The Sixth Surrender

Anne de Valence shoved back a strand of her hair. The storm had been brief but furious, and had left everyone drenched to the skin. Her palfrey’s tail, meticulously braided with two dozen cinquefoils of chased silver, looked like a muddy flyswatter. The less said about her own appearance, the better. Anne had a distinct feeling that the Count of Rancon was laughing at her. With a mixture of relief and resentment, she slid from the saddle and into Armand de Lusignan’s arms. He kept her there longer than necessary before releasing her.

Anne untied her saturated cloak. “My carts are stranded. Will you have your men help us free them, my lord? De Querci will go with them.”

Armand de Lusignan arched one black eyebrow at her. He was clean-shaven, with high cheekbones and lustrous chestnut brown hair, swept back from his brow and cut cleanly at the nape of his neck. The Creator had bestowed upon the Count of Rancon a mind and manners that mesmerized men and women as much as his looks, and he knew it. He bowed and smiled as if she were a wayward child, and Anne resented the man even more for being unmuddied, unruffled, and amused. This was not the grand entrance to Pont-de-l’Arche that she had planned. He took her hand and kissed her wet glove.

“Viart, Richieu, go with the countess’s guard captain to rescue the carts. Dame Ermengarde, look after the countess and her women. We shall dine at your pleasure, my lady. I am anxious for news of our duchess. Still the same meddlesome Aliénor, I hope.”

Bowing again, the Lusignan left her in the care of a desiccated dowager Anne concluded to be Dame Ermengarde. The woman curtsied to her with impeccable servility—except no one fooled Anne de Valence.

Anne dragged her skirts out of the mud. “Have my cloak dried and brushed, Ermengarde. And bring us something dry to wear. And I shall have some good mulled wine, if such can be had in this sodden patch.”

Quarters of more than ordinary comfort were provided, a bath prepared, and a good wine, a very good wine, found as well. Her women brought their mistress several gowns. Anne chose a saffron-colored one with a tasseled silk waist girdle. She added the amber necklace. These things had come into their use. She had her women dry her hair before the fire and brush it with five dozen strokes before she allowed them to tend to themselves, and thus revived, scented, and unaccompanied, she went in search of her host.

She found him in the great hall, examining two birds with his falcon master. One of the birds was a gyrfalcon, as white as snow and as yet untamed; the other, an old make, to teach the young one by example. The young gyrfalcon did not like the company and she crabbed at the old one.

The falcon master bowed to her and to his lord and withdrew, taking the birds with him. Armand de Lusignan pulled off his gauntlet and held her in a steady gaze. “She is,” he said, and Anne knew he was not referring to the bird.

Twisting a strand of her polished hair around her finger, Anne said, “A gyrfalcon is meant for the glove of a king, my lord, especially such a rare one. You may want to keep her out of sight if John visits your Mervant.”

He hung his gauntlet on the perch. “I doubt John will be seen in that quarter this summer. My cousin’s son is marrying Isabelle d’Angoulême, and the place will be crawling with us Lusignans.”

“I was using the common reference to our family’s perambulations. Do you hunt, Lady Anne? I have several merlins.”

Armand de Lusignan was going to be a tough nut to crack, if he ever could be cracked. “Ah, a lady’s bird. Do you have several ladies as well?”

He laughed. “You can count them under my counterpane or you can join them if you are curious. I thought you might wish to rest first.”

He kissed her hand, his eyes as intent as his bird’s. “You don’t have to spar with me, Anne. Ask what you will and I will send a messenger to the duchess for you.”

So much for spying on Armand de Lusignan. Et bien. At least the man was neither boring nor loathsome. On the contrary.

They dined alone except for the sound of a flute. The musician, a spare Saracen in black robes, sat cross-legged on pillows before the fire, unnerving her with his expressionless, blind eyes. But once the winding sounds filled the hall, Anne forgot all about him. The music, the table, the wine, and the company filled her senses.

“Should we not dispense with the unpleasantries so that you are not burdened for the remainder of your stay at Pont-del’Arche?” Armand de Lusignan said through the soft notes.

Armand de Lusignan raised up his cup. “You can tell her that I am going to remove her son from the throne of England.”

“I hate them,” he answered simply, refilling her cup. “The Plantagenets. When I was neither grass nor hay, they ravaged Lusignan, despoiled our lands, dishonored our hostages, and hunted us as outlaws. They tried to alter the course of my family’s destiny. And I shall alter theirs.”

Armand de Lusignan was insane. No, he was perfectly sane. Frighteningly sane. He was telling her the truth. The fortunes and misfortunes of the lords of Lusignan under old King Henry and Richard were too well known.

Anne decided to lay out some of her cards. “Let’s see. The Bretons make fickle allies and Arthur is still young. You must have someone in mind who is capable of holding on to a king’s throne and keeping a duchy or two from Philip’s clutches.”

Later, in his bed, Anne had hoped that she would discover more about the man behind that determined intelligence, but she was disappointed. As the Duchess of Aquitaine had predicted, Armand the Lusignan was not a pillow prattler. Her consolation was that she had found him to be not only a skilled lover, but one who let her assert herself. Anne liked to assert herself. Only one other man let her do that, and he was the other reason why she had traveled to this damp patch. Anne sighed, exasperated by the thought.

“I have received sounder accolades,” Armand chuckled, drawing her to him. “Does that mean you’ll be leaving us soon?”

Anne made herself comfortable against his shoulder. “Not if you don’t want me to. I shall send a message to the duchess that you are engaged in a grand conspiracy and that I anticipate learning more. You are engaged in a conspiracy, my lord, aren’t you? I don’t wish to lie to my mistress.”

Anne shook her head. “Not in the least—not after such a welcome—but I will have to leave for a few days. I have to make inquiries about the Viscount of Tillières and his new bride. She is coy about her marriage bed and Aliénor wants to make sure that he is not. He certainly was not in mine. His name is Lasalle. I thought you ought to know.”

He could have been jealous, or at least disappointed. Instead, Armand de Lusignan slumped against the pillows and began to laugh. That annoyed her greatly, and when he finally stopped laughing, she made him pay for it. He did not seem to mind that in the least either.