Olivier.’ Aude made her voice cool.
As the Abbot’s knight bowed over her hand, a peculiar fancy took her. Hugh Duclair was standing in Sir Olivier’s place, and he was no longer a banished man. Hugh was wearing a silk tunic banded with intricate embroidery, gold gleamed on the pommel of his sword, and his eyes were glittering with laughter as they had done that spring at Crèvecoeur…
‘Abbot Bertram suggested I spoke to you.’ Sir Olivier’s voice brought her crashing back to reality. ‘And that your brother approved our meeting.’
‘Indeed?’ Carefully she withdrew her hand. Not Hugh. Heavens, what was happening to her? She bit her lip.
‘My lady, both the Abbot and your brother speak highly of your qualities.’
‘It is good to hear my brother values me.’
‘And why should he not? But not only your brother, my lord Abbot speaks highly of you too. Word has spread of your competence at Beaumont, not to mention the changes you have wrought at Crèvecoeur.’
‘Oh.’
‘Lady Aude, I would be honoured if you would care to walk with me in the orchard. We might get to know each other a little better. You don’t object, I take it, Lord Edouard?’
‘Be my guest.’ Edouard had a definite smile in his voice.
‘My lady?’
Aude put her hand on the knight’s arm and he led her out of the church.
The tidal surge roared along. It was only a few miles short of Jumièges and it was larger than ever. The wave spanned the Seine; it burst over the banks. White crests foamed and frothed at the margins, churning the mud, snatching at dead branches.
The surge pushed on, unstoppable. Boats rocked at moorings, the wave broke over them, filling them to sinking point in a moment. River barges were ripped away, stolen by the great press of water. This was la barre, also called the mascaret.
At the Ételan riverbank, a woman’s eyes widened and she ran to snatch her daughter clear of the foreshore.
Near the harbour at Villequier, a little boy murmured, ‘Viking wave,’ and stuck his thumb in his mouth, eyes round as pennies.
At Caudebec-en-Caux, a monk made the sign of the cross when he noticed the white horses racing upriver. He shouted a warning at a woman hauling eel-traps in from one of the jetties. She never heard him. Foam sprayed in her face; the wave swirled round her ankles, tugged at her skirts and bore her away. There was more screaming. Choking. A mouth full of river water mixed with brine. The river swallowed her.
Jumièges lay around the next curl of the river. Only minutes away, la barre drove relentlessly towards it.
Bees were humming in the lavender hedge that bordered the Abbey orchard. Butterflies wavered past, drunk with nectar and sunshine. Walking sedately through the orchard with the long grasses brushing her skirts, Aude shot the Abbot’s knight a sidelong glance.
Sir Olivier was, as Edouard no doubt knew, well favoured and attractive. He had good teeth, he was powerfully built and he had a smile that might charm the larks from the sky. He had tucked her arm into his and she could feel strength under the broadcloth of his tunic. So far, she had seen nothing to dislike, and it was a pity she could not warm to him. Hugh. What would it be like to be walking in this orchard with Hugh Duclair?
Sir Olivier reached to pluck an apple from a tree and passed it to her.
‘My thanks.’ The fruit was red and unblemished. It held the heat of the sun, but Aude did not want it any more than she wanted the man. The memory of a teasing smile held more allure.
Firmly, she put the memory behind her. Hugh had no smile for her today.
Brown eyes gleamed as they looked at her, and with practised ease Sir Olivier manoeuvred her against one of the lichen-covered tree trunks. When his eyes darkened, she realised he was going to kiss her.
Aude lifted her lips. She had to admit, she was curious. Despite two betrothals and a hopeless yearning for a certain banished lord, she was sadly lacking in experience with regard to kissing. The only man to have kissed her had been her Martin. She had adored Martin, but she had only been thirteen when they had become betrothed and they had pledged to remain chaste until their wedding day.
That was no doubt why Martin’s kisses had been so brief; he had not wanted to tempt either of them into breaking their vows. Affectionate but chaste, Martin’s kisses had left her entirely unmoved. And as for her second fiancé, Count Richard had known she was grieving—he had not touched her. Besides, Count Richard had had a Saxon mistress to entertain him…
Sir Olivier bent his head.
Aude did not know this man; never mind that his handsome features left her unmoved, she would try for her brother’s sake. Edouard thought she had been grieving too long, that grief was her habit and it needed to be broken. Perhaps he was right. This knight might teach her to enjoy his touch. Well, let us see. If I find you pleasing, an alliance might be possible…
A tall, broad body blotted out the sun. Aude felt herself go stiff. It was not Hugh’s body, she felt no desire to touch it.
Her nose wrinkled. Sir Olivier’s blue tunic smelt faintly of sweat, stale sweat that made her want to turn her head aside. Not all men had this smell, she recalled, as the naked shoulders and finely sculpted musculature of Hugh Duclair came into focus in her mind.
‘My lady, I swear if you were to honour me with your hand, I would cherish you all my life.’
The eyes of the Abbot’s knight were almost black and as she tipped her head back Aude could see her own small self reflected back at her. What was he seeing? Herself? Or the lands and the dowry she would bring him?
The body of the Abbot’s knight pressed against her, flustering her, hemming her in. Her apple fell to the ground and she forced herself to stand still while his lips touched hers.
Nothing.
Aude felt nothing but a sense of unease. No, it was stronger than that, it was irritation and it was growing stronger with every second that his mouth was on hers. Smothered—he was smothering her. Her hand came up to push him away. He caught it in one of his. She swallowed down a protest.
Sir Olivier pressed closer, pushing her back against the tree. Think of our family, she told herself, we need to make a good alliance.
Aude held firm as he pressed closer. Her veil snagged on a twig and her sense of irritation increased.
‘Ouch! Sir Olivier!’
He could not have heard for he went on kissing her. He was trying to insert his tongue between her teeth. A shudder, and it was entirely of revulsion, went through her. Martin had never done anything half so repulsive. Aude twisted her head. There was a ripping sound as the twig tore the delicate fabric of her veil. Her hair felt as though someone was pulling it out at the roots.
‘Ow! Please, sir!’
His body smelled sour. Sir Olivier might be wearing a pretty tunic but it was better suited
