Полная версия
The Mistress of Normandy
#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs transports readers to the lush French countryside of Normandy in a tale of love, family honor and true knights in shining armor…
www.SusanWiggs.com
Praise for
“Wiggs adds humor, brains and a certain cultivation
that will leave readers anticipating her next romance.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Drifter
“Susan Wiggs delves deeply into her characters’ hearts
and motivations to touch our own.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Mistress
“[Wiggs] has created a quiet page-turner
that will hold readers spellbound as the relationships,
characters and story unfold. Fans of historical romances
will naturally flock to this skillfully executed
[Chicago Fire] trilogy.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Firebrand
“Susan Wiggs masterfully combines real historical events
with a powerful captive/captor romance and…
draws readers in with her strong writing style….”
—RT Book Reviews on The Hostage
Also by SUSAN WIGGS
Contemporary Romances
Home Before Dark
The Ocean Between Us
Summer by the Sea
Table for Five
Lakeside Cottage
Just Breathe
The Goodbye Quilt
The Lakeshore Chronicles
Summer at Willow Lake
The Winter Lodge
Dockside
Snowfall at Willow Lake
Fireside
Lakeshore Christmas
The Summer Hideaway
Marrying Daisy Bellamy
Return to Willow Lake
Candlelight Christmas
The Bella Vista Chronicles
The Apple Orchard
The Beekeeper’s Ball
Historical Romances
The Lightkeeper
The Drifter
The Tudor Rose Trilogy
At the King’s Command
The Maiden’s Hand
At the Queen’s Summons
Chicago Fire Trilogy
The Hostage
The Mistress
The Firebrand
Calhoun Chronicles
The Charm School
The Horsemaster’s Daughter
Halfway to Heaven
Enchanted Afternoon
A Summer Affair
Look for Susan Wiggs’s next novel
THE MAIDEN OF IRELAND
available soon from Harlequin MIRA
The Mistress of Normandy
Susan Wiggs
Refreshed version of THE LILY AND THE LEOPARD,
newly revised by author
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Praise
Title Page
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Afterword
Copyright
Prologue
Westminster
January 1414
He sat naked in a wooden tub; the King of England loomed at his back. He shivered, tensed, and awaited a sluice of cold water from Henry V’s own hand. The wind whistled, harmonizing with the voices in the shadows of the stone chamber.
“Always thought he’d earn his spurs on the battlefield,” remarked Thomas, Duke of Clarence. “Enguerrand Fitzmarc is the king’s own avenger. He served us right well at Anjou.”
“It was a different dragon Rand slew for the House of Lancaster,” said Richard Courtenay. The Bishop of Norwich leaned forward, the rushlight giving his face a ghostly aspect. “A far more deadly dragon,” he added. “God in heaven, Tom, if not for Rand, you and your brother the king would be but carcasses carved up and served by the Lollards to the Thames.”
Listening, Rand felt pride in Courtenay’s tribute. Then he felt shame in that pride. What had he done, after all, save overhear a plot of ill-guided religious fanatics? A peasant could have done as much. But it hadn’t been a peasant; it had been Rand, gone a-harping at twilight, stumbling into intrigue, barely escaping with his hide intact to alert the king at Eltham.
“Are you ready,” King Henry said with quiet solemnity, “to wash away your former life?”
Rand paused before delivering the expected response. Unlike many aspirants who yearned for the glory of knighthood, he did not want to shed his former life: the quiet sunsets over Arundel keep, the baying of the alaunts on a hunt, the silvery tones of his harp across the heaths of Sussex, the warmth of Justine’s hand in his.... Jesu, could he wash her away?
The men in the chamber fell silent. The king waited.
“Aye, Your Grace,” said Rand.
Water, blessed by the bishop and chilled by the January air, drenched Rand from head to toe, crawling like rivers of ice over his naked flesh. He sat unflinching, although inside he clenched every nerve against the cold.
Jack Cade, Rand’s scutifer, stepped forward. Awkwardly Jack held a pair of barber’s shears in his maimed hand. He flashed an irreverent grin as he bent to his task, the crude scissors biting into Rand’s golden locks. “Enough baths like this,” Jack muttered, taking up a razor, “and you’ll be well able to hold to your vow of chastity.” The razor nicked Rand’s chin.
Hearing King Henry clear his throat, Rand swallowed his laughter. “Hush, Jack, and mind that blade. The shearing’s supposed to show my submission to God, not to your clumsiness.”
Washed clean of his former life and shorn of his former identity, Rand was dressed in shirt, hose, and shoes—black, the color of death, that he might never forget his own mortality. Over this he wore a white tunic for purity, then a red cloak of surpassing richness to show his nobility and willingness to shed blood for God and his king.
Jack secured a white belt around Rand’s waist. “Another symbol of chastity,” he whispered, disgusted. “Would you like me to loosen it, Enguerrand Sans Tache?”
Edward, the portly Duke of York, sniffed. “Mind your manners, varlet.”
