CHAPTER 6
The day had turned pleasant, growing warmer in the afternoon. The queen, the countess, and two young sisters, Mathea and Paulette de Glanville, adjourned to the hostel’s garden. The girls were the granddaughters of Rannulf de Glanville, the loyal justiciar of King Henry and the queen’s reluctant jail warden during the years when she was her husband’s prisoner in England. In a twist of fate, before death claimed him, de Glanville had fallen into poverty and out of favor with John. The queen had accepted custody of the two orphans, bearing no ill will toward a learned and loyal servant of the Crown.
The sisters had brought with them a basket full of kittens, and set about pursuing their new friends among the budding trees. Juliana trailed with her pens and a portable secrétaire behind the queen and the countess. She dared not make further reference to her future husband, and the queen offered no more advice. The three of them took over the rose arbor, where the queen and Lady Sabine entertained themselves playing chess.
Juliana had hoped that her work would distract her, but her hand shook so badly that she spent most of the time scraping ink spatters from the vellum. At the abbey bell’s toll of Terce, Sister Imene came into the garden to inform the queen that her visitor had arrived.
Lasalle came through the garden gate, his scuffed gambeson reaching to the top of his muddy boots, sword at his side and the thin sheath of a poniard slanted across the small of his back. In the open air he looked invincible, like a man accustomed to carrying the weight of a shield and a fifty-pound hauberk, to handling a lance or a sword with one hand and a plunging warhorse with the other. At least Sir William Marshal was pleasant and companionable. Juliana could discern no sign of kindness or forbearance about Guérin de Lasalle. The new Viscount of Tillières was what he appeared to be—a fighter to his fingertips.
He did not notice her this time, either. That was odd, considering he surely must have known that he was to wed her as the price of his viscounty. Perhaps he did not care. A man marries a fief.
The queen leaned forward. “This is a charter to your seigneury, my lord, with the duty of these estates to your liege.”
Lasalle took the charter. Juliana could not see the contents, but she could tell that he was holding it upside down. Good Lord. Guérin de Lasalle did not know his letters!
“And there is one more duty I wish you to fulfill,” the queen-duchess said before Lasalle could figure out what to do with his patent. “You will hold the viscounty of Tillières and the fortress of Rivefort of their heiress, who is hereby given to you in marriage.”
Juliana clasped her hand over her mouth. Oh Mary!
Lasalle blinked, astonishment plain on his face, but not for long. He folded the patent. “No,” he rasped curtly.
Lord in Heaven, bless Lasalle’s worthless, black soul. She was so overwhelmed by her misery that she had never considered he would not want to marry her. Landless men of dubious pedigrees did not disdain the grant of a wife with a viscounty. No one expected a husband to be faithful to his wife, and it seemed that every man, including her father, had mistresses. The queen-duchess was right. All a man needed from a wife was a legitimate heir. For that, an unattractive spouse sufficed. Juliana fought a wild impulse to throw her arms around Guérin de Lasalle and kiss him in gratitude, just to see the expression on that haughty face.
“Alas, sir, you have no more choice in the matter than your viscountess does. Besides,” Aliénor’s tone eased into a teasing note, “you may come to appreciate the lady Juliana’s talents.”
Nauseating fear engulfed Juliana.
“I don’t care for the lady’s talents. I don’t wish to wed Lady Juliana or any other—plain or beautiful, dull-witted or sage!”
Sabine sat on the edge of her seat. Heavens, if the rogue did not want the girl and she did not want him, either, why the battle? The girl looked as white as her wimple.
“Your objections are noted,” the queen said. “Nevertheless, you will wed her.”
Lasalle threw the crumpled patent at her feet. “I am not your vassal, woman. You can’t command me to marry against my will.”
Juliana held her breath. Lasalle had not only defied Aliénor of Aquitaine; he had insulted her as well. But the queen-duchess did not dwell on his impudence. She resumed her seat. “Go and look after those children, Countess. Their delightful laughter is giving me a headache. You think of yourself as no one’s vassal, sir. That is against nature and God’s order. Sister Eustace, tell my lord Lasalle what this writ states.”
Her hands shaking, Juliana broke the seal on a parchment the queen handed her. “Her Grace . . . Her Grace exhorts her barons to destroy a routa of mercenaries under the command of one Guérin de Lasalle wherever that band appears, being guilty of pillage and plunder of her lands.”
