A Flame Run Wild (2 page)

Chapter 2

~

The Flute in the Wood

A forest east of Toulon, the southern coast of France

April 1189

A
lexandre de Brueil perched above the spring stream that was frigid with run-off from the snow-capped Alpine highlands. Poised lightly on the balls of his feet, he waited for a flash of silver among the black rocks. A winter of dry venison, and before that, searing months of near starvation with the defending crusaders during the siege of Jerusalem, had made him dream nightly of fresh trout in running water. He had imagined water pouring through Jerusalem's sun-baked streets, cascading off the city walls, down, down away from him to the enemy who flaunted water-filled goatskins at the trapped Europeans who were dying of heat and disease in their burning armor.

Alexandre forced the image from his mind. Chilled by the shade of the hillside's overhanging pines, he shivered slightly as he watched the frothing stream. Since leaving Palestine, he had piled his bed with furs and willing women, but had yet to be warm. The desert sun had thinned his blood; the siege, his body. He now had the hungry look of a wiry greyhound. After the siege, the overwhelming desire to gorge himself had been quickly quelled when he found that his shrunken stomach was unable to tolerate large quantities of food. The idea of greasy mutton and potatoes revolted him. He craved the fresh vegetables and fruits of the Crescent, pictured one exquisite yellow Lebanese lemon slice riding atop the trout now leaping among the rocky stream beneath him. Then he saw it: a shimmer of silver streaking through the shadowy current. He uncoiled his slim body and poised his light, forked lance above the frothing water.

A short while later, Alexandre's flute could be heard over the sizzle of roasting fish. Pausing briefly to sprinkle a pinch of aromatic Eastern spices onto his catch, Alexandre resumed playing an Arabic bazaar melody. His contentment was marred only by the nagging reflection that this would likely be his last moment of freedom for a long while. On the morrow he must marry; the thought affected his digestion like rancid meat. He already knew the discouraging details: Liliane del Pinal was a twenty-year-old widow of a Spanish nobleman and was reputed to be clever. That made her used, nearly past her prime, and practically foreign. As was typical of Spanish matrons, she was probably a religious fanatic and a shrew of less learning than presumption. She was also a Signe, and the Signes had all been weaned on treachery and greed.

Alexandre's lips pursed on the flute. Still. . . whatever Liliane del Pinal's bad points, the notorious Signe greed had made her rich. And at this point, money was the bargaining point he could ill afford to ignore. The Signes were afraid of him, he thought with contempt. In fact, it was Philip they feared, who shrewdly and ruthlessly ruled them all. Since the age of fourteen, a year before his royal father's death, Philip had governed France. Even then he'd been a match for the sty Plantagenet brood sired by England's dangerous lion, Henry II. Now twenty-four, Philip could play Richard the Lionhearted, the dead king's eldest son, like a harp. Philip was going to be a strong king, and if the inclination took him, he would crush the Signes as if they were mere cockroaches.

I helped Philip put down the Flanders uprising, Alexandre mused, then escorted the French banner to the Holy Land. Now, I am Philip's friend, and that has cost me my blood, my ideals and the near ruin of my neglected estate, upon which the Signes have gnawed like rats. Well, by all the Saints, thanks to Liliane's fat dowry, I shall at least rebuild my estate. Alexandre smiled mirthlessly. Besides, if my new bride is too sharp a bone, I can always pick her clean of money and toss her back to her greedy uncle. His smile broadened wryly. Ah, perhaps I have a few scruples, after all. If I followed Philip's example, I would stuff the wench into a tower as he did his first wife, blandly marry another woman, and watch the papal feathers fly. . . .

* * *

Astride her Moorish mare, Liliane heard a flute. Silvery as a cool beam of light, a wistful melody shimmered about the wood. I wonder if Pan haunts this place, she mused with a spark of playfulness rare to her since leaving Spain. The journey first by sea, then two days overland, had been a strain, her revulsion for Jacques and Louis increasing with every mile. This past week she had stayed at Castile de Signe while Jacques had briefed her on what he expected from her coming marriage to the Count de Brueil. For the time being, she was amply to keep him informed about everything that went on in the count's demesne. "Other than that," he had told her benevolently, "just enjoy yourself. Be pretty, wear your jewels. He will be smitten with you in no time."

