The Rose of Lorraine

by

Elizabeth Mayne

BOOK ONE

Law is like fire for it lights as truth, warms as charity, burns as zeal. With those virtues the King will rule well.

SIMON DE MONTFORT

(c)copyright by M. Kaye Garcia Jan. 1997 cover art by Jennie Dixon

"This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars..." WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Prologue

June 10, 1346 Chandos Enceinte

"Wake up, English! You'll not spend the night beneath my roof. Get dressed and get out!" Edward Plantagenet startled awake. A muddy boot struck his belly, making him wince and protect his balls. "Go on, get out! Put on your filthy boots and take your stinking carcass elsewhere." The boot fell to the floor as Edward stood. Naked, tall, barrel-chested and handsome but tired beyond belief, the king of England stared at Isabella de Chandos and knew the woman had gone mad...again. "Bella, why?" Edward demanded in a compelling voice. He had a way with women...even angry ones. "Tell me what has upset you? I will make it better, I swear." Her night rail whirled around her legs as she picked up his cotte hardie, sark and hose and threw the lot at him. Red hair raged about her as wild as the tempest and fury that held her in its grip. Every item was wet and sodden, for it had rained for two days now and any man who dared the outdoors, returned drenched through to the skin. Though lulled by the good ale his host had provided, Edward had sense enough to step into his hose and tighten them over his belly before the woman's husband arrived. She had progressed to the stately bed and clawed at it. stripping the damask coverlet, tearing the fine linen sheets from the featherbed. The king approached her from behind, hands open to grasp her shoulders and calm her. She had always been a high-strung, sensitive woman of tempers and moods too deep to fathom, but her husband, John de Chandos, was King Edward's most trustworthy man. "Bella, why?" Edward crooned in a soothing voice. "Has someone frightened you?" She spun with a wad of cloth bunched and trailing in her hands, screaming, "I want you gone! How dare you! How dare you ask more of Chandos. He's done enough for you." "Bella, Bella." Edward laid his big hands lightly on her shoulders, letting the cloths she shoved at him fall to their feet. "Calm, sweetling. Tell me what is wrong." "Wrong?" she screamed in his face. "Would you cut my heart from my breast? Aye, you would, you heartless bastard. I know what you plan, what you order my husband to do. You go to war in Normandy, Calais and Lorraine." "Your Majesty, what trouble here?" The woman's husband charged into the bed chamber given over to the king. Sir John was dressed no better than Edward III, in sopping trews and muddy boots. Lord Chandos skidded to a halt on the polished floor. His tanned face drained of color as he caught sight of his wife wearing only a night rail in the king's presence. "What do you here, Bella, in the king's bed chamber?" "Merde! Mon mari, can you not see I throw this beast, this roi de guerre out of our house? I won't let him build an army in my yard to attack my father and my brothers. Enough, Edward Plantagenet. Here stands one woman who has the courage to say to you, no, you cannot be king of England and also king

of France." She spat at the king's feet. Mortified, the lady's husband quickly secured a hold upon her, pulling her away from the king. "Hush, Bella," he soothed her. "You imagine things again." "Non!" Rage gave her the strength to twist free of Sir John's grip. "Liar! I have been to Portsmouth, seen with these two eyes the cogs and boats, horses and carts piled high with arms and tools of war. You invade France. I know it. Do not lie to me, Chandos. Do not lie for your king!" "Be silent, Bella!" the lord of the manor thundered a command that none who served him would dare disobey. His mad wife was another matter. She ran to the fireplace and took from the mantle a priceless vase. "Put that down and leave this room at once." "He leaves or I do, Chandos. You must choose." "Maman, why are you screaming?" A little boy of four years stumbled into the chamber. Behind him a sleepy older brother was stricken face, all eyes and silent, but shaken so badly his night shirt flapped around his skinny knees like wind-torn willows. "Madame," the husband roared. "Put that down!" "I swear to you, Chandos, do you take up arms against my father, I will kill your sons and then kill myself." "Bella, you go too far." "Non, Chandos, you and your devil-king have gone too far. On my eternal soul, I swear to you, this is all you will have left. Nothing!" She threw the vase at her husband's head. Chandos ducked as he lunged for her. The two little boys screamed and the vase, a token from Queen Phillipa for gracious hospitality given in the past, shattered against the castle wall.

"BY OAK, ASH, AND THORN, THE FAERIES MAGIK IS BORN."

-1-

The Well of Souls

Lewes, England, 1995

"Bella, please, not another English cemetery!" Aristotle Wynford. He rolled his eyes as his wife turned onto the Priory parking lot. She touched the Fiat's brake too firmly and pea gravel splattered out from under the wheels. "Damn, Bella. My first vacation in fifteen years and you're gonna spoil it with an accident!" "Calm down, Ari. It's only the gravel in the parking lot." Bella eased the car into a space, mentally toying with a Walter Mitty-ish vision of wringing Ari's neck. His constant nagging undermined her confidence about driving in a foreign country. "I'd be glad to let you take the wheel." "Me? Aristotle Wynford, drive? In England? With no speed limits and all these maniacs on the wrong side of the road? Not on your life!" "Then stop needling me unnecessarily. We're here to get away from stress and relax," Bella reminded him. "Keep this up and you'll drive when we tackle the mountains in Wales tomorrow, Ari." Ari flashed a toothy grin and reached out to pinch her cheek. Fourteen years ago the gesture had meant she was cuter than a bug. Today, it meant nothing. "In Wales? Honestly, Bella, are you crazy, woman, or what? I'll be busy enough straining the limits of my Welsh heritage, reading road signs and maps while you drive. I have it on good authority we Wynfords descend directly from an English king--on the wrong side of the blanket, mind you. I wonder how one says navigator in Welsh?" "We shall have to ask," Bella replied. She dropped the key fob behind an unfinished Miss Marple mystery inside her purse, and made certain she had their passports, travelers checks and her Walking the Battle Fields of England Guide Book before snapping the bag closed. They tumbled out separate doors into a soft morning mist. Bella smoothed the wrinkles from her khaki walking shorts and slung a sweater across her sleeveless blouse. She stood very still listening to the crunch of the gravel under Ari's trainers as he came around the car, but her eyes strayed to the battlefield she was here to visit. Something unexplainable tugged on her, commanding she move directly there. From the moment she'd set foot on English soil, she'd experienced a strange, recurring sensation of deja vu, but not as strong as she felt it now. The truth was she'd never been to England before and knew of no reason why she should feel this way for the past nine days. On one level the odd sensation spooked Bella. She had never given much credit to psychic experiences other people claimed to have. Bella's thoughts were firmly rooted in reality. Iain had revelled in the fantastic, the magical, in wishes and fairy tales and all things that went bump in the night. From the time Iain began talking, Bella had asked herself if it were possible that her son could be an old soul reborn. Iain's endless questions and observations about the how and why of nature had tested what Bella perceived as purely normal. Tragically, his death, the death of her only child, had left her with a gaping void in her life that simply could not be filled.

Now, Lewes' Walls beckoned to her with the same poignant sense of impossible mystery the Alamo did back home in San Antonio. Battlefields gave meaning and purpose to death. To die for a cause was a noble thing. To die as Iain had, was a careless waste of life. What epitaph could be said for a nine-year-old boy run over by a car? It was hard for Bella to imagine this peaceful little valley as the site of bloody gore and conflict. Everything seemed so vibrant, so full of color. Green. Green grass, green trees crowning Harry's Mount and Offham hill, green hedgerows marked each country lane and crisply-trimmed privet hedges bisected the stone walls of a castle ruins. Mossy green, forest green, deep and lovely summer green. To her raised-in-the-heart-of-Texas eyes it was a rare treat to see such lush color. Bella didn't miss Texas' heat or sun. Not after getting sunburned on the hottest day in London history while watching the Trooping of the Colors at Buckingham Palace. When she got home she could tell her friends, yes, a red-head could get a sunburn in London. The heat didn't linger in England. Today on the road to Brighton the sun couldn't make up its mind, poking in and out of an overcast sky. Bella cast a glance at the clouds and forced a smile, "I hope it is going to clear off." She watched Ari tilt his long face and squint at the purpling clouds. Laugh lines creased his eyes and a hint of gray at his sandy temples looked very appealing. "What would you like to do first, Ari? The Anne of Cleves Museum or the castle ruins?" "I'm up to here on ruins." Ari snorted as he jabbed flattened fingers at his throat like a battle axe. "Look at those kids over there. I'll bet twenty dollars that shop's got video games inside it." The same hand that hadn't decapitated him now pointed down High Street where numerous boys loitered on the sidewalk. "Doesn't make any difference where in the world you go nowadays. All males under the age of seventeen look the same, don't they?" Everywhere there was a painful reminder that Iain would have been fourteen this coming August. The sun broke through the clouds as one lad sauntered up High Street like he was the lord of the manor born. He swaggered past an elderly woman without bothering to speak or grant her one extra inch of ground. Bella would never have allowed Iain to grow up so callous. A Texas gentleman tipped his hat or touched the brim in deference to age. It was the way she was raised and she would have raised Iain the same way. The little old lady actually stopped and turned to watch the boy stroll up to the youths on the sidewalk and greet them in some universally understood sign language that now boiled down to swear words and heybro wazhangin? The group of teens disappeared behind the store front. With the sidewalk clear of their rowdy noise the unusual town recovered its aura of Old World quaintness. Tourists spilled out of the Priory, chattering on their way the museum. Ari tugged impatiently on Bella's arm. "Let's make a quick run through the museum. I'm getting hungry." Bella slung her purse across her shoulder and automatically lengthened her stride to match her husband's energetic pace. At five-eleven he lorded over her diminutive five foot zero.

A glance at her wristwatch confirmed that it wasn't quite eleven o'clock. Bella could safely bet every Conan Doyle volume she owned that Ari would give her one hour to complete the tour. Then he'd roar like Henry the Eighth for his dinner at precisely high noon and spend the next three hours in a charming public room, savoring English beer and swapping stories about the big deal that got away. Aristotle Winthrop Wynford had been born waving a qualifier and wearing polyester pants. He'd been twenty-four years old, fresh out of the army with a brilliant smile, a dimple in his chin and California surfer blond hair that was to-die-for-to-touch when he'd proposed marriage to shy and sheltered, fifteen-year-old Sarah Isabel Saint Pierre of Castroville, Texas. Her parents hadn't wanted Bella to date Aristotle. Castroville was small town, rural. On both sides of her family her great, great grandparents had been original settlers of the town. Alsatians banded together for over a century in their newly adopted country, speaking the old Francoise and clinging to their customs, raising big families and strapping sons tied to the land. Ari was a city boy. Ari was different--flashy, slick, not to be trusted because he wasn't one of them. He had given her a diamond ring and a dozen red roses on her sixteenth birthday, St. Valentine's Day, and by Easter, Bella had known for certain a baby was on the way. In spite of her parents' predictions, their marriage had lasted, though there had been no more babies after Iain. At first, Bella hadn't minded. Becoming a mother was the greatest joy of her life. The long hours while the baby was napping, Bella had spent reading. Magazines and mysteries, childcare books, all the stuff a young mother who was lucky enough not to have to work to help the family make a decent living would read. By the time Iain had begun half-day pre-kindergarten the monthly flow of magazines and book club selections no longer filled all the empty hours in Bella's days. She had turned to college and discovered history and immersed herself in the study of the past to fill in the gaps. For years she stayed so busy working on her degrees she never listened to the questions that hovered in the back of her mind. She had a successful husband, a beautiful son, a pretty home. Why wasn't that enough? Bella thought she was smart enough to know that if something wasn't broken, you didn't try to fix it. It never occurred to her mind in all those years that Iain was the glue binding her and Ari together. She knew that now, now that it was too late. Ari hadn't touched her intimately in over four years. He never came home before eleven at night. The sun broke through the clouds, warming the day considerably as they exited the Anne of Cleves Museum. Ari walked on ahead of her, but Bella lingered on the flagstone walk, enthralled by the pastoral beauty of the morning. A centuries old oak spread its dense, magnificent canopy outward, some limbs bent so low, they nearly touched the earth. Beside it, a stand of ash fluttered the silvery underbelly of their leaves in the gusting breeze. According to the Texas folklore that Bella had grown up with, that meant rain. As she checked the sky again, Bella's hand grazed the hedge at her side. She pulled it back sharply when a thorn cut her, and cried out in surprise, "Ow!"

The thorny bush had scratched her ring finger. Three beads of red blood instantly welled along the inch long cut. She opened her purse to get a tissue. By the time she found one, three bloody streaks twisted in to one red splatter that fell to the earth. "Bella, come to me!" "What?" Bella started, surprised by the deep voice that came out of nowhere. She put her knuckle in her mouth, licking the copper-tasting droplets off with her tongue, wrapped the scratch with the tissue and looked to Ari. "What was that you said?" He turned on the stone path ten feet away and gave her one of those looks of his, full of impatience. "I didn't say anything. However, after seeing that display in the museum, I'd say that Henry the Eighth was one hell of a man. Jeez, six wives! Every time the old bastard got tired of plowing one, it was off with her head and on to the next." He made that chopping motion with his hand again. Bella stared at him, confused. She had definitely heard a man speak. Bella said, "Well, you're not to worry about Anne of Cleves. She's one of the smart ones that kept her head. King Henry just divorced her." "Divorced her, you sure? Cutting off her head would have been quicker." Ari squinted against the sun, patting his pockets, looking for sunglasses. He favored the mirrored ones the Texas Highway Patrol issued as uniform gear. As he settled those on the bridge of his aquiline nose, Bella realized he shut her out more effectively than if he'd donned one of the visored helmet from the museum's array of suits of armor. "When we get back home, Bella, I want you to go ahead and file for that divorce." Taken back, Bella asked, "Ari, what makes you bring that up now?" Ari glanced at the Rolex on his wrist, a perk of the Million Dollar Sales Associate Club, dismissed the castle ruins and flashed his new car showroom floor smile. "Why, King Henry, what else?" "Don't be spreading that salesman's gloss on me, Ari. You'd better say what you really mean," she insisted. "Well, seeing that we're in such a public place...." He surveyed the tourists and natives with the expertise of a man who could cut a qualified customer from a milling crowd in two seconds flat. Dismissing them all, he dug his hands into the deep pockets of his camp shorts, and stared at her upturned face. "Aw, hell, it's like this, Bella. Ask yourself where we're gonna be ten years from now, when there's nothing holding us together today? Our marriage is over. You're the only one who won't admit it." Bella wouldn't argue. Years ago she'd stopped believing fairy tales could come true. It was her fault that she'd always needed more than Ari was willing to give. "Right, Ari. Consider the matter closed. I'll phone a lawyer collect from the next phone booth we cross." "You know it's for the best." He looked to a pair of pretty English girls strolling up the same path and winked. Bella's cheeks instantly stained with color. Some things would never change, but she was through wearing blinders wherever she went.

A train lumbered toward the station in Lewes, whistle blaring as it drew abreast of the castle ruins. The noise of iron wheels clanking masked the hammering of Bella's heart. Divorce. What cold-blooded mockery that was to the youthful passion that had create Iain. Why was she kidding herself? Aristotle had always claimed to be a man of his times; his marriage vow had really read as long as we both shall dig it. She ought to hurt inside, but the truth was, Bella felt more relieved than anything else. At least it was settled. She could go on from here...hoping. Hoping that somewhere her knight in shining armor might exist. The train rattled noisily over a culvert. Bella welcomed the distraction and mentally focused on the history of Lewes. When the railroad had been laid across the Priory ruins in 1846, a well shaft full of human bones had been disturbed. The stench had been so bad, work on the railroad halted. A special train had been brought to Lewes and over a dozen cars of bones were moved to an embankment being built over a stream. Progress decreed that the remains of thousands of men who had sacrificed their lives in the Barons' War had no more value than gravel. The bones of English patriots had been used to flatten the railroad bed. While the long train idled at the platform, Bella bowed her head to say a prayer for the lost and forgotten warriors of England whose names had not been recorded for posterity. Not until she'd raised her head and made a sign of the cross did Bella look for Ari. He had wandered far. Her mind grappled with trivia, vaguely questioning if King Henry's battle at Lewes had been the battle Shakespeare had immortalized with the line "a horse a horse, my kingdom for a horse." She heard in response the solemn chant of her own fey Greek chorus, divorce, divorce, Ari's freedom for a divorce. It hadn't been a Henry who had lost his mount. That was Richard the Third. Bella sternly told herself, it was time she accepted all that she could not change. God had given her the strength to go on living after loosing Iain. He'd stand by her through a divorce as well. Deeply troubled, she crossed the road to join Aristotle at King Henry's historical marker. Blithely, as if his last words to her hadn't been full of rejection, Ari read the description of the battle. Bella said, "I know what it says, Ari. This is one of the pivotal sites of the Barons' War. King Henry was taken prisoner by Simon de Montfort, also called the kingmaker. Prince Edward was unable to come to his father's rescue and lost the day. The Barons' War set the precedent of consent to levy taxes by parliamentary agreement for all future kings of England." "Ah, ah, ah!" Ari interrupted her to cluck his fingers under her chin. "Been reading that travel guide, have you?" "Right, Ari, I got all that trivia tucked into my head by reading a travel guide." Bella sighed. He gave her his back and shambled down the gentle slope to another plaque. She took the tissue off her finger, wadded it into a ball and threw it in a nearby waste container. The wind unfurled the tissue, lifted it out of the bin and swept it across the grass. Bella shook her head, disgusted because nothing she touched came out right. She hurried after the scrap of tissue to retrieve it. She didn't want anyone in England to think she was a careless American who trashed their national monuments. Twice the wind played havoc with the bloody tissue, snatching it away

the moment she bent to retrieve it. She caught it as she muttered, "Three's the charm." A clap of thunder rumbled and child cried out, "Mama!" Bella straightened, shivering, searching for the child whose voice sounded so much like Iain's that it unnerved her. There was no one on the battlefield, only Ari, striding toward Simon de Montfort's marker. Ari exhibited no alarm, but as she stared at him she saw a complete stranger step before him--a tall, long-limbed, dark and virile man dressed in curiously old fashioned clothes, a long tunic and tights like they'd seen soldiers wear at the trooping of the colors. Bella shook her head. The man vanished. Was she going nuts? Hearing voices? Seeing things that weren't there? She blinked twice and Ari turned to look at her with disgust and impatience twisting his handsome features. "Come on, Bella. You'll nag me to death tomorrow if you don't get to read all the damn markers. Quit dawdling and let's get this over with. I want a beer, soon." Somehow, she'd waltzed into the Twilight Zone. Ari had given up on her now that she was no longer his child bride. She was thirty years old--a woman full grown--aware of herself and her sensuality; at ease with her body and her looks in ways that she'd never believed possible when she had been a shy, overwhelmed teenager in love with a dashingly, handsome man. Her breasts were firm, her waist narrow. It wasn't too late to have another child. "Bella, come on. Let's go." She couldn't. Her feet rooted to the spot on which she stood as a million doubts and regrets crowded into her brain like crows pecking at a corn field. The wind played havoc with her hair. She brought her hands up to hold back her wild tangle of hip-length auburn hair. Ari pitched a fit each time she threatened to cut it. Five ravens flew across the sky and landed on the Barons' right flank, jabbing and cawing at the earth where a kingmaker had once wielded England's most powerful sword. "Bella? What's wrong with you?" Ari turned to look at her, but with his eyes shielded she could only see the reflection of her own troubled face. Why couldn't he have been faithful to her? A cold chill swept across her neck as the wind hauntingly whispered in her ear, "Because he never really loved you." Ari pointed to a marker where a prince, Richard of Cornwall, had stood. Scathingly, Ari cast his cold, ill-informed judgement on Offham hill and larger Mount Harry. "That's why they call this Lewes' Wall. Them bastards on the other side of this bottom didn't stand a chance of not getting slaughtered." Bella saw no purpose in correcting him. Simon de Montfort had never fought a battle from a position of weakness until his last. Ari couldn't possibly understand that because he hadn't the foggiest notion of what truth, loyalty, honor and fidelity were all about. He completely lacked the most basic and necessary of human virtues. She turned her face to the rising wind and lifted her eyebrows in surprise. An ominous bank of storm clouds towered over the nearby coast. The wind swept her hair off her shoulders as she said, "It's going

to storm." Ari looked at the same portentous clouds and said, "It better keep till I'm finished here." He invaded the domain of the five ravens. Each cawed and spread its wings as a warning. Thunder rolled. The ravens scattered. Bella shuddered, reminded of Poe's relentless bird that cried, "Only this and nothing more." Following their flight, she looked straight up. Five ravens beat their wings against the backdrop of the coming storm and flew across the sun. The brilliant orb dazzled her. Slapping a hand over her eyes, five black spots burned white in both her retinas. The wind swirled, batting her hair all around her at once. The fine down of hair glazing her arms and neck prickled. "Bella, come to me!" commanded a deep voice from far, far away, startling her so that she dropped the tissue in her hand. It fell straight to the earth at her feet--like a stone--instead of a bit of tissue. As she removed the hand shielding her eyes, the five black spots and the blood-spotted tissue merged, becoming one burgeoning hole on the bent-to-the-wind, green, green grass. Alarmed, Bella called, "Ari?" She wasn't quick enough. The earth trembled and shifted. A power pole tilted and crashed at her feet. Four thick, electric power cables snapped and writhed in a macabre snake dance, reaching for the growing pit of blackness at her feet. The jolt of electricity stunned her. Ari stood motionless, a scant ten feet away, his jaw wagging in shock. Cracking flashes of brilliant light exploded as the dancing cables crossed. Each shock jiggled and jiggled inside Bella like the quavering of a tuning fork, going on and on and on and on. The black hole deepened. Her feet sank to the ankles in powdery dirt. No figment of her imagination, the earth smoked and heaved, opening into a yawing, spiralling chasm of every blinding color of the rainbow. Ari squawked like a lunatic and his blond hair stood on end. "Son of a bitch! If that ain't the end of a prayer, look at that! It's over, Bella!" A power line struck Bella's right knee. Thousands of volts of electricity hammered through her. She smelled her burning hair and flesh. Horns, pipes and kettle drums roared in her ears. Ari's shout crested on a rising cacaphony of noise that became a tidal wave, dragging Bella into its current. Unbearable sounds of metal tearing and glass grinding underlaid the agonizing moan of someone keening in the deepest, darkest grief. The wind tore at her, spinning Bella deeper and deeper into the unfathomable vortex. The horizon tilted. She threw out her arms as she lost her balance. Her purse flew off her shoulder, sucked into the hole. Reflexes took over. She couldn't lose all their traveller's checks! Oh, God, she prayed, help me. Doubling and twisting, head over heels, both her arms windmilled to snatch hold of the falling, flying purse. She caught the strap and the bag burst open at the seams.

A lipstick whirled. Passports chased fluttering pages of Miss Marple like goshawks honing in on panicking plovers. The guidebook fanned apart. Each page curled and lifted from the spine, free and separate leaves in the maelstrom wind. Coins, keys, pens and mints stung Bella's arms and legs. The torn strap fluttered in her grip, a useless, tattered lifeline. Then she plunged headlong into the tunnel of colors with Ari's last taunt echoing in her ears. It's over, Bella. It's over, Bella. It's over....

THE SONS OF CHANDOS

-2-

Ruins of St. Martin's Priory

ENGLAND, 1346

"Milady, milady. Oh, milady, wake up." Robin de Chandos chaffed his mother's lifeless hand between his rough, callused palms. Rain poured from the heavens and lightning shot through the dark, oppressive sky. The runoff spilled over the edges of the stinking pit, raising the water level ominously about the woman's body. Fearing the lady's life was leaching into this terrible scrap of cursed soil, Robin scrambled up the steep wall to gasp in a clean, untainted breath then call for help. He wiped his hands on his breeks, cupped his palms around his mouth and shouted at his companions. His little brother held back at the crumbling stone boundary that marked the haunted priory's grounds with the Welsh bard. "Hallo! Geoffrey! Owain! Here, here! I've found her! She is in the Well of Souls." Robin waved his arms wildly, oblivious to the wind-driven rain stinging his face. Thanks be to Saint George, the lummoxes heard him. The bard raised a rams-horn to his mouth and trumpeted a low, long signal that would travel leagues farther than Robin's voice. It would be relayed across the rolling, desolate coastal downs by others of their search party until it reached his father's ears. Robin's too-big hands trembled as he unclasped the broach holding his fur-trimmed cloak on his shoulders. He waited till he was certain his brother had the courage to step foot on the treacherous shifting soil inside the priory's walls. Satisfied that Geoffrey tread a sure course avoiding sinkholes, Robin leaped over the side of the pit and skidded down the slope to the lady. He threw his cloak over her body. He could not make sense of Lady Isabella de Chandos' dishabille, but instinctively knew his brother was too young to see her naked, mud-spattered arms and legs. He feared the wrath of his father when he found his missing wife in this hellpit that had driven the last saintly hermit-monks mad decades ago. Again, Robin lifted her pale hand into his own. For all that he was ten and five, nearly a man grown, he knew not what else to do for the lady except chaff it more. She was as cold as the marble on King Henry's tomb. What could he tell Monseigneur? How could he explain that Geoffrey's telling of his troubling dreams had compelled Robin to look inside this pit all said opened into hell? "Ho, Robin! Is it Maman?" Geoffrey the pest tumbled over the edge and slid on his backside to a clumsy heap at Robin's knees. "Imbecile! Of course, it is our mother--just as you dreamed it." Robin thrust out a strong arm just in time to keep the boy from knocking into the lady. "You would crush a rose were it put into your clumsy hands." "God assoil us, it stinks down here!" Geoffrey pinched his nose as his older brother tucked the stout wool about the lady's shoulders. "Will Monseigneur beat Maman for coming here?"

Robin sat back on one heel and put his hand on Geoffrey's shoulder. "Go up and wait at the top of the well. Father will not step on this cursed land unless he sees you. Hold tight to my lord's reins when he gives them to you so he can dismount. Vite! Vite! Monseigneur comes." Shivering, the boy dug bony knees into the earth. "Will you sing a ballad telling how you found Maman, Robin?" "Obey me, runt! Now is not the time for questions." The boy scrambled on all fours to the top. Robin used his sodden gloves to wipe dirt from the lady's velvety cheek. His throat strangled at the thought of composing a dirge. He turned his face to the rain and listened with keen ears for the approach of his father's war-horse. "Ho, Robin, Papa sees me. He comes," Geoffrey shouted over the rim. Robin struggled, keeping the woman's head and shoulders clear of the deepening water. He prayed his father's heart would soften and there would be mercy for his mother. The war-horse halted at the edge of the pit, black as the storm rolling across the sky. On its back, Sir John Chandos made no move as lightning smote the sky. The fierce and dreaded knight glared into the pit known as the Well of Souls. He lifted his gauntlet-covered hand to make a sign of the cross over his brow, his breast and his lips before daring to speak. "Is it Bella, Robin?" John Chandos' voice cut across the gloom. "Aye, Father." The youth lifted a wet clump of auburn hair from the earth and held it against the white cross and crescent moon embroidered on his tunic. Even wet, the color of the Rose of Lorraine's hair was recognizable. Geoffrey jumped to catch hold of the war-horse's bridle. Leather creaked as the fearsome knight dismounted without the aid of a squire. He spoke to the horse, calming it, and put the reins in the young boy's hands. "Stand fast, son." The links of his hauberk chinked as the knight eased into the steep ravine. Robin never took his eyes from the man he idolized as a knight of trueheart and courage next to none. By the time he reached the bottom where Robin knelt and the lady lay in a pool of mud, Sir John had stripped his gauntlets from his hands. His knee sunk deep into the sodden earth. His exposed and rust-reddened fingers reached out to caress Lady Bella's cold and wet cheek. Laying his broad thumb beneath the lady's nostrils, Sir John held his own breath and waited for a sign of life. The hard, fixed planes and angles of his features showed no trace of elation as his wife's breath warmed the pad of his thumb. "She is alive." Hope flared anew in Robin's heart and he raised his eyes to Sir John's piercing blue gaze. "She is? God preserve and keep us. My lord Father, tell me what to do." "Hold your facile tongue for a moment till I discern if your Maman has broken her foolish neck." Robin bit his tongue while those hands that he'd seen crush enemies of the crown cradled the lady's well

formed head with a gentle, reverent touch. Lord Chandos pulled aside Robin's cloak and for a moment did not touch arm, or hand or any of the lady's oddly fashioned tattered garments. A golden thread encircled her throat and two gold rings, one with a single, beautiful blue-white stone, graced her left hand where it lay protecting her heart. Robin recognized the twist of Sir John's brow as a sign that he was deep in angry contemplation of this evidence of Lady Isabella's sin. The knight drew away the cloak and touched a bare and badly blooded knee. A stocking clung to one of her legs that was so wondrously knitted it need no garter to keep it in place. What his father made of the strange trews Robin couldn't imagine. But he had no doubts of his father's opinion of the jewelry her protector-lover had gifted on her. The golden thread circling her neck he ripped apart and threw to the farthermost corner of the cursed well. He did the same with the rings, caring not one whit that he cast away a knight's ransom in gold and diamonds. To his eldest son Sir John said, "Fetch my horse blanket from my saddle while I strip these heathen garments from your mother's body. The House of Chandos will not be shamed by her flaunting the garments of a French whore." Robin did as he'd been ordered. As he crawled over the rim of the pit he dashed his sleeve across his eyes. "What is Papa doing?" Geoffrey wanted to know. Robin deliberately pulled the boy and horse away from the edge. "He needs a blanket to wrap her in." Forcing his voice to sound normal, Robin unbuckled the strap on his father's pack and pulled out the tightly rolled scarlet wool. Before he left Geoffrey he put his hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed him firmly. "Keep Vengeance here, away from the edge of the pit. You know the ground is unstable. Father would skin you alive if anything happens to his war-horse." That put the fear of God in Geoffrey's amber eyes. He nodded dumbly and clutched Vengeance's reins even tighter. Robin jumped over the edge and slid out of sight. Soaking wet and shivering, Geoffrey gawked at the eerie, barren yard where carts made in the reign of King Henry were overturned and abandoned. He prayed urgently that he would not see any of the hideous demons and foul, filthy spirits that haunted his dreams rise from this cursed earth. The roof of the priory had collapsed long ago as well as those of its stable and granary. The stone walls and fences had turned to ruin, unaided by the usual pillaging of abandoned buildings peasants did. Only the hand of the devil was at work here. In all his adventuresome eight years, Geoffrey Chandos had never dared step foot on this forbidden land. Vengeance bit his hair then snorted in Geoffrey's face, jerking against his hold as two riders crossed the verge. That coward bard stood beyond the wall, directing Sir James Graham and his squire into the yard. Geoffrey could tell that the squire, Rodney of Hainault, did not want to enter the priory's gate, but Sir James galloped in without fear. The little boy raised his chin proudly, glad that he was braver than a squire and a Welsh bard. Inside the Well of Souls, Robin stood back as his father raised his mother's naked body to his shoulder.

Her muddy arms and dripping hair swung limply as Sir John took the blanket from Robin's hand and spread it over her. Another horse snorted. Robin raised his gaze to the top of the pit. Others of their search party had arrived, ringing this devil's hole. Not a man among them said a word. Sir James tossed down a length of rope. Robin snared it and put it in his father's hand then scoured his cloak from the mud. A bit of silver caught his eye. He bent to retrieve a large coin adhered to the muddy walls of the pit. A human skull poked out of the earth beside it. He plucked the coin free and backed away, saying a hasty prayer, then scrambled after his father. The squire had taken charge of the war-horse and Geoffrey the pest had been boosted onto Sir Graham's mount. The boy shivered under the drape of Graham's cloak and clung to the knight's back like a monkey on an orange tree in the Queen's menagerie. Robin vowed to remember Geoffrey's pale and distressed face as it was now. He had been the last to see Lady Chandos when she had given young Henri over to Geoffrey's care and said she was returning to France. Had the boy told the truth to their father then, the agony of the past week might never have been. But Robin tempered his ire toward his little brother by reminding himself Geoffrey had shown courage crossing this haunted soil alone. "What is that?" Geoffrey pointed to the coin Robin scrubbed against his tunic. Robin showed the coin to both Sir James and curious Geoffrey, saying, "It has a king's face, though I know not which king." "Let me see it?" Geoffrey demanded, reaching for it. "Nay, 'tis mine. I found it." Sir James Graham caught Geoffrey's hand before he could touch the coin. "Did you find that there?" Graham demanded of Robin. "Aye, my lord, stuck in the mud." "Throw it back," the knight commanded. "'Tis devil's coin." Robin wanted to keep the curious thing with the face of a noble man engraved upon it. It was bigger than any coin he had ever seen and he had not had time to decipher the name or inscription on its two sides. He looked up at his father's most trusted friend and saw that his face was as hard as Sir John's when a squire tarried overlong fulfilling an order. Neither knight was known to repeat an order a second time. Robin dropped the coin. It plopped into the water and a Kennedy half-dollar disappeared into the silt of time.

"...le plus illustre chevalier du monde..."

BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN

-3-

England, 1346

A damp, chilly wind struck her face. Bella kept her eyes shut tight against it, burrowing back inside the cocoon of soothing, comforting white light. She wanted no part of the vivid colors swirling round the softening edges of her haven. Inside the halo of white she was safe and unafraid. Beyond the white, there was mayhem, turmoil and pain. Her shoulder scraped against something solid. She sensed many strange and unpleasant things--the smell of wet wool, the feel of slippery mud, the sour aroma of sewage, the absence of clothes and shoes, and the familiar-from-childhood motion of a galloping horse. There was more, a man's strong, sure arm supporting her as she slumped against his chest, her head nodding with the steady gait of the horse, rubbing against the man's chin. Bella opened her eyes cautiously, scared and unsure of what she was going to see. A rainbow flashed into her eyes. Reds, indigos, shimmering yellows, sparkling greens all danced before her unfocosed eyes. Her vision lacked clarity, depth and precision. Her eyes registered only blurred, shapeless colors. Weakly, she lifted her lids more and began the painstaking task of focusing upon the world beyond the void surrounding her. Directly before her loomed a pair of black pointed ears and a flying mane. She had no trouble processing that. Lifting her chin, turning her head slightly, both eyes confronted thick leather reins gripped by black gloves. No, she blinked twice. Those were not gloves, they were iron studded gauntlets! Bella swallowed. Was that chain mail sheathing the arms rising from the gauntlets? For some irrational reason she needed an immediate answer to that question. But the effort it took to move any part of her body was phenomenal. She ached as if her bones had been crushed. Sore fingers tangled in the wool and merely turning her head sent agonizing pains rippling across her neck and shoulders. She had to settle for what judgments her eyes could make. A chainmail hood encircled the rider's face and shoulders. The first glimpse Bella had of his dark, hard, and ruthless face caused her to cry out, "Good God Almighty, who the hell are you?" His left hand clamped onto her twisting shoulders, crushing her against his iron-clad chest. "Be still," he growled. "Put me down this instant," Bella demanded. "Madame." One corner of a black mustache that draped his mouth, lifted in a disdainful curl scant inches above her eyes. "Do you value your precious white hide, keep your tongue behind your teeth. Think you I care who witnesses my justice? Force my hand if you dare. Tu pense votre fils."

Think of her son. Bella jerked, instinctively looking for Iain beyond the knight's massive shoulder. Riders followed closely on a mud-bogged road battered by rain. The huge drops that pelted the linkage covering his shoulder splashed into her eyes, making her flinch. She remembered...Iain was dead. What macabre joke was this rider playing? Where was Ari? Where were Lewes and the ruins? Why did she feel as if she had been beaten to death? Sinking into the scarlet wool, Bella closed her eyes. She acutely felt the cold and chilly wet and her throbbing head couldn't fix on any solid, tangible thought. The blast of a horn forced her to half raise her eyelids, looking for the car that tooted. There were no cars, only a continuation of a muddy trail leading to a gatehouse fronting a castle. Amazingly, a drawbridge was lowering before Bella's very eyes. What is going on here? she thought numbly. Had she stumbled across a troop of actors filming a movie? How could she have done that if the last thing she remembered was a black hole in the ground at Lewes? If these people were actors, what was she doing with them? That did not explain what had happened to her clothes or what she was doing in this man's arms. Nor what had him so pissed off she could see muscles knotting in his jaw as he gnashed his teeth. Thunder and lightning rolled across the forested hills beyond the castle. Bella thought, is this man crazy or what? Didn't he realize he could be struck by lightning riding about in a storm clad in so much metal? She wiggled in high discomfort against the harsh linkage of his chain mail. It poked and pinched her in places too numerous and personal to mention. Bella swept the high walls for cameras and didn't see a one. The actor-knight slowed the horse to a jarring trot crossing the lowered drawbridge. There was another wall of stone inside the first, higher, boasting towers at each corner. It all looked very real, not some Hollywood-created fantasy of painted plywood and scaffolding. Bella gulped and brought up one hand to tug a muddy clump of hair away from her cheek, but that hand stank worse than anything she'd ever smelled in her life. Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the Saints, what has happened to me? Bella looked fearfully past the wool and the knight's linkage encased arm at the crowd milling inside the gate. Not one of them so much as blinked at her. What was going on here? Why did everyone look so grim? Why did not one single person look her in the eyes? They had enough people about to play the battle scenes of El Cid. If they were making a film, where were the cameras? The lights? The director and assistants? Make up and wardrobe people? The knight set his horse to walking at a very measured pace through a second gatehouse. Bella swallowed and said, faintly, "This is not a movie set, is it?" She watched as the whisker-shadowed hardness of his jaw set harder than concrete. There was a very ominous and dangerous feel to him. Bella clutched the edges of the wool tighter about her, intimidated by him more than by the sheer size and utilitarian scope of the inner castle ward.

Four cupola towers lorded over a bustling, busy estate where coopers, carters, blacksmiths, weavers, reevers, all went about their trades with concentrated industry. To the left, was a stone manor. Cathedral-like windows graced the manor's facade. It had all the appearances of a madrigal fair. The English, Bella had concluded thus far from her tour of the country, had a thing for period costumes and fairs. But this was carrying play acting to an infinite degree of realism. Agog, Bella straightened considerably. Men and a number of women looked out every door and window, watching the knight make slow, stately progress through the ward. He halted the horse at an open, functioning well. Men from the stables at the rear came running to meet him. But any man who happened to be outdoors or fully in sight of this forward rider, dropped whatever they were doing and put one knee firmly on the ground and their right hand across their breast in a salute as he had passed--like the man was a king. Bella didn't see a single tourist with a camera. It was still raining, now just a steady continuous patter. The knight drew up the horse's reins. Two men in uniform black and tan livery took the horse's bridle and steadied it. A younger lad dressed in linen and knitted hose caught hold of the knight's stirrup so he could dismount, saying, "God be praised, Sir John, you found milady alive." Sir John, not Your Majesty, Bella thought, watching the rest of the riders continued to the stable. A boy peeked out from underneath the drape of the second knight's cloak and stared at Bella with huge brown eyes, just like Iain's. Bella jerked, startled enough by that child's face that she almost called out Iain's name before she remembered. Iain was dead. She sank weakly back against Sir John, hardly conscious of his arms supporting her. He pressed her forward, shifting his weight, dismounting. Left seated on the horse, Bella forced herself to look toward the grinding noise made by the closing portcullis. She stared dumbly at it until the spiked iron teeth imbedded in the sand lining the floor of the gatehouse. Her mind sluggishly grappled with a technicality--was she now a prisoner of this place? She gripped two things very tightly--the high pommel of the saddle and the wool that covered her body. In time, she returned her focus to the black knight. The youth that had held his stirrup, now helped to divest him of his armor. While Bella had been completely caught up in the gatehouse, he had peeled away a mounting pile of chainmail, well used, sweat-stained leather, and quilted padding. Stripped to a pair of tightly fitted black trousers and boots, Sir John turned to her. His hair was plastered to his head, black and shoulder length. He was tall, long boned, and solidly muscled, devoid of any softening layer of fat. Even shed of the armor, he retained a sense of absolute authority. A big man, yes, but more important was his aura of raw, unbridled power. As Sir John reached up to take her down from the saddle, Bella finally looked at his face. His eyes were dark blue, unrelieved of any warming hints of green or gold flecks. Just blue, that betrayed no hint of emotion inside him. Bella flinched as his hands tightened on her waist. She wasn't comfortable on the horse, but she knew she

did not want to get down either. He wasn't giving her any choice, nor wasting words to explain what this was all about. His arms flexed, pulling her forward. She clutched both hands into the wool, gasping as the pressure on her waist intensified. The slender column of his neck widened perceptively as he lifted her off the saddle. Set on her feet, Bella stared dumbly at his flat nipples, brown puckered islands in a light blanket of black hair. Foggily, Bella tried to rectify earlier misconceptions. This man was not an actor playing at a part. He was living it. That made him dangerous. Very, very, very dangerous. She had no curiosity about the fortress or the other people it contained or what purpose it served in this part of England. She was incapable of focussing her thoughts on anyone other than the knight. Sir John dropped his hands from her waist as soon as her bare feet touched the ground. He looked at his own palms and fingers which were now coated with the same thick, stinking slime that Bella knew adhered to her body. The sensuous fullness of his mouth thinned. He returned his eyes to her and as they swept downward, the sneering curl of his lip intensified. That, only frightened her more. He turned to the men gathering his armor onto a handcart and told them in French to fill buckets of water for him. Another he told to fetch a clean horse blanket. Bella had no trouble following what he said as he accepted the first bucket and washed his hands. Her Alsatian grandparents back home in Texas still spoke the dialect indigenous to Alsac-Lorraine. But when he turned back to her and told her to give the filthy cloak to a man named Thomas, Bella knew this insanity had gone on long enough. She turned and ran. She got four steps away when the wool tightened so fiercely, Bella feared it would tear from her grip. She staggered around, confronting him. The cruel bastard had put his foot on the corner of the scarlet blanket. Trapped, her terror mounting, Bella dared to risk only one hand to tug the cloth out from beneath his boot. He shifted more of his weight onto the captured corner beneath his boot, barking an order over his shoulder to a boy he called squire. Immediately, the well dressed youth stepped forward with Sir John's magnificent sword and scabbard attached to its heavy leather belt. As Bella frantically tugged upon the wool, the youth withdrew the scabbard from the leather. "Bella!" Her name exploded from his lips with a whip-like crack. Bella jumped and looked at his dark face immediately. Her heart already thrummed a terrifying cadence. What he said next nearly brought the escalated racing of that organ to a chilling halt. "My dearest lady wife," Sir John snarled. "Do you want to be beaten within an inch of your life, run from me. I swear by the Holy Rood, for every step I take to bring you back to this well, I will ply a strap across your back. Here, naked, before all our people. Do you understand me, Isabella de Saint Pierre?" Bella stared at the black knight. Her mouth sagged open, wanting to scream at him that he was not her husband, wanting to ask how he could know her name...her maiden name...but no words came out of her constricted throat. Her logical mind contradicted what her senses reported. This was not real, not a movie nor anything

remotely like that. She was dreaming. This was a nightmare. What else could it be? Sir John put out his hand to her and motioned with his fingers for her to come closer to him. "Come to me, Bella." His voice dropped to a croon used on high-strung skittish animals. "Come to me. You cannot go inside our home with this stinking filth on you. The water will be cold, but I will douse you quickly, then wrap you warmly in a clean blanket. Clarise is already heating water for your bath. You do not want to spoil your pretty things with this terrible dirt, do you, Bella?" His fingers touched the arm she had exposed to pull upon the cloak. His grip was firm, not hurtful. One little tug started her forward and she found the momentum to move to the line of buckets on the edge of the well. The squire he'd told to bring a blanket reverently placed the folded wool at the end of the line of buckets then bowed to her and turned his back to the well. Humiliated and terrified, Bella swung her eyes toward the manor and back to the line of shops. All his people had disappeared from sight. The inner ward had gone as quiet as an empty church, disturbed only by the continuing patter of the rain. A woman at the weaver's stalls snatched a playing toddler from the ground and ran inside the lean-to. It's only a dream--a nightmare, Bella told herself. I'll wake up in a minute and none of this will be real. She shut her eyes, seeking the oblivion of dreamless sleep as he grasped the cloth and swept it off her body. Bella felt the splatter of rain dance against her scalp. She clutched her arms tightly across her breasts and gasped when the first awful douse of ice cold water poured over her head. Her sticky, filthy hair loosened and spread across her back. He raised the second bucket and after the shocking deluge of cold water ended, she swept one hand across her face to clear her eyes and saw the black, foul puddle forming at her feet. She was blue with the cold and shaking with palsy when he poured out the last. He set the bucket down and turned to get the blanket. Bella wiped water from her eyes and looked at her feet. Blood ran from one knee and horrible bruises dotted her legs. She had no time to catalogue other injuries. He pulled the blanket firmly around her, and rubbed her head with it for a moment or so to sop up the water. Then he lifted her into his arms. As Sir John strode the entire width of the ward, the castle came alive again. The boy who looked like Iain ran out of the stables. The ring of the blacksmith's hammer started up again. The doors of the hall were flung open and a flood of people came outside. Every man Sir John passed bowed to him. Each woman spread her skirt or apron and curtsied deeply. This was the most unusual dream she'd ever experienced. Bella could not control her shaking or the clacking of her teeth. She was too cold to faint, but would have welcomed that oblivion if she had. Sir John resolutely crossed a foyer and mounted a set of spiralling steps that wound counter-clockwise inside a bartizan. The only light on the dangerous steps came from arrow slit embrasures. Eventually he stepped onto an upper floor, where Bella saw a cheery fire burned in a massive fireplace of an asceticly

furnished room. Two footmen swung open double doors at the end of that long room and closed them after Sir John passed through. Here, a massive, high bed, draped and canopied, dominated the chamber. Another fire burned in the fireplace and before that sat a huge wooden tub filled with steaming water. He said, "Voila, mon mari. It is as I promised, n'est pas? And here is Clarise, with hot towels and soft soap and all the cooing you will need." The woman spread her apron and bobbed to him as he set Bella on her feet, holding her gently at the waist to make certain she did not collapse. He tested the water with his hand then his other palm pressed against the small of her back, urging her forward. Bella wanted in that steaming water more than she'd wanted anything in her entire life. Her shivers and shakes had turned to tremors. She reached out to grasp the edge of the high tub and found the knight's hand instead. It was rock hard and steady. As the heat swept up the one leg she dipped into the tub, he whisked the blanket away, slid his warm hands under her arms and assisted her over the rim. As he lowered her into the water, Bella let out a deep sigh of relief for the immediate warmth. His hands slid forward, cupping her breasts. That was the most exquisite, intimate touch she'd ever felt in her life. He knelt at the edge of the tub, behind her and his elbows flared along the rim. His palms drew her back against the solid resistance of his naked chest. Bella closed her eyes, glad that her dream had turned pleasant and sensual. His head bent to her shoulder and lips touched her frozen ear. His breath warmed her shivering skin. The point of his tongue traced the sensitive curves, forcing an altogether different sort of shiver onto her racking body. Bella felt her nipples harden against the rough skin of his palms and she craned her neck as his teeth nipped her throat. She sighed deeply, opening her eyes to sensual slits, wispering a soft prayer, because this sort of dream, she wouldn't want to ever stop. "Hmm." Sir John's lips lifted from her shoulder and she felt the intensity of his hungry gaze on her hardened and aroused breasts that filled his hands. "Perhaps, I should stay and bathe you myself, Bella. You haven't been this compliant in a long, long time." One of his hands dropped below the water covering her breasts and swept across her belly. But when she felt his fingers touch her curls and cup her between her legs, his touch was too real. Bella caught hold of his hand, staying his exploration. Was she really dreaming? Or was this real? She looked up and found the servant woman stood right there at the side of the tub. Her eyes were politely downcast, but for heaven's sake! A public exhibition, even in her dreams, went strongly against Bella's principles. What if this wasn't a dream?

Bella had to get a grip upon herself, right now! And not the grip her fantasy knight was intent upon delivering, either! She lifted his other hand away from her breast, scooting over in the large tub and twisted out of range. "I'm filthy. You said so yourself. I think I can bathe myself. Please, go away." His hands returned to the rim of the tub. Bella covered her breasts with both her arms. She could feel the heat of his stare and sensed that he regretted the impulsive caress. Bella drew up her knees and huddled deeper in the water, shivering in spite of the heat. Her eyes followed him as he stood. "You may have your bath, my lady." She had to raise her chin to see his eyes. They were as cold as the icy water in his well. Dear Lord, but he was tall and terrifying, hard and cold as stone. He stared at her without blinking his eyes once. "I have yet to decide whether to forgive you or not, Bella. Best you pray that you never again forget whose wife you are. Nor where your loyalties belong."

***

John de Chandos stalked out of his wife's bed chamber to the sound of water squashing in his boots. Her footmen shut the doors behind him. He resolutely crossed the solar, passed through the opposite alcove and entered his own chamber. His manservant, Guilamu, bowed and offered the flowing salute of a true believer, sweeping hand to his brow, his lips and his heart. "My smoldering lord, I have brought hot water and laid out dry clothing for you. How else may I serve you?" Chandos flashed a withering look at the Muslim. "You may start by wiping that smirk off your heathen face and open the windows so I may breathe clean, untainted air." The lord of the manor dropped onto a stool beside his steaming copper tub and brought right foot to left knee to unfasten the buckles on his cross-gartered leggings. Guilamu reluctantly opened the shutters beneath the stained glass window and dutifully removed the pillows from the window seat so that the deluge of English rain would not damage costly Eastern silk and tapestry fabrics. He and Lord Chandos were ever at odds over England's climate. Guilamu demanded fires burn all days of the year. Chandos revelled in fresh air and cool, damp winds. Despite differences over every subject in the world, the Arab and the Christian were bound for this lifetime by the debt of each owing his life to the other. Boots off and leggings disposed of, Sir John stood and stripped away his sodden, wet breeks. He grunted audibly as he sank into the steaming tub scented by oil of sandalwood. The fragrance wafted upward with the steam to mingle with the lingering, unpleasant odor of the Well of Souls in Chandos' nose. John closed his eyes and allowed the heated water to obliterate the last trace of lust from his groin. When, he sourly asked himself, would he cease to be affected by Isabella Saint Pierre's alluring body?

