The Devil's Temptress Page 2

  Whatever he was, he possessed uncanny skill at arms. Quick as she attacked, he was quicker to defend, a fraction of his strength deflecting her. His sword tumbled in whistling arcs to parry her. He made himself the axis she pivoted around; he became the quiet planet around which her blazing sun revolved. Already she was overheated under the armor’s dragging weight. Her breastbone throbbed where his lance had struck, dull waves of pain rolling through her. Slick wetness trickled between her breasts—sweat or blood, she knew not which.

  She burned, but he was ice, undaunted by her flurry of blows. Yet her anger was mounting at his casual defense. The buzzing in her ears was growing . . . her heart laboring . . . her sword arm burning as she swung her blade.

  She gathered all her strength for a final gambit. His scimitar carved the air as it swept up to defend. Summoning every shred of agility, she crouched and swept around, broadsword dropping with disarming swiftness.

  One blow, first blood—

  A blinding flash of silver pierced her vision. Somehow his blade intervened, moaning as it slid along hers. With a twist, his point dislodged her sword and found the seam between her gauntlet and sleeve. A tendril of fire licked along her forearm.

  As her sword tumbled from her fingers, his long leg hooked hers. A gentle nudge sent her flailing backward, a cry bursting from her lips. Unable to regain her balance, she landed flat on her back—for the second time that morn. In a heartbeat, his blade rested against her throat.

  “Yield,” the black knight rasped.

  A dark fog crept around the edge of her vision. Through a tunnel of blackness, she discerned him, silhouetted against the leaden sky. Lady Alienore of Lyonstone sprawled on her back in the dirt before Eleanor of Aquitaine and the entire royal court.

  Yield? In her mind she saw not Rohese but Marguerite de Rievaulx as her mother lay on her deathbed, weakly protesting her innocence to the daughter who longed to believe her. No knight had defended Marguerite from the scandal that killed her.

  “Never!” She blazed with defiance. “Varlet, do your worst. I do not fear you.”

  Laughter scraped behind the black faceplate. “Then, boy, you’re a fool.”

  The Raven dropped to one knee. Alarm knifed through her. He gripped her hauberk in a careless fist, hauling her head and shoulders from the ground. She dangled from his grip like wounded prey.

  Through the eye slit, she glared straight into his shadowed helm. Uncanny golden eyes glittered as they fixed her, feral as any beast’s.

  “Who are you?” She fought for breath.

  If he intends to slit my throat here in the dirt, then at least I will know his name. I will meet my fate without flinching . . . this time.

  “Why, boy, did no one warn you?” He uttered a jarring laugh. “I’m the devil.”

  Overhead, a bird cawed. Suddenly the Raven’s tawny eyes narrowed. As Alienore stared into that sinister gaze, an unnerving notion bloomed. Somehow, through no device but the devil’s own knowledge, could he sense it was a woman who defied him?

  Without warning, he dropped her, then rose to tower over her like an avenging angel. Pivoting toward the queen, he pulled off his helm. From her vantage, Alienore could see only a gleaming rope of sin black hair swinging down his back. Her pulse raced as she waited to be unmasked, or worse.

  He addressed the court in Norman French, voice rasping. “It’s small pleasure to trounce a half-grown boy, swimming in his father’s armor. Let the lady send a new champion, or two—or a hundred. I care not.”

  He stalked from the field, breath billowing around him like smoke from the netherworld.

  Alienore’s face burned as she struggled to her feet, a trickle of blood dripping from her arm. Her disguise was intact—but deep within, a slow wrath kindled. With all the resolve of a knight and an earl’s daughter, she stoked it like a forge fire. Her family’s honor stood twice insulted—her own precious honor, her most prized possession. Grimly, before God and Saint Swithun, she swore she would have justice.

  Alienore vaulted the stairs two at a time, skirts gripped in an agitated hand. Beneath her sleeve, her bandaged arm throbbed with every step. After that debacle on the tourney field, she was late to answer the royal summons.

  Before the double doors, she masked her anxiety and bent to soothe the four-legged friend who trotted at her heels. The doors swung wide, revealing the beating heart of the civilized world.

