Knight of Her Heart (Conquering the Heart) (3 page)

This was another suspicion Ysabel had voiced to Lisette previously. Suspicion and proof were two very different things, however, and Lisette was unsure how to go about proving that Lord Blake should never have been appointed as guardian to Genevieve and her.

“I suspect you are right, but we have no proof to take before the king. Oh Ysabel,” Lisette cried, “I miss my parents so badly. I have missed them every day these past three years.” Her anguish was in every syllable. “They would never have allowed this to happen.” She took the hands Ysabel extended to her, and stood to receive the older woman’s embrace, but nothing could bring her comfort. “Lord Collins will surely kill me within a year of our marriage if I fail to become with child, and then Lord Blake has agreed that Genevieve shall be Lord Collins’ next bride.”

“
Mon Dieu
,” Ysabel said as she stiffened. Her arms dropped away from Lisette and she gesticulated madly as she poured out all her hatred for Lord Blake in a diatribe of vitriolic French. Lisette followed the rapid French easily as her mother had always spoken to her in her native tongue. Every invective Ysabel made against Lord Blake was deserved.

Hugging her arms around her in a gesture of self-comfort, Lisette said, “’Tis to be hoped that I conceive quickly.”

Ysabel groaned. “Oh Lisette,
mon innocent
, you do not understand. ’Ow can you be expected to conceive when the man’s seed is clearly at fault? That the man ’as taken five young and ’ealthy wives and impregnated none of them says all there is to say. ’Tis ’is seed that is no good. The problem is not that all of ’is wives ’ave come to the marriage bed barren.”

Once again there was logic in Ysabel’s reasoning. Lisette wrung her hands together and chewed at her lower lip as thoughts chased each other at a frantic pace through her mind. “If I am to survive and to save Genevieve...” She paused in complete helplessness, her lip quivered and her vision blurred through the tears that gathered as she regarded her maid.  Gathering all her resolve she announced, “I will need to murder Lord Collins before the year is out.”

Non, non, non, ma petite belle fille
, this you must not do. I do not believe you capable of such a deed even against this bad man. You could not do this even if ’twas the only way of saving yourself and your sister.”

“At this moment I feel capable of anything. I drew a dagger against my guardian this morning to save my life when he was choking me.” She ignored Ysabel’s shocked gasp. “If I have no choice I will find the strength to do what must be done. I will do all that I need to do to save Genevieve from Lord Collins.”

“If your crime is discovered, you will ’ang. And, whether or not you go unpunished in this lifetime, you will be cast into ’ell for such wickedness.”

“If I must marry Lord Collins I will have no choice.” Lisette placed the palms of her hands together in the gesture of prayer. A single tear spilt and ran down her cheek. Her heart cramped with heavy hopelessness. “I love the Lord, my God. I believe that He will understand and forgive me. And if He does not, at least I will take my place in Hell knowing that Genevieve can be with the angels in Heaven.”

“Oh
ma fille
,” Ysabel grasped at her hand. “Let us pray together for the Lord to provide us with an alternate solution.”

They knelt together on the damp forest floor. A lark sang in a tree. Lisette thought of how blissfully unaware the bird was of the full, unstoppable tide of despair that washed through her and threatened to carry her out of her depth to drown in stormy seas.

Fancifully her subconscious picked up on the babbling of the stream and decided it mocked their angst, laughing as it skipped over rocks and journeyed happily on its way. It had not a care in the world and no obstruction stopped it from its journey to the sea.

Lisette prayed for a miracle. For deliverance from the man to whom she was betrothed, or for God’s forgiveness should she need to resort to murder to save herself and her sister.

A blinding beam of sunlight broke through a small gap in the heavy canopy of cedar trees and penetrated the darkness of Lisette’s closed eyes. At the same moment, she jumped to her feet in the belief that her prayers had been answered. “Ysabel, I have it! I have the solution!”

“Lisette?” The older woman also stood, her expression excited. “
Dites-moi
. Tell me the solution you ’ave been given by God.”

Lisette’s happiness faded. Had God given her this solution? Surely not. She shook her head. “Although I believe it is the answer to my prayers, I know it cannot have come from God.” She chewed at her lower lip with her teeth. “I’m not sure you will approve, my friend, for ’tis not based on anything that is holy.”