"Allah has granted his mercy again, my lord Chandos," Guilamu chattered like a magpie as he picked up John's boots. "The lady was in the Well of Souls as young master Geoffrey dreamed?" "Aye." Chandos offered no further words or explanation. He rested his head on the rim of the copper tub, eyes closed. Water lapped as high as his armpits. "Send those boots to be cleaned, Guilamu, and fetch me something to eat. I am fair starved. I cannot laze in this tub overlong. The king awaits me at Camber." "He would prefer you attend him smelling less of the jakes," Guilamu muttered as he gathered all of the soiled clothing. "Allah help me, but this cursed well must be a vile and devilish place to hold such a stench." Chandos dunked his head in the water and came up pressing wet black hair back from his face. "Guilamu, tell Geoffrey I will see him in a quarter hour, no less." "As you wish, most dreaded lord." The servant bowed before stepping out, closing the door softly in his wake. Sir John reached for the pot of soap and began to wash away the lingering stench, beginning with his hair. The Muslim practice of daily bathing was a habit Chandos had heartily adopted during his sojourn to the Holy Land nine years ago. There, a cool tub did for the body what heated water accomplished in England--comforted and restored equilibrium. He scrubbed thoroughly then stood and rinsed the thick lathers with a bucket of cold water straight out of the well. As he stepped out of the tub and hastily dried with rough linen, he could not prevent envisioning the woman that had stood with her head bowed and shivering, naked before him at the well. Why hadn't he beaten her? he asked himself. She deserved punishment. The hell of the past week alone was grave and serious enough to call for the forfeiture of her life. A wife was bound by her marriage vows to love, honor and obey her husband. Chandos no longer cared if his wife loved him or not. The glaringly evident truth that Isabella did not honor him and more importantly did not obey him, were faults that he would no longer tolerate. Dressed in clean trews, cotte hardie and dry boots, John de Chandos knelt at his prie dieu and fastened his gaze upon the crucifix fitted to his wall. He tried to pray for guidance, but his thoughts kept going back to that stormy night of a week ago, to the scene his French wife had begun with Edward Plantagenet, king of England. The battle had been in full swing long before John de Chandos had gotten his trews on and charged into his wife's chamber to put a stop to her madness. Now, the past week culminated in one horrifying vision blazed permanently upon Chandos' mind. The sight of Isabella lying in that pool of filth. He'd thought her dead and felt cheated because she lived. God forgive him, he could not condone her madness, her screams and threats, and the pain and terror she inflicted on her sons. For the space of the entire morning the day after the king had departed, four-year-old Henri and his mother could be found. Chandos had ordered the castle turned inside out. And he had prayed and prayed for little Henri's safety, but feared the worst. Before the bell in the chapel had rung the Angelus, Geoffrey had found his little brother. But as to their mother's whereabouts, both sons claimed ignorance.

A soft knock on his chamber door brought Chandos out of his nightmare. His head turned and he said, "Come." The door pressed slowly open and Geoffrey's pale face poked around the carved wood. "You wanted to see me, Papa?" "Aye, come in, Geoffrey. We have much to discuss." John de Chandos took a deep breath as he rose from his prie dieu. This son had been born during his twelve month absence from England while on Holy Crusade. The boy lifted exquisite, expressive eyes as cinnamon in color as his mother's and his fifteen-year-old brother, Robin. That was the only likeness Geoffrey bore to any of them. He had not a one of his mother's freckles and unlike either young Henri or older Robin, Geoffrey's ears protruded from his large, well-formed head and were obscured by his shaggy brownish-blond hair. Inspecting him with the same careful scrutiny that he applied to any of his sons, John was struck by the singular question that intruded in his thoughts each time he confronted Geoffrey alone. Who was his father? Chandos cleared his throat, forcing his inner question aside to deal with the issue at hand. "Geoffrey, you will explain to me now why you kept your knowledge of your mother's whereabouts a secret this past entire week."

"What now is has already been; what is to be, already is..." ECCLESIASTICS 3:15 -4-

Evening Chandos Enceinte

"Jesus, Ari, help me!" Bella woke herself, screaming. She sat up, horrified, remembering the macabre snake dance of the electrical power lines, the horrible pain that had jolted through her entire body and sent her reeling head over heels through that hellish pit. Her nightmare went deeper, leaving lasting images fixed inside her mind. She had passed herself in that dreadful vortex of darkness and light. Herself--raising horribly gashed wrists heavenward in despair. Blood, dark red blood cascaded down her image's pale white arms. Clenched in the other woman's hand was the horrible butcher's knife that had severed her arteries. Suicide. No. No. No! It wasn't me! Panting for lost breath, her heart hammering in terror, Bella held her hands before her face in the dim light. She held no knife. There were no gaping wounds splitting open her veins.

Turning her hands over, she found a host of minute scratches marred the backs of her hands and forearms. Bella flipped her hands back and forth, taking deep calming breaths to quiet her fears. Not dead. I wasn't electrocuted. I'm not dead. The panic drove her to throw back the coverlet and yank up the hem of her nightgown. She gasped as she saw her right knee. A deep, awful looking burn seared her flesh just above her kneecap. The joint was swollen, tender as she probbed it carefully. A raw abrasion had crusted over. She ought to be dead. She ought to be. That thought swam round and round in her head. One couldn't live through being electrocuted...it wasn't possible. She felt her left wrist for her pulse and closed her eyes, attuned to the steady, throbbing beat, confirming that she was indeed alive. Living, breathing, thinking. She should be in a hospital, shouldn't she? Bella took a deep, calming breath and released it slowly. That was a very good question to ask herself. Where should she be after what she'd been through today? Only then did she begin to take in her surroundings. She sat in a huge canopied bed. Its heavy drapings were closed at the foot and on her left. On the right they were folded back and tied to thick, deeply carved posts. She had a view across the chamber to the fireplace where a small fire still burned rather cheerfully. The solidity of the bed soothed her, for it was real, solid and tangible. The quality of the linens imparted a calm that went some ways in assuring her that she was in a clean, safe environment albiet unusual. It was the kind of bed she'd seen displayed in several castles she'd toured in Britain, very grand and ornate and probably of priceless value. She had no explanation for waking up in this particular bed, and that troubled her. Bella would have much preferred that the lingering impressions from her nightmare could be disproved. So far, they were not. A coarsely-woven, long sleeved cotton gown slid off her shoulder. A large black and white cat opened one eye and lifted its tail in a question mark curl against her feet. The animal blinked, yawned and stretched. Then it padded up the bed and stepped onto Bella's lap, meowed loudly, and nudged its brow against Bella's chin in a demand for attention. As she'd never seen that cat before, its reaction bordered on strange. Bella scratched the ruff of white fur under the pet's chin, asking, "Where did you come from?" "God be praise, milady, you have awoken," piped a cheerful voice from a dim recess beyond the fireplace. A moment later the servant who had helped Bella with the bath came out of the shadows, setting aside a swatch of knitting and needles in a basket. She brought a single candle to the bed where Bella sat. It was still raining. Bella heard the sound of it on the roof above her head and she looked for and found a window on the wall opposite the fireplace. Clarise put her candlestick on a table next to the bed, folded her hands before her apron and studied Bella with a grave expression. Bella realized then that she had not woken up a few moments ago when she'd suddenly lurched upright in

the bed. She must still be dreaming else that oddly dressed woman who had been in her bath dream earlier would not be standing before her, now. "Will you be wanting something to eat, milady?" "Is it possible to eat when one is in the middle of a dream?" Bella asked. She studied the woman's costume. It certainly looked authentic in style and cloth...old, but Bella could not affix a date to its simple lines. The cat settled in Bella's lap, grooming itself. "Where is Aristotle?" Clarise pursed her lips and said, "Lady Bella, Aristotle is right there, licking his paws. The poor beast has done nothing but pine and howl since you disappeared a week ago. Believe me, he hasn't left your side since Sir John let him in." "This cat is named Aristotle?" Bella raised her hands from the large, overfed feline scrubbing its ear. "Yes, milady." "This is weird. My brains have been thoroughly scrambled. I guess I should expect that from being electrocuted, shouldn't I?" There was a wooden bowl full of fruit on the small table beside the candlestick. Experimenting, she took hold of both a pear and the paring knife, marvelling over the fact that she'd never had such a vivid dream. The pear was small and soft, more gold than green, and the knife cut through it easily. Juice dribbled down her hand as she put a slice in her mouth. She licked the sticky rivulet from her thumb and chewed, contemplating the sweet taste. That too was odd, because she couldn't think of any other dream she'd had in her life where she'd tasted any food and recalled it as being sweet, tart or bitter. Cocking an ear to the steady patter on the roof, she asked the woman standing before her, "How long has it been raining?" "Eight full dreary days, milady." A curtsey accompanied the woman's answer. "Eight days? Don't tell me I've been asleep for eight days. That's impossible." "No, milady, you've only slept the afternoon. You were so exhausted, you almost fell asleep in the bath." The cat sniffed at the pear in Bella's hand, put its paws on Bella's breasts, and inspected the corners of her mouth with delicate twitching whiskers. She pushed it firmly down. She would not call the cat Aristotle. "What is your name?" "My name? Why, milady, I am Clarise. I have been your lady's maid since the day you wed Sir John." Bella shook her head firmly. "No, you are mistaken. My husband's name is Ari, Aristotle. Do you know that he did nothing to help me? I can't believe he just stood there watching while I was electrocuted. I can assure the rat, I'll be filing for a divorce, now. He can make book on that." All pretense of reticence faded from Clarise's round face. "My lady, Sir John has been pressed as far as

I think he will allow. I beg you not to goad him further by claiming you are married to someone other than he. My lady, think of your sons." "My son? How would you know about Iain?" Bella asked. "Oh, I get it. This is a dream so why shouldn't you know about Iain." Bella cut another slice of pear and put it in her mouth. "He was a such a wonderful son. I know its been four years, but I still miss him so much. Who is this Sir John person? Tell me about him. You are talking about the man who brought me to this room, aren't you? Is that Sir John?" Looking more alarmed than before, the woman nodded. "My lady, you know he is." Bella sighed, swallowing the morsel of the pear nearly whole. "My son can't be here--he's dead. Where is my husband? Do you know? What part of England is this? Where the hell am I?" Clarise answered quickly, in the soothing tones one used on someone very ill, "My lady, you're at your home, Chandos Enceinte in Sussex. Sir John has ridden to Camber to meet the king. You must not worry about the young masters. They are each as healthy as stoats. I will send word they are to come at once. Be there anything else I can do for you?" "Yeah." Bella nodded. "Food, I need food, something filling to eat, and it would sure help if I knew where the bathroom is." "Bath--what?" Clarise exhaled in exasperation. "You know, the toilet. The ladies, the loo, the water closet, or whatever you English call it. Where is one?" "Toilette?" Clarise echoed confused. Bella realized they weren't communicating at all. Not only did the lady wear funny clothes, she had the oddest accent Bella had ever heard, yet. England abounded with people who talked with funny accents, but Clarise's took the cake. Bella wondered how the woman would react if she asked who's on first? Deciding diplomacy was better than confrontation, Bella put the pear core in the wooden bowl and swung her legs over the side of the bed, disturbing the cat. Lord, but the bed was high off the floor! She looked down at the long drop, and spied a bright Oriental carpet lying on the polished oak planks. Another carpet was spread before the fireplace where the tub had sat when she'd taken her bath. Now the tub was gone and if any water spots or soap had landed on that gleaming, golden oak floor, someone had very carefully buffed the marks away. The lone candle on the nightstand and the cheery fire in the hearth provided the only light in the dark chamber. The chamber would be as dark and gloomy as a dungeon without them. Then she would be lost and near to panic without light. A painted shield hung above the fireplace with two gleaming golden helms on either side of it. That brightly painted shield caught her interest immediately. Bella knew a little about heraldry. Such shields on display in manorial English bedrooms meant this chamber had been slept in by a king. Being as England had had lots and lots of kings, nearly every castle she'd visited had claimed one monarch or another had slept in their master bedroom. Sort of like the signs in New England's boarding houses that claimed

Washington had slept there. What was absolutely unbelievable to Bella's mind was the coat of arms depicted on that shield. The quartered field sporting fleur de lis in two quadrants and the gold lion rampant in the others were the arms taken by Edward III when he styled himself king of France in 1347 when he'd launched England into the Hundred Years War. Beginning to think her dream was becoming unmanageable, Bella asked jokingly, "Clarise, what's the name of the king who slept in this room?" "Why, His Majesty, King Edward the Third, may he reign forever, milady. If I may be so impertinent to remind you, it was King Edward's visit last week that caused you to walk out on Sir John, vowing to kill your sons and yourself." "What?" Bella choked. Which portion of that choice tidbit of gossip nearly made Bella swallow her tongue, she wasn't certain. No woman in her right mind would walk out on a man like Sir John! And why would any sane woman threaten to kill her son? Or herself? "I said..." "No!" Bella jerked up her hand in a gesture that demanded silence. "Don't you dare say that again! It isn't true. I wouldn't do such a thing. Ever!" Clarise's expression became one of fear and she took several steps backward, silenced by Bella's sharp words. Bella immediately felt horrible for having spoken so rudely. "Look, wait, um," Bella backtracked herself. "Forget I said that. I think we're talking apples and oranges, here. Let's clear up a couple of things, okay?" "O Kay?" Clarice asked warily. "It's an American phrase, it means right...all right. Okay-all right. It's the same thing, like saying yes. Ah, I asked about that shield, okay?" "Yes, milady." Clarise curtsied again. "You don't have to do that, curtsey to me. We don't do that where I come from, okay?" "Yes, milady." "Okay, just so I've got this straight. You said King Edward the Third slept in this bed? Last week? Seven days ago?" "Yes, milady." Clarise nodded and curtsied. Bella ignored the woman's motions and concentrated on forming her next question, carefully. "And

you're telling me I threatened to kill my son, last week?" "Yes, milady." "Whoa, this dream get's weirder by the minute," Bella scoffed. "You're crazy." She laughed a little madly for the absurdity of it all, then her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Okay, Clarise, so Edward Plantagenet is King, is he? Then tell me this. How old is the Black Prince?" "Who?" Clarise asked blankly. Ah ha! Bella gloated, I have her! She clarified her question. "If the king that slept here last week is Edward the Third then he has a wife named Phillipa. Tell me what their oldest son is named and what day he was born?" Clarise beamed. "Why, young Edward became six and ten the fifteenth of June as does the Good Lord allow him the grace. Praise Lord Chandos' good fortune, all will be here at Chandos Enceinte to celebrate the prince's feastday with us. Milady, you know all of this." "Indulge me. I've forgotten. Thank you," Bella said sourly, dismissing the woman with a small wave of her hand. "Why don't you go see if you can find me something more solid than apples and pears to eat?" King Edward and the Black Prince, yeah, right! Bella sneered privately. What kind of a hoax was this woman trying to pull? That would make this year, 1346, because Prince Edward, the Black Prince was born in 1330. Bella could stake her sheepskin on that particular fact. She was a whiz at remembering dates. Okay, so she was having a very, very vivid dream and being electrocuted obviously scrambled one's brain--if you lived through the experience. Clearly, she was still very much alive. There were things like virtual reality, but so far, this game bore no resemblence to any computer odyssy she had any knowledge of. It just didn't jibe. Bella waited until she was alone to drop to her bare feet from the high bed. The hem of her nightgown floated down to the floor. She ran to the lone window and pressed her face close to the thick and hazy diamond panes of glass. They made it very difficult to see anything other than the gloomy overcast sky and the rain piddling down in zigzagging rivulets. The stone wall was deep and thick, covered on the interior with smooth, painted plaster. The wooden sill and frame holding the window panes didn't have the smooth finish of normal millwork. It was rough and gouged. The iron latch had the appearance of being hand forged and it was rusty. Bella twisted the latch, then pushed the heavy pane out as far as she could and leaned over the sill. She was in one of the cupola towers she'd seen on approaching the castle. The tower was situated at the corner of the inner ward above the manor house, very high off the ground. This window looked down on the gatehouse that she thought she remembered entering. There was still daylight out doors, but it was fading fast. Numerous crude lanterns provided some additonal light in various positions for the dozen sentries she

counted posted on the allure. They were all in chain mail, sporting infamous English long bows for weaponry and appeared oblivious to the steady rain. Beyond the castle walls, she could see no asphalt roads, no paved parking lots, no utility poles or wires strung along the landscape. There was nothing to see but raw, cleared land to the crest of the nearby hills. No highways, no restaurants with flashing neon signs advertised their wares or prices. No cute tourists signs, no halogen lights brightened the gloomy twilight. No airplanes buzzed across the lowering sky. No satellite discs and definitely no television antennas poked up from the roof of any building in plain sight. This was definitely not the England Bella had motored through that morning. She didn't like the sight of the choppy, green, lichen- covered water in the moat one bit. A river twisted away from the complex, devoid of commerce, bridges, motorboats and houses. This was not good news. Bella slammed the window shut then sank to a heap on the floor and just stared at the unlit room. She reached to her left hand to twist her rings around her finger, an old habit when she was feeling stress. Her rings were gone. A thick band of yellow gold encircled her ring finger. She could not twist or slide the heavier band off her finger. Where had it come from? She pressed the fingers of her left hand against her mouth and thought back to each and every event that she remembered happening this day. She had a huge void of time. She went back to the moment when she'd woken up and got out of bed, showered and ate breakfast with Ari at their London hotel, and motored down to Lewes on their way to Brighton for the afternoon. Her memory was clear and intact until she left the Anne of Cleves Museum. From that point on, events began to jumble and swirl and disconnect. There had been Ari in his khaki shorts and white shirt, smirking while he demanded a divorce. Black ravens and sun, lightning, wind that had toppled a power pole, and a moil that had turned into a maelstrom--and Ari had laughed when she fell into the void. How she got from the green field at Lewes to being naked and filthy in the black knight's arms, Bella could not explain. There was a dullness, a blankness in her, as if that bolt of lightning had struck deep in the core of her emotions. She wasn't dreaming. She was wide awake and more alert than she'd felt in years. Was she dead? Was this the afterlife? Heaven, hell or purgatory? What if she had travelled through time? No. She couldn't have, could she? And what about that other woman...the one who looked just like her...the one who had cut her own wrists? What about her? Who was she? Another woman...from another time...whose name was the same as hers...who looked just like her? It wasn't possible. Was it? That's when Bella began to shake and shiver and clutch her arms against her body moaning no, no, no,

no, no. Because it wasn't possible that she, Bella Wynford, could have fallen through some fifth dimension hole in the earth and travelled from one time to another. It wasn't possible. It wasn't. These people thought she was somebody else. That man did...Sir John...but there were no such things as Doppelgangers, soul twins, stretched across time and place co-existing in opposite planes, were there? Am I crazy? Have I lost my mind? The cat padded over to Bella, meowed, and very determinedly rubbed the top of its head against her hand demanding her attention. It struck Bella that the cat's show of affection was more than she'd been given in the past year from her husband. That same husband had howled with delirium, "It's over, Bella." Yeah, it was over all right. Look where she thought she was--in the Fourteenth Century! A cat wouldn't get cozy with a perfect stranger. Yet this cat again insisted on climbing onto her lap, sat and purred loudly. Aristotle the cat's behavior with Bella seemed incontrovertible proof that she wasn't in the same world that she'd woken up this morning. And maybe not the same person either. Both thoughts were utterly terrifying. Bella drew the animal into her arms and hugged it, accepting the companionable comfort it offered. Its eyes closed and its motor revved, contentedly. Dear God in heaven, now she'd lost her parents and family, her friends just like she'd lost her son, her Iain. Tears overflowed her eyes and blurred her vision. Everything that was dear to her was gone. It's over, Bella. She had never felt so forlorn, lost and alone in her life. Is this what death was? Did you just wake up and find yourself some place else? What, dear God, happens now? Did she have to stay here? Was there someplace else to go? Could she go back? Or was this her punishment for the sins of her lifetime?

THE ROSE OF LORRAINE

-5-

Bella dashed her tears away as she lurched onto her feet. She wouldn't sit wallowing in self-pity. She must do something to go back where she belonged. She began searching through the room, looking in every nook and cranny, wardrobe and trunk. She could not open the double doors when she pulled on the handle. Behind the only other bolthole door, there was a garderobe, a privy. Bella gawked at the lavish round room set in a round bartizan, jutting off the side of the tower. It had an incredible peaked dome ceiling and beautiful painted tiles on the floor. A polished wooden shelf offered a seat for doing what was necessary, though she feared it drained into that slimy moat she'd seen out the window. Knowing she couldn't afford to be squeamish, she checked for spiders and scorpions anyway. Back home in Texas where there was still an outhouse or two in the open countryside, one was mighty careful where one sat. After examining every inch of the king's bedroom, Bella stood beside a plain three-legged table, thinking. The huge cylindrical room had exactly five pieces of furniture; the massive bed, an escritoire and chair, this table with its lyre stool and an impressive high-backed chair that faced the fireplace. This room may be given over to the king of England when he was in residence (Bella retained her doubts about that) but it was clearly the favored haunt of a woman. Or else her prison, Bella thought darkly, looking at the locked doors that were the only exit. She came to grips with the fact that there must be an Isabella de Saint Pierre of the fourteenth century who had married the cold-hearted Norman Bella had had the dubious pleasure of meeting earlier. Now what? Where was the woman who belonged here? Bella curiously touched the writing tools on the escritoire; quills and pen, stoppered ink, blotter, parchments and razor sharp penknife. The quill was fragile and delicate and had no feel of weight or substance to it. In the whole room she found only one leather-bound prayer book. Each page was handwritten in cramped Gothic script. Bella felt a headache brewing as she tried to decipher the Latin words by the light of a single candle. She laid the prayer book on the desk and turned round and round, lost, searching for any touch of reality that would make her sane again. Another burst anxiety welled like an overflowing drain at the back of her throat, making her want to scream and howl. Before the scream came out one of the dark, heavily carved doors swung open. A liveried footman granted Clarise entrance. She bobbed into the room bearing a laden tray between her hands. "Your supper, milady." Clarice curtsied again. "And the young masters will be up to see you just as soon as we've got you ready to receive them. Now, just you come sit and eat a bit. You'll feel much better then, to be sure." Clarise's company and cheerful tone was a godsend at that moment, grounding Bella back to reality. Life

went on with certain rituals unchanged, meals and conversation. Bella sat to the table and ate the strange assortment of food. She was famished, terribly hungry. The whole grain bread had speckles of charcoal in its crust. A minute crock of butter lacked salt flavoring and had no artificial coloring added to it. It tasted sweet, like freshly churned butter that she remembered eating as a child on her parents' farm. While Bella ate, Clarise puttered around the room, gathering clothing from the various trunks and a standing wardrobe. Bella didn't care about anything except the food, which she devoured like someone who was starving without questioning what any of it was. Replete at last, Bella summoned the patience to sit while Clarise worked the snarls out of her hair with a wide tooth wooden comb. The woman coiled strands skillfully, and turned the coils into a coronet on top of Bella's head. She used carved wooden pins to hold keep the coronet in place. There was no looking glass in the chamber, which Bella thought odd. She knew that mirrored glass would be rare indeed for this time, but a polished silver handmirror ought to be part of this obviously indulged and wealthy lady's possessions. Dressing proved a much easier task than Bella had feared it would be. First, came an unbleached muslin undergown Clarise called a cotte. It had wrist length sleeves and the bodice crisscrossed over Bella's breasts and was tied by tapes sewn at the waist. That was followed by an overgown, or bliault, of heavy sendal, dyed a deep, rich green. To Bella's eye this garment was little more than a floor length vest with a deeply flaring skirt, sewn at the shoulders, but open down the sides. It was fitted very closely to her body by lacing cords through grommets. Then the strong laces were tightened until the gown hugged Bella's torso. The laces dropped from her armpit down her sides only as far as the crest of her hip where her thigh broke forward to stride. Spreading the now layered skirting with her hands, Bella was frankly surprised at how perfectly the two gowns fit and allowed her freedom to move. The neckline dropped in a deep vee, which had more than enough cleavage exposed, almost too much for her taste. An embroidered girdle fastened around her hips just low enough to emphasize the tease of the undergown when she moved. There were silken stockings, sheer dainty things, held up by garters at the knees and buttery soft leather slippers for her feet. Everything fit as if it had been tailor made for her. Last, she was offered her choice from an impressively full jewelry chest and an array of gossamer thin caps to wear on her head. She waved away the stones and ornaments and chose a cap made from sheer white linen and Flemish lace. She didn't question how she knew it was Flemish lace. It was beautiful and she wanted it. There was no makeup to worry with, but she didn't know if that was a blessing or not without a mirror. Seated at the highbacked chair before the fire, Bella turned her head at the sound of a soft knock on the door. Clarise bid the caller welcome and enter. Three stair-step boys shambled into the room. The tallest took Bella's breath away. He was so similar to the black knight anyone would know at a

glance whose son he was. His hair was black as midnight, as were his brows and beautiful lashes, but his eyes were the brown of ginger snaps. He had a tight grip on a smaller, much younger version of himself, a sturdy boy of perhaps four or five whose dark hair and smoldering blue eyes made Bella think instantly of the black knight. The last and middle rung of their stair-step ladder was a shaggy brown-haired, button-eyed child too serious and too solemn for his less than ten years. But when that child raised his chin and looked directly at her, Bella gasped. As surely as she lived and breathed she was looking at Iain's dear and precious face. "Iain," Bella whispered, half-rising from the highbacked chair before the fire. "Madame." The oldest bowed gracefully. "Votre fils sont a votre pieds." Dear God, they believe I am their mother. How long had it been since they had seen their mother? Bella sank back to the seat as she studied the oldest's solemn eyes. What if these three sons did not speak English? Her French was idiomatic at best. "In English if you please." The eldest's eyes darkened to the chocolate that Iain's had so often flashed to when he'd been crossed, then the youth nodded quickly and repeated, "We are at your service, Maman. How may we assist you?" So formal and proper. Bella let her eyes linger on the second oldest. Her fingers ached to touch him. She folded her trembling hands in her lap, shaken to her soul. "Thank you. That's very kind. I've got a feeling that you all have been very worried." She looked to the littlest one and saw a quiver in his chin. She wanted to cry, too. Instead she held out her arms to him and the little boy broke free of his elder's grip and jumped into her arms. He babbled in tearful French, and squeezed Bella's neck with an intensity she had longed for and achingly missed since the day Iain had died. For a few minutes the two older boys let the little one have his bout of tears. Both made it clear by the looks on their faces they thought his tears were the parvenu of the weak. Then the middle son, the one who could have been Iain's twin, strode forward and pulled the smallest's arms from around Bella's neck, telling him sternly, "'Tis enough, Henri. Papa said he'd get a stick to us if we made Maman sad. May I give you a hug, too, Maman?" "Of course, you may. I need one from you very much." Bella wrapped the boy with her arms and rubbed her cheek against his soft, sun-kissed curls. He had two whorls at the crown of his head identical to Iain's. Even the smell of his shaggy head was familiar to her. She had hugs for them all, but the eldest held back, full of an adolescent's reserve. "Robin found you, Maman." Little Henri settled on the floor at Bella's feet, his astonishing blue eyes solemn and serious. "Geoffrey was with him, but I could not go to rescue you. Papa said I was too small and the wind might blow me away. Were you scared in the Well of Souls?"

Out of the mouths of babes...bless him. Little Henri had given her his brother's names and identified the place where Bella must have been found. The Well of Souls. She tucked that information aside for later. "I was very scared, Henri. And I am very glad your Papa took good care of you and let nothing bad happen to you." "Tell us what happened after you escaped out the postern gate." Geoffrey's chocolate eyes were his best feature. Huge and expressive, they dominated his whole face. "Did varlets accost you because you were alone and unprotected and throw you into the pit?" "I don't remember anything about it." "You don't remember fighting with Papa and the king?" The high color in his cheeks darkened. "You threw Queen Phillipa's vase at Papa's head. It broke into pieces. Then you called your knights, and Papa and the king both yelled an oath. You told Papa you were going back to France and if the king wanted to make war, so be it. You would fight England to the death. You were very brave to go out all alone, Maman." And clearly very foolish to have put on such a show before the eyes of that innocent child. Bella worried the corner of her mouth. "Brave, Geoffrey?" She tried the sound of his name on her tongue and was satisfied with it. He was not Iain, she scolded herself. He was his own delightful, little person that she'd had the wonderful chance to touch. "I guess I just got caught in a sudden storm and lost my way." Bella knew she must answer these children as honestly as she could. She would certainly not say anything that would alarm them any further. They were anxious enough about their missing mother to think that she was that woman. What child wouldn't be anxious if their mother disappeared? "Did scoundrels and thieves capture you and take away your ermine cloak and all your jewels? Did they ravish and rape you? A peasant found Lorette grazing in his wheat field and brought her back to us. I swear, I didn't tell a soul you had got out the postern gate. You do believe me, don't you, Maman? It was all right to tell I dreamed you had fallen in the Well of Souls when Lorette came back, wasn't it? If Papa hadn't begun a search for you, you might be dead. Robin says you could have drowned in that pit. The water was knee deep when I got into it so he made me wait on top where Papa could see me." Geoffrey had questions and information galore. Bella was at sea not knowing what was the root of his parents' estrangement or how she should react now in the face of what he asked. So she settled for the oldest parent trait on the books--selective hearing. "Where did you hear words like ravish and rape?" She frowned at him. "Ravishment, c'est le beaste Diable. Gunni Dougles says that's what happens to women who travel alone and unprotected." He made an animal face, snarled and raised his hands like a bear. "Papa said the devil's beast lives down that hole and we are not to go there, ever again." "I see." Bella nodded solemnly. "Well, you set your mind to rest over that. I will be very careful when I come across this Well of Souls in the future." "I thought you didn't remember anything," Robin spoke at last and there was definitely an accusation there.

"Did I?" Bella countered in the face of his implied disapproval. "Maybe now isn't the time to discuss what I do remember. I don't have to justify my behavior to three impertinent children." The eldest blanched. Bella realized too late she'd gone farther than necessary trying to put him in his place. "Now you've done it." Geoffrey jumped to his feet and punched Robin with an amazingly direct right hand cross. Obviously, Geoffrey was his mother's champion. Robin put his hand on the younger one's head, and said one word, "Cease." Geoffrey ceased. The eldest shot a withering look at Bella as he again took charge of his brothers. "We mustn't tire you. Papa will return soon. Geoffrey, Henri, kiss Maman. You have lessons still to finish this day. Vite." The younger two popped to attention, bestowed kisses then marched to the door. They were well disciplined little soldiers. Bella didn't think she'd ever seen the like. She stood to watch them go. While the little ones' ramrod backs were turned, Robin unbent enough to bestow a dutiful kiss to her brow. To her brow, Bella realized. This handsome lad had five, six inches over her already. Surely he couldn't be more than fifteen. She searched his face carefully for signs of maturity and age. The down of peach fuzz glazed his cheeks and jawline, but more telling was the impressive width of his shoulders. "I am glad you are back and safe, Maman," he said formally. "No one has ever lived through a fall into the Well of Souls." Bella shook her head. "I don't know how I got there. Maybe you could show it to me first thing in the morning." "No." He negated that quite firmly. "'Tis forbidden to trespass there. It nearly cost your life today. Rest, Maman. You are pale and you are not yourself. You must save your strength for later. I pray, you will find a way to make peace with your husband." With that bit of patronizing advice, he departed. Husband? Not my father, but your husband. That was rich. What was she going to do about this husband? Bella smoldered as the door was firmly closed and the lock clicked. She was a prisoner of this husband. She paced the chamber anxiously. Her hand balled into a fist and smacked into the palm of her left hand. What was she going to do? What if these children's mother was the woman she had met in her nightmare? The woman who had looked so much like her it made the hair on the back of her neck rise right now just because she was thinking of her? A woman who had deliberately slit her own wrists? Could that be true? Bella feared it was. But why had she done that? Who had driven her to committing such a horrible deed? Sir John? Who else could have done? Had she also been locked up in this very same room? Did women of this backward century have so few rights that they could be imprisoned in their own home? She was beginning to feel great empathy for poor Lady Isabel. But the bigger question was, was she ready to accept that time had somehow warped, and instead of going forward, had snatched her backward centuries? Bella looked through the smoky drift of four burning candles as she stared at the shield above the mantle. If the man she'd had the spectacular encounter with this afternoon was coming back soon, she thought it was definitely time to start praying. No, she thought. It was time to start documenting.

To put down in writing every fact she could remember and discover. How or when that might help her, Bella had no idea. But somewhere the truth existed and in uncovering that, she might just learn the secret of how she got here. Then, she could return to her own time...where she belonged.

THE LORD'S DILEMMA

-5-

The rain continued to pound on the roof of the hall, and large puddles formed below the steps. John de Chandos leaned against the doorjamb, staring out at the dark and dismal night. It was late, well past vespers. He'd been to confession, for all the good it might have done his soul. The quiet hour had come and as he could not sleep, he paced the great hall listening to the sounds of a stormy night. Chandos was deeply troubled. For three days he'd scoured the land between Bramber and the coast, searching the gullies and crevices for his missing wife, certain that she had long since fled England. He'd ordered the search to appease his sons. The minute Bella had turned up missing, Sir John had believed she had fled to her father in Calais. When her horse had been found wandering in a wheat field adjacent to Cissbury Ring, her sons had raised an alarm. Robin had reasoned their mother would have gone straight to Winchelsea where grandfather Saint Pierre attended market regularly. Geoffrey argued his Maman would never have left her Arabian mare in England. It went without saying that Isabella cared more for her palfrey than her sons. Since he knew his sons reasoning was true, John had ordered the search. Until the moment he'd looked down into that blasphemous pit, Chandos had not dreamed his wife would be found in England. What he'd felt then and moments later when he discovered the scandalous manner of her dress was righteous anger, blind rage and indignant fury. He had ordered Robin out of the pit so that he alone would be there to strip away the gold and jewels some unnamed lover had gifted upon her. Her bare arms and legs had been an affront to his morality he'd not ever believed possible in a Christian country. In those moments when he was alone in that pit with her, removing her heathen garments from her body, had he allowed even the slightest fragment of his temper lose from his iron-willed control, he would have crushed his wife's slender throat between his own bare hands. Had she dared to defy him at the well, that single thread holding his temper at bay would have snapped. That was the reason he'd sought confession this eve. For twice this same day, he had envisioned his hands circling her throat. In the scriptures that he tried to live his life by, St. Matthew had written "he who so much as looks with lust at a woman has already committed adultery with her in his heart." John acknowledged that he had contemplated the mortal sin of murder, but it shamed him to envision such a

cowardly means out of his troubles. When the bloodlust had raged the strongest in his veins, his wife had submitted to the dousing of four buckets of well water. Shivering, cold and humbled, she had said not one word against him. Not until he had wrapped her in the rough blanket had she lifted her eyes to his. Those beautiful orbs had been so full of fear, hurt and confusion, that they had cut him to the bone. Dear God, he prayed, I once loved this woman. Her beauty continued to stir his deepest lust. It astounded him that she had the power to wound him after all these years. When she had leaned against his naked chest in her tub, he had burned to possess her with a desire more consuming than any he had felt since becoming a man. The war of his own emotions regarding his wife was a hard and bitter cross for a man such as he to bear. Few souls remained in the hall, dicing and drinking. Sir James and loyal old Neville, Chandos himself, and Owain, the Welsh bard. A motley crew at best. Abruptly, Chandos spun in the doorway and strode across the hall. At the high board Chandos reached for his horn. Owain picked up his harp and inquired pleasantly, "A song, my lord, to while away the time?" "Nay." John dismissed the bard with a wave of his hand. Neville stood as the bard did, excusing himself to post his watch. The old French knight and the Welsh bard departed together, leaving Chandos alone with James Graham. Sir John dropped to a vacant seat, reached for the pitcher of ale and filled his empty horn. Graham refused more ale, asking, "Do you wish to be alone?" "Nay." Chandos shook his head. "God must have some purpose in mind by giving me this cross to bear though I cannot fathom it." "You speak of Isabel?" Graham pushed his tankard broodingly back and forth across a puddle on the table. "Aye." James cleared his throat. "I thought her dead. I mean, when I looked in that pit, she seemed to have no life left inside her. I did not realize she was alive until I saw her standing before you at the well." "You think it would be better if she had died?" John de Chandos asked grimly. "Oh, aye, I suppose I thought that. She's managed to make life a hell on earth for most of us here," Graham said without charity. "The little respect I do grant Isabel is beholden to my friendship to you, Chandos." "She is still my wife." "Oh, aye, and she is a danger to your sons. What kind of woman vows to slay her own child?" James Graham lifted his large Nordic head and met Chandos' dark gaze head on. "Only a mad one, my friend."

"Aye." Chandos nodded. "And therein God asks us to forgive madness and treat those so afflicted with pity and kindness." He tossed his ale down his throat and cast the empty horn onto the trestle. "Sleep well, my friend." Chandos stood, tall, straight and powerful as if by force of his will he could remove from his frame the strain that threatened to cripple him. Graham rose to his own feet. He tasted the bitterness permeating this house and felt his friend's hurt so deeply, that his hands clenched impotently at his sides. What could any man do when saddled by a mad wife? Nothing. Nothing at all.

THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR

-6-

The door burst open suddenly. Bella jumped to her feet with the quill in hand, swallowing a jolt of fear only to feel absolutely foolish when only the cat sauntered in. Too relieved for words, she sank back onto the seat and realized she'd splattered ink all over the floor. Horrified that the beautiful oak planks would be stained, Bella looked about for something to clean with and couldn't think of what to use. There wasn't any tissue or paper toweling or handy bottle of 409 to spray at the blotches. She had no idea where any rags were kept. All she could think to use was a piece of parchment. She knelt and scrubbed at the splatters with a leaf of vellum. The ink had a strong viscosity, the parchment, an absorbancy factor in the minus fifty range. The stain only smeared. Resourcefully, she thought of using the inside hem of her dark overdress to remove the ink from the floor before the stain set. As she concentrated on that task, her nose twitched, catching the scent of something different--woodsy and potent. She lifted her head to look at the door, then nearly jumped out of her skin. Sir John stood in the wide open doorway. "What are you doing, Bella?" he demanded. "Cleaning ink that I spilled," Bella offered lamely, feeling the fool to be caught on her knees, scrubbing up a mess in so shameful a manner as to use the inside hem of a dress she had been given to wear. Someone else's dress at that. Lord Chandos' dark head cocked to one side as if puzzled. "Why didn't you call for a servant?"

"Ah, the door was locked." Bella staggered awkwardly to her feet, embarrassed. "Nay, 'twas not locked." "Yes, it was so," Bella insisted. "There's some guy out there opening the door every time somebody wants in." "They are footmen, that's their job, to open doors. Did I order a lock put on the door, no one would come in and you certainly would not go out." Now, it was Bella's turn to cock her head to one side in puzzlement over Sir John's reply. She approached him with some caution, saying, "But I definitely heard a lock click." "Clique?" he echoed. "What do your friends have to do with the door being locked or not?" "No, the sound, click, like..." Bella made the sound with her tongue imitating the sound of a lock closing. He gave her a strange look, as though she babbled nonsense. Bella stepped past him and peered out the door. The two footmen stood there as blank-faced as store mannequins. While she had head and shoulders out the door, she took a second look at the well-lighted solar. It was as sparsely furnished as the king's bedchamber. Stepping back, she focused all of her attention on the tall knight. Again, she found him strikingly handsome in a troubling way with strongly contrasted features, black hair and blue eyes that a woman like her could melt under the intensity of. He was much too tall, muscular and powerful to suit her. He certainly had not shrunk any since their last encounter. If anything, in the gloom of the king's bedroom, he looked more sinister than he had when she'd opened her eyes in his arms that morning. It certainly didn't help her opinion of him that he came armed with both a broadsword and dirk strapped to his hips to visit her. The dark mustache snaking around his mouth reaffirmed her first impression of him as a dangerous man. That thought was compounded by the fact that she knew only clean-shaven men--in the Twentieth Century. It was clearly up to her to elicit from him any sort of good will that he might be willing to extend to her. "All right, I was wrong. The door wasn't locked. Don't those men have something else to do? Don't they have wives who would like to have them home for the night? I think I'm capable of answering the door myself." "Then dismiss them," he said curtly. "They are your servants." "They are?" Bella blinked. She stuck her head back out the door and waved her hands as if the men were pigeons she could shoo away. "You can go now. Good night." Sir John poked his head out past her and said the magic words in French. Both men bowed from the waist to him, then obeyed the command. As best she could without violating body space, Bella shooed Sir John out of her way and pulled the one

door of the two that was open, closed. A hasp under the handle clanked. She found a tongue cleverly hidden by the cleft-shaped handle. The hasp raised easily. Feeling chagrinned, Bella offered Sir John a slight smile of apology. Okay, she'd made a misjudgment. She could admit when she was wrong. That didn't mean she was going to trust him. Bella left the door open partway. She wanted an avenue of escape open as she confronted the man she believed responsible for driving his wife to commit suicide. "I suppose there's a reason for your visit. What do you want?" That question brought another peculiar look to his face. He moved across the chamber with panther-like grace, so soundlessly that she looked to his feet to discern what kind of footwear he wore. It was a soft boot, unfamiliar to her. Again, he was dressed in somber black, closely fitted hose on his long, muscular legs and a cotte hardie--a simple long-sleeved tunic--draping to the middle of his thighs. Only two points of his appearance were relieved of any color other than austere black; a blue garter tied just above his left knee and the gilt-handled sword buckled at his left side. He extended his hand to the heavy chair Bella had sat in while meeting the children and twisted it away from the hearth. Before he sat, he unbuckled his sword belt and laid both belt and sword on the gleaming floor. He gestured toward the harp stool which was the only other seating device in this room besides the dainty chair at the escritoire. "Sit down, Bella. 'Tis time you and I discussed the events of this past week." So he wanted to talk, did he? Bella lifted one brow as well as her chin. Maybe talking was a good idea. She moved to the stool and sat on its tufted cushion seat, dropped her hands over one another to hide the smears of ink, and waited for him to be seated and begin. "You look very beautiful." "I don't look different?" Bella was not fishing for compliments. She certainly did not want to mislead him into thinking she would appreciate any from him. "Now that I've had a bath, do you still think I am your wife?" "'Twas never in any doubt, bath or otherwise." Her shoulders slumped. She had hoped, that now that she was relieved of the scum and filth her journey through time, he would not mistake her for his Lady Bella. She shivered, thinking of that other woman with her same features, but not the same imperfections. Surely, he was more astute than the servant or his three sons. Bella recalled an incident that happened when Iain was a toddler. One of her mother's sisters returned home for a visit. Aunt Beatrix, like Bella, had married a city man. They lived in Houston, far from the tightly knit Alsatian community in Castroville. It was Iain's first time to meet Aunt Beatrix. She and Bella's mother were sitting side by side on the porch swing. Iain came bounding up the steps from the car, shouting, "Grammy, Grammy," with the energetic relish that only a child can give that call. Then he came to a full stop, looking at the two grammies, staring from face to face. He could not tell his grandmother and her older sister apart. Enjoying this small game, the sisters were quiet as knickknacks on a whatnot shelf while Iain clambered

onto the swing, stepping all over them, taking off glasses and touching their weathered, careworn, yet so, so similar faces. For all that the two sisters had lived separate lives, one on a farm all her life, the other in a city with more luxuries and comforts, they were very much alike. Iain finally clasped one face between his pudgy paws and said, "You're not my Gramma, she is!" Bella's mother laughed and told him, "Oh, yes, I am your Gramma. She's your Auntie Bea." Then Iain laughed and laughed, because when he heard his Great-aunt speak, he vowed he'd never have been fooled for a minute. "Faces and wrinkles could be the same," he said with a wiseness beyond his years, "but you can't fool ears." So Bella looked at this stranger in the high-backed chair opposite her and wished in her heart of hearts that he didn't believe only the proof of his eyes. If he allowed himself to think that she was his wife, then he must have a very powerful motive for believing that Isabel de Chandos was still alive. She felt pity for him. She knew his Bella was dead, though proving that escaped her. It went beyond a mere feeling. In the Well of Souls, she and Isabel Chandos had passed one another--an exchange of sorts. Dying was the last thing Bella wanted. But Sir John's wife had sought the end of her life. Such things, Bella felt were inexplicable, as unexplainable as women's intuition. It existed, but she couldn't prove it. So Bella tried to look at Sir John beyond the surface. A bath had also worked wonders on him. His thick head of dark hair was brushed back from his striking, square-jawed face, falling in handsome waves to his shoulders. The heavy stubble of the afternoon was gone, his cheeks and jaw were clean shaven. Shed of his terrifying armor he didn't look nearly so sinister, but his aura of authority did not make him approachable. "Where have you been for the last six days, Bella?" Now, that was question Bella most wanted to answer. She laced her fingers together, looked him squarely in the eye and said, "Six days ago, Sir John Chandos, I was in San Antonio, Texas, in the United States of America. That is a country a very long way from England. My name is Sarah Isabel Saint Pierre Wynford. I am thirty years old. I was born on Valentine's Day, in the year 1965. That's February 14, nineteen hundred and sixty five. "I regret having to tell you this, but you are not my husband. My real husband and I were on vacation, visiting England. This morning, I stumbled into a time warp that must have something to do with this Well of Souls where you found me, unconscious. I am not your wife, Isabella. I don't where your wife is. I don't know how I got here. But, I would certainly like to know how to get back where I belong." Bella waited for his reaction to all of that. The black knight sat so completely motionless, he might have been a Rodin sculpture cast in bronze. The light from the fireplace flickered across his tanned face and the folds of velvet on his right arm, deepening the shadows and gilding the highlights but he, himself, did not move. Then one corner of his mouth twitched under the drape of his black mustache. The hard line of his mouth twisted into a most enchanting grin then split into a glorious smile that showed each and every one of his perfectly aligned white teeth.

Then he laughed. It was a deep, resonant laugh, a bolt-out-of-the-blue mirthful laugh launched directly from the pit of his belly. Bella had anticipated some unusual reaction, but not laughter! His head tipped against the high back of the chair and he gripped his belly with one broad fingered hand. His laughter went on and on while red, hot fury quickened inside Bella like summer lightning. "It's not funny!" she declared as she jumped to her feet. Her hands clenched into impotent fists at her sides. "It's not funny, damn you! Stop laughing at me. I'm serious. I won't be born until six hundred years in your future." Engrossed in the horror of her predicament, she saw nothing amusing in it. Her outrage only induced him to laugh all that much harder. Tears squeezed out his eyes. He brought both hands to his face, wiping at the moisture, still laughing, trying to gasp out something. That was just too much! Bella gave in to the temptation to pound her fists against his stupid, thick skull. But the moment she launched her indignant attack, he came to his senses. Her small fists hadn't even connected when his quick hands captured both of her wrists. "This isn't a joke, damn you. I'm serious!" "You're mad as a March hare, woman." "Damn right I am. I'm so angry I could bite nails in two. Stop laughing at me!" His dark face sobered at the same instant that she realized what she'd done. Come within touching distance of him. Something strange and very overpowering had happened when he'd touched her earlier. She had come close to surrendering everything to him when he'd caressed her breasts while the heated water of the bath swirled around her half-frozen body. It happened again when he yanked her down on his lap, pinned her arms to her sides and covered her mouth with his. The moment his lips touched hers, all hope of salvaging her pride in a show of force, ended. She yielded to his punishing kiss, allowing and accepting his physical dominance. Self-preservation decreed she had no other choice. What force could a woman of a hundred and six pounds enjoy over a man of at least two hundred? None, whatsoever. Of that, she was certain. As far as kisses went, this one was expertly delivered and electrically charged. He knew exactly the right moment to soften his hard lips, when to let passion increase his pressure and how to daringly slide his tongue inside her mouth and torment and tease her past the brink of sanity. Bella had always been a sucker for a great kisser. She knew that, but he couldn't possibly know that about her. At some point, Bella ceased her useless struggling and met him on the same battle ground, taking stroke

for stroke, taste for taste, tremor for tremor. But that didn't make her his wife! When he finally lifted his head, a smug, arrogant smile graced his lips. "What was that you were saying about not being my wife?" "Oh!" Bella exclaimed indignantly. She took advantage of his unguarded moment to jump off his lap and out of his reach. "That's hitting below the belt, you smuck!" Her pride was stung. Words hadn't convinced him she was not his blasted wife. That kiss hadn't proved that she was, either! She would convince him, somehow! Though the how eluded her. Sir John wiped away laughter's tears and sought his wits. Bella considered their discussion ended, turned away from him and stomped to the escritoire. She sat, took a clean parchment from the drawer, snatched up the quill, unstopped the ink and began to write, determined to put all these strange things down, to make a record of what was and had happened to her. The cat climbed up on her lap. She pushed it down and went on writing. "What do you there?" Sir John asked after the room had gone so quiet only the splatter of the rain on the roof and the scrap of the stupid quill could be heard. "I'm making a list," Bella answered crisply. Actually she was making a mess. He had her so rattled by that passionate kiss that the ink blotched with each cross stroke of the quill. "A list? Ink and parchment does not speak. Nor can you hear what is written upon it." Bella looked up from her writing to glare at him. A moment passed before she caught the meaning he gave to list. "No," she said, drawing on a dwindling reserve of patience to condesend to explain herself. "Where's a Webster's Colliegiate when you need one? Where I come from, Sir John, list means to enumerate. Words do change over time, sir. Among its other meanings is one that pertains to knights in a tournament jousting in the lists. I'm sure you know the sport I mean, one where lances are leveled at an opponent and you and he charge at one another in the effort to unseat the weakest man." By the time Bella finished her long explanation, Chandos came to stand beside the escritoire. His face looked very much like it had the first time she'd seen it, hard and uncompromising. He picked up a sheaf of parchment she had filled with words earlier and studied it. The corners of his mouth twisted down as he said, "This is not Latin." "No, it isn't. Latin is a dead language. In my time no one uses it any more. I write the words in phonetic symbols of the way they sound as I speak. In other words, spoken English has become written English." "This is gibberish, Bella," he said harshly. "You know you cannot read or write." Well, there was proof of who she was right out of his own mouth. "Your Bella can not read or write, sir. I can." For a long, tense moment he stared at her with a face as solemn as a new appointee to the Supreme

Court. "Then what does it say?" He put the spotted, blotchy parchment before her, laid his right hand flat on the tabletop and let his left grip the back of her chair. "You don't read?" Bella asked, acutely aware of that unusual scent that had first alerted her that someone had come in the room. The strong flavor of the outdoors, moist earth and pine emanated from him, his clothes or maybe his skin, she couldn't be certain which. The scent teased her nose with the persistence of a tickling feather, commanding that she find the source. "Read," he repeated with soft menace. "Fine." She picked up her parchments, shuffled them into correct order, lifted her chin and read. "June 12, 1995. We have been in England a full week. Last Saturday was spent with the queue of tourists and natives congregated outside Buckingham Palace to celebrate Queen Elizabeth's official birthday. Ari and I spent the whole day caught up in the splendid pageantry of the Trooping of the Colors. "Prior to that we had spent three days in England at the International Automobile Show which I found boring beyond belief. I didn't have any choice. The Automobile Show was the only reason Ari agreed to this trip. "Bright and early this morning we rented a car in London. We had breakfast at the Clairidge Hotel before striking out for a day devoted to casual sightseeing on the way to Brighton. Our first stop was at Lewes to visit a Cluniac Priory that has been a ruin since the late 13th century. Also at Lewes is a major battlefield of the Barons War. Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Leicester, captured King Henry the III in this battle. "Ari and I toured the Anne of Cleves Museum then went to the battlefield. "The A275 cuts the battlefield in half. Prince Edward's position is across a road from the rest of the field, though it is still possible to form a general picture of how the battle was lined up originally. The train from London to Brighton distracted me and I remembered about the pit of bones disturbed in 1846 by the construction of the railroad. Ari wanted me to hurry, because he was hungry. We read the placards at the king's position then went over to where Richard of Cornwall flanked the king." Bella stopped reading in the middle of the third page. "That's as far as I have gotten." She laid the parchments down and looked up at Sir John to judge his reaction. He had removed both his hands to his sides and stood looking down at her with a very forbidding expression on his face. "What's wrong?" Bella asked. "It is treason to speak of Simon de Montfort and you know that." "Really?" Bella leaned slightly away from him. "I shouldn't wonder why. He could have made himself king, I suppose, but he didn't. And in the end, he paid for his rebellion with his life. Edward the first slaughtered de Montfort and the rest of the Barons including Monfort's eldest son, Henry--at Evesham two years after Lewes. I think Simon was a very brave and noble man. "By the way, Montfort is greatly respected in my time. Modern Englishmen view him as a heroic noble who helped establish Parliament's right to guide the monarchy. The England I was visiting is a far different England from what you would know."

