Stuart, Elizabeth (5 page)

In
this great room Robert had played and fought mock battles, secretly relishing
the knowledge that while his elder brother Jordan would inherit the title of
count and the vast de Langley lands in Normandy, Belavoir and all of the
English estates would be his.

But
then Jordan had died in the seemingly endless Norman-Angevin struggle and
Robert had crossed the sea to become his father's right arm, to win his own
legendary renown as King Stephen's Norman Lion, only to die in a flaming
funeral pyre set by Henry's Angevin devils in an abbey where Robert and a
half-dozen of his men had taken sanctuary as a last resort.

Only
he hadn't been burned alive. He'd watched, wedged precariously in the
smoke-filled stone bell tower, alternately praying for his soul and
passionately hating the men below as they'd danced, laughing, around the
flames.

He'd
slipped away in the darkness with Geoffrey and Aymer, the only others to
survive the hellish ordeal. They'd rejoined what was left of his forces and
hidden out in France.

There
the worst had overtaken him. A sudden, virulent fever had snuffed out his young
son's life. Two anguished days to devour all the good that was left in his
world. Two soul-shattering days to destroy four years of high childish
laughter, sticky-sweet smiles, a sturdy wriggling body he still ached to hold
in his arms.

Two
days as a prelude to hell.

And
when it was done, when the rage and grief were spent, the emotional wasteland
traversed, he had taken his men and slipped across the sea. Secretly, a man
long thought dead. He had come home. Home to England, home to lick his wounds
and rediscover a reason to live. Home to retake Belavoir, to fight Henry again
on his own terms.

For
a moment, Robert could almost feel his father's comforting presence, could
almost hear the echo of people and places and a past long since dead. His
mother had died when he was scarce old enough to remember, but he'd never
lacked for love and care from the nurses and servants, the men-at-arms here at
Belavoir. Now the need to return to that simpler time rose up so strongly it was
like the anguished throb of a new wound.

To
his boy's eyes that life here in England had been charmed, his world simple and
secure. Right had been right and wrong, wrong, with no shades of maybe to muddy
the demarcation. He'd not yet learned about betrayals, hadn't needed to harden
himself to the pain of living with a woman he'd once loved with all of his soul
and then hated with equal intensity—his beautiful wife Marguerite.

Robert
frowned and drew in a deep breath. There wasn't any going back, of course, and
that simpler time had existed only in a child's imagination. The dead didn't
return to the living, despite what these people here tonight had thought.
Betrayals couldn't be undone, his own mistakes couldn't be mended. There was
only now, and what he could make of his life from this moment onward.

He
was thankful to God for his life, thankful for the success this night that had
won him back Belavoir. He would hear mass in the morning, commission a new
statue of the Blessed Virgin as soon as he found a spare moment.

More
at peace now, he let his eyes roam the hall possessively.

His
hall.

Anxious
servants huddled together, whispering and glancing covertly over their
shoulders. His men went about their business, seeing to prisoners and dealing
with wounded or standing alertly on guard.

He
stepped forward into the torchlight. One of his men saw him and hailed him, but
the words were drowned out as a wave of cheering swept the hall.

Softly
at first, begun by only a voice or two, it was seized by dozens of throats at
once, swelling and reverberating through the high-ceilinged room like a chant.

Then
his men were joining in as well. A wall of sound broke over him. His name. They
were calling his name.

Robert
hesitated. Beneath his singed clothing and bloody mail, beneath the dirt and
dried sweat, he felt the shiver of gooseflesh rising along his skin. So they
had hailed him once in Normandy. So they had hailed him in France. Before they
had hunted him like an animal.

He
moved forward again, conscious of Aymer screaming wildly behind him. No dark
thoughts now. Tonight was a victory for his men as well as for him. And God
knew they deserved one. It had been a long time.

He
held up his arms. Gradually the room quieted. "I can see some of you here
remember me from my boyhood. Some of you may even remember the good times of
Sir Roger, my father. You know we are true lords of Belavoir, that no Montagne
usurper can lay just claim to this castle and lands."

He
put his hand to his sword hilt, drawing his sword from his scabbard and lifting
it into the torchlight so that the blood-stained hilt rose on high like a holy
relic.

"I
swear to you now," he continued, his voice rising, accelerating with
emotion. "I swear to you by this sword my father gave me and by the blood
now staining it, that I will live or die in this place. That I will defend
Belavoir and every man belonging here with my last breath, with the last drop
of my blood."

