Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

He closed his eyes and pictured her, her calm beauty in the great hall, her wild beauty in his arms. He had discovered of late that if he did not look at her often, a hollow would open up within him. A sense of loss. He needed to see her. He needed to hold her.

When Jenova gazed at him she had a certain look in her eyes, a certain expression on her face. She looked at Henry and saw a man who was handsome and strong and honorable, a man she trusted and looked up to. The illusion kept him alive. He had not known it before, but he knew it now. Jenova’s vision of him was all he had.

If she learned of his shadowy past, she would want him gone. Henry knew that. She would not tolerate him near her when she heard of the things he had done. He felt frozen inside just thinking of the expression on her face, the look in her green eyes. He could not bear it, and yet if he left now she would be in grave danger. He was damned either way.

Who was his enemy? Who was the faceless priest?

He did not know, but he knew of any number of persons it could be. It was just that he had believed them all dead. Thearoux, that monster. Could it be him? And the others, their faces hidden in the past, their memories pushed aside in order for Henry to continue living. The burden had been just too great, and to survive he had had to try and forget. At times he actually did forget, sometimes for days and weeks at a time.

He had been more resilient than he thought. More resilient than his friend Souris.

The Mouse.

The memory felt stiff and rusty, like chain mail not kept properly oiled and cleaned. Souris slipped from the creaky shadows in Henry’s mind, his pale narrow face and sharp nose, the brown hair flopping over his brow, and his eyes full of glee. Souris, the Mouse, his only friend in a world where survival depended upon doing unspeakable things. But Souris had died with Thearoux, on that long-ago night, when the fire had burned le château de Nuit to the ground. Burned it to ashes, and with it the screams and sorrows of all those who had dwelt within it, and all the wretched souls they had stolen.

As far as Henry knew, he had been the only soul to escape.

Then who was it? Who?

Henry squeezed his hands into fists. He must find out. Not just for Jenova, but for himself. For the sake of his own sanity, he must know the truth!

And Jenova?

Even before this happened, Henry had not wanted to leave Jenova. He had wanted to stay here with her at Gunlinghorn. Whatever life he had built for himself in London was nothing to him, not compared to what he could have here. He had been pretending otherwise, but now the charade was at an end. This was his home, this was where his family resided. This was where he had placed his heart in safekeeping.

His enemy, whoever he was, had known this even before Henry. Had known exactly what would cause him the most anguish.

And now he was using it to destroy him.

Chapter 16

Jenova stood in her stillroom, surrounded by her herbs and potions, the silence a balm to her wounded heart. She had asked Henry to stay and he had refused. He had held her tenderly as she’d wept and he’d kissed the tears from her cheeks, and yet he had refused her.

She must move on from this, she must accept and live for the moment. And yet it was so painful….

Jenova took a shaky breath, pushing away her sadness. And then she did something she often did when she was low or sad; she remembered a moment from her past. A time, long ago, in Normandy, when she and Henry had been close. He had been a strikingly handsome boy, with his blue eyes and perfect features, and his smile a little crooked and a little wi

cked, even then.

Jenova smiled now, remembering. He had asked her if she had ever been kissed, and she had told him no, a little shyly, a little coyly. Henry had taken her hand in his, his fingers strong and warm, and they had walked in the meadows, braving the bees that supped upon the flowers there.

After a time, he had kissed her. Gently and tenderly, innocently. They had lain in the grass and kissed for a long time, and Jenova still remembered the blue sky above and the white clouds gliding past. If she closed her eyes now, the scent of those flowers came back to her and the feel of Henry’s lips on hers and his arms about her innocent girl’s body.

When they’d returned to the keep, her mother had been angry, her eyes searching them as if she’d thought to find some sign of sin upon them. Jenova had been upset and hurt by her mistrust, but more by the fact that her mother had not understood how special those moments had been. There was no sin, surely, in holding a boy you loved, and who loved you?

Henry had left shortly afterward, off to yet another distant relative who did not know him and probably did not want him.

For a time, Jenova’s heart had felt broken, but it had healed. They had met again, some years later, and she had looked at him in wonder, hardly believing she had ever thought they were destined to spend their lives together. He’d been a handsome, charming courtier, and he had not been for her.

But she had not understood that beneath that intoxicating exterior the old Henry had remained—he was still there. He had been waiting for her all this time, and she wanted to take him into the meadow again, hand in hand, and kiss him beneath a blue sky. And love him, as she had loved him long ago.

Jenova bowed her head. There must be some way in which to bring them both a happy ending! She would find it, she would…. She must.

“Well?”

Jean-Paul studied Baldessare a moment, taking in the other man’s obvious hunger for news of Henry’s pain. He was twitching with impatience, but Jean-Paul made him wait. It was a form of torture, and added to his enjoyment.

“Henry is frightened, and so he should be. He pretends to be brave, of course, but that is his way. He would never run at once—that, too, is his way. Perhaps he will sneak off in the dead of the night, and leave the lady to fend for herself? But he is beaten, my lord, you can be sure of that. I have convinced him that we mean what we say.”