Sir John folded his hands behind his back and began to pace the chamber. At the fireplace he stopped and turned around looking at Bella as though she might have suddenly turned as green as the two children of Wulpert reported to King Steven in the year, 1150 A.D. "Bella, why did you leave this house last week?" "I have no idea why your Bella left you." She wasn't certain if the grimness about his eyes and mouth was caused by the shadowy chamber or because he could not fathom what she said. It was clear he was upset. He sighed very, very deeply, turned on his heel and stared at the crackling hearthfire. "I will ask a priest to come and exorcize you." That brought her to her feet. "I'm not possessed of devils, if that's what you think." Sir John spun on his heels. His eyes fairly scorched at her with brindled anger. "Then what, pray God tell me, can be causing you to speak like this? You are my wife-- joined to my hand by the Bishop of Canterbury, sixteen years now. Do you think I would not know you after all these years?" Bella retreated two steps in the face of his temper and certainty. "No, of course, you would know your wife. I must look very much like her but I am telling you the truth. I'm not your wife. I don't know you." That seemed to insult him more than anything she had said so far. "You speak as if we are strangers to one another yet nothing about you has changed. Your eyes are the same ginger I have written songs to adore. Your skin the cream of winter dusted with cinnamon freckles. I have kissed you and lain with you and loved you, Bella. Why? Why? Why must you torture me so?"

LORD AND MASTER

-7-

She was touched by the anguish in Sir John's face. A pain and hurt that ran so deep it echoed back at Bella with paralyzing effect. Dear God, the man deeply and sincerely loved his wife. That truth served to make Bella achingly aware of her own pain and confusion. To be caught up in his torment only made this whole farcical situation more tragic than anything she had ever felt in her life. The last thing Bella wanted to offer this sincere and earnest man was mockery in the face of his great admission. Her nature had always been to comfort and soothe others in great pain. John de Chandos slowly approached Bella as she stood immobile beside the writing desk. The candles flickered slightly in the draft caused by his small movement, tossing brighter light across his striking features. He reached up with both hands to grasp and hold her head. Strong, broad-knuckled fingers removed

her linen cap. He cast it to the parchments scattered on the desk, then slid his fingers into the coils of her hair. "Do you tell me this is not the same brow that I have kissed a hundred times?" He bent his head and warm lips touched the smoothed back point of her widow's peak. "Or that this hair of red and gold does not belong to my wife?" The crude pins that held the coils in place loosened and Bella's hair tumbled over his hands and spilled onto her shoulders. He gripped her head even tighter, tilting her face upward. His fathomless blue eyes now smoldered with passion as they searched her every feature. Where eyes went, lips followed until he'd kissed her eyes, nose, cheeks, chin and mouth. Against her lips he said, "How could I forget my wife's face or mistake it for another?" Tears welled in Bella's eyes. "I would like to think I wouldn't be so easily forgotten or mistaken for another." "Then how can this tale you weave be true?" His eyes bore into hers. His words full of reason and surety. "'Tis a fable, Bella. A dream, a faery tale." "No, it isn't." She shook her head, insisting that what she'd told him was the truth. "I'm from another century. You've got to believe me." His fingers tightened on her skull and she felt a small tremor as he shook her ever so gently. "Nay. 'Tis naught but a sweetly told lie to save your hide from the beating you surely deserve." "No," Bella denied that. "Bella!" he said her name sharply. "I would be of the mind to forgive you. I would, did you but repent your lies. I pray you, desist now. Cease this useless prattle. Be as you were. I will forgive all the past tempests to have your mind whole and unbroken, will you but put this madness of yours aside." "Oh, my god," Bella gasped. "You can't think I'm crazy." His mouth tightened. "Do not babble incoherently. You have shown me this night that your mind retains its logic and reason." Bella pleaded with him. "I haven't lost my mind. I know who I am and where I belong." "You belong here." He pulled her to his body, arms folding across her back as his mouth descended over hers. His lips scored and seared, his tongue intruded deep within her, erasing thought and will, replacing her reality with his passion. Heaven help me, Bella prayed. With that deep, soul-binding kiss reason evaporated from her mind. Chandos' kiss went on and on, hard-soft lips sealing and affirming a bond between them that expanded all of her previously held conceptions of time. This was the man whose kiss she had desired in her most secret fantasies, whose touch, she had always been denied. In John de Chandos' arms, Bella's past ceased to exist. Only the present moment in his embrace

mattered. That one certainty that had always been lacking in her life suddenly was revealed by the touch of his mouth to hers. His was no stranger's kiss. It was the kiss of the longed-for man of her dreams and restored to her the sole truth that there was magic in just a kiss--peace and love and desire so deep--it ran like quicksilver through her veins. He could have kissed her like that for hours. Maybe he did, because her will melted against his heat--like wax against the flame consuming the wick of a candle. She found the source of his scent, a tonic splashed against the smoothly shaven cheeks of his face and the scraped skin beneath his jaw and throat. His lips skittered down her throat, sucking, tasting and nipping tender skin. His tongue dipped into the crevice between her breasts. The lacing holding the bliault so tightly against her torso loosened beneath his hand. He lifted the heavy garment over her head, cast it across the lyre stool, and tugged at the tapes holding the sheer cotte closed at her side. It spilled open, freeing straining breasts, leaving cloth covering nothing but back and arms. His fingers tightened on her waist, holding her fast against him as he dropped to one knee and put his mouth to the deep and heavy curve under her breast. Bella gripped his shoulders, fingers taut and anxious--kneading the musculature beneath them. "My lady." He tilted his head and looked up at her flushed face with wondrous love in his eyes. "Would your husband forget the birthmark that runs like a sickle beneath these wondrous breasts that suckled each of his sons? Or the way your navel dips and curls inside you? Or this triangle of fire that points as surely as an arrow where he has joined with you time after time?" Bella mouthed no words to gainsay him. It simply wasn't possible to think or say them to a man who knelt like a supplicant before her. Her nipples ruched and pointed hard. She wanted his mouth on them. He didn't give her what she so wanted, but the moist trail of his tongue encircling each aureole instead made her ache all that much more for his continued touch. Her nipples hardened more and the wanting went deeper and deeper, then burst like fraying firecrackers exploding in her very core. Her anxious fingers tugged on a jeweled button at his shoulder and clumsily twisted it free of a cloth loop. His cotte hardie fell as open as had her own garment. She fell to her knees, pressing sensitive and straining breasts against the warm, welcoming comfort of his chest. She knew she wanted this--wanted him deep inside her. Somehow, she seemed to have done exactly this, time after time, in another lifetime, a thousand times before, exactly as he said, but never with more hunger or more need than she did so this very moment. As he lowered her to the priceless eastern carpet, Bella's passion turned into the rawest, most urgent need and desire she'd ever felt. He jerked at his hose, freeing his swollen shaft. Bella reached for him, grasping his rod with hungry hands, sighing at the thickness of him, the heat and hardness. He parted her legs, brought his hand slowly and torturously to her center. He touched her nub and a floodgate opened. He thrust a finger deep inside her, and she screamed with pure pleasure of his touch. His head hovered above hers, face dark and red with strain. She knew from the turbulent bucking of his

rod, he held back at great cost. "Bella," he called her name as he cupped her in his hand. "Would I not know the feel, the taste, the smell of this?" The question did not bear answering. She couldn't anyway. Nor did it make any difference to him what answer she would have given him. He bent his head and his lips opened over one breast. She revelled in the feel of his teeth and tongue drawing her nipple deep inside his mouth at last. His finger touched her womb and withdrew then plunged again, two fingers filling that hot crevice. It wasn't enough. She whimpered, needing more and put her thumb to the head of his shaft, caressing it with the gentlest of touches. A drop of moisture dampened the pad of her thumb. He jerked and gasped, releasing her breast from the depth of his mouth. Then he moved over her, positioning himself, grasping both her knees and lifting them. Her hips left the floor as he raised her and plunged deep, deep, deep inside, seated to the hilt. Fused, welded by the oldest, purest juncture known to man and woman, they began the slow, tortuous ascent to the height of passion that crested with a near volcanic orgasm for each of them. Never in her entire life had Bella ever tasted such splendid union or come to such a shattering end. Afterwards, spent and caught up in le petite morte, the little death, they lay side by side, fingers twined and shoulders touching. Bella sensed she sprawled on a sultan's carpet, in a pillow of her own hair, with knees bent and thrusting like twin peaks suffering earthquakes. Tremors racked the muscles of her inner thighs. There was more than just flesh that was shaken inside of her. Though she had been a married woman now for almost half of this lifetime, the moments when she'd eclipsed the highest peaks of passion had been rare and few. It was a sad commentary on the state of her marriage in that other life. This made dying and being somehow reborn again in another time and place a reward, the greatest gift she had ever been given. Bella closed her eyes and wondered how this could have happened to her? Her life had been so simple and ordinary. She had no claim to any gift or special skill that set her apart from any woman of her time. In truth, the only rarity she could possibly claim came from the fact that in her suburban neighborhood, she was a woman who didn't go off to work. If anyone was a more unlikely subject to have her whole world turn upside down, it was Bella Wynford. Sir John recovered enough to twist onto his side. He propped his head upon a stand made of his elbow and his hand and toyed with her tangled hair. "What are you thinking, Bella?" "About car keys and plane tickets and the insane absurdity of what would happen if your wife came back and found us here like this." "What are khar...keys?"

"Cars...are carriages on wheels with motors in them. Keys lock and unlock them. A car is a vehicle that move without horses, or animals to pull them. Everybody has cars in the future. They make a lot of noise, dirty the air with their exhaust and make it possible for people to travel great distances in a little time. To start them you have to have a key. I had the car keys in my purse when all hell broke lose. Ari's stuck in Lewes." "And this plain ticket? What is that?" "Oh, well, that's harder to explain. Planes fly like through the sky, like the birds sort of, so people can go from country to country in a few hours time. But it's hard to explain how exactly that is done." "Who is king?" "We don't have a king. In America, everyone is equal. There are no nobles, no kings and no lords." "In your list, you said there was a queen." "Ah, yes. England has a queen. Her name is Elizabeth and she is very regal, very much loved, but she is queen only in name. She does not have the power of pit and gallows that monarchs do in this century." His fingers stroked across her temple, drawing through the waves of hair till he clutched a handful of it on the carpet beside her head. "You dream these things because you fell inside the Well of Souls. How long were you inside it, Bella?" She stared at the high, high ceiling, tracing the line of the bressummer that supported the trusses of the cupola. "I don't know. I would swear it was just a moment's time from when I blacked out and when I woke up in your arms. But it seems I was there six-hundred-fifty years." "I promise you, no one will fall in that pit again. It will be filled tomorrow." Bella rotated her head and looked straight at him, saying, "But if you do that, I won't be able to go back." Sir John sighed. He adjusted his breeks, then moved to his knees and reached into the woodbox for a log to feed the fire. Barehanded, he rocked the split of cordwood back and forth until it was well seated over freshly-broken coals. He drew back his hand, dusted it on his knee then looked levelly at her. "No, you won't be able to go back. You will stay here. With our sons. With me. And you will not defy me or my king any more." "Defy your king? How could I have defied your king? I don't even know him," Bella said, completely baffled. Chandos balanced on one knee and rested his forearm across the other. He methodically laced his fingers together as a dark frown creased his brow above the haughty aquiline flare of his nose. His eyes seemed to be a fathomless drill, boring into Bella's mind. "Bella, enough nonsense. Do you continue with this, I shall have no choice except to brand you as a demented madwoman. Is that what you want? To be chained and locked away? Cast in some forgotten tower and hidden out of sight forever?" "You can't do that to me," Bella gulped, frightened by the very thought of being labeled a madwoman in his day and time. "I'm not insane. I'm telling you, I've been through some extraordinary experience. I

know I'm not explaining it well, but, John, please believe me, I'm as sane as you are." "Then stop this. Now," he demanded. Bella sat up. Her hair fell over her shoulders, curtaining her nakedness. "Look, I know this is difficult for you. I mean, here you are a proud man, how old are you? Thirty-one, thirty-two? And this is your world. You've got horses to travel with and a king to serve and three very wonderful sons. But have you given the slightest thought to what I'm going through? "I mean, can you just for one second suspend your reality and imagine that I actually might be from some other place in time?" "No, Bella." "No what? No, you have no imagination? No, you can't suspend judgment for even one hypothetical question or thought? It could happen. It did happen. I'm living proof of it." His brow knotted. "What does being second have to do with this? Or first, or third for that matter? You're talking pure nonsense." Exasperated, Bella's hands dropped to her sides, useless, incapable of making any gestures that might assist in explaining all of what she was talking about. Minutes and seconds did not exist in a world where time was measured solely by the slow movement of the sun. She stared about the darkened room as if she could find something in the shadows that would help. "Okay. Wait. A little while ago you asked me to stop telling fairy tales." "But you haven't stopped. You are still pretending to be someone else, Bella. I grow weary of this game. It serves no purpose. You grievously insulted King Edward. You disobeyed me in the most malicious way. You threatened my sons and you caused yourself serious injury. You can't put the blame for your sins on someone else. And I shall not tolerate this again, Isabella." "Sir John!" Bella said sharply. "That wasn't me! I'm not that woman! I haven't disobeyed you, defied you or done anything sinfully malicious to myself or to your sons. I couldn't. I'm not that kind of person." "Wife, do you realize how grievously you press me to beat you?" He raised his voice in a thunderous shout, revealling how serious he considered his real wife's blatant transgressions. "In sixteen years I can not think of another instance when a sound beating would do more good than right. You are willfully spoiled and more stubborn this moment than you were the day I married you." "You beat your wife?" Bella asked incredulously. "No. Perhaps that is the trouble now. I should have. You would not be living in an ivory tower of dreams, talking endlessly to fairies and trolls if I had brought you down to earth a long time ago." It was at that moment that Bella came to the most appalling conclusion of all. "You don't believe a word I've told you." "Nay, Bella. Who could?" He got to his feet then--an angry, sorely pressed man of his time. He reached down, caught Bella's hand

and pulled her upright. Bella glared at his shoes, the soft leather that she now recognized as some kind of suede. Damnit all, here she was, naked again before him, and he had boots and britches on. She felt as achingly vulnerable as she had felt beside the well this afternoon. He caught her shoulder and spun her around. "Get you to bed." The gruff command was followed by the solid impact of his palm against her butt. Bella spun back to face him. "I thought you said you didn't beat your wife." He put his fists against his hips and glared down at her. For a very long moment they both remained rigidly frozen, each glaring at the other in a true display of the battle of wills evolving out of this arguement. "There is always a first time. Do you press me." He offered that chilly warning as proof that Bella should back down from her challenge while she still had the chance. "No." Bella wasn't giving any warnings. She made a fist and punched it straight into his chin, catching him completely unawares. The blow snapped his jaw shut and rocked his head back. And it felt damn good from where Bella stood, as good to imagine as it was to deliver. "Don't you ever slap my butt again, Buddy-boy. I won't stand for it," she declared. "So be it," Sir John rejoined ominously. "Stand you shall. A good sennight at least." "Oh, yeah? Are you threatening me?" Had she been thinking properly, Bella would never have pushed the confrontation to a higher level. But she hadn't had a proper thought since ten am that morning. "Nay, lady, 'tis no threat I say. 'Tis a promise." "Oh, yeah?" Bella snatched her undergown off the floor and yanked it onto her shoulders, seething with so much fury her fingers fumbled with the ties at her waist. "You want me to tell you now that I've taken four years of Karate and I've earned a brown belt?" Sir John bent to gather his own belongings off the floor, making Bella realized the stupidity of her words and the futility of starting a fight with a warrior! With her back to him, Bella counted to ten then took a deep breath to calm down. "Look, I'm sor..." Bella began an apology as she turned around, then her words died in her throat. It wasn't his shirt he'd retrieved, it was his sword and belt. As he straightened, his hands were separating leather from steel. "Hot damn," Bella gulped. The man had reached for his weapon--to do what? Kill her? She bolted, thanking the providence that had cautioned her to leave that door partially open earlier. Halfway across the next room, she began praying she could find her way out of his mausoleum. Thinking she was heading for the stairs, Bella ran through an archway on the opposite side of the lounge. It was a dead end hallway, exiting into bedrooms. Behind the last closed door, a small oil lamp

suspended from a beam on the ceiling provided minimal light, but enough that she could make out the cherubic faces of Sir John's youngest sons asleep in their bed. Their innocent faces brought to mind her earlier thought that these children had been put through enough. Hadn't she vowed not to add to their distress? Carefully, without waking either boy, Bella backed out of the room and shut the door. "God damnit all," she swore in defeat. So much for screaming for help. She turned toward the arch, knowing that Chandos had her only possible exit blocked. Bella leaned on the closed door, folded her arms tightly across her chest, and stared at him. "Your move, Monseigneur," she said with heavy sarcasm. "Nay, 'tis you who will move. Come to me, Bella." "So you can chop my head off? I'm not stupid, mister. Come and get me." Bella thrust out her chin in defiance. She needed his advancing momentum to effect any kind of disabling toss. Otherwise, with his size, weight and strength against her, she was a goner. She might be a goner anyway. Her skill at self-defense had never been seriously tested or challenged. He chose not to extend his hand to her as he'd done this morning at the well. Nor did his waste his breath on soft, coaxing words seeking to convince her to his purpose. His eyes never left hers as he wound his supple leather belt around his right hand. Sweet Jesus, Bella gulped. He wasn't going to kill her, he was going to beat her. "Do you obey my command, I will call your punishment well met at an even twenty strokes. Defy me more, Bella, and I will not cease the beating until I can no longer raise my arm." Oh God, he meant to do it, no matter what. Bella swallowed, terrified. Angry tears welled in her eyes at the injustice being dealt her. She hadn't been the wife who'd defied him, insulted his king or threatened his sons. When she tried to speak her voice failed, because her mouth had gone as dry as dust. She managed to cast a meaningful look to the door at her back and said hoarsely. "Not here. Not where the children can hear us." At those pleading words, he granted the smallest incline of his head in agreement. Only then did he lift his hand and gesture to her to come to him. How she managed to cross the hallway to him, she didn't know. Maybe he met her halfway, she didn't know that either. She did know the moment his fingers tightened on her upper arm. She did resist being hauled across the solar and into the tower room, so the beating commenced at a midway point, a short bench set before a clerestory overlooking the inner ward. He used the bench to prop his foot and tipped her over his upraised knee. Bella swore on her own soul that she'd not give in to his brutality. He wouldn't make her scream or beg for mercy. The first stroke took her wind away, but by the time the fourth had been delivered, all consideration she bore his sons had flown out the window. She screamed and cursed and protested and fought being beaten to the bitter end. Not that it did her any good whatsoever. One thing was certain, she hated Isabella Chandos with every fiber in her being. All her empathy for that

witch was gone. Once they got inside her chamber, Chandos' eyes glinted hard in the candlelight. If she had thought him sinister at first glance this morning, he was now heartless, the epitome of cold-blooded, righteous, unyielding authority. He faced her squarely--six feet and three inches of ruthless alpha male. His voice dropped decibels to tell her, "Never raise your hand against me again, Bella. I am your master, your husband, your lord. 'Tis by my hand you are fed and protected. By the grace of God and my hand alone, you have been spared to live another day." It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she, personally, had done nothing to warrant a death sentence. This time, she wisely held her peace. "Defy me again at your own cost, Isabel. Never again will I stay my hand from delivering the punishment you so richly deserve. Do you ever dare to cross me again, there will be no leniency. Il est finis." Gone was the gentle, tender lover who had so sweetly coaxed words from her earlier. In his place stood a savage, ruthless conqueror, determined to dominate the wife that had defied him one too many times. As John de Chandos stalked out of the king's bedroom, Bella wondered if she had set a new record for the Guinness Book. He was the second husband in one day to tell her it's over.

A HOUSE DIVIDED AND OTHER DIRTY TRICKS

-8-

The next morning, Bella came to an abrupt and stunned stop on the last step out of the bartizan into the great hall. Before her were scores of trestle tables, dozens of servants hustling to and fro laden with heavy trays and platters, serving an even greater multitude of diners. The hall itself was massive, forty feet wide and twice that in length. Every inch seemed alive and crawling with humankind clothed in pre-Renaissance finery. Louvers in the hipped roof let sunlight slant down on

the long interior wall. That was draped with glorious pennons of fantastic design; alternating in bold colors of red, black, white and blue. Opposite was the clerestory she'd admired briefly while seated on the back of a horse, yesterday. Each archway was filled with the morning sun, giving the stained glass panes vibrant life and color. The deeply slanted sunbeams brought every hue in the rainbow indoors. At the distant end of the hall from the bartizan steps where Bella stood, Sir John held center court at the high table on a dais. At his back was a ribbonfold carved panel wall. It was a splendid, courtlike chamber. The play of light and colors took her breath away, dazzling and blinding her momentarily. Once her eyes adjusted, she made her way briskly down the side aisle next to the windows, welcoming the warmth of the sun on her skin. She would have preferred to have breakfast upstairs, but Clarise had rushed her through a morning toilette with the admonition that Lord Chandos commanded Bella to attend table in the hall. Bella fumed over that because he could have said so before he left her last night, rather than giving her instruction second hand via a servant. She would have told Sir John exactly what he could do with his hall and his damned breakfast. She could hardly excuse taking out her temper on a poor servant. Fortunately, lots of noise filled the crowded hall, enabling Bella to pass from one end of it to the other unmolested. Some men stood and saluted her as she passed. At the high table the only vacant seat was to the left of Sir John. The dratted man stood as she approached. His eyes simmered heatedly over her from head to toe. Bella knew what that particularly carnal look meant. Though he had all the sex he was ever going to get from her. But her body gave an answering response to his searing look that negated her thoughts. Traitors, she fumed at the nipples ruching beneath her gown. This morning she had cavalierly taken full measure of Lady Isabel's wardrobe and chosen a royal blue silk cotte that was so exquisitely sheer, the sheen of freckles on her skin could be seen through it. Over that scandalous bit of frippery she wore a white baudikin surcoat embroidered with thread of gold roses. Since she had been ordered to hall, she had gone all out, selecting from the jewel casket a necklace of garnet beads and pearls as well as a thin golden chaplet encircling her brow. Her hair she had demanded be left alone to flow around her body the way she was used to wearing it. Clarise had asked her if she'd gone mad. That was the wrong remark to make to Bella in the mood she was in this morning. She damn sure wouldn't have servants questioning whether she was mad as the proverbial hatter and informed Clarise of that in blunt and precise words. The poor woman had stuttered and stammered for a good three minutes before recovering her wits, during which Bella had learned that Lady Isabel had not worn her hair down since the day she'd married. That was fine for Lady Chandos! It would be a cold damn day in July before anyone convinced Bella to wear hers twisted up in a knot. She'd shave her head first!

So when the high points of Sir John's cheeks flushed as red as a rose, Bella knew that she'd scored a bullseye hit. He deserved to spend the balance of the meal in a painful state of arousal. He'd see eternity before he ever got any relief from her! To be crude she checked. He functioned more than adequately, damn him! It was too much to be hoped that that hulking mass of overweening testosterone would be limp with fatigue. He drew back the low chair beside his own and waited for her to sit. Bella set her teeth together and eased onto the tasseled cushion padding on the seat. There were pewter trenchers on the high board and wooden ones on the trestles filling the rest of the room. "Good morning, Bella," said Sir John. He moved his trencher toward her and began filling it with wedges of smoked meat of unknown origin, peppered eggs and crusty rolls. "You slept well, I see." "I didn't sleep a wink and you know it." Bella looked for a fork and saw none as she spread a linen napkin across her lap. "Do you complain of a guilty conscience, lady?" He stabbed a small roasted bird from a platter a page held before him and broke that in two, placing a mini-leg and breast on her side of the platter. "I'm stating fact." Bella refused to look at him. She reached for the crusty roll and looked to her left down the table. The man next to her energetically chewed on the meat he had in his mouth. He made no effort to speak just then, merely bobbed his big blond head in her general direction. Further down the board were several ladies who chirped good morning and three very hungry stair-step boys devouring all the food in sight at their end of the table. Robin cast Bella a benign look that he then passed over to his father. That made Bella simmer, wondering if the impudent little whelp was contemplating the peace he'd mentioned the night before. Too bad she couldn't tell that cocksure son that there would never be an armistice signed in this household so long as she lived and breathed. Her prior vow not to cause any scenes between the children's mother and their father got in the way of her intense taste for revenge. The war between her and John Chandos had to remain a private war. From Sir John's oldest son, Bella looked down at the crowded hall. She twirled a hard roll between her fingers as another troop of men came in through the open doors, seeking places to squeeze onto a bench and eat their fill. They were hailed by friends and somehow everyone managed to find a place. She noticed that the men who had acknowledged her when she'd entered were far outnumbered by those in black and tan livery. This was a workday and all wore simple tunics, cotte hardie and trunk hose. Those who had acknowledged her were dressed uniformly in beige hose and scarlet tunics with that beautiful rose over their hearts. It was the same large, opened rose that decorated this surcoat of Lady Isabel's and most of her clothes.

The men and soldiers of Sir John's company were in black linen or brown wools with his crescent and cross device on the chest. She wondered if the device meant he'd been on a crusade, and if he hadn't, what were the odds she could convince him to take a ten year sabbatical to the Holy Land, beginning today. She studied the long interior wall, its monumental hearth and the array of pennons in alternating colors and designs that dominated the massive chamber. The first was a black field bearing a crescent moon and white cross and a barre sinister. Next came the same design, reversed on a blue field. Third was a red banner with a white rose, then a white banner with a red rose and so on to the end. As her minute inspection of the hall and its people progressed, Bella began to distinguish men by rank. Knights wore swords buckled at their sides. Squires had short swords and a chaperon, a short cape, added to their tunics. Pages had no arms and their tunics sported a heraldic devise binding their service to Lord Chandos. Bella broke the roll in two, laid half on the trencher and started to bite into the other. Sir John's hand caught her wrist, staying her hand. "You will say grace before you eat at my board, Bella." Grace? She looked at him directly for the first time since sitting down and saw that a tonsured cleric flanked his immediate right. That man leaned forward over his trencher, staring at her, obviously waiting to hear her response to Chandos'. Embarrassed, the bread dropped from Bella's hand back to the platter. High color flooded her face and she made the only excuse she could think of. "Surely grace was spoken before everyone sat down to eat?" "So it was, but you were not at your place to hear it." Sir John gave her that cryptic remark in answer. "Oh." There wasn't any other response to make to cover an obvious faux pas. Bella folded her hands, bowed her head and whispered the only grace before meals prayer she knew, then made the sign of the cross and looked back at Sir John for a cue. He nodded that her prayer, learned at catechism classes as a child, was acceptable and brought a crock of butter from the front of the table and the salt cellar closer to her. Her cheeks stung for a long time over that set down. Manners and customs were obviously formal and strictly adhered to in this age. Prayer was a habit held in high esteem in her parents' home, but one that had gone by the wayside since her marriage. Ari wasn't particularly religious or fond of thanking God for the food they ate. Bella vowed not to let her lax habits of the twentieth century trap her in the future. To be scolded so effectively, and publicly because of an error committed by tardiness and ignorance made Bella swear she'd not be late to table a second time. She was at no point comfortable during the meal being constantly on her guard against the critic seated on her right. She did think it to her credit that she was sitting at all. Chandos had certainly followed through on his threat to make certain she would stand for a week. Only her pride wouldn't allow him the satisfaction of knowing he'd succeeded. A sea of ongoing talk surrounded her while she ate sparingly of the unusually meaty breakfast. The giant on her left went by the name James Graham. He offered no pleasantries whatsoever. The few looks he

granted her when she faced him as he spoke to Sir John convinced her that Sir James Graham didn't care for Lady Chandos one little bit. The priest hailed from Ireland, Father Kerwin and the ladies at the table were Eunice and Odilia, both wives of household knights sworn to Sir John. The crowd thinned rapidly. Breakfast wasn't a meal to linger over when a day's work awaited. Servants and serfs who ate inside the manor, as well as the scores of pages and squires who augmented the servants at the tables, took up the slack, sitting down to eat, last. The din and the racket lessened. Robin and seven youths sauntered out the wide open doors in the company of James Graham. Goeffrey and Henri, whose chin barely reached the tabletop, remained at the end of the table. Geoffrey did not turn his head once to look at Bella, but Henri began to inch closer one seat at a time as the high board emptied. Bella was a little hurt that the child that looked so much like Iain wouldn't so much as look at her this morning. She feared she knew the reason for that. It wasn't likely that her screams and curses had gone unnoticed in the night. The one who ought to be embarrassed was the boy's father not his son. However, it seemed the only one really humiliated was her. After Sir James left the table, Henri hopped onto the knight's tall, vacated chair. He sat, swamped by it, his little feet swinging off the floor waiting for Bella to acknowledge him. She finished sipping the strong honeyed mead that filled Sir John's jeweled cup, shocked by the alcoholic tinge to it, set the goblet down and touched a napkin to her mouth. "Good morning, Henri." She looked Sir John's youngest son over. "How are you this fine, sunny morning?" "Tres bien, Maman," he said somber voiced. "Et tu?" "Comme ci, comme ca," Bella replied. "Why didn't you say good morning when I came to the table, Henri?" His blue eyes rounded. "Maman, children must not speak until spoken to." He touted the adage that most assuredly he'd been raised by. "I see," Bella said gravely. She'd have given anything for a cup of coffee to quell the butterflies and tension assaulting her stomach. Greasy Cornish hens, eels and near- beer were not her idea of healthy breakfast food. "Henri, would you do me a great favor this morning?" "What is that?" "Take me on a tour of your favorite places." Bella could only wish they would wind up at a playground at a McDonald's eating burgers and milkshakes for lunch. "Would you like to see my hawk and my puppy?"

"Yes, I certainly would." Bella reached forward to stroke his thick, black curls. Henri was such a handsome child, as endearing as Iain at the same age, but so much better mannered. "Shall we ask Geoffrey to go with us?" "No, he has to wait for Papa." "Why is that?" Henri lifted his shoulders in a gesture that said I don't know. He had freckles on his nose. Bella wanted to kiss and cuddle him and pull him onto her lap. She did not see any reason why she shouldn't. So she patted her lap, giving him a private signal. His rosebud mouth puckered in the deepest frown and he shot a glance at his father that told Bella she had probably ignored his royal pain in the ass, the lord and master her back for as long as he was going to stand for it. She gingerly swivelled about in her seat and found as she suspected, Sir John glowered at the two of them. Bella met the heat of his gaze well enough, returning a mildly blank expression to him. She had already vowed not to do anything to overtly incite his wrath again. "I was just discussing with Henri his hawk and his puppy. He has agreed to show them to me," Bella said in the most pleasant tone she could muster. "If you have no objections, my lord." "Henri may certainly show you his bird after he and Geoffrey and I have our private talk. You, Bella, may go to chapel with Father Kerwin. I will send Henri to you when we are done." With that said he rose from the table, bowed to her and took Henri's hand in the grip of his very large hand. Geoffrey jerked his chin up from the table, looking like a truant caught skipping school. He popped onto his feet immediately. When his father put out his other hand, Geoffrey took it without hesitation. As they walked out the screen passage at the rear of the hall, Geoffrey shot Bella the only glance she'd received from him since she came into the hall. A more sorrowful expression she hadn't seen in a good long while. She sighed deeply after the boys and their father disappeared. Geoffrey was in deep trouble. Bella had a sinking feeling she knew the cause--his deep loyalty to his mother. It had not escaped her notice that Geoffrey had admitted withholding from his father the truth about Lady Isabel's disappearance. Like any astute general, Chandos intended to mend any breaches he perceived in his flanks. To Geoffrey's cost? Bella wondered. She feared so. She was in no position to aid the boy or run interference for him which she would have gladly done for her own son. She didn't have time to reflect further upon that because the clerics had begun to move as a unit and Father Kerwin stood beside her, beckoning her to go with him. She wondered what this was about as she followed the Irish priest to the castle chapel. She did not get too close to him. The coarse wool of his robe was mud splattered and filthy at the hem. That peculiar, rank smell she remembered being on her own skin yesterday hung about the priest.

Thankfully, the chapel was surprisingly fragrant because of the cloying scent of incense and baked bread. It shared a common wall with the castle's huge kitchen complex. Father Kerwin opened a rosewood cabinet in the rear of the chapel and began to put vestments over his robe. Once he'd fitted the last over his neck, he turned to Bella and pointed to a prie dieu, saying, "Lady Chandos, I'll hear your confession now."

***

When the Angelus bells rang at noon Bella was still on her knees reciting the prayers levied on her for penance. Henri had fallen asleep on the pew at her side. Father Kerwin seemed determined to wait her out, remaining in the sanctuary until she finished. Bella kept her eyes glued to the painted figure on the cross. The Medieval life-sized Jesus had been caught in supreme agony, at the moment when Christ had lifted his eyes to heaven and cried out torturously, "My God, my God, why hath thou forsaken me?" Bella could empathize with that Christ figure. She wished she had a rosary so she could keep better count, but that treasured possession had disappeared in the maelstrom that had destroyed her purse. Finally, she finished all that she could do in the line of penance for now. The rest involved dispensing of alms and offering some manual labor as atonement for Lady Isabel's sins. As Bella stood a rush of blood and feeling returned to her feet. Her right knee throbbed bitterly though she did her best to ignore it. She bent over Henri and woke him. They genuflected in the aisle together, bid good day to the priest, and stepped out into the wonderful sunshine of a faultless summer day that was spoiled only by the many puddles and muddy spots that had to be avoided as Henri guided Bella to the stable. Henri tugged on Bella's hand saying, "You had to say a lot of prayers, Maman." "Yes, I did, Henri. I had no idea what a sinner I was until Father Kerwin directed me through an examination of my conscience. Now, where is this puppy of yours?" Bella distracted the child deliberately. Enough was enough. With the full weight of Lady Isabel's sins resting on Bella's slim shoulders, she was thankful she wasn't down in the dungeon with a Grand Inquisitor preparing her to be burned as a heretic. As Father Kerwin had been the family's confessor for more than a decade, he was an impressive font of information regarding Isabel Chandos. Bella know knew for a fact that Sir John had more than adequate cause for his wrathful behavior of the night before. Not that she wanted to give that despot any benefit of the doubt. However, he could easily have turned into a raging Othello and Bella wouldn't have been able to hold the crime of murder against him--except for the fact he would have been killing the wrong wife! She wondered if God was going to take that into consideration on Judgement Day. It would be a very difficult coil to extract Isabel Wynford from the censure Isabel de Chandos had

earned. Two items of which Bella had no idea how to deal with satisfactorily. The first centered around those missing six days between Isabel de Chandos' disappearance and Bella's arrival, yesterday. She gathered from Father Kerwin's pointed questions that the male of this era found it entirely inconceivable, impossible and unbelievable that a woman could spend six days knocking around England without compromising her virtue, being raped repeatedly and trading sex for food and necessities. Considering their interview of the evening before, Chandos held the same opinion as his priest. The second most serious offense centered around King Edward and the fact that Lady Isabel had taken it upon herself to throw the king out of this castle. Bella did not know what to do about either of those grave misdeeds. Certainly, she would not have done what Isabel did. The only hope for peace in the future lie in making a bid for forgiveness...from the king, and from Lord Chandos. The king was an anathema Bella had yet to confront. Sure, she could say to the monarch, "Oh, I made a mistake, forgive me." That cost her nothing. She could not and would not do that to John de Chandos. The man had callously and grievously hurt her, against all good faith on her part. Sir John had the imagination and brains of a slug. A monsoon would turn the Sahara into a garden before she sought his forgiveness. The king, on the other hand, might turn out to be somebody Bella could deal with, did she have the opportunity to meet him. That opportunity, Father Kerwin's lecture had informed her, she would have. The reason Kerwin had told her that was to lesson her on the ultimate facts of life in this age. All castles in England, Ireland and Wales were ultimately owned by God's chosen steward on earth, His Majesty Edward, King of England. Ergo, Sir John stood in the king's stead as his loyal steward, running and managing this complex citadel for his king. Lady Isabel did not have the right to evict the king. Bella did want to know what effrontery King Edward had committed that had forced Lady Isabel's hand. When she asked the priest that question, Kerwin had been outraged at her temerity. After which he told her she was unrepentant, proud and basically disagreeable and those were the nicer traits the priest had cited. The truth was, the priest was correct. Bella didn't have anything to be really repentant over, as the sins she was forced to confess to were not hers to begin with. And Bella thought it was a damned dirty trick for Chandos to drop her into the greedy paws of the Catholic Church at the height of the inquisition era--her second day on the scene. She was extremely careful of what she said and didn't say to Father Kerwin. He might be Irish and gentle in his overall demeanor, but there could be a Jesuit Inquisitor lurking around somewhere--like at the local bishop's chancellory. She knew her history of the Middle Ages very well and did not plan to wind up as the featured heretic at a public bonfire, witch burning or exorcism. Knowing that, it behoved her to keep her big mouth shut about where she really came from and who she really was.

She and Henri came to the stables. Henri ran excitedly ahead, calling his puppy. Holding her hems clear of the trampled straw, Bella followed the boy to a stall spread with profuse layers of cut hay. Inside the stall was a beautiful black and white Spaniel and seven adorable pups. The puppies eyes were open and their fat little bellies were just nicely off the ground. Henri threw himself onto the straw, rolling in a yapping sea of puppy love. "Ah, what wonderful puppies." Bella held onto the wooden stall for support as she lowered herself to Henri and the puppies level. The dam looked up at her with marvelous, soulful brown eyes. Bella petted the dam's head and got her hand licked affectionately in return. Henri had a hold of one wriggling male so excited that it peed on the straw and the boy. "This one's mine. Gunni promised me the pick of the litter. See, isn't George the strongest puppy you've ever seen?" "He most certainly is. May I hold him?" "Yes, but you have to be very careful, Maman. Do not squeeze him or drop him." Oblivious to the puppies falling off his legs, Henri stood up and very tenderly placed his puppy in Bella's hands. A little pink tongue stuck out to stroke her cheek. "You can tell him, no. 'Tisn't too soon to train him to the way he's expected to behave," Henri said in very serious tones. "Why?" Bella laughed. "I wouldn't scold him, not when I love kisses, even from puppies." Henri shucked the straw from his tunic and bent to pet and praise the dam. "Bride is Papa's favorite hound. She can't hunt for Papa now 'cause she's stuck nursing puppies. Papa says Bride always finds the best ducks." Bella handed him back his favorite and scooped up another. It yawned in her face and wiggled at the same time, this one a female with so many pepper spots across its nose it was almost one black patch. "Oo, puppy breath," Bella chuckled, glad this child had waited for her and shared with her his treasures. "They are adorable puppies." "Do you really like them?" Henri asked. "I thought you only liked cats." "I like puppies even more that I like kittens. I wouldn't know how to pick a favorite, they are all so cute," Bella told him. "Oh, that's simple," Henri declared. "Papa says to always pick the strongest and most intelligent one." "Not the biggest?" "No." Henri mimicked someone he'd heard lecture. Bella couldn't imagine who. "You watch the litter very close when they're born and looking for a teat. The smart ones go right to one. If you're not there when the litter is born and you want to know whose smart and who isn't, you pull them all off a foot or so and watch. Same thing."

"I see." Bella put her two puppies down and watched how they made a bee line for their favorite teat. "Where did you learn that?" "From Gunni Douglas, he's Papa's kennel master." Henri put his puppy on the straw and snapped to attention, folded his arms, one to his waist, one to his back, and said, "Oh, hello, Father. I am showing Maman my puppy." His greeting was the first that Bella realized they were not alone in the stall. "Well," Bella said softly as she looked around behind her, "Speak of the devil and in he walks." Sir John leaned against the wooden wall separating the stalls. His arms were crossed over his black shirted chest and he appeared comfortably at rest, an indication he'd been there for a while. He acknowledged Henri's bow with a nod of his head and raised an eyebrow for Bella's mocking undertone. A touch of panic welled through Bella as she wondered if she was supposed to bow and scrape before him each time they came across one another in this massive household. "Have you forgotten something, Henri?" he asked. "It's gone past the Angelus bells." "Oh." Henri looked baffled. "I didn't hear it, Papa." "Henri was with me in the chapel," Bella explained as she very carefully got to her feet. Again her right knee let her know that all this bending, stooping and kneeling wasn't doing her injury any good. "He fell asleep waiting." "Then you have an excuse for being tardy to lessons with me, but I doubt it will be good enough for Master Wynford. Run along, Henri." "Yes, Papa." Sir John watched his youngest son run from the stable before he turned to Bella and said, "If you heard the bells, you should have sent Henri on his way to his lessons." Bella brushed straw from the front of her surcoat. "Yes, I realize now I should have." She straightened and stepped out of the stall. "But as I was enjoying his company, I did not think a few minutes away from the study of Latin would hurt at his age." She crossed her fingers, hoping she was making a correct guess. "You indulge Henri too much, Bella. That will weaken him. Come, you are needed in the manor." As far as she could tell, the services of Lady Isabel were not vital anywhere. The whole castle was under such strict regime, his, that she couldn't see anything the lady of the house needed to contribute. Maybe that's where his marriage had gone wrong. As he offered her his arm, she took it, slipping her fingers into the crook, laying them at the crease where his biceps pushed out the fullness of his sleeve. He walked with a measured step, matched to her pace. That surprised her, because she had always had to quicken her step to keep up with Ari. Today, she certainly couldn't have matched anyone's pace for more reasons than just the throbbing ache in her knee. As they stepped into the sunlight, she asked, "Did I get all the straw brushed off?"

He looked over his shoulder in a sweeping glance down her unbound hair to the hem of her trailing skirt. He responded, "Sufficiently." Across the ward there was a flurry of activity at the kitchens and the smell of meat roasting filled the air. Again the doors were wide open and there were lots of hungry men gathering for the midday meal. Bella's own stomach grumbled. She thought this hunger of hers must be part of the shock of warping into another time plane. Normally, she was a very light eater. They took their places, standing while the crowd filled in. Several ladies with conical coifs came running into the hall with scarfs trailing like standards behind them. The shuffling stopped and everyone bowed their head, folded their hands as Sir John used a stentorian voice to lead the noon prayers. Bella added her own prayer of thanks that he'd come to get her so that she wasn't late again. She took her seat and after depositing her napkin on her lap, took advantage of having one hand under the table to guardedly probe the uncooperative joint. Some parts were just too painful to touch and in general she was certain there was marked swelling. Ice packs weren't an option. Neither were easy to use tubes of antibacterial ointment. That made her think of all the minor injuries that could turn into major medical emergencies without drugs and well trained physicians to tend them. "I hope you have more appetite than you displayed this morning, Bella." That solicitous comment from Chandos brought Bella's attention back to him. "Yes, I'm very hungry," she admitted. "Good." The custom was to share platters. Again Sir John selected from the trays loaded with food presented to him, broke each choice in two or cut it with his eating knife and laid Bella's portion on her side, his on the other. He really meant it when he said by his hand she was fed. While she dwelled on the intimacy of this eating arrangement, he asked if she like the boar steak. "Boar? As in wild boar?" Bella asked. She had a long standing aversion to javelinas that were the bane of farmers back home in Texas. "All boars are wild," Chandos informed her of a patent truth. "Where did it come from?" "Graham and I brought it down yesterday morning during the search for you. It's not too gamy, is it?" Bella shuddered distastefully at that particularly gruesome and scary thought. She'd lain unconscious and vulnerable at the same time a wild animal roamed the countryside. So as not to appear cowardly, she tasted one small bite. "I can't say its gamy." "You might tell that to cook when you speak to him about the morrow's meals. Everything needs must be perfect for Robin's feastday. King Edward has assured me he will attend the celebration." "Ah, yes." Bella nodded, aligning more tidbits, scolds and inferences while mildly wondering why it had no lasting effect when the lady of the house threw a guest out. So what if the guest was the king? An obnoxious guest was an obnoxious guest. She didn't waste her breath voicing that own question. Only the

almighty lord and master had any say over who or who could not be within the castle walls. "Anything special you would like?" She sought a clue. He paused over the carving of more bites of the boar steak to parcel onto her side of the platter and shot her the most adorable, shyly winning smile she'd ever seen. God, if the man wanted to, he could sell snake oil to serpents, he had that much endearing charm, not that she was going to succumb to it. "Those jelly rolls your chef makes only for you." So he had a sweet tooth, did he? Bella suppressed the smile that inched across her lips. She bent her head over the spoon she worked into the lentils and pepper sauce. "Are you asking for yourself or is it the king you seek to appease with sweets?" "Why, the king, of course," he said. "And Robin, too. 'Twill be an important day for the lad." Bella looked up to judge Chandos' expression which showed no sign of latent humor inherent to his offhand allusion to the king. So much for insight into his mind. And she reminded herself, so much for even wanting insight into his mind. He wasn't going to charm her out of her justifiable anger. She nodded politely, saying, "I'll see what I can do after I've had a nap." "A nap, you say?" he replied quickly...too quickly. Bella shot him a look that said clearly, don't you even think about it! This time she found his bland expression a challenge. Her mouth tightened. His brow arched. She stopped herself from kicking him under the table. "A nap sounds most appropriate this afternoon," he drawled as he held his goblet out to a steward to fill with wine. He tasted the drink then held the jeweled cup out to Bella. "Drink, Bella. You know you cannot refuse." "Can't I?" her reply had a sting to it. "No," Chandos said as he put the goblet to her lips. She brought her hand up, intending to push the cup away, but he deliberately tipped it and it was either drink or get thoroughly stained by red wine. Bella drank, though she did manage to get her fingers over his and press some distance between the potent liquid and her mouth. She was no expert or connoisseur, but that fermented brew had the impact of hundred and ten proof brandy. Bringing her napkin to her mouth, Bella asked, "What is that stuff?" "You don't like it?" Chandos asked blandly. "I didn't say that. I want to know what it's called." "Burgundy, I believe. Compliments of the vineyards of Jean de Vienne. A bit heady for midday, but

suitable if one intends to have a bit of a rest." He put the cup in her hand. "Drink it, Bella. Wine aids digestion, they say." Sir John turned his attention to finishing the meal set before them. Wary, Bella did the same. She made a sandwich of sorts from the cheese and crusty bread and missed mayonnaise and lettuce as she ate it. Halfway through the wine, she no longer cared about the missing condiments. When she put the empty goblet on the table, she had to hide a deep yawn behind her hand. So she excused herself at that point and began to rise from her seat. Her knee didn't want to cooperate. Bella had to catch hold of the armrest of Chandos' chair to steady herself when her right leg buckled. "What's wrong?" he asked, immediately concerned. "Nothing," Bella said. "Just a sore knee from too much kneeling this morning, thank you very much." He was out of his chair before she could stop him. "Then you shouldn't be walking on it. This is the same knee I noticed was cut yesterday." "I'm perfectly fine," Bella lied, straightening, and locking the joint. "We shall see." Chandos effortlessly picked Bella up in his arms. "Put me down this instant!" she protested. "Stop issuing orders to me, woman." Bella's belly drew tight as she perceived his true intention to bed her this very moment. She regretted the sexual taunt she'd delivered when she'd come to hall that morning. She gave in with ill grace, only because to protest more in the crowded hall only served to bring more attention to them. As he stepped down from the dais, she put her arm around his shoulder. That only made her more aware of his great size. "I am perfectly capable of climbing stairs on my own." "And I am capable of carrying you," he answered smoothly, his will triumphing over hers. "Be quiet, Bella." The quality of the light changed dramatically in the bartizan. Little light entered that winding structure save that which pierced the cross and orb arrow embrasures. A narrow band of direct sun swept across John's face briefly as he mounted the stairs. Bella caught the intensity and heat of his gaze. Words were unnecessary to state his intent. His eyes dilated black with desire. Bella drew back against his arm at her shoulders, damned if she would surrender to him. Not after last night. A few steps later he reached the solar. Plenty of muted afternoon light warmed that interior through the long clerestory windows that faced the rising sun.

To Bella's chagrin, the footmen were back at their posts. They opened the doors and bowed to the lord of the manor. He dismissed them curtly. The doors closed soundlessly and they were alone. The tension exchanged between their bodies intensified and Bella tried to squelch the throbbing that had begun deep within her belly. The stone walls enclosed cool, midday shadow. The lone window stood partly open, allowing a muted breeze entrance and a slanted beam of sunlight to graze the polished floor and light the coverlet strewn bed. John's arms tightened at her back and knees, lifting her. Bella countered, stiffening neck and shoulders, using both hands to maintain scant distance between their heads. Her resistance accomplished nothing, for Chandos merely increased his power and dipped his mouth to possess hers. Her hands tensed, palms pressing against his upper chest, fingers lifting away from the heat that radiated out of his body. His head slanted. His lips expertly coaxed hers into softening. The next she knew she was laid her against the pillow strewn bed and strong, capable hands divested her of the heavily embroidered surcoat. Beneath that was the sinfully sheer, silk undergown. Chandos eased his hip beside her on the bed and let his scalding, hungry gaze pass over her from head to toe. By God's sweet splendor, his wife was the most beautiful and maddening creature under the heavens. He parted her under cotte, untied its tapes at her waist and laid it open. Laid naked before him in the full exposure of the beam of light, Bella trembled. He gently rested his left hand on her quivering belly to calm her, his thumb just grazing the crest of brilliant red curls. He slipped his right hand between her thighs and lifted her knee, bringing the injury into the beam of light. Her fair, freckled skin was blemished by a myriad of bruises and minute scratches, as though she'd run through a briar patch. "This has the look of a burn to it," he said after a moment's curious and intense study. "I've never seen anything like it." "Indeed?" Bella delivered a testy response. She set her teeth against each other, incensed by his proprietary inspection. His thumb very gently followed the tracery of the wires left on Bella's flesh. She didn't try to explain what had caused it. The concept of electricity was beyond his understanding and her ability to describe it. "I will fetch some salve to treat it," he told her. "Later." He removed her slipper and discarded it, then unfastened the garter below her knee and slid her silk stocking off her foot. With exquisitely aching slowness he divested her other limb of shoe, stocking and lacy garter. "Your recklessness appalls me, wife." He caught her shoulder and drew her upright to a sitting position to strip the under cotte from her arms. "You are scratched and bruised from head to toe." "Thanks to you," Bella said accusingly. "Nay," he denied that. "The marks of my justice are confined to your plump and ample bottom. Every stroke was well earned, though I can see by your sharp tongue and coldness, the lesson hasn't sunk in. Even stripped and naked here before me, you defy my will."

"I don't." Bella denied that charge vehemently. "Aye, you do." He stood beside the bed unfastening his sword belt, then his cotte hardie. Both were cast aside to a trunk at the foot of the massive bed. "So another lesson is necessary." "Lesson?" Bella gulped. She sat up, her hair spilling across her body like a curtain. "Aye." Chandos replied. He deftly unfastened his breeks and stripped them from his body. "I know what you have been thinking since the moment you came down to hall, wife." "You can't possibly know my thoughts," Bella said with certainty. Her eyes widened in shock. Daylight defined his body clearly. In last night's shadows and darkness she'd felt his size with her own two hands but in the light of that sunbeam came full comprehension. "But I do know your thoughts, Bella." He climbed on to the bed, catching her foot as she made a belated effort to scoot out of his reach. "You think, 'I won't kiss him'." She struggled ineffectively. "So what?" "And you think, 'it will be a cold day in hell before he touches me again', don't you?" Bella's chin thrust forward. "And if I do? You can't stop me from thinking what I may." "That's defiance, Bella. I warned you last night not to cross my will again. Hence, I will kiss you. I will touch you in every way a man may touch his woman. We will begin this lesson now. Come, I am ready to mount you. Lie down beneath me and open your legs." "Like that?" Bella gasped. "Just lay down so you can fuck me?" Sir John's brow furled. His wife had never said such a crudity in his presence before. He tightened his grip upon her left ankle, pulling her to him. She kicked at him with her right foot. He caught that one, too, and forcibly parted her legs wide enough to accommodate him. She batted her fists and clawed at him with her nails as he pressed her flat on her back. Her struggle hardened his shaft to iron, making it all that much easier to enter her. She was hot as a skillet and dripping wet despite the fact that he had not stimulated her in any way. He pinned her beneath him, gathered her kicking legs under his arms and began to thrust in and out of her, seeking his pleasure only. Last night he'd seen to her pleasure and still she defied him with sullen words and sulks. He gripped her head and neck, commanding, "Open your eyes, Bella, you will look at me and watch me take my pleasure." "You bastard," she hissed angrily and clawed at his arms. He batted her hands away, dropping down to pin her more thoroughly beneath him as he savagely drove his shaft deep inside her. "What? You do not like this rutting, Isabel?" "No!" Tears flashed from the corners of her tightly shut eyes.