In
a slow half-circle, he pivoted, holding the sword out before him like a priest
with the sacred host. Then, in a lightning flash of movement, he drove it into
a table. It shimmered in the torchlight, glowing and quivering as if it drew
breath.

"As
God is my witness!" he shouted into the hush. "As God is my witness,
I, Robert of Belavoir, last of the great House of de Langley, do pledge to hold
these lands. This I do swear upon the soul of my father... upon the soul of my
dead son!"

For
a moment no one moved. No one breathed.

Then
the room erupted into wild and delirious shouting. Robert felt the tension of
these last few weeks rush from him. He pivoted again, basking in the adulation,
the smiling faces that were balm to his bitter spirit.

A
familiar face caught his eye: the grubby serving boy who had held the door open
those precious seconds and earned naught but a vicious kick for his pains.
Without him, this night of victory might well have gone differently.

Robert
held out a hand, beckoning the boy to stand beside him. The lad scampered to
him, dark eyes wild with excitement, small face radiant as the sun.

Robert
swallowed hard. So had his own son looked up at him in days gone past.
Instinctively, he went down on one knee. "What's your name, boy?"

The
lad gazed up at him as if he were a god. "Adam, my lord. Adam
Carrick."

The
blow
was unexpected—a knife blade out of the darkness, a sword-thrust dealt by a
friend. Robert sucked in a sharp breath as the hurt washed over him, leaving
him vulnerable, unprotected.

Adam.

Sweet,
merciful God, but he'd barter his soul to Satan himself if only his own son
might be standing here now!

Aymer
Briavel had been close enough to hear the exchange. He took an involuntary step
closer, his hand flexing against his sword hilt, helpless against this hurt.

Robert
put a hand on the boy's shoulder, forced a smile for the others—the boy and the
distressed young knight. "Adam." He said the word softly,
experimentally. It had been a long time since he'd spoken it aloud. "Do
you know, lad, that Adam was my son's name? He wanted so badly to come here,
but he didn't live to see Belavoir. He died a few months ago. I buried him in
Normandy."

Robert
smiled again. The pain was still there, the terrible, aching tightness in his
throat that made it so difficult to speak. "I suppose since my Adam
couldn't be here in person, he sent you in his stead to help me tonight."
He squeezed the boy's shoulder. "Thank you, Adam. I may well owe you my
life. It's a debt you may be sure I'll repay."

The
boy shook his head. "Oh, no, my lord! You owe nothing. Nothing! When I
heard your shout outside, I was bound to do what I could, even if you weren't
of this earth. I'm your man, you know," he added solemnly, "like my
father was before me."

Robert's
smile became a bit less forced. "Who was your father, lad?"

The
boy squared his shoulders proudly. "Edward Carrick. He had great skill
with a bow, my lord. He died at the battle for St. Clair. You used to call him
your Welshman in jest. Because of the bow."

Robert
gripped the boy's thin shoulder. "Edward... Edward of Shrewsbury? You're
Sir Edward Carrick's son?"

The
boy nodded.

"But
you're—"

He
bit back the words. This was no serf or kitchen boy as he had surmised. The lad
was well born. But he was filthy and dressed in rags a serf might have scorned.
It was clear he'd been put to work as a menial. Some crude jest of Montagne's
most likely.

"It's
obvious where you come by your courage, lad. Your father had the heart of a
lion and nerves I was oft wont to envy myself. And he could work magic with a
bow. It was a great tragedy when he fell. A tragedy for me and for
England."

The
boy nodded, dark eyes far too serious in his gaunt child's face. "He
always told me you'd come back here, my lord. That I should be here to aid you.
And... well, here you are."

The
boy grinned and glanced away, a hint of shyness entering his voice for the
first time. "I did what I could. That's all. Just like he said."

Robert
slid a finger beneath the boy's dirty chin, tilting the thin face gently toward
him. If only the grown men, the so-called valorous commanders he'd dealt with
had had half this lad's courage, half his loyalty, Normandy would be in English
hands this night.

"I
wish I could bring him back to you, lad. I wish I could bring my own Adam back.
But I suspect wherever they are, that they're both rejoicing right now. And I
suspect that they're both very proud."

"My
lord!"

Robert
turned, rose to his feet.

