CHAPTER 32
Paris, June 1201
For a man who had shown no trouble making up his mind instantly on a number of things, including her purported adultery, my lord Lasalle was taking his blessed time. Along with Rosamond, Bodo, and two more of Lasalle’s men, Juliana was left to cool her heels outside Master Chlodio’s workshop on the crowded Grand-Pont, reputed to be the best goldsmith’s shop in Paris. Inside, haggling with the tenacity of a Venetian, was her husband. A man who could not tell a taille from a tithe, Guérin de Lasalle seemed to know the price of expensive baubles. No doubt they were intended as a gift for one of his mistresses. Or was it to atone for some felony Lasalle had lately committed? Or perhaps both?
It was the first time Lasalle had allowed her to leave the Three Dwarfs since his unexpected intrusion and his horrible accusation. She wished she could ask Anne if Lasalle had submitted a new petition with his new charges, but since that day Anne had not made an appearance at the Three Dwarfs.
Her husband having successfully concluded his daylight robbery, Juliana expected they would return directly to the Three Dwarfs, but Lasalle dismounted at a tavern of exceedingly disreputable appearance. Juliana reluctantly left the saddle when Kadolt appeared at the door, his whiskers bristling with excitement. He acknowledged her with a surprised and disapproving scowl and cupped his hand to Lasalle’s ear.
A loud crash and raucous male voices from inside the tavern interrupted him. Lasalle swore, unbuckled his sword with one hand, and handed it and Juliana to Kadolt. “Take the lady to the Three Dwarfs and don’t take your eyes off her,” he said and disappeared into the tavern.
Left so suddenly in charge of his mistress, Kadolt set about securing her compliance with coaxing words in atrocious Norman French, all the time pretending not to understand her protestations. She was thus half-cajoled, half-bullied back into the company of Bodo and her other guards, who received instructions regarding her disposal. Bodo was about to try to persuade her to comply when another loud noise and a woman’s cry distracted the men. Juliana ducked around them, slipped into the tavern, and squeezed herself behind the door. Bodo and the others rushed in to search for her, but the crowd frustrated them. Thinking that she had given them the slip, they hurried outside. Juliana exhaled and climbed onto a stool to gain vantage over the men’s shoulders.
Sprawled at one of the tables, five of the Emperor’s men—well dressed, well made, and exceedingly self-confident—entertained themselves noisily at the expense of the crockery and their neighbors. One of the foreign knights was accosting a young serving woman, who struck her tormentor across his face and fled to seek refuge with the discomposed publican.
“Du Schlampe!” The foreigner charged toward the petrified girl and the old man.
Juliana cringed. In the next moment, the foreign knight pitched amidst the shards, spilled wine, and wood shavings. The pent-up tension exploded into laughter. More surprised than stunned, the Rhineland knight bounded to his feet, shaking his head, looking about for the culprit who had tripped him. The customers gave him way—all save one.
There stood Lasalle, none too sure on his feet, cup in hand, squinting hard. “Voilà, Alemanni. F-find yourselves a willing one.” He lurched forward with a smirk. “If you c-can.”
The man’s hand went to his sword hilt. “Do you know who I am?” he growled in a strong accent. “I am Erhard von Hesse!”
Lasalle slapped his forehead as if he had just received enlightenment. “Ay! A sausage eater!” he declared in an exaggerated accent of a Poitevin bumpkin.
The audience roared with laughter. Erhard of Hesse was not impressed by the man taunting him, considering his opponent’s bruised face and lacerated throat—evidence of earlier, luckless encounters—his wine-stained shirt, and his shabby gambeson. Erhard of Hesse grinned, pursed his lips, and, inclining his head toward Lasalle, made an unmistakably obscene gesture. Juliana winced. Lasalle looked crushed. The crowd hooted. Confused, Erhard of Hesse looked around him and while he did, Lasalle took a wobbly step—and planted an enthusiastic kiss right on Hesse’s mouth.
The crowd broke into wild cheers and wolf whistles. Hesse recovered to fling away his unlikely admirer and, red with rage, drew his sword. The crowd gasped and fell back.