Chandos caught her chin between his fingers. "Are you saying you want to be kissed, touched intimately so that you receive pleasure too, Isabel?" "Yes," she opened her eyes, looking at him with hurt and angry eyes. "Please." He eased much of the determined pressure of his body, but did not remove his throbbing shaft from her fiery furnace. She lifted her mouth to meet his lips, eager for the soothing solace of a kiss. He brought his hand to her breast, moulding it to fit his hand and kissed her deeply, thoroughly. In response she wound her legs around his hips and undulated against him, surrendering her body to him. She grew wet and wild and rapacious all at once, trembling at each touch of his hand. He knew full well her pique and indignation worked against her, raising her own appetites to surpass his. Anger was a powerful motivator. He used that skillfully to tame her, to bring her mewling like a kitten to his hand. Her belly slickened against his and she tensed from head to toe, crying out as she reached her peak, screaming when he wouldn't allow her to rest or recover by bringing her back to the edge with shameless manipulation. His own need brought him to a shuddering climax and he felt his seed flood her walls, drenching her, filling her womb. He did not doubt for a moment that he had planted another son inside her...a warrior's spawn. He lay spent on her yielding, softened body and while he struggled to regain his breath, her body milked his seed from his loins. He imagined her contractions were done on purpose, to drain him of his force and strength. That would not happen for years to come. He kissed her throat and lifted his body from hers, stroking her sweat slick belly. At her damp curls he parted her, finding her nubbin with unerring skill. As he pleasured her again, his rod hardened for another battle. Bella moaned and twisted beneath him, stuffing the back of her hand inside her mouth, trying not to scream from the sweet agony of yet another draining release. Her whole body jolted with laudable pleasure. Chandos smiled and drew her up from her back, wrapping her in his arms for a sweetly shared kiss as he told her how beautiful and glorious she was to his eyes. She settled in his lap, astradle of his thighs, content to be petted and teased and explored in the most wanton manner so long as she was allowed the same freedom with his body. "Now, my lady," he said with eyes that twinkled devilishly. "You've earned the reward of being allowed to ride a while." She smiled and pushed him onto his back and rode his shaft hard while he caressed her heavy breasts and stroked her soft belly. Her flowing hair adhered to her sweat-soaked body, curling like red flames around her breasts and arms. Again he put his thumb to her nubbin, stimulating her with hard and certain pressure. She bucked and cried out and grabbed his hands, removing them from her.

"No," he pushed both of her offending hands away. "Touch your breasts, Bella, the way I touch them. I want to watch you come again." She obeyed deliciously, both hands stroking and massaging those bouncing orbs. He put both of his thumbs against her nubbin and stroked her creamy flesh, watching with great fascination as she tensed and bucked. She threw her head back, crying out as floodgate ruptured inside her. She came again and again, her whole body stiffening, and clenching him. She collapsed on his chest, sobbing and shaken, pleading with him for no more. John kissed her sweet mouth and drew her blanket of hair off her back, stroking her with soothing hands. He was still hard as a bull inside her. He gave her a small rest, waiting till her breathing slowed and evened. "Better?" he asked. "Yes, thank you. Much." Bella cuddled against his massive chest, her face buried in the matt of dark curls. "Good. Now it's my turn. Come on, up you go." He slid his hands under her armpits and lifted her off of him. She cast a greedy glance as his glistening, upthrusting shaft, saying, "We can't waste that." "We're not going to," John told her firmly. He turned her around, seating her on his lap, her legs straddling his and her warm bottom caressing his shaft. She bent forward, pressing her knees into the bed, lifting her bottom, knowing what he wanted. Chandos grasped her buttocks, guiding her onto his shaft from behind. He'd never made love to Bella in this manner before, but he was beyond himself, lost in the sublime pleasure of coupling. Nor had Bella ever been so free with her body or allowed herself true release. He didn't think about that. This was a time meant only for pleasure.

They actually had that nap together. Sleeping another hour of the afternoon away. Chandos woke her, reminding her that she'd promised to convince her cook to make jelly rolls for Robin's feast day. That promise was made before Bella got into the kitchen. In that quadrant of Chandos' huge community, she found Lady Isabel had left behind an indelible mark. The French chef that had come to England as part and parcel of Isabel Saint Pierre's dowry was in full revolt against his English counterpart. Fists and curses were flying. The opening salvo of the Hundred Year's War had been fired in the Chandos kitchen. She ordered the fight stopped and the two combatants pulled bodily apart. That tall order was accomplished by many helpers. Bella took a calculated risk and boldly placed herself

between the snarling English cook and the raving French chef, thinking, damned foreigners! Then she almost laughed aloud recalling that she was the most alien one here of all! "Excuse me! I believe my question was, what's on the menu for tomorrow's feast? Would you kindly stop screaming threats at one another and answer me?" Both men were so far gone in bloodlust they had not realized it was their lady that had ordered the fight stopped and stood now between them. "Madame Chandos, I have just told this pig I will not cook for King Edward," Jean-Pierre addressed her in voluble French. "We will no longer serve the English. We refuse. We are foresworn to your father, Comte Eustace de Saint Pierre. We spit on the English king!" A beefy Englishman wagged a bloody mallet used for cracking bones to get at the marrow. "'Twould be just like the smarmy Frog to poison the king with his foul sauces. Throw the bloody bastard out, I say." A resounding cheer from the English echoed that. Bella cast a nervous glance at the English. Maybe Jean Pierre was blind to reality, but Bella knew she and the Frenchman were outnumbered better than twelve to one. "Une minute!" Bella stamped her foot. No one saw it, not under all the clothes she wore, but it felt good to do. "I didn't give a flying fig about politics. I am here to discuss tomorrow's menu." The red-faced Englishman snorted insolently and Bella realized here was somebody else that didn't give a rat's ass for Lady Isabel. She didn't know what to do about that so she turned to the French chef, asking, "What is the problem here?" "Madame Contessa, last week you promised we could return to France." Jean-Pierre motioned to a silent, disgruntled woman standing behind Bella. "Do you go back on your word to my wife and I now, Contessa?" Bella shook her head in dismay. "How can I send you home when I cannot even go home myself? This isn't Oz and I'm not Glenda." The French crossed resolute arms and glowered back at her as if this whole crisis was her fault. Jean-Pierre sadly shook his head. He had a kind face, wreathed by greying curls kept closely cropped to his head. "We French don't belong in England anymore." "Aye, send the bastards home," an Englishwoman snapped. Bella exhaled in frustration. She had already danced once over the coals for Isabel's sins. Was she going to act in a manner that might bring more unjustified suffering onto her own shoulders? She didn't know what to do. Jean-Pierre lowered his voice for her ears alone, saying quickly in the dialect of Lorraine, "My lady, do you help us, I will get word to your Papa of what has happened here. Comte Eustace will raise an army to aid the Rose of Lorraine. He will kill that man who dares to lay a hand on you. The comte will bring you and his grandsons to France where you belong. No harm will come to you then." All Bella had gone to the kitchen to obtain was the menu for the next day. Instead she found a

middle-aged chef advising her on the implementation a revolution. Right! Thank you Lady Chandos, Bella thought to herself as she stomped upstairs to look for a gown that she wouldn't ruin by working in it. She had to settle for yesterday's cotte of muslin and a cotton pelisse over that. Lady Chandos did not own any plain and simple work dresses. Of one thing Bella was absolutely certain. She would not allow a handful of cooks to throw a second gauntlet down between herself and Sir John! No way! She might have struck the first blow last night and unwittingly touched off a powder keg reaction, but Sarah Isabella Wynford did not make the same mistake twice! Nobody was going to push Sir John's buttons thereby giving him reason to vent his wrath on her tender skin. No way! Besides, she'd just had the greatest sex she'd ever had in her life. That was one consolation for being flipped through time. Her mind made up, she returned to the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up. There, Bella demanded an apron and proceeded to put fourteen years of running her own kitchen on the line. If she couldn't make a birthday cake fit for a king, then her name wasn't nor ever had been Sarah Isabella Saint Pierre!

THE WATCHER ON THE ALLURE

-9-

It was amazing what a little woman with her sleeves rolled up could accomplish in a kitchen. Any kitchen, Bella smiled secretly to herself. The jelly rolls Chandos had asked for were cooling on a large rack. The cake she'd been determined to make was ready to be glazed or iced. She was leaving the finishing of it to Jean-Pierre, but the spicy carrot cake batter was her inspiration and her's alone. When she had arrived back in this domain of simmering French and stewing English, there had been general panic. She soon found out why. Lady Isabel did not cook. "Never mind," Bella had told Jean-Pierre, who was the only person bold enough to tell her that she couldn't pare an apple without ruining it, "I'm certain I can scratch up something." Scratch it was, for she had no treasured recipe book to guide her this time. But she was Alsatian. There wasn't a Texan that didn't know that Alsatians were the best cooks in the entire state. She knew her great-great-great grandma's recipe for poppy seed buns by heart. She could make onion rolls and kolaches and a dozen other melt-in-your-mouth delicacies, all variations of the same sweet dough, just as easily. If they only had chocolate, she could cock up the toes of the French and the English alike just by making those wonderful Tollhouse cookies Iain had gobbled up by the handfuls. Chocolate, she sighed, was a pleasure she wouldn't have again in her lifetime. Hernan Cortez would be the first European to taste that supreme delicacy when he conquered Mexico in the Sixteenth Century. The castle cooks were extremely dubious of the outcome of her efforts until the first batch of poppy seed buns came out of the massive ovens. By then the delicious smell of sweetbread baking had every soul in the kitchen slavering. Cooks, Bella knew, became cooks because they loved to eat. If the cooks could keep their tempers intact over the next twenty-four hours, she thought she might also survive. She knew from personal experience that there was a lot of truth to the old adage, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. It wasn't so much Sir John's heart Bella was concerned about. With his sexual appetites, she could deal fairly well with him in the bedroom. She did want to conquer the hearts of three young boys. For her new sons, Bella gathered a napkin full of her own poppy seed buns and stepped out of the kitchen, munching on one herself. I'll get fat, she scolded herself. It was late in the afternoon now. The sun hung low over the west wall of the compound. Practically the whole day had passed and Bella had not once spoken to Geoffrey. She hadn't the foggiest idea of where to begin looking for him. For that matter, she didn't know where to find Henri, Robin or Sir John either. She wandered in a clockwise circle, expanding her knowledge of the castle itself by moving from building to building and shed to yard. She spent some time in idle fascination, watching the weavers ply shuttlecocks back and forth across their looms. She followed the strong scent of vinegar and found two pages industriously cleaning chain mail in a barrel of vinegar and sand which they rolled back and forth from one another. When they opened the casket and pulled out the mail, rinse it in clean water, links shone like beaten silver.

She came to a tilt yard where a good dozen squires practiced with arms. That reminded her of football practice at her old high school. Until she realized the swords were real and the youths were training for war. They were stripped down to trews and boots, wearing only chain mail hoods protecting head and shoulders. Each had a small round shield and a deadly-looking double edged sword. They practiced advancing and then falling back, thrusting and parrying, clobbering and clanging. Their grunts and howls sounded ominous within the confining walls of the castle ward. The practice continued until Sir James called "halt." The knight turned around and faced Bella, asking coldly, "Is there something you wanted, Lady Chandos?" Standing with a napkin full of sweet buns clutched in her hand, Bella gasped when she saw blood trickling down Robin's chest. Lord, the urge to run to him and do something to staunch the flow of blood was so strong she almost bolted past James Graham. Only she didn't. Robin shot her a look that said go away, mother loud and clear. "No, Sir James." Bella shook her head. "I am looking for Geoffrey. Have you seen him?" "Nay, I have not seen him," the tall man answered in such a clipped and abrupt manner that Bella again felt the sting of his animosity. She wondered what Lady Isabel could have possibly done to him. Sighing, Bella turned from the tiltyard. She knew she had to tread carefully where Robin Chandos was concerned. She had offended him enough on their first meeting. He wouldn't want her hovering about while he pretended to fight like a man. She hoped she would have better luck with Henri and Geoffrey. Henri turned up in the mews. The hawking master was teaching him to spin the lure. Bella had never seen a hawk up close, but she'd seen barn owls and red-headed vultures. She could pass on the goshawk. She offered Henri and his teacher each one of the buns. They were glad for the treat. She asked where Geoffrey was. The master suggested she look on the allure at the northgate. Geoffrey liked to be the first to sight the king. Armed with that bit of information she left Henri happily twirling a lure. Bella crossed the length of the ward scanning the northgate and its long allure and towers she had yet to become familiar with. The sun now glazed the slate roof of the manor, so there were shadows stretching across the ward. She didn't see Geoffrey, but as the curtain wall was deep, twelve feet at least, she would need to get higher than ground level to find him. She paused a moment at yesterday's odious well to get a drink of cool water, then continued searching, asking each person she met if they had seen Geoffrey. Most said no. Finally, a tangle-haired old Scot with the odd name of Gunni Douglas told her Geoffrey was up on bastard's drop and had been there all day. Bella rewarded the wary Scot with a poppy seed bun and secretly laughed when his eyes lit up like racing Christmas lights. The colorful name, bastard's drop, was of little use. Bella climbed the winding steps inside the north gatehouse. Winded at the top, she paused on the allure. She shielded her eyes from the sun and searched for the boy amid the crenels and merlons that made up the ramparts.

Her heart almost stopped when she saw him. High on top of the east drum of the northgate, a murderhole thrust straight out over the killing ground above the gate. Bella gasped again. On the rim of the highest merlon, still as a condor waiting for a hare to poke its nose out of its burrow, lay eight-year-old Geoffrey de Chandos. Sweet Mother of God, Bella thought, covering her mouth with her hand. If a good wind would come up, the boy could fall fifty, sixty feet to his death. The coastal wind gusted enough to ruffle Geoffrey's shaggy hair around his head like a golden halo. Bella stood with her hand over her mouth, holding back a scream. She closed her eyes, shaken as the memory of Iain's broken body laying on the street swam before her eyes. Two hands gripped her shoulders and a deep voice cautioned softly, "If you shout at him, he will fall." Bella almost dropped her buns. She spun around to Sir John. He looked just as worried as she felt. "What is he doing up there?" Bella hissed, fighting the tears that were blinding her eyes and the horrible choke of fright in her throat. "I believe he wants to be the first one to sight the king." Sir John's hands steadied Bella's shoulders, preventing her from turning back around toward Geoffrey. "Get him down this instant," Bella demanded. Sir John frowned, not at her, at the boy on the high merlon. He spoke in a calm, normal voice. "That has been my intent for the past hour since he was spotted that high. However, I have told everyone to keep silent and ignore him. I have men positioned in every spot possible to catch him if the worst should happen. It would be better if the boy would come down the way he got up there. Provided he can. I have been waiting to see." Bella's fingers tightened on her makeshift sack. What kind of a father was he? The child was in terrible danger. Surely he shouldn't be standing idly by waiting for the worst to happen. "Why would he have gone up that high? Hasn't he been told not to go past the allure? It's dangerous enough up here." "So it is." Two deep grooves in Chandos' cheeks flattened as he squinted up at the height. "Aye, Geoffrey has been warned and no, he does not have permission to be up that high. As you can see, my hands are tied. So, little mother, are yours." He tilted his head and looked down at her face. His frown deepened as he pointed at the cloth clutched in her hands. "What have you there?" "Poppy seed buns. I was bringing each of the boys a treat from the kitchen." "Did you bring one for me?" No, she hadn't, but she would never admit that. She opened the corners and showed him the contents. She could tell he'd not seen anything quite like these buns before. A black brow arched as he studied her. "Do you offer me one, lady?"

"Do you want one? I made them," Bella told him. "You made them?" he said with disbelief. "Oh, yes, I made them myself, with my own two little hands. There are thirty witnesses in the kitchens who can swear they saw me measure the flour, break the eggs, beat the batter and shape each and every little roll and stuff them with cream." "My, my." He picked the smallest and lifted it out, examining the golden soft bread. "What is inside it?" "Heaven," Bella said. "Truly?" he asked. "Show me." He put the bun next to her lips. Bella's eyes narrowed, wondering if he thought she'd stoop to a Borgia trick and try to poison him. Thinking back to what all she'd learned in the confessional, maybe he did. She took a bite of the sweet bun and felt guilty because she'd already eaten three. "Oh," Bella sighed, licking the sweet cream from the corner of her mouth. Sir John put the other half in his mouth and then the most wonderful thing happened. His eyes smiled. "By the Rood, woman, that is definitely a mortal sin," he said gravely. "We shall both be doing penance for a week for tasting such earthy delight." That, Bella decided, was high praise indeed for her culinary skill. She couldn't help smiling back. "Father?" A voice asked from above. "What is that you and Maman are eating?" "Don't look." Chandos caught Bella's arm, keeping her from turning around. "'Tis a sweet that your mother has brought to us poor watchers on the wall." "A sweet, Papa?" Geoffrey shouted. "What kind? Custard?" "Better. Would you like one?" "Oh, aye, 'tis hungry man's work watching for a king." "Then come and get one. There's plenty left for you." "You could toss me one and I could catch it," Geoffrey suggested amiably. "Nay, I think not," his father answered. "'Twould be a sinful waste were it to fall onto the dirt. Who would enjoy the treat then?" Bella heard Geoffrey's deep sigh. "All right. I'll come down, but I had better not miss the king." "Is he all right?" Bella asked, afraid to look. "Oh, aye." John Chandos never took his eyes from the boy shinnying down the stones. "I'm going to blister his skinny arse till it shines when he gets down here."

"Is that your solution for everything? Can't you talk to him?" The words blurted out before Bella could stop them. "Papa!" Geoffrey screamed.

UNDER HOUSE ARREST

-10-

The great lord of the manor bolted past Bella, leaping over the allure onto the rim of the gatehouse. Bella spun and gripped the upthrusting merlon. "The king! The king! I see the standard! It is the king!" Bella leaned as far out over the crenel as she could to see where Sir John was. He circled the drum tower ridge, balanced with his arms out like a high wire aerialist. Geoffrey spun from a knotted rope out of the murder-hole, one arm pointing dizzily at the horizon. Sir John dropped onto his knees and extended his arm trying to catch the knotted tail of the spinning rope. He made three tries before he had the rope in hand. Bella's heart lurched with every try and miss. "Do you see the king, Papa?" Geoffrey wanted to know. "Oh, aye," Sir John hadn't once looked away from the boy dangling so dangerously above his head. "Come down, son. You've done your job. Come to me." Nimble as a squirrel up a pecan tree, Geoffrey slithered down the knotted rope until his father's hands set him back on the wall. Heart in her throat, Bella watched as they both turned and waved at the hoard of riders emerging from the distant forest. A trumpeter in one of the towers sounded the alarm. Across the barren glacis, a signal from the king's trumpeter answered in return. The allure was alive with men. Men that Bella had not realized were there. They extended a long wide plank across the top of the drum tower, so that neither their lord or his son had to transverse the dangerous rim again. Geoffrey walked across that plank as easily as any agile child of Bella's experience crossed the top of the monkey bars on the playground against their mother's cautions. She did not withdraw from the crenel until Sir John had dropped out of her sight to safety. Her heart was still pounding like mad as the boy ran across the allure to her, grinning like a loon. "May I have my treat now, Maman?" Bella dropped to her knees, putting her arms around Geoffrey, touching his so familiar-to-her face, scolding, "Do you know what a fright you gave me, Geoffrey Chandos?" "Fright? You weren't frightened, Maman. How could you be? I was safe as could be. I didn't fall or even slip."

"You had no business going up that high. Don't you ever do that again! You scared your father and me half to death." "Papa is never scared. He's a warrior, Maman. May I have my sweet now?" "What do you mean he is never scared? What does being a stupid warrior have to do with killing yourself? You could have fallen and broken your neck, Geoffrey Chandos!" Bella opened the napkin that was now full of sticky, mushed goo. "You frightened me so badly I ruined the buns. Merde!" Bella swore as she stood up. "Oh, I could spank you myself for being so foolish." That scold apparently got through Geoffrey's thick head. He looked sheepishly down at his feet as his father's shadow came over the both Bella and him. "Geoffrey." Sir John knelt beside the boy, getting on eye level with him. "Your mother is correct. You frightened all of us. Even the men on the watch came to tell me where you were. We have been waiting for the last hour to see what would happen to you." Geoffrey's huge brown eyes filled with tears. "I only wanted to be the first to see the king." "Aye, and what joy would we have had welcoming the king, if we'd had our own son dead in our arms? What think you of that?" "I am sorry, Papa." "Yes, I can see that you are. And you have caused your mother's heart to be crushed just as badly as those sweets in her napkin. You'll not get one, Geoffrey. The only reward you shall have of this is that you were the first to see the king. Now, go down and get yourself cleaned up." Geoffrey cast a longing glance at the napkin in Bella's hands. He said, "Yes, Papa", and departed with much of the jubilation taken out of him. That, Bella knew, was the cost of his foolishness. But it brought her too close to the horror of Iain's death and try as she might, Bella could not staunch the flow of tears in her eyes. Straightening onto his feet, Sir John scowled even darker when he saw that she was crying. He started to embrace her but Bella pushed his hands away. "Don't touch me. I don't need your consolation." "What is this?" Sir John demanded. "If the boy frightened you that much why did you demand I not punish him as should have been done?" Bella dashed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "You wouldn't understand." "'Haps not, but you will not pull away from me when I touch you in public, Bella. Henceforth, you will give me the respect I am due, else you will taste my ire." "Oh, and we all really want to make doubly certain you don't have anything to get angry about, don't we? Never mind the fact that that little boy could have gotten himself killed."

Chandos again took hold of Bella's arms, this time turning her squarely around to face him. "Aye, Bella, that is true. Geoffrey could have injured himself very badly even to the point of killing himself. But he did not harm so much as a hair on his happy little head. Now, what is the source of your discontent, lady?" Bella shook her head, having already said too much for her own good. How could she possibly explain to this man what had happened to her son? Or that his son was the very image of Iain? "Geoffrey frightened me, is all," she managed to say. Sir John again took her elbow lightly in hand, leading her down from the high curtain wall into the ward. Bella noticed once more that although Sir John's step was brisk, he measured his pace to hers. She tightened her fingers on his arm, realizing she needed distracting and reassurance after Geoffrey's close call. And it occurred to her maybe he did too. Chewing on the corner of her lip, she chanced a glance at his profile. Grim, was the first word that came to mind and pissed off followed that. Bella snatched the kerchief from her head and shook out her hair. She looked directly at Sir John and asked, "How long before the king will arrive in the ward? Do I have time to change and freshen up?" Sir John came to a full halt, looking down at her. "Nay, you do not. The gates are being raised now." Chandos seemed to be fighting some kind of inner struggle. Bella willed him to say what was on his mind. She had no other way to know his thoughts or feelings since he kept such deliberate rein on his expressions. "I doubt that His Majesty looks forward to your attendance upon him." "Because of what happened last week?" Bella asked, glad now that Father Kerwin had been so ruthless. At least she knew what she was up against. "Aye," John said succinctly. Bella asked, "Can the damage be undone?" Sir John looked down at her, his expression grave. "That will depend upon what further harm you cause. Go up to your solar and do what you may with your clothes and such. I am certain the king will overlook your attendance at the gate." "Are you sure?" He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his thick hair, looking rattled and unsure himself. His answer was delivered like an after thought to a child. "Oh, aye. Best let me sound him out and see how deep Edward's ire has festered. He was still in a rage, last eve, when I spoke with him at Camber. 'Tis a fine mess you stepped us both in last week, but to gloss it over is another matter. Go, Bella. Remain in your solar until I send for you. That would be best." He left on a march to the north gate. Bella snatched up her skirt and hurried the opposite direction to the manor. She remembered what Father Kerwin had said. That it was only the grace of God and Sir John's true loyalty to his king that kept every soul at Chandos Enceinte with a roof over their heads. Had Edward the Third been of a vindictive mien, all those associated with Isabel de Chandos could have been banished from his realm.

Bella was only just now realizing that to insult a king was no little sin. Isabel de Chandos had done more than slight a king. She had insulted him to his face, spat on the ground at his feet and vowed to cut him to ribbons if he dared step foot in the land of her birth, claiming the crown that she said was not his to wear. Regicide was no trifling matter. Putting aside the king's intrusion, Bella slipped into the kitchen to replenish her supply of poppy seed buns. Then she hurried upstairs and across the solar to the bedrooms opposite from her own. She tapped softly on the door of Geoffrey and Henri's room, and peeked in to find Geoffrey sprawled on his back across his bed. He sat up at once when he saw her. "Maman, what are you doing here?" Bella held up her napkin of goodies as she put her finger to her mouth in a signal for secrecy. "May I come in, Geoffrey?" "Oh, aye." He bounded to his feet with a tight expression on his face. Bella closed the door softly and came to stand before him. She could not resist the urge to touch the shaggy curls wreathing his head. The boy stood very, very still, warily watching her hand move toward him. "I am sorry both your father and I had to scold you, Geoffrey." Bella touched a soft curl and smoothed it away from his brow. "I was very afraid for you. I think Sir John was too. If I said anything that hurt your feelings, I apologize for that. And to show you that I meant you no harm, I've brought you the treat you were promised." Bella opened the napkin and showed the boy the two perfect poppy seed buns she had brought him. "Those are for me?" Geoffrey asked. "Yes, they are." "Papa said I was not to have them." "I know." Bella nodded. "I think your father wanted you to realize that going up so high on the battlements is very dangerous." "Oh, but I do know that, Maman. A soldier has to be very brave and skilled to work up there, especially during a battle. I was only practicing." "I understand," Bella smiled. "You won't go up there alone again, will you?" "Oh, no. I will ask permission the next time." "That is exactly what I wanted to hear." Bella put the napkin and its contents into Geoffrey's hand. She bent and kissed his soft cheek and whispered in his ear. "Enjoy this, my darling. You did earn it."

She slipped out of the boy's room as quietly as she'd entered, with no one in the castle wiser for what she'd done...except Geoffrey.

As it provided her some solace, Bella spent her time waiting to be summoned to meet the king, bent over the escritoire with a quill in her hand. She was prepared to evacuate her room for the king's use at a moment's notice. She wasn't going to let Lady Isabel's pride stand in the way of her husband's career, not this Isabel, at least. Bella sat back after a while and stretched, flexing her fingers and easing the cramps out of her shoulders. She marvelled at how many pages she'd already filled. There were ten, but she was no closer to understanding the how or the why of what had caused her to be here. Bella kept coming back again and again to what her intuition told her was true--Lady Chandos was dead. She accepted that as fact, now. The question Bella wanted answered was, was it possible for her to return to her own place in time? Standing about in this century wearing Lady Isabel's sorry shoes wasn't all that pleasant. Well, she amended. Some parts were very pleasant. Good sex didn't make up for the rest. Bella had deeply resented the priest's accusations. Father Kerwin was a very intimidating confessor. He had accused her of committing the unforgivable sin of murder. Bella had soundly denied that charge. He he immediately countered with the undeniable logic of Saint Matthew. Sins came in three varieties; thought, word and deed. Kerwin was willing to grant that she had not succeeded in the deed. However, she had contemplated murdering her children to spite Sir John, boasted of it and God alone knew if she had attempted to do it. Likewise, Bella was guilty of thinking, talking and attempting to commit suicide. Those charges made Bella's skin crawl. Worse, she simply had to concede those issues. It hadn't been her thoughts, words or deeds, but that hardly counted where the priest was concerned. He, like Sir John, honestly and truly believed she was Lady Isabel. For that matter, Bella now realized every person she'd met in this castle from the lowest pot boy in the kitchen to the lord and master, himself, believed she was Lady Chandos. She didn't resent having to do that lady's penance. Bella came from the school of thought that every prayer said was worth saying in and of itself. She understood now that the lady's threat to do violence came from her fear that the king of England's forthcoming war in France would endanger Lady Isabel's family in her native country. Those were pretty powerful reasons to say rude and angry words and to make empty threats. But the truth was, Lady Isabel had not harmed a hair on any of her son's heads. Bella knew in her heart the poor woman could never have hurt those children. Bella was convinced that her own passage through time was in some way connected to that pit of bones at Lewes. She wanted very much to go back to Lewes, but as of yet, she had not found a way to do that. How did one escape a castle as well manned and guarded as Chandos Enceinte? She allowed her thoughts to go one step further considering the consequence of Lady Chandos passing

forward in time in a direct exchange of places. It comforted her to think that the hand of God had intervened. And it was possible that what ever self-inflicted injury the lady had sustained could have been overcome by modern medical wonders. After all, the century Bella had come from was well equipped to resuscitate life. But considering Ari's peculiar behavior at the end, she thought it unlikely he would have done anything to help the poor woman. If he had, what would that lady make of Bella's century? Would she want out of a an age of electricity, supersonic flight, advanced high-tech medicine? Would she take one look at Ari and behave as Bella had done to Chandos, immediately succumb to his seductive charm? Bella put her quill aside as she considered one last thought. John de Chandos. He made every pheromone in her body sing. Just thinking about the smooth way he'd seduced her last night made her realize the man loved his wife very, very deeply. Considering all that Bella had learned, Lady Isabel hadn't deserved Sir John's loyal adoration. Sadly, Bella had to concluded there would be no way back to the future for her. Even if she were to successfully find the Well of Souls, Lady Isabel wouldn't still be on the other side to exchange places. The Wynfords would have moved on. Bella glanced at the open window, noting that twilight had finally come. The sun set much later in England than it did in Texas in the summer. She guessed the time to be nearing ten p.m. Only Clarise had come up to check on Bella since she had retired to her tower. The servant had thoughtfully brought a supper tray. Bella found that action, telling. Kings, she knew, had the power to banish unruly subjects. For the duration of Edward's visit, Bella could very well have to remain under house arrest. Bella sighed. She supposed that military organizations from time immemorial had found wives thorns in their sides. This was her first experience at that, but she had some skill to fall back on from being a long-time corporate wife. There were similarities. A polite knock on the door brought Bella out of her reveries. She bid the caller come in. Aristotle preceded Robin inside the room. The cat bounded to her lap. Robin came more slowly. He appeared solemn as a tomb effigy and bowed elegantly before Bella. "I have been sent as an ambassador to speak with you, madame." Bella studied him gravely. He wore what she was certain was his finest tunic, a deep rich black velvet with gold piping down its fitted length. Holding his mantle in place was an exquisite broach, combining his father's devise a Templar's patte cross with the Rose of Lorraine. "Why is that, Robin?"

"Father wishes to know if you desire to come to the hall and greet our guests." "Does he?" Bella's brow tightened. "What kind of a question is that? Is that what he specifically bid you to ask? Or is there more and you are not saying it?" "Aye, there is more, madame. There are conditions that must be met before you may join the company."

"Conditions? Why were you sent to speak of this with me? Why hasn't Sir John come himself?" Robin looked very uncomfortable after she'd asked that. He cleared his throat then said, "King Edward insists you not be coerced into meeting his conditions. You must submit to him of your own free will." "What then, pray tell me, must I do to go freely in my own house?" "No more than what every soul in the land does, Maman. You must swear fealty to the king." Robin bowed gracefully. "I see." Bella raised her chin. "Nicely done, Robin. A parry and a tease to pique my interest then a thrust straight to the heart. I see why your father praises your smooth tongue." "Maman, s'il vous plait...." "No, no." Bella held up her hands, stopping his flow of persuasion. "Tell me, Robin, what price does this king of yours demand for peace? Do I abase myself by crawling naked into the hall on my hands and knees? Will he be satisfied with sackcloth and ashes? Or is he as proud a man as your papa is and will not settle for less than first blood? Just what will appease this king of yours?" "Madame." Robin blanched. "Tell me," Bella demanded. The tall young man before her was too proud to lower his own head before her. "Aye, you must go down on your knees before the king. And you must put your hands in his and pledge everything you hold dear over to him. Is it so difficult, Maman? Did you not do the same before Papa? Beg his forgiveness yesterday?" The air in her bedchamber fairly crackled as his words torched Bella's fiery temper. "You know nothing about that, young man. Not one blessed thing." She added heatedly, And it is not over between your father and me." Robin drew himself up tall, his pride stung. "Is that the message you wish me to take back to the hall?" Bella's hands twisted into tight fists in her lap. She glared at her hands for a long moment, thinking what she should do. Never mind the fact that she was not of this era where a king held the ultimate power of life and death over all his subjects. She couldn't argue he had no power over her because his rule was the law of England. American citizenship was of no consequence in this day or age. So long as she stood on English soil, the king could affect her. What to do? What to say to this boy acting as His Majesty's messenger? "Robin, tell me this, if I do not agree to this swearing, what consequence will be levied on your Papa?" "We all pray to God there are none, but who can say what a king will do today or tomorrow?" Those were wise words of caution from one so young. But what, dear God, should she do? Yesterday, Bella could have recited every king of England if she

wanted to, but what did she know about the lives of their subjects? Even facts she had once had committed so firmly in mind were hazy now. That could be because she was feeling stressed. The past twenty-four hours had been the most chaotic and traumatic of her life. She finally found the fact she was seeking. The next king would be Richard, a son of the Black Prince. Edward the Third would hold the throne of England for another generation at least. Forcing her hands to flatten against her thighs, she said to Robin, "Go and tell your king I will come down in my own good time, but when I do, I will swear fealty to him. Then go to your father when you can and tell him I do this for him and for you and Geoffrey and Henri." Robin brought his heels together and bowed deeply to her. "I will do as you say, Maman." "Robin, one more thing." "Yes, Maman?" "What should I wear?" At that question, Robin dropped to his knees before her, throwing his arms around her waist, hugging her as tightly as little Henri had done the night before. Bella patted his shoulders, comforting him, realizing that this had been a most important subject to him, who his mother recognized as king. Bella bent her head low over his dark head and told him, "Robin, you must do one more thing. There are men here, sworn to your Maman. I must speak with them privately before I do this thing before the king. Can you ask them to meet me outside the doors of the hall?" "Yes, I will." He raised his head and kissed her cheek. "You may not know how brave a woman you are, Maman, but I know it. I will never forget it, either." "I will need every scrap of courage I can find to do this," Bella said, smiling for him. "I will be there with you, Maman, always."

BOOK TWO

Blessed be the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. ST. MATTHEW 5:9

DEJA VU

-11-

Clarise came back shortly after Robin departed. Between the two women, they looked over every garment of Lady Isabel's wardrobe with very critical eyes. Queen Phillipa and her court had come, as well as five of the king and queen's children. With that many in the royal party, both the east and north towers had been given to them to house all the people. Clarise assured Bella that was acceptable. Bella couldn't believe she and Sir John were not giving up their bed. Clarise revealed if it was only the king they would have, but the queen travelled with her own bed always. She also like the East tower and having her brood of children with her.

Bella was interested in meeting this queen who later in her life would hold her own in the Peasant's Revolt. And she was curious about the son John of Gault that Shakespeare had treated reverently in the play Richard the II. With those thoughts in mind, she went through the rigors of dressing easier. She was worried, though. Both she and Clarise settled for a white, full-skirted kirtle edged with bands of scarlet ribbons on the hem. It had a loose neckline, which was good, because that allowed Bella to expose her shoulders. Shoulders, she thought, were elegant. A lot of cleavage might be good for tempting a man, but not so good for flaunting before a king. Shoulders were a good compromise. Over that Clarise tightened the laces of a never-worn, black velvet bliault similar in design to the green gown Bella had worn last evening. This gown was made specifically for exposing shoulders, having a wide boat neckline. It was edged by golden piping to enhance the long lines of the gown. The bliault opened from midthigh down. Bella intended that the kirtle with its scarlet ribbons would underscore the House of Chandos colors with those of Saint Pierre. Bella discovered she was becoming rather protective of her French antecedents. The gown was a good compromise. She hoped the king was smart enough to see it. The only thing she did not like about the outfit was the profusion of embroidered gold roses clustered across the hem. She feared that somewhere in this amazing complex there was a clutch of little women going blind, sewing roses on bolts and bolts of cloth. "You look beautiful." Clarise beamed as she put down the hair brush and stepped back to admire Bella's gown. "The question is, do I look penitent?" "No," said the Englishwoman. "Well, at least you are honest, Clarise." "God speed, my lady." I'm sure He will, Bella thought as she made her way to the door. Aristotle padded after her. "Not this time, old man." She told him and left him shut behind the door. There were, she discovered downstairs, four knights sworn personally to her. Standing behind them were twelve men-at-arms, eight pages, and twice that many squires. That was very daunting. They closed ranks around her in an anteroom outside of the hall and Bella explained what she was going to do and why. For her husband and her sons. She saw relief ease the features of most of the men. Those who could not accept what she was doing, she promised to do what she had promised the French cooks, to gain their release from Sir John's service and leave to return to the house of Saint Pierre in France. To a man they agreed to those terms.

Last, she turned to the oldest of the knights, assuming correctly that Sir Neville, as the most senior, was their captain, so to speak. "Now, how shall we do this? With trumpets blasting and ceremony or shall I just walk down the length of the hall and prostrate myself before King Edward begging for mercy?" Bella was trying to be cheeky to bring some sort of levity to this grim situation. Sir Neville dropped to his knee before her, clasping her trembling hand. "My lady, where you swear, I shall swear. My life and my sword have been in your service since the day you left your father's house. I will not desert you for some paltry disagreements between kings. Kings come and kings go on both sides of the channel. Great ladies and noble men are few and far between." Since Bella had done nothing to win such undying admiration she was greatly impressed by Sir Neville. All but one knight gave her the same pledge. The squires and pages posed a much greater quandary. The young men and boys were nearly all St. Pierre cousins, fostered to further their education toward knighthood in John de Chandos' house. There was no way for Bella to know what was best for them. She asked that they wait until this could all be sorted out more on the morrow. In other words, she was deferring responsibility for them to Sir John. Once this was organized, order came back to the ranks, a herald was alerted inside the hall, and a crier announced, "Your majesties, lords, ladies and all assembled here tonight, the Contessa Isabella de Saint Pierre, Lady of the house of Chandos, and princess of the ancient and honorable kingdoms of Lotharinga and Merovia." That was impressive, Bella thought as she approached the steps to the hall. She should have had the crier add her degrees. Keeping her thoughts irreverent helped as the sea of people formed an aisle from the doors to the raised dais at the far end of the hall. The room was hazy from all the torches blazing to give it light. Bella fixed her eyes on a spot above the throne chair at the center of the dais. There were a gaggle of children up there with the adults and she didn't recognize anyone. It was a blur. That almost made her laugh. Here it was, the most important and awesome moment in her life and she wanted to giggle and squint. A daunting hush had fallen over the crowd. Bella could hear the cadence of her men trooping behind her. She got a glimpse of the tonsured head of Father Kerwin and hoped he had changed his robe so the king would not be offended by the smell of sewage. Kerwin's knees were probably rattling as noisily as his beads, fearing what words she'd say next. Then the three steps to the dais were before her. As gracefully as she could, Bella curtsied to the floor, bowed her head and waited. She hoped Sir Neville would make sure no one cut off her head. A low murmur swept from one end of the hall to the other like a wave cheer at a football stadium, but softer. "What purpose is this show of arms, Bella of Chandos?"

A deep voice barreled at her from the throne chair. "I am unarmed." Bella held out her empty hands. She hadn't even worn the expected girdle with its jeweled scabbard for her own eating knife. She took a deep breath, raised her chin, and dared to look up at the king. Her heart lurched into her throat. Edward Plantagenet was a throwback to the sixties, blond, surfer blond with flaxen curls draping onto to his shoulders. His eyes were a blue she knew intimately well. His long face bore that high forehead above eyes that glinted with a lean, hungry salesman's qualifier. Ari! Bella's arms dropped to her sides. She lost all ability to speak, flabbergasted, stupefied, and numb. King Edward the Third rose from his seat and fitted his fists to his hips, flaring out the scarlet velvet and ermine draped cloak that swung from his shoulders. "Your men are armed." His deep voice thundered to the rafters. "Dare you draw swords against the King of England?" Heaven help me, Bella gasped. Every knight in the hall stepped forward to protect their king. The scrape of steel cut the air. Chandos and the neanderthal that had stubbornly remained mute at her left side during breakfast, James Graham, both had drawn dangerous, glinting and polished double-edged broad swords. The blades crossed, barring Bella's access to the king. The light reflected from that sweep of steel nearly blinded her. She looked up at King Edward, trying to find her voice, and inhaled once, twice, then let all the words out she could find. "Your Majesty, I have come surrendering all the defense I have to swear fealty to you. The men who stand behind me have their swords unsheathed to yield them to you. Those of my household who could not in all faith give you that pledge, I beg for mercy and kindness from you. Give them time to put their affairs in order with my husband, John de Chandos, and grant them leave to return to France. We are at your mercy, Edward, King of England." Bella closed her eyes. She was hallucinating. Had to be. She opened them again and the man with Ari's face had not moved. He favored the same style of drooping mustache John Chandos did. But that arrogant Roman nose and the shape of his long, handsome face...it was eerie. Her skin prickled down her spine. King Edward waved aside the swords that had been drawn in his protection. His eyes were colder than any human's should ever be, hard, ruthless and unforgiving. He held his hands out for hers. Bella's palms were cold and trembling. She placed her hands in his and felt heat so familiar, but not comforting. "Swear," he commanded.

Bella's mouth sagged open. She hadn't the foggiest idea what to say. The only oath she could think of was the American Pledge of Allegiance. She swallowed hard. "I, Isabel Saint Pierre...Chandos, pledge allegiance to...you, Edward, King of England. All I value and hold dear, I surrender to your justice, imploring that you keep abiding faith with me from this moment forward. I do so swear before God Almighty." She felt his hot-cold hands compress hers together. She could offer no more. Was it enough? "I, Edward, King of England and France, accept from you, Isabella Chandos, your pledge of fealty and service to my realm. So long as you honor your pledge between us, I will protect your house, your lands and properties. As I prosper so shall you. Do you foreswear your oath, I will break you, crush everything you hold dear and obliterate the house of Saint Pierre from the face of this earth. I do so swear before God Almighty. Rise." She couldn't. It wasn't in her. Sir Neville caught her arm, steadying her. Bella heard the scrape of steel on steel. John Chandos had put away his sword and wordlessly offered her his arm. Grim-faced, Bella took his assistance, knowing without it, she'd have crashed face first to the floor.

CRY WOE, DESTRUCTION, RUIN AND DECAYTHE WORST IS DEATH, AND DEATH WILL HAVE HIS DAY. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

-12-

Bella figured it would be a good while before Chandos Enceinte hosted another spectacle such as the one in which she had just participated. She was shaken to her toes by it. Sir John deposited her on stool at the edge of dais and returned to the king. A page offered Bella a choice of drinks. This time she accepted the foamy ale even though she knew it had the alcoholic equivalent of a kick of by a mule. Ten relatively quiet minutes passed while each of Bella's household knights knelt before the King of

England and pledged his sword and life to that man's crown. Before the last had gained his feet, from the back of the hall came a great fanfare of trumpets. "Your Majesties, dukes, earls, and barons, now comes Sir Walter Manny from the siege at La Roche in Brittany with news of the noble defense of Lord de Montfort's holding in Normandy," a herald cried. A knight in full battle regalia strode into the hall, followed by two squires carrying his banners. The tall staffs allowed the silk standards to stream behind their handsome heads as they advanced. The hall was already ablaze with the colors of each noble guest gathered under Sir John's roof. None were more resplendent or beautiful than Edward's standard of the gold lion rampant quartered by the fleur de lis. Sir Walter Manny brought another hue to the glittering show, a battle-battered green field and a crimson flame- breathing griffin. The pleased roar from the crowd that greeted this man completely upstaged the drama of Bella's oath of allegiance. A grinning King Edward descended from the dais as Sir Walter handed over his shield to a squire, removed his helm, tucked it underneath his arm and fell to his knees. "Your Majesty, your humble servant." Sir Walter drew his sword and presented it handle up in supplication to the king. "Rise, Walter. What news bring you?" Edward's arms opened to receive the knight, waving aside the sword and bestowed upon Walter Manny kisses of peace and welcome. Bella thought to herself, so that's how its done, and she strained on tiptoe to watch as the king aided the fully armored knight back onto his feet. Sir Walter introduced the two squires that had carried his standards to the king. Bella caught the names of the young men, Robert Knollys and one Hugh Caveley. She was greatly impressed by their manners and the humility these battle-toughened men displayed before King Edward, dropping to their knees before him, and kissing the signet ring on the king's hand. And she had squirmed for over an hour about what she'd had to do. Chagrinned, Bella listened closely to their conversation. Sir Walter it became evidently clear, was involved in serious confrontations in Brittany and sought aid to swing the tide of battle his way. "My lord king, the news across the channel is grim. La Roche is laid down for siege. Also, your brave Lady de Montfort grows exceeding pressed to keep Lord John's holdings in Normandy safe from the army of Charles of Blois. We need more men, more soldiers to hold the provinces for you." "Lady, a word with you." Someone touched Bella's arm drawing her rapt attention from the spectacle before the king. Annoyed, Bella swung around to find the chef, Jean-Pierre tugging on her sleeve. "What is it?" she asked baldly. "Forgive me, my lady. I pray you have not forgotten your promise to those of us in the kitchen." Jean-Pierre's wreath of silvery curls clung damply to his worried brow. "We have just heard in the kitchen you swore allegiance to the English king. What will become of us, Madame?"

"That was fast," Bella exclaimed, exasperated by the speed gossip had travelled from the hall to the kitchen. "What's your mode of getting news flashes? Kettle drums?" The chef hadn't a clue about what she was talking about. He dashed the sweat off his face and said, "Quelle dit?" "Jean-Pierre, I have not forgotten my pledge to you," Bella answered honestly, though she felt harried by his intrusion. She glanced back at the king and Sir Walter wanting to know exactly what they were discussing. "Your position in England is not a concern of the king. I will have to speak to Sir John about releasing you to return to France." "Ah, I see." Jean-Pierre's head bobbed. "You will do that...c'est soir, oui?" "Tonight?" Bella looked to find Chandos. He was in the heart of the king's circle. She took a deep breath. "I don't know that I will have the chance, tonight. But, I will give it my best shot." "I do not understand, contessa." Jean-Pierre's cheeks flushed darkly. "You must do this now...maintenant, vite, vite!" "I don't think now is a good time to ask anything of Sir John. Maybe in the morning. I'll let you know as soon as I do have an answer for you." As she turned away, the man put his hand on Bella's arm again. "Contessa." This time Bella almost shouted, what? She was most anxious to know what was going on in Normandy. "Yes?" "Contessa, please, I needs must speak with you in private." "About what, for heaven's sake?" Bella said in outright frustration. The voices in the king's group were becoming heated and passionate and she was missing all of it. She mentally groaned. If it was treason to speak the name of Simon de Montfort, who in all of creation was the Lord de Monfort Sir Walter had spoken of? "Votre fils, madame." "The boys?" Bella exhaled exasperated. "What about them?" Bella tried very hard to focus completely on the cook, but with a room seething with rising levels of testosterone as a whole collection of Alpha males made the grunting sounds of men committing their energies to war, the pastry chef somehow lost his importance. Bella wasn't giving him her full attention. How could she? There was too much happening and his timing was deplorable. "Look, ah, Jean-Pierre, I will come to the kitchen immediately after breakfast tomorrow." "Contessa, tomorrow your father, Comte Eustace, attends market at Winchelsea. I have worked for you too long not to know you will spend the whole day with your papa. It is the perfect opportunity for Monique and I to return to France. You must speak to Lord Chandos tonight. If you do not, I do not know what my wife will feel compelled to do."

"Are you saying you're quitting?" Bella blinked, but her mind had honed in on the facts he'd just given her. Lady Chandos' father would be in England on the morrow. Wouldn't it behove Bella to meet that man? What if her intuition was wrong and Lady Isabel had escaped England to the safety of her father's home in France? God, she was so ignorant of the facts! Bella pulled Jean-Pierre out of the crowd on the dais. She phrased her next words with care. "Jean, can you show me the way to Winchelsea on the morrow?" "Show you the way, milady?" He looked astonished by her request. "Of course. I would be honored to do that, milady." "And I would want to stop at St. Martin's Priory." Bella thought fast. "We could do all of that easily...under the guise of buying stuff for the larders. I like it." "Ah, I see." Jean-Pierre smiled. He caught hold of her hand and bent over, kissing it repeatedly. "Le Comte du Saint Pierre is the most generous of fathers, milady. He will indulge your slightest whim. I would be most delighted to escort you to the market in Winchelsea on the morrow." "Excellent." Bella extracted her hand from underneath his smacking lips. Enough already. "I will have everything in readiness for le jeune fils anniversaire." "Great," Bella said, enamored by the idea that she could find out the truth about Lady Isobel. The intrigue of King Edward's court paled in comparison to Bella's real situation. Isabel de Chandos didn't have to be dead, just because Bella had experienced this confusing bolt through time. There were other possibilities. Distracted, Bella heard Jean-Pierre's last words belatedly. But the words did not come clear in the noise of the hall. "What did you say about the boys? I missed that." "It was nothing, milady. I won't trouble you any more. God bless you. Monique and I shall be ready first thing in the morning." As the chef retreated behind the service screen at the back of the hall, Bella calculated the odds that Chandos would allow her the freedom to come and go from his castle at will. She didn't think they were favorable, which meant she might have to do so without informing him of her plans. A distasteful shudder whipped across her spine. The matter deserved serious thought before she attempted anything foolish. Shortly, the formalities of meeting a queen and several princesses took precedence over Bella's impromptu plans for the morrow. It was quite some time before Bella thought of Jean-Pierre again. What was it he'd muttered about the boys? God, she wished her French wasn't so rusty. Why did she have the nagging, uneasy feeling one of them was in some sort of danger? While the queen and her court chattered around her, Bella began looking around the hall, trying to locate each of Sir John's sons. Her heart began to knock inside her chest. Geoffrey, Henri and Robin had disappeared... vanished without a trace.