Jacques's meaning was clear enough. She was to seduce Alexandre de Brueil into trusting her. If only her uncle knew how inexperienced she was at seduction!

Liliane had come to France to guard both Alexandre de Brueil and herself. She might never prove that Jacques had killed Diego, but sooner or later he would try to kill Brueil, and that she must prevent. If she could not prove Jacques had committed one crime, she might expose him in attempting another.

She had tolerated her relatives' escort as far as the edge of the Brueil demesne, then she easily lost the lavishly dressed wedding party in the shady forest. Anywhere else, Louis and a few of the party's armed escort would have swiftly retrieved her, but here in the threatening shadow of Count Alexandre, he and Jacques were confused, anxious and hesitant. If they wandered off the trail, they risked being shot for leaving their agreed route. They must be itching to throttle me, she thought, and laughed shortly. Let them stew. She would show up at the wedding, but not without a few last hours to call her own. She had always been someone else's property: her parents', then Jacques's, and finally Diego's. Now, for a brief span of hours, she would follow the sun-warmed wind and the mysterious flute that mesmerized with its lure of ancient temptations and elusive delights. . . .

In a small glen of pines nestled among the hillside rocks, Liliane found the flutist. The player was no Pan, yet he so resembled the errant god that she was frozen in fascination. He perched above the stream, a lithe, young ruffian. His worn woolen braies and chainse were topped by a fox-lined cotehardi.

His sun-streaked hair and beard were trimmed short, his face and hands a deep bronze. Although he was probably born a serf, his musical skill was bewitching, and she saw that his hands were fine-boned for a common plowman. His face was hard, with rapier-sharp features, but he also had a sensuous, full-lipped mouth. He was a thief, she decided, who survived by his wits. She had best keep her distance. Those fingers playing so quickly upon the flute might be as quick with a knife.

Alexandre sensed he was being watched and thought instantly that it was a Moor, but that was impossible. Oak leaves stirred in the breeze, obscuring the motionless watcher. His knife was at his belt, but the new foliage blocked the path of his bow and javelin. It would be impossible to notch the bow quickly enough to keep the stranger's arrow from his throat. He must lure his silent observer into the open.

Alexandre lowered, the flute. "I have fish enough for two," he said casually, having not the slightest intention of sharing his precious catch. "If you remain shy,
mon ami
, you will shortly dine on cinders."

For a long, breathless moment, no sound came from the tangle of trees. Then he heard a voice as mild as his own reply, "Better to swallow a choice cinder than a javelin."

The stranger's French was Poitevin, which puzzled Alexandre; it was also cultivated, which puzzled him more. An assassin brought in by the Signes? However, unless the fellow was of a lethally playful bent, Alexandre would now have been stretched upon the ground. "I have no wish to cut your throat, merely to eat my lunch," Alexandre countered smoothly. "Will you be kind enough not to delay it?"

"By all means, dine at your pleasure. You need fear no interference from me."

"I confess to a dislike of anyone, particularly a conversational bush, staring at me while I chew," Alexandre tossed back, becoming genuinely irritated. His fish was starting to look overdone. "Kindly show yourself or be gone."

"No need to be prickly," returned the bush calmly. "May I have a small slice near the tail?"

Damn the cheeky varlet! thought Alexandre. "Whatever you please," he lied, "so long as I am relieved of the role of Moses."

A golden-haired youth warily stepped from behind the oak cluster, holding a javelin loosely in his hand. Alexandre, familiar with the seemingly careless stance and latent quickness of hunters and warriors, made no move toward his own weapons. The boy was handsome, richly dressed, with soft, fair skin. His smoky eyes were those of a seducer. He was too pretty for Alexandre's liking. Probably some foppish page who had wandered away from a hunting party. Probably one that belonged to Jacques.

