The Countess Read online

  Duncan warmed to his theme, feeling the shift in Iain’s support. “You would be murderers then and traitors under the king’s own law, hunted men unwelcome at any court.” He poked a finger into Iain’s chest. “Even Dugall, King of the Isles, with his lack of affection for King William, would not rush to embrace a man upon whom he could not rely.”

  “We should seize the deed and shred it,” Iain protested stridently. “That way, there would be no tale of it forevermore.”

  “Destroying the deed will not remove the lady’s claim, just as killing her party will not make their right in the law any less. There will be heirs, upon that you may rely, just as you may be sure that there was never a deed that existed without another to secure its claim.” Duncan gave Iain a scathing glance. “Even you could not hope to kill them all and live to tell the tale.”

  The two men glared at each other.

  Duncan took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Would you be mocked for all your days as a warrior who could not win his will from women without bloodshed?”

  Iain’s face darkened as the men began to chuckle.

  “Cunning overcomes strength,” Gillemore declared gleefully.

  Though Gillemore’s taste for proverbs could be annoying, Duncan welcomed this one.

  “They will leave by the morn, by midday at the latest,” Duncan informed his men. “No noblewoman will endure what she will undoubtedly see as harsh conditions. These are women raised in soft circumstance. We have but to wait to see Ceinn-beithe our own.”

  The men nodded and stepped back, appeased. Iain spat in the grass and strode away, his manner convincing Duncan that he had not heard the last of this trouble between them.

  * * *

  By dawn, Eglantine had persuaded herself that barbarian men possessed no allure whatsoever. That it had taken her the better part of the night to reach this conclusion was irrelevant, in her estimation - the important thing was that she had seen to the root of her own weakness and corrected the matter.

  On their arrival, she had been troubled, tired, challenged and facing only the first of the obstacles arrayed against her. And she was irked that their guide, having seen them to this wild place, had disappeared into the hills. It had not been easy to ensure her company was settled, given the inclement weather and the trials of both Alienor and Esmeraude. And there had been pledges to extricate from all involved that they not reveal her true name to anyone.

  Siting a camp was not the easiest task, particularly in unfamiliar environs where one was uncertain of the pattern of rain and wind. Between herself and Louis, though, they had chosen a flat site a considerable distance from the broch that Duncan seemed unlikely to surrender. The pagan stone cast a shadow over the cluster of tents, though Eglantine refused to see much import in that.

  She had posted sentries for the night, distrusting that shadows continually moved around that broch. If Duncan and his men - whose numbers she could not accurately guess - did not intend to sleep, she would not be so fool as to rely upon their honorable behavior.

  ‘Twas discomfort and anger that kept her awake that night. ‘Twas guilt at involving her household in supporting her lie of being the Countess de Nemerres. ‘Twas worry that she had not done enough to hide her destination, should Reynaud decide to pursue his betrothed.

  ‘Twas not any tremble awakened by a heathen’s rude touch that kept her from sleeping, nay, never that. Eglantine knew well enough that no rough man could be possessed of a whit of charm.

  Even one who spoke some variant of French. She would spare no thought to the perfection of his pronunciation of Norman French, when she could not wring that cursed “-th” from her own lips.

  She tried again in the privacy of her tent and muttered an oath when the sound still would not fall from her lips. Eglantine swung from her pallet in frustration and paced.

  How dare Duncan touch her knee! ‘Twas only his appalling manners that caught her attention, that was the truth of it. Aye, he would be gone by this morn without doubt, bored and restless, seeking amusement elsewhere.

  She most certainly would not provide the man’s entertainment.

  To be sure, she should be encouraged by the presence of Duncan and his men upon this land. If barbarians could survive in this barren place, then Eglantine, with her servants and supplies, most certainly could do so. That realization made her newly determined to see her will done. To be sure, she had had a shock the evening before, but she would still succeed.

  A steady rain drummed on the roof of her tent as she dressed. She shivered at the chill in the air, then rubbed her feet, certain she would die a happy woman if they could be warm but once more.