  The Maubergeonne Tower seethed with restless courtiers bundled against the bitter cold. The odor of corruption assailed her: the stench of unwashed bodies and stale perfume, spiced by the pungent stink of a hidden garderobe. A tide of spiteful murmurs rolled over her, gossip and intrigue, punctuated by the nervous riff of a woman’s laughter.

  Indeed, they did well to be fearful. The entire court was tainted by its sovereign’s disgrace. Their queen had betrayed her husband—Henry, King of England, master of Aquitaine and all the vast lands between.

  Hers was a gilded cage, but Eleanor of Aquitaine was closely guarded. And the man who warded her while the king battled rebels abroad was the very man Alienore herself must avoid.

  To her dismay, he was watching the door—Sir Guy Aigret, the queen’s jailer, a florid-faced Englishman whose eyes bulged when he sighted her. Thrusting upright, he bulled through the crowd toward her. Quick as running water, she shifted course and made for the queen’s throne.

  Idly her sovereign turned the gilded leaves of a volume in her lap. But her keen eyes lingered on Sir Guy, parting the sea of bodies like a thick-prowed ship as he plowed after Alienore. Such was the queen’s skill at subterfuge that Alienore knew herself warned to avoid the man.

  A slender gallant, resplendent in azure brocade, blocked her path.

  “Sweet lady, I have been searching for you everywhere.”

  The need for haste hummed in her nerves. “Sieur de Beaumont, give you good day. I beg your indulgence, for the queen—”

  “Alienore, for mercy!” Thierry de Beaumont squeezed her fingers. “I must know the truth. Whatever besotted fool defended your cousin, he made an appalling poor showing. Soon or late, someone must learn the horse was mine. I cannot hide the beast forever.”

  Her certain knowledge of Sir Guy coming up like a thundercloud behind clenched her teeth over a stiff reply. The queen sat so still she barely seemed to breathe, watching Alienore weave and dodge like the fox before the hound.

  Gripping Thierry’s arm, she turned him toward the queen. Golden-haired, clear-eyed, with a glorious record on the tourney field, Thierry de Beaumont had won many hearts. But he was her declared admirer.

  “Have I a rival for your affections?” he pressed.

  She sighed. He was fair and brave, the only knight who vowed to win back her lands from her misguided brother, who held them. Why must Thierry annoy her when he spoke? He had not seen fit to champion her, yet he would criticize her per for mance?

  But she had not been raised to quarrel like a fishwife in public. Instead, she lifted a shoulder in frosty indifference. “My affections are unengaged. As for the identity of my cousin’s champion, I cannot divulge it.”

  Thwarting her progress, he dug in his heels. “Do I not have the right to know?”

  She slanted a glance at Sir Guy—detained by, God love him, Geoffrey of Brittany, the queen’s ill-favored son. Though Alienore disliked the prince, she felt grateful to him now.

  Cold as winter seas, she turned back to Thierry. Not for nothing was she the queen’s privy chancellor. “Monsieur, you have no right over my person at all. The queen—”

  “No right?” His face reddened. “Why must you be so cold? Does my love count for nothing?”

  “Oh, hush!” Now she was both angry and desperate. She darted for the throne, but he clung, stubborn as a hunting mastiff with a buck. Abandoning discretion, she struggled in his grip.

  A growl of warning rose from the floor—and Thierry de Beaumont froze. From his place at her heels, the albino wolf bared his fangs.

  With ill-c
oncealed dread, the gallant crossed himself. Thierry held her beast in superstitious terror, while Remus barely tolerated the man.

  “We shall speak later, I pray.” Gently she dislodged his grip.

  “As you will.” Thierry ducked her a sullen bow. Red eyes gleaming, the wolf dogged her heels as she eased toward the throne.

  “There ye are, by God!” Sir Guy thrust past a running page, with a clout that sent the lad spinning out of his way. “Lady Alienore, I’ll have a word with ye—”

  The queen’s clarion tones rose above the clamor. “God grant you welcome, privy chancellor. Come here to me at once, I pray you, for I am eager to learn how fare my estates and good subjects at Bordeaux.”

  A tide of relief surging through her, Alienore sank into a curtsy.

