The Mistress of Normandy. Susan Wiggs
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thinks will make him palatable. Tell your master that he can take his foul carcass back to England.”
Red-faced, the man stammered, “But...but my lady—”
“I wouldn’t marry that English god-don if the moon fell out of the sky. And if he thinks to force me, tell him to think again. I am already married to Lazare Mondragon.”
Cade’s jaw dropped. He grabbed a second cup of wine and drained it. “Married?”
She nodded. “I’ve had a copy of the marriage contract drawn up, so there can be no question as to its validity.” Drawing the document from the folds of her gown, she thrust it under Cade’s nose.
She couldn’t resist a slow smile of dark satisfaction. Today she would dispense with the Englishman; now she could turn her mind to the problem of Lazare. “There is nothing your master can do. Even King Henry cannot undo what has been wrought before God. Begone, now. The sooner you and that god-don you serve leave our shores, the better!”
With jerky motions he pocketed the contract, sent a look of longing at Bonne, took the last of the wine, and left the hall.
“You were a bit hard on the poor fellow,” said Bonne, staring after him. “He’s only a messenger, after all.”
“He’s an English god-don.”
An impulse of wicked mischief seized Lianna. She ran to the armory, put on her gunner’s smock, and climbed to the battlements. The new culverin, on its rotating emplacement, was small enough to be discharged by a single gunner. She loaded a ball and a modest charge into the chamber, lit a piece of tow, and waited until the Englishman passed under the gatehouse and crossed the causeway. She aimed the gun well away from him; the firing would be just for show.
The charge crackled, then rent the morning air with a powerful report. The ball passed wide of the rider and came down harmlessly in the woods. The horse reared; Cade spurred him and disappeared down the road.
The shot brought half the residents of the keep running out into the bailey, stumbling over milling chickens and squealing pigs. Wrapped in a hastily donned robe, Gervais appeared below, red-faced, shaking his fist.
Lianna didn’t care. Like potent wine, the heady sensation of triumph warmed her. How good it felt to vent her wrath, even on that worthless messenger. She half regretted that she’d never meet the master; she longed to see that damned horzain humiliated, wallowing in the mire of defeat, an Englishman bested by a Frenchwoman.
* * *
A gray mist drizzled over the Toison d’Or as she nosed up the coast from Eu to Le Crotoy, a stronghold of the Duke of Burgundy. Standing at the rail, Rand felt a chill seep into his bones. He barely heard the shouts of the crew as they made ready for landfall, because he was thinking of Lianna. Like a recurring melody, her name played in his mind. How tempting it had been, after seeing the demoiselle’s marriage contract, to seek Lianna out, to...to what? Locking his hands around the rail, he scowled. He was no more free now than he had been this morning when he’d sent Jack to Bois-Long. King Henry needed the ford; Rand was honor-bound to secure it—if not by marriage, then by might. Perhaps Burgundy, who had sent a cautious message to Eu, inviting them to come in secret, would provide an answer.
For now, though, Rand needed answers from Jack. The scutifer had returned a few hours ago, too drunk to do more than place the demoiselle’s message in Rand’s hand. “Fetch Cade for me,” he called to Simon.
Hand over hand, Jack Cade struggled along the rail toward Rand. “Please, my lord, not now.”
Rand scowled. “From the looks of you, if you put me off much longer, I’ll be talking to a corpse.”
Gulping air, Jack sank into a crouch. Rand took out a skin flask of wine. Jack waved him away. “I’m still drunk from this morning. Drunk and seasick. Fried to my tonsils.”
From his belt Rand drew Lianna’s ashwood catapult and a stone. He flung the missile into the sea. “Speak, Jack. Tell me of your interview with the demoiselle. What was she like?”
“Beautiful,” Jack mumbled sottishly.
“The demoiselle?” But she was Burgundy’s niece.
“Hair like flame...breasts like fresh cream... God, but she did fling a cravin’ upon me.”
“The demoiselle?”
Jack blinked. “Oh, that one. I was speaking of her maid. Bonne, that’s her name; means ‘good,’ don’t it? I’ll wager she’s very good indeed.”
His patience gone, Rand snapped, “It’s the demoiselle I want to hear of.”
Jack hiccupped. “Oh. Well...she’s...cold, my lord.” He grimaced. “Cold as the teat of a cockatrice.”
Unbidden relief spilled through Rand. Thank God she’d married another. “What did she look like?”
The ship listed. Jack closed his eyes and began to tremble. “Like...a cockatrice?”
“Jack—”
“My lord, what know I of the high nobility?” Jack opened his eyes. “She looked upon me with scorn. She was all tricked out in gauzy stuff, such as we saw on the ladies at Eltham.”
Rand could see the line of questioning was going nowhere. “What did she say?”
“She called you a god-don. What the hell is that?”
“A nickname we Englishmen have earned among the French, referring to our habit of calling upon God to damn whatsoever displeases us.”
“Well, she’s wrong about you. You’ve never taken the Lord’s name in vain. I do so often enough for us both.”
Rand sent another stone flying. It skittered across the iron-gray swells and was swallowed by a white-crested wave. “What else did she say?”
“She said she wouldn’t marry you if the moon fell out of the sky.” Jack watched him curiously but did not comment on the little weapon.
Robert Batsford, who had been standing nearby, joined them. “Her defiance is impressive,” said the priest. “Few men, still fewer women, would dare flout a king’s edict. Your bride is certainly bold-spirited.”
Jack mumbled. “She’s got the damnedest maid....”
Furious, Rand squinted through the stinging mist. He’d been duped by a woman; he’d failed in his knightly duty. “Oh, she’s a bride all right, Father. But not mine. She wed some Frenchman called Mondragon.”
“Good Lord, is the woman mad?”
“Having never met her, I wouldn’t know.”
Batsford let loose with a low whistle. “Married. Blessed St. George, I’m beginning to feel a grudging respect for the woman. What will you do now?”
Like ghosts in the mist, the four round towers of Le Crotoy hove into view. “Burgundy and I will find a solution,” said Rand.
Rand was gone. For two weeks the glade where St. Cuthbert’s cross stood had been empty, save for the lonely presence of a confused young woman. Still Lianna went there; she waited at the hour of the woodcock’s flight, hoping to see Rand.
Her remembrance of him turned to longing, and longing to obsession. She couldn’t forget that smiling face hewed by angels, his lips whispering endearments before closing over hers, the rich caress of his voice as he sang her a love song. Standing in the glade, she moved her hands over her ribs, her neck, her breasts, remembering, wanting, needing. Her body cried out for him with a passion so strong it hurt. He’d plumbed a well of deep, secret longings inside her—longings only he could fulfill. A timeless, mystical bond had linked them from the first, and even if Rand never came again, she knew she