Geoffrey
was hurrying toward him. He'd been outside the keep, seeing to the removal of
bodies, the disposition of prisoners, and the searching of the outbuildings and
walls for any remaining enemies.

"My
lord! William Jarrett just rode in from the outlying manors of Merlan and
Harclay. Both fell easily to our forces. No casualties at Merlan, only one at
Harclay." His eyes danced with triumph. "Three castles, my lord.
Three castles in de Langley hands!"

Wild
cheering swept the room again. Robert stood very still. It had been a night of
complete victory. His men had swept all in their path.

He
stood watching his delirious men, the shouting, happy servants. He wished his
father had lived to see this night. And Adam. And his old friend Edward
Carrick.

But
tonight was just the beginning, for with God's help, he was going to do it. He
was going to take back every handful of de Langley soil in England.

And,
like it or not, the Montagne women were going to help.

***

The
muffled sound of cheering faded away. Jocelyn caught her breath, strained her
ears, but no further sounds drifted up from the hall. Drawing the covers
beneath her chin, she snuggled closer to her sister's warmth seeking comfort.

Adelise
had finally dropped off to sleep, and so had Hawise, still whimpering softly.
The three women shared the great bed, for Jocelyn hadn't had the heart to force
the terrified young maidservant to sleep alone on her pallet. Not tonight. Not
after what they'd been through. Not with what might be yet to come.

Besides,
the room was cold. The fire had burned low in the chamber's wall fireplace—one
of the unheard of innovations Belavoir boasted—and Jocelyn hadn't dared open
the door to ask the guards for more fuel. Robert de Langley had seemed
confident his men would obey him, but Jocelyn didn't feel like putting his
faith to the test. Not with the memory of the way those men had looked at
Adelise still so fresh in her mind.

She
closed her eyes, willing the much-needed sleep to come, but the memory of
facing de Langley, of the scorching way he had stared, sent her heart pounding,
her blood racing. Until tonight she'd thought half the legends about the man to
be that—merely legends. Now she wasn't so sure.

It
was said his life was charmed, that no mortal man could touch him. That when
fighting he had the strength of a dozen knights, the cunning and dexterity of a
devil. In battle after battle he'd rallied Stephen's forces, turned certain
defeats into victories.

But
slowly the tide in Normandy had shifted as battles began to go awry, as one
after another of the great barons had gone over to Geoffrey of Anjou. As the
men owning enough property in England had given up and slunk home in defeat.

For
years now, the Angevins had been the acknowledged lords of Normandy, but de
Langley had fought on. Wherever a rebellious vassal held out against Count
Geoffrey and his young son Henry, de Langley was sure to be stirring the
caldron of discontent. Wherever border raids from France and the disputed
territory of the Vexin were successful, de Langley was sure to be leading them.
He'd been a thorn in the flesh to the men of Anjou for years. He'd been unable
to drive them out, but it was impossible for the Angevins not to fear him.

Then
word had come last fall that Count Geoffrey was dead, his son Henry the
undisputed lord of Normandy, Anjou, Maine, and Touraine. Within months the
unpredictable young duke had wed Eleanor, countess of Aquitaine, the
scandalously beautiful and newly-divorced former wife of the king of France.

Then
an even more unbelievable story had swept the land: Robert de Langley was dead,
trapped by Henry's men in a church and burned alive while men watched.

God-fearing
men everywhere had shuddered and crossed themselves. It was said King Stephen
had wept openly, had taken to his bed for several days. But her father had
rejoiced, Jocelyn remembered. For the first time in years, he'd felt secure in
the de Langley lands he had stolen.

Jocelyn
felt a shiver run through her. She'd always dreaded these visits to Belavoir,
to any of the de Langley holdings. The servants were sullen, not outright
disrespectful—not after her father had ordered two killed, a dozen more
severely and publicly punished as a warning—just slow, passive, pretending
stupidity.

They
had hated her, too, for her Montagne blood, though Jocelyn had done all she
knew to be fair in her dealings. It was only on her last sojourn at Belavoir,
that she'd inadvertently won them over.

Making
an unexpected midnight visit to Belavoir's lonely chapel, she'd caught a
half-dozen servants there lighting candles. It was the first anniversary of
Robert de Langley's death, and a young kitchen boy had been wildly and bitterly
defiant, had spoken words that could have sent them all to their deaths.