  Eglantine stepped out into a crisp morning and compelled herself to find something about it that was not unpleasant. This was to be her home, after all, and she must make the best of matters. But for the life of her, she could find naught favorable in this drenched, grey and cold place which seemed to be wrought of rock and water and wind.

  She stood and waited. Aye, there was something to be said for the tinge of salt in the wind. ‘Twas invigorating and she too felt younger than her years. ‘Twould have to do.

  Eglantine took a deep breath, knowing she needed as much invigoration as possible this morn. Somehow, she had to drive Duncan from her holding, even though his ragtag company of men were likely experienced warriors. She could not win by force, but perhaps by determination.

  Perhaps by simple fortune. Given her thoughts, ‘twas not surprising that Eglantine’s gaze rose of its own accord to the broch, her heart hammering with hope that he had chosen to leave.

  But Dame Fortune had not smiled upon Eglantine this morn. Duncan was yet here. Her heart fluttered when she readily picked him out, his dark hair readily discernible from his red and golden haired comrades. They were moving about, though she could not guess what they did at this hour.

  Despite the rain. Eglantine stood and stared, her pulse skipping erratically. Disappointment, ‘twas all. She had wished Duncan gone, yet he lingered. ‘Twould be neither her first disappointment nor her last, she was certain.

  She turned away and deliberately eyed her holding. She had hoped at least for a small manor, a shelter of some kind in this place, even a chapel, but other than that tumbling tower which Duncan seemed disinclined to surrender, there was not so much as a shed.

  ‘Twas unlike Eglantine’s resolve to falter, but falter it did.

  Briefly.

  Perhaps she had caught a chill upon the journey. Indeed, the weather had been most foul and their stores less than fortifying. She could not risk her vassals falling into ill health in this place, not before they had an herb garden flourishing, not before they had decent shelter. Her first task would be to ensure that they ate well this day.

  They had need of meat. To hunt in the rain would be a particular ordeal, but that mattered naught. One did one’s duties first.

  In that moment, Jacqueline stepped out into the morning before Eglantine, her smile bright. At fourteen summers of age, the girl was radiant in her innocence and Eglantine watched her firstborn with pride. Jacqueline took a deep breath of the air, clearly unaware of her mother’s presence so close by and oblivious to the poor weather. Jacqueline hugged herself and grinned, dancing in a little circle.

  ‘Twas then she spied her mother.

  She giggled and flushed as she had not in a long time, flinging herself into Eglantine’s embrace with childish abandon. “Oh, Maman, I love it here. Thank you so very much for bringing us away from Arnelaine.”

  Eglantine blinked even as her daughter kissed her warmly. “How can you love this wretched place?”

  “How can you not love it?” Jacqueline crowed, lifting her hands to the sky. “‘Tis wild and beautiful, ‘tis peaceful and uncluttered.”

  “But the weather is most foul.”

  “Nay, Maman. ‘Tis but a gentle rain.” Jacqueline laughed and Eglantine supposed her skepticism was evident. “Look at the colors, feel the clarity of the win
d. There is no king, no court, no wicked obligations that must be kept.” Jacqueline took a deep breath as though steeling herself for a foul deed. “I would aid you, Maman, however you might need my aid that we could stay.”

  “I go to hunt this morn,” Eglantine admitted, knowing that would be the end of Jacqueline’s enthusiasm.

  But the girl faltered for only a moment. “Let me come with you.”

  “But you hate the hunt!”

  The girl lifted her chin, her lips set with resolve. “’Tis time I was of more assistance. You do too much for all of us, Maman.”

  Jacqueline smiled and ‘twas as though the merry child she had once been stood before Eglantine once more. Eglantine brushed the hair back from her daughter’s temple with affection, pleased to see that the dread of Reynaud had already faded from her eyes.

  ‘Twas worth any price, any hardship, to have her daughter back.

