pain in the king’s voice, Rand said, “Mon sire, I do not believe your friend John Oldcastle was among the conspirators at Eltham.” One corner of his mouth rose in a crooked grin. “Oldcastle would never have let me escape.”
Henry nodded. “You’re right. You’re...” His voice trailed off, and his eyes danced with a keen light. “You’re speaking in French, by God!” He threw his head back, and his laughter ricocheted through the chantry. “Your French is as flawless as your reputation. Faith, but I see the hand of God in this.”
Rand felt a prickle of apprehension in his fast-numbing limbs. God’s hand lent convenience to many of the young king’s schemes.
Henry’s laughter stopped abruptly. He leaned toward Rand, eyes ablaze with an inner fire, brighter than the light from the tapers on the altar. “Have you lands?”
“No, Your Grace. I am bastard born, and Beaumanoir was seized by the French Crown.”
“Are you betrothed?”
Rand hesitated. The banns had not been posted; Jussie had insisted on waiting until his campaigning with Clarence was over. Still, their vows had been spoken to the stars above the Sussex heaths, long ago....
“Well?” King Henry prodded.
“Not yet, Your Grace, but there is a girl—”
“A commoner?”
“She is not of noble blood, sire, but there is nothing common about her.”
Henry smiled. “Spoken as a true knight. But I’ve your future in hand now.” Rising, he melted back into the shadows at the rear of the chantry. Rand heard him summon his advisers from their beds, heard the whispers of a conference, and felt a thin, cold knife blade of foreboding slice into his heart.
* * *
At sunrise Rand preceded the king and his nobles and ministers into the yard where the arming would take place. His mind nearly as numb as his limbs, he was clad in hauberk, cuirass, and gauntlets. A white linen cotte d’armes, emblazoned with the gold Plantagenet leopard, was drawn over his head. Around Rand’s neck hung an amulet, another of King Henry’s gifts. The talisman, too, bore the leopard rampant and the motto A vaillans 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,
