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  He pressed his arousal to her mons. “I wish Gallien could find a soul mate. It seems Felicité will haunt him forever.”

  She’d disliked Gallien’s wife from the moment they met but resisted the urge to mention it again. Guilt for arranging the ill-fated marriage still weighed heavily on her husband’s shoulders. “He knows he must marry, but is afraid to risk his heart.”

  “Who can blame him?” he sighed. “On top of it all, he’s decided to oppose Maud’s claim to the throne, principally because he cannot stomach the notion of her betrothal to an Angevin.”

  She nuzzled her nose into his neck. “I suppose it’s safe to say our son won’t consider a bride from Anjou.”

  “I’d agree,” he replied, stroking her hair as they began the slow journey to mutual fulfillment.

  He Will Never Be Mine

  Pontrouge, Anjou

  Peridotte de Pontrouge was inconsolable as she pounded the bolster of her bed, not caring if her tears and runny nose stained the expensive damask coverings. “Geoffrey the Handsome is betrothed to another,” she wailed. “He can never be mine.”

  She wished Fermentine had not followed her into the chamber they shared before her older sister’s marriage. She could only have come to gloat.

  Fermentine rolled her eyes and continued to ply the needle of the embroidery she seemed to take everywhere she went. In the whining voice Peri hated, she scolded, “There are many more suitable young men seeking a wife.”

  Peri sniffled, blinded by her tears. “But I have always loved Geoffrey. He is to wed a Norman. I cannot bear it.”

  Fermentine pulled a thread through the linen and paused her needle in mid air. “Stop making the bed bounce,” she complained, her face a mask of frowning annoyance. “You caused me to ruin a stitch.”

  Peri was tempted to tell her sister this was her bed now, and would she please get off the end of it, but Fermentine was apparently not finished speaking.

  “You must bear it, and happily. Maman and Papa are beside themselves with pride you have been chosen as lady-in-waiting to Geoffrey’s future wife.”

  Peri gulped. Had she heard correctly? “What?”

  Fermentine looked at her as if she were an imbecile. “It is an enormous honor.”

  Peri stumbled to her feet, holding on to the bed for support. “Why was I not told?”

  Fermentine shrugged, her tongue wedged between her teeth as she concentrated on unpicking the ruined stitch. “You ran off to your chamber before the rest of the news was imparted. Papa was annoyed and embarrassed. You’re lucky he did not come to beat you.”

  Peri wrinkled her plugged nose. “Papa would never beat me.”

  “More’s the pity,” Fermentine sighed.

  It was typical of her sister’s superior attitude. At least moving to the court in Rouen would get her away from the insufferable woman. “Why don’t you go to be lady-in-waiting to our glorious Empressness?”

  Fermentine let out a long, slow breath. “You know married women cannot be ladies-in-waiting.” She patted her swollen belly. “Especially when they are with child.”

  Peri sat on the edge of the bed and sulked, her breath coming in shudders as her hopes and dreams of becoming the Comtesse of Anjou faded.

  She had loved Geoffrey from the moment of their first meeting at his father’s castle. His hair was red, like hers, his bearing noble. The sprig of broom he pinned to his hat was endearing. It had earned him the Latin nickname plantagenista, but she preferred “Handsome” because he truly was.

  Thirteen year old Geoffrey had never paid her much mind, but she had been confident one day he would notice her and insist they be married. Three years his senior, she was perfect for him.

  She took a deep breath. “I will not go to Normandie to wait on this wretched Maud.”

  Fermentine smirked as she flounced out of the chamber. “You won’t have to. She is in England, at her father’s court.”

  Aurore de Pontrouge stood beside her daughter’s bed, hands on hips, face indignant. “What is this latest nonsense, Peri? You refuse to serve Maud?”

  Peri’s head throbbed. She peeled open one eye. “I will not go.”

  Her mother tapped her foot impatiently. “You would bring the wrath of Comte Fulk down on our heads? It was his personal request you be given this honor.”