Juliana clamped her hand to her mouth. Good Lord, what was Lasalle doing? And where was his sword? Hidden behind a row of excited spectators, Kadolt was gripping his master’s sword, his eyes popping out of his head. Neither Lasalle nor Kadolt had anticipated this encounter, but it was not an accident.
With clumsy-fingered haste, Lasalle answered with his poniard in his left hand. A poniard against a sword offered an outrageously uneven contest. Encountering only derision in the burst of laughter about him, Hesse sheathed his sword and threw it to his companions. Dagger in hand, he flew over the tabletop at his opponent, the blade opening a crimson trough from Lasalle’s shoulder to his elbow. The audience groaned. Juliana gagged behind her palm. Lasalle went crashing backward; soaked in sweat, wine, and each other’s blood, the two men tumbled among the benches and kegs, broken crockery, and spilled wine in a battering brawl. Erhard’s companions and the patrons each shouted their favorite to victory. Hats and helmets made their round for coins and pledges. Although Lasalle appeared to be the crowd’s favorite, Juliana knew that the odds were not in his favor. Everyone could see that he was weakening; most of the blood was his. With each passing moment, the audience became more subdued, except for Hesse’s companions, who considered his victory all but assured.
Hesse’s dagger caught Lasalle’s poniard, forcing it downward against the table, where someone had abandoned his cloak. The poniard clattered onto the floor. The room went perfectly still, even the flies. Juliana forgot to breathe. Lasalle would die right in front of her, thanks to Erhard of Hesse. But Lasalle jerked the cloak from the table and flung it at his adversary—and snatching his own poniard from the floor, he drove it upward through the cloak.
Shocked disbelief froze Hesse’s features. His knees buckled. He sagged against Lasalle, his arm flung out as if in a lover’s embrace, and slowly, ever so slowly, he slipped to the floor.
Pandemonium broke out. The Emperor’s men shouted and charged to reach the contenders. It looked like the foreigners would finish the one left standing, were it not for Kadolt, who threw himself in front of them, his master’s sword in hand, heaping invectives in several tongues on their heads and daring anyone to challenge him. Others joined in. Sides were chosen. Finding themselves outnumbered, the Rhinelanders retreated to one corner to confer. The publican emerged from behind a fortress of wine kegs, wringing his hands and tearfully assessing the damage to his establishment. One of the Flemings offered Lasalle a towel and indicated the body on the floor.
“Do you know, sir, that you’ve killed the champion Duke John hired to challenge the Lusignans?”
Preoccupied with keeping upright, Lasalle wrapped the towel around his bloody sleeve and mopped his face. “Good Lord, Heinrich,” he croaked accusingly at Kadolt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
That did it. Juliana fought her way to the door, where she ran into Bodo. This time, she offered no objection to being delivered to the care of Mistress Hermine at the Three Dwarfs. She had no idea what she would do with Lasalle once he got there. She had no experience with wounds inflicted by poniards, daggers, swords, knives, or other sharp instruments of death, and the sight of all that blood made her head spin. Perhaps she could persuade Mistress Hermine to take up the task.
She need not have worried. My lord Lasalle did not return to the Three Dwarfs that night.
Anne de Valence had instructed her guard captain to turn away all callers unless they brought a message from Duke John or Lady Juliana. It was therefore to her displeasure when, at the hour of couvre-feu, she was told that my lord Lasalle was at the gate and his man was trying to pound it down.
Anne decided to give Lasalle a piece of her mind, but when the gate opened, the first thing she saw was Kadolt’s panic-stricken face, and that he was on foot, holding on to the bridle of his master’s horse. Lasalle slouched in the saddle, his cloak about him, a sheen of perspiration on his unshaved lip. The sour smell of wine hit her and she drew back in disgust. “You are drunk.”
Kadolt snarled at her and flung back Lasalle’s cloak. Anne gasped and crossed herself. “Jesumariajoseph, you’re bleeding. Oh Lord, what have you done?”
She repeated those words several times while her guard captain and Kadolt bundled up Lasalle between them and got him into her chamber and onto her bed. She ordered de Querci to take Kadolt to the kitchen and to question him, and then called for Heliette to heat some wine and to bring the apothecary box, laver, and towels.
