Princess Of France (The Queen's Pawn Book 2) Read online

“I can bear anything.”

  I saw the light of pride in her face, as I folded my kerchief and tucked it away.

  “You will leave for Paris within the month.”

  As distant as its memory was from me, I still dreamt of Paris. The soft spring rains in the garden of my father’s palace. The flavor of fine watered wine. The taste of pastry that melted as it touched my tongue. I had longed for all these things the whole of my exile. I had thought never to have them again.

  Eleanor smiled in the firelight, lifting her bronze goblet to her lips. “I would like to tell you that your brother calls you to him because he wishes you near him.”

  “But that is not why,” I said.

  “No.”

  I thought of Richard’s letter, still tucked away in my sleeve. After I had read it, Eleanor did not ask for it back. I drew it out. It lay in my palm like an accusation, like a knife I could not wield.

  I rose from my chair, my face blank, as I had been trained to school my expression as a child. My old lessons came back to me as I stood alone in that room with Eleanor. I would need to remember them all, before I returned to my brother and his court.

  I held Richard’s letter in my hand, my last link to him in the waking world. The vellum was smooth against my skin. He had used a new piece, a fresh bit of calfskin. I did not know if this was to honor me, or simply that, as king, he used nothing less.

  I cast his letter into the fire and watched the expensive vellum burn. Smoke rose to choke me, but I did not move away. I watched the flames consume that letter until it was nothing but ash.

  I met Eleanor’s eyes.

  “You have changed, Alais.”

  “And not for the better.”

  Eleanor raised one elegant brow and extended her hand, reaching up to touch my cheek. “That I could not say. But you are not my little princess anymore.”

  “Phillipe brings me home to marry a man of his choosing,” I said, finishing the tale she had begun. “He calls on me to strengthen his position as king. To keep the peace in his realm. To shore up the throne of France.”

  Eleanor smiled, the old wry smile I loved, free of bitterness and pain. “Your brother the king does not confide in me, and my spies are not as good as they once were.”

  “I am not to marry Richard,” I said.

  “No,” she answered. “I have seen to that.”

  I felt the pain of my loss for the last time. My heart burned with it, flaring once more with that inner fire, before the flame guttered out.

  I sat down in my cushioned chair, taking. Eleanor’s jeweled hand in mine as I kissed her cheek. “Once I am gone, we will not meet again.”

  “Very likely, we will not.”

  I spoke the words aloud then, as for the last time. “I love you, Eleanor.”

  “You always will, my dear.” She smiled her wicked smile.

  I remembered my childhood and how I had feared her like a demon in the night. I thought of how powerful she was, and of how much harm she had done to me, more harm than I ever could have conceived of as I lay in my childhood bed. And still the power of my love bound me to her, even now, after all those years, after all the pain she had caused me. I knew that I would love her for the rest of my life.

  I did not ask if she loved me. Though she tried to hide it, Eleanor’s love shone in the green of her eyes. Her love for me was a beacon of light that would never go out.

  She would leave on the morrow to go to Richard in Poitiers. Our paths were parting once more, perhaps forever.

  So, we stayed together that night and neither of us slept. We sat at my table, Richard’s wine between us, holding each other’s hands.

  2

  The Count of Valois

  I was restless when Eleanor left me. She had brought with her the scent of the world beyond the walls of my convent. I was drawn in by temptations I had not thought of in years: roasted meat on the bone, fresh baked bread torn for trenchers, the scent of Henry’s skin when he lay beside me.

  As I worked in the garden three weeks later, up to my elbows in loam, Jean Pierre came to me.

  It was an ordinary day until he stepped into my garden. I was wearing one of my oldest dresses made of linen and flax. The sleeves dragged in the dirt as they always had, for I used that gown for gardening only. It had once been a soft blue but had faded to a light gray.

  As was my habit now, I wore my hair long down my back, unbound but for a strand of silver cord that kept it out of my eyes.

