By Right of Arms (4 page)

“And my husband’s life,” she said.

“Aye, and other soldiers of your house.” He made a half bow. “I am grieved to deliver the news. Many were killed. I bring to you the knowledge that Sir Giles died a warrior’s death on the field of battle. You may bury him with pride.”

His words came so easily, with such a beautiful command of the Gascon language of her homeland, that her chest swelled with pain anew. There was nothing to grasp but this confirmation that all was lost. He did not scorn her, laugh at her, abuse her, or even take much boasting in his accomplishment. She wished to see the ugly face of his messenger. It was easier to bear the cruel mocking of the victor than abide this young knight’s compassion and courtly manners. In the wake of losing all she valued, he stood at ease in her bedchamber, looking down on her.

“Will I be allowed to bury my lord?” she asked quietly, a slight catch in her voice.

“Perhaps on the morrow.”

He approached her, pulling a small knife from his belt as he came closer. He held it before her for a moment, judging her expression. She showed no frightened surprise; she feared neither him nor death.

He knelt and turned her so he might cut the straps that bound her wrists. She pulled her arms loose and rubbed the soreness with her fingers. He was still kneeling, his face close to hers, and she could see in his eyes a softness that she did not understand.

He took one of her hands in his and judged the redness for himself. “Had you not strained against the ropes, you would have suffered far less,” he said, his voice as smooth as a polished stone.

“It is my nature to strain against so cruel a thing as this,” she returned, lifting her chin.

He smiled in a quick, fleeting manner before his face grew serious again. In that brief smile, his eyes lit and his expression became momentarily bright. For an instant Aurélie forgot why he was there, leaning so close to her. Had the moment occurred at a dinner or joust, her heart would have leapt in some aroused excitement. His handsome face, tanned no doubt by many days of travel toward her home, was strong and flawless. There was nothing of weakness in his hard and implacable warrior’s expression; his beard was thick brown, his brows heavy and brooding, and his mouth wide and firm. “This I understand, madame. I am likewise plagued by a natural fighting will.”

She instantly found fault with his beautiful strength. She imagined that the women of his English court yearned for his attentions. She ardently wished him ugly and stupid, two qualities that would be easy to ridicule. But it was
her
bindings he cut. She could not decry his wisdom, strength, or even his appearance. He was older than Giles, perhaps thirty years of age.

“Will I be allowed retirement?” she asked.

“My ears deceive me. Did your messenger confuse your request? I was told you desired the time for a mass above all other concessions.” He smiled. “This I have obliged.”

She pulled her hand out of his. “Perhaps I will flee,” she said.

“Where, madame? To a harsher master?” He chuckled. “Even an approved sojourn would be difficult. There is war on the land.”

“Or join my husband in death, as I honorably should.”

“Shall I leave you the blade,
chérie?”
he asked gently, turning it over in the palm of his hand. He shook his head. “Nay, I will not kill you. I dislike useless death and do not desire yours. I honor your right to die valiantly, if that is your choice.” He shrugged. “But I think it would only cause greater suffering for those captured in this hall.”

He laid the knife down on the rushes before her and turned his back to begin arranging the cold, brittle sticks and logs on her hearth. The sight of his back aggravated her more. He did not fear her, as if she lacked the courage to attack him. She picked up the knife and gingerly tested the blade, causing a bright swell of blood to appear on her finger. The instrument was worthy of the task, and in a swift motion she drew up on her knees, holding the knife high, ready to bring it down into his flesh. As quickly, with but a slight turn and deft movement, the knife was struck from her hand and sent flying across the room. It landed with a clatter and she was sprawled beneath him in the rushes.

His eyes, dark and smoldering, bored into hers. His jaw was tense and his mouth set in an angry line. He held her arms over her head in one hand, the other free to beat her senseless if he so chose.

“If some sharp dagger lay hidden in your mourning gown,
chérie,
use it quickly and well, for two score of your people will die with each missed mark.”

“There is no weapon,” she said slowly. “How many of mine will you slay for this?”