NO REST FOR THE WEARY

-13-

The moment she could break away from the queen, Bella sought Sir John, making as straight a path through the crowd to him as she could. Shaken by the increasing alarm welling inside her, Bella went for the only security available to her in this crazy, mixed up world. The blasted English had lapsed into hard to follow Norman-French used among the ranking nobles. Bella had great difficulty with that idiomatic mixture that was far removed from her grandparents antiquated dialect. She gave up trying to keep up with the king's conversation. She didn't think Sir John even noticed she was at his side, so intent was he on what the king and Walter Manny were discussing. Bella moved closer to Sir John. She tucked her fingers under a link of his scabbard belt. She needed a human connection as reassurance that she was safe, because now that one hostile thought had entered her brain, she was seeing villains and enemies in every quadrant of the hall. Bella recognized that as paranoia, but she allowed that she had good reason for feeling that way. Just who in this crowded, noisy world could she really, truly trust? The trouble with asking that question was admitting the answer. No one. Not even Sir John. Yet, she felt reasonably certain that he would not allow anyone to harm her overtly. If anyone was going to lay a hand on her, it would be he doing the deed. He's already proven he had that sort of mindset. Her older brothers had been the same way when she was a kid growing up. They could pick on her, but in public no one else could. She could not shake her uneasiness. She did not know if his three sons were safe. Her fingers tightened on the precious metal and embossed leather as she strained her eyes searching the crowd for a head of coppery curls as well as two raven haired boys. Relief flooded inside her when she located Henri and Geoffrey in a pack of princes. They were hooping it up, having a ball with boys of nearly the same ages as they. Robin was no where to be seen. Sir John's arm circled her back. His palm firmed against her hip, drawing her against his side. It was a small, possessive gesture, one that reassured her greatly. She leaned against him, one hand resting lightly on his chest, the other tucked behind a link in his jeweled belt. Still her head swivelled about like an owl's in the continued hunt for the eldest and missing son. Some time passed before Sir John directed his full attention to her. By then Bella's side was flush against his body, perfectly comfortable, too. The fingers of his right hand made contact with her chin, drawing her searching eyes away from the crowded hall to meet his. "'Tis late, Bella. The day has been long and it is time you retired." "We've got to talk, privately, Chandos," Bella told him assertively. Where in the hell was Robin?

Sir John brought his forefinger to the tip of her nose, touching it lightly. "To bed, Bella. All the ladies are waiting for you to withdraw so they may. 'Tis men's business afoot here this eve." "But I've got to talk to you, now. It's important." "Bella." Though he said only her name, the implied command was perfectly clear. Bella nodded acceptance, but she remained concerned for Robin, the one son she could not locate. She made her abeyance to Sir John and the king and moved to the group of young children, taking charge of Henri and Geoffrey. Queen Phillipa joined her almost immediately and directed her sons Lionel, Edmund and John of Gaunt to get themselves out of the hall ahead of her. Linking arms with Bella, the Queen bestowed an indulgent smile on the back of the five youngsters heads. "I am pleased to see you looking so hale and hearty, Lady Chandos." Phillipa inclined her coifed head. Her brows were pale as her eyelashes and Bella had no doubt the queen was as blond as blond could be beneath her ornately embroidered coif. "I must say it relieved me greatly to see you make your peace with Edward. You look no worse for the wear. I hope Sir John was not exceedingly harsh on you." Bella's shoulders lifted casually. She did not look at the queen as they exited from the bedlam of the hall. She was no more likely to discuss her private life in this place with the queen than she was with the cleric, Father Kerwin. Let them say what they would, Bella knew when to keep her own counsel. The children's caretakers swooped down like loyal vultures, fussing and picking apart soiled waistcoats and missing buttons, patting careworn hands on precious young and sweaty heads. It was late and the five boys made only token protests about being sent off to bed. They ended up making promises about what games they would play on the morrow, hearty agreement over spending the whole next day in each others' company. Bella turned to the queen. "I was told you preferred Sir John and I not give up our bed. Are you certain of that, your majesty? I would see that your comforts are not lacking in this household." "And I still prefer my own bed next to anyone else's, Lady Bella. I come prepared, always, in spite of Edward's complaints about how long my baggage train is. The king and I will be most comfortable in the East Tower." Phillipa of Hainault reminded Bella of the simple country wives of Castroville; energetic, kind and compassionate. She had several inches on Bella in height and her figure could be most kindly described as lush. She embraced Bella at the landing outside of the bartizan that lead to the Chandos family living quarters above the hall. "Go now, get a good night's sleep. We will have time to console one another on the morrow." With that said, Phillipa kissed Bella's cheek, then gathered up her trailing hems and swept outdoors to cross the ward. Clarise appeared from the fringes of the crowd of servants who watched the revelry from various landings asking, "Do you wish water drawn for a bath, milady?"

"No." Bella shook her head, realizing now how very tired she actually was. Every minute of this day had been full and busy. Henri sprawled at the foot of the stairs with his mouth twisted in a pout. "What is the matter with you?" "Prince Edmund asked to see my puppy," he complained. "You spoiled it. It's too soon to go to bed, Maman. There's plenty of time to be used to play tonight." "And more tomorrow, little man." Bella reached down and picked him up. He wiggled against her stubbornly for a moment then threw his little arms around her neck. "John Gault has his own pony. I don't. Why hasn't Papa given me a horse? I'm not too little. I'm tall and strong. Gunni Douglas says so." Bella shifted the boy onto her hip and continued up the twisting stairs. "Have you told your Papa you want a horse?" Henri gave that question some thought while he twisted sticky fingers in Bella's curls. "No, but if I am to be a knight, it is not too soon to begin training a pony. I could teach my puppy at the same time. Will you ask Papa to give me a pony of my very own?" "Tell me this, does Geoffrey have a pony?" "Oh, yes, he has had one forever. Robin's got a destrier. Robin has his own suit of armor and a sword." "I see." Bella nodded. They were at the top of the steps now and the solar was well lighted. Bella turned into that blind hallway she'd encountered the night before. Henri's nanny waited to take charge of the little boy at the door of the chamber he shared with Geoffrey. "Do you think it would make any difference if I ask your Papa to give you a horse or if you ask him?" "You should ask him," Henri said solemnly. "Papa never tells you no." "Oh?" Bella couldn't hold back the expression of surprise that response gave her. Little boys weren't very perceptive. "I will be five very soon," Henri put his fingers against Bella's cheek, patting her. "I would promise to be very thankful." "We shall see, hm?" Bella kissed him and said good night, reluctantly handing him over to Meggie. She would have gladly enjoyed the task of bathing the child, getting him ready for bed and tucking him in. That, however, was not the way things worked in this household. "We have a busy day tomorrow, Henri. Sleep well." "Yes, Maman. Will you ask Papa tonight and then tell me what he says at table on the morrow?" "I will add your request to my list," Bella promised him. Her list of problems gathered from the castle for Sir John to solve was growing lengthier by the minute. That did not even begin to touch Bella's reservations. Not that she was going to address any of those to him again. No sirree, not by a damned sight would she bring up the fact that she didn't belong here, didn't have the foggiest idea how to handle the management of a household of this size, and did not want to

push onto that autocrat her educated, modern beliefs about proper parenting and suitable activities for growing boys! Nope! Those powder kegs would stay untouched by her intrusion in domains where she didn't belong. Bella dismissed Clarise just as soon as humanly possible. She did not want to gossip over how spoiled the young princes were or how lucky the queen was to be married to the all powerful king. Euch! Bella snagged a boar bristle brush through her hair, glad for the peace and tranquility of her own room. It would have been sufficient to soothe her if she didn't have worrying over Robin's whereabouts plaguing her. She hoped Sir John would spend the whole night kissing the king's ass. She could use the rest. Angry because the fates had tossed her into this nightmare she didn't know how to handle, Bella threw herself in bed and lay there wide awake and worrying, glaring at the convoluted folds of the canopy. The night was sultry as any summer night would be after so much rain. The nubbly cotton of her nightgown chaffed her skin. For the first time since rising from her nap, Bella allowed herself to feel the various aches and tenderness caused by bouts of violent lovemaking, one of which included last night's gymnastic on the hard floor. She didn't think she'd been this sore since the night she'd given up her virginity in the backseat of a Ford Mustang. John Chandos' expertise had left her reeling. His tempestuous nature left her aching. Sustaining the high dudgeon necessary for a long term battle of wills wasn't her best suit. She'd come down to breakfast this morning in high dudgeon and by the time he'd brought her upstairs after lunch, she'd rolled over and was actively looking for some means to establish peace between them. She wondered if that was a character flaw. She'd never been much for arguments or jealous rages. With Ari's flagrant affairs, she'd learned to ignore his infidelities. Ignoring had lead to indifference, not so much on her part, but on his. It all came down to the fact that she'd rather be a friend than a foe. With a dominant alpha male like Sir John, the winner conquered all and the loser just might as well prepare to cry surrender. The only way not to lose was to switch roles and become a peacemaker instead of an antagonist. That was Bella's plan. She twisted restlessly on the bed--wide awake, wishing she had the nerve to shed the nightgown and sleep in the raw. Sleeves on a summer nightgown were as useful as warts on frogs. They served no purpose whatsoever. She forced herself to lay still, willing sleep to come, but it wouldn't. The whole day kept looping in her mind, upheaval followed shock waves. Her emotions were taking the wildest roller coaster ride ever devised. Right this moment, she wanted to press her hands over her ears and scream, scream, scream. Too many to count. Sleep was not one of her options.

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

-14-

Bella got up, dug around in the wardrobe for what she hoped was a robe. She tried on the dark wine-colored velvet garment, folded the bodice over her chest and fastened the sash belt at her waist. It was heavier than she liked, but would do. She slipped her feet into slippers then peeked into the solar. Aristotle was asleep in the lord's high-back chair. There wasn't a peep coming from the children's rooms. Bella tiptoed down the bartizan stairwell. The doors of the hall had been closed and two soldiers with pikes stood guard. They were wearing household livery, so Bella merely nodded to them as she passed through the anteroom on her way outdoors. A glance in the windows showed nearly fifty men remained secluded with the king, John Chandos among them. Fine, Bella thought. She crossed the ward to the south gatehouse, climbed the steps to the allure and there found a breeze at last. Something to cool down over and the solitude necessary to pull her wits together. Sir Neville gave Bella a sharp salute as she stepped onto the allure. "I am going to walk for a while," Bella told him. He did not question her, but simply stood aside and let her pass. It was one of those exquisitely clear nights when the heavens seem so close she could reach up her hands and touch the stars. The rising moon was very full and beautiful. It showered white light down on the barren glacis that fronted the south facing gate. Bella pitied any bastard fool enough to try to take this fortress. They wouldn't get within a hundred feet of the walls before some hawk-eyes archer picked them off. Bella leaned between the merlons, letting the breeze play in her hair, trying to sort out for herself where in this unfamiliar landscape she must have landed. Knowing she had arrived through this gate helped very little as she searched the rolling coastal hills for any landmark she might recognize. She thought the old Cluniac priory ought to look like a church with a spire and other markings, but Bella could see nothing familiar. For that matter she did not see another man made structure of any sort. The land was simply barren rocks, low hills and shallow valleys. That was disappointing. A rowdy group of riders approached from the west. Their noise could be heard for quite a distance. Bella caught their high spirits and laughter long before they came into her view, riding in from under the first gatehouse. She leaned out over the crenel looking down some forty feet at them and realized they were all boys, fifteen, sixteen, or possibly seventeen years of age. Two were so unsteady with drink they wobbled on their saddles. Two more had women riding pillion behind them, blowsy women, bar maids, she imagined. Did they have bar maids in this era?

Before she had time to consider her own question, one of the youths made himself known to her by raising his head toward the torchlight as he reached around to grab the woman riding behind him. He planted a smacking kiss on her laughing lips at the same time he fondled her voluptuous breasts. Robin Chandos! Bella heard her own breath hiss through her teeth. So that's where he had gotten himself off to! Gone whoring and drinking! At his age! What was his age? Fifteen at the most! And just what did a fifteen-year-old boy think he was going to do with that woman? She listened to the first of the three portcullis gates being raised then she made up her mind that this particular lascivious party was not going to continue one minute longer. She gathered her skirts and marched over to Sir Neville and ordered him not to raise the third portcullis. "My lady," he blustered, caught in the act of grinning indulgently at the rowdy boys. "We have to let them in. It's..." "I know perfectly well who it is," Bella announced sanctimoniously. God save me, she thought. What kind of a world is this? She'd spent the morning on her knees in the chapel grovelling before God for her ladyship's sins of disobedience, pride, arrogance and supposedly immoral behavior! Right! And she was going to stand here and allow a mere boy to bring a whore into the castle. Oh no, she wasn't. She didn't bother to waste those thoughts on Sir Neville. No, Bella had a more direct target in mind. She snatched up a bucket of rainwater and lugged it over to the crenels edging the allure. The five who were sober enough to still sit in their saddles passed a skin of wine between them. Their bawds asked for drinks as well. One large blond youth gallantly tipped the skin to the woman in his arms and squirted a stream at her that ran down her throat and into the rosy mounds of her breasts. Robin wheeled his horse around and impatiently hollered, "Ho, Sir Neville, open the gates in the name of Edward...." Bella let him get that much out before she tipped her bucket on its side and let the contents fall. She heard a howl that sounded very much like "prinz a waaallllleess! Shit. Who did that? Neville, you damned French bastard, show yourself!" One bawd howled a fluent curse. "Tell me, young man," Bella let the bucket fall next, not caring if it broke the boy's head. "Would you kiss your mother with that same filthy mouth?" "Mother?" Robin dashed the water from his eyes and looked up. His friends laughter died. "Madame? What are you doing there?" "Barring the gate, my son." The big boy with the bosomy woman circled behind Robin's horse and looked up with a wide drunken grin on his handsome face. He yanked a plumed hat off his pale head and swept it downward in a pretty bow. "Ah, my lady Chandos. 'Tis you who bars the gate to us, eh? How extraordinary. Does my lord father sanction your barring the gate to his eldest son? Does my godfather, Lord Chandos know you are here,

tormenting us poor lads by keeping us from our beds?" "Sir Neville, fetch me another bucket. It seems there's more than one loudmouth in this rowdy group. Only this time, dump a sack of quick lime into the bucket first. I know of more ways than one to set impudent young mouths to silence." "Mother, you wouldn't dare." "Oh, I wouldn't be so certain, Robin," Bella warned. "I suggest you take those ladies back where you got them, then come back and see if the gates will be opened for you. And one other thing, sober up. Else you'll not get in the gate at all." "Madame Chandos," the young blond giant with the gallant cap turned his face skyward, glaring up from the ground some forty feet below. "I demand you open the gates this very moment." "Yes, my pretty boy? How can I be of service to you?" Bella deliberately mocked his fine manners. "Do tell me, is not your own mother sleeping within this keep? Shall I wake her and bring her to the wall to see how you fare?" "Most certainly not!" The youth almost screamed. Bella laughed, not loud though. She didn't want the Prince of Wales to think she was mocking him. Sir Neville's mouth twitched beneath his speckled mustache. Bella winked at him and accepted the second bucket, setting it down on the stone crenel between the free standing merlons. Prince Edward backed his roan up immediately, not so far gone in his cups that he'd risk the drenching Robin had taken. "My lady, I shall endeavor to remember this." "Do that," Bella said with all the arrogance she could muster as well. "Now, run along, boys, and take those ladies back where you found them. And I will be certain to tell Father Kerwin of your intentions. Shame on you all." Two of the other youths drew their mounts back and when they looked up at Bella she realized they were none other than the two daring young squires Sir Manny had introduced to the king, Hugh Caveley and Robert Knollys. Bold fellows all, including Robin Chandos. There was a short conference staged on horseback while the drunken youths discussed their odds of waging a siege. They were in no condition to do anything to countermand Bella's order, so they wheeled their horses about and galloped through the outer gate as rowdy departing as they had been arriving. Bella handed Sir Neville back the bucket. He cocked a brow at her and she shrugged, smiling. "Sir Neville," Bella said, knowing she could trust this one man implicitly. "What can you tell me about St. Martin's Priory?" "St. Martin's?" He returned the heavy bucket to the spot where Bella had taken it. There was adequate moonlight for Bella to see the deep concern her question posed him. "'Tis said to be haunted, contessa. Why do you ask?" "Is that where I was found?"

"Milady, I was not among the searchers. I could not say and will not repeat idle gossip." "That's very gallant of you," Bella told him. "I guess I'm just curious. I don't have any recollection of being there, though both Geoffrey and Robin said they found me there, in some pit called the Well of Souls. I've never heard of it before." Sir Neville made no comment to that. Bella leaned against a crenel, gazing out across the rolling down. "Can it be seen from here?" "No, milady." Bella figured she'd get no better answers by probing further. Neville obviously had his reserves. "Well sir, I thank you for backing me up against the teenagers. Good night." Now that she knew Robin's whereabouts, Bella thought she might be able to go to sleep. She walked down the allure, descending the inner steps that dropped to the entrance of the manor. The king and his knights were still in conference in the hall. Bella said good night to the two sentinels manning the closed doors as she passed through to the bartizan. In her bed chamber, she kicked off her slippers, shed the robe, climbed into the high bed and sprawled belly down on the feather mattress. She gave some thought to the responsibility she found herself assuming for three growing boys, but was satisfied that she knew each one's whereabouts at the moment. She didn't think Robin Chandos would come to any harm in the company he kept. The Black Prince, Knollys and Caveley all had lived long illustrious lives and made numerous footnotes in history. She decided Robin Chandos was safe for this night. She closed her eyes and went to sleep and did not wake up until she felt a warm pair of hands tugging on her hem. Bella opened one eye. It amazed her how bright a dark bedroom could be when a silver candlestick holding five lit candles was placed on a bedside table. Squirming, because that pair of hands had become very intimate, Bella warned, "I'd advise you not to raise my hem one inch higher." Sir John's hands splayed across the crest of her hip bones. "'Tis high enough to suit me where it is, lady." His hair-roughened knees gripped her thighs as he leaned forward, caught her hair, swept it over her left shoulder and placed a kiss at the back of her neck. Bella brought her arms back to her body, pressing into the soft bed, twisting around as best she could, considering that he had her lower half well pinned already. "Shall we discuss this?" "Nay." His teeth skittered across the bare skin of her shoulder. The last thing John Chandos wanted to do was talk. Chandos could find no explanation for Bella's behavior this night in the hall either. She'd deliberately sought him out in the hall. She'd inched closer and closer as the evening wore on. She distracted his attention from the king. And why shouldn't she distract him and every man in his damned hall? That wild hair of hers flowed around her like tongues of fire licking on ice.

He had been stunned when Robin had told him his mother had capitulated and would swear fealty to King Edward. Chandos had not believed that. Isabella did nothing that did not suit her own purpose. The trumpets and herald were to be expected. The presence of her private guard was not. The gown she chose to wear shocked Sir John. In the presence of the King of England, Isabella Chandos had never worn anything but the colors of the royal House of Lorraine. In her veins ran the blood of the Merovingians and Charlemagne. She bore the legendary Merovingian birthmark, a red cross between her shoulder blades, as did each of Sir John's sons. She considered herself more regal than any king. Tonight, she had come to the dais bareheaded, devoid of jewels, and gowned in the black and white of the House of Chandos. Kneeling before King Edward, Bella had never looked more beautiful, alluring or achingly vulnerable. Her bared shoulders and exposed throat made her submission to the king appear to be a sacrifice--as if she was actually offering her head to the king. She had taken John Chandos' breath away. But he was not a fool. He knew her homage to Edward was a contrasted study of humility and defiance. Oh, she bent her will to the king like meadow grass gave in to the wind, exactly as she bent her will to Chandos. Beneath her soft white skin was finely tempered Damascus steel. Chandos knew better than to forget that. "I think we'd better talk." Bella advised him sweetly. "I'm not into rear assaults." "Nay." His right hand slipped under her arm and did away with the cord that did a poor job at best at keeping the gown on her shoulders. He hooked one finger in the coarse cotton and drew it down to her waist, baring breasts and shoulders. "I shall concentrate on your flanks." "No, don't concentrate on anything," Bella wiggled forcefully, gaining some advantage in turning around to face him. "We need to talk." "Nay." His mouth ran up her throat and teeth nipped at her ear lob. His warm breath made shivers erupt across her spine. Bella turned her head to lodge a serious protest and got no further than saying his name before his mouth covered hers. His grip upon her thighs loosened, allowing her to complete the turn to face him. Her nightgown was now nothing more than a hindering twist of fabric, completely bunched at her waist. The hard length of his body stretched over her, covering her. Bella discovered what purpose long sleeves on nightgowns served. With the gown pushed to her waist, a better pair of manacles could not be found. She was helpless against him, vulnerable to any assault he cared to deploy. Entrapped with his fingers plowed in her hair and his tongue delving deep in her mouth, Bella quickly forgot about that long agenda she'd put aside for him. She didn't care to think of anything beyond the hard length probing against her belly. Bella consciously made a cradle of her hips and legs. She had been aroused the moment she'd awakened by the feel of Chandos' rough palms skittering up her flesh.

He pulled his head back, breaking the fusion of their mouths and laid his moist brow on her shoulder. He slid his palm down her throat, cupping one breast, squeezing it gently with his thumb over the nipple, urging the bud to awaken to his touch. Bella wiggled her hands out of her sleeves and ran her palms up his arms, turning them over the firm mass of muscle covering the socket and ball joint, slowing as she touched the ridges she'd left in his skin the night before. She turned her head so that she could see his face, which was so close to her own she could go cross-eyed trying to look at his eyes. He concentrated only on the hardening bud of her nipple. His black brows were a flat line. His jaw scraped her other breast, the flesh of his shaved cheek as abrasive to tender skin as fine grit sand paper. That nipple puckered hard against him, making Bella groan from the exquisite pain-pleasure of it. "'Twas an interesting risk you took before the king, Bella," he said as he lifted his head and his mouth hovered over the abraded nipple. The other was far gone into his inflicted torment of rhythmic compression that sent wave after wave of tremors rippling into Bella's belly. "I did not think it a risk at the time. A duty, only." She gasped the last words out as his tongue flicked across the standing orb. Moistened by his tongue, it shrivelled wet and cold and turgid, a hard kernel in the soft fleshy mound of her breast. Bella laced her fingers behind his head, tightening the heels of her hands on the thick cords at the back of his neck. She blanked her mind of everything physical, stared at his distracted face and plunged into speech. "My lord, I have numerous things we must discuss. I am most concerned about Robin's activities." Not to be taken from his purpose, Sir John shook off her hands, catching her wrists and drawing them down to the mattress beside her head, imprisoned by his hands. "Robin is nearly a man grown and can take care of himself." Bella's heart skipped a beat, escalating to a quicker rhythm. Her mouth went completely dry as his mouth closed over her breast. God in heaven, I'm doing it again! she thought mindlessly. Surely, she could not deal with more stimulation than she'd already received. Her breasts were over-sensitive and tender as much from his devotion to them that afternoon and the night before as from that same agonizingly delicious attention this moment. Sir John raised his head and considered the other breast. "I need to go to Winchelsea, tomorrow. Jean-Pierre and Monique would accompany me." There, she'd said it. "Winchelsea, eh? And your chef and his harridan wife are capable of providing escort, are they? You will stay close to hearth and home on the morrow, lady. I will see to it." "No, I think otherwise...." Bella began a protest that was interrupted by the sudden and unexpected intrusion of Sir John's thickened rod into her sheath.

"I assure you, lady, the prospect of riding a horse anywhere on the morrow will not appeal at all when I am finished with you." Bella ceased trying to make headway with her agenda, preferring to enjoy the adjustments her body had to make to accommodate him. Then she brought her hands back up to his chorded neck and clasped her fingers behind his head. She cocked a brow and said huskily, "You are a very arrogant and possessive man, John de Chandos." "And you are a wife who conveniently forgets every lesson she is given."

WINCHEL BY THE SEA

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"Mother, is it true that red is the most magical color of all?" Prince Lionel battered his pony's sides with his stubby legs and cantered along side of Queen Phillipa's stately grey palfrey. "Why, of course, Lionel. 'Tis the color of blood and life itself. Why do you ask?" "Then why is Geoffrey's cloak scarlet and mine this ugly blue? I want to be magical, too." "Ah, I see." Queen Phillipa nodded, casting a smile toward Bella. She craned her neck from the other side of England's queen to keep track of this conversation. "Well, I don't think Geoffrey's scarlet cloak makes him more magical than you, Lion. Magic is something beyond the skills of little boys." "But Mother, I am not little. John is little and Edmund is nothing but a baby." Prince Lionel spoke with the blunt authority of ten years of age. "Still, you would have to do something very brave to become invested with magic," said his mother. She ignored his cocky banter designed to rile the feisty little brother riding in his mother's lap. "Then red would become your color, too." "I am not a baby." Prince Edmund took his thumb out of his mouth long enough to declare imperiously from the bow of his mother's saddle, "You're a piss-ant, Lionel." His elder brother stuck out his tongue, drove his heels into the pony and galloped ahead in the beautiful sunshine to catch up with Geoffrey and John. Bella rubbed the head of the small disappointed boy sitting on her own saddle in the same lowly position as Prince Edmund. Edmund was only three and thus very much a baby in Henri's eyes. Henri had yet to say a word to anyone, too great was his sorrow that his father had not presented him with a pony just

like Geoffrey's at breakfast. "Shall I tell you a story about a merrow, Henri?" Bella asked. "What's a merrow?" he asked. "Oh, that's what the Irish call a mermaid." "No." He ducked his chin lower, sulking. Bella sighed because little boy's pouts were so much like the sulks of grown men. She herself was exceedingly happy to be beyond the walls of Chandos Castle. Never mind the fact that his lordship, Sir John, had given her the darkest glower when the queen had announced to all concerned at the breakfast table that the ladies were treating the children to a day of surf and sand and summer play. Bella supposed the blame for the queen's brilliant idea would fall on her shoulders no matter what. The king and his knights were too busy for such dallying, but they made certain the ladies sallied forth with plenty of escort. At the back of this outlandish royal train rode seven not quite sober youths. Their manly pride had been well stung when they'd been routed out of bed bright and early and informed what duties they were heir to early this day. In between rode an assortment of Bella's and the queen's household guard. That was not even mentioning the flock of nannies, servants, ladies and maids-in-waiting who accompanied the queen where ever she went. So there was no lack of protection if the ladies needed a strong arm or two at the beach. Wryly, Bella told herself there was no lack of guardians to keep her under close watch as well. So this outing wouldn't result in her getting to the Well of Souls long enough to have a private look around to satisfy her questions. "I would listen to a story," Edmund chirped. Phillipa smiled. "Well, let me see." Bella gathered her thoughts. "Is it true?" the little prince asked. "Oh, yes, I expect so. It was told by a priest with a brogue so thick the words nearly fell like butter from his lips. But never you mind, I'll do my best to tell it the way I heard it." "Go on, then." Edmund wagged a magnanimous hand. Bella chuckled over the gesture that had obviously been learned at his father's knee. Henri lifted his chin the tiniest bit and cocked one ear toward Bella. She smiled for having gained his attention and went on to tell one of Iain's all time favorite stories. When she had finished, Henri tilted his little face up to ask, "Did Father Kerwin tell you that story? It sounds like one of his." "No." Bella ruffled his dark curls, glad to see the length of his lower lip decrease. "I am sad to say I have forgotten the story teller's name." "Do we have merrows in England?" he asked. "I don't know." Bella ignored Queen Phillipa's conspiratorial wink. "We shall have to look when we get to Winchelsea."

"Speaking of which, we are almost there," Phillipa leaned forward shouting a warning to Geoffrey, Lionel and John. They were riding pell mell for the bluffs, the smell of the sea thick in their noses. "We've picked the perfect morning for this, Lady Chandos." "I think you are right, Your Majesty," Bella agreed, privately regretting the loss of rubber bands to hold her hair firmly at the back of her head. A braid was fine so long as it stayed in place, but with the strong southerly breeze, that was becoming more impossible by the moment. Henri yawned, a product of enforced stillness. "There." Phillipa pointed over the edge of the bluff to a lovely chalk beach in a perfect cove. "It's been years since I picnicked here at Smuggler's Cove. Edward and I had the most marvelous time here once, completely alone we were for about two hours one evening. Then all hell broke lose when we were surprised by a small band of Calais pirates. What a coil that was." "So this really is a smuggler's cove?" Bella chuckled. "Well, to us...at the time...it was a lover's cove," the queen admitted. "However at the first sign of trouble, I learned the lesson that Edward's private guard can be very discreet in the way they shadow him. After the troubles with poor Edward the second, the English are a little more careful with my Edward. There have been times when I was glad for the assistance of captains like Walter Manny, James Graham and John Chandos." "They are good men?" "Aye, the best," Phillipa said gravely. "I had assumed we would be going into Winchelsea." Bella tried to keep her assumption light to deflect any suspicion from the queen. "No, too crowded, too much commerce. High market days make it a dreadful bore. No, no, this cove is perfect for the children and us to enjoy. Now, let's see. Which path do you think is the easiest down?" "That one, Maman." Edmund pointed to the steep incline down which Geoffrey, Lionel and John recklessly skidded their ponies. "No, I think this way." Phillipa chose a more sedate path through the salt grass and bracken to the beach. Hiding her disappointment that they were not going all the way to the coastal town, Bella followed. She took care where she let her mare step. Behind her the rest of the picnickers made their choices about which descents to the beach they favored. Soon enough, everyone had dismounted, the horses were hobbled and the bounty of pavilions, blankets, toweling and baskets were unpacked. Now that the beach was at their feet, Geoffrey, Lionel and John left a trail of discarded clothes in their wake, so great was their hurry to jump into the water. Edmund also couldn't get his clothes off fast enough, so his mother bent down to help him. But Henri plopped on the sand with his arms folded stubbornly over his chest. Bella just shook her head because she had seen that same stubborn pose and expression more times

now than she cared to count. Like father, like son, so the saying goes. "Don't you want to swim?" Bella asked him. "No. I want a pony. You promised me a pony." "And you will have one all in good time. But I cannot whip one up out of thin air. It is your father's decision when you are tall enough as well as strong enough to manage a pony of your own. If you want to sit and sulk, fine. So be it, but I am going to enjoy my day, little man." With that said, Bella left him sitting on the wet sand. The queen had settled on a blanket and was happily waving to the naked youngsters in the water, calling out warnings about going too deep or too far. Bella stood beside a laden wicker basket for a long minute, staring at the water, wishing for her neat lycra malliot. She wondered how scandalized these folk would be if she stripped off her clothes and tumbled into the water with the boys. "Makes me wish Edward hadn't insisted we bring the older lads," Phillipa voiced her similar wishes out loud, casting a glance at the clutch of sullen squires. Each had dismounted and now stared at the surf as if it was some foreign monstrosity liable to gobble them up body and soul. Bella swung around and looked at Robin. She dropped to her knees beside Phillipa, both of them swamped by yards of skirting and underskirts. "Well, my Queen, we could always suggest they take a sample of the hair of the dog that bit them and send them on to Winchelsea. Surely there is an alehouse in that town that will brighten their spirits." Phillipa's blue eyes sparkled at that suggestion. "You might just have something there." She looked up at the sky, judging the time by the sun. "Suppose I gave them till mid-afternoon to return and fetch us safely back to Chandos. Would that would keep you in your lord's good graces?" "Nothing on earth will accomplish that, my lady," Bella answered honestly. "Nonsense." Phillipa raised her hand and called a servant to fetch Prince Edward to her. The Prince of Wales sauntered forth from the clutch of bosom-buddy scallywags Robin had elected to spend his sixteenth birthday with. He stopped at the edge of the blanket his mother sat on, folded his arm across his lean belly and bowed. "Ah, Edward, a moment with you, my lord." Bella noted that the queen addressed Prince Edward as my lord, not my son. The young prince did not look nearly so rakish in the light of day as he had in the torchlight below the gatehouse last night. He was a tall, strapping lad, handsome as both his parents and a bit too solemn to Bella's frame of mind. "Mother, my Lady Chandos, how may I serve you?"

"Do you care to swim with the boys, Edward dear?" Bella watched his face with great curiosity. He looked affronted. "Mother, I am no longer a child." To Bella's way of thinking he wasn't a man yet, either. She thought she preferred her own world where young men of his age remained school boys, sheltered and protected from the world at large. This young man seemed all too conscious of who he was and what his obligations to his country were. Like Robin Chandos, he viewed himself a man grown already. "Ah we-ell," the queen complained. "Lady Chandos, your sisters and I had hoped to enjoy the pleasure of the water ourselves, and the boys of course, as when you were a mite younger. Do you remember, Edward?" He glanced at the five young boys, four cavorting in the water naked as the days they were born, the other building a castle and moat in the sand. Bella watched a smile crinkle Edward's eyes and turn up the corner of his lovely mouth. "Oh, yes. I remember." "I see." Phillipa reached down to her feet, unlacing embroidered slippers. "We ladies can't really enjoy ourselves with all you frisky young men about, now can we? Think you what your father would say." At that Edward snorted. He dropped to his knee before his mother and put his own fingers to good use untying the knots in the ribbons that held her shoes fastened about her ankles. While his hands were so engaged, he cast a telling look up at Bella. "I doubt if what my father would say would hold a candle to the lecture my godfather would belabor me with. Lady Chandos, do you also require I take my companions elsewhere?" "Well," Bella stalled. She glanced at Robin who could be so toweringly cold and disdainful. She couldn't swim if he was about. He made her much too self-conscious. "Yes," she answered the prince. "But I wouldn't want you or your companions to get yourself in any trouble." "You have my word, Madame, we will be the soul of discretion, every one." "Then I bid you good morning, my lord." "Edward," his mother cautioned. "Be back for us well before mid-afternoon. We will have had plenty of sun and our fill of sand by then. And no trouble, understand me?" "Yes, Maman." The prince tossed her shoes onto the blanket then leaned forward and kissed his mother's brow. "Ah, now, all we have to do is wait for the tent," Phillipa announced after the older boys had galloped off down the beach toward Winchelsea. There were still six knights to be dealt with. However, when the Queen expressed her desire to swim, they separated the cove into four strategic points to guard and the menfolk scattered, leaving the ladies, the youngsters and their score of servants to their privacy.

Just like that, at the wave of Phillipa's powerful hand, she and Bella practically had the beach to themselves. "Did you by any chance think to bring another cotte?" "Yes." Bella grinned as she stripped off her heavy bliault under the shade of the queen's colorful silk awning. "I have always tried to live by the motto, Be prepared. Your Majesty, how far is Winchelsea?" Phillipa squinted to the east. "Maybe a quarter hour's ride further down the beach, not over that." "I see." Bella assimilated that information as she carefully folded her bliault. "Why do you ask?" "Well." Bella sat back on her heels, studying Henri. Then she looked back at the queen of England and smiled. "There is this little boy who longs for a pony of his own, you see." "Ah, yes, I understand perfectly. Say not another word." Dimples flashed in the queen's plump cheeks. "Nap time will come shortly, I warrant." Phillipa gathered up the hem of her cotte, knotted it about her ample white hips and went racing to the water to splash and startle Geoffrey, John, Edmund and Lionel. Bella knotted up her skirts too and joined Henri at his castle building. Sixteen year old Joan of Kent and Princess Joanna followed the queen to the water. Little by little the tide crept up the beach, filling Henri's trenches and moats, dissolving towers and curtain walls. When he folded his arms across his chest in a display of sullen fury, Bella thought, here he goes, he's gonna blow. All that temper had to have an outlet somewhere. Bright freckles stood out on his pug nose and he stared harder and harder at the waves rushing up and turning his castle into smooth sand once again. "Maman," he said very solemnly. "Yes, Henri?" Bella scooped up sandy mud in her hands and packed it over a melting wall. "Sand is the worst stuff in the world. It sticks to your skin and just turns to puddles when it's wet. Why did God make it?" "Oh, well, God made it just for his beaches. It's very pretty, it feels wonderful when it squishes between our toes, and crabs do love it." Lionel ran up from the water, dripping and shivering. "Henri, come look. We found a starfish. Vite, vite!" "May I, Maman?" Henri got to his feet, presenting hooks and buckles to be undone as quickly as possible. His sunny temperament had finally returned, without the tantrum she had anticipated. Bella got him out of his clothes as quickly as she could and he ran off with Lionel to look at the starfish Queen Phillipa held in the palm of her hand.

It turned out to be the most pleasant morning. Bella loved to swim. She had taken Iain to lessons when he was just a baby and they had always enjoyed summer sessions at their neighborhood pool. Winter wasn't any deterrent where there were indoor pools and gymnasiums. But she had not swum in the years since losing Iain. Playing in surf and sand of the English Channel made Bella think a lot about the life she'd left behind. There was no oil or tar balls spoiling the beach. No phosphates or chemicals foaming out of drainpipes into the tide. No unexplainable fish kills. Everything was healthy, pure and clean, much cleaner than any beach she knew in her own time. This life, this existence, felt more real to Bella than the last four years of her life. How could that be? When the boys finally tired, they feasted on provisions brought in baskets to the beach and sprawled on blankets and towelling. Each went to sleep in the shade of a silk pavilion beside a happy, napping Queen of England. Piled beside the woven wicker basket were the day's gleanings from the beach. The boys had collected shells, feathers, driftwood and scads of rusty iron rings that they claimed came from slave collars. While everyone napped Bella changed her clothes then saddled up her horse. The pure white Arabian mare had taken instantly to Bella's gentle hand. She tightened the cinch and freed the hobble. Relieved that each of the little boys were asleep, Bella mounted the mare. The thought of leaving the beach while any of them played in the water had made her very uneasy. She really couldn't say that she felt any better leaving now while they were asleep, but it couldn't be helped. If she were going to find any clues about the children's missing mother, she had to go to Winchelsea. It was that simple. Mounted, Bella smoothed the wealth of linen skirting around her knees, clucked softly to Lorette and disappeared over the dunes, headed east. With any luck, Bella hoped she would be back before any one stirred awake.

A SON IS A SON TILL HE TAKES A WIFE, A DAUGHTER IS A DAUGHTER ALL THE DAYS OF HER LIFE

-16-

Judging by the sun in the sky, it was high noon as Bella led the pony through the maze of stalls fronting the seaport town. The wharf reminded her of the old Union Stockyards in San Antonio, rough and tumbled down, close with the fragrant smells of fish, salt water and animals. When she arrived, they were having the biggest event of the day, a cattle auction. A herd of Spanish cattle were up for sale piecemeal and bidding was spirited. With a native Texan's eye for beef on the hoof, Bella didn't see a beast she'd put her money on. But since she didn't have any

money, it was a moot point what she thought of the quality of the steers. She led Lorette away from the open pens, staying well clear of what looked like the town's busy inn, public house and tavern. The houses were wattle and daub construction, heavily timbered with stuccoed walls, thatch roofed and crowded close together around the town's common well. A wooden wharf extended over the water and on that craftsmen and guildmasters had built their exhibition hall. Bella tied Lorette to a common hitching post and went up the crowded banquette to the wharf. She was immediately glad she had taken the risk to come here when she stepped inside the guildmasters' hall and saw the wealth of goods presented for sale and trade. The day's market was nearly over and few customers remained in the hall. Merchants were packing their goods, preparing to depart for home. Even so Bella caught glimpses of Florentine glass, Venetian silk, stacks of furs pelts from nearly every animal alive, whole skins of exotic bird feathers, fragrant and odd spices and herbs, curious jars and bottles of unmentionable preserved things like rhinoceros horn, monkey brains and lion's balls. In one stall a diamond cutter plied his trade with dangling curls proclaiming his religion twirling down to his hunched over shoulders. Bella paused at an armorer's stall to study the wealth of polished blades he had on display. Every sort of weapon, knife and sword imaginable gleamed dully in the dusty light slanting through the louvers on the hipped roof. "Daughter, what brings you to Winchelsea?" said a voice behind Bella. Bella spun around, looking up at the man looming over her shoulder. He wore the mantle of a merchant with the chain and badge of his royal office over that. His tunic was richly crafted velvet, lined with fur along the hem and at his large draping sleeves. Almost immediately that he'd spoken, big arms encircled her in a bearish hug. She didn't get a glimpse at his face before she was swamped. Naturally, Bella stiffened in surprise. Two large hands gripped her shoulders and pushed her out to arm's length. "Ou est les enfants, mon chou?" "Papa?" Bella gasped. Now that the man allowed her to see his weather-worn face, she was stunned. She looked at a man well into his sixties who could easily have passed for her own dear father. He was not as tall as her Papa, but in all his other features there was not a single difference. His shoulders were as broad and he was thick through the chest and waist. He was just as round bellied and long in the shanks. Dress him in Levi jeans and a workshirt and slap a dusty Stetson on his head and Comte Eustace de Saint Pierre could have been the same tanned and windburned Alsatian farmer, Bella had known all her life. "Ach, look at you." He chuckled, squeezing Bella's shoulders even tighter. "Is this a sunburn on your face? Tsk, Bella, Robin told me you were determined to swim this day. I see you have." "Papa!" Bella threw herself at him as much from the wealth of emotion pushing through her as from the need to touch someone so familiar and dear to her. "Dear lord, I never thought to see you again!"

Eustace de Saint Pierre lifted his hands from Bella's shoulders as she burrowed her glowing face against his most elegant cotte hardie. "And, why should you not see me again, eh?" he demanded in gruff, but perfectly understandable French to Bella's ears. "Tell me, ma fille, what foolishness is this?" Hastily, Bella dashed at the tears welling in her eyes. Dear God, she prayed, what sort of dream is this that I have peopled it with persons that I need? Iain and his Grandpapa! Both lost and gone to her for too many years to count now. How could this be? She fought for control of her tears and found it quick when a tall and slender hipped youth dressed in black stepped from behind an adjacent stall. Robin de Chandos posed his body exactly as his father would. He crossed his arms, firmly planted his booted feet and thrust out his chin in an arrogant challenge. He glared at Bella as if their roles were completely reversed and he were the parent and she the child. "What are you doing here, Maman?" he demanded. Bella leaned back against the warm support of Eustace de Saint Pierre's strong arm and cut Robin a withering glare. "What does it look like I am doing, Robin? I am saying hello to my father." The youth had the decency to blush. Bella turned her back on him and let her eyes wander over the merchant's achingly familiar face. She twitched her forefinger under her nose, getting rid of the last trace of tears. She saw now very clearly where Lady Isabel had gotten her red hair. The same place Bella had--from a red-headed father. The similarities were uncanny. But then, why shouldn't there be similarities between Bella's own father and Lady Isabel's? Her dad was only three generations removed from the old French family that had thrived for uncountable centuries in the province of Lorraine. And until recently, the Alsatians of Texas had been a very closed community, determined to keep their bloodlines pure. It stood to reason that if she and the Lady were so identical no one could tell them apart, then at least one of that lady's parents would look familiar to Bella. Nor had she considered the fact that they could actually be related. She knew her family could be traced as far back as the Battle of Hastings and William the Conqueror's Doomsday book because Saint Pierre's had held property in Normandy under Duke William. It did happen occasionally that strong family traits could be passed down through the generations causing a descendant who looked exactly like the portraits of some distant antecedent from the past. It was startling to find herself in that position though. Inwardly, she was very shaken. "To what pleasure do I owe this impromptu visit?" the elder demanded. "Robin led me to believe I would not be seeing you today." Bella took a deep breath. "I took advantage of naptime and came alone so I could see you."

"More likely, she wants to plead with you to take her to France," Robin injected bitterly. "Mon fils, why would your Maman want to do that?" The comte asked his grandson. "Robin, you're being awful damn rude," Bella turned on the teenager, tempted to slap his face. "And I will thank you to let me speak for myself." "And I will thank you to remember the oath you swore last night, Maman. Do you go against your vow, you cry treason." Robin's eyes darken to near stygian opaqueness, full of wary temper and mistrust. His shoulders stiffened and he curtly clicked the heels of his boots together, made a mocking half bow and departed. "Ach," the old man exhaled softly as the boy stalked out of the guildhall. "That one's got a burr in his saddle. Do I detect trouble here, Isabella?" Bella sighed. "He's at that age where everything I do is wrong, I guess," she offered. It was a lame excuse, but the only one she could think of. She certainly had not got a handle on Robin's hot and then cold animosity. The teenager confused her. The comte took her arm and ushered her inside his elaborate stall where there were stools to sit upon and a lovely painted screen to provide a modicum of privacy in this hubbub of commerce. Bella cast a glance at Saint Pierre's artfully arranged wares that a burly young man in his twenties busily packed. He winked at Bella and she knew from that teasing gesture and the man's coloring she had just found another brother. God, what was she going to do for a name for him? The Saint Pierres' trafficked in gold, silver and precious jewels, she concluded as she took the seat the elder offered. Saint Pierre uncorked a bottle of wine, filled two shining examples of his wares, golden goblets, handed one to Bella, and sank onto the other stool, smiling indulgently. "Do I take it, my eldest grandson is chaffing at the bit to become his own man, ma petite?" Bella tasted the wine. The corners of her mouth twitched as she studied Comte Eustace. "That is probably describing Robin adequately, Papa," she said easily enough. "How are you feeling?" "Ach," he rolled his shoulders back, flexing his right arm. "My complaints are always the same. These bones get stiffer by the day. Thank the Lord for young James. Without him I'd be too old to make these trips back and forth across the channel." Bella swallowed another sip of wine. It was sweet and delicious, twice as potent as Chandos' mead. "Has Robin been here long?" "About an hour, perhaps. I didn't expect to see you, though he told me you were not far away on the beach." "Yes, well, I managed to wear the little ones out. Presently, everyone is taking a nap, the queen included."

Saint Pierre's bushy brows lowered. "Queen Phillipa accompanied you to the beach?" "Yes." Bella nodded. "Tell me, is what Robin said true? Have you paid homage to the English king?" Bella wondered which way the political wind blew with this man. He was not a Norman like John de Chandos. All the Saint Pierres' Bella had ever known were quite proud of their pure French origins. She suspected the comte wouldn't care one bit for her solidly American values that tolerated the sovereignty of other nations. It was a ticklish question to try to answer. "Under the circumstances, Papa, I didn't have any choice. To do otherwise endangered the boys," she answered simply. "You could have come to me." Bella lifted a shoulder and let that gesture speak for itself. Comte Saint Pierre scowled. "Is is true that you threw this English king out of your house?" "Ah, I see Robin has been telling tales, hasn't he?" "Oui, he did. He was also quite pleased to tell me that you had finally come round to his father and his way of thinking, that England is the better land." "Well, the boy is entitled to his opinions." Bella diplomatically dodged that issue. She met the father's stern gaze as levelly as she could, which wasn't easy. She felt for all the world as if it was her own father's face she was keenly studying for clues to the proper responses. "There is much here you are not telling me, daughter. You must temper your judgment of your eldest son. You owe Robin more respect than you show him. Does the good Lord grant you the years, Robin will be the one to care for you in your old age." "Well, fortunately, I haven't tottered into my dotage yet, Papa. Neither have you. So how is business?" "What interest have you ever had in that?" St. Pierre neatly deflected Bella's question. "I am more concerned for what is happening further up the coast. There are rumors of ships being readied for war. Do you know of that, Bella?" "Not much," Bella said in all honesty. She suddenly wanted this father of Lady Isabel to look at her and realize she was not his daughter. The stern old French gentleman did look at her, very hard and sharply, but he saw nothing amiss. That told her what she had come to Winchelsea to discover. Lady Isabel had not gone home to France. Sadly, she realized all hope that the other woman lived in this dimension with her diminished daily. The simple truth was, Bella didn't want her intuition about Isabel's demise to be correct. "I have learned much in just this crossing," St. Pierre continued on the subject of war preparations. "And I certainly expect more information from my own daughter than what you have given me so far. You will send word to me, daughter, as soon as you have learned what day the king will set sail. The French must be prepared. Our lives and those of many of your friends and relatives may depend upon that information, Bella. You cannot betray your blood."

Silent, Bella sipped the wine in her cup and twisted the trailing ribbons of her girdle between her fingers. What say to Comte Eustace's last remark eluded her for a moment. "Well," she hedged. "I haven't actually had any opportunity to learn many facts. I don't think I am trusted." St. Pierre snorted over her last comment. "Hmph," the old Frenchman grunted. "Chandos is a damned Englishman to the bone, now. He has forgotten his roots. I have yet to cease regretting the day I married you to him. Had I waited two years you could have been the Duchess of Lorraine." That was an impressive missing piece of the puzzle, Bella thought. To his in-laws Sir John failed to measure up. That could certainly contribute to making a marriage fail. She knew firsthand what it was like to have a husband who had never been trusted any farther than her own father could have thrown him. But there was a world of difference between the characters of John Chandos and Ari Wynford. "Oh, well, que sera sera." Bella finished the wine and put the chased gold goblet on the minute table. Her throat and belly was nicely warmed. The wine was potent, she realized. It spiraled into her brain as she rose to her feet. "I should go back to the beach before Queen Phillipa misses me." "How you can put up with that grasping Hainault woman I'll never know. Bella, wait here, I'll fetch Robin to escort you back." "No, Papa." Bella laid her hand on the old man's arm. "I'll go back the way I came, thank you. The less time I spend around Robin the better for both our tempers. We both disapprove of what the other does. Besides, he accompanied Prince Edward here, not me." "The Prince of Wales is in Winchelsea? Robin said nothing about that," Saint Pierre said sharply. "Do you tell me my grandson is ingratiating himself with the royal family just as his father has?" "Robin seems to have his head well on his shoulders when it comes to royalty." Bella poked her head out from behind the screen. She didn't dare stick around long enough to drink a second glass of wine. She had no stomach for wine, one glass always went straight to her head. The auction outdoors must have ended because now every stall in the guildhall crowded with last-minute buyers. Her newly found younger brother left his customers to give Bella an exhuberant hug. His name was James and after meeting him, Bella realized she should have recognized him immediately. Geoffrey was James Saint Pierre's spitting image, but then...so had been her own dear Iain. She lingered a while longer reluctant to separate herself from these so physically familiar men. The comte's assistants packed the balance of his unsold wares on their boat. To Bella's eye, their ship had the look of a lake craft, too small to risk on open sea waters. Comte Saint Pierre didn't seem to know that. They said good-byes and Bella stood up on tiptoes to kiss Comte Eustace's cheeks. "Promise me you will take care. I will come and see you soon. Au revoir, mon pere."

SUSPICIONS

-17-

Bella remained on the wharf, watching the small craft sail out of the harbor. The sun was hotter than it had been in the morning. Bella sighed. It was time she returned to Smuggler's Cove. Thankfully, Lorette was where Bella had left her, tied to a hitching post with several other horses. Mounted and turned to the long stretch of sandy beach that angled toward the west, Bella squinted at the well worn trail along the shore. Queen Phillipa was a good judge of distance and time. It was no more than a quarter hour gallop from Smugglers Cove to Winchelsea. Something bothered Bella enough to make her hesitate to send Lorette cantering down the trail. Call it a case of not being able to make things add up the way they should, or just call it a premonition. Something was telling her not to travel down that path alone. Bella immediately turned Lorette and galloped back up the sloping dunes to Winchelsea. The little town was as crowded as it had been earlier, if not more so. Bella paced Lorette through the jammed streets, looking for the black gelding Robin had ridden this morning. She hadn't paid much attention to any of the other squires' horses, but Henri had enviously pointed out how fine a horse his brother rode. Bella was glad the little boy had done so when she spied the destrier hobbled to a vertical post alongside of several other prime horses. The tavern-inn looked no more appealing to her now than it had the first time Bella had passed it. Judging from the clientele at the benches and crude tables under the chestnut trees, it wasn't the sort of place a woman should ever enter alone. Some things just never changed, Bella deducted, for sailors looked like sailors the world over regardless of century of birth. The collection of men drinking under the trees between the inn and its stables certainly looked like her idea of sailors...maybe even pirates. They stood out for a number of good, highly visible reasons. First, they were dirty. One had a black scarf tied over his head in such a fashion that it obscured his left eye. Second, it was obvious they had been drinking heavily, possibly the whole afternoon. Four of them stared rudely at her and make offensive remarks as Bella looked once more at Robin's horse, making double certain the black gelding was the one she sought. It was. She crossed the common yard and dismounted, tying Lorette beside the gelding, then carefully holding her skirts clear of the muck under foot, moved briskly to the wide open doors of the inn. Inside, the vast common room was cast in stygian darkness. The smell of fish, sweat, smoke and ale rolled pungently out the door. It would be some time, Bella felt certain, before her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. She searched the cavernous interior for Prince Edward's blond head. She'd have better luck finding that bright crop of hair before she spied Robin in the dark. "Hallo," Bella called out, "Robin, are you here?" Bella never sensed the man behind her until it was too late. An arm clamped around her waist and she was whipped out of the lighted doorway, twisted into the darkness of an interior corner.

