The Mistress of Normandy

His eyes full of dark fires, Burgundy looked at her for a long, measuring moment. He sucked a deep breath through his nostrils. “Your disobedience would not hurt so much,” he said quietly, “did I not love you so, Belliane.”

An unexpected lump rose in her throat. “I had no choice. King Henry would have made an English bastion of Bois-Long.”

“Better an English bastion than a French ruin. Where is this husband of yours?”

“Out riding with the reeve.”

“I know Lazare Mondragon,” Burgundy said, his mouth twisting with distaste. “He came begging favors some years ago. I turned him away.” Stroking a long-fingered hand over his Siberian squirrel collar, he added, “They say Mondragon loved his first wife to distraction, nearly grieved unto death when she died. Think you he will hold you in such esteem?”

“I do not need his esteem, only his name in marriage.”

Burgundy sighed. “You could have had better, p’tite.

“Ah, for certes I did.” Frustration shadowed his face. “By marrying Mondragon, you’ve cheated yourself out of a brilliant alliance.”

Unbidden laughter burst from her. “What mean you, Uncle?”

“I speak in earnest,” he said harshly. “By my faith, Belliane, I was saving you for an English noble.”

Shock rocketed through her, then gave way to harsh understanding. So that was why King Henry had meddled with her life.

Bleakly she realized that she was her uncle’s pawn after all, a minor chess piece in his political game. An alliance with England would bring Burgundy’s power to a zenith, enable him to vanquish his hated enemy, Count Bernard of Armagnac, who now controlled the mad French king.

Recoiling from the idea, she took a gulp of air. “My allegiance begins and ends with Bois-Long and France. The promise of winning a title cannot lure me from it.”

“You should not have acted without my consent, Belliane.”

She could not meet his eyes, because he would see her distrust, her belief that his love for her was less compelling than his affinity for intrigue. “Uncle, your wardship over me ended when I reached my majority December last. I was free to contract for my own marriage, free to flout Henry’s directive.”

“You speak treason, my lady.”

“He is not my sovereign!”

“Yet he has styled himself so, claiming the lands won by his grandsire, Edward the Third. Henry will enforce that claim with military might. An alliance with him would be prudent at this time.” The duke’s face pinched into an expression known to strike terror into the hearts of royal princes. But Lianna didn’t flinch as she raised her head.

They sat facing each other, eyes locked. Then Burgundy’s expression changed to grudging admiration. “Would that more Frenchmen had your attitude,” he mused. “We’d never be under Henry’s thumb in the first place.” He strode to the hearth, stood before the blaze. Firelight carved hollows in his cheeks, and worry pleated his brow. Sudden tenderness touched Lianna. Her uncle held a difficult position. Caught up in the madness and dissension between the princes royal of France, Jean had spoken for the common people in the Royal Council, made enemies of the nobles. Now, banished from Paris and opposed by the Armagnacs, he had apparently thrown in his lot with the English.

“Young Henry means to regain the throne of France,” said Jean. “He’s a man driven, at least in his own mind, by divine inspiration. His ambition knows no scruples. Not a man to defy heedlessly.”

“That may well be, Your Grace. But I will not cede Bois-Long to him. I’d be doing my king and my countrymen a great disservice if I were to relinquish the ford to Henry’s army.”

“Your countrymen!” the duke spat. “Who are they, but a lot of quarreling children switching allegiance as capriciously as the winds over the Narrow Sea? France needs a strong guiding hand. Henry—”

“Is another English pretender,” Lianna snapped.

Burgundy sighed. “You may think you’ve thwarted him. Perhaps you have, for the time being. But Harry of Monmouth is too much like you for my comfort. He’s willful, intelligent, energetic.” Burgundy returned to his chair and sat in pensive silence. At length he asked, “What know you of Longwood?”

“Only what I could read between the lines of his overblown missive. This Longwood is un horzain—an outsider, an upstart bastard,” she stated. “His title is barely a month old. And he is a traitor like his father, Marc de Beaumanoir.”

“Beaumanoir was no traitor, Lianna. He simply hadn’t the means to buy his ransom from Arundel.”