He shook his head. “This I yield to you,” he said softly. “ ’Tis your nature, is it not? But from now, madame, I will tie you in the courtyard and you will watch each of your villeins suffer as they pay the price for your foolish acts. Do well to hear me and know that I speak only the truth.”

“You are clever,
seigneur.
My life means nothing to me now, but those abused by your men are tender souls who have never been helpless under a demon rule before your cruel arrival.”

He raised one brow and a half smile touched his lips. “I could have sworn the guard stood fast outside your door, Aurélie. How is it the peasants already bring you complaints?”

She wiggled slightly beneath him, knowing he taunted her. “I heard women scream and the breaking of doors. Do you play me for a fool?”

He seemed almost amused by her anger. “To some, the defeat has come hard, but most already serve. Your tender souls have had no rule here; the fair Giles was too busy about his prayers to …”

She began to fight him in earnest when he maligned the memory of her husband. Her arms strained futilely against his hand and she tried to kick, writhe, push. He was large and as solid as a stone statue.

“Cease!” he commanded her. “Hear me, wench, for I will not spend much time teaching you. Your villeins do not suffer, but for the stupid few who test my wrath. I give you more consideration than you deserve. Indeed, I have allowed you much. You think I gave you leave for a mass for the dead?” he laughed. “Nay, my clever vixen, I gave you leave to rob your own stores and flee if you would. And I give you more; I will give you a short time to do your worst. Tear at your hair, scream, rend your black gowns, and wallow in ashes. I will leave you this chamber for your choice of torture. And, I will leave you the blade; if you do not value life, use it.”

“You will wear my blood on your soul,” she growled.

He smiled suddenly. “God will never know yours from all the others’,
chérie.
If my soul is damned for killing, your blood will not damn me any further.” His smile faded into a frown, almost pitying in its quality. “I suppose this is a poor time to remind you, for my losses were not so heavy as yours … but the de Pourvre army took a few lives with them.” He shrugged. “Who of us, madame, loves war? Even though I make my own living from the booty, I would rather hold my land against armies than travel endlessly in search of victories. It is land that causes us to fight, and surely the victor finds it easier to bury his own dead than the vanquished. But this land is Edward’s, from the Duchy of Aquitaine first brought to England by Queen Eleanor … a long time ago.”

“England pays homage to the king,” she argued, her words remembered from Giles’s testimony. “John is king here.”

“The battle is nearly over,
chérie.”

“Nay!”

He looked down into her eyes, holding her firmly beneath him. His weight, full upon her, pressed her hard against the floor. His thighs lay heavy on hers, his belly was flat and as hard as his shield, and his broad chest crushed and hurt her breasts. To her horror, she felt his bold desire and knew that he could find many ways to punish her. He let his cheek brush hers, his beard tickling her neck and causing her a sudden shiver. The knuckles of his free hand brushed the skin of her jaw and neck and he ran one finger down over her chest to touch the valley between her breasts. She thought surely she had bought her rape with her waspish tongue and her eyes were wide with sudden fear. Yet, he went no further.

“But if you choose life,
ma petite,
must I bear the mark of your pleasure on my heart?”

“I hate you.” Her mouth formed the barely audible words.

“I don’t doubt it, Aurélie. But I think you are more clever than this. I think you will conceal your hatred for a time, if only to catch me unaware.” And then in a very deep whisper, he asked, “Did Giles know the full measure of his good fortune?”

The question stirred a memory that held deep sorrow within her and she turned her face away. Although she knew her marriage to Giles was different from most, there had been some happiness for her here, with him. She could not mourn the loss of something she had never known, but she did not want Sir Hyatt to look into her eyes. She believed him a devil who might be capable of seeing her secrets.

He lifted himself from her quickly and she took in a deep, freeing breath. He walked toward the door and once there, paused to kick the knife toward her. He smiled, bowed, and quit the room.

Aurélie looked down at the blade, knowing it was a worthy notion to pierce her breast and end the torture of watching this cocky knight usurp her home. But she did not reach for it. She crumpled to the floor and wept until the tears would come no more.