King Henry’s dark eyes glinted beneath a shock of straight brown hair. “Leave off your scolding, cousin. Tom did contrive the title Sans Tache—the Spotless—in jest. And yet...” Henry’s sharp gaze assessed the aspirant. “I do find it fitting. By my troth, Rand, were you born with that damned saintly countenance, or is it merely an affectation? Never mind, we’ve a long night ahead of us. We can talk then.” He grinned at Rand’s thunderstruck look. “Aye,” said the king, “I do mean to sit vigil with you.”
Rand sank to one knee. “Your Grace, you do me too much honor to stand as my sponsor.”
“We shall see, Enguerrand Fitzmarc, if you think that is so on the morrow.” King Henry turned and led the way through the winding passageways of Westminster, up two newel staircases from the confessor’s chapel, to the chantry Henry had built to honor Bolingbroke, his father. Rand’s new weapons and armor lay on the altar steps, his sword on the altar itself.
Courtenay said mass, then intoned, “Hearken, O Lord, to our prayers, and bless with the right hand of Thy majesty this sword with which Thy servant desires to be girded.”
Rand stared at the sword, a gift from King Henry. Girded...nay, more likely shackled, he thought. Yet the bright blade, wrought of Poitiers steel, inlaid with gold, its cruciform hilt glinting with the single green eye of an emerald, beckoned to something deep inside him.
Following mass, the celebrants filed slowly out of the chapel. Rand remained kneeling before the altar, pondering the sword and all it meant to him.
Henry sat down on a prie-dieu. “I’ll stay hard by, to give you encouragement, to prod you if the temptation to sleep becomes too great.” Grinning, he added, “Though you’re unlikely to fall asleep on your knees.”
Rand resisted the urge to shift restlessly. The cold stone flags pressed into his bones.
The king leaned back and crossed his ankles. “You’re well formed, Rand Fitzmarc. My brother of Clarence says you once vaulted a battlement at Anjou without a ladder. How tall be you?”
Remembering that an aspirant should pass the night in tacit meditation, Rand lowered his eyes and kept silent.
“Come, you may speak,” said the king. “There are things I would know about the man who saved my neck. Did you indeed vault the battlement?”
Rand flushed. “It was a common wall, not a battlement. I heard a woman crying on the other side, saw flames rising. There was no time to call for a ladder.”
“I see. So, how tall be you?”
“A hand...nay, two, perhaps, past six feet, Your Grace.”
“And did you deliver the woman from the flames?”
Rand glanced at his hands, folded in prayer. The knuckles of the left one were sleek with scars. “Aye.”
“How came you to learn your battle skills?”
“From my father, Marc de Beaumanoir. He was captured by the Earl of Arundel’s men at St.Malo, and held prisoner at Arundel. He was never able to raise his ransom.”
“So he stayed in England, got a son, and raised him up to be a knight,” Henry finished, satisfied.
Rand looked up. The king had spoken in French. Politeness dictated that he answer in kind. “He did, mon sire, but never found the means for my initiation into knighthood.”
“You’ve earned it by denouncing the Lollard plot. Damned religious zealots.”
Hearing the quiver of 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.”
One
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, Bonne,” Lianna said dryly, “I knew you wouldn’t be much help to me tonight.”
The maid stamped a slippered foot; the motion made her lurch. “You should have summoned me.”
“I hadn’t the heart to pull you away from...” She tapped her chin, thinking. “Whose lap ornament were you tonight? Ah yes, Roland.”
“My first duty is to you,” Bonne said, then hiccuped softly. “Roland would wait a hundred years for me, anyway,” she added matter-of-factly. “At least let me do your hair.”
Bonne drew Lianna down to a stool. With the overcautious motions of a drunk, she fetched an ivory comb and freed Lianna’s hair from its coif. “Spun by the angels, I always say,” she said, pulling the comb through the silvery curtain of straight, fine locks.
“I’d as soon have it cropped by the hand of man,” Lianna said, grimacing as the comb snared in a tangle. “Chiang nearly set my head aflame when we were testing those new charges.”
“Chiang.” Bonne spat the name. “You’re too much in the company of that odd Chinaman, my lady. I trust him not.”
“You’ve been listening to the men-at-arms,” Lianna chided. “They’re jealous because they know Chiang’s gunnery can defend Bois-Long better than their swords.”
“I know naught of defending a castle. But I do know of pleasing a man. Tonight you’ll play the lady instead of dabbling in warfare like a soldier. Perhaps a woman’s pleasures will turn you from a man’s pursuits.”
Lianna sat still as Bonne unstopped a bottle of fragrant oil and anointed her, secreting the scent of lilies at her nape and temples, between her breasts and at the backs of her knees. Despite her drunken state, the maid’s hand was steady as she imbued Lianna’s lips and cheeks with a discreet mist of rouge.