"And to what great god do I give thanks for dropping the Rose of Lorraine into my hands, hmm?" An accented voice purred a breathless inch above Bella's ear. "No, don't scream, sweetling. One sound out of you and the Prince of Wales is dead." The warning issued forth in voluble French as the tip of a sharp blade nicked Bella's throat. Her outraged shout died unspoken. Instead, she gathered her wits and said, testily, "Am I supposed to know who you are and what this is about?" "Well, of course, sweetling, but I will be the first to admit that your timing is deplorable. I have been waiting four days for you to return." "You have?" Bella raised her hands, bracing them against the plaster coated inner wall. She felt the size and strength of the man that held her pinned. He was small and wiry, but very strong. At last her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and the interior came into clear focus. The public room's trestles and benches were devoid of customers and with good reason. The inn was hotter than a Dutch oven from the massive fire laid in its hearth. The day's generous haunch sizzled untended. An open staircase flush against the adjacent wall was all Bella could really see of her surroundings. Three men with long knives clutched in their hands crept up the steps. "What are you doing?" Bella gulped out a question in shaky French. "You've made a mistake." "Be quiet." Her captor ordered hoarsely. "Don't worry, ma Belle, your son won't be harmed. It's the prince who has turned into the prize de jour, outshining even you, I am sad to say." "Whatever for?" Bella gasped. "He's just a boy." "Ah, yes, but such a prized son, hmm? Just think of the ransom he'll bring." "You'll never take him," Bella said with perfect confidence. The fates had other plans for this particular Prince of Wales. "You're wasting your time. Take me instead." "Hush, sweetling. Does all go well, I'll see that your needs are well accommodated once my ship is at sea. Until then, darling..." His lips skittered across the back of Bella's neck. Worse, his foul hand groped at her breasts causing pain. "Mon Dieu, but you are so distracting." "So I'm told." Bella made a face at the rough wall in front of her eyes. Men were the same, predictable lot as always. She mentally measured the dolt pawing so rudely at her and came up with a not so towering height of five foot six. If she could incapacitate him for a moment or so, she knew she could have the advantage. After all, she was a modern woman and a devoted jogger. She had taken every week's karate lessons seriously. Considering the crime rate of her day, it didn't pay not to. She took the time to take several cleansing breaths, while her assailant's fondling literally got out of hand. He'd brought his other hand into play, lifting her skirts. "Isn't there a more private place for this?" Bella suggested huskily, her eyes on the men posed at the top of the steps. Her assailant's breathing was anything but steady. Hell, Bella thought, this week alone I've

been through worse than this! She closed her eyes, found her center and moved so sharply, the man didn't know what hit him as Bella's elbow delivered a stunning blow to his solar plexus. His blade clattered to the dirty floor. He went flying next, over Bella's head. The sound of bones crunching when he landed made Bella cringe. How many times had she practiced that maneuver on the mats to escape the grips of a mythical mugger? But practice had made perfect and all it took was knowing how to use an opponent's weight against him. It sure sounded different in reality. The man was so incapacitate he couldn't even scream. But Bella could. She whirled around, snatching the long-bladed knife off the floor, screaming, "Help! Robin, Edward, Knollys, en garde a Lady Chandos!" As a battle cry, screaming for a batch of teenage boys to come to her aid was ludicrous. The men posed on the steps to charge the loft, stared at her as if she'd gone mad. Bella screamed again and to her relief, the loft door burst open and young Hugh Caverly charged the attackers on the stairs with his battle sword drawn. "They're trying to kidnap the prince!" Bella screamed again. "I'll get the horses!" She bolted out the door, repeating her warnings for the youths. She ran to the horses, ripped the reins loose and bounded onto Lorette. Some of the drunken rascals at the outdoor tables lurched to their feet. The Prince of Wales appeared in the window of the loft, his sword drawn and his britches dangling. Robert Knollys was guarding his back. The clash of steel rang in the air. Bella found her stirrups and propelled her heels into Lorette's sides, galloping the horses under the wide open window. "Jump!" she ordered Edward. He was taking his time tying up his trews. "Jump, damn you! They want to take you hostage, Edward." "The devil, they will!" He swore as he stepped out the window, a damned broadsword in his hand and dropped into the herd of milling, agitated horses. Bella heard his grunt of pain on landing. She ducked out of the range of his unsheathed blade. "Oh, holy balls," Edward swore in a voice ten decibels higher than normal. Robert Knollys made a more graceful leap from the window onto a saddled horse. Bella slapped Prince's gelding on the rump as hard as she could. "Get out of here, now!" "Lady, you too," Knollys ordered. "Go with the prince." "Thank you, young man, if it's all the same to you, I'll make certain Robin gets out of there in one piece. Robin, come on!" "Nay, Lady Chandos." Prince Edward recovered enough of his breath to speak. "Knollys, guard my back. I'll see that the lady is safe." Bella's hand stung from the force of blow she'd delivered to his horse. That hadn't moved the trained animal, but when Edward smacked his palm against Lorette's flank, the Arabian took off like the favored two year old bolting out of the starting gate at Bandera Downs.

More trouble erupted in the town. The clang of the church bells and shouts of fire took the attention of the drunks away from the commotion in the inn's yard. There was some sort of an exploding sound and a pillar of smoke rising from the guildhall. Concentrating on keeping her seat, Bella looked back over her shoulder, even as Prince Edward continued to drive Lorette and his own horse at a breakneck pace. "'Tis pirates, lady. I thought I recognized O'Donnell when we first entered the inn. Blast me, I should have gone immediately to the garrison and informed de Burgh he'd have trouble on his hands today." Prince Edward acquitted himself well enough on horseback, drawing his horse to a stop atop of a sandy promontory. Bella circled him, looking back to the town. She exhaled in deep relief as five recognizable riders pounded up the dunes to join them. Hugh Caveley and Robin brought up the rear. They slowed the horses ten minutes later when it became apparent no one was pursuing them. "There will be hell to pay over this," Edward grumbled, still out of sorts over the way he'd landed on his saddle. "We hadn't paid the innkeeper or the abbess." Bella bit her tongue to keep from making any comment to that. After all, it had been her suggestion to the queen that had sent this pack of boys to town. Who was she to lecture the prince about his single-minded determination to get laid at this point? Maybe he was still a virgin and wanted to put an end to that state. In a way, it was funny. This was now the second time she'd thwarted these boys from their intended purpose. Bella wasn't so amused she could laugh. She hadn't the foggiest idea who that man with the groping hands was...but he'd certainly known the Rose of Lorraine. A cold shudder chased down her back. By his testimony, he may very well have been the last person to see Lady Isabel alive. If it wasn't for the sobering fact that she felt the Saint Pierres had something to do with the attack, she might have said something to Robin. She knew from historical accounts that the main occupation of knight-errants of this era was taking hostages captive and holding them for ransom. A youth of Prince Edward's importance would fetch one hell of a ransom. He might even be used to compromise a king's war plans. This was tricky business. Bella scowled at the sky, trying ineffectively to judge the time while mentally grappling with the Prime Directive every trekkie knew by heart. Just how much interfering with the course of history was one actually allowed to do when caught in the circumstances Bella found herself caught in? According to late Twentieth Century lore, none. That was the reason Bella had denied having any knowledge of the king's plans and dates for sailing even though she knew perfectly well, Edward and his undefeatable army would land in Normandy on July 12th. Had Prince Edward been taken captive just now, would history have changed? The burden of that kind of thought was much too heavy for her mind. She wanted to be safely back in the protected clutch of royal ladies and children. A shiver worked down her back at the close call. Who was that man? Who

was this O'Donnell, Edward mentioned? Deliberately, Bella pushed Lorette ahead of the boys, using distance to isolate herself from their animated conversation. At their age, this adventure was fun and games. At Bella's, it was terrifying. To her great relief, none of the nappers had woken yet. Needing to cool down and soothe her nerves, Bella shed her bliault, shoes and stockings and returned to the water. She swam as far as the headland of the cove, then floated on her back with the surf, allowing the current to gently push her back to the shore. She closed her eyes, awash in the swell and push of the sea. The waves worked wonders in soothing her tense limbs. Before long Bella was nicely relaxed and feeling more contented than she'd felt in years. She could float for hours, letting the current tug and pull her which ever way it ran. The trailing length of her hair was the only rudder she needed. The sun was hot against her skin, her eyelids. She was positive she'd be a mass of freckles on the morrow, but didn't care. Ozone and ultraviolet light was now a thing of her past. Maybe this once she'd turn a nice golden brown. Dreaming and content, she allowed only one worry to enter her mind. That was--when should she spout out a mouthful of water--if a strong wave washed over her face. "My lady, did I not know better, I'd say you were a speckled whale." Bella's eyes shot open and she blinked in the bright sunlight at a man on horseback looming godlike above her. She squealed, crouched in the water and felt her bottom impact on the sand. "Sir John!" she exclaimed, shocked to find him mounted over her, blocking the sun. "What are you doing here?" "The better question is, what are you doing there?" Bella smoothed her hands across her head, sweeping back piles and tangles of sopping hair. "I was floating." "Oh, aye." He nodded then offered her his hand. "Madame, do you realize you are parading about half-naked before boys of tender years?" Bella stubbornly ignored the hand he extended to her. "They are only children and do not have sinful thoughts. It is very natural to swim on a day such as this. You should unkink enough to try it." A brow arched on his dark face. With the sun high at his shoulder it was hard for Bella to keep staring at him. He had some sort of hat on his head shading his eyes. "Madame, I would dearly love to spend a pleasant afternoon idling at such a place as this. I promise you, my thoughts would not be the thoughts of innocent boys. Now, give me your hand. You will ride with me back to the castle. I don't believe I care for the Prince and the rest of the lads to see you come out of the water in all your glory. Your cotte is as transparent as Venetian silk."

Bella looked about to see where she'd come to land. She was nicely up the cove, near the headland across the water from where she'd started floating. In the center of the beach the queen's cortege gathered up towels, blankets and baskets and repacked the lot onto the horses. Prince Edward and his father, King Edward, were sorting out the boys, tugging shirts over blond heads and dark heads. "My bliault is over there." Bella pointed to the distant scene. "So it is." Sir John nodded. "Bella, give me your hand." "Wait." She stood up, gathering hair and twisting it to wring out water. "You're going to get sopping wet." "Perhaps." He watched as she pulled the yards of skirting free of the knee high surf and wrung it out with capable hands. As she did that, Bella saw that he was correct. Wet, the cotton undergarment was as sheer as silk. She shook loose her hair, then holding the skirt free of the water, put up her foot to the stirrup he offered her and took hold of his hand. One swift jerk and she was up flush against him, wet chemise, wet breasts against the dark and scratchy cloth of his tunic. His arm tightened at her waist, crushing her against him. Bella tightly gripped his shoulders, her legs for the moment simply dangling. "Madame." His breath fanned her wet cheek. "Have I told you today how beautiful you are?" "Not today." Bella's eyelids lowered. "Last night you made a reference or two." "Well, my lady, tonight we are going to count every freckle on your lovely body, one kiss at a time." "You may as well decide to count the stars in the sky. You'd have as much success. So, tell me, has word gone out to conscript all the young and able bodied men of merry old England? By the way, I like your hat. Do not be surprised if Prince Edmund or Henri ask if you got it from a merrow." Ignoring everything else she's said, Sir John asked, "What is a merrow?" "A mermaid." "Ah." His head moved dangerously closer to hers. Close enough that his lips could brush her lips. "I believe I have found exactly that. Shall I check to see if your fins are withering?" "If you like." Bella slipped her hands behind his neck. He drew her hips into the cradle of his thighs and kissed her with a hunger that surprised her now as much as it had the first time he'd kissed her. Though the kiss thrilled her and stimulated her very well, she couldn't fathom him at all. How was it that a man who'd had the same wife for sixteen long and for him obviously trying years, still found so much passion in him that he made every kiss feel like it was the first?

He ended the kiss with two small pecks, delivered to each corner of her mouth. Then he straightened his head and just looked at her, sweeping his eyes across the frayed edges of her undergown where she had deliberately torn off the sleeves. He stared at length at the wet impression of her breasts straining against the cloth then went on to the exposed wealth of much too visible legs. Bella thrilled at the heated expression in his eyes. They contained the hunger of a man who'd given himself up to a celibate's life and now faced the greatest temptation of his existence. She leaned against him, letting his head shade her face, and suggested, "For your jaunty cap, I'd trade an hour here alone after the king and the rest have gone. Provided you do me the courtesy of not making me ride astride this too big beast on the way back." He arched a brow. "For my cap, eh? You like a cockade, madame?" "No, but I have a good appreciation for a cockstand when I feel it." That bold taunt seemed to shock him, but as intimate as they had been at his insistence in the bedroom made Bella refused to deny her own enthusiasm for sex. She liked it and had a healthy appreciation for shared intimacies. "Madame, since when have you cared for the duties of the marriage bed? You have shunned it in the past." "Have I? Are you so certain of that, my lord? Maybe I've had a change of heart, or maybe I'm just coming to appreciate your expertise now." "Isabel, pull down your skirts and pretend you have some modesty. We are not alone." "Damn." Bella clung to Sir John's shoulders as she turned around and saw darling Robin galloping toward them. She quickly faced Sir John and tugged down as much of her sodden skirt as possible. "Did I tell you what I caught him doing last night? No, I didn't, did I." "Monseigneur," Robin hailed as he drew his charger up in the shallows. "Have you need of this?" Turning her head, Bella saw the youth waved her bliault in his free hand. The corners of his mouth were twitching mightily. Bella could see that he was going to gloat for some time over this episode, drat his hide. "Yes, we do." Sir John put out a hand to take the garment. "Go on with the others. We will catch up anon." "I'm sure you will." Robin wheeled his horse about in a splashing circle. "Oh, before I forget, I chanced upon Grandpere Saint Pierre and Oncle James at market in Winchelsea, Father. They send their best regards." "Did they?" Sir John said flatly. That was news to Bella. She certainly wouldn't have made that inference from the conversation she'd had with Pere St. Pierre. Maybe that twisting of the tongue was what had earned Robin his reputation for being glib. She concentrated on being certain she did not turn any further toward the youth in her present state of dishabille.

"When did you go to Winchelsea?" Sir John asked. Quick as summer lightening, Bella felt the man's mood shift from endearing to stormy. "This morn. The queen sent us all, my lord. She wanted to swim, I believe." "I see." Sir John dismissed him. Robin galloped back to his peers. Sir John opened Bella's cast-off gown and jerked it over her head. His horse stood perfectly still, its four legs braced in the shallow water like solid piers, while Bella squirmed and twisted getting into the garment. Sir John waited till she settled neatly between his pommel and his hips. "Lady, I can see that you and I are going to have another talk." Bella pulled her wet hair over her shoulder then leaned back against his chest, both her legs dangling across his right knee as he signalled the horse into motion. "Whatever for?" she asked innocently. "You don't think I went to Winchelsea, do you?" "Nay, but you sent your son. What difference, there?" Bella decided the best answer was an uncommitted shrug of her shoulders. It wasn't exactly a lie. She knew when to keep her mouth shut. "Madame, my sons are not pawns to be used in your games of manipulation. I will not stand for that and well you know it." Bella sighed. What use would it do to argue? She didn't give a flip for the politics of Lady Isabel's relatives. They could all go to blazes. Well, no, that wasn't true either, she corrected herself. Sir John was just over-reacting. No reason for them both to get wound up. "Do us both a favor, Sir John," Bella suggested. "Do try not to spoil what has been a perfect day."

"Have I become your enemy, because I tell the truth?" GALATIANS 5:16

-18-

The blisters erupted before they were halfway home. Bella felt the sunburn first under the damp twist of hair draped across her shoulder. Then it seemed she was scorched from fingertip to fingertip. Her skin began to draw under the stiff fabric of her bliault. Sir John became as numbingly silent a companion on the return trip as Henri had been going out to the beach. Bella tried to keep her misery to herself and kept wishing the mule train would move faster, but it seemed an interminable length of time passed before the walls of the fortress appeared in the distant sunny landscape. She guessed the time at maybe four in the afternoon. She felt sicker by the minute, tired and woozy, done in by the sun. Sunstroke, she knew from experience, was not a pretty illness. "I am going to be sick," Bella warned Sir John just before tumbling over his left arm, vomiting. He caught hold of her waist, steadying her, halted the horse and dismounted. He held her very tenderly while she made a complete fool of herself, offering her a clean square of linen to wipe her face and hands. "Oh," Bella groaned, dabbing at her wine-stained fingers, certain she could not ever be more miserable than she was that moment. Sir John helped her back onto her feet, lifted her onto his saddle and waved away the concerned squires who stopped to offer aid. As he remounted behind her he said, "I commend you, Bella. You no longer look like a speckled whale, you look like a boiled lobster." "Thanks," Bella groaned. "Please get me out of this awful sun before I die." "Your wish is my command." He put his heels to the charger's sides and galloped ahead of the royal party, cutting crossways over the glacis to the open gates of the fortress.

Clarise wrung both her hands in dismay when she saw Bella's blistered skin. Sir John very carefully lifted off Bella's bliault. Peeling off the still damp cotte, Sir John just shook his head. "We'll not be counting freckles this night, wife. Fetch a posset of fennel and vinegar, Clarise, and have a herbal bath drawn, tepid water this time, and do ask Jean-Pierre if he has any remedy for burns on hand." The tub was fetched and water carted in to fill it. Bella sat wrapped in a length of toweling, hating the drawing pull of her skin. Then young Henri came in bawling because he was also stung badly by the sun. His nose and cheeks were firebrands, his shoulders scalded. Sir John propped him on his knee, gingerly stripping away the little boy's clothes, soothing him with gruff words about bearing up in spite of pain. "I could," Henri told him. "If I had a pony of my very own. But since I am too little for my own horse, then I must still be a baby like Geoffrey and Prince John say I am. So if it's all the same to you, Papa, I will whine." "What is this about a pony?" Sir John demanded. "We have horses coming out our ears. We have more horses than puppies." "But I don't have one of my very own." The little boy put his thumb against his bright red chest. "I didn't know you were ready for one," his father answered. "Oh, I am." Henri nodded emphatically. "Didn't Maman tell you last night how much I wanted to ride my own pony today?" Sir John cast a look at Bella. She didn't say a word. "No, your Maman did not tell me." "Well, what is it you do at night in bed?" Henri demanded bluntly. Bella bit her tongue as a bright patch of color stained the crest of Sir John's cheeks. "We sleep, little man." "Sleep? Geoffrey and I talk and talk. Meggie swears to take a switch to us 'cause we talk so much. We always tell her we are saying our prayers." "Henri," Sir John said very sternly. "Do not tell lies to Meggie. When you are older you will have to confess lies to Father Kerwin and you form a bad habit that could last you all your days. If you want to grow up to be a strong and valiant knight, you must always adhere to the truth, even if it means you would face great punishment." "Do you always tell the truth, Papa?" "Oh, aye, I have always tried to hold the truth before me. 'Tis my duty and my honor." The last bucket had been poured into the large tub. Sir John lifted Henri carefully and carried him to the tub. "Test the water with your toes, Henri, and tell me if you can stand it."

Henri dipped both feet and splashed a little. "It's fine, Papa." "Then in you go." He settled the boy in the water which had the strong lemony fragrance of fennel. "Now you, Bella, come." She wasn't going to argue or make any silly protests. Standing up, she crossed to the tub and accepted Sir John's assistance climbing over the rim, discarding the towel just before she sank under water. She could do it herself, of course, but he made it easier. Sinking to shoulder level, Bella dipped her face in the lukewarm water. Sir John stripped off his tunic and the loose white sark he wore underneath that. Then he knelt beside the tub and lathered Henri's thick head of curls. His big hands very gently scrubbed away the boy's coating of salt water and sand. Henri bobbled like a fish, dunking his head and popping up spouting water, ready to play, protesting only mildly while his father insisted on soaping his skin with a soft piece of flannel. This, Bella realized was a first. Ari had never bathed Iain or shampooed his hair. Sir John went about the business of cleaning up one little boy with a skilled and experienced hand that told her he had done this task often over the years. She thought much could be said for a father who could unbend enough to care lovingly for a small child. Seeing that side of Sir John made Bella even more vulnerable to him. "Now, you may play, Henri," said Sir John. Henri stood up in the water and put his small hands on his father's hairy chest. "When I'm big, Papa, will I have hair like that, too?" "Oh, aye." Sir John said as solemn as an archbishop reading canon law. "And a beard and a big man's belly, too." "Ha!" Henri slapped his stomach, delighted by that. He jumped in the water, splashing. "Henri, you'll splash water on the floor," Bella scolded. "Yes, Maman." He settled down. "Your turn, Bella. Come here and I'll scrub the sea out of your hair." Bella had no qualms about scooting around to Chandos. As he gently gathered up her hair, Bella let her shoulders rise above the water level for the first time. "Is it as bad a burn as it feels?" she asked, trying to see the tops of her shoulders as best she could. "Oh, aye," Sir John said rather gruffly. "Maman, you've got blisters. Do I?" Henri almost laid his hand on her skin, but Sir John forestalled him. "No, Henri, do not touch them. If they break your Maman will become very ill. We must be very careful with her."

"Do I have blisters, too?" He wanted to know. Both Bella and Sir John looked him over carefully as he turned around, naked and pink and very beautiful. As he did that, Bella realized for the first time, Henri had the same birthmark her father, Iain and she had. A distinct reddish cross between their shoulder blades. "Do I?" "Oh. No, Henri, you don't have blisters," Bella told him. "You may thank your father's genetic pool for that." "Whas a genetic pool?" Henri dropped back into the water, splashing energetically. "It just means that you got better skin than I do. You take after Sir John...in that regard." "I got Papa's eyes," he said proudly. "That's right, you do," Bella concurred. "And Robin and Geoffrey got yours, Maman. But don't you think it's time you gave us all a little sister with hair just like yours, Maman? If you would do that, then Robin couldn't call me the runt of the litter any more." "He should not call you that at all," Bella scolded. "I will speak to him about that." "And so will I," Sir John added as his fingers massaged a heavy lather through Bella's tresses. She sighed from the sheer pleasure of having someone else wash her heavy head of hair. Henri was content to blow bubbles for a minute or two, then he popped up bored. "I feel better. May I get out?" Clarise brought him a towel and carefully blotted the moisture from his reddened skin, then coated him with the cooling cream Jean-Pierre had sent from the kitchen. "Papa, are you going to get me a pony?" Henri asked. "Hmm." Sir John considered that request. "We shall see, Henri. First, you will have to show me what you have learned about riding and how well you can care for a pony. A pony is a big responsibility. Like a puppy it must be fed and groomed and cared for every day." "Oh, aye," the little boy said solemn-faced. "Thank you, Clarise. I feel much better now." He plopped a kiss on Clarise's red cheek and ran hollering out the door for all to hear that he was getting his own pony very soon. "That will be all, Clarise." Sir John dismissed the maid. She bobbed him a curtsey and departed closing the doors to the chamber after her. "Why didn't you tell me Henri asked you for a horse?" "I tried to," Bella answered lamely. "But everytime I tried to speak last night, you found the ways and means to shut me up." "You gave no indication to me that you wished to speak about our sons."

Bella heard that as an accusation and it exasperated her. "For heaven's sake, what do you think real people do when they are in bed and the heat of passion has subsided? They talk about their children, the problems they ran across that day, their wants and their needs." "How would you know what other people talk about in bed, lady? You have spent damn little time in it with me." Bella's jaw dropped in shock. "I beg your pardon, sir, but since I got here three days ago I've spent more time in bed with you than I have with my husband in the past ten years!" "And that is exactly my point, lady!" Sir John snapped right back. "I question your willingness and change of heart. What are you hiding? Another man's bastard in your belly? It wouldn't be the first time you plied that trick." "What?" Bella gasped. "How dare you say that! Listen, mister, I didn't go seaching you out, begging you to make love to me." She stopped herself all at once, realizing what she was doing, taking his comments about Isabel's past behavior personally. Sir John's hands had left Bella's soapy hair and gripped the rim of the tub. His knuckles were white as chalk. "For once, Bella, I would have you speak the truth. Tell me exactly whom you spent the last week with." Bella pushed the soapy tresses to the back of her head, privately damning him for asking that question, now that she had learned the answer to it. A Calais pirate named O'Donnell very likely was the man whose name he wanted to know. In an attempt to turn the tables, she looked him squarely in the eye and asked, "Do you keep a mistress, Chandos?" "Be glad you are sunburned, lady." He growled. "Why?" Bella asked. "Am I prying into your personal affairs?" "Nay, you insult my honor." "Then your answer is you do not keep a mistress. When you do not come to our marriage bed you remain celibate. Is that what you are telling me?" "You have the gist of it in that, lady," he said with chilling intensity. "Then I apologize for insulting you," Bella said sincerely. "I didn't ask those questions to insult you, only to understand you." "Apology accepted." The words were said and retracted, but the sting of them lingered, putting a barrier between them where there had not been one before. He reached for the bucket of clean water and bid her to stand in the tub so the soap could be rinsed from her hair and her body. Bella complied with his request, standing and holding up her hair for the onslaught of cool water. He set

the bucket down and handed her a length of toweling cloth. As Bella wrapped the cloth around her body, she said casually, "We have a bigger problem in the kitchen, Chandos." "Oh, what is that?" He offered her his hand as she stepped out of the tub. "The staff from France wants to go home." "The what?" "The cooks, Jean-Pierre and his wife and the rest of the French cooks want to go home." "Whatever for?" Bella leaned over the tub, twisting her hair, expressing the water from it. "Because they have family there and are worried that there will be war soon between France and England. Under the circumstances, I happen to agree with them. They should go home while they can. France and England will be at war within a month." His gaze travelled deliberately down her body, watching how she moved in the swaddling of damp linen, but it wasn't the same sort of heated appraisal as before. He said, "Oh, aye, there will be war, but they will be out of harm's way in England." "That is not the way they look at it," Bella told him simply. "I promised Jean-Pierre I'd speak to you about releasing them from our service. I promised the same thing to the men in my service who did not pledge their swords to King Edward last night. "By that I mean that I promised to speak with you regarding their need to talk directly with you so that their status may be clarified. I did not know what else I could tell them at the time. Will you be able to speak with them?" "Lady, that has already been done. Now, you tell me who would replace the cooks in the kitchen?" That Bella didn't know, because she did not know where any of the people that worked for him at this castle came from. "Could we not hire people from London? Surely there are people needing honest work somewhere in this country." "Trained cooks are not easy to come by. I know that well enough from all my campaigns." "Well, it is something you must think about. But I wanted to tell you what they have told me. The French resent serving the King of England, knowing that he plans to lay waste to their homeland." "Bella, Flanders, Normandy, Anjou and Brittany belong to England. Edward by blood has more right to be King of France than his cousin Phillipe of Valois. When you speak against Edward you foreswear the very vow you made to him last night. I pray you did not act in so cavil a manner as to make your pledge solely for your own convenience. You will not say anymore against Edward, do you understand that?" "Yes," Bella answered sincerely. She didn't like having to speak about it either. It wasn't her war or her concern. She was American and these squabbles between kings seemed petty to her. She couldn't tell Sir John that, because that would be opening that can of worms she had vowed not to bring up again--where she had come from. Hadn't she just gotten trapped in a now win argument because of that very same thing? Yes, she had. It was better for all concerned that she keep her opinions to herself. That didn't

mean she didn't feel protective toward the French caught in the middle. What to do? How was she supposed to walk this tightrope and keep from sabotaging herself? Sir John removed the towel she had wound around her torso to survey the extent of damage the sun had done her. "Well, merrow, it appears that you will not be wearing clothes for a day or two." He drew her to his chair and sat down, then patted his thigh as a gesture for her to sit there. Bella did and was very conscious of the feel of his leather-clad legs under her bottom. She sat very still as he coated her face, throat, shoulders and arms with the heavy cream. Her feet and legs were also burned. Wet, her cotton under cotte had the sun blocking power of illusion netting. Sir John smoothed the cream on each limb then shook his head. "Bella, you know better than to do this. Why would you risk scalding yourself so badly in the sun?" Bella looked at him through the mask of cream. "I was banking on the fact that the ultra-violet light was less intense in this timeframe...I mean, I was hoping I would tan." He cocked his head sideways, puzzled, not knowing the word the way she meant it. "Turn brown like you." He sighed. "Do you still feel sick at your stomach?" "No, I'm better now that I am out of the sun." "You're going to shed skin like a snake." "Most likely." Bella sighed and leaned into his chest. "I'm sorry I have inconvenienced you." "I am thinking of our guests. The house is full. Never mind, I will do what I can. You rest a while. I will go to the kitchens and talk to these people of yours, then Henri and I may spend some time in the stable. I will be up to check on you anon." He stood up, holding her in his arms, and carried her to bed. Placing her on the turned down sheeting, he said, "Rest." "Yes, my lord," Bella stifled a smile. "John?" "Aye?" He had a queer expression in his eyes, concerned, but something else too, something Bella couldn't put her finger on. "It was not my idea or even my suggestion to go to the beach," Bella said sincerely. "Queen Phillipa came up with that plan all by herself." Sir John straighted beside the bed, looking down at her with gravely serious eyes. "Madame, I know Phillipa very well. No one puts ideas in her head. If she hadn't wanted the outing,

herself, it would never have happened. You, I am discovering, are very easily led astray and need a much stronger hand to guide you than Phillipa does. Now, rest and do not get out of this bed for any reason." "Yes, my lord, by your command." Bella giggled. John de Chandos was so terribly straight laced he would have made a Victorian minister preaching hell-fire and damnation proud. She made herself as comfortable as possible while he washed his hands and neatly put on his discarded shirt and tunic. He let Aristotle in on his way out. Bella waited a moment to make certain he wasn't coming back, then she popped out of bed and sat at the escritoire. She had much to write about and did not want to forget a single detail of all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.

A BIRTHDAY

-19-

It was nearing sundown when Clarise returned. By then Bella had used the tub of water again to wash away the heavy cream. Her skin felt much, much better. The herbs in the water and the cream had soothed the burn greatly. Nothing much could be done for the blisters on her shoulders except to wait for them to heal. "I need something very soft to wear tonight, Clarise." Bella told the maid. "You can't be thinking of going to hall," she gasped. "Of course, I must. It's Robin's birthday. I have to be there. Now, find me something loose and comfortable on my shoulders. The rest doesn't matter." The servant shook her head, but was smart enough this time to say no more. For that bit of peace, Bella was exceedingly grateful.

The hall was reserved for dining, so half the activities Sir John had planned had been set up outside in the inner ward. A mummer's play was the first event, followed by acrobats and jugglers showing off amazing skills. For those who wanted to try their hand at sports, there were targets down by the stables. Wagers could be placed on contestants or distances of weapons. The festivities began when the king presented Robin with a battle sword, so highly polished it shone like a dark star in the glittering torchlight. The youth was so pleased with the gift, he strapped it reverently to his hip and strutted about, showing it off to one and all. As Bella wandered through the ward she discovered Robin's erstwhile buddy, the Prince of Wales, was having the time of his life. Edward held his own against all comers in a contest of strength and skill, armed with only a long English pike. The gist of the game, Bella deducted, was pretty simply. The winner had to retain his balance on a narrow log set high above a makeshift pit of sawdust and sand, while warding off the blows of a challenger with the pike staff.

Squire after squire had taken up Edward's challenge to unseat him. All failed, including Robin. Then growing bold from his success, Prince Edward boldly called down a challenge to his father's knights, daring any to defeat him. They laughed as a group, scoffing and complaining boldly about the cub's lack of good sense and braggadocio-- all in good fun. Old Sir Neville was the first to accept the youth's challenge. The man must be all of forty-five, Bella thought as he nimbly leaped onto the log and was handed up a pike. He gave the prince quite a challenge to the pleasure of the crowd, driving the youth back to the edge of the log, but then the prince ducked Neville's next thrust and parry and swept the end of his pike beneath Neville's feet. The elder wobbled precariously, then with both arms windmilling to regain his balance, he crashed onto the sandy pit, defeated. Laughing with triumph, Edward braced his feet apart and called down another challenge, this one specifically to Sir Walter Manny. "Blood and fury! Not I, you unwhiskered pup! Though I can say I've had cause to swipe your arse a time or two with the flat of my sword, games with sticks are not my forte," Sir Walter answered clearly. "Then bring your longsword if it pleases you," the prince commanded. "Nay," King Edward ordered. "We'll spill no blood for sport. Take up a pike if you like, Sir Walter, but if not, ignore the bold whelp." "I decline," Sir Walter laughed, saluting the king with a raised tankard of foamy ale. "Yon princeling's size has gone to his head. God's truth, the boy has grown by leaps and bounds this year past. I vow I do not know how you keep food on your board when he is around. Were the mischief upon me, I'd have him bouncing on his arse in two good strokes. What fun in that? Graham, teach yon royal sprout a lesson. Climb up there and wipe his nose." Huge Sir Graham, who looked more and more like a Norse Viking to Bella's eyes all the time, rumbled with laughter at Sir Manny's words. It was the first time Bella had ever seen him smile. That impressed her. He was a well-liked, handsome man. If she were to judge by the commadarie he displayed to other people, he could be quite charming and polite. However the minute he noticed her interest, his smile faded and he deliberately turned his back to her before answering. "I would, Sir Walter, but I'm the poor bastard that's trained the whelp and taught him every trick he knows. What sport in that?" "None," Sir Walter roared. "Who else then?" Edward demanded looking straight at his godfather, Sir Chandos. "You sir, my most noble warrior and generous host, Chandos. Care you to test my mettle?" "Aye, why not," answered Sir John. "As humility is another trait a squire must learn before he becomes a knight, I'll give you a taste or two." His answer pleased the crowd very much. Bella drew in her breath as Sir John took a pike in hand and bounded onto the shaved top of the log.

"Or taste humility in your own mouth," Edward promised as he launched a vigorous attack. Both, Bella saw were naturally gifted with athletic grace, quick hands and well honed reflexes. The young prince had more weight on his side and Sir John more height and a longer reach. She winced as the pikes smacked to a loud, clattering rhythm. "Maman, will Papa win?" Geoffrey tugged on Bella's skirt to gain her attention. "I don't know," Bella answered honestly, because she did not know if Sir John would give his best against a boy of Prince Edward's station. Thus far the battle looked extremely even with each giving ground then advancing to drive the other to the edge. "I can't see!" Geoffrey complained and jumped up and down impatiently. Bella looked about the ground to see if there was something he could stand upon for the prince had now drawn quite a crowd. "Here, Geoffrey," Bella caught his arm and tugged him back a little ways, to a wagon that had been used to bring in the sand and sawdust. Geoffrey scrambled onto the rickety wagon and Bella joined him. They had the perfect place to view the sport from there. The slap of the pikes impacting against each other and grunt of the prince as he dodged a high blow brought Bella's focus back to the contest. Sir John had taken the advantage and sought to teach the young prince a serious lesson. He had the boy leaping airborne over the end of his pike then ducking to escape the smack of the other end. While Prince Edward tottered on nimble feet to regain his balance, John de Chandos delivered the final blow, sweeping the prince's knees out from underneath him. The big boy went down into the sawdust and sand accompanied by a groan from his supporters. Bella winced for that was the second hard landing she'd seen Edward take today. Geoffrey jumped up and down, excitedly cheering his father. The cart tipped precariously. Bella hadn't given a thought to safety until it tilted. The upended tongue went down so quickly, thanks to Geoffrey's energetic jumping, that Bella didn't even have a chance to cry out a warning. She landed in a pile of straw as an arrow whizzed past her nose and thudded into the wooden cart, pinning her skirt to the wood. "Mother Macree!" Bella yelled. She looked around frantically to see where the arrow had come from, half expecting to see Sir Graham knocking another arrow into the catgut and leering evilly at her. But Graham squatted in the sawdust beside Prince Edward, grinning at the lad's defeat, probably giving him pointers now that he'd lost. "Vanquished, lad, and duly humbled," Sir John said from his towering brace above the youth on his butt in sand and sawdust. "And well done, my boy, but remember, always protect your rear." Bella grabbed hold of the arrow and yanked it out of the cart, freeing her skirt. Then on her hands and knees she crawled around the cart looking for Geoffrey. She found him sitting in the straw with a goofy grin on his freckled face. But the minute he saw her, his smile faded. The crowd applauded Sir John's triumph. He bounded into the pit to offer his hand to the prince. Young Edward would never admit it, but he did need the assistance to get up. They both clapped each other on

the back, calling it a good contest and suitable challenge. Henri ducked under the wobbling tongue of the upended cart announcing soto voiced, "Papa, Goeffrey's cracked his head wide open!" "I did no such thing!" Geoffrey scrambled onto his feet, looking sheepishly at Bella. "Are you all right, Maman?" "He could have done," Henri said sagaciously. "Did ya see Geoffrey go flying over the cart? I did." Other than a rather rude and sudden impact on the cobblestones, Bella was fine. Shuddering, she dusted off her hands. She didn't want to alarm the children, but someone needed to be notified that the archery contest was being attempted by amateurs. Robin, Sir Graham, Sir John and Prince Edward surrounded Bella and the younger boys all at once. "What happened here, hm?" Sir John inquired as he reached down to assist Bella onto her feet. "We took a bit of a spill," Bella answered as she hid the arrow in the generous folds of her skirts. "No worse than the two I've taken today, Lady Chandos," Prince Edward said with a wry laugh, and one large hand massaging his backside. "I could have done without being impaled on my own cantle back in Winchelsea. But as you were determined to foil the cutthroats after your hide, what can I say?" "They weren't after the lady's hide, Your Majesty. It was your pretty hide the pirates wanted," Hugh Cavely ribbed. "What pirates?" Sir John inquired. "And how is it they were after Lady Chandos?" Oh, no, Bella thought as Geoffrey's interruption came to her rescue. "Did ya see me go tumbling head over heels, Papa?" Goeffrey offered his scraped forehead. Sir John inspected the boy's hard head and found it not much worse for the incident. He was more concerned about Bella who kept scooting away from him, brushing dirt from her skirt until he latched his hand onto her elbow. Bella was in no mood to withstand an inquisition and kept her eyes downcast on purpose. Yes, it was true, she had deliberately misled Chandos about her sojourn to Winchelsea. She felt it in her bones there would be a reckoning over that, but saw no reason to make it a public display at this very moment. "You made no mention of trouble in Winchelsea," Sir John addressed his question to both the prince and Robin, but his hand remained firm at Bella's elbow, drawing her back into the fracas. Edward looked at Robin then shrugged carelessly. "It was hardly worth mentioning, my lord. 'Twas the usual riffraff out to cut a purse and make a quick profit. Lady Chandos outfoxed them by bringing our horses round beneath the tavern's window. Robin and Caveley guarded my back well as we got out of town." Thank you Mr. Big Mouth, Bella grimaced sourly. She found herself unable to evade Chandos' grip. She

fixed a false smile on her face and looked up at him. "Boys have such a vivid imagination. I must see to our guests." She deliberately dipped a curtsey to the whole motley crew and escaped. Chandos released her sleeve, but Bella knew it wasn't over. There'd be a reckoning. He turned on his heel and strode into the crowd looking like the Pied Piper with Henri skipping at his heels, nattering away about his pony and his puppy. Trailing behind Henri was Goeffrey, then Robin and Prince Edward. James Graham was the only one of the group that paid any notice that Bella headed in the direction of Gunni Douglas and the archery targets. The dour Scot took one look at the broken shaft Bella offered him and shook his grizzly head. "'Tis no one of mine, milady. Thas a quarrel from a crossbow. Wouldn't waste me time on one of them." "How can you tell the difference?" Bella asked. "Ach, thas because the feathers are knocked, shorter, smaller and the bolt's square tipped, you see." Gunni turned the shaft so she could see the difference for herself. "Where did it come from, milady?" "That's what I'd like to know." Bella said as she glanced at the tubs of long bows and arrows waiting to be used by some contestant. There wasn't a crossbow anywhere in sight. So it hadn't been a stray arrow fired from the games area. That arrow had been intended to strike Isabel de Chandos--her. She had the sinking feeling that she knew who wanted Chandos' wife silenced for good. That pirate she'd had the unfortunate luck to meet in Winchelsea. Spooked, Bella decided she'd had enough of the great outdoors for this night. It was definitely time to retire.

"...From the pride of the Grahams... Good Lord, Deliver us." MUNGO MAXTONE

-20-

Henri, to Bella's delight, was born under the sign of Aquarius, same as she. The tipoff was Henri's fascination with water. He played with his scoops and buckets at the castle well, happily entertaining himself for hours. Bella wasn't surprised to discover that he was an Aquarian during one of her frequent escapes into the castle chapel. The trouble was, Bella liked the quiet life. There was no quiet at Chandos Enceinte--except inside the castle's chapel. Every day brought more knights and their soldiers to the fortress, answering King Edward's summons to duty.

Their royal guests made no move to decamp in the week following Robin's birthday. On the good side, the crowded conditions helped insulate Bella from further confrontations with Chandos. In fact, he was so busy, Bella rarely saw him. Since she'd gotten sunburned, he hadn't come to her seeking physical release. She was not so busy she had not noticed. Today, all who could ride a horse, shoot an arrow, throw a spear and guide a falcon rode off on a hunt. Bella did not hunt. Frankly, she was glad to see the men, teenage boys and giddy young ladies out the damn gate and gone--for a little while. One thing she liked about living in a castle was the proximity of the chapel. The first time she'd gone there she hadn't paid attention to any detail except the life size crucifix. But the chapel was a beautiful example of high Norman architecture with vaulted ceiling, stained glass rose window and memorial side altars, one of which contained the tomb and marble effigy of Sir John's father. When things got too hectic, Bella escaped there. On the main altar was the only full size book of any kind Bella had found in the entire castle. The heavy, hand-scribed and ornately decorated book was the Chandos family bible. It had been presented to the first Lord Chandos in the year 1072 as a reward from his grateful king, William the Conqueror. The bible contained a complete history of every birth, death and marriage in the Chandos family for two centuries. Bella had found it to be a valuable resource. Through it she'd learned that Sir John was born on January 6, 1311. Robin followed Prince Edward into this world five days after the prince in 1330. Henri would be five on the 31st of January, 1347. Most important of all to her, was Geoffrey. Bella's Iain and Geoffrey had been born on exactly the same day, August 23. That added to her growing surety that she was here for a purpose; to prevent a tragedy from happening. Geoffrey must be guarded and protected from all and any danger in the week following his ninth birthday. As the only soul present who knew the coming dangers, Bella took Geoffrey's best interest firmly in hand. Father Kerwin seriously objected to a mere woman's presence at his altar, turning the Bible's brittle parchment pages. But as the bible was too heavy and fragile to be moved to a pew where she could sit and study it, he simply growled and grunted his complaints. The one time he had actually had the audacity to scold her for touching the Bible, Bella had suggested he take his complaint to Sir John. The book belonged to Chandos, not to the priest. Bella had learned since that Father Kerwin had the tenacity of a pit bull. Once he caught hold of a thought, he never let it go. The Saturday following her open rebuke when she went to confession, he remembered her sharp words as he directed her through another rigorous examination of conscience. The priest accused her of being too proud, too quick with sharp words among other sins. It didn't do her any good to cross him when he could make each confession a test of humility, straining her inadequate store of that virtue to its limit. In spite of the dour priest, Bella still liked the chapel and planned to continue using it and the Chandos Bible as she saw fit. Clerics could think what they liked about women, but God, Bella was certain, loved women just as much as She loved men. No priest was going to make Bella feel or think any differently. As she was exiting the chapel the afternoon of the hunt, she noticed quite a commotion at the well. Henri's play buckets, scoops and sieves were scattered and all of the younger boys were shouting at one

another. No adults were near the children to quell the disturbance. Prince Edmund sat in a big puddle beside the well, bawling for all he was worth. Henri screamed incoherently and pounded his small fists on Geoffrey. Geoffrey appeared to be tying a thick rope around his waist. John Gault and Lionel outshouted each other like warring generals. Bella snatched up her hems and started running. Geoffrey pushed Henri out of his way and climbed up onto the ledge of the well. Bella screamed, yelling at the boys to stop and wait! Thank God Geoffrey hesitated long enough for her to reach the well. "Stop this noise! Be quiet all of you! What is going on here?" Bella demanded. "George is drowning!" Lionel screamed. He clambered over Prince John. They both were in danger of falling head first into the deep well. Geoffrey tightened the rope at his waist and started to jump. Bella swept all three of the older boys off the stones, pushing them with all her might to the safety of the ground. "You are not going down that well!" she commanded in the strongest voice she had. "George is gonna drown!" Prince Lionel screamed. "Quiet!" Bella ordered. "Stop screaming. John Gault, go and get me help. We will get the puppy out." Not one of the boys believed her. "I said, go and get me some help! Who's commanding the watch?" "Sir Graham," Geoffrey stuttered as Bella untied the thick rope at his waist. "Get him. Now!" The princes just stood there, frozen, on the verge of bursting into the same useless tears of the little ones. Bella turned to the well, afraid to look at the water in its depths. She couldn't see the puppy for the sunlight was now at a slant, but she could hear it crying, yelping. That meant the puppy was still alive. Bella tore at the strings of her apron, removing it and snatched her slippers off her feet. But the minute Geoffrey realized she planned to go down and get the puppy, he grabbed her waist and held onto her for dear life. "This is not helping George!" Bella pushed Geoffrey away. "I said go get help for me. I can swim, Geoffrey. I won't drown. But I'll need help to get back up." No one was watching Henri. Bella only caught of glimpse of his dark head the moment he jumped into the well. She screamed and slapped Geoffrey, pushed the princes out of her way and scrambled over the stone edge, grabbing hold of the bucket rope. Henri's terrible scream on impact rang and rang out of the deep, hollow cylinder. Luck was with Bella. The bucket rope was strong and tied securely to the winch. She heard awful,

ominous noises below her in the dark well as she dropped, the wet rope searing across her hands. She tried to go slowly and carefully down it, but her grip kept slipping and she dropped by long, palm-burning degrees at a time. "Henri! Henri, where are you?" Bella screamed. "Answer me!" Her toes touched frigid water and her skirts rose, billowing out around her legs. The puppy cried out weakly, but there was no response from Henri. Water rushed up to her chin and in a panic she felt all around her, touching slimy, mossy walls. She made a full circle and found no child, but did find the now silent puppy. Bella stuck it in the floating bucket. "Pull up the rope!" Bella screamed. "Crank the rope up. The puppy's in it." Small faces peered over the rim of the well at her. "Lionel, do you hear me? Pull up the bucket now." Bella felt the pull of the rope and heard the crank. She took two deep breaths to fill her lungs then dove under the water searching for Henri. She forced her eyes open but could see nothing in the stygian blackness. She kicked hard to go deeper, always circling, hands clawing at the stone wall to find the child. Her lungs were burning, and bursting, straining. Her leg touched something and Bella jerked toward it, circling, hands scratching at the mossy walls. It was like trying to swim in a fishbowl, impossible. She touched a leg and her fingers wrapped around it. She needed air. Now. Pushing her feet to the stones, she tightened her grip on Henri's leg and kicked for all she was worth. She felt whatever held him give. By then the shimmering surface of the water seemed so far away and the cold seemed so numbing, Bella didn't think she would make it to air again. Her head broke the surface too late. She couldn't control the urge to breathe any longer and had sucked water into her nose. Choking, sputtering and spitting, she found Henri's shoulders and lifted his head above water. Panicking thoughts raced through her mind. She knew what to do, clear airways, check his pulse, administer CPR and breathe into him, but she couldn't support him in the water, and do all that at once. But she had to. How many minutes? How many? Her mind went on and on plaguing her. She shook the child, tried to find some way to brace herself against the stones, hugged him as she checked his airway. Finally, she turned his face toward her and pushed her own air into his mouth, using one fist pressed on his solar plexus to compress his heart. Little puffs, her brain commanded. He's a child, gently, gently.

"...God restores what would otherwise be displaced." ECCLESIASTICS 3;15

-21-

Bella began to count, fifteen pumps then a breath. Her shaky fingers pressed against the artery in Henri's

throat seeking his pulse. It was thready, but there. She continued administering the breath of life, while hugging his sturdy little body against her own. She didn't see his eyes flutter open, but she did feel the first sign of voluntary movement. His arms jerked and wrapped around her neck in a pathetically weak strangle hold. The bucket splashed dangerously close to her head. Unintelligible shouts echoed down the shaft. Another rope plopped onto Henri's back. He coughed. Bella grabbed the bucket, hooking the rope under her shoulder, glad for the assistance from above that helped stabilize her bobbing up and down in the water. Henri lifted his head from Bella's shoulder and cried out, complaining of being stung by the heavy wet rope that had fallen on him. "Thank you, Jesus." Bella closed her own eyes, pressing the boy against her. "Georgie," Henri choked out his puppy's name. "Georgie's already rescued." Bella kissed his cold cheeks. "Breathe for me, Henri, and cough as deeply as you can." "Hurts," he said. "Where?" Bella felt his head, smoothing the wet curls back. Henri coughed again. Bella found a cut and a ferocious lump above his ear, and smelled the coppery scent of blood. "My knee." "Anywhere else?" "No, Maman." Little arms tightened around her neck. "Lady Chandos, can you tie the rope?" Bella looked up at the far away ring of light. Sir Graham's broad shoulders seemed to fill the whole circle. "Yes." "Are you certain. I will have the men lower me if you cannot make a knot secure." "No, just wait a minute. Henri, I'm going to tie this rope around you." She pulled the rope around his chest and made a cradle with it, looping it under his legs so he'd have a seat of sorts. She couldn't be certain he'd hold on. "Now, Henri, put your hands here. Can you hold on?" "Un huh." His teeth rattled. Bella placed his hands on the rope above her knots. The rope was so thick he couldn't possibly have much of a grip. "Okay, Henri's tied, winch it up a little bit and let me check my knots." Henri began to spin as soon as his body cleared the water. "Wait!" Bella screamed. The knots held but she feared he'd be banged and battered against the walls. If he didn't have broken bones already, he would before they'd lifted him the twenty or thirty feet to the top.

