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“Lord Alfric,” Jenova introduced him, “this is my oldest and dearest friend, Lord Henry of Montevoy.”
Alfric looked up. His eyes widened at the sight of Henry, and then as quickly narrowed. There was no mistaking the gleam of jealousy in them. He tightened his mouth. In a heartbeat he had turned from a handsome, charming young man into a small boy who has had some bauble taken from him and doesn’t know whether to scream or cry.
Was Alfric really so lacking in trust for Jenova that he would be jealous of an “old friend”?
Or was it just that Lord Henry’s reputation with women had followed him all the way to Gunlinghorn?
Still, Henry did not allow his own smile to falter—he was doing this to please Jenova, not Alfric. He gritted his teeth and made his brief bow and spoke of his pleasure at meeting Alfric. Then, for good measure, he added, “As Lady Jenova has mentioned, she and I are very old friends,” stressing the word.
Alfric’s demeanor brightened a little, although he still didn’t appear altogether comfortable in Henry’s presence. “L-lord Henry,” he stammered. “I have heard of you, of course. Your name is well known throughout the-the land.”
Henry raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? You flatter me, Lord Alfric.”
“No, no, I do not! You are known f-far and w-wide. My father has often spoken of you. Indeed, once at court, when h-he claimed a parcel of land to the west, you—” But Alfric came to an abrupt halt. His face flushed a deep and ugly red, and he glanced away, swallowing audibly. “That is, he-he met you once, in London, at court. That is all I-I meant to say.”
Reynard snorted rudely, turning it into a cough. Henry ignored him. “Of course you did,” he said evenly. “And I do remember your father.” And the matter you speak of, he thought, but did not say it aloud. Alfric already looked as if he was about to explode with embarrassment, or terror, or both.
Jenova appeared confused, as well she might. Her glance slid over Henry’s innocent expression and narrowed, as if she blamed him for Alfric’s state—most unfair, in Henry’s opinion. Then with a brilliant, determined smile, she took Alfric’s arm and, speaking softly to him, led him within the keep.
Henry followed, his smile genuine and no longer polite. He remembered the incident at court well enough, although he had forgotten it until Alfric reminded him. The father had claimed some land that was not due him, and the king had asked Henry what he thought. Henry had said he had seen the land himself and had joked that he wouldn’t mind having it, and the king, more as a rebuff to Lord Baldessare’s presumption than to reward Henry, had promptly given it to him. Baldessare had left in a rage, swearing vengeance.
He must have thought better of it, for the vengeance had never eventuated, but it was clearly still on his, and his son’s, mind. Being acquainted with the truculent and bitter Lord Baldessare, Henry could well imagine that the slight, and the loss of the land, had never been allowed to be forgotten.
The meal was succulent and well prepared, and there was even a juggler to add to the occasion. Jenova was excelling herself to please her would-be bridegroom, and young Alfric seemed willing and eager to be pleased. Now and then he would cast a nervous glance in Henry’s direction, and his stammer was more pronounced when he spoke to him, but otherwise the occasion went off without further incident. Henry was able to converse with some of Jenova’s household, her ladies and steward and Sir John, the knight in charge of her garrison.
Gunlinghorn impressed him tonight, with its elegance and grandeur, as it had never done before. It was the sort of place he might have dreamed of living in, as a child. An abandoned child, he reminded himself wryly. A son of the minor nobility, Henry had been technically an orphan by the age of five, when his devout mother had decided to enter a religious house and spend her remaining years within its walls. She had wanted to be a nun from girlhood but had been prevented by her family and forced to marry. With her husband dead and a son she looked upon as the product of a sin rather than her own flesh and blood, she had followed her inclination.
Alone and abandoned, Henry had been passed from relative to relative, no matter how tenuous the connection. He had lived in many different castles and keeps throughout Normandy, reliant upon others for his well-being—or lack of. He had looked upon it as an adventure, suitable training for the tough knight that he one day planned to become. And then he had been taken to a castle like no other. He had been drawn into the shadows—swallowed whole with no hope of escape. Henry had been thirteen when he’d been released from that hell, and he had taken the chance he’d been given. Like a phoenix he had risen anew from the ashes and four years later had been knighted for his bravery in a small skirmish. He had not looked back.
Aye, he was proud of what he had become, the life he had made for himself, the man he had molded from the boy. He preferred the present. The past was full of dark corners. Memories he did not revisit often. Shadowy recollections he preferred not to dwell upon.
Much better to remember when William the Bastard had set out to conquer England, although he had claimed at the time it was rightfully his. Whatever the legality of the matter, Henry had known it was his opportunity to make good. He saw that he could use William’s ambitions as a lever to raise himself higher. So it had been. He’d been there with William at Hastings and had helped him to victory. Ever since that day, the king had enjoyed his company and found his clever tongue useful. And he had certainly been well rewarded for his efforts.
Not that Henry was complacent. He was well aware that his circumstances could change quicker than King William’s moods. His position would always be precarious, and he could never be too careful. One of the reasons why, despite his trust in Leon, his second in command, he preferred not to be away from court for too long. Allegiances shifted, favorites fell, wheels turned full circle, and Henry did not intend to be one of the casualties.
Mayhap I shouldn’t have come, Henry thought now, uneasily. There were stirrings at court and about England; some of the Anglo-Norman barons were intent upon securing more land than they deserved. It had been Henry’s job to keep an eye on these rumors and plots, and to put a stop to them if it became necessary. Leon would send word if matters became dire, he knew, and yet….
But Jenova had asked for him, and because she was his friend, and he wanted to please her, he had come. Although, he thought grimly, if pleasing her meant allowing her to wed a weak fool like Alfric, then he might do better to displease her. Was that what she really wanted? A husband who would gaze at her as if he was witless and do exactly as she told him? Then Alfric was perfect for her.
Besides, who was Henry to judge!
He, himself, had never looked for more than a compliant mind and body when seeking a new mistress, and that could not be much different for a wife. Certainly the last thing he had ever wanted was for his heart to be engaged. Christina was pretty and amiable, and she cared no more for him than he cared for her. The perfect situation, surely? Why should Jenova be any different in her choices, and why should Henry want her to be?
“Well?” Jenova demanded, when at last Alfric was gone and they were alone again. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, and a strand of hair had come loose from her veil and lay against her temple. She looked like a young girl again, rather than a mature woman who had been wed and borne a son. Henry had an urge to reach out and brush the strand away; he squeezed his hand into a fist to stop himself.
Suddenly, touching Jenova did not seem like a good idea.
“Well?” she asked again, impatient with him now. “What do you think of Alfric?”
“What do I think of Alfric?” Henry pretended to ponder. “Does it matter what I think?”
Jenova poked her finger into his arm. “Stop teasing me, Henry. I want to know your opinion of my future husband.”
“Very well. I think that Alfric is smitten with you, Jenova, and as long as his love lasts, he will be easy enough to manage.” That was the truth as Henry saw it.
Jenova, who
had begun to smile, froze. “‘As long as it lasts’?”