“You stupid bastard. Are you still sparring with that Kadolt?” She removed the blood-soaked wrapping. “Get rid of him before he cuts your throat.”
Lasalle tried a smile. “Too late. Besides”—he held his breath while Anne poked at the gash—“it wasn’t Kadolt; it was his brother.”
Heliette returned with her medicaments. Anne dismissed her and wound a steaming cloth around his arm. “And procurer of your ditch wives, no doubt. I imagine they will all be disappointed.”
Lasalle flinched. “Kadolt’s brother is . . . was Hesse.”
Anne looked up in disbelief. “Good Lord. John’s champion? Have you gone mad? John spent a fortune on that man.”
Lasalle struggled to sit up. “Aliénor offered a lot more. Fortunately, Kadolt knew enough of Hesse’s tricks to teach me to avoid most of them. They’ve hated each other for years.”
“She paid you?” My lord Lasalle and the Duchess of Aquitaine obviously had an arrangement of which Anne had been left ignorant. Anne did not like that.
“Handsomely. John hiring duelists was not what she had planned for the Lusignans.”
Anne threaded her needle. “Do you understand what trouble you are in? Marshal can’t protect you. He’s already at odds with John over Hesse and the Lusignans.”
“Fortunately”—Lasalle held his breath again as her needle pierced his skin—“I still have my routa.”
Heliette brought wine. Anne poured a cup and added a few drops from a vial in her apothecary chest. He sniffed at it. “What’s in it?”
“A little henbane. Drink it.”
He returned the cup to her. “No henbane.”
Knowing there was no arguing with him, Anne gave him a fresh cup, smeared his arm with betony salve, bandaged it all, and stripped off the rest of his shirt. Something fell to the floor. She picked it up and untied the bloodstained wad. In it was a pair of garnet earrings. Anne held them, her fingers sticky with his blood. “You are a most infuriating man, Guérin de Lasalle.”
“They are for you. I am sorry.” His hand came around her wrist. “But don’t do that again, Anne.”
“What is it? Tell me.”
He drew her to him. “Just don’t. I am sick unto death of plots. Yours, Aliénor’s, John’s, mine. I killed a man who did nothing to me—for Aliénor, for my own reasons.” His fingertips traced her jaw with that slow, deliberate touch, the way he had done the first time they came together. “Sometimes, when you don’t have your legs wrapped around me, I think of you as a friend”—he tapped her lips before she could speak—“and I would give up everything else to keep that. But I will not have you plot against me—for anyone—and use Juliana to do it. There is absolutely nothing you, Aliénor, or anyone else can do to make me take that girl to my bed. You can tell that to Aliénor.”
“It was a fair fight.”
“It was a brawl!”
“It was murder, sire, like Mercadier’s.”
The voices echoed under the vaulting of the Duke of Normandy’s borrowed stateroom. Surrounded by his advisers and attendants, each of whom, with the exception of William Marshal, pounded the table, John Plantagenet sat slumped in his chair, twirling his whiskers. The four German knights stood to the side, looking rather uncertain of themselves. From behind a pillar where a chair had been provided for her by one of Hugh de Bourgh’s men, Juliana de Charnais listened to it all with rapt attention. Was she under arrest? John Plantagenet’s men, who had come for her at the Three Dwarfs, seemed to think so, and even William Marshal gave her a worried look before he quickly smiled at her. Juliana attempted to smile back, but did not think she was very convincing. Having been kept waiting for some time, she dared not squirm in her seat.
The doors swung open and Lasalle walked in, between de Bourgh’s men. He wore a clean shirt, someone else’s cotte, and the expression of a man roused from the warm bed of his mistress. Juliana noticed that he was deprived of his sword and poniard. He bowed smartly to John, ignoring the guards at his side and the four Germans.
The Duke of Normandy stood up and clasped his hands behind his back. “It appears you have caused us considerable inconvenience, my lord Lasalle. You seem to forget that you hold your viscounty at my pleasure. I am told that you picked a quarrel with Hesse in order to aid my enemies. Is it true?”