  I was directing a lay sister in the planting of the newest cuttings of lavender and thyme, when Jean Pierre, Count of Valois, entered the garden as if he owned it and bowed to me.

  I saw at once that he was no ordinary man. The count wore bright blue, which brought out the sharp blue of his eyes. His eyes appraised me, taking all of me in at once, not only what I wanted seen, a pious woman working for the good of God, but all that I did not, my hidden self, the part of my soul that no man had ever seen, save Henry.

  Though Jean Pierre was fair, he had been often in the sun. His face was craggy and his eyes intelligent. He looked at me as if he knew me, though I had never seen him before that day.

  The sight of him was like a bolt of fire that struck me, taking my breath.

  Jean Pierre looked as though he could see behind my eyes. He smiled a small half smile, as if we shared a secret. I pushed my lust aside, to be brought before the priest at my time of confession. I hesitated only a moment before I smiled back.

  “If you are looking for the buttery,” I said, “You have taken a wrong turn.”

  He laughed as I had hoped he might, bowing again to me. I saw that, in spite of his fine hose and his gown shot through with silk, he was a man who did not take himself too seriously.

  “I assume that I address Her Royal Highness, Alais, Princess of France.”

  “Indeed, you do, sir, if you can find her behind all this dirt.”

  “I am Jean Pierre, Count of Valois.”

  He bowed a third time. I thought for a moment that he might kneel, but the dirt was dark and his silk hose were very light.

  I saw the thought of kneeling cross his eyes, and I smiled when he changed his mind.

  “My lady, I would not have known you.”

  “The dirt is thick here, sir, but it does not cover my face.”

  “It is not the dirt that would have deceived me. I have heard it said that Princess Alais has been within these walls for almost 20 years. Perhaps you are her daughter?”

  I pushed my lust aside once more, back into the box where I kept it. From the first, I saw that he was a man of honor. I need not fear for myself with him, in spite of the flirtation between us. I had never before flirted with a man, not even with Henry.

  “You are impertinent,” I said. “But it is such a lovely day, that I will let your impudence pass.”

  I was charmed. It had been many years since I had seen a man as well dressed as he, as self-possessed and as confident. Priests of the church, I found, were none of these things.

  I gestured to the bench in the garden, and Jean Pierre sat down while I knelt once more to plant my lavender.

  “So, my lady, are you not the least bit curious why I am here?”

  “You are the messenger from my brother, come to tell me my fate.”

  “God forbid. I am no fortune teller.” Jean Pierre leaned down to me, his long blond hair falling in a curtain across his cheek. He pushed his thick hair back, but it had been cut in the latest style and would not obey him. His hand was still gloved from his ride. I wondered what his skin was like beneath the leather, and what it would feel like on mine.

  As I looked into his eyes, my hands covered in loam, I saw that his blue eyes were clear, like the summer sky. I knew that he would not lie to me, then or ever.

  “You are here to tell me when my brother wants me to come to France,” I said.

  “Indeed, my lady. I have come to take you there.”

  At the sound of his words, my heart lifted with a hope
that I had tasted only once before in my life. I savored that hope as I knelt in the dirt of that convent garden. I thanked God there in silence, even as I did His work. I had left Paris when I was nine years old. I longed to go home.

  I stood and wiped my hands on the kerchief laying close by. “When do we leave?”

  The Count of Valois smiled at the sudden joy he saw in my face. A shadow crossed his eyes; he seemed to know what my decades behind convent walls had cost me. How he knew, as a man who lived in the world among men, I never understood. But he knew me, even from the first, better than most.

  He rose when I did. “As soon as you are able, Your Highness.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Oh, lady, let my horse rest a day at least.”

  The thought of delay left me cold, even in the warmth of the garden. My freedom was so close, I wanted to reach out for it even then and take it in my hand. In truth, if he had been willing, I would have fled on horseback that very hour, without even changing my gown. I longed to see the sky once more without walls around it, and to feel the sun on my face, and the wind in my hair.

