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

  “Do you understand me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. Tears were rising in my eyes, though I had long since trained myself not to weep – they rose despite my training, despite all my hard years of self-denial. My longing for him rose in my throat, and I closed my lips so that I would not speak of it.

  Jean Pierre bent his head and kissed me once, fiercely, so that I would remember. “I will come back for you. But do not wait for me. I want you to be happy.”

  I did not tell him that I did not know what simple happiness was. I had only begun to know it for the first time in my life while in his presence. I had known love and lust and loss, but what lay between us was something new, something pure, as pure as my first love for Richard. Our parting was hard enough for him, without proof of my pain added to it. I did not speak the words that rose to my lips but swallowed them. I spoke others instead. “I will do my best to be happy.”

  He saw my tears, and they were almost his undoing. He drew me close once more, though it pained him to offer me comfort. I clung to him, and his arms closed safe around me, shutting out the world for the space of a breath. But the world cannot be shut out. Like the wind and the river, it moves on, and we must move with it.

  “Give me a token, something to take with me when I go.”

  I had heard of such things. I had even seen it done once or twice at Eleanor’s court, where the art of courtly love had been honored above all things, even God.

  I had nothing about me except the kerchief I kept always in my sleeve. It bore the queen’s crest, Eleanor’s coat of arms.

  I pressed the soft linen into his palm. He wiped away my tears with it. Then his lips were on mine. He tasted me once, a temptation he could not turn from. But I felt his reluctance even before he pulled away from me. He would not force me to break my wedding vows when he could not stay.

  I could taste his love for me on his tongue. I had nothing else to give him. Only my lips for half a moment, and that bit of cloth, and even it belonged to another. It did not even bear my crest.

  Jean Pierre drew back and looked down at me, as if to memorize my face, as I had once tried to memorize Richard’s.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “And I love you.” I did not weep again, knowing it would be years, or never, before I saw him again. I did not want his last sight of my face to be of me weeping.

  He smiled at me. “Your love will be a light in dark places.” Jean Pierre moved to leave, but his hands refused to let go of my arms. He kissed me once more on my forehead. His lips were light, like the touch of a feather against my skin. “Stand here until I go. I want to remember you this way, with the sun behind you, shining on your hair.”

  I said nothing more, but stood still, just as he bid me. He looked at me one last time, took in his fill, then turned away. He walked away from me, the sunlight turning his hair to burning gold. He did not look back.

  I watched him move to his horse, tethered by the riverside. He rose onto its back in one fluid motion, then turned and raised his hand to me.

  I waved to him, as if he were going only for that one day. I watched him ride away, his body moving with his horse as if they were one flesh. He was gone from my sight too quickly, and I was left by that river alone.

  But I was not alone. Even then, I felt the Hand of the Holy Mother on my arm, keeping me from despair. I had promised him that I would be happy. I wondered what that word truly meant, and if I could ever learn the skill of daily joy.

  I knelt in the tall grasses, the sun rising above my head. I felt the Holy Mother’s hand on me as I prayed for Jean Pierre. I asked the Mother to lay Her hand on him, to protect him when he was far from me.

  I stayed kneeling, the wind in my hair, the sun shining down on me. That was where Marie Helene found me. She had heard from my husband’s men that Jean Pierre had asked for safe passage onto William’s lands. He had not come up to the castle keep.

  She said nothing but offered her hand to help me rise, then led me back to my husband’s house. I leaned on her for the first few steps, but soon stood alone. I was strong enough to support my own weight.

  I went straight into the chapel, where I stayed on my knees. I did not come to the great hall for the evening meal, but prayed for my father, for my daughter, for Eleanor and Richard, for Henry, and most of all, for Jean Pierre.

  I was alone after Vespers. The priest had gone to tend other matters behind the arras that led to his private rooms. Still I stayed, after the songs were silenced. It was there on my knees that William found me.

  “You are praying again,” my husband said.

  I raised my head but did not rise when he spoke. My knees burned like fire beneath me, in spite of the cushion I knelt on. Marie Helene had been kind enough to bring it that morning and, after an hour, when she saw that I meant to stay, she left me and went away.

  She came back to fetch me every hour, and every hour she saw the look on my face and went away again. She knew me well. Nothing short of the Second Coming of Our Lord would move me.

  I faced my husband, pausing in my prayers, for I was tired. I knew that the mortification of the flesh was not to appeal to God, for He had no use for my pain. It was to appeal to me, to remind myself of the suffering of Our Lord, to remind myself that even now, alone, with all my dead gone from me, my suffering was not in vain. Our Lord had walked there first.

  I met William’s eyes. He stared down at me, and for once he did not smile. He was not a religious man and like most at court, he did not understand religious feeling in others. All our lives, the knowledge of God’s love was a gulf between us, a gulf we never bridged. We had many other things in common, but never that.

  “You must not stay here,” he said. “I did not marry you so that you could go on being a nun.”

  I raised one eyebrow. He had the courtesy to blush, but he did not turn away.

  “I am here praying for the souls of the dead,” I said.

  “You are among the living, lady. You need to have a care for them.” He offered his hand to me, and I took it.