Jocelyn
had ignored the outpouring of venom, had calmly lit a candle and added it to
the ones in the rack, dropping to her knees and saying a soft prayer for de
Langley's soul.

No
one had spoken, no one had moved. When Jocelyn finished, she'd risen quietly
and left the room, hesitating briefly in the doorway to suggest that the
candles be removed before morning, before anyone else found the evidence.

By
the next day, she was conscious of a slight change in the atmosphere at Belavoir.
Servants moved more quickly to do her bidding. There were even a few cautious
smiles. It would be too much to say that she was welcomed—no Montagne would
ever be in a de Langley's castle—but the miasma of hate that had stifled her
like heavy wool in July had lifted. She had been accepted; her dealings were
considered fair.

Jocelyn
thought again of that night and thanked God for it. She just hoped someone
remembered to tell the story to the man with the lion's eyes.

She
must have slept, haunted by those unusual eyes, for when she awakened they were
the first thing she saw, long-lashed, golden, and shimmering with purpose.
Jocelyn blinked sleepily and shifted her head, aware of a sharp aching in her
hip she couldn't identify.

"I
said up, madam. I would speak with you."

Her
eyes snapped open. De Langley stood by the bed, the flat of his sword resting
on the mattress alongside her body. Her hand went to her hip, rubbed at the
ache. He'd struck her. He'd struck her with the flat of his blade!

She
sat up and shoved her tangled hair back, instantly awake and outraged.
"Your sojourn in hell must have burned away your manners, sir! Have you
forgotten how to knock?"

"I
assure you, madam, I've lost a great deal more than manners in the places I've
been." De Langley sheathed his sword, taking a few seconds longer than
necessary to meet her eyes. "I'd advise you not to test me further, madam.
'Twould be a shame for you to have to find out for yourself just what."

Jocelyn's
gaze didn't waver. Since she was a child, she had faced her enemies head up,
eyes wide to enable her to see the next blow coming.

For
a moment neither moved. Then the man grinned, murmured unexpectedly,
"You're the Welsh one, obviously. I suppose that accounts for it."

Before
she could comment, he turned and headed for the door. "You may have five
minutes for whatever you think necessary. I'll await you out here in the
antechamber. Take no longer than that for I assure you, madam, I am in a
hurry."

He
hesitated in the doorway and glanced back. His smile had faded, but a trace of
humor still lightened his golden eyes, the smooth-shaven planes of his tanned,
high-cheekboned face. "Besides, I did knock. You were sleeping so soundly
you just didn't hear." And with that, he shut the door.

Jocelyn
released her long-held breath. So it hadn't been a nightmare. Robert de Langley
was alive.

"Oh,
Jocelyn, what are you going to do?"

Jocelyn
glanced down at Adelise. Tears of helplessness were already brimming in her
sister's blue eyes. "Find the chamber pot," she said with a trace of
impatience. "I doubt there's time for much else."

In
five minutes Jocelyn was ready. She had slept in the yellow gown from last
night, not daring to remove it. Now she pulled a russet bliaut over the loose
underdress, lacing up the sides with quick fingers so that it hugged her slim
body, then dragging her heavy hair back and tying it with a leather thong.

There
wasn't time to make the usual braid, and she scorned the new French head
coverings Adelise had taken to wearing. De Langley obviously knew she was part
Welsh. Let him make fun of her if he dared.

She
opened the door with a defiant shove, taking a moment to study her opponent.
The man stood beneath the window, back turned toward her. He was even taller
and broader of shoulder than she remembered. An odd little shiver slid over
her. Light filtered in through the thin, scraped hide of the window covering,
illuminating the loom he was contemplating, and the intricate tapestry Adelise
had been working.

In
the shadowy torchlight last night his thick hair had seemed darker,
tawny-brown. Now it caught the light in a thousand golden, honey-rich
reflections. Jocelyn had a fleeting thought that a woman might sell all she
possessed for such hair.

"Do
you weave?" he asked unexpectedly.

"Yes,
but that is my sister's work. It is beautiful, is it not?"

He
turned. His golden eyes met hers, traveled slowly over her in a way that made
her shift her weight uncomfortably. Then they returned to her face, impassive.
"Very. It's nice to know she's good for something. Something, that is,
besides the obvious thing lovely women are good for."

Jocelyn
stiffened. "My sister is good at a great many things. Facing a bloody,
rampaging lion in his den just doesn't happen to be one of them!"