Bonne stepped back and gasped in admiration. “By St. Wilgefort’s beard!” She took up a polished-steel mirror and angled it toward Lianna. “You look like a princess.”
Lianna frowned at her image. The pale robe fluttered against her willow-slim form; her hair hung in drifts around her oval-shaped face. Her customary look of arrogance, worn to hide the intrepid dreamer deep inside, made her delicate features seem hard tonight, hard and bloodless.
“How can you scowl at being so favored?” Bonne demanded.
Lianna shrugged and eyed her maid’s ripe bosom and bold smile. “In sooth, Bonne, you have the looks that turn heads. Besides, an agreeable face doesn’t win a kingdom, nor does it endure.”
“Happily for you, your beauty has endured into your twenty-first year, my lady. You look far younger. I was beginning to think your uncle the duke would have to drive you to the altar at sword point. Think you he’ll approve of your Lazare?”
Lianna swallowed. “My uncle of Burgundy will send his spurs spinning into oblivion when he learns what I’ve done.”
“Aye, I’ve always thought he wanted better for you.”
Privately Lianna agreed. She’d often wondered why Uncle Jean had never pressed her to wed, but was too content in her spinsterhood to question him. Now King Henry had forced her out of that comfortable state.
A burst of noise from the hall drifted in through the window, along with a breeze tinged by the smell of the river and the lingering acrid odor of Chiang’s fireworks. Bonne put away the mirror. “I’d best leave you to your husband. My lady...you must be biddable and patient with him....”
Flushing, Lianna raised a hand to forestall her maid. “Don’t worry, Bonne.” Women’s talk made her ill at ease; she had no interest in secrets whispered behind a damsel’s hand. She propelled Bonne toward the door. “I daresay I’ll survive my wedding night. Go and find your Roland.”
The girl swayed down the narrow spiral of stairs.
Lianna returned to her solar to ponder that mysterious, much-lauded act that would solidify her marriage to Lazare Mondragon. With a stab of loss, she thought of her mother, long dead of drowning. Dame Irène might have guided her this night, might have prepared her to receive her husband.
Glancing at the gesso mural, Lianna watched the firelight flicker over a detail of a young woman reading to a child from a psalter. Again Lianna searched her memory for her mother but found only a whisper of rose-sweet fragrance, the ghost of a cool hand against her brow, the soft tones of a female voice. She might have told stories to me, Lianna mused.
Shaking her head, she tossed aside the useless sentiment. She had no place in her life for pretty stories and games. Fate had left her to learn on her own, to approach every task with calculated logic.
She faced marriage in the same dispassionate manner. When the English king’s envoy had arrived three weeks earlier ordering her to marry a baron who styled himself Enguerrand of Longwood, she’d begun a swift, methodical search for an eligible Frenchman who didn’t fear her powerful uncle. In Lazare Mondragon, she’d found him. Sufficiently needy to be dazzled by her dowry, and sufficiently greedy to flout the duke, Lazare had proved instantly agreeable. The castle chaplain—aging, senile—hadn’t insisted on a lengthy reading of banns.
The door swung open. With stiff movements Lianna inclined her shining head. “Mon sire.”
Lazare Mondragon stepped inside. He was resplendent in his wedding costume, from the velvet capuchon on his graying head to his narrow pointed shoes. The shimmering cresset flame lit his handsome features—a strong nose, angular chin, and dark, deep-set eyes. Taking Lianna’s hand, he brushed it with dry lips.
The brief contact ignited a flicker of trepidation in her. She snuffed it quickly and said, “Is all well in the hall?”
“My son Gervais and his wife have won the hearts of the castle folk, Gervais with his bold tales and Macée with her pretty singing.” Lazare’s voice rang with fatherly pride.
She studied his lined face. The shadowy eyes looked world-weary, the eyes of a stranger she’d met only six days before. He lacked the eagerness of a new bridegroom. She pushed aside the notion. Of course he wouldn’t look eager. Lazare was a widower, her senior by twenty-five years. But he was French, and that was enough for Lianna.
She poured wine into a mazer and handed it to him.
“Thank you, Belliane,” he said absently.
“Please, Lazare, I do go by my familiar name.”
“Of course. Lianna.”
Smiling, she filled another cup and lifted it. “A toast, to the deliverance of Bois-Long from English hands.”
A frown corrupted the smoothness of Lazare’s brow. “That’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it, Lianna?”
The bitterness of his tone sparked a flash of understanding in her. Crossing to his side, she laid her hand on his arm. “I never pretended otherwise.”
He shook her off and turned away. “I was quite cheaply bought, was I not?”
“We were two people in need, you and I. That our marriage answered those needs is no cause for shame.” She faced the window and looked out at the beloved, moonlit water meadows surrounding Bois-Long. “We can be well content here, Lazare, united against the English.”
He drank deeply of his wine. “Longwood could arrive any day now, expecting a bride. What will he do when he finds you’ve already wed?”
“Pah! He’ll turn his cowardly tail back to England.”
