Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

Prologue

London

Winter, early 1075

Lady Jenova requests that Lord Henry of Montevoy come to her at Gunlinghorn…

Lord Henry sighed as the messenger, an earnest young man in baggy breeches, carried on in a piping voice.

…come to her at Gunlinghorn as soon as his duties at court allow him.

It was not that Lord Henry of Montevoy did not want to come to Lady Jenova at Gunlinghorn, he thought as he sent the messenger off for refreshment. He had known Lady Jenova forever, and he was very fond of her. She had once been wed to the king’s cousin and was now a widow. Even if the king had not favored her, that marriage had made her important. No, it was not that Lord Henry did not want to visit Lady Jenova. It was just that, at this particular moment, he had other things on his mind.

King William was not currently in residence at court in London; he was across the Channel, dealing with rebels in Le Maine and attending to his affairs in Normandy. But many of the great men of England were there. There was intrigue afoot, stirrings among the barons, jostlings for more land and more power. Greed had awoken, lifting its head and casting a glance about to see who was watching.

Lord Henry did not like the tension he felt in the air these days.

It was not just the thought of leaving this simmering pot unattended that concerned Henry. He told himself he had always preferred to be in the thick of things, to know what was going on and with whom, to use his intelligence to untangle the problems of the realm. Henry had never been much of a one for the isolation of the country, and Gunlinghorn was four days’ ride to the southwest.

And, of course, he enjoyed partaking of civilized pursuits. More particularly, good conversation, fine wine and beautiful women. With his clear blue eyes set in a face almost perfect, Lord Henry was often called the most handsome man in England. Henry had always treated the title with good humor—especially now, at the age of thirty-four. His handsome face hid a keen mind, and any man who at first glance dismissed him as just a face was soon put aright. Henry was an integral part of King William’s council, and as such the powerful barons saw him either as a shrewd friend to look to in times of trouble, or a man to be wary of if they were involved in anything detrimental to the king.

The women saw him differently. Henry was also famous as a lover, and few ladies could resist so handsome a trophy to show off to their friends.

Jenova was the only woman he’d ever known who was unaffected by his handsome face. She didn’t see him as a pretty trophy, or a shrewd adversary. That was one of the reasons Henry liked her, and why he felt so at ease with her. He could be himself with her, he could be Henry.

If he remembered rightly, the last time he had visited her, she had sent him home with an indulgent smile and with the admonishment to be good. Henry had laughed and kissed her fingers, then left her without a backward glance. Had he been “good”? In his way, he supposed he had, but Henry knew he had done things that Jenova would quibble over. What did she expect? She looked upon him almost as if he were a troublesome mortal and she a goddess on high: a man struggling to rise to the dizzy heights she expected of him and yet never quite reaching them. Still, she accepted his faults. She accepted him.

Such a friend, be they man or woman, was truly a rarity.

Henry sighed again. Of course, he would have to go to her. Jenova would not have asked if she had not needed to see him, and if he left at dawn tomorrow he could be in Gunlinghorn in four days, assuming the weather held. That would give him a few hours to tie up any business he had at the court—his trusted second in command, Leon, could keep an eye on matters and report to him if or when it became necessary. That would leave this evening free for Henry to visit his current mistress, Christina.

He could not expect to find someone like Christina at Gunlinghorn, nor would he feel comfortable preying upon Jenova’s women. She was always, to his mind, overly strict when it came to visiting lords defiling her ladies—especially when some of those ladies seemed most eager to be defiled.

He turned the message over in his mind. It was a strange relationship, the one between Jenova and himself, and yet it was a comfortable one. She had loved her husband, Mortred, and had been grieving for him now for two years. When Mortred died, Henry recalled, the glow had left Jenova’s green eyes. As if night had come to her soul.

Their son must be five years old. Henry tried to remember what he looked like and could not; beyond a pat on the head and a vague greeting, Henry never took much notice of the boy. In truth, children were of little interest to him; there was no place for them in his life. And as for having any children of his own…

Henry shuddered. He did not want the responsibility. Not after what had happened to him when he was a boy.

Shrugging off his dark thoughts, Henry let himself wonder what Jenova could want of him that required his swift attendance upon her. Was her

son ill? Was she ill? But she would have said so, surely? Perhaps she needed his advice? But no, Henry smiled mockingly at his own thoughts, to Jenova he was and had always been Henry, whom she treated with a combination of amusement and indulgence and irritation, but never took too seriously.

That wasn’t strictly true, Henry chastised himself. When he gave Jenova advice on important matters, matters to do with land and the running and defense of her manor, she usually took it—she had always trusted him to know the best paths to follow in the murky waters of King William’s England. But once, when he had tried to tell her that a red gown suited her better than a yellow one, she had laughed until she’d cried.

“Are you a lady’s maid now, Henry?” she had asked him at last, her green eyes brimming. “Mayhap I should ask you for reports from the court as to what is in fashion. Mayhap you will wear a likeness of the latest head-wear for me.” And she was off again, bubbling with mirth.

Henry had tried not to take offence. They had known each other since they were children, and to Jenova he would always be that boy who followed her about, who was to be tolerated in a fond sort of way.

He found her attitude frustrating, but at the same time oddly comforting.

Jenova was not like other women, and he had never treated her so.

“Reynard!” he called suddenly.