The animation dimmed from the wise eyes that regarded Lisette. “
Ma fille, dites-moi
!”

“Understand that although what I propose is wrong, it will prevent my death at Lord Collins’ hands, save me from the hangman’s noose, and will also keep Genevieve safe.”

Ysabel tilted her head to one side. “I ’ope it does not involve murder and you are sure it will keep both you and Genevieve safe?”

Lisette nodded slowly, the concept of her plan still spinning around in her head. So bold. So wicked and unthinkably brazen, but as the only other choice she had was murder, this was the better solution. The only problem was that she couldn’t carry out the plan alone. Would Ysabel tell her what she needed to know, or would she be too shocked to condone such behaviour?

Her father’s two most faithful
servants must also be approached to assist.

Doubt and guilt warred
within her. ’Twas wrong of her to ask them for their help. Both were honest men. Good men. Did she have the right to involve them in her sinful scheme? Yet without them, she could not do what must be done to survive.

Again the determined voice in her head reminded her she had no choice. Her sister’s life and her own were at stake.“I must act quickly, Ysabel. I will need your guidance, and I will need Frederick and John to help me.”

A furrow appeared between Ysabel’s brows. “I am both relieved and appre’ensive, Lisette. Tell me about this plan.”

Chapter 2

Harfleur Fortress, France, 1416

The two heavy portcullises of Harfleur Fortress rose as Sir Rowan and Sir Leon approached and the guard identified their coats of arms. The two most respected of King Henry’s knights slowed their destriers from a canter to a trot.

“’Tis hard to believe ’tis only a year since we lay siege to this fort, Rowan,” Leon commented as he took in the formidable structure that lay ahead of them.

Sir Rowan nodded. He had been camped with the English army to the east of the town and the siege had lasted far longer than any had anticipated. “We all thought Henry’s attack on Leure Gate would reward us with a much easier victory.”

“Aye. Henry underestimated the enemy. If you had not suggested leading a force of artillery men forward with heavy cannons, we would still be here outside the walls.”

“The cannons were effective, but I much prefer to wield my sword on the battlefield knight against knight, Leon.”

“’Tis a fairer fight. ’Tis what we trained for.”

What they trained for...

Where was the chivalry and valour in standing behind a shield and firing a cannon at an unseen foe?

Rowan’s teeth clamped together at the memory of the English assault. As in all battles, the siege of Harfleur had resulted in heavy loss of life on both sides. While they had dug trenches the French had blocked them with counter-trenches. The only solution Rowan could devise was to move the cannons forward. But even with the protection of large embrasured mobile screens, Sir Rowan’s men had been repelled initially by the burghers’ guns and crossbows. His men had fallen around him until only a few had been left to stand with him to push the heavy cannons into range. Then it had been the French who had suffered as the cannon balls were smeared with tar, set alight and sent flying toward the fortress.

“See the towers,” Leon said. “They have been rebuilt. They bear no scars from your cannon fire. There’s no evidence of how your fire power splintered away the bulwarks of the wooden barbicans.”

“If only the lives of men could be as easily constructed, my friend,” Rowan replied. He reflected upon Henry’s so-called victory at this place. It had been a costly one. A fifth of their forces were lost during the attack on the harbour fortress. Many of those who’d survived the fighting had then succumbed to the disease that spread through their camp.

Rowan had buried too many brothers-at-arms and lost too many friends since he’d gained his spurs. The so-called glory of battle victory meant little when men were starving, suffering from dysentery and had been so long from the shores of England. Yet, for all his battle weariness, there was only one compelling reason for him to return to his homeland.

Revenge.

He reined his mighty black destrier, Stormbringer, to a walk as they rode under the portcullis.

A page ran toward them. “Sir Rowan. Sir Leon,” he cried. “The king bids you both his welcome. He commands that Sir Rowan join him at once. Pray follow me, sir.”

“I will join you in the yard for training later, Leon.”

“Aye. I will await the king’s news.”

Rowan dismounted swiftly, handed the reins and a coin to a stable youth and hastened inside to answer the summons of his liege, King Henry. Had Henry decided to embark on another battle rather than return to England as planned?  Rowan hoped not. The men needed to set foot on English soil again. This campaign had already been too long for most.

