For Love And Honor (19 page)

Yolande came into the room after the men had
gathered. She went first to George, kissing him on both cheeks.

“I will tell you again, Theo Georgios, how
happy I am to see you home safe and well,” she said. “And you, Sir
Alain. Sir Piers, welcome back.” She gave a little gasp when she
saw the scar on his jaw, but she recovered quickly and put out her
hand. Piers clasped her fingers in his, feeling a delicate
trembling that she quickly brought under control.

She, too, had changed in the eight months
since they had parted. She was no taller than she had been in the
previous spring, nor any heavier. She wore her dark hair in the
same style, the knot at the crown of her head laced with pale blue
ribbons to match her blue silk gown. Earrings of gold and pearls on
thin wires swung when she moved her head. She watched him with a
serene and level gaze.

He had left her a girl, eager, open,
innocent. In his absence she had matured into a young woman. A
remarkably attractive young woman, but, on the surface at least,
cool and distant. He wondered if her self-possession was but a
disguise for her true feelings, or if while he had been away she
had found someone to kiss her as he had refused to do. The thought
sent a curious sinking sensation into the pit of his stomach.
Surely not; surely she was too well-guarded for any man to take
advantage of her. But she had not been well-guarded when he was
with her. He could have done anything he liked to her. Who was to
say that someone else had not taken what he had scrupulously
refused? Did she love another now? Was that the reason for her
apparent coolness toward him? What he wanted in that moment was for
Yolande to look at him with her warm and melting gaze of the
previous year.

“Welcome back, Baron Piers of Ascoli.
Congratulations on your new title. I feel certain you earned it
well.” Her voice was soft, a little husky. Her hand was still
clasped in his. “Were you seasick?”

“Most horribly.” Thanking heaven for the
glint of familiar humor she had shown, he tucked her hand into his
elbow. “Would you like me to tell you all about it?”

“Not at the table, sir. Perhaps later.” She
sounded so distant, so perfectly controlled and polite. She must
love someone else. But why should that trouble him so sorely when
he did not love her himself? His usual wit having deserted him,
Piers said the only thing he could think of.

“Will you ride with me tomorrow?”

“It will rain tomorrow,” she said, her eyes
lowered.

“The day after, then. Or the day after that,”
he persisted.

“We shall see. Sometimes in winter it rains
for a week or more without stopping.”

They
dined on roast kid with leeks and a many-petaled, flowerlike
vegetable that Yolande called
anginares,
and they drank a fine red wine. They ended
with the honey-and-almond pastries Yolande like best, with trays of
dried fruits and bowls of nuts set out for those who wanted to
nibble on something less sweet. Of all that rich feast, Piers could
swallow only a bite or two.

They talked about the war and the invasion
expected in the summer, to be led from Germany by the elderly
Emperor Lothair. Alain had much to say on the subject, usually in
agreement with George’s opinions. Ambrose contributed a few
thoughts to the conversation, and even Yolande said a word or two
from her place beside Piers. Piers sat silent, turning his wine
goblet round and round by the stem, wondering what in the name of
all the saints was wrong with him that he should feel unwell now,
when he had finally reached solid, steady land.

“Theo Georgios has kept me well informed
about you and Alain,” Yolande told him. “I know how bravely you
fought for Roger and how indispensable you have become to our good
king. You and Sir Alain are both to be commended.”

“It was nothing.” Piers brushed aside the
compliment, then cursed himself for being so brusque with her.

“It grieves me to see your wound,” she said
in a voice just above a whisper. “From the look of it, it might
have been a killing blow.”

“Would you have missed me?” He tried to keep
his voice as low as hers had been to avoid drawing notice to them,
but he sounded bitter because he feared her answer would be that
she would scarcely have known the difference if he had died.

“That is a foolish question, as you well
know.” Her eyes met his, and in her soft and melting glance Piers
saw for a moment the Yolande he had first known.

“Perhaps,” she said, just before George and
Ambrose claimed her attention, “perhaps it will not rain tomorrow
after all.”

But on
the morrow it did rain, and Yolande proved remarkably elusive,
keeping to her own room except for the evening meal, when it was
impossible to have a private conversation with her. George had new
guests
– a group of
scholars from Alexandria – and the talk during dinner was lively
and erudite, but Piers heard little of it. He could not bear to sit
still, and excused himself as soon as he decently could, to wander
about the house, ending his prowling on the damp, windswept
terrace. Alain found him there
.

“Are you avoiding her or waiting for her?”
Alain asked, leaning casually against the balustrade.

“Who?” Piers sounded so angry, even to his
own ears, that he immediately apologized. “Sorry; my mood is foul
these days.”

“It’s understandable. You are battle-weary.
So am I, but I was more fortunate than you. It wasn’t quite so
bloody where I was stationed. And I’d guess that you haven’t had a
woman recently.”

“
I’d
guess that you haven’t either, my friend.” Piers saw Alain’s teeth
flash white in the evening darkness. “I seem to be
old
Sir Piers in truth.
I felt the urge a few times – all right, don’t laugh, more than a
few times, especially when I was afraid the night before going into
battle – but whenever I considered the women available to me I
found myself praying or cleaning my weapons instead. Those are an
old man’s actions, and I am but recently turned three and
twenty.”

“Perhaps you aren’t old at all,” Alain said.
“Perhaps you have just grown up.”

“I grew up two years ago, on the day I was
knighted,” Piers said in a voice that allowed no dissent to that
statement.

“Do you want her?” asked Alain, the question
eliciting a sound from Piers that might have been a snarl, or a
growl, or even a rude laugh at his own confusion.