  Eglantine slipped her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “You shall have to feed Melusine the sweetmeats of the first kill,” she teased and Jacqueline grimaced comically.

  “I shall do whatsoever is required,” she said with a resolve Eglantine had not known she possessed.

  * * *

  Duncan had slept badly, with one ear cocked for the inevitable sounds of the countess’ departure, sounds which never did carry to his ears. He was up well before the dawn, walking in the pearly mist as he pondered his choices. When the onslaught turned to a cold drizzle, his spirits lifted.

  Aye, no countess would endure this! Duncan turned his steps away from the wild coast and toward the lady’s camp, intent on waving her farewell.

  But few stirred in her camp. A trio of men simply armed stood around the smoldering fire, warming their hands and drinking some hot beverage. Duncan took the opportunity to slip closer unnoticed, as he could not have done while her vassals were awake.

  The camp was considerable. In the midst of the haphazard settlement were three striped silk tents, their finery a notable contrast to their surroundings. He guessed one or all of these tents to be the abode of the lady herself.

  No doubt the lady would slumber late in luxury. She would eventually rise and call for a bath, then order their departure after midday.

  No sooner had he had the thought than the lady proved him wrong. She emerged from her tent, stretched and arched her back, the move even observed at such distance making him keenly aware of her femininity. She was joined by a younger woman, perhaps one who had ridden behind her the day before, and they strode across the camp together.

  Duncan was curious enough to trail behind, ensuring that he kept to the periphery of the camp and was not seen. His circuitous path ensured that he fell a good bit behind the purposeful countess and he rounded a corner in time to see her swing into her saddle.

  But this was no departing party she led. Nay, only the other woman mounted a steed, the two women gathering their reins as the horses pranced impatiently. An older man clucked, then lifted something to the countess, who bent to receive it.

  And Duncan understood as the countess gave her heels to her steed and rode toward him. She rode to the hunt!

  The countess held her fist aloft, a hooded peregrine perched there with ribbons flying from its tethers. The bird was already wet, its feathers dark, though ‘twas docile upon her hand. The lady was similarly dampened in the rain, her cloak hanging heavily over her shoulders.

  He dove into the shadows before she noted him, the image of her etched in his mind’s eye. Her cloak had parted to reveal her kirtle wrought of a pale moss green, its hem and cuffs unadorned. A simple girdle emphasized the narrow span of her waist, the rough leather hunting glove making her appear particularly finely-boned. He peeked out as the horses cantered past his hiding spot and felt a measure of admiration. She rode as though she was accustomed to the saddle, as though she was oblivious to the foul weather.

  Duncan frowned. Surely she could not be so greedy for the thrill of the hunt that she would forget her own comfort? ‘Twas hardly a morning when such activity could be enjoyed.

  Although he had seen more than one noble unnaturally enamored of the hunt, so anxious for their entertainment that naught else could intervene. Meanwhile all those in her party labored from first light to ensure she had every desire fulfilled upon her return.

  ‘Twas precisely the sort of selfish indifference that Duncan loathed about the nobility and he hardened his heart against her anew.

  Aye, in these parts, all labored together to ensure the comfort of all! What irresponsibility to while away the morn with her falcon, as though she had no obligations to bear!

  Duncan emerged from his spot to glare after the departing countess. She rode with none but the other woman, a pair of boys running behind them.

  If none would criticize the countess from her own household, he most certainly would do the honors. He strode after her, certain he would find an opportunity for his say.

  She would leave by midday.

  * * *

  Here was Jacqueline’s chance.

  Her mother was not a woman of easy confidences and did not share anything of import where it might be overheard. Ever since Eglantine had insisted they would leave Arnelaine, Jacqueline had hoped this meant the breaking of her betrothal.

  Eglantine had been evasive with details among the company, and truly, ‘twas impossible to escape the listening ears of a company of such size while traveling. She had briskly changed the subject when asked once about Reynaud de Charmonte and been vague about her reasons for moving the household north.

