple, had left her a weary but triumphant bride.
She considered the marriage her greatest victory. Not because her husband was handsome, which he was, nor because he was wealthy, which he wasn’t. Nor even because she had found the mate of her heart. Love and romance, she knew, existed only in the whimsical gesso paintings on her solar walls.
Still, triumph rang through her veins. Her marriage to Lazare Mondragon, a Frenchman, shielded her from the English noble who was on his way to wed her at the command of Henry, King of England and pretender to the throne of France. Her life hadn’t been the same since King Henry had set his sights on Bois-Long, the gateway to the kingdom of France.
She felt no regret at having defied the English usurper’s orders, no shiver of fear when she considered the consequences of her rebellion, because the sovereignty of France was at stake. Besides, a more immediate matter faced her.
A scratching sounded at the door. She jumped, then calmed herself and glided to answer it. Clutching the doorjamb, the caller sagged drunkenly into the room.
“Nom de Dieu,” Lianna said with mingled amusement and annoyance. “Look at you, Bonne.”
The maid grinned crookedly, her pretty face flushed to ripeness. “Aye, look at me, my lady.” Wine-scented breath rushed from her mouth. “Sainte Vierge! That devil Roland, he has torn my best bliaut!” Bonne indicated the gaping garment, her big breasts nearly spilling from the bodice.
Her red-rimmed eyes widened as Lianna stepped into a pool of light from the cresset lamp. “By the head of St. Denis, you’re already prepared for bed!”
“Somehow, Bonne,” Lianna said dryly, “I knew you wouldn’t be much help to me tonight.”
The maid stamped a slippered foot; the motion made her lurch. “You should have summoned me.”
“I hadn’t the heart to pull you away from...” She tapped her chin, thinking. “Whose lap ornament were you tonight? Ah yes, Roland.”
“My first duty is to you,” Bonne said, then hiccuped softly. “Roland would wait a hundred years for me, anyway,” she added matter-of-factly. “At least let me do your hair.”
Bonne drew Lianna down to a stool. With the overcautious motions of a drunk, she fetched an ivory comb and freed Lianna’s hair from its coif. “Spun by the angels, I always say,” she said, pulling the comb through the silvery curtain of straight, fine locks.
“I’d as soon have it cropped by the hand of man,” Lianna said, grimacing as the comb snared in a tangle. “Chiang nearly set my head aflame when we were testing those new charges.”
“Chiang.” Bonne spat the name. “You’re too much in the company of that odd Chinaman, my lady. I trust him not.”
“You’ve been listening to the men-at-arms,” Lianna chided. “They’re jealous because they know Chiang’s gunnery can defend Bois-Long better than their swords.”
“I know naught of defending a castle. But I do know of pleasing a man. Tonight you’ll play the lady instead of dabbling in warfare like a soldier. Perhaps a woman’s pleasures will turn you from a man’s pursuits.”
Lianna sat still as Bonne unstopped a bottle of fragrant oil and anointed her, secreting the scent of lilies at her nape and temples, between her breasts and at the backs of her knees. Despite her drunken state, the maid’s hand was steady as she imbued Lianna’s lips and cheeks with a discreet mist of rouge.
Bonne stepped back and gasped in admiration. “By St. Wilgefort’s beard!” She took up a polished-steel mirror and angled it toward Lianna. “You look like a princess.”
Lianna frowned at her image. The pale robe fluttered against her willow-slim form; her hair hung in drifts around her oval-shaped face. Her customary look of arrogance, worn to hide the intrepid dreamer deep inside, made her delicate features seem hard tonight, hard and bloodless.
“How can you scowl at being so favored?” Bonne demanded.
Lianna shrugged and eyed her maid’s ripe bosom and bold smile. “In sooth, Bonne, you have the looks that turn heads. Besides, an agreeable face doesn’t win a kingdom, nor does it endure.”
“Happily for you, your beauty has endured into your twenty-first year, my lady. You look far younger. I was beginning to think your uncle the duke would have to drive you to the altar at sword point. Think you he’ll approve of your Lazare?”
Lianna swallowed. “My uncle of Burgundy will send his spurs spinning into oblivion when he learns what I’ve done.”
“Aye,