  “Madam, by yer leave.” Sir Guy bowed shortly. “I’ve business with Lady Alienore—”

  “Depardieu, my privy chancellor and I have a great deal to discuss. Certainly, you will forgive her if she comes first to me.”

  Sir Guy beetled his brow. Stubborn he was, and graceless, but the man did not lack courage. “I’m no less forgiving than the king your husband.”

  “That is well,” the queen murmured, “for why should forgiveness be only a woman’s art? Alienore, my dear—to me.”

  Gratefully Alienore mounted the dais. Awe and humility swelled within her, mingled with soaring love. Although the legendary beauty of her youth had faded, the queen retained many admirers, even in these uncertain times. Nor were they driven by ambition alone.

  Now, with her easy charm, Eleanor smiled and stood, raising her up with both hands. The two were of a height, both taller than the dainty court beauties.

  “Come take the air with me, my dear.” The queen drew her toward the courtyard. When the sea of attendants shifted to follow, Eleanor lifted an imperious hand to stay them. Thwarted, Sir Guy scowled.

  With Remus trotting at their heels, the two women glided into a high-walled privy courtyard. The cold struck Alienore like thrown knives, and she shivered as they strolled arm in arm. Remus bounded off to explore last year’s withered roses.

  “So, Alienore, what news from Ombrière?”

  Alienore’s skin prickled as she glanced toward the guards. She would never grow accustomed to these dangerous intrigues. Indeed, she had not wanted this delicate position in which the queen had thrust her. But she must be grateful for any place at all, after her haphazard flight from the wretch who would wed her.

  Following the queen’s lead, she shifted to Latin—a language her watchdogs would not comprehend. “All was arranged at your bidding. I contrived to meet your uncle while hunting in the wood.”

  “So . . . my eldest son? Is he well?”

  “Madam, he is in Paris—the honored guest of French Louis. Your husband did not capture him after all.”

  Tension ran like water from the queen’s stately figure. Yet her sovereign strolled as though they discussed nothing more than whether to plant white roses or red next season.

  “Avoi!” The queen sighed. “Then there is still hope for our cause.”

  Uneasy, Alienore lowered her eyes. She had never intended to act against her king—especially now, while she appealed to him to restore her inheritance.

  Who could have predicted the Queen of England would turn against her husband to advance her sons, snatching their inheritance before their father was even dead? Alienore hardly knew where her duty lay, but strove to be faithful to both sides.

  “Madam, surely the king will advance his sons’ welfare of his own accord. You need not force his hand.”

  “My dear Alienore.” The queen smiled. “How can you retain such touching faith in the honor of men? Your own ungrateful brother would see you wedded to an aging lecher, merely to prop up his own prestige.”

  Alienore defended her younger brother from habit. “When my father fell fighting the Saracens, Benedict knew not his wishes—”

  The queen arched her reddish eyebrows. “He wishes to deprive you of land Theobold clearly meant for you.”

  “My brother returned from crusading but a year ago, grieving and weary of war. He has hardly been in his right mind for sorrow! I have appealed to King Henry—”

  “Who will refuse you, for he must secure your brother’s loyalty as Lyonstone’s new earl. Henry cannot afford another rebellious lord on the unsettled Scottish border. And what of the Duc d’Ormonde?”

  Alienore braced against the tide of shame. Aye, my would-be husband. I fled his coming like a thief in the night—abandoned my duty after one look at his sour old face.

  “Let us not speak of him, madam.”

  “Never fear, child. When my son is king, he will send the duke packing.”

  Alienore clasped her hands to still their tremor. She was Theobold’s daughter, loyal unto death to her king. The old earl would be spinning in his grave to hear these words. But she could not abandon Queen Eleanor, her godmother and benefactress. She must steer some middle way between dangers, veering neither toward one nor the other.

  “I belong at home, Your Grace, tending to the welfare of my people. I am not meant for a life of plotting and intrigue.”

  “’Tis your very candor that I value.” The queen angled their course toward the hall and the enemies within. “You may return to your beloved manor in the fullness of time. For the present, your queen requires your service.”

