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“Who are you?” Reynard repeated and also stepped forward, half drawing his sword from its scabbard.
“I am Jean-Paul. Father Jean-Paul.”
He spoke in a husky voice. It was not one that Henry recognized, and yet…there was something. He began to tremble, deep inside, and his breath came quick and fast.
“I am Lord Baldessare’s chaplain,” the grating voice went on. It was impossible to see his eyes through the cloth mask, only dark holes where they should have been. The effect was unsettling. Henry wanted to tear the mask aside and see the face beneath.
“What are you doing here, Father Jean-Paul?” Reynard was sliding his blade back into the safety of its scabbard. “Have you come to buy wool or wine?” He nodded at the coastal trader.
“I have come to speak with Lord Henry of Montevoy.”
“Then it is me you want,” Henry said, taking a step forward, although the wharf seemed to be swaying beneath his feet. His eyes were fixed on that cloth mask with a mixture of longing and terror, and he was not certain if he wanted to gaze upon the face beneath.
Silence. The head tilted to one side, as though the eyes within were examining Henry’s person, taking careful note of him. Henry’s sense of foreboding grew. This is not right, there is something very wrong with this priest.
“I have a message for you.”
“From whom?”
“From Lord Baldessare.”
“Deliver it then. You are wasting my time.” That was better; some of his usual authority had returned to him.
The priest’s shoulders shook slightly, although he made no sound. He was laughing! Anger spiraled through Henry. By God, he would remove this man’s hood and see him for what he was! But just as he moved forward to do so, that husky voice came again, sly and intimate, and stopped him in his tracks.
“Baldessare knows the truth about you, Lord Henry. He knows about le château de Nuit. He will spread the story of your past among your powerful friends, and I have no doubt it will soon reach the ears of the king. What will become of you then, Lord Henry? Who will stand by your side then?”
He couldn’t breathe. Henry could not breathe. And then suddenly the air whooshed back into his lungs, filling them, making him cough. Jesu, he knew! Baldessare knew! It was exactly as Henry had feared. Baldessare knew, because someone had told him. Someone else had survived that appalling place. Someone who was prepared to hurt Henry, to destroy him, for some secret purpose of his own.
Henry took another breath. “No,” he said, and wondered if that was really his own voice, trembling like an old man’s. He closed his eyes, gathering his strength, reminding himself of who and what he was. He was a phoenix, raised from the ashes. He was a great and powerful lord. He had no reason to be afraid of Baldessare and his friend.
“No.” He repeated it more firmly. “Baldessare knows nothing of me. You lie. If he means me mischief, then I will deal with him. Tell Baldessare that, sir priest. Tell him that he had best watch his back if he wants to start a war with Lord Henry of Montevoy.”
The shoulders shook again in silent amusement. “And what of Lady Jenova, my lord? Will she believe you? Or will the doubt that is sown in her head be your destruction? You will lose her, and Gunlinghorn, too. You will never be able to return here. How will you feel then, Beau Henri?”
Beau Henri.
Henry felt the nausea strike within him and a sudden grinding pain behind his eyes, making his vision blur. He had not heard that name for a very long time, except sometimes in his nightmares. Now he lifted a white and ravaged face toward his tormentor and whispered, “W
ho are you?”
“I am the messenger, that is all,” the voice went on, indifferent to his pain. No, that was not so, not indifferent. Enjoying his pain. Reveling in his pain.
The priest’s cruelty steadied him; his realization that this man was his deadly enemy made him stronger.
“Baldessare would be generous,” the priest continued. “He would give you a choice.”
“What choice?” Henry said.
“You can leave here. Leave Gunlinghorn. If you do that, you can keep your reputation and your high place in the king’s court. Nothing will be said of your past. But you can never return here, and you cannot take Lady Jenova with you. And before you go, you will persuade her that it is in her best interests to marry Lord Baldessare—my lord has decided he would make a better husband than his son, Alfric. The lady needs a stronger hand. Indeed, Lord Henry, he asks that you give them your blessing before you leave. My Lord Baldessare will do the rest.”
For a moment the nausea was so intense that Henry thought he was going to be sick right there on the wharf, in front of the priest and the curious crowd. The priest wanted him to leave Jenova. Abandon her to her fate. Encourage her to marry that beast Baldessare. Not Alfric, who was weak but could be molded into an acceptable husband. Nay, not Alfric, but his father, who was good for nothing but savagery and inhumanity.
She wouldn’t do it, not willingly. Jenova was no fool. But if Henry wasn’t here…
He was being given a choice. A choice between keeping Jenova and keeping his present, comfortable position at the court. In short, he could have one or the other, but he could not have both.
But it was far more diabolical than that. Baldessare was not just asking for Henry to give up being Jenova’s friend and lover; he was asking Henry to help make Jenova his prisoner. As Baldessare’s wife, Jenova would no longer be the independent woman she now was, able to oversee Gunlinghorn and its people, to rule as she saw fit. She would no longer be able to stand in the role of protector to her son, to Raf, until he was old enough to rule for himself. That, too, would be taken from her, and Raf would undergo training as Baldessare saw fit. And having seen Alfric, Henry shuddered to think what Baldessare would do to Raf, or what he would become.