  Peri turned away and buried her face in the damp bolster.

  The bed dipped as her mother sat on the edge. She patted Peri’s shoulder. “You are fond of Geoffrey—”

  “I love him,” Peri shouted into the pillow. “My heart is broken.”

  Her mother scoffed. “He does not know you exist, ma petite. We are a noble family, but I have told you before we cannot aspire to wed comtes. Your sister is happily married to…”

  Peri groaned, drumming her toes into the linens. Being compared to the spiteful Fermentine was too much.

  Her mother got to her feet. “Did you stop to consider that perhaps Geoffrey is not happy with the bride his father has pledged him to? She is almost twice his age. But he knows his duty to his family if you do not. He will be marrying a future queen.”

  Peri groaned again.

  “Very well, act like a petulant child. You are confined to this chamber until you come to your senses. But don’t take too long. We must see to your wardrobe before you depart.”

  Peri heard the door close. Guilt crept into her heart. She hated disappointing her loving parents. She and her sister had never lacked for anything. But now they expected her to serve the Norman woman who had stolen her beloved?

  Feeling nauseous, she sat up in bed. Her nose and ears were plugged and her belly roiled. Maud was a princess. Nay more than that, she was the widow of an emperor. Why would she want to marry a thirteen-year-old youth? Perhaps her mother was right that it was a marriage forced on Geoffrey by his father.

  Weaned on hatred and suspicion of Normans, Peri had never been to England, nor for that matter to Normandie. She would be among powerful enemies in the English court of King Henry Beauclerc.

  She would not go—though it would be good for Geoffrey to have a friend, a fellow Angevin, to turn to in a foreign land. That might be the only reason for going.

  Fermentine’s nose twitched. “Too dark. The color does not become you.”

  Peri looked up at the ceiling, determined to hold on to her rising temper. “I like the dark green. It goes well with my hair.”

  Fermentine huffed. “Please yourself. If you don’t want my opinion…”

  Their mother got up from her knees and took the pins out of her mouth. “Let’s not argue. I agree with Peri. The dark green looks good. I’ll get the seamstress to sew the hem. Next, we’ll try the olive green.”

  Peri fumed as Fermentine strutted out of the chamber. Her mother’s patience with her sister’s jealousy infuriated her. For three sennights, the spiteful woman had found fault with every garment she had tried. This one was old fashioned; another showed too much décolletage.

  Peri had to admit to secretly enjoying the feel of the new gowns, and could not deny she liked the attention, but guilt plagued her. “Maman, this is too much expense. I am going as a lady-in-waiting, not a princess.”

  Her family was of noble birth and their house comfortable, but they prospered in large part because of her father’s frugal management of their land.

  Peri could not recall the last time she had seen her mother in a new gown. At Fermentine’s wedding she had worn a refurbished dress.

  Aurore de Pontrouge smiled. “You are my princess, and we can well afford to send our daughter to Maud looking regal.”

  Peri winced as a pin scratched her arm. Her mother would never admit that her wardrobe would drain the family coffers, only recently recovered from providing for Fermentine’s dowry, meager as it was.

  So much fuss and money to send her to a fate she would rather renounce. She was tired of the well-meaning congratulations of neighbors, but her parents’ obvious pride in her elevation convinced her to fix a s
mile on her face and accept the envious remarks.

  Her abiding consolation was that as lady-in-waiting to Maud, she would have occasion to be in the same place as Geoffrey, especially once he married the empress. It was a bittersweet prospect.

  England Awaits

  Peri pouted as she waited by the cart bound for Saint-Malo and the boat that would carry her and her baggage across the Narrow Sea to England.

  “Careful you don’t trip over your bottom lip,” Aurore de Pontrouge teased.

  Peri resolved to sulk all the more. She studied her boots, her belly a pit of dread. Fermentine stood watching, the usual smirk on her bloated face.

  A momentary pang of sadness rose up in Peri’s throat as she looked at her sister’s rounded belly. She would not miss Fermentine, but it pained her she might never set eyes on her first nephew, or niece.