  I let him raise me up. He had to catch me, for my feet and legs were numb and would not hold me. He half carried me, supporting all my weight, as I regained my balance. The pain was worse once I was standing, and I welcomed it.

  William saw this in my face, and his eyes darkened, even in the candlelight of that dark chapel.

  There was a step leading to the stone altar. William helped me sit on it, then knelt at my feet. He drew my shoes from me and massaged my feet and calves until the fire of my pain was so strong that I thought I would lose my breath. Still, he did not stop until the pain receded and the blood flowed unobstructed once more.

  “It is foolish to do such things,” he said. “It is dangerous. You could hurt yourself with too much praying, Alais. Your blood must flow properly. You no longer have just yourself to think of.”

  I did not look away from him, nor did I speak.

  He sat down beside me and took my hand. “I know that Jean Pierre of Valois was here this morning.”

  “All the keep knows of it, my lord.”

  “Is this why you kneel and hurt yourself on this stone floor? Out of guilt?”

  I did not answer.

  “Lady, I may be young, but I know a little more of the world than you. Trust me when I say, you have nothing to feel guilty for.”

  Tears rose in my eyes. I blinked to hide them, but he saw them anyway, and his voice softened. He caressed my hand. “Alais, I know you love him. There is no shame in that.”

  I turned my face away, but William turned me back, so that he could meet my eyes. “You knew nothing of me when you met him. We do not choose those we love. Love comes to us.”

  I saw that my brother still haunted my husband as he sat beside me in that stone church, holding my hand. His gaze turned inward, until he remembered me, and why he was there.

  “You soul is in my keeping, now, Alais. For better or for worse, you are my wife. I would hav
e it be for the better. I would have you be happy.”

  I sighed deeply and leaned my head against his chest. William was wise, despite his youth, and as I relaxed my guard, I offered a trust to him given to almost no one else.

  His arms came around me. I wondered for the second time that day what happiness was, and whether I was worthy of it.

  “No more long hours of prayer,” he said.

  I knew myself and knew that I could make him no promises. But I stayed silent, leaning against him. His arms stayed around me. I was tired and thought that I might sleep.

  William drew me to my feet. When he found that I could stand, he did not let me go. “You must promise me, Alais. You must promise me that you will try to stay in the land of the living.”

  I met his eyes. Their blue depths stared back at me, unknowable.

  “I promise to try.”

  He smiled at me. “That is something.”

  William carried me up the back staircase, the one that wound in a spiral to keep out invaders. He did not put me down until Marie Helene opened my bedroom door to him. He carried me past her, to my satin draped bed, and it was there he laid me.

  “Good night, my lady. I will see you in the morning.”

  Something about his face, the youthful hope that lay there, quickened my heart. His hope shone on me, and I remembered a time when I was not hemmed in by sin and loss, when I too had been as young and as free from sorrow.

  I took his hand before he could leave me. William bent down, as if I were his maiden aunt. I pressed my lips to his in thanks. He did not pull away.

  His smile faded. “Good night, my lady.” He bowed then and left me.

  Marie Helene came out of the shadows and closed the door behind him. She did not ask questions but fed me a dinner of bread and cheese before I slept, still dressed in the gown I had worn that morning on my walk down by the river.

  10

  Duty

  “Alais, we will soon celebrate the Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady. Peasants and lords alike will flood our borders to rejoice with us.”

  I stared at William, my embroidery forgotten. I did not know what to say. It was clear he was not asking my permission but telling me of a plan he had laid down long ago. Perhaps it was a tradition there to honor the Holy Mother on that day.

  “There will be dancing, and songs sung in your honor.”

  “There need be no songs for me,” I said.

  “Lady, I will sing the first of them myself.”

  William left my room as suddenly as he had come, and Marie Helene raised one eyebrow.

  “Songs for you?” she asked. “And he will sing the first of them?” She was often silent, but I had forgotten that her sweet serenity and soft blonde hair hid a sardonic wit and a mind that missed nothing.

  I laughed. It felt good to laugh for the first time since Jean Pierre had left me.

  “I have no doubt his men will be dutiful and obey him in this. God knows what songs they can come up with, between now and the Feast Day.”

  On the first night of the festival, after spending the day in jousts and buying trinkets at the fair, the gentry and the nobles gathered in my husband’s keep. We ate a meal of venison and suckling pig, with large displays of flowers from the garden on the trestle tables in the great hall.

  I sat by William’s side at the high table. A few couples from my brother’s court sat with us, those too old to travel on Crusade with the king. But younger men took up the tables nearest us, just below the dais. At the end of the meal, as the fruit was brought out and passed among the company, my husband rose to his feet. A young man at the lower table stood with him, a lute in his hand.

  The company seemed to know what to expect, as I did not. I was sipping my wine, watching the servers to see that the fruit was handed around with grace. When I turned back, I found not only my husband but everyone in the hall staring at me.

  William bowed. “For my lady.”

