The Mistress of Normandy. Susan Wiggs
arrogant face and an oddly lashless stare of deep calculation. His eyes were pale stones washed by the ice of command. The sight of him sliced through Lianna’s defiance with a blade-sharp sense of apprehension.
Spying her, Gervais smiled. Unexpectedly, Lianna had discovered a tolerance for her husband’s son. He’d relaxed his father’s interdict against her gunnery and lately seemed content to leave the running of the château to her. “Come greet our guest,” he said. His eyes lingered on her stained homespun smock, but she saw no disapproval in his gaze.
She swept toward Gaucourt. “Welcome, mon sire.”
He took her hand and leaned down, brushing his lips over the backs of her fingers. “Madame,” he murmured.
She extracted her hand from his. “Thank you for coming to my aid.”
His chilly, pale eyes crinkled at the corners, and she realized he was smiling in his own bloodless way. “I could not but come when I learned of the brave deed you did for France.”
Despite her instinctive distrust of Gaucourt, Lianna was pleased that the knight offered none of the warnings and recriminations her uncle of Burgundy had dealt her. “Under the circumstances I had no choice. I couldn’t possibly wed the Baron of Longwood and cede Bois-Long to the English Crown.”
“I agree, madame. King Henry needs a stronghold on the Somme to give him access to Paris. He may have his sights set on France, but thanks to you he’ll get no farther than here.”
“And thanks to you, mon sire,” Gervais said, “the English will not take Bois-Long by force.”
Lianna sent him a cool look. So, Gervais did have some understanding of the lay of things. She turned to Raoul. “The Englishman was seen to sail away from Eu, where he landed, but I fear he’ll be back.”
“The presence of fifty of my best men will stay his hand.”
Her eyes traveled down the length of the hall. Servitors were setting up the trestle tables for the evening meal. In a far corner of the room, the elderly Mère Brûlot sat crooning to the two babies she held in her arms. At one of the tables Guy, the seneschal, labored patiently over a livre de raison, his record of the daily events of the château.
Fear rushed over her like the shadowy wingbeats of a dark bird. Not for herself, but for the many people under her protection. How many of their fields would be burned if Henry acted? How long would they survive if the marauding English leveled their homes and slaughtered their livestock? Even Chiang’s guns might not hold back Henry’s wrath.
Gaucourt must have understood her unspoken thoughts, for he patted her arm reassuringly. “I’ve sent a number of hobelars out to scout the area. They’ll report to me at the first sign of an English contingent.”
“I’m deeply indebted to you.” She wished she felt more confident. The greatest battle commander of France had come to safeguard her château. So why did his presence evoke such an odd, ineffable feeling of dread?
Gaucourt lifted his mazer of wine. “There is no price too high to preserve the sovereignty of France, my lady.”
“At the moment I can but concern myself with preserving Bois-Long,” said Lianna.
“With my help, you shall,” Gaucourt promised. His eyes coursed over her, fastening on her waist. “Slim as a willow withe,” he murmured with slight accusation. “You’d best call your husband back from Paris and see about getting an heir.”
Lianna hoped her light laughter didn’t sound as forced as it felt, issuing from a throat gone suddenly tight. “I wish you’d leave such concerns to my women and the soothsayers who haunt the marshes.”
“I jest not,” said Gaucourt. “A child is a political necessity. It would solidify a marriage your uncle of Burgundy opposes.”
Gervais cleared his throat. His customary congenial smile seemed strained. “Bois-Long has an heir apparent,” he said.
Gaucourt shrugged. “Belliane has the blood of both Burgundy and Aimery the Warrior in her veins. ’Twould be a shame to let the line die out.”
That night in her chamber, she felt out of sorts as Bonne helped her prepared for bed. “Gaucourt’s mention of an heir is all the talk, my lady,” said the waiting damsel.
“Fodder for idle tongues,” Lianna snapped, stiffening her back as Bonne ran a brush through her hair.
“A child would be a blessing,” Bonne said boldly. “Perhaps it would even sweeten Macée’s disposition. She’s barren, you know.”
Lianna stared. “No, I didn’t know. Poor Macée.”
“Get a babe of your own, my lady.” Bonne’s eyes glinted with a sly light. “But for your womb to quicken, you must lie with a man.”
Lianna shot to her feet and whirled, her linen bliaut swirling about her slim ankles. “I’m not an idiot, Bonne. Lazare is in Paris. What would you have me do?”
“Take a lover. Queen Isabel herself has dozens.” Bonne moved across the chamber to the bed, whipping back the coverlet and brushing a bit of dried lavender from the pillow.
Lianna shivered. The king’s brother, Louis of Orléans, had paid with his life for consorting with Isabel. The Armagnacs credited the murder to her uncle of Burgundy. “Would you have me present Lazare with a bastard?”
“And who could call your child a bastard?” said Bonne. “The bloodied sheets of the marriage bed were duly inspected.” The maid brightened. “Perhaps you’re carrying a child now.”
“That’s not poss—” Lianna stopped herself. If word ever reached her uncle that the marriage had not been consummated, Burgundy would waste no time in getting it annulled and forcing her to marry the Englishman. “Enough, Bonne,” she said. “It is not your place to speak to me so.”
“As you wish, my lady,” the maid said without a trace of contrition. She patted the pillow. “Come to bed. Doubtless Gaucourt and the fifty extra mouths he’s brought to feed will keep you busy on the morrow.”
Lianna slipped beneath the coverlet and lay back on the pillow. Wisps of gullsdown drifted around her.
Bonne brought her lips together in a tight pout of irritation. “By St. Wilgefort’s beard,” she declared, “I told that slattern Edithe to mend the pillow.”
Lianna patted her hand. “Leave Edithe to me.” The maid looked so outraged that Lianna tried to turn the subject. “Who, by the by, is St. Wilgefort?”
Bonne sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward eagerly. “A new one, my lady, that Father LeClerq told me of. Wilgefort, it seems, was a matchless beauty. Growing weary of having so many suitors, she prayed to God for help.” Bonne hugged her knees to her chest and giggled. “She woke up the next morning with a full beard.”
Though she laughed, Lianna drew a painful parallel with her own dilemma. People lauded her beauty, but they kept their distance. She needed no beard, not with her domineering uncle, her scheming husband, and her own nature—a coolness born of confusion and ignorance—keeping men at bay.
Bonne started to withdraw, then returned to pick up a mug she’d left on a shelf. “Mustn’t forget my tonic,” she murmured, lifting the mug and draining it.
“Are you ailing?” Lianna asked.
Bonne laughed. “No, my lady, ’tis a draught of rue and savin.” She flushed. “Prevents conception.”
Knowing the substance to be a mild poison, Lianna frowned. “Is Roland so careless with you, Bonne?”
The maid shrugged. “Men. They are all alike. They spread their seed like chaff to the wind, heedless of where it takes root.”
That night Lianna had the dream again, the now familiar fantasy in which the husband who approached her bed transformed from Lazare into Rand. She awoke the