  Alienore bowed her head, knowing she had no choice. If she would win back her stolen lands, she must rely upon royal will to uphold her. Nothing else mattered but to regain the manor and restore her sullied honor. But do I deserve as much?

  “As you are just returned to court, perhaps you have not heard.” Before the door, the queen paused. “We shall be amused this night by a lavish masque in honor of Richard’s knighting. Of course you will attend.”

  “Nay, madam, you know I do not care for masques and revels. I am utterly buried with work—”

  “Oh, Alienore, sometimes I think you are far too serious. Richard will be gravely disappointed if you forgo the affair. For you know how well he loves you.”

  Alienore slanted her sovereign a guarded glance. Prince Richard loved no woman or man so well as himself. “Madam, you have accrued an alarming backlog of correspondence—”

  “Let duty wait for one night, my dear. I will entertain no further protest.”

  “As Your Grace commands.” Alienore dipped into an ironic curtsy. “If you would have one more masked fool wasting time at a banquet, who am I to protest?”

  “In truth, I have a deeper motive for desiring your presence. I want to know more about the black knight who impugned your cousin’s honor.”

  Alienore had always been an abysmal failure at subterfuge. Whistling for Remus, she turned from the queen’s discerning eye as the wolf bounded toward her, and buried cold hands in his shaggy ruff. “Why?”

  “He arrived at court with glowing credentials. Yet he begs nothing more than a place in my barracks, giving instruction at swordplay to earn his bread. He was a scandal in Outremer and Castile, leading a notorious band who sold their swords to the highest bidder. They call him the Devil of Damascus, for he was at that horrible siege there years ago.”

  “A mercenary.” Fresh shame stung Alienore’s cheeks. Trounced on the field of combat by a common rogue! “It sounds as though you already know quite a bit about the man. You hardly need me.”

  The queen hesitated. “My dear, these are uncertain times. My royal husband does not stint at peopling this court with his spies.”

  Alienore pushed away Remus’s muzzle and glanced up. “You believe the king has dispatched this knight to spy upon you?”

  “The possibility cannot be ruled out. In truth, I would value your impression.”

  “Madam, I am poorly skilled at reading the minds of men. What would I know of this Raven?”

  “He displays a marked interest in the fairer sex. In the main, his ardor is reciprocated with enthusiasm by my ladies. Or at least, let us
say, Lady Rohese is the first to protest him. You underestimate your own appeal, my dear, if you believe the Raven will show no interest in you.”

  Alarmed, Alienore rose. “I am a virtuous woman—”

  “And you believe that will deter him?” The queen laughed. “My dear child, that will only spur his ardor. There are many who find you an irresistible challenge.”

  Uncomfortably, Alienore thought of Richard. “Madam, I pray you, reconsider! I have no time to idle about in games of courtly love. I cannot conceive of approaching the Raven.”

  “You approach him—by good Saint Thibault, nay!” The queen laughed again. “My sheltered innocent, you need only appear tonight looking aloof and stately and beautiful as always. Do nothing more than that, and our Raven will fly to you.”

  Chapter Two

  Alienore of Lyonstone was his last and only chance. But he would ensure she never knew it—until it was too late. Lounging in the great hall, the Raven frowned at the chessboard. As in the game, he would move indirectly, using guile and deceit. He dared not reveal his desperation.

  “Aha!” Richard of Aquitaine’s cobalt eyes flashed with triumph. “I have perplexed you, monsieur! Admit it.”

  “I’m perplexed.” The Raven’s mouth twisted in a humorless smile. His gaze raked from the prince—too much like his mother, that one—to stalk the chamber for his quarry.

  This pleasure palace was nothing like the sea-raked Norman stronghold where he’d grown to manhood. Still less did it resemble the sun-blasted sands of Outremer, where he’d forgotten everything of softness and courtly grace.

  Poitiers seethed with determined revelry, for the queen would have her masque, no matter what doom hung over her. Mythical heroes and leering monsters swirled past, but he smelled fear beneath their frantic gaiety.

  This entire court teetered on the razor’s edge of treachery—and yet they frolicked.

  His lip curled as the Raven scanned the hall, a corner of his mind plotting escape routes by habit. Not finding his quarry, he lowered his ruined voice and adopted a confiding manner.