  “The day after,” I agreed.

  His smile faded. Jean Pierre raised his hand, and for one electric moment, I thought he might touch my face. But he knew his place as my brother’s vassal, and he did not step out of it. “As you say, my lady. We will be ready.”

  Jean Pierre had brought a retinue of men-at-arms to guard us on our way to Paris. They were ranged in the guest house, playing cards and swearing. I heard this from the lay sisters as I bathed in my room before supper.

  I laughed when they told me, but the sisters looked scandalized. Truly, I was not suited to a religious life, for men and their antics no longer shocked me.

  I took my dinner with the count, a bevy of lay sisters standing by to guard my virtue. I did not point out to them that the tatters of my honor had long since been buried.

  I received him formally, dressed in my best gown, which was made only of spun cotton and flax. I had dried my hair by the fire, and it hung long down my back, covered by a thin veil of linen; the linen was very fine and did little to hide my curls, but I felt it better to extend the count the courtesy of my modesty, though I had long since left such trappings behind me.

  Jean Pierre stepped into the room and bowed to me, disconcerted at first by the sight of my narrow bed, visible in the room beyond. I saw his discomfort and gestured to a lay sister, who drew the door to my bedroom closed.

  Once that was done, Jean Pierre smiled and was his easy self again, bent on charming me and setting me at ease, as if he was the host, and I his guest.

  We ate by the light of many lamps, as if the candle wax and oil alone could guard me. Lay sisters stood along one wall, not serving us, but watching every morsel of food that went into my guest’s mouth. They did not begrudge him any of it, only me.

  I watched the count to see if this close scrutiny disturbed him, but after the first few moments he seemed not to notice them. He spent the evening telling me of all that had gone on in Paris in the last fortnight. He kept his gossip quiet, the kind of stories of home that one might tell an elderly maiden aunt: who had married whom, and how many children were expected before the harvest, how my brother fared in his search for a wife, and how the court spoke of little else.

  It grew late, and the lay sisters left off their vigilance, nodding by the wall. The tapestries strained on their hangings as the sisters leaned against them. As they dozed, the count talked on.

  I found myself watching his mouth as he spoke, watching his hands when he picked up his dinner dagger or when he held his bronze goblet of wine. I kept my own desire guarded in its chest, but the scent of it rose to me, even though I kept the lid of that chest closed.

  I watched him closely, but I could see no evidence of his fascination for me, the answering desire I had seen in his eyes in the cloister garden. I began to believe that he did not see me as a woman at all, that he had spoken of my beauty that afternoon as a matter of courtesy.

  But as the evening wore on and my protectors began to doze, the light of desire came back into his eyes. I knew he would never speak of it. His honor bound him, as mine bound me, but I found myself basking in the knowledge of his desire, and in my own. It had been many years since I had felt such warmth.

  Before, with Henry, I had been little more than a child. As much as Henry taught me, I had hardly begun to know myself at the tender age of fourteen. Now, I was a woman, and I felt rising heat in my face and in my belly. I tasted once more the hunger that Henry first woke in me, so long ago.

  I raised my eyes to Jean Pierre, hoping that my face was blank, that he could not see the desire behind my eyes. My hope was in vain. But Jean Pierre seemed to see beyond my lust, to the fact that I wanted to hide it. He desired me, but he also felt something more. It seemed that he wanted to protect me, not only my honor, but my heart.

  “I have heard songs of you,” he said. “Of how your beauty caught the eye of a king, and your love took his soul prisoner.”

  I did not speak. I sat very still, my bronze goblet close by my hand. My fingertips were numb, and I could not move them.

  “I have heard no such songs.”

  Jean Pierre sang for me, his tenor low and sweet, like honey in old wine. At first, I could not hear the words, because his voice held me in thrall. And then I could not hear the words because they were in the langue d’oc, which all my life had meant nothing but Richard. But finally, in the last verse, I heard his voice and his words together, how I had compelled a king, of how I could have held the kingdom in my sway, but I had turned back at the last and given myself to God.