“No, sire.” Lasalle was looking over the duke’s head.
“It was a simple brawl, Your Grace,” William Marshal interposed, glancing with some embarrassment in Juliana’s direction. “I understand it was a fight over a woman.”
“Ha!” John jerked his head toward the four knights, who regarded Lasalle with Teutonic hatred. “They say you pretended to be drunk in order to goad Hesse into a fight.”
Lasalle looked down his nose at his accusers. “They lie.”
The men bounded toward Lasalle, shouting and shaking their fists, entreating John to do something about Lasalle’s calumny. John’s attendants joined in the denunciations until perfect bedlam reigned. John Plantagenet threw up his hands.
“Enough! All of you!” He charged around the table and dragged Juliana from behind the pillar to the middle of the hall. “It seems we have another witness.” He turned to her. “Your virtue and veracity are known to us, Lady Juliana.” He held up a crucifix before Juliana’s eyes. “Did your husband goad Hesse into a fight?”
John’s hand rested on her shoulder, the other holding up the cross. Juliana cast a fearful glance in Lasalle’s direction. He was not looking at her; he was looking at John. How could she lie when the duke could know the truth already, and why would she lie for Lasalle’s sake? She reached out and kissed the cross. Her answer was whispered, but everyone heard it. “Yes.”
John gave a short, sharp laugh and stepped away. “What do you say to that, my lord?”
“I say the lady Juliana would lie to gain your favor, since she is about to be set aside for adultery.”
Mary, that man had publicly accused her! Juliana crossed herself. “I swear that the charge is utterly false, Your Grace.”
“Indeed?” John rubbed his knuckles against his jaw, examining her minutely. “My congratulations, Viscount. You may obtain release from your marriage yet. However, it appears that you owe me the cost of that man. I am of mind to put you forth against the Lusignans as my champion.”
Juliana did not know whether she should take that as good news or bad, and from Lasalle’s expression, neither did he.
“Sire.” Marshal stepped forward. “I can vouch for this man’s sword skill, but he is not a duelist like Hesse.”
“He killed Hesse, didn’t he?” one of John’s young men called out smugly.
“In a brawl, yes.” Marshal turned to the young man, anger and frustration in his voice. “He would not have defeated Hesse in a formal contest. What man in his right mind would have challenged Erhard of Hesse?” Marshal bowed to John, his voice earnest. “Your Grace, you cannot consider rescinding another oath of homage because of a tavern brawl. Sire, your barons will not take it kindly.”
Pinching his chin between his fingers, John Plantagenet paced about. At last, he stopped in front of Juliana and brought her hand to his lips. Over his shoulder, he said to Lasalle, “Consider yourself exceptionally lucky, sir. I’ll leave you in possession of Rivefort and Tillières. In fact, I wish you to return there, and not to leave unless you are called. The viscountess”—John smiled at Juliana—“may remain at court to attend the queen, if she wishes,” he added smoothly. “Now, get out of my sight.”
Lasalle bowed. Flushed, Juliana liberated her hand. For all her fear of Lasalle, she did not think she would fare any better at this court. Mumbling her gratitude, she curtsied and took two steps back.
“Congratulations, mouse,” Lasalle said under his breath as they crossed the hall. “You almost succeeded in throwing me to the wolves. One could end up like Reigner de Bec. You do remember Reigner de Bec, Sister Eustace?”
Lasalle continued down the corridor with the clink of his spurs, paying no mind to her, confident that she would follow him. She did. She had nowhere else to go. By the time she caught up with him, William Marshal appeared, carrying Lasalle’s sword. While Lasalle fumbled with the belt frog, Juliana tagged behind, ears pricked. Noting her presence, Marshal hushed his voice.
“There is enough treachery in this world without inviting it to our beds. John is vindictive, vain, and stubborn. He thinks his weaknesses are his strengths. Without proper counsel, he’ll bring us all to grief. Take your wife and go home, son. Let her take care of you. Women love it when we are helpless.”
And with that, Sir William Marshal, the most chivalrous man in two kingdoms, bowed to them and went back to his liege’s chambers to continue to wage his own battles. Juliana did not know what to do with herself. She did not know what to do with this man. “My lord—”
Lasalle tightened his sword belt left-handed. “Forget it, Sister. You’d slip me hemlock instead of henbane and claim it was all an accident.”