"Are you a Signe?" he asked abruptly, watching the boy's eyes.

Those eyes widened, then the boy smiled pleasantly. "No, just a member of the entourage. The seigneur was hunting boar today. I prefer fish to pork."

Alexandre pointed his flute. "There is the stream."

The youth cocked his head. "You are retracting the luncheon invitation?"

Alexandre shrugged with little regret. "Only have one fish. So sorry."

"Because you still think I am a Signe ... or because you are a liar?"

"Because I think we are both liars."

The youth's derisive laugh told Alexandre that he did not much care what a ragged man thought. "Then we are in excellent company.'' He grinned recklessly as he clambered a few feet up the rocks, but he was careful to keep Alexandre in view. Finding a flat rock across the stream, he poised his javelin.

If that unweaned brat catches something, vowed Alexandre, I shall eat my boots.

Within minutes the brat was spitting a sleek trout to roast, as Alexandre ignored his boots and began to pay assiduous attention to his own dinner. So, this boy is more than a fop, he decided, his suspicion whetted.

Seeming to read his mind, the boy eyed him mischievously. "I begin to understand your wish to keep your dinner to yourself. You eat with the appetite of a starved bear."

He may know who I am, reflected Alexandre, if he refers to the Palestine siege. He smiled without humor as he pried the last morsel from his trout's spine. "At least I keep to my own forest."

"Yours?" The boy raised an ironic brow at Alexandre's tattered garment, then gazed at the lush greenery about them. "Do these woods not border the demesne of the Count de Brueil?"

So he had not guessed. Alexandre's smile widened as he tossed the trout bones into the stream. "Does a squirrel deed out his burrow? This wood will belong to foxes and weevils like me when Brueil is dust. Besides, have you seen me take a stag, even a rabbit, that would blight his hunting?"

The boy nodded at the fish bones rapidly floating downstream. "Surely, you agree that Milord de Brueil could hang you for this encroachment?"

Alexandre shrugged. "Why would he bother?" He patted his slim middle. "I eat less than one of his hounds."

The boy turned the spit. "Some seigneurs value men less than hounds." The smoke rose in a savory, pungent spiral.

"Is Alexandre de Brueil so hard of heart?"

"I know him not; I have heard only that he has a fondness for fighting."

"Brueil?" Alexandre laughed shortly. "I assure you, having had a tour of battle in the Crescent, he has no such appetite. Given leisure, he would be little different from you, with scarce more on his mind than choosing between fish and pork."

The page's smoke-colored eyes caught the fire's hot, orange glow. "You suppose me a lap dog?"

Alexandre grinned. "Do you find that irritating?"

As the page unspitted his fish, he shrugged. "Gold-collared fleas are more so; the Signes have a wealth of them."

Alexandre laughed. "Fie, to speak so of your masters."

The page's eyes narrowed as if he saw evil genies in the fire. "Aye, my masters ..." Silent for some moments, he neatly partitioned his fish. "Tell me, is this peace-loving Alexandre de Brueil so fond of the Signes?"

"He will marry one tomorrow," replied Alexandre dryly.

"Marry, to marry is to marry, is to marry, as our good King Philip would say," purred the page, plucking up a bite of trout. "Is the lady beautiful?"

"I doubt it" was Alexandre's flat response as he propped his back against a log. "But you should know that better than I."

"I have no great interest in women," responded the page lightly. "In any event, the demoiselle is too tawny and immodest for my tastes."

Alexandre's ears pricked. "Immodest?"

The page yawned. "To meet her, you would scarce know her from a boy."

"Oh." Alexandre's disappointment was evident. "Well, perhaps her lack of sex has preserved her virtue."

"I wonder," mused the page, his cheek full of fish and his expression faraway. "Free for a night, with none the wiser, what fancies and allurements might any woman entertain when bound to an unwelcome match?"

Alexandre stretched out his long legs. "After all," he speculated, "she was married to an old man. The demoiselle may know much of men or nothing; for want of a vigorous bedding, she may be either wizened or wanton."