“What the—” Lasalle took a step toward the queen. “You can’t do that. Richard pledged safe conduct for his mercenaries provided they kept the peace.”
“I am not Richard. My Richard is dead.”
His hand on his sword hilt, his teeth a sharp white slash, Lasalle took a half turn toward departure. “Then go ahead. I didn’t teach my men to sell their lives for a pared penny. We’ve fought against worse odds.”
“Against Marshal?”
“Oh, Madame!” The parchment dropped from Juliana’s fingers.
Lasalle whirled back. “What the Devil—”
Aliénor smiled. “How well have you taught your men, my lord? Shall I have Marshal tell me?”
“You wouldn’t!”
The queen came to her feet as if she had shed years. “Do not presume to tell me what I would, sir. I have John’s inheritance to guard, and if you think to stand in my way, you are a fool!”
Guérin de Lasalle was going to lunge for the queen’s throat. Juliana was certain of it. The queen took a step toward him. “Go ahead, boy. I dare you.”
Holding his ground, Lasalle glared back. A battle waged between them, silent, yet as palpable as blows. And then he backed away and turned, his fist striking the folly’s post. The frame shook. Juliana jumped up, ready to fly for aid, but when Lasalle faced the queen, it was with a deep bow and venomous irony. “I accept your conditions for Tillières, Duchess. You may inform the lady Juliana of her great fortune.”
“Well, well.” The queen’s voice sweetened. “A right choice after all, although I am certain you had the lady worried.”
“What?” Seeing the smile on the queen’s lips, Lasalle swung his gaze to the only other person left in the folly. Juliana prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her. The Lord did not oblige. “She is a nun!”
“A novice. Lady Juliana cannot reclaim her viscounty without a husband, much as you cannot maintain your men without her mesne. I could not have found two other souls so sure to be dedicated to Tillières’s welfare.”
“But—”
The queen folded back her sleeves with a gesture of satisfaction. “No need for bans. You’ll be wed tomorrow, and I wish you to leave for Tillières immediately. You have many flaws, my lord, some more grievous than others. I am not interested in them. I am informed that, unlike some men, you don’t find women repugnant. You’ve bedded your share, and I don’t care how you conduct yourself in your marriage. You may find the bride a bit prickly, the portcullis a little tricky, and the garrison temperamental, but altogether nothing a man of your talents can’t handle.” She opened her palm. “I believe this belongs to you, Viscount.”
Too stunned for words, Lasalle dropped to one knee. The queen looped the chain of Richard’s cross around his neck, her fingertips light on the pendant gleaming incongruously against the old chamois. “Defend Tillières for John as well as you defended Tyre.”
At the queen’s signal, the Countess of Nevers hurried to her mistress’s side, her expression apprehensive. “We will leave my lord Lasalle and the lady Juliana to make their acquaintance unattended.”
“Oh,” the queen added to Lasalle after a few steps. “I have decided to entrust the demoiselles Glanville to your wife’s care. I believe they will want to bring their beasts with them. Remember, Lady Juliana, maritus aut murus.”
Leaning on Sabine’s arm, the queen passed through the garden gate, the young sisters and their feline friends joining them. Lasalle watched them with his back to Juliana, the slant of his shoulders communicating pent-up fury.
Maritus aut murus. Husband or the cloister. She stood there, her fingernails scoring her palms. She had to make a connection with this man and she did not know how. She blinked and he was bounding from the folly, leaving her standing there like Lot’s wife.
“My lord,” she recovered and called out after him. That was a mistake.
He swung back at her. “Holy Mother’s . . . You conniving bitch. You knew! She knew it too, saints’ piss. She never intended us to fight Marshal!”
Backing away from him, Juliana crossed herself. She had never heard anyone blaspheme that way, nor call her such a name. “That is not true! The writ is genuine.”
He sized her up, his eyes painfully green, a streak of perspiration along his jaw, and then he shoved past her with a flash of his earring. “Then I should have accepted my lot. And so, Sister, should you have.”
She picked up her robes, overtook him in three leaps, and barred his way. “I don’t enter this marriage of my own volition either, sir, and I will strive to end it as soon as I can!”
She had surprised him, but her triumph was brief. He had the advantage of his height from which to look down his fine-bred nose at her, but he deigned to descend to her eye level by a dip of his knees. “That makes two of us.”