* * *

Though Hyatt had barely slept, he was summoned hours before cockcrow by the arrival of the carts bearing the dead. He had left his remaining forces, supplies, servants, and others to follow after De la Noye was taken. Their task was to bring those dead who wore the de Pourvre colors to the castle town for burial.

To return the slain lord to his demesne for burial was a great act of charity on the part of the conqueror, but this further concession of returning all the dead, some forty men, was a time-consuming and burdensome chore. Those whom Hyatt had left behind with the instructions were hard pressed to understand his action. This kindness would also confuse the survivors within De la Noye.

A lengthy entourage of people followed him to the castle, arriving in little groups throughout the night. Among the first to join him was his illegitimate son, Derek, and the boy’s mother, Faon. Derek was almost two years old, and Faon mothered the boy closely, and for this reason Hyatt acquiesced to her continued presence. He was amazed by his attachment to his bastard son, but he still lamented that first attraction to the fiery-haired vixen who had borne him. Many assumed that Faon provided him with much pleasure, warm nights and spirited amusement. But he would have no more bastards from her.

Faon was from good merchant stock, clever, and some thought of her as beautiful. Any woman less so would have been settled with and left, but this woman he kept and supported so that he could supervise the rearing of the child. While many of his men believed Faon provided some carnal relief, it was the child who became a more significant part of his life with every passing day.

Although Faon’s place with him was misunderstood by almost everyone, Hyatt was not inclined to explain his behavior. Sometimes he regretted his silence, for she was given to haughtiness as being the leader’s woman. He chose to ignore this because he considered the benefits of her position few. When she arrived ahead of the others, a bevy of guards protecting her, he was certain she had used some privy authority to accomplish this grand entrance.

She rushed toward him, disregarding his frown of displeasure. He had hoped to see his other instructions followed before hers.

“Victorious again, my lord,” she cried. Then, nuzzling his ear and neck, she added more softly, “I will make your night of victory very special.”

“On this night, Faon, I am otherwise occupied. A room will be found for you and the boy.”

She gave her head a toss, the reddish curls bouncing around her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed and she moistened her lips with her tongue. “Have you found some French whore to ease yourself upon?” she questioned flippantly.

Hyatt laughed loudly. Her saucy confidence had originally attracted him and, his memory being sound, he chafed at the knowledge that he’d not found a better bedmate since. He condoned her nearness only because of Derek, for he did not love her and seldom approved of her behavior. On occasion she made him angry enough to strike her, and one day might yield to the temptation.

“There is no French whore,” he said. “Not yet, though I look long and hard. The victory is not complete. I am hard at work, and the little time I spend abed tonight will be used for sleep.”

He felt the urge to fondle his son, who sleepily reached chubby arms out to him, but instead he turned away. He was careful to let no witness other than the boy’s mother see how vulnerable he was to Derek. He made an impatient gesture with his hand, indicating that Faon and her servants and the child be installed somewhere to sleep.

Hyatt’s distrust of women was understood, but left his acceptance of this one unexplained. He heard confused whispers, for he had been seen in generous acts toward her and also as he scorned her. Some spoke of his lusty demands and some, he imagined, even envied him this fancy harlot, for she was pleasing to the eye and brazen in her appeal. But Hyatt was discriminating, and not weakened by these hoyden flirtations.

He was relieved when Faon did not rise early to press him for company, or some other demand … always on Derek’s behalf. It was true that he had much on his mind, and a goodly share had to do with Aurélie. While he did not think she would end her own life, he had been told of her pride and her devotion to Giles. His knowledge of her was far greater than hers of him, for Lord Lavergne had met them in Bordeaux and given the location of the castle and a great deal of information about Giles and his troop. If Aurélie did not kill herself because of the siege, she might attempt to do so when she learned that Lord Lavergne supported Hyatt’s attack.

Many Flemish lords were at odds with the French king and the Papacy. From Flanders to Gascony it was easy enough to find a friendly beachhead. Lord Lavergne was more merchant than nobleman and needed the English trade. All of his people were clothed in the English wool, and the English guzzled his wine. Giles, more an aristocrat than a warrior or merchant, did not see the advantage of making an ally of his enemy.