  Tears ran down my nose and into the lap of my gown as I bent my head, for the song was true. Henry had loved me, even at the last. And I had turned away, out of piety, and grief, in the hope that my absence would bring peace between Richard and Henry once more. I had locked myself away in a nunnery for the rest of my life in this vain hope. There had been no peace between them. In the end, my sacrifice had been for nothing.

  I was lost in this sorrow when Jean Pierre drew me back, touching my hand.

  “I do not mean to pain you. I am sorry. The song was badly sung.”

  “No,” I said. “It was beautiful.”

  I forgot Eleanor’s handkerchief, which was always in my sleeve. I simply reached up, as a peasant might, and wiped my tears away with one hand.

  Jean Pierre saw me do this, and without letting go of the hand that still lay on the table between us, he offered a cloth from the table beside him. I accepted his kindness and dried the last of my tears. I had no more use for tears.

  “Thank you,” I said. “For the song, and for everything else.”

  As silence fell between us, I saw for the first time how beautiful he was, and how this beauty lay not just in the planes of his face, but in the kindness of his countenance. I found myself taking in the blue of his eyes and the curve of his cheek.

  I pressed myself back against the cushions of my chair, so that I would not lean closer and take in his scent. I did not trust myself to speak. I kept my eyes on his so that I would not lower my gaze to the beauty of his calves in their silk hose.

  His eyes held mine. He did not look away.

  Between us rose something that I had never before considered in my life, something I had not known existed. I loved Richard deeply, but we had been very young when we met, and he had never honored me as I had hoped he might. Now, between Jean Pierre and myself, rose a longing and a mutual consent. In all of the time I had spent at the courts of France and England, I had never seen its’ like. I would not have thought it possible.

  I had not known that a man and a woman could face each other as equals. I had not known that lust and equality could exist side by side. Jean Pierre’s blatant respect for me only made me want him more.

  It was a temptation I could not live with. I rose to my feet, and Jean Pierre stood when I did. The warmth in his blue eyes told me that I was a beau
tiful woman still, despite my black gown, despite all the years that had passed since my youth was spent.

  He might have offered some flowery compliment to break the tension between us, as men had offered me empty words at Henry’s court, long ago. But he said nothing and our silence lingered, speaking for us.

  Jean Pierre did nothing to deny the knowledge of what lay between us. He only took my hand and kissed it, cradling it as if it were the Holy Grail.

  My self-control drained away with his hand on mine and the heat under my skin flared. My mouth went dry, and my tongue stayed silent, though I had meant to wish him a good night before he left me.

  The lay sisters still nodded by the south wall. Jean Pierre only looked at me, the light in his eyes hot enough to scorch me where I stood.

  “Good night,” I said at last, hoping to break the spell that had fallen between us.

  Jean Pierre left me without another word. I felt the press of his hand on mine long after he had gone. The sisters woke finally to douse the many lamps and find their own beds.

  I spent a sleepless night on my cloistered cot, until the sun began to lighten the sky to gray. Only then did I sleep, to wake again when the sun shone in warm, the sound of the bell rising on the wind, calling me to prayer.

  After mass, I stayed on my knees. When I stood, my prayer finished, I found the Count of Valois watching me.

  He regarded me without smiling. Lust rose in me like sap in a tree, and I moved to escape it.

  Jean Pierre stepped forward and blocked my path to the chapel’s only door. “Your Highness.”

  His voice was deep and low, almost subservient, as if he had not willfully stepped between me and the warmth of the day beyond. My knees were cold from kneeling on stone. I focused on that chill in an effort to keep my mind on the things of God, but the pain was fleeting, for I had been kneeling on a cushion.

  I did not speak but moved again toward the door. This time, Jean Pierre stopped me by taking hold of my arm, as if I were some servant girl he would dally with behind the laundry. The taste of anger on my tongue only made me more aware of my desire.