Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

Slowly Jenova rose up from her seat, every line of her taut with fury. “Tell me, or I will give you to my soldiers to question!”

Agetha gave a wail. “Please, don’t, don’t. It will be all right. I tried to tell you before that everything will be all right. If you will just agree to marry Alfric, then Raf will be returned, and everything will be as it should.”

The quiet was deathly.

“Marry Alfric?” Jenova whispered at last. “Is that what this is all about? You have given my son to Baldessare as a hostage?”

Agetha bit her lip, her eyes teary. “It was for your own good,” she whispered, no hint of uncertainty in her voice. In her arrogance, the girl believed that she was right.

Jenova could hardly believe it. That Agetha, whom she had thought her friend, Raf’s friend, could do such a thing. And yet, by that defiant cast to the girl’s expression, it was clear she truly believed she had done what was best for them all. How could anyone be so utterly blind and stupid? It was time to close the shutters on Agetha’s girlish dreams.

“Do you know what happened to Baldessare’s last wife?” Jenova asked her, her voice icy. “He beat her to death.”

Agetha blanched. “No, I…I meant you to wed Alfric. Alfric is gentle and kind and…”

“Alfric does not want to marry me, or if he does he would not deny his father. It is Baldessare who wants me now, Agetha, and you have given him the perfect way t

o have me, haven’t you? He knows I will do anything to get Raf back safe.”

Agetha was shaking her head. “’Twas not Baldessare I gave him to,” she whispered. “’Twas the priest, Jean-Paul. A priest would not do anything bad to a child. He promised me. It was for the best. You must see, my lady. I did it for the—”

“The priest? But Jean-Paul is not to be trusted. He is the master and Baldessare his puppet. Just like you, Agetha.”

“My lady, I did not…I am sure…”

“Get out!”

With a sob, Agetha bolted and slammed open the door on the startled guard outside. She gave a wail as he grabbed her arm and escorted her away.

Jenova knew she, too, should weep and rail. But it was as if all feeling had frozen inside her. She was numb. After a moment she felt the warmth of someone standing near her, and, turning her head, she found Henry. He looked far older, the lines on his face seemed to have deepened, and the unshaven cast of his jaw was quite dark. This was Henry as he might look in twenty years’ time—careworn and sad. Jenova wondered if she looked the same, and then didn’t care.

“Jenova,” he said, and there was cool reason in his voice, despite his appearance. “Jean-Paul does not hate you. It is me he hates. This was all done to punish me.”

He sounded reasonable, aye, but what he had said made no sense. She shook her head.

“It is a long story,” he persisted. “I think you should know it. You have been asking that I tell you, and I have resisted. When you hear me out, you will know why. I know that perhaps this is not the right time, and I know that you have other things on your mind—and I do too, my love—but it is important to tell you now. So that you will understand the man we have to deal with. Jenova, do you think you can bear to listen?”

“What of Raf? Henry, what of my son?”

“This morning I sent a message to Crevitch, in the west, to Lord Radulf, to ask for as much of his army as he can spare. It will take nearly four days—three if they take little rest. When they arrive, we can besiege Hilldown Castle, or threaten worse. We can frighten Baldessare into giving Raf up. But for now I have sent Reynard to Hilldown Castle with a message for Baldessare, demanding that Raf be released at once. If he does that, then I have sworn no harm will come to Baldessare or his family. I have made mention of the king’s anger when he hears what Baldessare has done. A man like that, blinded by his greed, will only listen if he thinks his land and wealth could be taken away from him. We must make him aware of how much he will lose by carrying through with his plan. As for Jean-Paul…Perhaps we can persuade Baldessare to turn against the priest in his own self-interest.”

“What will they do to Raf?”

“Nothing. I am sure neither Baldessare nor Jean-Paul will hurt Raf; why would they? Their plan depends upon the boy remaining safe and well.”

She tried to think over what he was saying. Radulf’s army, coming to Gunlinghorn. Threats to Baldessare’s wealth and power. Turning Baldessare against Jean-Paul. Aye, his words were reasoned and sensible, and although she knew she should be angry at his high-handedness in sending for the army without her knowledge—to protect her, she supposed—she could not find it in her just now to feel anything very much.

What she really wanted to do was throw back her head and howl. And then she wanted to ride to Hilldown Castle and scream out her terror and her anger at the gates. She wanted to tell Baldessare that if he wanted her, then he could have her, as long as Raf was returned safe and unharmed.

Except that when Baldessare forced her into marriage with him, Raf would be in his power again. She would not have saved him; she would have doomed him to a life of hell.

Henry was still watching her face, waiting for her response. Jenova searched her memory. What had he said? That all this was his fault. It was nonsense. And then it occurred to her that he was talking about the secret she had known he was keeping from her. He was finally offering to share it.

Jenova looked at him, really looked at him. His blazing violet-blue eyes were dull, his mouth was held tight. Pain, a great deal of pain. And guilt. Henry truly blamed himself for all this. Jenova wondered if perhaps he had cause. She knew she must hear what he had to say. Strange to think she had been so desperate for him to tell her only a short time ago. Now she wondered if it even mattered.

“Jenova,” he murmured and took a step closer. His hand was shaking as he placed it upon her arm, and then he leaned forward and rested his brow against hers, squeezing his eyes tight shut. “Jenova,” he said, “I could not bear to tell you this before. You have a vision of me in your head, a picture of the man you believe me to be. I could not bear to soil it. I could not bear to destroy your image of me. Sometimes, I think your belief is all I have to make me feel worthy of being who I am.”

Something in his voice, in his manner, broke through her indifference.