The Burning Stone
Page 246
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The stripe of sunlight shivered and vanished as the sun set in the west. He felt her breathe beside him, the merest tremor as she let out the breath she had taken in a moment ago; ages ago. Her fingers brushed his; she flinched and shied off, like a butterfly, as beautiful, as fragile. He remembered it all, then. All of the desire he had ever felt for her swept him as does a wave the shore. She was even more beautiful now, the palest rose color in her cheeks, her hair washed and clean and as fine as the tawny stands of wheat under the summer sun. Her neck had the supple grace of a swan’s. She had put on enough weight that her breasts pressed against her gown and her hips swelled under the fabric, a resting place for loving hands.
She did not look at him, but she flushed, the color of a woman who sees her beloved for the first time in the intimacy of the bedchamber. Was it not obvious that she loved him, he who was surely not worthy of her, the granddaughter of queens and kings?
At last, she spoke in as firm a voice as he had ever heard from her. “God has heard my prayers. I remain a virgin. I am not pregnant.”
Geoffrey let out a sharp, satisfied breath, turning to Yolande. “Did I not predict this? God have made him impotent! It is a sign. If he was the rightful heir, he would have gotten her with child by now.”
Ai, God. His own desire had blinded him. Tallia stared at him defiantly. Finally, he stammered out words. “Say what you mean, Lord Geoffrey.”
“I mean,” said Geoffrey, warming to his subject, “that you duped my cousin Lavastine. You are a fraud. I knew it all along. I have already sent a message to King Henry asking him to judge this matter.”
“King Henry has already judged this matter,” retorted Alain. “He himself sealed my father’s claim. I didn’t ask to be acknowledged as my father’s heir. Lavastine himself took me forward before the king before I knew what he meant to do!”
“So you say now. But everyone knows Lavastine was ensorcelled at that time. I was loyal to King Henry all along. But you consorted with that Eagle, the one who was outlawed and excommunicated for sorcery. You gave her gifts. Who is to say you didn’t ensorcell my cousin Lavastine? That you convinced him of what was never true? He was taken by a fit, that is all, a fit brought on him by witchcraft. That is why he named you as his heir.”
Duchess Yolande watched him with the weight of judgment—and opportunity—in her gaze. Hadn’t her own father ridden with Sabella, against Henry? Who could know where her loyalties lay? Tallia had a legitimate claim to the throne. Geoffrey had a wife with powerful kinsfolk, and an infant daughter whom he had, until last spring, expected to install as count of Lavas. And Yolande had an infant son, second child, who—if he lived—would need to marry a powerful noblewoman.
Ai, God! No wonder Lavastine had had little patience for court. Intrigue was nothing more than a palace of coils, all tangles and knots, and once you wandered in, it was impossible to find your way out. There you would starve, and the scavengers would eat you, flesh and blood and bone.
Alain turned to Tallia, but she only smoothed her hands down over her virgin womb. She would not even look him in the eye. And that, of course, was what hurt worst of all. She might as well have scoured his hands with the nail as her own. The pain wouldn’t have been as great as this.
He whistled, and at once the duchess’ attendants scattered as the hounds bounded in, growling, and ringed him. Tallia began to cry, Geoffrey took five steps back and set a hand on his sword. Duchess Yolande called to her guards, but they hesitated at the door, afraid to come any closer.
“Then what of the hounds?” Alain demanded. “If you or your daughter are the rightful heir, then why do the hounds obey me?”
“More of your sorcery!” hissed Geoffrey. “It wasn’t my grandfather who was cursed by the hounds. He was only the younger brother of Charles Lavastine, he who became count after his mother died. Ai, God, don’t you know the story? Countess Lavrentia had only the one child, the boy she named Charles Lavastine. They never liked each other. She prayed every day for a girl, who would take precedence over the son, but she didn’t became pregnant. Not until Charles Lavastine was eighteen. Everyone was surprised that a woman of full forty years was carrying a child. Her husband died in a hunting accident while she was still pregnant, and then she herself died in childbed. Some say she died of disappointment that she had given birth to another boy instead of the girl she longed for. Some say Charles Lavastine murdered her to make sure she wouldn’t get pregnant again. But he was count now, and it fell to him to name the infant. He called the baby Geoffrey—my grandfather. He founded a convent at St. Thierry and scoured the countryside for foundling girls to become nuns, so they could pray for his mother’s soul. That’s where he laid his mother to rest. But it was right after she died that the hounds came to Lavas County, that he began to hunt with them and go everywhere with them, as though they were his bodyguard. No one knows how, or why, or where they came from. But everyone said it was witchcraft, that he had traded something precious for the hounds. Ever after those hounds obeyed only him, and then his son the younger Charles, and then his son, the younger Lavastine.”