  Her mother dabbed away a tear with a crumpled kerchief, making Peri feel worse. She had not given much thought to how difficult this separation would be for her parents.

  “Don’t cry, maman,” she murmured which caused her mother to wail more loudly.

  Robert de Pontrouge strode up, his always florid face redder than usual. “Is everything in readiness?” her father asked gruffly, patting his wife’s shoulder and pulling her to his side.

  Peri had never seen them so bereft. That they loved her was plain to see. She resolved in that moment to swallow her fears. “All is ready, Papa, though I confess I am not looking forward to the long journey in the cart.”

  Her mother twisted her hands into the fabric of her overgown. “It will be a long three days. However, Terak and Roland will see to your safety, along with the Comte’s escort. What an honor he affords us. Alys is coming with you. She’ll take care of your comforts, as she has since you were a babe.”

  Peri glanced at the woman who had served her all her life, now clutching the side of the cart, her lined face awash in misery. She too was leaving the comfortable home she had known for years, bound for an uncertain future in a hostile land.

  Fermentine came forward to bid farewell. They embraced as best they could, given the unborn child between them and their lifelong dislike of each other.

  Peri turned to her mother who sobbed quietly, the skirts of her gown now a wrinkled mess. “Do not fear for me, Maman. I will be the best lady-in-waiting Maud has ever had.”

  “That’s my girl. Never forget we named you for the precious jewel you are. With those green eyes, you will soon win the heart of some handsome knight.”

  Peri flushed. Having eyes that reminded her parents of the peridot gemstone had not helped her win Geoffrey.

  Her father brushed a kiss on her forehead. Terak helped her up into the cart, his weathered face grim. He too had been with her family since before she was born, a loyal servant.

  Patting her maidservant’s hand in reassurance, she sank into the cushioned place among the trunks that Alys had prepared for her. As they lurched out of the courtyard, she held on to the side of the cart with both hands, resolved not to look back at the sturdy stone house where she had grown up.

  A splinter from the rough wood drove into her thumb. She sucked it, determined not to cry. Powerless to change the fate that lay before her, she vowed to cherish the love in her heart for Geoffrey Plantagenet. In time, he would come to value her, if only as one of his wife’s servants.

  Through interminable miles of flat plains and forests, Peri struggled to keep down the bile rising in her throat. Tenants farmed Pontrouge land, but she had rarely been in close proximity to farm animals. She had never ridden. Overwhelmed by the constant stink of the carthorse’s urine and droppings, she held her breath until her cheeks threatened to burst. How did an animal that ate so little produce so much manure? The beast seemed to delight in flicking its tail arrogantly towards her each time it dropped its foul dung.

  At the reins, Terak and Roland appeared impervious to the stench, despite their perch directly behind the animal’s rump. She supposed a lifetime working with horses had permanently damaged their noses. Alys slumbered for most of the journey, snoring loudly.

  At night, Comte Fulk’s soldiers spread a canvas over the frame of the cart. The only time the women left the wretched vehicle was to answer nature’s call. Invariably, the horse would choose the moment of their return to urinate, producing a steaming stream of liquid from an incredibly long appendage that protruded from its belly. Alys’s face reddened as she chided Peri not to look, though the maidservant seemed to have difficulty averting her eyes.

  Peri longed for a bath and feared her odor would soon rival that of the horse’s posterior. Her derrière ached.

  The military escort provided by the comte seemed ill at ease as they ventured into sparsely travelled areas of Bretagne, avoiding the town of Rennes. The landscape became more uneven, rocky outcroppings appearing here and there at the side of the rutted route. Their relief was evident when they arrived at the port of Saint-Malo.

  Peri had never seen the sea. It was darker and more ominous than she had expected. A chill swept over her at the memory of the oft told tale of the foundering of the Blanche Nef in these same black waters.