“Traitor or not, his bastard will never have Bois-Long.”

Burgundy shook his head. “Parbleu, but you are an exasperating brat. You constantly meddle in male affairs.”

“Only those that concern me and my people, Uncle.” Seeing his face darken, she crossed to his side and took his hand. A cold tongue of apprehension touched the base of her spine. In the game Burgundy was playing, the stake was nothing less than the control of France. “What will you do?” she asked.

“I shall do as I see fit,” he said simply. His silence made her more nervous than any ruthless plan.

* * *

For the first time in her life, Lianna found herself too preoccupied to supervise the feast with her usual meticulous control. Ordinarily she would have chastised the servitor who brought the venison on a poorly polished plate. Her sharp eye would have noticed that the croustade Lombard, made with fruit and marrow, was placed too far from the high table, and that the pastry subtlety of the lilies of France was overdone.

Instead her mind worried her problems like a persistent itch. Burgundy seemed determined to undermine the steps she’d taken to protect Bois-Long. The Mondragons were intent on flaunting their new status. And all the while, sweet, lingering thoughts of Rand, his stunning declaration, the goodness that emanated from him, kept her heart in a state of high rapture.

Ignorant of Burgundy’s displeasure, the Mondragons feasted with delight. Lazare ordered wine casks to be unbunged and called to the minstrels’ gallery for livelier entertainment.

Gervais, darkly attractive and full of confidence, raised his cup. “To my mother,” he said, nodding congenially at Lianna. “Two years my junior, but I pray that won’t keep her from doting on me.” Laughter rippled from the lower tables.

The heat of a furious blush crept to Lianna’s cheeks. She darted a look at her uncle, who sat at her right. Only she understood the significance of Burgundy’s controlled silence, the tightness of his grip around his glass mazer. Damn Gervais, the salaud! He’d not speak so blithely did he realize how tenuous his hold on Bois-Long had become.

Artfully arranging a raven curl over her milk-white shoulder, Macée turned boldly to the duke. “Your Grace,” she said, fluttering her inky lashes, “don’t you wish for Belliane to perform for us? She has a fine hand at the harp.”

Lianna cringed inwardly. Macée had heard her play at the wedding feast and knew her art was poor. But Uncle Jean, merciful at least in this, shook his head. “I’m content to hear the minstrels, madame.”

Macée pouted. Lazare, affecting a dignified air to cover his drunkenness, clapped his hands and called for silence. “My wife will play for us,” he said.

Lianna had no choice but to comply. Lazare was asserting his husbandly control over her; if she wished to prove to Burgundy that she intended to uphold her French marriage, she must act the wife and obey.

Taking her place in front of the high table, she stroked the harp strings with her long, tapered fingers. She performed a chanson de vole that she knew to be a favorite of her uncle’s.

Her voice rang true, the notes hard and bright with unwavering clarity. Still, her style lacked the deep resonance of true artistry.

Burgundy watched her closely, seeming more interested in her somewhat dispassionate countenance than in her singing. When she finished on a clear, contralto note, he was the first to applaud. “Enchantante,” he commented.

She set aside the harp and returned to the table. She couldn’t resist whispering to Macée, “You’ll have to try harder, chère, to belittle me in the eyes of my uncle.”

Macée sent her a sizzling look. “Your art would improve did you not spend so much time in the armory, concocting gunpowder.”

The gibe hurt more than Lianna cared to admit. Of late her femininity had been called into question—by Lazare’s rejection, her uncle’s anger. Even Rand, in his kindness, had made a gentle censure of her interest in gunnery. Now Macée—fabulously beautiful, wise in ways Lianna was only beginning to suspect—challenged her.

“I’m defending the castle instead of warming a chair with my backside,” said Lianna, keeping her tone light.

Macée spoke slowly, as if to a half-wit. “The defense of the castle is men’s work.”

Lianna encompassed Lazare and Gervais with a dismissive glance. “The men in charge of Bois-Long have done little to see to its defense.” Flames of anger ignited in the eyes of both Mondragons. She stole a glance at her uncle. His mouth grew taut with suppressed merriment.

“Well spoken,” he murmured.