“Sir Rowan, Your Majesty,” the page announced a short time later as they entered the throne room.

Rowan bowed low, surprised to discover that only the king and a page were present. “You wished to see me, Your Majesty?”

“Indeed.” Seated on his throne, the King regarded Rowan thoughtfully. Above his long thin blade of a nose, his shrewd eyes fixed Rowan with a penetrating stare.

Rowan did not look away, but made sure his gaze did not flicker to the unsightly scar on the King’s right cheek—a wound inflicted from an arrow at the battle of Shrewsbury some thirteen years earlier. Other men would have died from the wound. The son of Henry IV received special attention from the surgeon and had recovered miraculously.

“You have served us well, Sir Rowan,” the King stated without preamble. “Your courage on the battlefield at Agincourt and your leadership of the longbow archers was instrumental in our victory over the French. As such, we have chosen to reward you with rich farm lands and a small castle in Hampshire. From this day forth your title shall be Lord Rowan, Earl of Romsey.”

Rowan struggled to keep his expression neutral as bitter disappointment flooded through him. He did not want the king to witness and be offended by his reaction. Whilst his king had gifted him a rich reward, they both knew ’twas not the one Rowan would have chosen.

“You are most generous, Your Majesty.” He forced the words out, hoping to hide his disappointment.

“But ’twas not the prize my champion wished for,” Henry replied with a dry, knowing smile.

“I am thankful for your gift.” There was no doubt in Rowan’s mind that the holding would be valuable. King Henry had a fine reputation for his fairness and generosity. Since his father’s death, Henry had been slowly restoring properties and titles to heirs who had suffered under his father’s reign. Yet, a castle, lands in Hampshire and a title...Earl of Romsey?...was not what Rowan sought.

“Lord Rowan, your loyalty and your friendship have been greatly appreciated. Your military skills have stood out in the field since you earned your spurs and joined us at the Battle of Bramham Moor to quell the uprising by the wretched Earl of Northumberland.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. It has been an honour to serve you.”

“It is rare to find one so talented on the battlefield who also has your degree of diplomacy. We will always be grateful for your counsel to us during the time the former King Henry was ill and we were in power. You are an asset to our court.” The king paused. “Although ’tis no reflection on your service, we do not feel the time is right to gift to you leave to pursue what you most desire.”

Rowan bit down on a curse. When would the time be right? How many battles would he have to win for King Henry before he attained the prize that meant everything to him?

Justice. That was what he sought.

“We advise you, instead, to bide your time and be patient,” the king said as he twisted the ring he wore on his left hand. “Romsey castle is not far from your childhood keep at Baddesley. We are confident you will soon be well-placed to attain your ultimate goals.”

The King stood and stepped down from the raised platform. Henry was a tall man at six feet three inches, but Rowan stood taller and far broader.

“Your Majesty,” a page announced. “Duke Bedford has arrived.”

“Show him in at once.” Henry ordered. Turning back to Rowan he said, “As you are aware, ’twas my brother, the Duke of Bedford, who returned to England and raised a fleet to relieve us here at Harfleur.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” Rowan only half-listened to Henry as he thought of the reward he craved above all else. Frustration continued to bite deep at the king’s insistence that he remain patient.

“I summoned Bedford when I heard you’d arrived. He has brought news from English shores which you must hear,” Henry told him, pacing back and forward. Silence ensued for a moment or two before he stopped immediately in front of Rowan. “The news concerns your cousin, Lady Aveline.”

Aveline.

The mention of his cousin gained Rowan’s immediate attention. She was his favourite. The one person who’d been able to reach him when he’d arrived at his uncle’s home. The one who, with all her sweetness, had done so much to heal the bitter ache in his heart. Where others had tiptoed around him in fear of incurring his foul temper, brave little Aveline—wise Aveline—had understood that his aggression and outbursts came from deep hurt—that his temper was uncharacteristic. With patience and calm, she’d defied all his attempts to push her away, stood in the face of his tempers and believed in the man he truly was. She’d slipped under all the defences he’d erected as surely as she’d slipped her youthful, innocent hand into his and given him her trust.