They rode to the Three Dwarfs in silence. Juliana intended to retreat behind the bolted door of her chamber, but Lasalle’s voice arrested her before she crossed the kitchen. “I am not done. Sit down.”
She did, at the end of the bench. On the table was a chest strapped with iron and secured by a substantial padlock. Holding the lock awkwardly, Lasalle opened it. Inside the trunk were four pigskin bags. “You’ll receive the rest when Aliénor pays up and when you remove yourself from Rivefort and Tillières.”
Somehow, Juliana had anticipated the second move but not the first disclosure, so she had the presence of mind to ask, “Aliénor?”
“Don’t be so simple, Eustace. Do you think I’d go about picking fights with duelists on any odd day of the week?”
She wiped her palms on her skirts, spine-stiffening resolve filling her. “That is blood money.”
“It’s all blood money, mouse. You have no choice; you are an adulteress. The duke’s favor or not, I can snap your neck or lock you in a nunnery. And if you think to challenge me for Tillières, I’ll be forced to do something about Mathea and that sister of hers. How old is she? Fifteen? Sixteen? She has no property, but that would matter little to a jaded suitor. I might even make something on her. Or I’ll keep her to replace Ravenissa.”
Horrified, Juliana crossed herself. “You wouldn’t!”
He came toward her with the smile of those who know they have dominion over others. “What is to prevent me? You? My honor?”
“No! Because . . . because Aumary wishes to marry Paulette, if Saint-Sylvain’s allows it.”
“What?”
“Saint-Sylvain. Surely you know that Aumary holds lands of the abbey?”
Lasalle stood back, fists to his sides. “Aumary? Haven’t you been the busy little bee? Having me all but charged with treachery, arranging the marriage of my ward and squire behind my back, and finding yourself a lover. All that by a perpetual postulant.”
“My ward. Aliénor entrusted Paulette and Mathea to me.”
Lasalle padlocked the trunk and threw the keys to her. “When we return to Rivefort, I’ll have you all escorted to my aunt. She’ll find you a manor where you can raise radishes and glean the duke’s favors.”
Juliana’s voice shook like rest of her, but fear, and not for herself, drove her on. “Granted, you have power over us. I dare you to use it. Go ahead. I’ll tell Sir William. And the Countess of Pembroke. And Anne. And the duke will hear how his own mother paid you to kill Hesse. If you or any of your men come near Paulette or Mathea, I’ll see you declared contumacious yet. Do you think John will leave Tillières in the hands of a rebellious vassal?”
Instead of answering, Lasalle moved toward her. That sobered her. She retreated before his advance until her shoulder blades met the wall. Good God, what was he . . . Fingertips touched her jaw. “My, you are troublesome, mouse. Perhaps Marshal is right. I should do something about you. Let’s see if d’Erlée taught you to kiss better than Hesse.”
She wrenched away and, taking three steps at once, flew up the stairs to her chamber. She slammed the door and leaned against it. Aliénor of Aquitaine had married her to the Devil. Her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Unaccountably, the shutters were latched. The heat made the room stultifying, the smell of lavender overwhelming—lavender, the flower of deceit.
Someone was lying on her bed, under her covers. A sound sleeper, no doubt. It did not alarm her. Servants usually did not possess a bed with embroidered hangings and rainwater-washed linen, and Juliana understood the lure of beautiful things. Gently, not wishing to cause alarm, she pulled back the sheet.
“Félice?”
The servant Félice did not possess such a face, either; the plucked arch of the brows, the rouged lips, the kohl-lined eyelids and soot-dusted eyelashes. Juliana knew that face and the swirls of red curls framing it. It had stared back at her from Anne de Valence’s mirror. She was looking at herself. No, not herself. Her other self.
Equitan was lying in her bed, wearing her gown and an enigmatic smile. The last of the sheet slipped to the floor, the edge dark, wet. And then she saw it—a poniard, buried in Equitan’s heart.
Behind her, the door swung open.
