Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

Henry reached for his breeches, hurriedly dressing, ignoring Jenova doing the same. Now he wondered, guiltily, if it had actually been his intention, when they’d ridden out alone from the harbor, that matters go this far. He had said it was fate, but now he remembered the mixture of jealousy and frustration he had experienced when Jenova had told him she was thinking of wedding a poor excuse for a man like Alfric, when he knew she could do so much better. Was he really such a devious fellow that he would take her just to show her what she was missing?

Henry knew he was devious, and he had done things best not spoken of aloud, but Jenova was special. He would never purposely hurt her. Never! But despite his sincerity, his protests sounded like weak posturing, because he had hurt her. He had hurt them both, and their friendship might never recover from it.

“Henry?” Her voice was tentative, and when he looked up from putting on his boots, he saw that her green eyes were full of tears.

Something in his chest gripped him—an urgent need to reach out and take her in his arms and comfort her.

He did not dare.

Impatiently, she brushed at her cheek, wiping away the moisture, and then blinked hard. “Do you think we could go back, Henry? Or have we rent our precious friendship asunder? Oh Henry, I do not want to lose you….”

His chest ached, but he held tight to his self-control. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out a hand to touch her damp cheek. Her skin was warm and soft, and he wanted more. He could not have it, he would not allow himself to have it, and there was a bittersweet triumph in his self-denial. It was not often Lord Henry of Montevoy denied himself a woman.

“How can it be spoiled?” he asked her with gentle mockery. “We have been friends since childhood, Jenova. We will be friends until we are in our graves. We will forget this moment, I promise you. We will put it behind us. We will never speak of it again.”

Jenova’s smile was sheer relief, brightening her forlorn face like sunlight through the storm. Her voice in reply was breathy. “Aye, we will never speak of it again, Henry. You are right, it will be forgotten, and everything will go on as it did before.”

Their eyes met and held. His so blue and hers deep green, tangling, touching hidden places, remembering, and already beginning to imagine the possibility of a next time. It was like a caress. Her happy smile faded, and his grew cynical. The words were a lie, and now they both knew it. There was no feasible way in which they could go back in time.

Everything had changed forever.

Abruptly they both glanced away, denying the truth, and continued dressing in silence, while outside the hut the storm began to ease.

Chapter 5

The great hall at Gunlinghorn was pleasantly frenetic. A log as big as a man burned in the massive fireplace, making the air warm and smoky. Fortunately, the table on the dais where Jenova and Henry were seated was close to the heat, for even such a fire as this failed to reach all the corners of the great hall. Outside, above the noise of the feast, the wind howled. The foul weather had closed in again soon after they’d reached Gunlinghorn Castle, and now snow was falling in silent swathes across the land. Despite the many candles’ brave and bright light, the gloom of winter encompassed them.

Henry could not have returned to London even if he had wanted to. Strangely, for one so much a part of the court, he did not. His gaze rested on the people crowding the hall about him. At one of the tables, Reynard hunched over his food, the rest of his men close by. As he allowed their chatter and noise to wash over him, Henry found himself idly wondering what was happening beyond Gunlinghorn. As Jenova bent to smile at something one of her ladies said, her veil drifting about her shoulders and disclosing a lock of glossy brown hair, as a servant moved to pour more red wine into Henry’s silver goblet, he let his thoughts drift northwards. To the concerns that had kept him busy before he’d received Jenova’s missive.

While King William was occupied with his troubles across the Channel, his barons were bereft of his strong, checking influence. Archbishop Lanfranc, who sat upon the throne as Regent, did his best, but some of the younger barons lacked either good sense or caution, or both. Henry was beginning to believe that Roger, Earl of Hereford, and Ralph, Earl of Norfolk, were talking treason. Talking was not the same as doing, and they were clever enough to keep their intentions well hid. Henry wished the king would return to knock some sense into them before it was too late. William’s mere presence would be enough to still such restless talk.

“Keep an eye on my kingdom,” the king had said to him before he’d left. “I trust you, Henry, to do what is necessary if it becomes necessary.”

King William knew that behind Henry’s handsome smile was a ruthlessness that could be relied upon in times of crisis. Henry would crush anyone who rose against his king; he had done it before. There were some things he would not do, but not many.

Henry had long ago put aside his conscience.

But that didn’t explain why he felt so miserable and confused when it came to Jenova and their moments together this afternoon. It didn’t explain why he couldn’t just take what she’d offered and enjoy her and shrug aside regret. He had to admit to himself she was his one weakness, his Achilles’ heel. His conscience. Aye, mayhap, if he had any part of a conscience left at all, then its name was Jenova….

“My Lord Henry?”

Henry turned his head and found Jenova’s son beside him. Earlier he had noticed the boy seated by his mother at the other end of the table, being petted by Jenova’s ladies. But now here he was. At Henry’s side.

Henry stared at the boy uneasily—he had rarely spent more than a moment or two in his company. He was a small boy, with a narrow, piquant face and great green eyes. Perhaps he was sickly? Children often were—only the strongest lived to adulthood. Perhaps that was why Lord Baldessare had put Alfric forward. Did he see an opportunity for himself through Jenova’s misfortune?

“My Lord Henry?” This time the boy tugged at Henry’s brown velvet sleeve, with its crimson embroidered cuff. Henry, who was renowned at court for his style, smoothed the slight crease and forced a smile.

“Yes, uh…” What was the child’s name? He had forgotten it again. But the boy didn’t seem to notice or care—he prattled on regardless.

“You must come and see me ride tomorrow, Lord Henry. Mama says I am too small to ride, but I am strong. I am five, you know.”

Henry did not think he looked strong. In fact, the boy looked as if a mild puff of air would blow him away. His wrists, poking from his sleeves, were like twigs, and his breeches hung on his skinny legs.

“Will you come and watch me ride?” Raf’s voice had risen—that was his name, Raf.

Henry was not about to argue with a child. “Of course,” he said politely, having no intention to do so. He didn’t understand why Raf would want him to come and watch him ride anyway. What was he to Jenova’s son? Perhaps the boy had confused him with someone else—Alfric, mayhap? Although Henry could not recall Alfric paying any special attention to Raf when he was last here.

“I will come and fetch you when it is time.”