"Throw me down another rope!" "Maman!" Henri let go and reached for her. Bella tried to calm him. "Hush, hush. It's just a precaution, Henri. Be brave, please." "I want you to come with me!" He burst into tears. She caught the end of the second rope and tied it to the side of Henri's cradle. "Let me have the rest of the rope. Let it fall, Sir Graham." "Are you daft, woman?" he shouted. "Please let it go. This one." Bella tugged on the rope she wanted. The knight swore an oath that burned Bella's ears. She yanked on the rope and he let it fall. "Thank you. Now, pull Henri up, slowly. He's injured." She pulled the second rope behind her back and let it out little by little, bracing her feet against the stone wall, doing her best to keep Henri steady and not spinning. Henri screamed for her all the way to the top. That was fine with Bella. The more he howled, the clearer he made his lungs. Sir Graham had choice words for the boy's bellowing. The little boy was lifted out of the well shaft. For a few minutes all heads, shoulders and arms that had protruded into the distant ring of light disappeared. Bella took the time to say a prayer of thanks, exhaling in shuddering breaths her own deep relief. She came aware of the slimy wall at her back and pushed away from it, treading water to stay afloat. The cold registered. She couldn't feel her feet and her heavy gown dragged on her legs, tiring them more. She knew the best thing she could do for herself was strip off her gowns, but her fingers were too cold to unfasten the laces. She tilted her face to the empty circle of daylight. Had they forgotten about her? Then the darkest thought she'd ever had in her life splattered across her brain. If Graham murdered Lady Isabella, why shouldn't he just let you drown, Bella? "No," Bella shook her head. "No, no. He won't do that. He had nothing to do with Isabella." How do you know? The rope she'd held Henri stable with scraped across her hands. "Lady, you next. Are you tied?" "Tied?" Bella sorted out that request. Dear God, what was she thinking? She wasn't thinking. "Wait." She fumbled with the rope, tying another square knot and one more after that. She slid a big loop of rope down to her hips and tried to sit on it. "Ready? Are you secure?" "Oh, yes." Bella nodded. But she wasn't. The rope slid up her back, tightened across her shoulders then

the knot gave. She dropped back into the water, sinking heavily, banging against the stones as she struggled back to the surface. Furious words trumpeted down the hollow well. Sir Graham snatched the rope out of the well, fashioned his own knots and loops and dropped the rope back to Bella. "Lady, it took us forever to get your knots off Henry. Put one loop between your legs and the other around your arms and for the love of God, hold on. There is no reason to make this more difficult than it is." "Well, kiss my Aunt Fanny," Bella grumbled, stung by Graham's rudeness. He couldn't even bother to be pleasant when someone's life was in danger. "You can just leave me here if you want." "And taint the well?" he snarled back. "No." "You weren't supposed to hear that," Bella whispered her next complaint as she struggled with his loops and her cold, tired limbs. "Aye, and I'm not suppose to hear that either. 'Haps I should leave you a while longer. Sir John might appreciate my efforts if it sweetens your disposition." Bella got the larger loop he'd fashioned onto her legs. This time, when she felt the rope tug on her, it bit deeply into her flesh under her arms and below her hips and held. She also spun like a top once her feet left the water, but she could brace herself with her arms and avoid the worst of the battering. As the rim of the well came closer, she realized the easiest way out would have been repelling, using her feet and the wall the smart way. The men pulling the tow rope held it fast as Sir Graham and Friar Kerwin both reached into the well to grasp Bella's arms and drag her across the stones. A crowd of servants and men-at-arms cheered. Bella sank to a wet heap beside the well and looked for Henri. Meggie had him swaddled in a blanket, rocking him. On the cobbles at Meggie's feet lay the inert body of the Spaniel puppy. "Oh, no," Bella moaned, pushing away Sir Graham's hands, ignoring the priest's prayers of thanksgiving. "Hold still," Graham ordered testily as he unfastened knots. Bella pushed her hair away from her face and struggled onto her feet. She was shaky and cold. Graham lifted the last loop over her head and more wet hair tumbled in Bella's face. She pushed that back again and Sir Graham firmly away and staggered to the puppy, sinking in the same puddle it had died in. She picked the puppy up. "How long has it been?" "The pup is dead, lady." Graham put his knee to the cobbles beside her soggy skirts. "How many minutes? How much time?" Bella turned the small body over, letting water run from its open mouth while supporting its limp head. "Time since what?" Again Graham tried to take the pup from her. "No!" Bella jerked away. "Tell me how long it took to bring both Henry and me up! Tell me, damn you!"

Graham glared at her, his mouth a harsh line beneath his thick mustaches. "A quarter hour," he shrugged, indicating that was only a guess. "Who can judge? A long time." "Oh," Bella turned the puppy once more. There was probably nothing she could do for it, but she had to try. She checked its mouth for obstructions. Its tongue was blue, but it still felt warm. She didn't much like the idea of putting her mouth over a dog's nose, but she couldn't afford to be squeamish if she was to save it. She laid it on her bent knee, using one hand to hold its jaws closed, the other to compress its small ribs. She didn't know where to feel for a pulse exactly, but she wasn't certain that information would help her even if she knew it. She blew quick little breaths into the pup's nose, pressed on its ribs to expel it, then blew again. Along the way to getting it to breathe on its own, Bella realized the puppy wasn't George. It was the little female she liked best, Pepper. That fact made her all the more determined to coax the puppy into breathing on its own again. Bella's head began to lighten from too much oxygen in her own blood stream. The puppy twitched. Its hind legs trembled and it convulsed then coughed up a gush of water from its belly. Gagging and choking, Pepper began to breath on her own again. The large crowd surrounding the well gasped in shock. Father Kerwin raised his hand and made the sign of the cross to ward away evil. His superstitions were the least of Bella's worries. She looked to the little boy being comforted by his nanny and spoke to Meggie. "Bring Henri here. He must see this for himself." "No," Graham countermanded. "Take the boy to the manor, Meggie. Get him dry and dress the cut on his head. The rest of you, get back to work. I thank you for your assistance. Go now. Disperse. There is nothing else to see or do." "I want Henri to..." Bella's protest was stopped by the clamp of Graham's hand over her mouth. "You will not say another word to the boy." This time Graham did take the puppy rudely from Bella's hands and handed it to someone behind her. His hands were not gentle as he yanked Bella onto her feet. That he was so callus and harsh made Bella furious. She wanted to strike him, pound his overlarge body into the stupid cobblestones, push him down and kick and pulverize him to dust. Damnit, there was a chance the puppy could make it if it was carefully watched and tended. "Give me back that puppy this instant!" Bella commanded, unable to jerk free of Graham's fierce grip. "Lady, you have done enough damage for one day," the Scot said. His hold tightened while the crowd dispersed and his hand over her mouth crushed her lips painfully against her teeth. "Not one word, lady," he growled in her ear. "So help me God, I'll gag you if you upset that boy more than you already have." There wasn't a damn thing Bella could do to countermand him. She was too weak to even try. He'd given the dog to Father Kerwin. That man had sense enough to see the puppy needed careful handling. Graham held Bella fast until all had departed the well as he'd ordered, except for Kerwin.

Bella struggled against the knight's hard grip. She didn't have the foggiest idea what his problem was. She wanted to help Henri, to let him know it wasn't his puppy that had nearly drowned. Finally, the angry knight dropped his hand from her face. "Now, lady, you can say all your cruel and vicious words. I can defend against them. Your sons cannot." Bella twisted her neck, staring up at him, stupefied by what he'd just said. She tried again to escape his fierce hold, but she couldn't. "What are you talking about? I wanted to tell Henri it wasn't his puppy. It was Pepper, my puppy, the boys accidentally knocked into the well." "What difference that?" The knight's fist tightened on Bella's soggy upper arm. "The dog is dead through no fault of the children and you damned near killed Sir John's youngest son with your vicious ploy. God save my soul, but you make me sick with your petty plots and evil ways." He released her all at once, shunning her, acting as if she was something vile that could contaminate him. Bella's temper erupted. "You stupid fool, the puppy isn't dead! It was only unconscious and needed CPR and artificial respiration to help it breathe. Kerwin, hold that dog while I take care of this damned hulking Viking. Get the hell out of my way, Graham, before I kill you!" Sir Graham didn't yield so much as an inch. Bella didn't much care as she slapped his damned contemptible face. Where her second wind came from was anybody's guess, but it must have been fueled by anger. James Graham retaliated, backhanding Bella, knocking her to the ground. The whole damn castle spun around her. The hulking Scot towered above it all, murder written in his eyes. "Lady, I am not John de Chandos. Raise your hand to me and I'll beat you till you can't crawl away from this ward. Do you ever dare to harm so much as a hair on the head of one of Sir John's sons again, I will kill you with my own bare hands."

"...An eye for an eye..." ST. MATTHEW 5;38 -22-

The Scotchman turned on his heel and stalked away. Bella was too stunned to speak. Two princes and the middle rung of the Chandos stair-steps peered out the doorway of the gatehouse. Sir Graham marched to them. Father Kerwin stood rooted to the cobbles, gawking like a dimwitted fool. Bella spat out the blood pooling in her mouth and tried to wipe away the rivulet cascading from her nose. She took a deep breath and staggered up to her feet, searching the castle ward, wondering where she could go in this cursed place to be safe. Pinching her nose Bella muttered, "What, pray God tell me, am I doing in this place where every soul alive hates me?" Kerwin clutched the puppy. The cleric was probably terrified by Graham's violence. Bella sat on the rim of the well, dwelling in a purely modern fantasy, visualizing blocking Graham's blow with the Kung Fu

skills of Bruce Lee. Had she that master of defense's skills, she wouldn't have let up until Graham had the equivalent of permanent castration. On a more practical level, she vowed not to count on the so called blanket protection of the code of chivalry. That was a crock of hogwash. "Oh, give me the damn dog," Bella said crankily as she wiped blood from her nose again. "Milady," Kerwin sputtered. "Don't act so shocked," Bella grumbled. "Women can curse too!" With the puppy in hand, Bella ignored the priest. Pepper was terribly shaken, cold and wet and shivering. For that matter, so was Bella. The priest left and came back offering a woolen blanket to wrap around her. Actually, that was a blessing. Summer day or not, Bella shivered badly in her sodden clothes. Encased in the wool, Pepper opened her sleepy eyes and stroked her bluish tongue across Bella's wrist. "My lady, you saved the child and the dog. We have witnessed a miracle," the priest proclaimed. Pinching her nostrils together, Bella transferred her gaze to the Irishman. "Watch out, Father Kerwin. Heaven forbid if the next thing you do is praise me. What will the people think?" He tilted his head, his smooth round skull glinting in the strong afternoon sunlight. "My lady, I fear you mistake my concern for your everlasting soul. What you have done here this day is good. God is with you." "Father Kerwin, God is with me every minute of my life. Good, bad or otherwise." His moonish face became pained. "You mistake my instructions, milady. Humility is also a virtue." "Sorry." Bella snapped. "It's not my cardinal virtue." She gathered the wool around her shoulders and cradling Pepper in her arms, she stalked across the empty ward to the open doors of the manor. It was really weird how everyone had suddenly gone out of sight. The keep had become a ghost town, deserted, devoid of people. Bella left a soggy trail across the foyer and up the bartizan stairwell. Clarise popped out of nowhere, following with a mop, wiping up the polished wood. "A bath, I think, Clarise," Bella requested, plopping heavily onto the first seat she came to in the solar. "As hot as you can make the water, please. I'm chilled to the bone." "Yea, milady." Clarise bobbed. "And send to the kitchen for some food for Pepper. I'm sure after her ordeal, a meal would be in order." "Milady, do you keep the puppy here?" Clarise asked. "And if I do?" Bella demanded pointedly, wondering who should have final say whether she kept the puppy wherever she wanted.

"Oh, milady, I was only thinking of Aristotle. That cat does think he's king of the walk up here." Bella grunted under the fingers pinching her nose. "Well, he'll just have to get used to it." She tilted her head to the backrest, willing the bleeding to stop. When it did, she probed the bones and cartilage before concluding her nose wasn't broken. She needed ice to reduce the swelling. The inside of her lip felt as if it needed stitches, but being a coward, she knew she could never stand to have that done without novocaine or sterile surgical instruments. There, she decided, that was something else she could order done. Sterile dressings, boiled thread and some kind of pain reliever...for the army. "Tell them to hurry with my bath," Bella told Clarise. "As you wish." Bella couldn't see why there was such a delay. The sooner she had hot water the happier she would be. It took a while for the tub to be filled. Bella rubbed Pepper with a towel until her coat was nearly dry. Clarise came with a bowl of food for the dog, scowling as she put it on the marble apron fronting the hearth. Bella sat with the puppy, feeding it little bites. Mostly it wanted to sleep. She thought that was the best cure of all and made a nest for it with an extra blanket. Aristotle came prancing in on the heels of the bucket brigade and sure enough, noticed the puppy immediately. He hissed and snarled and arched his back, but Pepper slept through the confrontation. Bella picked up the cat, crooning to him as she had the puppy, smoothing its ruffled fur. Personally, she liked dogs better than cats, but Aristotle was one cat in a million. Bella wasn't about to forget that he was the only creature in this century that loved her unconditionally. How could she fault a cat for that? Still testy at having his domain invaded by a canine, Aristotle pounced onto the lord's chair and sharpened his claws on the carved high back. The tub was now full and Bella shed her clothes and sank gratefully into it. "Milady, this bliault is ruined," Clarise examined the gown in question. "The dye has run badly and it looks as if I'll not be able to save your new kirtle either." "Well, then throw it away. I shall order others made." Bella answered flippantly. What else could she do? Dissolve into hysterics and cry like a baby? She wouldn't. These crude people weren't going to break her. Clarise frowned. "As you wish, milady." Bella rested her head against the rim of the tub, feeling the letdown that followed so much expended emotion, and silently willed the hot tub to soothe her. "Clarise?" "Yea, milady?" "Am I a terrible mother?"

The question startled the servant. Her face flooding with a deep blush, she sputtered, "Why? Milady, what makes you ask that?" "That hardly answers the question, Clarise." Bella stared directly at the woman, compelling her to answer truthfully. "Tell me, have you ever seen me do anything cruel to my children?" "I would never think to judge my betters, milady." Bella knew a dodge when she heard one. "You wouldn't? Well, then, tell me this. What do you think a good mother does?" "A good mother loves her children, milady." "Meaning I don't? Come now, Clarise. You have been with me for sixteen years. Surely you have an opinion on past events." "No, milady. I do not." Bella sighed. Sixteen years and none of the barriers between servant and lady had ever dissolved. Bella wasn't cut out to be a lady of the manor. Bella wanted the staff around her to be her friends. That was the thing she missed the most about her America--the easy commaradie of divergent people. Strong friendships arose from the fundamental principle that all men and women were created equal. In a hundred years, Clarise would not speak her mind to Lady Chandos. She wasn't alone. Few in this castle did speak freely where Lady Chandos was concerned. Still, Bella felt compelled to try to win Clarise's trust. "It seems," Bella began carefully. "I've a serious problem with Sir James Graham. I cannot imagine what has caused him to believe I would deliberately injure the boys. Geoffrey accidentally knocked the bucket the puppy was in over the well's edge. But Sir Graham acted as if I had deliberately drowned the puppy. You know, Clarise, since I came out of this Well of Souls, I simply cannot remember things that happened before. Have there been times when I have harmed Geoffrey or Henri? Have they suffered injuries because of me?" Clarise brought a stool to the tub, sat and took Bella's hair in hand to comb the tangles from its length. "God assoil us, there is no telling what could have happened to you in that awful pit. You're not to worry about the things you've forgotten. 'Tis a blessing you've changed and far better that you don't remember how things were before, milady." "But how was that?" Bella prodded bluntly. "'Twas different," Clarise hedged. "Suffice to say, you and my Lord Chandos had not spoken a civil word to one another in years." "For how many years exactly?" Bella asked appalled. "Milady, I beg you, none of this is my concern. 'Twas a very long time, milady, but you wouldn't want to go back to that. Aren't you happier now that there is peace between the two of you?" "You call this peace? That my husband's friend feels he has the right to strike me? What I want to know is where did everyone in this bloody castle get the idea that Lady Chandos had a beating coming?" Bella turned around to see Clarise's eyes for the answer to that. The woman clamped her lips together and would say nothing more. In her eyes Bella saw fear. There would be no answer forthcoming.

"Never mind," Bella said and settled her neck back on the towel folded over the rim of the tub. "Answer me this, if you will. Is there any particular reason Sir John and I have quarrelled in the past that caused our estrangement?" Clarise was clearly wary of saying anything, but she did offer, "Milady, you have always questioned Lord Chandos' devotion to duty for the king." "Well, that should hardly be a problem now. I have sworn allegiance to Edward as well." "So you have," Clarise said. In the silence that followed, Bella listened to the brush crackle against the tangles in her hair. "I wish all the people in this castle would have to speak the gospel truth for one full day," Bella complained. "If they did, milady, you would not like it," Clarise replied. "Ha!" Bella countered testily. "You'd be surprised to know what I like and do not like." All at once Bella knew she'd had enough subservient companionship for one day. "You know what, Clarise?" "No, milady." "I have to give Sir Graham credit for one thing. He's the only person in this bloody castle with the balls to speak his mind." To herself, Bella admitted the man had also had the courage to step forward and protect a child he thought was being abused. In that light, considering his motives from hindsight, Bella couldn't fault him. He just had the wrong woman and his facts wrong. Bella climbed out of the tub and wrapped herself in a length of linen towelling, taking care as she blotted her face dry. "You may go, Clarise. I want to be alone. Why isn't there a mirror in this stupid room? I need a mirror." Clarise gave Bella a queer look and marched across the room to the escritoire. She took the inkstand off of it and lifted the top. Bella stared at the tilted top on that piece of furniture as if she'd never seen it before in her life. It wasn't an escritoire like she had thought for weeks now. It was a lady's vanity table...a stupid lady's vanity table! How blind could she possibly be? On the underside of the raised top was a polished mirror. Below that were sections and compartments full of jars of unguents, perfumes, oils, powders, and creams. A blasted vanity of all things! Without another word, Clarise curtsied and left. "Holy Mother of God!" Bella whispered aloud for her own ears only. "Christ, and Him crucified, how many other things am I wrong about?" Bella hadn't seen her face since checking her makeup just before she'd left the Claridge Hotel. She had

even begun to doubt her own identity--thinking maybe it hadn't been her body that had gone through time--just her spirit. But there in Lady Isabella's polished silver mirror was Bella's own familiar face. Even battered, she knew each feature reflected back at her. She was still one and the same Sarah Isabel Saint Pierre Wynford. She looked at the damage Sir James' fist had caused and found it wasn't nearly as bad as it felt. Her upper lip was swollen and that extended into her cheek. Her eyes weren't going to turn black and blue like they had years ago after a car accident. The worst of it must have been the nosebleed. She knew from raising a child, noses bled easily. Before she closed the top, she examined Lady Isabella's possessions inside the vanity. There was a miniature of a pale-haired woman opposite a portrait of Comte Saint Pierre. Lady Isabella's parents thirty years ago, most likely. Bella fingered a crocheted hairnet, a tangle of silk ribbons and a porcelain pot containing earrings. "Where are the little treasures?" Bella asked, snooping under pots and jars, searching for the items that any mother would have kept tucked away in her private stash. Back home in Texas, Bella's vanity contained scads of tucked-away tokens of Iain. Painted rocks, pressed flowers, shoe-lace key chains, crude cards and Valentines, even baby teeth had been saved just because they were Iain's. "Did you hate your children, Lady Chandos?" Bella asked. "Did you treat those sweet boys as cruelly as Sir Graham claims? How could you?" Bella didn't want to believe she was that naive and blind. She looked at a vanity and saw a writing desk. She looked at three sons and a handsome husband and saw a loving family. How many other crucial things had she made face value judgments on...wrong judgments...flawed judgments? Henri had said incredulously when he'd shown her his puppy, "I thought you only liked cats." Robin avoided her, and when he could not, came across defensive as all get out. Geoffrey, the child who was the image of her own dear son, had yet to come voluntarily within five feet of Bella. Not one son sought her out in the evenings to share a story of the day, to be tucked in bed, to show a hurt or seek comforting. "Henri came to me with his sunburn." No sooner had she said that out loud than Bella admitted the truth. The little boy had been seeking his father and had received from Sir John the soothing and reassurance he'd needed. "And I took that to mean Sir John was a more involved father than Ari. Ha! I should have seen it as a sign the child and his mother weren't involved at all! God! Why did you put me here? I was on the outside of life right where I was?" Not one son had ever said, I love you, Momma. The pure cruelty of such a horrible fate tore at Bella's heart. All she'd ever wanted in life was to love and be loved in return. How could God have played such a cruel joke on her as to show her this family and never let her become part of it. This could not continue. Bella could not possibly live on the fringes of all relationships involving the

children and Sir John. She had to be an active participant. Nothing else was tolerable. Bella found something to wear, dressed and brushed her hair then French braided it out of her way. After she put on dry stockings and shoes, she crossed the solar, seeking both Geoffrey and Henri. The door to their bedroom was open. Henri's wet shoes sat on the windowsill. Geoffrey's shield, battered helmet and wooden sword were dumped on the window seat. Bella also looked in the room next door where Robin slept. That chamber was identical to the first. An unglazed window and simple day bed were its main features. Robin had the addition of a prie dieu and a suit-tree that support his polished armor as well as a soldier's trunk to hold all of his possessions. That was open. Inside the trunk was the sword King Edward had given Robin for his birthday and Bella saw a crossbow and a shield. Other than that, Robin's chamber was no more individualized than a monk's cell--a reflection of the youth's personality--austere and serious-minded. Bella closed Robin's door and glanced at the door centered in the opposite wall. Since arriving at this castle, she'd entered this alcove exactly three times. Once fleeing Sir John. The second time, to give Geoffrey the sweet he'd been promised to come down from bastard's drop and the third to hand Henri over to Meggie. She harbored a curiosity about what lay behind that third door, suspecting that it was Sir John's retreat. No one was around to object to her appeasing that curiosity, so she crossed alcove and firmly pushed the heavy, iron-strapped door open. Then she stood under the arch rendered speechless as a half-wit. A stunning display of sunlight poured into the large chamber through a trio of stained-glass windows that ought to have belonged in a church. Two, three minutes passed while Bella remained poised on the door sill, drinking in the uncommon sight, wondering why such a thing of beauty was tucked away in a private room where no one could ever see it. The theme was the quest for the Holy Grail. In the center panel a golden chalice floated above a mountainous landscape. The smaller panels continued the allegory. On the right, a band of pilgrims and mounted knights traversed green foothills on a Holy Crusade which ended triumphantly in the dry and arid hills of Jerusalem on the left panel. Bella felt another strong surge of deja vu rush through her veins, confirming the fact that she had stood on the threshold of this chamber before, captivated by the image and beauty just beyond her reach. Bella didn't doubt for a moment that she'd seen this image before...somewhere. Where, in what museum, book, magazine, film, or video she couldn't say. She came from an age inundated by visual imagery. What deserved more introspection was the feeling that she'd stood here often, many, many times, admiring that image--coveting it. She knew full well she'd never been here in her life. She tried to dispel the weird sensations by turning her attention the rest of the chamber. Below the stained glass, wooden shutters opened for air circulation. A window seat was made comfortable and inviting with long bolsters and tapestry pillows.

The walls soared above her head, joining in a vaulted ceiling. The arches and columns of the vaulting and stone walls had been lime-washed. Parquetry squares of bleached and stained oak made up the glossy floor. A marble fireplace dominated the south wall. Before the hearth a polar bear skin rug stretched out its full length. The animal's noble head and fierce expression had been captured forever by a skilled taxidermist. Above the mantelpiece ranged a collection of trophy heads and weaponry; battle axes, halberds and swords. In the corner there was a standing wardrobe next to a wooden suit-tree supporting a full suit of gilt-embellished armor that would only fit one person--Sir John. So this is where John spends his nights, Bella thought. As in Robin's room the wall to the right of the door bore only a crucifix. Set some five feet from that was a scarred prie dieu. A bed not so ostentatious as Bella's dominated the north wall. A painted screen folded back in the far corner, exposed a deep copper tub. Like Bella's room, this one had more space than furniture. A table and chair occupied center stage before the windows on which a clutch of scrolls nestled inside a basket next to writing tools.

Three leather-bound books rested to the right of the felt deskpad. Those books exerted more pull on Bella than gravity, bringing her across the threshold into Sir John's domain. Her fingers itched to touch the written word. She sat at John's chair and took the topmost volume in hand, opening it so that daylight flooded the page. The book was readable--in that same curious way Chaucer's Old English could be read--given time and studious effort. Yet, the discovery of books delighted Bella. After some perusal, she realized she held the castle's daily ledger wherein every hogshead of ale, hide of leather, skein of wool and so on was tallied. Sir John regularly reviewed his stewards accounts, checked their figures, and made notations in his own hand on the margins. That must have been his occupation this morning prior to the hunt. Bella had seen him briefly at breakfast, when he had excused himself, saying he had accounts to attend until the hunt master sounded his horn. Spellbinding as Old English was, Bella put that ledger aside and took up the second volume. This, she discovered immediately upon opening it to the page marked by a silken ribbon, was a Bible, the New Testament handwritten in Medieval French. That it wasn't Latin came as a big surprise. Bella knew that the Bible had not been translated into English until Henry VIII had authorized a printing. Wait a minute, she reminded herself, that was the printed Bible. Certainly hand-written translations in various languages had been available to those with the means to commission them. The script was Gothic, precisely styled calligraphy. The top of the ribbon marked page was sub-titled chapter 5, the Beatitudes of St. Matthew. Bella's brow furrowed as she struggled to read the formal French with her awkward, very idiomatic Alsatian. Her forefinger reverently trailed down the lines, following the Sermon on the Mount.

The bottom corner of this parchment page was dog-eared, softened and grimed by frequent touch. Clearly, this was a favorite passage of Sir John's. The last lines on the page, verses 31 and 32 Chandos had marked with red ink brackets. Verse 31 had been underlined. Bella tangled several minutes with verse 31, looking for the gist and context of the underlined words. Abruptly, she snapped the volume shut. Her head jerked up and she glared across the room at the standing suit of armor. The literal translation looped in startling clarity in her head, but saying it out loud made it a travesty. "Whoever puts away his wife, let him give her a written notice of dismissal." The balance she knew by heart for she spent many an hour seeking insight from the Bible over her troubled marriage to Aristotle. "Whoever puts away his wife save for immorality, causes her to commit adultery." The legs of the chair scraped as Bella got to her feet. She put the New Testament on top of the ledger, backing away from Sir John's writing tools and personal papers. He wanted to get rid of her...that's why he didn't seek her bed and avoided her at all costs. The chamber had changed atmosphere in the blink of an eye, as though a dark cloud had passed over the sun and dimmed the light from the window. Battle axes and deadly blades on the south wall now looked shadowed and sinister. The suit of armor seemed to come to life, menacing and fierce. Every wild animal bared its teeth in an echoing silent growl that only Bella could hear. Turning abruptly, she stumbled past a bed she'd never been invited to share--and never would share--ever! Shaking, caught in an emotional upheaval brought on by the cruelest cut of all, Bella ran for the open door. She should have never crossed that threshold. As the eavesdropper never heard anything good said about them, so the curious were caught by their own folly. Bella ran from hers, knowing it was high time she put distance and space between herself and Chandos. She was only kidding herself thinking she could worm a niche in John de Chandos' world. Wait until he heard the latest--today's fiasco at the well. Chandos probably couldn't wait to find some convent to lock away his mad wife. It was time Bella took control of her own destiny and forced her way back to the century she truly belonged. Now, this very moment, she would find the means to escape Chandos Enceinte. ***

Lorette whickered softly as she raised her head above the bubbling spring, calling to Bella. "It's all right, Lorette. You'll be fine here," Bella assured the placid horse. She knotted the leather lead securely to a barren oak. The grass was plentiful and Lorette was assured of a never-ending supply of fresh water overnight. "Come morning someone from the castle will find you." Bella walked down the gentle rise toward the crumbling stone walls. Her thoughts were still caught up in her own escape. It hadn't been as hard to accomplish as she'd had imagined it would be. All she'd had to

do was wait for the next meal to be sounded. With the encampments surrounding Chandos Enceinte, one woman and a horse going out the gates went unnoticed by the hundreds of hungry men surging inside to be fed. Sundown was still a few hours away as Bella strode purposefully through the unbarred gate of the priory. The crumbling walls were painted with hex signs, skulls and crossbones, warning people away. She could well see why. The uneven ground was pitted. Mud holes and water filled ditches were half covered by bracken and tangled undergrowth. For all that the priory was holy ground with a cross still erect above the sunken roof of its chapel, it was ill kempt, abandoned and ghostly. "The question is," Bella stopped near the weathered walls of the old church and searched all around her. "Which of these godawful pits is the Well of Souls?" She turned back to shield her eyes from the sun and study what certainly must be Offham Hill. In the far distance, she could see the pennons flying atop the castle and King Edward's standard declaring for one and all that he was in residence at Chandos Enceinte. Bella grumbled, "Bet he'll be glad to see the last of me." Doubts continued to plague her. Surely it must take some serious mumbo jumbo to flip through time. How could she possibly do such a thing herself when the only magical words she knew were abracadabra and open sesame? Nonetheless, she vowed to give it a try. If the Well of Souls was powerful in and of itself, maybe she only had to be there, touch something special. She circled the ruins, avoiding the obvious mudpits, looking for some sign that would tell her which hole in the earth was the one she sought. As she rounded the priory's tumbled down stables and granary, she came to a stone wall separating the yard from the cemetery. It was dotted with broken headstones, shattered crosses and abandoned wagons--a gruesome eerie place. A shiver worked across Bella's shoulders. Her eyes darted right and left, where was the well? She climbed onto an upended cart and shading her eyes from the glare of the sun and discovered another curiosity. Standing stones. Three of them thrust skyward, seven to eight feet out of the earth, straight and towering sentinels of pagan times mixed amid the graves of early Christian priests. "Well, no wonder." Bella said as she jumped back down to the earth and hurried inside the cemetery. Weren't modern archaeologists always discovering that time after time, the new religions took over the old religion's sacred places? Sure as her name was Bella, they were. "Wow," Bella pushed her hair back to her shoulders, caught up her hems and skirted the last obstacle in her way. She had her right hand up, just about to touch the first stele when the damned thing spoke. "Isabel! What do you here?"

"...it is better to marry than to burn."

1 CORINTHIANS, 7;9. -23-

John Chandos stepped out from behind the monolith. Startled, Bella jumped and caught her throat. She wasn't able to stop her scream, but followed that outburst with, "Chandos, you scared me half to death!" He didn't yield an inch of ground, saying, "Answer me. What do you here?" Since she was well and truly found out there was no point not stating the obvious. Bella did nothing to mask the bitterness coating her voice. "I am looking for the Well of Souls." "The Well of Souls?" he repeated, cocking his head to the side. His eyes narrowed intensely. "Who struck you?" Her heart still hammered from the fright he'd given her. Talking stones, sweet Mother Macree, what was her fetid brain going to imagine next? Bella thought as she backed away from him. "What makes you think anyone struck me?" "How else do you explain a swollen lip and a goodly bruise on your cheek?" "Easy," said Bella. "I fell." Sir John's hand rose, as if to touch her face. Bella twitched away from any touch at all. She remembered that when she'd done that on the crowded allure the day the king had come, Sir John had reacted badly. He didn't like public displays of rejection. They were private now. Yet, the furrow between his black brows told her he didn't like her avoidance of his touch at any time. "If you don't mind, Sir John. I'm busy right now." Bella snatched up her skirts and stalked around him, by-passing the stele and climbing up a mound of freshly packed dirt. Her weight caused the topmost crust to break and mud oozed out from under her shoes. "Is this the well? You filled it in, didn't you? This is freshly laid dirt, isn't it?" Bella watched John's hand make a slow descent back to his side. His sleeveless jerkin bore evidence that he'd been in on the major kills of the hunt, but his hands and arms were clean. His hair was wet, finger combed away from his face. In answer to her question, John nodded. He stretched his right arm out, flattening his palm on the stele. "You're standing on it." "No!" Bella looked down at her feet, at the black earth that squished with water when it was pressed. She turned back to Chandos. "How could you? I told you how I got here. How am I supposed to get back where I belong? I want to go home!" "Fine!" He jerked his hand away from the upright stone and straightened, waving that arm at the sky.

"Fly away. Go! Cast your spell and begone. No one's stopping you from doing your wicked magic." "My wicked magic!" Bella choked. "I don't know any magic, damn you. Why did you have to mess with it? You don't need me here. You'll be perfectly happy to have a dead wife. I'm entitled to a life, too." "That's not true." Chandos shook his head. "You brought the dog back to life. Henri told me the angels had come for him, but you wouldn't let him go. You gave him your breath and filled him with the will to breathe again. What are you?" Bella took her fists off her hips to fold her arms tightly together under her breasts. "I'm just an ordinary woman of the Twentieth Century, Chandos. I'm not a witch. I'm not magical. I can't cast any spells. I can read and I can write and I can cook and I can love with all my heart. "But I don't hurt children. And until the day I met you, I've never deliberately hurt anyone in my life. Not like you and your people have hurt me. I am not Isabella Chandos. You ought to know that by now. How can you have made love to me and not admit the truth? I am not the cold-blooded, hateful, selfish woman you married." Bella picked her way off the muddy mound. She turned back to Chandos and pointed at the soggy earth between them. "Your Bella is on the other side of that pit. Where ever it goes...to the future...to the past...to Heaven, purgatory or Hell, I don't know the answer to that. Had you left my body where you found it none of this would have happened. I died June the twelth, nineteen-hundred-ninty-five. Your touch gave me the will to live again. I know that and you must know it, too. How can you be so cold, so callus as to want to divorce me?" Black water seeped from the soil. Sir John lurched forward on the balls of his feet, then caught himself before stepping on the cursed well. He came around it instead, his dark brow furrowed. "Why do you ask that?" This time the tone of his question demanded an answer and Bella was certainly of a mind to tell him. "I went in your room for the first time, today. By the way, the window is lovely. Your Bible opens automatically to St. Matthew, chapter five." She tossed her head, shaking back her hair, frustrated. "Why did you put brackets around verse 31 and 32? Why have you underlined 'Whoever puts away his wife, let him give her a written notice of dismissal?' In the future where I come from that smacks of divorce." "It is also called divorce here," John replied. "Answer my questions! Do you plan to lock me away in some convent--as a madwoman--and unencumber yourself?" This time it was Chandos who folded his arms across his chest. His feet were firmly planted on stable earth. He looked about as moveable as the stele thrusting skyward at his back. "I take it you have availed yourself of Robin's skills as a reader."

"Robin's skills?" Bella replied testily. There was no point arguing she could read when he clearly thought that was impossible, too. "Look, just answer me, please? It's important that I know your intentions." "Why?" That was spoken so softly Bella really didn't hear it said, and would have missed it entirely if she hadn't seen the way his lips moved. Oddly the word why looked just like a kiss the way he said it. Don't you dare start reacting to him, she warned her libido. "Why?" Bella reacted instead to the question. She gulped in a deep breath, concluding on the spot it was time for truth or consequences. "Because John, it's like this. You've got a very lovely castle over there...and to tell you the truth, you've got three really nice kids. I could love each one of you at the drop of a hat. It wouldn't take much more cosseting by your army of servants to turn me into a complete hedonist, but that doesn't fill up the emptiness inside me. I've got to know where I stand. Or else maybe I can go back...to my own world. Things weren't working out for me there like they should have, but I have family, people that love me, friends that enjoy my company. I could make a life for myself teaching school." Sir John said nothing. Beneath the droop of black handlebars, the corners of his mouth twitched...such a tempting mouth, too. Bella frowned, fearing the curl of sexual reaction igniting like a fire inside her more than she feared an incipient outburst of laughter. No man had the right to be so damned beautiful. His tanned bare arms looked like polished oak. She tried again to stay on course with reason and logic. "Sir John, I am not normally haunted by vacillating moods and violent tempers. I have always been a peaceful sort of soul, given to much introspection. My greatest fault, so I've been told, was that I was a bit of a bookworm. I guess that means I live in a dizzy sort of perfect world of my own making. I would rather compromise than argue. If you give me a fair chance, I could be a good mother to your children and I could be a good wife to you." The flute in his brow smoothed. She heard him exhale audibly, saying with resigned exasperation, "Bella, you are their mother." "You still haven't answered my question. Are you looking for some way to get rid of me?" "And you have not answered mine. Who struck you?" Sir John repeated. "Well, goddamnit, here we are talking apples and oranges again!" Bella crisply vented her own exasperation. "I told you--I fell!" "Now, woman, do you tempt me to violence. Dare you tell me that the age you come from has no concept of simple virtue and honor? Had you no father to train you in the way of truth?" "Of course I did," Bella stiffened. "Then why do you lie to me? You did not fall. A hundred witnesses have told me what happened in the castle ward. But you, Isabella Saint Pierre from the year nineteen ninety-five stand on holy ground and tell me lies. And with the same breath you ask, nay, you demand I believe the impossible. You cannot have it both ways, woman."

Bella tucked in her chin. "I don't want to talk about that," she admitted. "I see." John stepped back to more solid ground. He forced his gaze to leave Bella's downturned face and glared at the filled in hole in the earth. "So. Here is the well. I ordered it filled. But as you can see as easily as I, the earth does what it will do in this haunted place. Leave me. Go back to this world you say you came from. Go to these other people who can give you a better life. I'll not stand in your way or stop you." Bella scowled, the muscles of her face tightening. She felt on the verge of tears. She believed he was telling her the truth. That this eerie place was the Well of Souls. She shook her head. "I don't know how to go back." "What do you mean?" he asked. "I mean, well. It was weird. I wasn't here inside the priory." Bella turned to Offham Hill and pointed at the hollow of land below it. "I was over there where Simon de Montfort captured King Henry. Ari and I were arguing. He'd just told me he wanted a divorce. I mean, it was final. I knew we were at the end." She shook her head and tears spilled over the edges of her eyes. She quickly wiped them away. "There was a storm coming...from the south...it was still far away, but we could see the lightning and heard the thunder...over there." Bella raised her hand and pointed toward the channel. She swung back, looking at the hollow beyond the priory's crumbled walls. "I heard voices. Iain called to me, cried out from the grave, 'Momma, where are you?' and I heard a command, 'Bella, come to me.' Then the earth ripped apart...forming a hole and I was tettering on the edge of it. Ari thought it was funny and laughed. All I could hear was the wind, my own scream and his laughter following me. It was evil...cold blooded and evil. I think he wanted to kill me." She looked up from her reverie and saw pain deepening the brackets surrounding John de Chandos' mouth. "Oh, John, I'm sorry." Bella stumbled to him, embracing him. "I don't mean to hurt you. Maybe I am crazy. That's what you're stuck with--a mad wife. There's no way for me to go back there. There's nothing there anymore. Iain was all I had and he's dead." John laid his hand on the back of her head and tilted her face toward his. "Who is Iain?" "My son. He died four years ago. An accident. Remember those cars I told you about? Iain got run over by one. He was killed instantly." "Why couldn't you have saved him...like you did Henri, today?" "It was worse, much worse. Iain's chest was crushed. His ribs...his heart. The damage was too severe. I never got to tell him good-bye." Tears welled in Bella's eyes. His hand hovered near her cheek and his eyes darkened, but she leaned her face into the cup of his hand wanting to comfort him. She dashed the tears away then laid her hand over his and put a kiss in his callused palm.

"I'm sorry I'm so foolish. I'm going to cry. I can't stop myself." When had what he felt become so important to her? She lurched away, stumbling past the stele to evade his touch. She came up against a stonewall that was impossible to climb in a dress. Bella jerked around, discovering Chandos had followed her. She hastily dashed more tears from her eyes. "Just believe me when I tell you it wasn't the same thing. Anyone could have saved Henri. It's common sense to know to help a drowning person breathe again." "It has never been done that I know of. It is not possible." Chandos had never been more gravely serious. Bella flattened her back against the rock wall. "Did you not grieve for this Iain of yours?" "Oh, yes. That's all I've done for years." "But you still carry the sorrow in you. You never let it go." "Well, when you only have one child...it's very hard to let go. Geoffrey looks very much like Iain...I mean so much that when I first saw Geoffrey...I thought he was Iain." "If that is true, Bella, why are you running away?" "I beg your pardon," Bella said stiffly. He was so close she recognized each scent that clung to him...a foreign erotic mixture of wood smoke, blood, leather, and manly sweat. It was earthy--crazily appealing--pure, so unlike any man's scent of the Twentieth Century. She sought some frantic means to turn her response to that off. "Look, let's get this straight, okay? I'm not running away. I'm running to where I belong. I don't want to stay here where the next thing that probably will happen is I'll be accused of pulling some deadly Lucrezia Borgia ploy." Sir John flattened both his palms against the rocks on either side of Bella's shoulders, granting her the small space afforded by the stretch of his arms, but penning her just the same. "Am I supposed to know what a Lucrezia Borgia is? Why do you lie to me? Who hit you?" Bella blinked. "I don't want to answer that. Look, can't you figure it out? It's my fault. I struck the first blow. Just like I hit you, well not like that. I punched you with my fist and you deserved it. I slapped Sir...well, he deserved it. Can't we just forget the whole damn thing ever happened?" "We could." He brought his right hand off the rock, brushing Bella's single braid from her shoulder and turned back the edge of her surcoat below her collar bone. "There is always hope that peace can be instilled where there has been war. Have you other injuries?" "I most certainly do not!" Bella exclaimed righteously, batting away his hand. "Are you certain?" Undaunted by her denial, he continued to examine her in his proprietorial way. "As certain as I need to be. Stop trying to look inside my dress. That hasn't got anything to do with the

here and now." "Oh, doesn't it? What shall we do, Bella? Stand on the spot where King Henry surrendered his sword to Simon de Montfort? Wait for the next storm? It doesn't look like there will be rain this eve." "No, it doesn't," Bella had to grudgingly admit that as she jerked her shoulder out of his grip and righted her neckline. "Your words confuse me and cause many questions, Bella. Am I going to have to come here looking for you everytime it rains? Will you run away everytime something happens that displeases you? Is this how you resolve all your troubles, by refusing to face them?" "No, of course not. There do just happen to be some things that you can't do anything about. I don't go looking for confrontations all the time. I tell you I am a peacemaker by nature." "I would not be able to testify to that, my lady. You have been at odds with me since the day we met," Sir John said with grim authority. "Be that sixteen years ago or last week." Bella jerked her head to the side, her chin almost touching her right shoulder, glaring at taut skin covering his arm. He was deliberately examining both of her palms. "Listen, Chandos, I don't have any other injuries, period!" "Odd that you should say that when I can clearly see your hands are badly blistered...as if you have recently climbed down a heavy rope. Pray, do not tell me you escaped the castle in broad daylight by dropping down the wall from your tower on a rope and no one noticed?" Bella clenched her hands into closed fists. "Do you think I'm an idiot?" "Possibly," John mused. "Since you will not tell me how these injuries occurred I must continue with my own investigation." "Don't," Bella pleaded. "You have the power to stop me at any time by telling me the truth." His warm breath cooled the perspiration dampening Bella's temple. A tremor whipped down Bella's spine, raising the fine hair at the nap of her neck. Even though she refused to turn her face back and look at him, she couldn't deny her body's deepening response to his blatant masculinity. Why did she only had to look at him to want him? That wasn't fair! "Very well, Isabel, we shall do this the hard way." He brought both her hands together in front of her averted face, easily locking both wrists inside the grip of his left hand. Bella resisted. His strength coupled by his quick fingers had the chords holding her surcoat secure, loosened in the blink of an eye. "Stop. What are you doing?" Drawing her back against his chest, Sir John spoke softly against her ear. "I believe it is called undressing you, my lady." "That is altogether unnecessary," Bella whispered.

"It is if I am to examine every inch of your skin before the sun is gone," he said huskily. The last thing Bella wanted was to be undressed by John Chandos. She leaned back against his chest, encircled by his fierce hold and turned her face toward his. "All right, I yield. I'll tell you what happened." "Go on, then," Chandos' free hand paused for only a moment, letting the lacing crisscrossing from eyelet to eyelet on Bella's right side slacken, but he slid his fingers inside the folds of fabric and gently stroked her belly. "It's a long story." Bella gulped. "You have all the time in the world to tell it," he prompted. "It isn't fair of you to try seducing the information out of me. You make me feel like a complete pushover." He had relaxed his grip on her wrists, allowing Bella to drop her hands and grip his where it rubbed at the tension in her belly. "What is a push...over?" Sir John frowned. He relaxed against the stone wall, holding her lightly in the cradle of his arms. "A fool." Bella turned full circle to face him, and looked him straight in the eye. His face looked perfectly composed now, as devoid of emotion as usual. "Ah. I see," he said. He raised his other hand to her chin, lifting her head slightly more to the slanting sunlight, now colored by the rose and gold of sunset. "You are correct. That is unfair of me. I will let the issue of who struck you go for the time being. You may tell me instead why you deliberately lead me to think you had not gone to Winchelsea to see your father on Robin's feastday?" That question startled Bella. She jerked her face up to look at his. "I didn't." She immediately dropped her gaze and busied her fingers with redoing her laces which he'd loosened. His question had come straight out of the blue. She had to stop and think back. Why had she misled him? Sir John put his fingers under her chin and lifted her face. The moment her eyes met his, Bella lifted her shoulders in a casual shrug, saying, "I thought you would get angry if you knew. I didn't want to start a scene with the king and queen present." "What say you to my telling you that your going there appears very suspicious to the king?" Bella searched his face for hidden clues to his emotions. "Am I being accused of spying?" His fingers tightened on her chin. "Do you think you could actually convince the king or me that you did not give information freely to your father?" "No, I don't suppose I could. However, I don't believe I told him anything that was vital." Except that the prince was at the same tavern Robin was. For that matter, Bella thought for the first time, Robin could have imparted the self-same information.

Good Lord, she'd never considered Robin a suspect. What if Robin had killed his own mother? That thought really gave her chills. It also went pretty far in explaining Robin's distrust of Bella. If he had killed his mother he would certainly resent Bella and look for ways to get rid of her for good. There was an arrow from a crossbow that Bella had never found a satisfactory explanation for. Hadn't she seen a crossbow in Robin's bedroom this afternoon? Yes, she certainly had! But if Robin had murdered Lady Isabella, why did Sir James walk about acting like he had the biggest axe to grind? No, the lady committed suicide. She was certain. "You're frowning, Bella." "Yes, I am. Why does Sir James hate me?" "James does not hate you," Chandos said patiently. "Don't patronize me, Chandos," Bella said heatedly. "He treats me like I'm a vicious bitch." Sir John floored Bella with his response. "Why shouldn't he, when you have consistently been a vicious bitch where he is concerned for the past eight years?" "No, I have not! That wasn't me." "Then why did Sir Graham strike you, Bella?" Bella blinked, realizing he'd neatly run her through a verbal maze then cut straight to the center of the real issue. She started to say I don't know, but that wasn't true. "I told you, I hit him first." "Why did you hit him?" "Because he said terrible things to me. He accused me of hurting the children. The truth was; I stopped Geoffrey from making a dreadful mistake and I saved Henri's life and a puppy's life, too." "Then how could Sir James have thought you'd hurt the children? He would not accuse you falsely. Did you slap any child in the face, Bella?" "Look, I didn't hurt the children! There was a terrible accident and I had to stop it from becoming worse. Things got tense. Everybody was screaming. But Graham wasn't at the well to know what really happened." "You did not answer the question. Did you strike any of the children at the well?" Bella winced and tried to get her chin free of his hand. Chandos wasn't letting her off. "Maybe, I could have." "Which child?" "Okay, Geoffrey. I think I slapped Geoffrey, but it wasn't to hurt him. It was to stop the hysteria and the screaming. Geoffrey was going to jump down that well. I couldn't let him do that." "You admit that you hit him?"

"Yes, yes, yes." Bella said, exasperated by the question. "Could Sir James have misunderstood the reason you slapped Geoffrey?" Bella jerked her chin free. "Look, he's your friend. You can give him the benefit of the doubt all you want. I don't have to." "I see." Chandos nodded his head. "Do you want to tell me your side of the story now?" "Sounds to me like you've already heard the whole sordid tale," Bella couldn't keep the injured tone out of her voice. Chandos looked at her intently before saying, "There are times, Bella, when truth doesn't lie in just one side of a confrontation. 'Tis moulded somewhere between one side and the other. You should trust me enough to tell me the facts as you see them." "Fine. So tell me the facts as you know them and I'll tell you if you've got the straight of it." "I'd be a poor judge if I allowed that to be the standard of my justice. However, if you don't want to incriminate yourself, just say so. I'll accept that." "Incriminate myself?" Bella pushed away from him, jerking free to scramble over the grave stones. He didn't exert any effort to stop her. From the top of the highest wedge of earth, Bella fit her fists to her hips and glared down at Sir John, declaring, "I did nothing wrong." Sir John swung around standing stones, following her out of the ruins. He stopped on her level, folded his arms over his chest and regarded her for several silent moments. "Then why are you so defensive?" "Since when has it been a crime to defend oneself against false accusations?" Bella asked. "I don't think we have anything else to talk about, Chandos. Good-bye. Have a nice life." Bella abruptly ended the discussion. There was no point continuing it. She saw condemnation in Chandos' eyes. Turning on her heel, she crossed the last of the fallow ground and clambored over the crumbling wall to King Henry's battlefield. By the time she came to the bottom below Offham Hills, she was seething with anger. How dare Chandos talk to her about trust when he did not have the tiniest scrap of trust in her! "Do you know you that Geoffrey acts just like you do when he's angry?" If he said that as a taunt, it worked, because Bella took the bait. She swung around in the shadow of a massive elm, and picked up a rock to throw at him, her own anger past the last mark of self-control. "I don't think Geoffrey is at all like me. Damn you, Chandos!" Bella threw the rock at him and missed. "The boys had knocked a puppy into the well and Geoffrey was going to jump down there and save it. I stopped him from doing that stupid thing. I didn't mean to hurt him or the princes or anyone. Maybe I slapped him to get him to be sensible, but I didn't hurt him on purpose or to be cruel or malicious." "Go on." Chandos closed the distance between them. Bella shook her head, choking, "While I was restraining Geoffrey, trying to talk sense into him, Henri jumped into that well."

The whole terrible, terrible event tumbled back into Bella's mind, locking her into that terrible rush of fright she'd felt when there was no Henri splashing in the water, screaming for help. She couldn't speak of it. She had spent too much energy blocking the near-tragedy from her mind. If she hadn't, every scrap of control she had would have dissolved. As it was, dealing with the hard, cold truth came so close to her own private tragedy of Iain's death, it nearly crushed her. She could not bear it if another child she loved--died. Chandos waited, praying she would speak. He had heard all sides of the misadventure except hers. The first had come unexpectedly. Sir James had ridden down from the castle, taking Chandos out of the hunt to speak privately with him. His friend had stated he had done the unforgivable--struck Lady Isabel. The knight offered no excuse for such unchivalrous behavior, claiming only that he felt it justified. If Sir John's honor had been compromised, Graham said he would willingly put his case before Almighty God for judgment. Chandos could select any champion he desired and Sir James would meet that warrior at dawn on the field of combat in a duel to the death. Sir John had immediately returned to his castle. There, he had heard a harrowing tale from each soul who crossed his path. Chandos had not dared to believe a single word he was told until he'd heard testimony from Henri, Geoffrey and each of the royal princes. Every version put a little different twist to the tale and gave him more insight to what had happened in his absence this afternoon. Henri's tale was the most poignant, told with many tears--about how a puppy was lost--and how his mother and the angels had saved them both. Chandos feared Bella's tale was the most harrowing of all, but she would not speak of it. She stared at him with hostile eyes, silent, refusing to share her thoughts. That in itself, was telling. Had his vain and selfish wife behaved as heroically as the children all claimed, she should be lauding her courage and bravado to anyone who would listen. But this Bella said nothing. Here, according to James, was another perfect example of Lady Isabel's cruelty to John's sons. Yet this time, Chandos had the god-awful feeling the cruelty done had been against Bella. Chandos glanced at the western horizon. The last sliver of the sun was a red arc rapidly sinking out of sight. It would soon be dark. James would be waiting on the jousting field at sunrise. If no challenger were there to pick up his gauntlet and meet him in combat, Sir John's most loyal and trustworthy friend would depart from Chandos Enceinte dishonored. John couldn't bear to see James shamed in such a manner. Nor could he tolerate the knight sacrificing his life for what was only an error in judgment. Chandos had no desire for James to leave at all, but neither could Sir John put words in his wife's mouth to convince his friend to stay. A knight's code of honor had been besmirched. There was no hope of washing away the stain except through exoneration. Worst of all, Chandos could see no way out of this dilemma. By the time the sun had risen on the morrow, the blood of Sir James Graham would stain John de Chandos' hands. Only he could face the Scot in a fight to the death for Isabel de Chandos' honor.