  He took my hand in his and kissed it. Without letting go, William sang the sweetest song I had yet heard. It began with soft lines about the passing spring, and how it faded all too quickly into the heat of summer. The song then turned to the time of year when the heat of summer began to give way to the cooler breezes of autumn, while the last of the summer roses were still in bloom. William likened me to one of these. Even as his song faded, he drew out a deep red rose and offered it to me. I took it, tears rising in my eyes.

  William bent down, and kissed my cheek, while the young men at the tables below us stamped their feet and shouted. I hid my face. William sat down beside me and took my hand in his, so that I could not hide. I sat, exposed to view, as three more young men stood to sing my praises. They sang just as sweetly, but none moved me to tears as my husband had.

  After the singing was done, musicians began to play in earnest, and the lower tables were cleared away for the dancing. I rose, expecting my husband to lead me out in the first measure. Instead, William caught my hand, and gave it to another.

  “My lady wife,” he said. “I present Gerald of Anjou. He has been my companion-in-arms these many years. He has asked if you might favor him with the honor of a dance.”

  I hid my surprise. Though I was convent-raised, my first training had been at my father’s hand. I smiled graciously at Gerald without seeing him. I saw only that he was an attractive young man, a little older than my husband, and that his smiled did not quite reach his eyes.

  Gerald led me into the swirl of dancers, but not before I first saw William smile at a youth who came to sit beside him, in the chair opposite mine.

  “My lady fair,” Gerald said. “Your husband would have me cheer you. When you are sad, the whole party grieves with you.”

  I looked away from my husband, who now sat talking with a youth of fifteen. I listened to the laughter all around us, both at the high table and lower tables in the hall. I felt a searing pain, like a hot brand in my belly.

  My longing for Jean Pierre was so strong in that moment, I thought the floor might open beneath me and swallow me whole. But it did not. I breathed deeply and made sure that I did not lose my place in the dance. I had found since coming to my husband’s house that it was one thing to live alone in the confines of a nunnery, away from prying eyes and the poison of gossip, but quite another to stand alone among my husband’s people, those I did not know, those who, despite their songs written to my fading beauty, did not know me.

  As I looked into the eyes of the man who danced with me, I saw that he lied prettily. No one felt my sorrow but me.

  Gerald was not as young as I had first thought. As I studied his face, I saw his age in the lines around his eyes. He was at least ten years older than my husband. His brown eyes were merry, but beneath that cultivated warmth was a world weariness that I had not seen before. He seemed not at all intimidated by my silence or the fact that I had been born a princess of France.

  His hair curled across his temples where his barber had cut it too short, trying to keep with the fashion. It was his hair that made him look younger than he was. His eyes gleamed with more than mischief as he looked at me.

  There was a pause in the dancing. As I looked across the hall, I found my husband watching us. William raised his goblet to me. I turned from William then and met the eyes of the man who held my hand.

  The dance changed, and Gerald lifted me with one hand, as all the other dancing men lifted their partners. Gerald was stronger than most, or perhaps he was simply bolder. He lifted me high, almost above his head, so that for the space of a breath, all my pain and humiliation was forgotten. There was only him, his hand that kept me from falling, and the dark brown of his eyes.

  Gerald set me once more on my feet. As the dance ended, he led me back to the high table. William was gone, as was the youth he had been speaking to.

  I met Gerald’s eyes. He did not grin or cajole me. He did not feign ignorance or indifference as he sat down beside me. He did not speak but drew his chair much closer than good ma
nners warranted. I took in the sight of this young man, all the while wondering where Jean Pierre was, if already he had taken ship for the Levant. It had not been a month since I had seen him last. I did not know if I would ever see him again.

  I could not think of him and do as my husband wished. So, I pushed the thought of the man I loved to the back of my mind, into the chest where I kept the memories of all my dead, all those who were lost to me. I closed the lid and locked it.

  I found that I could not smile, but my voice was cheerful when I spoke. “Gerald, you are welcome to my husband’s court. You and your lady wife.”

  “My lady countess, I have no wife. I am as free as the air we breathe.”

  His voice was as pleasant as mine and beneath his surface lay warmth. I was almost certain that he wished me well. If I had asked him to, I think he would have backed away. But I did not. I took the wine he offered me and drank. “How fortunate for you,” I said. “Few of us can say the same.”

  We did not speak more but drank our wine in silence. I took in his scent, and found I was not repulsed. He smelled of cloves, and of the thyme we had eaten at dinner. He saw in my eyes that, though my husband had asked him to court me, he would get no further with me that night.

  Gerald rose to his feet and bowed in the same moment that Marie Helene came to fetch me. He took my hand in his, but this time he did not kiss it. He met my eyes, and I saw that he was not a fool. He would not lie or try to deceive me with sweet words that he did not mean. I was grateful for that.

  “Good night, my lady fair.”

  “Until tomorrow, my lord Gerald.”

  He smiled at his sudden rise in rank, but even then, I saw irony reflected in his eyes and knew that I would be able to deal with him. Gerald left me with a bow, backing away from me as from a queen. Marie Helene took my arm.

  I smiled to reassure her, as if to say that though I had been handed once more, from one man to another, it did not cause me pain. Her own eyes held a sheen of tears. She had always been able to weep for me when my own tears had dried up. I took her hand in mine.