The page flushed. "I daresay the lady would dislike having her honor scorched over coals not yet lit. Who is to say her new groom is not wizened or wanton?"

Alexandre's lips twisted wryly. "In truth, he is a bit of both."

Beneath his sloped, gold-trimmed cap, the page grimaced. "Then the lady must envy your weevil's carefree existence; weevils do not marry much and are the wiser for it." He tossed the last of his fish to Alexandre. "Enjoy the rest, weevil, and count yourself rich. My appetite has been ruined by civilized fare, rich with sauces of money and marriages."

Alexandre had developed much the same aversion. They stared at the half-eaten fish with its treacherous bones. A water drop flattened on the trout's dulled scales. Another plopped on the page's plumed cap, another on Alexandre's bare head. "We had best look for shelter," observed the page. "Is there any nearby, sirrah?"

"I know of a dry den." Alexandre gathered up his weapons and flute. "Unless you've grown too civilized to tolerate another man's droppings."

The page's laugh had a girlish but attractive ring. "You may rest easy on that score. Even lap dogs know when to trot out of the rain."

The page untied his horse and let Alexandre mount before him in the saddle. They wound through the wet wood until they were drenched, but there was still no sign of a cave or dry shelter. Alexandre's teeth began to chatter, his hands turning blue on the reins. The page pulled a fur-lined mantle from his saddlebag and flung it over them both, but he made no effort to share his body warmth. By the time they reached the Brueil hunting lodge and dismounted, Alexandre knew why. The downpour had soaked the page's linen chainse and molded it into a surprisingly delightful shape. His companion was a girl.

He had been imagining assassins but never, even remotely, a female wood sprite. The young woman's contralto voice was low enough that she had easily disguised her sex. A suspicion as to her identity grew in his mind. Was this lithe, sultry-eyed "boy" his bride to be? The provocative possibility of probing her secret teased his mind. Surreptitiously, he watched the rise of the lady's chainse as she unleashed the saddlebags and flung them over her shoulder. Then he quickly undid the crimson saddle cinch and hauled the saddle into the back of the wooden lodge.

Like a mammoth tree stump, the lodge blended into the wet green wood. Its western wall bounded a small lake, and some of the stones had tumbled into the water, while on the other side, the stable was little more than a tumble-down wooden slant of roof.

At this moment, Alexandre's black destrier trotted up to welcome him. In order to rebuild the strength he'd lost in Palestine, Alexandre had wandered the wood on foot this morning, leaving the stallion to graze the far side of the lake. As he stroked the stallion, he noted that its training and magnificence were not lost on the girl; her sardonic cool gaze told him that she assumed the animal was stolen.

After tethering his horse, Alexandre retrieved a rusty iron key from beneath a nearby pile of rocks. As the key screeched in the worn lock, his companion observed with a hint of sharpness, "Never a rabbit do you take, eh? For a villein, you treat Alexandre de Brueil's property as if it were your own, and your speech is smooth as Cathay silk. Come, sirrah, are you poacher or proprietor?"

"I am a common bastard with a highborn tongue, and I have some claim to this place," Alexandre answered smoothly. "Is that answer enough?" He did not know why he lied; unless for pride that this beauty should not think him a worthless thief. He saw that she was stunned.

"You are a brother of Alexandre de Brueil?"

"We share a trifling resemblance about the jaw." Alexandre picked up the saddle. "Then again, we have another similarity. Neither of us has a livre to his name, but I am a free weevil whereas he is a dutiful flea." He shouldered open the heavy door and they entered a dusty, bare room with a stone fireplace glutted with leaves, mullioned windows cloudy with age, and a lively family of mice. A common table and ornately carved wooden chairs centered the room. Into the rounded stone fireplace was cut the leopard and unicorn emblem of the Brueil family; at its sides were stone griffins mounted on balls, which had lost most of their detail to soot. A greenish light suffused the room. Alexandre carelessly dumped the saddle. "Seigneur Alexandre rates none of my envy. He must take a bride to support this dog-eared legacy, while I wear no woman's collar."