  Her heart fell further when she set eyes on the small, weathered boat that was to take them across to England. There was no shelter for passengers, and she feared their luggage would send the flimsy craft to the bottom of the harbor.

  She had been brought up never to challenge a man, but glared at the captain of Fulk’s escort. “Is this the best you can do?”

  Even to her ears, her voice sounded tremulous.

  He sneered back. “What did you expect? Looks seaworthy to me.”

  Peri seriously doubted the veracity of that opinion, and the look of terror on Alys’s face told her the maidservant believed she was going to her doom. “We cannot travel in that. We will drown.”

  The soldier shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  She watched in dismay, gripping the side of the cart as he turned his troop away and disappeared into the busy streets of the port. Another splinter entered her flesh.

  “Merde,” she exclaimed loudly, her face reddening when she realized her servants had heard the unladylike curse.

  Alys’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide.

  Terak chuckled.

  “Naught for it but to board,” Roland muttered.

  A withered man she supposed was the captain of the tiny craft ventured towards them. He held out a bony hand. “Milady.”

  Peri struggled to her feet, barely able to stand as the blood rushed to her extremities. She teetered towards the side of the cart, but Roland shoved the man out of the way. “You’ll not put your hands on my mistress. ‘Twas for me and Terak to bring her safely to you.”

  She silently blessed the old man as his gnarled hands took her by the waist and lifted her down. He smelled of horse. She stiffened her spine, buoyed by the loyalty of the peasant who had served her family since childhood. “I will miss you, Roland. And you, Terak.”

  Both men sniffled and bowed. “We’ll miss you too, milady Peridotte.”

  Tears welling, she nodded to them, then turned to her maidservant. “Come along, Alys. England awaits.”

  A Woman Cannot Be Queen

  Gallien stood impatiently before his father, his right heel tapping the floor nervously. It was a habit he hated, a legacy of Felicité’s betrayal, an uncontrolled weakness. They’d had the occasional disagreement in the past, but Baudoin’s face was red with uncharacteristic anger. Gallien was relieved his mother was also in the gallery, but it irked that his younger brother was present too. His father had summoned him. If he was to receive a scolding, he did not want Étienne reveling in his humiliation. At least his giddy sisters were already in the hall.

  “Papa,” he acknowledged with a slight nod.

  Baudoin strode away to pace before the hearty fire that crackled and spat in the massive stone fireplace. The pop of his mother’s needle piercing the stretched linen she embroidered was the only other sound
.

  Judging by the aromas rising from the kitchens they would be dining on pheasant this evening—his favorite dish.

  In an effort to still his leg, Gallien rocked back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels, hands behind his back, eyeing the familiar banners wafting in the warm air in the rafters. Some had hung there since his grandfather’s time and looked frayed and smoke-darkened. Many were the handiwork of his grandmother, Mabelle de Montbryce.

  His mother knew how to sew, as evidenced by her current preoccupation, but was better known for her healing skills.

  A smile came to his lips as he watched her. Her long hair was streaked with grey but she was still beautiful. His own wife had been a shrew.

  “There is no reason to smile,” his father declared, jerking Gallien’s attention back to matters at hand. He had stopped pacing and now glared at his son.

  “I was thinking how beautiful Maman is,” Gallien explained.

  “Changing the subject won’t help,” his father rumbled, “though I agree.” He smiled at his wife who blushed at the praise.

  Dieu! Married more than five and twenty years and still in love.

  It was a sad truth that he was jealous of his parents. He clenched his jaw. “What is it you wish to discuss, Papa?”

  Baudoin resumed his pacing. “You are fully aware of what I want to talk about. I am informed you have been sending messages throughout England, drumming up opposition to King Henry. Do you want to get us hanged for treason?”

  Gallien’s heartbeat thrummed in his ears, but he took a deep breath. “I am as loyal as any Norman to King Henry. It is his insistence on putting Geoffrey Plantagenet on the throne I object to.”

  Baudoin rolled his eyes. “Dieu, Carys, he sounds like your father.”