“
I
honestly don’t know,” Piers replied. “Her body, yes; I’d take her
in an instant. But the rest of it? She’s not a woman to be used and
then discarded, forgotten like one of those creatures who follow
the army, who move on to another man as soon as one man has
finished.
She
will accept but one man in her life. I knew that much about
her as soon as I met her. She is kind and sweet and intelligent.
And strong. I detest weak and whining women, but she is the sort
who would hold her husband’s castle safe in his absence, if need be
against overwhelming forces. She is an admirable woman.”

“And then there is George,” Alain said
softly.

“
I am not
unmindful of the advantages of allying myself with George of
Antioch,” Piers said. “I like and respect the man, equally as much
as I admire Roger himself. Thanks to my ready sword and Roger’s
generosity, I have accumulated a fair amount of treasure in these
last months, a small estate in Apulia to go with my title of baron,
but that’s nothing compared to George’s holdings. If I asked for
her he might refuse me. Or
she
might.”

“
She.
You have not spoken her name.” Alain’s voice was still
soft.

“
Yolande.
Yolande.”
Piers paused, letting the word blow away on the
wind. “I want her, I admit that much, but I do not think I love
her, certainly not in the way you love Joanna.

“When you return to England I will go with
you,” Piers went on. “Never think I won’t. Clearing your name means
clearing mine, too, and both are important to me, as is finding
Crispin’s real murderer. But I do not think Yolande could survive
such a terrible journey. I would have to leave her behind.”

“We cannot return for some time yet,” Alain
said. “I’d take wing and fly to Joanna’s side tomorrow if I could,
but I have come to understand the wisdom of Ambrose’s contention
that the best way for me to arrive in England is with lands and
wealth and a notable title, perhaps even as an ambassador from
Roger to whoever is king of England. That way I’ll have a better
chance of proving myself innocent of murder. But it will take years
until then, and in the meantime you must decide about Yolande.
George has her interests always in mind, and he won’t let her
languish unwed much longer.”

“I know.” Piers stared out at the
storm-tossed, heavy seas and felt his stomach twist into an
all-too-familiar knot. “She is seventeen, well past the age for a
girl to marry. I’m sure George has had offers for her.”

“If you plan to ask for her,” Alain advised,
“you ought to do it promptly.”

“But do I want to marry her or not? Damn!”
Piers pounded a clenched fist on the white stone rail. “I have
never been so uncertain of anything. She deserves a husband who
will care for her and treat her with kindness and respect.”

“
And you
would
not
treat
her as she deserves?” asked Alain. “Do you know of another man who
would be as kind to her as you would be? More importantly, can you
think of her in another man’s arms and not feel your blood turn
cold within you, and your heart stop beating? Can you bear to think
of her carrying another man’s child?”

“
Dear God
in heaven.” Piers grabbed the railing with both hands, raising his
face toward the dark, cloudy sky, as if he expected to find there
an answer to his dilemma. They stood side by side on the terrace,
Alain safe behind the careful barricades he had built around his
heart to keep himself from any further pain, and Piers lost in
turmoil as stormy as the roiling sea or the windblown clouds. After
a while Alain put out his hand and rested it on Piers’s
sh
oulder. And Piers, still
looking seaward but grateful for the steady friendship that
had lasted since they were lonely children together in a strange
castle, lifted his own hand and placed it on Alain’s
shoulder.

*
* * * *

Behind
the two men, in the long and narrow room that opened onto the
terrace, Yolande stood in one of the arches, watching them. She had
heard part of their conversation; enough to confirm what she
already knew, what she had known for nearly a year. Piers liked
her, but he did not love her the way she loved him. How young and
incredibly innocent she had been to give her heart to him within a
day of meeting him, and how hurt and betrayed she
had felt
when he had departed
from
Palermo after declining to kiss her, and without telling her what
he felt for her. She had nursed her injured pride all through the
summer and into winter with promises to herself to be cruel to him
when he returned. But she had needed only the sight of his scarred
jaw, the tightly drawn skin around his eyes, the hard line of his
mouth, to understand that she would never cease to care for
him.

As Alain
had guessed, there were other men who either had made application
t
o George for
her hand
or who would do so soon. If she refused all of them, George would
tell her she should have been married and a mother by now, and only
his deep affection for her had kept her a maiden in his house for
so long. One way or another, Yolande believed she would be wed
before the summer campaign began. It was up to her to make certain
that the man she married was the man she loved and wanted. She knew
of only one way to accomplish what she desired. She would give to
Piers her most treasured gift. She would give him her
maidenhood.

*
* * * *

The sun could not banish the chill, and the
wind was still strong after the storm, billowing out the cloaks of
the man and woman who rode away from the coast and into the hills,
where it was warmer.

“We’ve gone too far,” Piers called, reining
in his horse. “George expects us to return by midday, and I have no
wish to explain an overlong absence to your nurse. Lesia did not
want you to come out with me at all.”

“Pay no heed to Lesia,” Yolande said. “She
fusses no matter what I do. Let us rest our horses here for a while
before we turn back.”

Giving
Piers no time to object, Y
olande dis
mounted. She found an icy little spring and let
her horse drink; then she seated herself in the sun, on a rock well
sheltered from the wind.

“It’s warm here, Piers. Come and sit with me.
Oh, do come here. You look ridiculous sitting there so sternly on
your horse.”

She heard
him muttering as he dismounted, and she bit her lip to curb her
impatience. Piers was such an honorable man. Having once refused
even to kiss her when they were alone in this way, would he now
resist what she planned to offer him? She looked around the fold in
the hillside where she sat, noting the scrubby bushes and the
withered grasses, the yellow earth and jutting rocks of the place
where she had chosen to give herself to him. She did not mind the
barrenness of the
scenery. Piers would make it
beautiful.

“In the summertime it would be too hot here,”
she said as he sat down beside her, “but now it’s just right, don’t
you think? Like a little room, away from the wind, out of the
cold.”