Page 73

A se’nnight later, Colin dismounted in Harrowden’s courtyard, stood gratefully on ground that didn’t buck and heave beneath him, and took the time to briefly contemplate several of life’s more puzzling riddles.

Firstly, why was it he had spent the better part of his life on horseback, which was certainly not a ride without its own share of bucking and heaving, yet such a life had not prepared him in the slightest for the flailings and whirlings of a ship being tossed about the sea?

Secondly, how was it that Jason of Artane, still green from his wound and pale from his fever, could ride out such waves with nary a flicker of unease crossing his face and then cheerfully step off the boat with the contents of his stomach still intact?

And, lastly, how was it you could be intimate with a woman, powerfully and fully intimate with a woman, yet have that woman refuse to puke in front of you? Especially given how many times she’d done it previously on her last sea crossing in the guise of a man!

Needless to say, he had refused to leave Aliénore to her puking self, taken her cursings like the man he was, and held her head when she’d finally fallen into an exhausted slumber.

He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when she’d woken and found that she’d been carried onto the dock senseless, yet still thanked him kindly and given him her most pleasant smile.

He’d decided then not to try to pursue the hidden meaning in anything she’d done while aboard ship.

Those disturbing feminine slips aside, she had many fine, manly qualities such as courage, good cheer, and ample wit, qualities that made sense to him, and ones he would certainly choose to concentrate on instead.

Now he had reached the last pause before he arrived at his final destination of Berkham.

He was pleased to be where he was, and not only because it meant he would never again have to set foot on board a ship.

He had the happy occasion of his father’s discomfiture to look forward to when Reginald saw Aliénore alive and well.

And apparently pleased to have wed with Reginald’s son.

He took a final look about the courtyard to assure himself that no foes had followed him inside the gates, then gathered up his bride, nodded for her family and Jason to follow, and swept into the guest hall with as much bluster as his father might have managed on his best day.

Only to find his brother kissing Sybil of Maignelay-sur-mer as if robbing her of breath was the only thing that assured him of his own.

Colin came to a teetering halt and gaped at his sibling, then gaped at Sybil as well. She was wearing neither wimple nor veil. Perhaps having Peter to kiss had occupied her mouth so fully that she no longer needed to stock her larder, as it were.

The door at the other end of the hall banged shut suddenly. Peter and Sybil sprang apart as if they’d been spotted by the abbot himself.

“By the saints, at it again?”

Colin looked at his father and noted the expression of complete disgust. Apparently Peter and Sybil were not engaging in a newly discovered pastime.

“But Father,” Peter protested, “we are betrothed. What else are we to do?”

“Wait for your damned bro ... um ...”

Colin watched as his father realized that he, Peter, and Sybil were not the only ones in the hall, then realized just who else was there. Colin had the complete satisfaction of watching his sire blanch.

Of course, that whitening of his visage didn’t last long.

“Back so soon?” he asked contemptuously. “And empty-handed. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Colin folded his arms over his chest. “I found what I sought.”

Reginald looked the company over. “I see men, so I assume you didn’t bring the silly twit back with you. Is she dead?”

“Hardly,” Colin answered.

“In a convent, then.”

“Hardly,” Aliénore muttered from where she stood next to him.

Colin was tempted to smile, but refrained. He would enjoy that bit of humor with Aliénore later when they had some privacy. For now, he was better off scowling at his sire. “The lady is alive, hale, and hearty.”

Reginald nodded in satisfaction. “You couldn’t persuade her to come back with you, then. I had no doubt of it. Obviously, I made the right decision in choosing Peter—”

“To aid you in packing your gear at Berkham,” Colin finished for him, “for ’Tis a certainty I don’t want you there any longer.”

“You have no say in the matter,” his father snarled, “for you have no bride.”

Colin took Aliénore by the hand and led her forward. “May I present,” he said calmly, “the lady Aliénore of Solonge. Or Aliénore of Berkham, as she now should be known. My lady wife.”

Reginald gaped at her for a moment or two, his mouth working futilely. He seemed to be having trouble taking in air.

“Impossible,” he wheezed. “This lad couldn’t possibly be a woman.”

“I fear she most certainly is,” came another voice.

Colin looked to his right and saw that Lord Denis had stepped forward. He smiled without any warmth whatsoever.

“And this is my daughter you’re near to insulting,” he said. “I can vouch for her identity.”

