I have made him happy, at least.
In the yard, the Gunlinghorn garrison were training—the professional soldiers and the villeins, who were required to do garrison duty every week. Henry, after receiving the permission of Jenova and Sir John, had been giving their captain some instruction on training methods. From the look of the men training now, they were doing extremely well. Give them another month or two, he thought, and they would be good enough to beat off anything that Baldessare could pit against them.
But he had forgotten. He did not have that long. He had but a week, less than that now, and his life would be over. And if Jenova did not wed him, then he would not even be able to save her.
Henry had been standing in the castleyard for a long time now, oblivious to the cold or the soldiers who were trying their hardest to win his approval. He looked as if he were in a dream. Jenova sighed and asked herself what Reynard had said to him to make him so pensive.
She smoothed the mulberry-colored wool she had been so carefully stitching. It had been meant as a late Christmas present. A new tunic for Henry, a special present for her oldest and dearest friend. Now it was something she would give him when he went away—a good-bye gift. She had it almost finished, but as she watched him standing so still, she wondered if she could bear to give it to him. Although she had told him to go, Jenova knew that no gift could sweeten his leaving. She would be bereft. She would miss him so much that it would be as if a part of herself were gone.
If only it hadn’t happened this way! If only their passion could have faded, as it was supposed to, instead of burning brighter every day. And turning, for her part at least, into a love so strong and glowing that it could outshine the sun.
Suddenly, as if he had sensed her watching him, Henry looked up. Jenova was still standing at the window, and she felt the shock as their eyes met. There was a connection between them, and it sent a tingle down her spine and a shiver over her skin. For a long moment he stood, staring up into her eyes, and then abruptly his jaw tensed, his face hardened, and he took off at a run toward the keep.
Uneasily, stumbling a little, Jenova backed away from the solar window. What was wrong with him? What was he thinking? And why did she suddenly feel like she wanted to bar her door before he got here? Because she knew very well that this was where Henry was headed.
The door was thrown wide, and Henry strode in.
He was nearly out of breath, and his eyes were alight with some inner quest. Oh God, she thought, what now? That was when Jenova realized how much he had changed. Henry hadn’t shaved. She blinked. His clothing was in disarray. There was a stain on his tunic. He had the wrong rings on the wrong fingers. Even his boots looked grubby.
Was this her perfect Henry? What had happened to him?
Dismay took the strength from her, and she dropped the mulberry wool at her feet. “Henry!”
“Jenova,” he said, and his voice was low and powerful. “I need you to marry me. You were right, I didn’t tell you the entire truth before. You see, ’tis Baldessare who means to have you for his wife. Not Alfric, Jenova, but Baldessare, and he will have you, willing or not. Marry me, now. You must. You no longer have a choice.”
She sat down on the window seat, carefully, composing herself. His violet-blue eyes were blazing as if they had a torch behind them. He looked dangerous. She had never seen Henry so wild, so uncontrolled, so totally lacking in all the attributes that made him Henry. Clearly this was a moment to choose her words very carefully.
“Henry, we have already spoken of this—”
“Baldessare wants you, Jenova. Take heed, he will not give up easily.”
“I have dealt with Baldessare before. You know that. Besides, if he tried to marry me against my will, the king would punish him. Even Baldessare is not such a complete fool as that.”
“Baldessare believes he can do whatever he wants. By the time the king returns to England, the marriage will have been accomplished.”
She frowned, about to argue, but he went on.
“Do not think the king is not fond of you, Jenova. He is, and he has been more than generous to you, when it was within his power to force you into any number of marriages for his own benefit. But if Baldessare makes this union between you, and then promises to behave, the king will be inclined to listen to him. Especially if he has other matters to deal with—there is much unrest in England at the moment, and he will be concerned with that when he returns. Ba
ldessare will have many months to persuade you to tell whatever lies he wants of you.”
Jenova thought she might explode; her face was flushed, her hands had clenched into fists, her green eyes were dark with anger as she looked up at Henry. “No one can force me to do anything I do not want to do, Henry. You should know that. I am no feeble woman. I am the Lady of Gunlinghorn.”
“Baldessare has a spy in your keep, Jenova. He has someone you trust working against you.”
Her thoughts scattered. “I don’t believe it. All my people are loyal. Who told you that?”
“Reynard.”
“And who told him, Henry!”
Henry hesitated, and then shrugged, as if he had decided it was safe to tell her the truth. Her anger rose another notch. “Lady Rhona.”
“Ah.”
“What do you mean, ‘Ah’?”
“I mean I do not trust Lady Rhona. Possibly she tells Reynard lies to help her brother’s cause.”