Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

“So your father has told me, Lord Alfric. Since childhood. I think that our Lord Henry considers Gunlinghorn his second home. His…sanctuary, hmm?” He smiled, and Rhona stared, fascinated, at the charming smile on one side and the twisted travesty of a smile on the other. “We must see if we can’t destroy that for him, make Gunlinghorn feel unsafe. Set fire to his sanctuary and burn it to ashes, and then see what he does.”

“Burn Gunlinghorn?” Alfric gasped.

Rhona dug her fingers into his arm before he could make a fool of himself. “Jean-Paul is speaking in metaphors, Alfric. He does not mean to actually set fire to Gunlinghorn, only to destroy Lord Henry’s enjoyment of it so that he no longer feels able to stay there in safety.”

Jean-Paul met her eyes, his pale blue good eye gleaming with amusement, the other one milky and half closed. He looked as if he were winking. “Very clever, my lady. That is what I mean.”

Rhona wondered, as she had many times, why she felt as if Jean-Paul was their equal, rather than a priest under their authority. What was it about him that gave him that air of command, of control? And fear, for she feared him, too, and not just because of his damaged face. It was fear that prevented her from treating him with the contempt she sometimes felt he deserved.

No, he made Rhona uneasy. Jean-Paul might pretend to be their friend, often championing them to their father, diverting his rages and turning his foul moods to fairer ones. But he did it for his own benefit, not theirs. Alfric did not agree with her—he saw Jean-Paul as some sort of savior—but Rhona had seen and heard things about the priest.

He was known to strike the servants for no reason Rhona could fathom—she had seen him knock the kitchen boy to the ground and walk off smiling, as if he had enjoyed inflicting the pain. The only thing he appeared to love and prize was his horse, a black stallion more suited to a king than a mere priest. Cruelty was not unusual in the Baldessare household, indeed not, but whereas Rhona’s father might hit out in rage, Jean-Paul’s anger was cold and controlled. And all the more worrying. But if Rhona had suspicions, she was determined not to let Jean-Paul know.

A servant had come with ale. Baldessare lifted a mug to his lips, taking a thirsty gulp, and the brew seemed to return to him some of his familiar bluff confidence. “I know what I’m about, Jean-Paul. Lord Henry will be punished. You will see, you will have your wish granted soon enough. And I will have mine.”

Rhona schooled her face into a sweet smile. “And what is your wish, Jean-Paul? For I know that my father’s is to hold Gunlinghorn.”

Jean-Paul watched her a moment, his body very still within the dark robes. “My wish is to be allowed to marry Lady Jenova to your brother, my lady. What else?”

What else, indeed?

Why, then, didn’t she believe him?

Raf laughed, the joyful, innocent sound ringing throughout the castle bailey. A trader with a heavily laden mule grinned, his teeth white in his swarthy face. Others, servants about the castle or villagers coming and going, paused in their daily routines just to smile.

Jenova, too, smiled from her sheltered seat by the stable wall. She sat, bathed in a burst of winter sunlight, and Henry let himself enjoy the sight of her as he took Lamb on another turn about the yard. Her happy face and her shining eyes gave her all the appearance of a young girl. Henry had seen much of that girl in Jenova of late, and far less of the staid matron and sensible lady of Gunlinghorn Castle. It was as if their lovemaking had set her free, and now she reveled in things she had thought put aside long ago.

“Faster, Henry, faster!” Raf’s excited voice brought his thoughts back to the here and now.

“If I go any faster, Lamb might carry us all the way to London, and what would your mother do then?”

The boy thought about that, and then gave Henry his brilliant smile. “Mama could come, too,” he announced, pleased he had the solution. “We could all go to London!”

Henry managed a strained smile in reply but found that his quick tongue seemed strangely sluggish. Jenova in London? It was not something he could even imagine, let alone consider seriously. She belonged to Gunling-horn, to the countryside, to this secret life into which he had been transported. But London? London would mean showing her to the world; it would be like announcing to everyone that he and Jenova were lovers.

A pair.

A couple.

Bound together by bonds stronger than friendship.

People would look and whisper, point and stare. Gossip could be cruel, and the court thrived on gossip. Henry told himself he didn’t want her to suffer that. Besides, the voice in his head blustered, the king would not like it. He would be displeased with Henry for bringing his cousin’s widow’s reputation into disrepute, and Henry had worked too long and too hard to throw away his own life’s ambitions in such a careless manner. For a woman? No, no! His existence at court must remain separate, and when he left Gunlinghorn and returned to London, as he knew he must, then the affair would be over. Jenova would go back to being what she was, the Lady of Gunlinghorn, and mother to the heir, and he would go back to being Lord Henry of Montevoy, friend of the king and lover of many women.

You’re a liar, Henry.

Henry sighed. He was a liar. His excuses were just that, and deep in his heart he knew it. They meant nothing, and all of them could be overcome if he wanted to overcome them. The real reason he didn’t want Jenova in his life, the honest reason, was that he was afraid. Jenova did not know the truth about him, she did not know how unworthy he was. If they were to become a couple, a pair, then she would ask questions, she would dig around in his past, until she found out.

Like some fearful fairy tale, she would open the creaking door onto his soul and see the real Henry. No one still living had ever s

een what was behind that door, and he broke out in a sweat at the thought of Jenova being privy to what had occurred at le château de Nuit.

You’ve forgotten about Baldessare. You cannot leave her to face that man’s tender mercies all on her own. She has thrown aside a marriage, probably because of you, despite her claim to the contrary. Coward, does that not present you with an obligation where she is concerned!

It did, but Jenova could look after herself. She preferred it that way, always had. She was the Lady of Gunlinghorn, and she reveled in ruling her people and her lands. Besides, Baldessare would not dare to make too much of a fuss. He knew she was a favorite of the king, and even Baldessare was not stupid enough to cross King William.

Was he not?

Lesser men have died for such transgressions.