“As can I,” Jason said.

Aliénore’s brothers offered the same service.

Reginald looked as if his heart might be failing him right before their very eyes. He clutched at his throat and made strangling noises. Aliénore started forward, but Colin caught her by the hand.

“Ignore him,” Colin said shortly. “’Tis for show.”

“But Colin,” she said, aghast, “he looks unwell.”

Colin pulled her along, then nodded to his sire on the way to the table set near the back of the hall.

“He’ll survive. See, already he turns red instead of that unattractive purple he was but a moment before.

His ire will keep him from his grave long past the time when I would have rather seen him there, I assure you. ”

Reginald was starting to splutter, which Colin took as a sign his father was in truth not ready to be laid out and admired.

Damn him anyway.

Colin led Aliénore to the table, sat down with her, saw her family seated, and then waited for sustenance to be brought to him. What came instead was his brother crawling toward him, looking desolate.

“Does this mean,” he asked, his voice quavering in a most unmanly fashion, “that my betrothal to Sybil is invalid?”

Colin studied his brother. “You want the wench?”

“Desperately.” And Peter did look desperate as he clutched the edge of the table and leaned precariously over it toward Colin.

“I’m for it, then,” Colin said. “Save me the expense of keeping you here, I suppose.”

“My gold is not yours yet,” Reginald croaked. “Not until I’m dead!”

“I can see to that for you, if you like,” Colin snapped.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You would be surprised,” Colin returned.

He girded up his loins to launch into a full-out attack on his father, but found that he was quite suddenly distracted by the arrival of his sisters.

Ermengarde came marching first into the chamber, gathered their father up, and saw him settled with food before him.

Colin watched with not just a little irritation as she fussed over the old fool.

“We haven’t eaten either,” Colin said pointedly.

“Go fetch it yourself,” Ermengarde said, sweeping the company with a glare. “The kitchens are ... are ... are ...”

Colin watched as his sister found herself rendered quite unable to finish her thought. He followed her eyes and realized she had perhaps studied his troops a moment too long. She was standing in front of the table, gaping at one of Aliénore’s brothers.

Francois, to be exact.

And Francois was gaping at her in return.

Ermengarde shut her mouth with a snap. And then—and Colin knew at that moment that the world could not last but a handful of moments more if these momentous events were any indication—she reached up and tidied her hair.

Tidied her hair?

Colin could scarce believe his eyes.

“You’ll need ... food,” she said breathlessly.

“You’ll need aid fetching it,” Francois said, standing up so quickly that his chair fell backward with a crash.

Ermengarde blushed.

The sight of it was, in a word, terrifying.

“She’s smitten,” Aliénore whispered.

“The saints preserve us,” Colin whispered back.

“It had to happen sometime.”

“I pity your brother.”

“I pity your sister.”

Colin found his father staring at Ermengarde and Francois as if they’d both sprouted horns and conjured up flames to lick at their backsides. Then Reginald seemed to remember that he was in the midst of being stricken with a fatal bit of grief.

“Agnes!” he cried, flailing his hands about desperately. “Come to me! Your sister has deserted me and there is no one left to see to the small comforts that an old man deserves.”

“He should have been a player,” Colin said with a snort. “Listen to him spout lies as if someone had written them down for him to repeat.”

“Listen?” Aliénore said, with a laugh. “Rather you should look, my lord. It would seem that not even Agnes is immune to my family’s charm.”

It was true. Agnes had come stumbling farther into the guest hall, then come to a dead stop, her gaze fixed to none other than poor Pierre of Solonge.

Colin waited for her hand to flutter up to her throat.

It did.

He then expected the rapturous sigh, the blinking of her eyes, and the rosy blush plastering itself to her cheeks.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“Who,” Agnes said breathlessly, her finger pointing in its usual fashion, “is that?”

“Pierre of Solonge,” Pierre squeaked. “Your servant, my lady.”

“Nay, yours, my lord.”

“Oh, by the saints,” Colin said in disgust, “go help Ermengarde with the food, both of you, and see if you can get your sorry arses back here before we perish from hunger. Moon over each other all you like, but do it after I’ve eaten!”

Pierre and Agnes moved like souls who walked in their sleep toward the back of the hall that led to the kitchens.

“You have my brother’s name,” Agnes said with a reverent tone.

“And you have the face of an angel,” Pierre said with another squeak.