She did not look at him, but she flushed, the color of a woman who sees her beloved for the first time in the intimacy of the bedchamber. Was it not obvious that she loved him, he who was surely not worthy of her, the granddaughter of queens and kings?
At last, she spoke in as firm a voice as he had ever heard from her. “God has heard my prayers. I remain a virgin. I am not pregnant.”
Geoffrey let out a sharp, satisfied breath, turning to Yolande. “Did I not predict this? God have made him impotent! It is a sign. If he was the rightful heir, he would have gotten her with child by now.”
Ai, God. His own desire had blinded him. Tallia stared at him defiantly. Finally, he stammered out words. “Say what you mean, Lord Geoffrey.”
“I mean,” said Geoffrey, warming to his subject, “that you duped my cousin Lavastine. You are a fraud. I knew it all along. I have already sent a message to King Henry asking him to judge this matter.”
“King Henry has already judged this matter,” retorted Alain. “He himself sealed my father’s claim. I didn’t ask to be acknowledged as my father’s heir. Lavastine himself took me forward before the king before I knew what he meant to do!”
“So you say now. But everyone knows Lavastine was ensorcelled at that time. I was loyal to King Henry all along. But you consorted with that Eagle, the one who was outlawed and excommunicated for sorcery. You gave her gifts. Who is to say you didn’t ensorcell my cousin Lavastine? That you convinced him of what was never true? He was taken by a fit, that is all, a fit brought on him by witchcraft. That is why he named you as his heir.”
Duchess Yolande watched him with the weight of judgment—and opportunity—in her gaze. Hadn’t her own father ridden with Sabella, against Henry? Who could know where her loyalties lay? Tallia had a legitimate claim to the throne. Geoffrey had a wife with powerful kinsfolk, and an infant daughter whom he had, until last spring, expected to install as count of Lavas. And Yolande had an infant son, second child, who—if he lived—would need to marry a powerful noblewoman.
Ai, God! No wonder Lavastine had had little patience for court. Intrigue was nothing more than a palace of coils, all tangles and knots, and once you wandered in, it was impossible to find your way out. There you would starve, and the scavengers would eat you, flesh and blood and bone.
Alain turned to Tallia, but she only smoothed her hands down over her virgin womb. She would not even look him in the eye. And that, of course, was what hurt worst of all. She might as well have scoured his hands with the nail as her own. The pain wouldn’t have been as great as this.
He whistled, and at once the duchess’ attendants scattered as the hounds bounded in, growling, and ringed him. Tallia began to cry, Geoffrey took five steps back and set a hand on his sword. Duchess Yolande called to her guards, but they hesitated at the door, afraid to come any closer.
“Then what of the hounds?” Alain demanded. “If you or your daughter are the rightful heir, then why do the hounds obey me?”
“More of your sorcery!” hissed Geoffrey. “It wasn’t my grandfather who was cursed by the hounds. He was only the younger brother of Charles Lavastine, he who became count after his mother died. Ai, God, don’t you know the story? Countess Lavrentia had only the one child, the boy she named Charles Lavastine. They never liked each other. She prayed every day for a girl, who would take precedence over the son, but she didn’t became pregnant. Not until Charles Lavastine was eighteen. Everyone was surprised that a woman of full forty years was carrying a child. Her husband died in a hunting accident while she was still pregnant, and then she herself died in childbed. Some say she died of disappointment that she had given birth to another boy instead of the girl she longed for. Some say Charles Lavastine murdered her to make sure she wouldn’t get pregnant again. But he was count now, and it fell to him to name the infant. He called the baby Geoffrey—my grandfather. He founded a convent at St. Thierry and scoured the countryside for foundling girls to become nuns, so they could pray for his mother’s soul. That’s where he laid his mother to rest. But it was right after she died that the hounds came to Lavas County, that he began to hunt with them and go everywhere with them, as though they were his bodyguard. No one knows how, or why, or where they came from. But everyone said it was witchcraft, that he had traded something precious for the hounds. Ever after those hounds obeyed only him, and then his son the younger Charles, and then his son, the younger Lavastine.”