  Louis had been sour with disapproval, a fact which fed Jacqueline’s hope that her mother had done something scandalous - like destroy her daughter’s betrothal agreement.

  But there had been no chance to demand the fullness of the truth in privacy. Jacqueline had bitten her tongue all the way across France and the sea and most of Britain, awaiting her moment and itching with curiosity all the while. Every step persuaded her that she was right, but still she would hear the truth from her mother’s lips.

  And this was her chance. She rode to hunt in the silvery light just before the dawn, with her mother alone. Soon, she would know for certain.

  The raindrops hung on the deadened branches of the trees like crystals, they dropped on the thick bed of fallen leaves in a silvery melody that no musician could repeat. Jacqueline had never guessed there could be so many hues of silver and grey, yet when she looked to the sea, she saw even more shades. The water was tinged with indigo and green and darkened to black, rife with shadows and secrets.

  Even under other circumstances, Jacqueline would have done anything to remain in this wild yet oddly tranquil place. Under her particular circumstance, she would do even more.

  A pair of boys ran behind Eglantine’s palfrey, laughing up at her, and that prized peregrine perched upon Eglantine’s gloved fist. Her mother looked glorious and noble, and rode as though she was born to the saddle. She was gracious and lovely, composed and polite, and certain of what to say in every circumstance. Eglantine was perfect - and Jacqueline of late doubted that they shared any blood at all.

  On this day, Jacqueline felt that she bumped along as elegantly as a lump of wet potter’s clay. The contrast between her mother’s smooth horsemanship and her own lack of grace was particularly strong.

  Demons had claimed Jacqueline’s body in the past year, for she accomplished naught with even her former measure of ease. At Arnelaine, she had fallen off steps that once she had leapt over, she had walked into doors, even now she burst into tears unexpectedly. She did not like the arrival of her courses, the eruption of her breasts, the changes in her body that made her look like a woman. She did not like the way men eyed her these days, as though she might make a fine meal.

  Yet her mother had not only endured these changes, but bore their mark elegantly. Where Jacqueline sprouted fulsome curves, her mother was lithe. While Jacqueline remained short, her mother was tall. While Jacqueline’s hair was straight as sticks and the
hue of straw, her mother’s was wavy and honey-hued, like some gossamer confection of the angels.

  To be sure, Jacqueline loved her mother - she merely wished that she was possessed so readily of such grace. Surely she might have inherited Eglantine’s smooth assurance, instead of her father’s shorter stature and awkward manner?

  Jacqueline watched her mother talk to the peregrine, saw the hooded creature respond by bobbing its head. As long as she could recall, her mother had hunted with Melusine.

  Jacqueline hated Melusine. More accurately, she hated what Melusine did - and she hated that her mother showed no fear of the terrifying creature. The bird was meant to kill, to tear and maim, and its cold eye instilled a healthy fear in Jacqueline.

  Yet her mother cooed to it as though ‘twere a harmless lamb. Eglantine feared naught, while her daughter feared so very much.

  The bird’s festooned hood was removed and Melusine scanned the countryside with a steely purpose that made Jacqueline shiver. Her mother loosed the tethers and the hunting bird gave a cry. It took to the air, rising high to circle once over the women.

  “She has been caged too long on this journey,” her mother murmured. The raindrops briefly glinted off the bird, then its outspread wings were etched dark against the lightening sky. Jacqueline felt her usual measure of awe for its savage beauty.

  “She is hungered.” Eglantine tracked the bird’s progress with her narrowed gaze. When the bird swooped and dove, talons extended, Jacqueline felt ill with the certainty of what was happening ahead.

  Her mother, though, dug her heels into her steed with purpose and she knew she had best do the same. By the time she caught up, her mother was dismounting with that enviable ease and striding toward the fresh kill.

  Eglantine whistled, her peregrine so well trained that there was no need for the lure. With evident reluctance, the bird left the bloodied rabbit. It landed on Eglantine’s upraised fist, the weight of impact making her hand momentarily dip to her waist.