Bella stood mutely by while Sir John pondered his deep thoughts. She moved now, focusing his attention back to her as she carelessly tossed her braid behind her shoulders. "Well, say something, damn you," she demanded. John took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet, fragrant air of evening. "There is nothing more to say, is there?" he said quietly. An intelligent though calculating expression settled on her wounded face. Her lower lip protruded somewhat more than it usually did when she pouted, then her eyes clouded. "Chandos, do not ask me to turn the other cheek. I will not go to James Graham and apologize to him. That man deliberately misinterpreted everything that happened at the well. He's a damned jackass!" "I see," Sir John said, stunned by that forthright admission...that she even considered doing what was right. "Then I suggest we return to the keep." "I'm not going back," Bella stubbornly refused. "I already told you I am going to my own time." "No, you are not," he said that in the voice of his that brooked no argument. Bella's coppery eyes simmered with unchecked temper. And that shocked him deeply. Never had his wife openly confronted him with so much temper exposed in her face. Never. Bella played her sly games of manipulation behind the scenes, using others to gain her way. It was totally out of her character for her to stand up against him, defying him openly. She confused him deeply. He did not know what to do with her. Moments ago she had roused in him the deepest, most heartfelt sympathy for claim of being someone else. He had almost found himself believing her. Now he wanted to shake her. Then he realized that the anger in her eyes was honest. She was angry and she was not afraid to show him that anger. That was a first. He could think of no other time in the past sixteen years when Isabel had ever been so direct. Only men threw out such direct challenges. Then he realized that he need not treat her any differently than he would anyone who challenged his authority. Sir John took hold of Bella's wrist and started walking back up Offham Hill. He didn't care if she came willingly or not. He didn't stop his march for any reason, striding on, whether she stumbled or fell. He wasn't looking back to see. At the top of the hill, his squire waited, minding the horses as John had told him to do. He had wanted no witnesses to this confrontation with his wife. John gave the lad Lorette's reins, bidding the boy to ride on ahead of them. Bella resisted mounting Vengeance. "I don't see any purpose served by your forcing me to return to the castle," Bella stubbornly declared. "When it is your intention to sue me for a divorce. I haven't the stomach for continuing such a farce and it

is cruel of you to continue making me suffer in such a way." John grasped her elbow and jerked her around to face him. She refused to look him in the eyes, even when he grasped her chin and lifted it. John deliberately tightened the pressure his thumb applied to her chin and waited for eye contact. Then he spoke. "Let us get one thing straight. There will be no divorce. I will not be forced to spend the balance of my life in the state of mortal sin. Neither will you. Your soul is my responsibility. Never bring up the subject of divorce again. "You ordered Robin to desecrate my Bible when he was too young to realize what he was doing. You may pretend to remember only what suits you, but my mind retains firm hold of the truth. As to your suffering that has always been a gross exaggeration. Were you graced with a single scrap of humility, you would admit that the hell you find yourself in this moment comes from your own doing. "Sir James may have done the unforgivable and struck you, today, but you know as well as I that you goaded him to it, else it would not have happened." Bella's brows slanted in a deep, troubled frown as she asked, "Lady Chandos made Robin put those marks in your Bible?" "Nay, not Lady Chandos. You, Bella." His hands clasped her shoulders, tightening upon them to emphasize his words. She dropped her chin to her collarbone, her head bent as if in contrition. Then she lifted it again and met his gaze without wavering. Her eyes were luminous--as large as Geoffrey's--misty with unshed tears. "Are you saying that it's her...my idea to obtain a divorce?" "Yours," said Sir John. "And Eustace Saint Pierre's." All at once his words made perfect sense. Bella well remembered her conversation with Lady Isabel's father. The old Frenchman had voiced deep regret for having forced his daughter into an early marriage that hadn't netted him the most powerful and profitable alliance, linking his blood to that of the powerful Valois' of France. "I see. Then I apologize for having accused you of trying to end our marriage." She raised one hand to wipe away the tears collecting in her eyes, but that only caused the floodgates to open. Covering her mouth with her palm, Bella buried her face on Sir John's throat and sobbed into his jerkin. His hands tightened momentarily on her shoulders, then folded across her back, holding her firmly. What exactly she was crying for, Chandos didn't know. Over the years he'd been privy to many a bout of heart-rendering tears, all designed to manipulate him like a puppet. This batch fell without a single word of blame or guilt being tossed out. He didn't know what to make of that. Chandos waited with some rising impatience for the demand that was forthcoming. She wanted something of value or a grand concession in return for her suffering. In the past her tears had earned her a prized Arabian mare, more jewels to adorn her fingers or her delicate throat. She turned her head sideways, sniffing against the back of her hand. She removed a delicately embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose and wiped her eyes, then mopped away the moisture she'd left on his

leather jerkin. "Okay, I'm ready." She broke the silence between them without looking into his eyes. "You can me home now if you want to." John said nothing as he put his hands on her waist and lifted her up to the saddle. He took hold of the reins and put his foot in the stirrup, smoothly hoisting himself up behind her. She fussed with her skirts. He adjusted his seat, making an accommodation that put him further back against the high cantle, allowing room for her hips to be cradled against his own. "This isn't very comfortable," Bella said, dabbing at her nose one more time. "'Tis a short ride. Endeavor to bear up if you can." "I could bear with a lot of things if you gave a tinker's damn about me." She slumped against him, the crown of her head grazing his chin, her shoulders stooped and demeanor--defeated. "I don't believe you've ever expressed a need for my regard one way or the other, Bella," John responded curtly.

"And I don't believe you really know me at all," she replied. That was the last thing said by either one of them until the drawbridge was crossed. Halfway across the inner ward, Bella put her hand on his forearm, saying, "Would you let me down here, Sir John? I want to spend some time in the chapel." "Why?" he said. "You've never been much for chapel or prayer beyond what is required, Bella." She turned her shoulders and head to look back at him, meeting the inspection of his stern glance without wavering. In the torchlight and twilight that illuminated the inner ward he could see the bruise marring her cheek. "Like I said before, John, I don't think you know me very well at all." He let her get down then, aiding her with a firm hand under her arm. Steady on her feet she looked up at him with tightly compressed lips. He watched her swallow then open her mouth and speak. "I will apologize to Sir Graham for striking him before I retire tonight, but I'm not going to come to hall. Is that acceptable to you, my lord?" Stunned again, Chandos mutely inclined his head. "Then good-night, Sir John." She dropped him a curtsey, then turned and pushed open the gate under the rose trellis and walked into the chapel yard. John stared after her, watching her graceful progression to the chapel door, unable to believe that she was the same woman he had wanted to beat within an inch of her life the night she'd attacked King Edward. She isn't the same woman, echoed the private voice of his conscience. An eerie shiver worked across John's neck. That inner voice spooked him. Likewise, the concept of

someone moving through time raised hackles on his spine. It was not possible. Yet, the woman who had just soaked his chest with tears was and could not be the same woman he'd married. This woman, whose sweet body responded with such open warmth and inviting need, could not possibly be the cold, frigid bitch he'd married. She was not Isabel. He could no longer deny what was so obviously the truth. He ached to kiss and console her tonight, painfully longed to take her in his arms and assuage her pain. That he could not do. She was not his wife. All may think she was the woman he'd married, but in his heart of hearts John de Chandos knew better. They were not husband and wife. To bed her, to lust after was to commit the greatest and deadliest sin of all, adultery. No matter how powerful his desire for her became, he could not compromise either of their souls with that sin. As he handed his horse over to a groom, he thought perhaps she was an angel sent from God Almighty to test his mettle. The thought that immediately followed was, she could be a devil sent from Lucifer to tempt him into surrendering his soul. He prayed God would give him the strength to overcome temptation because with each encounter between them, Chandos feared his control slipped more and more into this Bella's tender and delicate hands.

BOOK THREE

"For a war to be just three things are necessary--public authority, just cause and right motive." ST. THOMAS AQUINAS

"If you are not too long, I will wait for you all my life."

OSCAR WILDE

-24-

The Watergate, Chandos Enceinte

Dawn, July 12, 1346

"Exactly what exactly do you mean Geoffrey is going to France as Sir Graham's page?" Bella grabbed Sir John's sleeve and yanked with all her might. Sir Neville dogged her heels as Chandos turned from tossing his last pack of gear onto the Christopher. Sir John shot a quelling look at the French knight, wordlessly telling him not to interfere, then he gazed into Bella's face. Her lips compressed so tightly a whitish ring circled them and those fabulous ginger eyes regarded him with outright fear. "Answer me!" she hissed in desperate tones so softly said, Neville couldn't have heard her words. "I mean exactly what I just said, Isabella. Geoffrey accompanies James Graham as his page. It is time the boy took up the duties expected of him." "To war? You expect a child to take up duties in a godforsaken war?" Her voice rose to a higher note. John laid his hands on Bella's shoulders and felt the vibrations rumbling through her. "Nay, Bella, Geoffrey will take no part in any fighting. A page awaits his lord at table, sees to his armor and clothing at camp and minds his lord's possessions when battle is enjoined. You know this. Why the argument?" "Because he's a child!" Bella gripped John's forearm so tightly her nails left imprints in his skin. "You must not take Geoffrey to war. Leave him, please. I beg you." "Nay, Bella. He is a boy and must learn the way of men. Did I leave him here, you would indulge and spoil him as you have done this entire past month. Frankly, I liked it better when Geoffrey was disdained and treated as if he was not your son. These new attitudes of yours smother the boy and would cripple the man he will become." "Chandos, had I the means, I'd beat you to a bloody pulp with my own bare hands this very moment!" Bella gritted through her teeth. "Then I thank the providence that you have not the means, wife." Sir John laughed and kissed her brow, knowing he would get nothing more from her in this fierce mood. Every discussion they had had for a week had been designed by her to dissuade John from taking Robin to war. Over Geoffrey, the son his wife had hated since his supposed long-overdue and exceedingly painful birth, this new Bella growled and snarled like a lioness protecting an endangered cub. "All will be well, my lady. I promise you, each son will return no worse for the wear of battle than I. Escort my lady back within the castle wall, Neville." Sir Neville took Bella's arm. She yanked her elbow free, glaring mutinously at both old Neville and Sir John. "I'll be on the next God damn ship," she hissed ferociously. "Just see if I am not!" The profanity stunned Sir John. His hands shot out and caught Bella's shoulders, yanking her up against him. "You dare to take the Lord God Almighty's name in vain, when we have just come from chapel, woman!"

Such blasphemy wasn't to be tolerated--ever! "I'm giving you fair warning, Chandos. If you take Geoffrey to war, then you may as well take me, too." His fingers pressed into her upper arms, his words harsh in her ear--for her ears alone. "Lady, I will not tolerate swearing or breaking the Lord's Commandments." "Don't change the subject. I will not allow you to take a child..." Bella argued, but a rough shake got her to shut her mouth. "Be silent! I am outraged how carelessly you take the Lord God's name in vain. Do it again if you dare. I will take the time here and now to put an end to such blasphemy. Do I make myself clear?" "Then sir, you may as well do your worst, because you will not take that child to war! Geoffrey, come here to me at once!" "That's the last straw," Chandos growled, pressed as far as he would allow. He pulled her nose to nose with him and growled, "Follow me to France, interfere in the war or in the way I am raising my sons and I will incarcerate you in a convent for the rest of your days." The dire threat had the predictable effect--sullen silence ensued. Bella comported herself for the balance of the disembarking of the Christopher as a lady should. She hugged and kissed her sons, then stood with the queen waving white kerchiefs as the cog sailed down the Erne. The entire uneventful voyage, Chandos leaned over the hull, glaring back at England, fuming over the wife he'd left behind. At times he truly believed the woman he called wife was a new person; that is a strange, uncountable woman from some far distant future date. But when she crossed his will and evoked his deepest anger, he lost all belief in her far-fetched tales. Too many things about Isabel remained unchanged. Her physical appearance, her willfulness, and her maddeningly irrational tempers. Since hauling Bella out of the Well of Souls, she spoke in confusing and often hard to follow English. Never French. That English was peppered with such unfathomable explicatives as tinker's damn, jackass, buddy-boy and havanice. These new patterns and words boggled Sir John's mind. Frankly, he wished he knew what havanice meant. He added that word in particular to her growing list of unconscionable sins. The ones he had assured her on the steps of the watergate that he was personally keeping track of and would see that she received just chastisement for the day he returned. On thing that had happened disturbed his peace of mind the most. Isabel would not have shut up. Once started on her wild tantrums, that woman had never ceased her raving until she'd exhausted herself. Which is exactly what she had done the night she'd attacked King Edward. Isabel threw the temper tantrums of a spoiled, over-indulged child whenever she could not get her way. That is what had made everyone's life at Chandos Enceinte hell on earth. But Bella, who swore and broke Commandments as easily as some people spit, became silent when told to and said not another word. Yes, defiance seeped out of ever pore in her body, but she had held her peace.

Until when, Chandos wondered as he gazed upon the coast of France. Until when?

"The first casualty when War comes is Truth." HIRAM JOHNSON

-25-

Queen Phillipa remained at Chandos Enceinte a full week after the king had sailed. At the end of a week, a ship arrived from the continent bearing messages and letters to the queen. Phillipa shared her eldest son's accounting of his first taste of battle with the ladies of her court. Upon landing on July 12th at St. Vaast-la-Houge, King Edward had knighted the Prince of Wales, Robin Chandos and the young earl of Salisbury, Roger Mortimer. Then it was onward into war, beginning with the revered Norman city of Caen. When the citizenry inside the castle walls refused to meet King Edward's demand, the English laid siege to the old Norman city. Edward wrote that since that battle he had been called the Black Prince. He suggested that the appellation came because of the suit of black armor he chose to wore that day had been a gift from his godfather, John Chandos. As the armor had brought him luck and no little notoriety, he planned to continue to wear it in each battle. In closing he humbly asked his mother for her continued prayers that he be worthy of the golden spurs of knighthood his father had awarded him. Few, if any ladies in Bella's solar had dry eyes when Queen Phillipa finished reading her son's solemn letter from the front. Bella was not one of the more stoic ladies. Her tears fell easily these days. In truth, since that awful day Henri had almost drowned, Bella's moods had swung from the pits of despair to the heights of happiness with alarming frequency. She couldn't blame anyone for her instability except herself. PMS struck with a vengeance on July 8th and there wasn't so much as an aspirin, much less a Midol to soothe her raging hormones. To make matters worse, her period didn't come. On the heels of thirteen years of barrenness without so much as a flicker in regularity, she began the ongoing internal nightmare of am I pregnant or am I not? It wasn't any surprise to Bella that she was practically a raving maniac that last week with Chandos, when she knew good an well exactly when he would be leaving. The result was, that since that day of Henri's accident, Sir John had distanced himself from her. With her own moods in such turmoil, she hadn't pressed him to explain himself. That would have meant she would have to tell him what was bothering her so greatly. The monthlies...that wouldn't come. So the last halcyon days before war commenced petered away without any resolution of her internal conflict and hence, no resolution of her estrangement with John.

On the night of the eleventh, Bella had gone to John's room twice, hoping to put some sort of peace into effect between them before he went off to war and to tell him or at least give him a hint of what she thought was occurring inside her body. A new life...how she prayed that would be true. Chandos had no time for idle talk that night, busy as he was with last minute details and preparations with his king. The next morning, of course, she could have killed him with her bare hands for allowing eight-year-old Geoffrey to toddle off to war like it was summer camp. She felt like an idiot afterward on the dock, watching that ship sail. Geoffrey wasn't alone. Prince Lionel and seven-year-old John Gault also went excitedly off to war--with their mother's full blessing. Phillipa proudly announced the experience would make a man of each of them. Bella wisely kept her pacifist thoughts and feelings to herself. Five days after Sir John and his sons had sailed off to war, Bella's menses began with a vengeance and dashed all hope she'd privately held of having another child. On the twenty-eighth Queen Phillipa and her entourage departed for Windsor Castle. After the good-byes were said, Bella and Henri climbed to the top of the northgate and watched the Queen's departure alongside of Sir Neville. The French knight had been made seneschal in Sir John's absence and he took his new duties seriously. The gates were lowered immediately that the last of Phillipa's massive baggage train and private guard departed. Bella suspected Sir Neville hoped there would be a counter attack launched by the French, so Chandos Enceinte remained in a ready-state of preparedness for invasion at all times. "Maman," Henri tugged on Bella's skirt to gain her attention. "Are we going to go swimming down to the beach like you promised me?" Sir Neville raised a grey brow and put his hand on the small boy's head. "Nay, young Henri, whatever swimming you want to do this summer must be here within the walls of the castle." "Is that true, Maman?" Henri turned to question Bella. "I'm afraid so, dear." Bella nodded. "It would be very unwise for you and me to spend a day alone at the beach when we are at war with France." "But what about Grandpere St. Pierre? He'll be at Winchelsea on the first. Are we going to visit him? I want to show him my pony. He'll be very proud of me." "Ah, yes." Bella was reminded of Lady Isabella's father. War or not, trade would continue as it always did, sometimes more briskly. Historically war was very good for the economy. "Well, that is still a few days away. I shall have to talk it over with Sir Neville. He is in charge, you know." "Oh, aye." Henri nodded. "I know that. It's time for me to feed the puppies. Gunnie said that I must be very responsible and take good care of them while he is gone with Papa and Sir James to beat the French. Good-day, Maman, Sir Neville." "Don't forget to listen for the Angelus bells, Henri," Bella reminded him. "I expect you to be on time for your lessons with Master Owain."

"I will," Henri chirped. "That one grows brighter with every passing day, milady." Neville's indulgent gaze followed Henri's bouncing curls as he skipped down the stone steps. "He's the spitting image of his father, I think," Bella said drily. She wondered who a child between her and Chandos would favor. Geoffrey, like her Iain, was all Saint Pierre. Robin and Henri were pure Chandos. Bella sank her teeth into her lower lip, tugging upon it, thinking she might never have the chance to know the answer to that question. The lost opportunity to nurture another child made her very sad. "Should you care to travel to Winchelsea on the first, milady, I will arrange safe escort," Sir Neville said to her. "There is a sufficient garrison at each of the Cinque Ports. I shouldn't expect any trouble at Winchelsea or at Portsmouth." Bella looked up, distracted, catching the gist of Neville's offer belatedly. "Well," she ventured, "I suppose for Henri's sake, life should go on with as much normalcy as possible. There are a few things that I would like to look for at market." "I shall see to the arrangements then, milady." Neville responded, surprising Bella with his easy acquiescence. She didn't think she was under house arrest exactly--with Sir John out of the country--but she hadn't anticipated being granted the freedom to travel inside England. Having something to look forward to was an unsuspected boon and lifted Bella's low spirits considerably. Her trouble now was history and her acute knowledge of it. They were inching closer and closer to the dreadful battle of Crecy--August 26. What if Geoffrey was caught unawares by someone, or was in the wrong place at the right time? It would be like re-living the horror of Iain's death all over again. Bella had damned that dirt racing bike and the poor old lady who'd been driving the car every single day since Iain had so recklessly crossed her path. Who could she blame for harming Geoffrey in a war? Only the man who had taken him to it. She couldn't live with that. She would go mad, truly. So what that Bella knew Edward and his noble heir, the Black Prince, would come out of their battles unscathed? Each night since Sir John had sailed she paced the floor of her solar and chewed her nails. Would John, Robin and Geoffrey return alive, whole and in one piece? Fatalities on the English side weren't going to be high, but she had no idea what to expect in the line of casualties. Where men fought on the same ground, hacking at one another with battle axes and broad swords, the wounds resulting from that combat would be grisly. The day had been warm and oppressively humid. Bella couldn't sleep at all that night. She finally gave up the pretense of trying, dressed and went outside to walk the south allure. That was a new habit she had just acquired, watching and waiting for a ship to sail up the Erne and dock at the watergate. She watched the rising of a blood-red sun as a silver shooting star dropped to the earth like a spear from Mars, the god of war. Of the men on the allure who also saw it, many shouted, and others dropped to their knees, crossing themselves and whispering urgent prayers as if what they'd seen was some grave omen. It was hardly an omen, Bella scoffed. Such phenomenon was explainable, not some superstitious or portentous thing. The sun was red because of dust in the atmosphere. After all it was summer, almost August. There could be sandstorms in the Sahara or volcanos spewing ash into the upper atmosphere

world over. The shooting star was a meteor, a fleck of space dust that burned to nothing on contact with earth's atmosphere. What could be mystical about that? Tired, she watched till the sun rose completely then returned to her chamber. She could sleep in a while if Aristotle and Pepper didn't get into another knock-down, drag-out like they had for the past three mornings. Old Aristotle had no patience for a puppy that was growing by leaps and bounds. They were at each others throats again, when Bella opened her door. Aristotle shot up to the top of the canopy over the bed and posed there hissing and howling. Pepper tore all the linens off the bed and had made a mess in the corner by Bella's desk. Picking Pepper up by the scruff of her neck, Bella scolded, "You are uncivilized dog." Pepper yapped and licked Bella's chin unrepentantly as Bella tugged on the servant's bell that would summon someone from the kitchens. "Put this beast outside, please," Bella requested of the footman who arrived moments after she'd disposed of Pepper's aromatic sampling down the drain in the garderobe. Clarise arrived as Bella was trying to coax Aristotle down from the velvet canopy. The serving woman set to straightening the linens on Bella's bed. "He won't come down," Bella surmised. She didn't feel at all well--what with the smell Pepper had left behind and the lack of fresh air moving through the chamber. "See if you can get him down, Clarise. If not, then just leave him there. Excuse me," Bella choked. Slapping her hand across her mouth, she ran for the garderobe. Once the bout of sickness subsided, Bella returned to her room, blotting a dampened cloth against her cheeks and throat. The bed was neatly made and Aristotle parked in the middle of it, cleaning his face. "You're a wonder, Clarise, a true treasure. Thank you." Bella collapsed face down in the soft mattress. "I'll fix you a tray, milady. It's time you paid attention to eating properly." "Whatever you say, Clarise." Bella groaned. Food was always the last thing she wanted in the morning. She closed her eyes and fell asleep with Aristotle purring contentedly at her side. Bella dreamed she was back at graduate school. The professor of the class she was taking was lecturing on J. W. Dunne's Theory of Time and making broad assumptions and speculations on ancestral memory. He cited as proof for his theories the curious example of the MacViccar clan of Scotland--unusual souls who were born with the gift of second sight time after time. Oddly enough, Bella woke up smelling the fragrant aroma of bacon and dreamily thought she was back home in Texas. One look at her surroundings disabused her of that fanciful notion. Stone walls most assuredly a castle made. August first, Henri got his outing. Eight outriders accompanied the boy and Bella to Winchelsea. Comte

Saint Pierre welcomed Bella and Henri with open arms, delighted by their visit. Over a protracted luncheon in the Guildhall's private quarters, they exchanged what news there was of King Edward's war. Comte Saint Pierre said, "Thus far, war has not affected our trade in Flanders. I don't expect it shall. You and Henri should come and enjoy the rest of the summer with me. The wine harvest this year will be especially bountiful. Besides, the weather is much more pleasant than here in England. What say you to that, Bella?" "What a marvelous idea," James Saint Pierre agreed. A bright smile creased his pleasant face. "You haven't forgotten that Flanders is the most glorious place in late summer, have you, Isabella? The wine harvest is such a splendid event." "Can we?" Henri immediately wanted to know. "But Henri's lessons?" Bella ventured a weak protest all the while really thinking, Thank you God for showing me the way to get to Geoffrey and bring him safely home. "Why, that is no problem," Eustace reasoned. "I will hire him the best tutors available on the continent. Henri would not miss a day of study." Bella hardly knew what to say to this mad impulse that sounded like a godsend to her aching heart. She looked at Henri and saw the excited thrill of adventure in his young eyes. She looked at Lady Isabella's brother and father and saw benign approval, so she thought, Why shouldn't I? Sir John won't be home for another year.

"'Tout compredre, c'est tout pardonner' is an error, the fact being that the secret of forgiving everything is to understand nothing." GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

-26-

August 5th, 1346 Windsor Castle

"My dear lord Chandos, I know the Tower of London is full," Queen Phillipa entreated. "Does the king expect me to house prisoners here at Windsor?" Sir John ignored the plaintive tone of the queen's voice as he turned the pages of his ledger. "Your Majesty, every last cell is taken by the three hundred defenders of the city of Caen. However, the hostages I am referring to are all men of rank; princes, nobles, knights and squires of import who have surrendered their arms honorably and await ransom. They are not of the same category as the prisoners taken captive after the siege and King Edward insists they be housed accordingly." "Yes, but," Phillipa interrupted Sir John. "I already have twenty such hostage-guests to feed and shelter. Pray tell me, how many more will there be?" John regarded the queen with a grave expression, but he thought her astute enough to detect the proud gleam in his eyes. "Hundreds more, Your Majesty, at the rate things are going. I have orders to secure placement for the king and the Prince of Wales hostages at Chink Castle, Caerphilly and Warwick. Arundel and Kenilworth will accommodate two hundred each and His Majesty expects the same of Windsor." "Two hundred!" Phillipa gasped. "How? I mean the protocol involved will have my chamberlain pulling his hair out. Sir Thomas will say we can't ask a prince of Bohemia to share a bed with the duke of Anjou."

"Your majesty, we can and we will. That is the victor's choice and no one largesse can be expected to do more. " "What a coil." Phillipa sighed. "Well, if we must, we must. Bring that rascal Douglas in. What more can I say?" Sir John refrained from smiling while she summoned her chamberlain and discussed the new arrivals with Sir Thomas Green. The queen was no more exasperated than any of the other chatelaines he'd spoken to on this sojourn from the battlefield to arrange housing for noblemen who would eventually all be ransomed. War was a business. Men held for ransom were the most profitable part of it. As they had found nothing but surrender this far into the campaign, someone had had to return to England to organize this part of the spoils of war. King Edward had selected John de Chandos to represent the crown's as well as the prisoners' best interests. "Lord Chandos." Phillipa returned from her conference with her seneschal. "Sir Thomas informs me that we can open the new wing. You will understand that the construction is not finished. The walls are unplastered and it will be bare floors. But the roof is complete so our guests won't suffer from the elements." "You are most gracious, Your Majesty. God bless you." "I'm sure He shall add another jewel onto my crown in heaven," Phillipa said drily. "Chandos, give Sir Thomas your list and come with me. We have much to discuss in private." "Of course, Your Majesty." Sir John passed his ledger to Guilamu, instructing his servant and clerk to accommodate Sir Thomas in every way possible. That done, he followed Queen Phillipa to her solar. "Sir John!" a small boy hollered from behind a stack of blocks. "Maman! 'Tis Sir John!" "Ah, how kind of my young princeling to remember me." John put his knee to the floor, bowing very low to the impish child. Edmund forgot everything he'd ever learned about protocol and manners as he launched himself at Sir John. Small, but very strong arms tightened possessively about the tall man's neck. "Edmund! I am aghast," Phillipa gasped. "That is no way to accept a courtier's bow. Remember yourself at once!" "But Maman! 'Tis Sir John. The war must be over." "Oh." Edmund's words touched the mother in Queen Phillipa. With a chagrinned smile, she did what she could to untangle Edmund. "Do get up, John. He's just a child." "Nay, nay, 'tis all right." Chandos rose with the small prince firmly supported by his arm. "God's Truth, Your Majesty, it feels good to receive such a warm reception." "Have you more news, Chandos?" Phillipa took his other arm, steering him to a seat near the open windows. "Much word and letters from your dear ones all. They are as hale and hearty as this young master here." "Have you been home, Sir John?" Phillipa asked cautiously.

"No, Your Majesty. I had orders to see to the comforts of the Duc de Berry, Steven Douglas and others of his ilk. But I will be stopping at Chandos Enceinte before returning to the front. I sent Sir James and Robin ahead of me, so that they could have supplies readied while I dealt with the king's business." "Hmph!" Phillipa settled herself comfortably on her cushions as she eyed her son who remained determinedly clamped to John de Chandos' knee. "You elicit more devotion from the children than the Pied Piper. Edward writes that it is the same in the field with the men. Though I do not imagine for a moment you enjoy being mauled by a sticky-fingered child." "On the contrary, Your Majesty, as crusted as I am with road dirt, a few sticky fingers shouldn't matter in the least. Edmund's fine where he is." It was just as well he felt that way, Phillipa thought, since Edmund was so enamored of the knight he couldn't take his young eyes off Sir John. Well, Phillipa decided, she would not be the one to turn Sir John's enchanting smile by belaboring him with bad news of home. He would find out about Bella and young Henri soon enough. "So, tell me, sir, what think you of this bold plan of my husband's to bring Calais to heel?" Chandos had mixed feeling about Calais. He was fairly certain, Phillipa, as a native of Flanders, would also. "Militarily speaking?" "Is there any other way to consider this?" Phillipa waved to a servant and ale was brought to quench Chandos' dusty throat. He accepted the drink with gusto and proceeded to drain the cup. "Have you heard the news that the Calais pirates struck a Deal last week? The guildhall and the abbey were burned to the ground." "You are speaking specifically of Mangus O'Donnell, are you not? Aye, we heard of the attack. There's a rogue I'd like to get my hands on." Chandos set the empty goblet down. "You were told to expect such activities and not to view them with any great alarm." "That's impossible when the garrison commanders petition for reinforcements at the Cinque Ports. What with King David's renewed hostilities above Newcastle, I haven't men to spare. I have asked the Bishop of Durham to don his armor and have commissioned Lord Percy and Lord Neville to shore up Lady Northampton. Beyond donning armor myself, I don't know what else I could do." "We hardly expect you to do that, Your Majesty. Percy and Neville should be well equipped to manage anything King David attempts." "Yes, my lord, but I do hope something can be done about the pirates. They are a great thorn in my side. I just never know where they will strike next." Phillipa laid one dimpled hand against her throat. "Isabella has family in Calais, does she not?" "Aye, Your Majesty. Her father, Comte Eustace, and one brother resides there, but the majority of the family lives at the old estate in Chalon." Chandos admitted nothing that the queen did not already know. Many men of prodigious industry had gravitated to Calais and become prosperous through honest trade and commerce. Eustace Saint Pierre was one of the cities most upright citizens. However, Calais was also homeport to a contingent of ruthless pirates. Their increasingly frequent raids on the English coast were a prime nuisance Edward wanted

obliterated forever. Hence, one of Edward's stated goals for this campaign was to drive the pirates out of Calais for good. "The Saint Pierres are firmly entrenched in Philip of Valois' camp, are they not? They wouldn't be any help to Edward, would they?" "No, Your Majesty, they would not," Chandos made that frank admission and another. "I foresee trouble with the king's plan. Calais is the most fortified and substantially defended port in the Christian world. It will be no easy task to take that city." John de Chandos was qualified to say that. Rarely had a year passed that he had not taken his wife and his sons to Calais for the wine harvests of late summer. Those thoughts made him think of Bella. He had half-expected to see Bella at Windsor, since he knew for a fact the queen had invited her and Henri to wait out news of the battles at court. A wry smile creased Sir John's face at the prospect of seeing Bella again. She certainly had had nothing good to say to him on departure and had in fact, threatened to be on the next available boat across the channel after him. John's wry smile turned to a grin as he remembered the sparring that had accompanied their parting. He looked forward to seeing if the sight of him put a gleam back in her eye. He couldn't wait to depart Windsor Castle. The queen did not keep him overlong. Guilamu and the clerk were already mounted as were the men of Chandos' guard. As he double-checked his saddle girth, Chandos let his eyes stray to the lowering sun. He stood for a moment caught by the beauty of a red sunset exactly the color of the Rose of Lorraine's hair. He made an abrupt decision as he swung into the saddle. "We ride to Chandos Enciente! A moi!" "My most dread and troublesome lord," Guilamu muttered. "Allah never meant a man's legs to become vines around the back of a horse." Sir John ignored the servant's complaint, as usual.

"The happiest time in any man's life is when he is in red-hot pursuit of a dollar with reasonable prospect of overtaking it." JOSH BILLINGS

-27-

August, 1346 Calais

Of all the people Bella met in the garrulous, bustling seaport of Calais, her favorite turned out to be a pirate's wife. Clair O'Donnell lived next door to Comte Eustace. She had five red-headed daughters, giving Henri an additional bonus of a playmate his own age. He complained about Moira O'Donnell being "a gra-el" in a plaintiff voice, but his innate sexism didn't stop either four year old from wanting the other's companionship from sunrise to sunset daily. Likewise, Bella had found a friend she could really talk to and share everything with in that rare comeraderie so unique to women. They talked about every subject under the sun, holding back nothing, except that Bella did not try her friend's imagination by trying to explain where she came from...that is, the future. A week after she'd become fast friends with Clair, Bella met Mangus O'Donnell, pirate extraordinaire. Mangus O'Donnell hailed from Connacht, Ireland and bowed his head to no one lower than God above.

The very minute Mangus O'Donnell opened his mouth, speaking French in his curious accents, Bella recognized him. He was the blasted stranger that had accosted her at the inn in Winchelsea! He laughed over their chance encounter, brushing it aside as of no importance, beyond the fact that Bella had lost him a valuable purse. Mangus at home was a perfect gentleman...certainly not the lecherous, wicked pirate of Winchelsea. After watching him with his adoring wife and children, Bella concluded that he was one of those man who talked a better game than he played. Still, she took precautions to never be alone with the pirate. The siege and sacking of Caen was old news by the time Bella arrived at Calais. The latest reports speculated about King Edward's bold march toward Paris. The French cheered when Edward was turned away from the capitol by King Philip's forces amassed in the Ile de France. Few Calaisians held any sympathy for Normandy. The merchants believed war could have been avoided war if the English king had been pacified with a substantial tithe. Very few gave Edward more than a sporting chance of beating Philip of Valois. When the talk turned to numbers, Bella couldn't help recalling Froissart's account of the battle of Crecy. Supposedly, thirty thousand men died on the battlefield. Frankly, those kind of cold facts had always bored her. Her memory was further fogged by the fact that since she'd been hit in the face with the truth that Comte Saint Pierre had no intention of taking her and Henri to Lorraine, as she had assumed at Winchelsea, she wasn't thinking well at all! After two weeks of the good life it really sunk in. Good God, she was in Calais! All she seemed capable of thinking then was; Calais-equals-Culloden-equal-the-Alamo-equals-Custer's-Last-Stand. Come a month from now all these happy merchants, entrepreneurs and carefree-capitalists-with-an-attitude were going to be methodically starved out of existence. Calais was going under siege! And horror of horrors...she had brought Henri here to be starved along with everybody else. No. No. No! She couldn't explain her knowledge of the immediate future to Isabel Chandos' father, though she tried often to broach the subject under the guise of what if the worst should happen? Comte Eustace would not entertain such negative talk. He had hundreds of reasons why he wouldn't listen to Bella's dire predictions. "Calais is much too secure...too well provisioned...life is just too good...too full...too enjoyable to think of war. It won't happen to us." The more she got to know Calais and the countryside surrounding it, the easier it was for Bella understand why the comte thought his city was beyond the touch of war. Fortified castle walls completely encircled the town. Walls as high and as thick and as well manned as Chandos Enceinte stoutly protected the city itself. Beyond the walls was a deep moat and past that, marshlands and woods. The port faced open sea against which was a bulwark, battery and impregnable portcullis gates. Once those were shut, no access could be gained by any naval attack. Calais was a veritable turtle, encased in its own tough shell. Who could hurt a turtle? It wasn't likely anyone would come along who turn this particular turtle over. Who could do that to Calais? Bella knew the answer to that, but she kept it to herself. King Edward was going to find a way to turn

Calais on its back. Bella now understood what her mission truly was; the reason God had brought her to this point in time. She mustn't passively allow Chandos to risk Geoffrey's life the way she had allowed Ari to risk Iain's. An eight-year old boy should never have had access to a motorized dirt bike when he lived in a crowded city. She should have put her foot down and said no to that gift. It was her duty, her moral obligation to remove Geoffrey Chandos from harm's way before the battle of Crecy took place on August 26th. Iain had died on August 26th, three days after his ninth birthday. Geoffrey would turn nine on the day of the greatest battle in medieval history for centuries to come. Thirty thousand would die on the fields of Crecy. Geoffrey Chandos would not be one of the casualties. Cold terror propelled Bella closer and closer to the anniversary of her son's death. In her heart she feared the outcome--unless she did something to alter fate. Bella made her plans, convinced that she must act. She had not been given the foresight to alter Iain's fate, but she had the chance to rescue Geoffrey. The days of August ticked away one by one. The wine festivals were to begin on Sunday afternoon, August twentieth. Five days of feasting from vineyard to vineyard as raucous as Mardi Gras would follow. The Saint Pierres were repairing to the countryside on Sunday afternoon, invited guests of the city's mayor, Burgundian Jean de Vienne, whose provincial manor lay some ten leagues southwest of Calais. The plan as Bella understood it from Comte Eustace was, that each day as the peasantry harvested, mashed and prepared the juice, the nobility would lunch at magnificent outdoor pavilions and drink themselves into a stupor. On the morning of their departure for the vineyards, Bella got out Henri's trunk and began to fold his little shirts and sumptuous tunics. Saint Pierres did nothing by half. Since arriving in Calais a dozen seamstresses had been commissioned to make both Henri and Bella wardrobes fit for royalty. Henri's durable dungarees had been replaced by baudikin and sendal, piped with more braids and ornaments than any child ever needed or wanted. As Bella buffed the dust from Henri's good shoes, she thought of the grim expression she'd seen on Sir Neville's face on her departure from England. The seneschal hadn't like her going off with Comte Saint Pierre one bit. However, as Bella had Lady Chandos' father at her elbow, the knight couldn't countermand her orders to pack and leave. Yet, she knew she would loose Saint Pierres support when it came to returning with both Henri and Geoffrey to England. Mangus had promised to hold a ship ready for her the last weekend of the month. But Bella's plans were spur of the moment loose and subject to as much change as the wind. Mayor Jean Vienne's country manor was less than four leagues from the Valley of the Clerks, Crecy. Bella could take a horse and easily travel to Crecy on Friday. She knew King Edward's army would cross the Somme around midnight on Thursday and camp overnight in that valley, waiting for the French army to come to them.

Bella would find Geoffrey, somehow. Then she, Geoffrey and Henri would return immediately to England. At the last moment, Bella decided not to take Henry with her to Mayor Vienne's country house. There would be too many questions asked if Bella returned there hours after having stolen a horse. She would make better time with just Geoffrey to hurry to the coast. "Moira," Bella turned to her neighbor's chatty four year old. "Does your baby sister still have the croup?" "Aye, Contessa. Dorie's still honking like a goose. Mama says we can't go to the festival." "Ah," Bella murmured thinking fast. The baby's cough wasn't serious. Most likely Dorie's illness was an allergy, which these people knew nothing about and their doctors couldn't cure. "Is your mother doing anything important right now?" "Just sewing," Moira said. "Then she won't mind a visit, come along, children."

***

"Well, of course, Henri can stay here this week." Clair O'Donnell graciously answered Bella's request. "The girls would be delighted to have his company." "Oh, Clair, you'll never know how important this is to me," Bella hugged the Irish woman gratefully. "Well and I can tell there's more to this than just avoiding a trip to the country. Is something wrong, Bella? Something ye want to tell me about?" "It's so impossible, Clair. I made a dreadful mistake bringing Henri here from England." Clair wasn't convinced of that and Bella knew she wasn't going to be either. "Ye still want Mangus to hold a ship ready for ye this coming weekend?" "Definitely, yes," Bella said emphatically. "If my plan works, I expect I will be coming back with Geoffrey." "Hmm," Clair put aside her embroidery, deep concern showing in her clear blue eyes. "If ye are only going to the country for the festival, how do ye expect to find the king's army and Geoffrey? The last word I heard was that the English were unable to cross the Somme River." "Oh, Edward will find a way across. He's got Chandos to build bridges and draw up battleworks. Clair, what would you do if trouble came here to Calais?" "Ach," Clair winked. "Mangus has a contingency...he always does, ye know. At the first sign of trouble he'd spirit us girls back to Connacht."

"You still have family there?" Clair laughed. "Yea, dear, a great big clan of a family. We're all related, ye know, down to the fortieth generation in a clan." "That must be grand," Bella didn't try to repress her smile. "Well and it would be if ye don't mind scrapin' out a living on the rocks of Connacht. Mangus has what's called ambition and learned early in the game there was no wealth to be earned plundering the shores of Ireland. The Vikings got there first an' all they left behind were the rocks." "Clair, can I ask you one more favor?" "Ye can always ask. What is it, Bella, that is really bothering ye so?" "It's hard to put into words, but I'll do the best I can. If I don't come back by Saturday, I mean, if something should happen and I never returned to Calais, would you promise me that somehow, someway, you'd see young Henri home where he belongs. Chandos Enceinte is his heritage. That's where he belongs. Not here in France with his grandfather. Henri must grow up English, that's what I mean." "God and Mary save us," Clair O'Donnell hastily crossed herself then got up from her stool and hugged Bella as tightly as she could. "Yer not to be talkin' that way, invitin' the very devil to step across the sill. Now, ye listen to me, Isabel Chandos. If ye don't come back for this son of yers, I'll be treatin' Henri like he was my vera own sweet son, spoilin' him rotten. And the minute I can, I'll see his two little feet put right smack dab on the steps of his own great castle. On that I give ye my word. Now, will ye stop talkin' like this, it gives me the shivers." "Clair, I'll pay you for keeping him." "Shush, and no ye won't. It was Mangus' decision, ye understand, to help ye when ye came asking for a boat after mass this morning. Not mine. O'Donnell's the man of the house and I'd no cross him to save my own soul." "I wish I could say the same for myself," Bella said sincerely, regretting the impulse that caused her to come to Calais and defy John de Chandos in the first place. "I've crossed the devil a time too many." "Whisht!" Clair chuckled. "Haven't we all. ***

Friday morning, the twenty-fifth, it rained. Bella rattled from room to room inside Jean Vienne's country house like a caged tiger. She paced from window to door, staring out at the sodden pavilions, and the tarpaulin covered vats of grape juice. She managed to sit through lunch, picking at the food while conversation flowed around her, wondering what these people would do come Saturday or Sunday morning when word of the battle reached them. She would have flown the coup before then, a hen and her two chicks, Geoffrey and Henri, long gone, out of here.

When the Angelus bell finished ringing, Bella excused herself and went upstairs, ostensibly to nap. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. She had everything she needed ready. As she stripped off her heavy, ornate overgown, she kicked off kid leather slippers that were about as useful and durable as ballet shoes. She yanked at the ties of her undercotte and tossed it aside then sat at the vanity stool to pull black knitted hose up her legs. She had carefully planned for this outfit under aegis of purchasing clothes for her oldest son. Chandos males, she'd explained to the seamstress who had made the plain, black cotte hardie, never wore anything but black. To match she had black leather trews. The seamstesses Comte Eustace employed never knew the difference, they hadn't made clothes for Robin in over two years. Bella had taken advantage of having seamstresses handy to have other things made--lingere, panties and camisoles, corselets and petticoats, all of the wonderful, feminine things that the French so excelled at making. The result of this was that when Bella pulled the pair of buttery soft leather trews up her legs, she immediately felt sinfully daring and sexy. Bella turned about before the cheval mirror, examining the fit with a critical eye. Never in her life had she owned a pair of britches that moulded to her hips and thighs the way this leather did. The silk of her chemise had been imported by Mediterranean traders from Venice who thought to compete with the silk makers of France. She tucked the chemise inside the waist of the britches. She wore black from the inside out. Bella sat to the vanity again. Her hair must be very securely fitted to her head. She could not risk one stand of that blazing red to come lose and give anyone an indication of her sex. When nightfall came, she must be in and out of Edward's camp with the speed of a cat burglar. Locating Chandos' tent would be easy. She need only look for his pennants and banners et voila! The man revealed himself. In this stage of her planning it looked all too easy. She tied a black scarf securely over her tightly woven braids. Standing, she put on the cotte hardie and critically studied her reflection in the mirror as she adjusted a plumed hat at a rakish angle. A sturdy piece of chord knot held that magnificent piece of artifice in place. "I look good." Bella approved of the romantic figure reflected in the mirror. "I could be a Musketeer. En garde!" That last made her laugh grimly, because she carried no weapon and wouldn't have the vaguest idea of what to do with one if she did. She sat once more to put on boots and tighten her cross garters, vowing not to indulge in anymore gallows humor. The job she'd set for herself would be difficult enough without denigrating her own abilities. Last, from her trunk, she took out the silk domino that she would need only when she entered the king's camp. She could not take the risk that any of the hundreds of King Edward's men who knew the Rose of Lorraine on sight, might recognize her. She shaped a dummy figure on the bed and covered that with the duvet then opened the shutters. More rain seemed eminent. Taking a black cape in hand, she swirled it round her shoulders, slipped over the window ledge and dropped into the empty yard.

Jean Vienne's stable was a quick dash across one hundred yards. The horse she'd selected was saddled and ready. Bella had greased the palm of a stable boy with coin sufficient to insure compliance. Her planning paid off. The gelding chomped at the bit to be out and running. Moments after she'd escaped from the bedroom, Bella was gone from Jean Vienne's country abode.

***

As she rode southwest toward Crecy, a strange thing occurred. Bella would have called it deja vu except that term didn't go far enough to explain what she was feeling. She knew the road, the landscape, the hills and the forests. The Picardy landmarks were all very, very familiar as she ducked in and out of the summery storms. Numerous times she had to take shelter under trees because the on and off again downpours made travel somewhat difficult. Undaunted, Bella was ambivalent to the weather, knowing it would come and go and not last for any duration. The greatest thrill coursing through her was that she was doing something positive to abort a disaster. She did not doubt for a moment that she would find Geoffrey and rescue him from harm's way. The horse, a rather cantankerous beast with an armor plated mouth, paid little heed to the hot, muggy weather that bred one storm after another. He had an off beat gait that was jarring, but he could keep it up indefinitely. By darkfall she was firmly ensconced in the forest of Crecy. The land was rolling hills, typical of antediluvian coasts, breaking into woodlands as she moved farther inland from the coast. "Well, Jupiter," she said to the horse. "Columbus took a chance. So will we." She had no spurs to incite the beast and his sides were as callused as his hard mouth. She used her bootheels judiciously. Jupiter was a sure footed trotter in the rain. Her judgment about this horse proved correct. She had picked Jupiter out of all the fine animals in Jean Vienne's stable. The sweet palfrey she rode to the country wouldn't do for this mission. Bella needed a horse with the stamina of an Arabian. As a kid she'd done her share of barrel riding and competing in rodeos. Had she not gotten pregnant by the first man she'd ever kissed, she might have wound up a Rodeo Queen, just like her sisters and her mother. So this ride felt good, even if the weather remained stormy. By the time Jupiter mounted the top of the next good rise, the last lingering glow of sunlight was gone. Night had arrived in total. The point Bella pulled up on to scout the valley below her was at a good break in the trees. She looked down into a picture perfect valley that in her estimation stretched on for about ten miles. In a sheltered niche on the hill to her right sat a little village. No castles, no manor houses dominated it, only a small church and its bell rang the call to vespers. A fairly good stream of villagers hurried toward its open doors.

From that village and down the entire right side of the valley's softly rolling hills, stretched a magnificent forest. At first glance it looked uncut and virgin, primal. She had only to look at the wooden houses and church in the village to know that thought was untrue. Below the forest, set up with such precision it could have been erected by the U.S. Army's Corps of Engineers, lay a tent city. Bella had found King Edward's camp. She raised her right hand into the air, made a fist and jerked it downward, saying with relish, "Yes!" She had made good time. Her horse was in excellent shape, breathing hard from that last gallop but far from winded. Now she had to switch modes and become cautious. Stealth, that's what she needed. It was too dark to make out individual markings on any tent. Even though many campfires dotted the plain, Bella couldn't risk moving closer in the open for fear of being found out by sentries. She judged how far she'd have to ride to circumvent the village and approach the king's camp through the woods from behind. Two hours after dusk would be a good time to make her move. But first, she had to get in position. A heady surge of adrenalin pumped in her veins as she made new calculations. By midnight, she and Geoffrey would be riding hard for Calais. That, she told herself, would be the hard part. It was the reason she had selected a horse for stamina. This big boy could run and he'd probably never forgiven the man that gelded him. At just nicely a hundred and five pounds and with Geoffrey's added weight of no more than seventy, they both be like a fly on this beast's back. He was well used to heavier weight of a grown man in full armor. So Bella felt pretty darn good when she dismounted in the woods at a stream. She watered the horse, removed the saddle, then wiped down his coat with handfuls of the plentiful grasses growing nearby. Exchanging the bit and bridle for a halter, she tied Jupiter securely to a sheltering oak. As a reward, she opened the small pack of feed that was the only provisions she'd asked the stable boy to provide her. For herself, Bella had brought two apples. These were small, very tart and a trifle green. They weren't really in season yet. She hoped England's autumn apples would be better tasting. She would make apple pies and let Henri and Geoffrey stuff themselves. She would be glad when she and the boys were home. Then she could relish in the role of a dutiful mother and wife, calmly waiting for her husband to come home from war. That thought bouyed Bella's confidence, reaffirming that she was doing was right thing. Geoffrey had no business being involved in a war. He was too precious and too important to her to be put in this kind of danger. King Edward's four cannons would bring warfare to a new height on the morrow. A young boy could so easily be hurt and maimed, but not her Geoffrey. Last, Bella washed her hands and face in the cool clear water of the stream. She stood up straight, tying her domino and half-mask securely. She was as ready as she'd ever be.

"The sword of passive resistance does not require a scabbard and one cannot be forcibly dispossessed of it." GHANDI

-28-

John de Chandos emerged from the fast running Maye naked. He pressed his fingers through his hair, smoothing the wet length of it away from his face. Guilamu handed him an unfolded towel, saying, "The wind refuses to change, my dread warrior. Tomorrow will be a another sultry and miserable day to march." "We--," Sir John said, as he took the huge sheet of toweling and wrapped his body in it, "--will not be marching on the morrow. King Edward inherits this valley rightfully from his mother and he means to defend it against Philip of Valois--Dieu et mon Droit."

"Ah," Guilamu softly crooned. His dark turban bobbed up and down at the height of Chandos' naked shoulder. "How very wise, my lord. That is cunning, indeed! What man can argue what God will defend?" Folds of dark skin crinkled at Guilamu's eyes. He turned about full circle, scanning the low hills and sloping valley using Sir John's few words to study the lay of the land. "I must consult the stars," he announced gravely. "Perhaps there be a propitious omen or two to guide us." "Do that," John said briskly as he scrubbed the toweling against his head. He wasted no more time at the brook, returning to his tent to dress suitably to sup with the king. Guilamu kept his chatter to a minimum for which John was thankful. On the eve of battle, Chandos preferred to keep his mind focused on the tasks ahead. Guilamu tended to bring up distractions. Buckling his dress belt firmly around his hips, John noted that his page had polished his sword and its sheath well. Likewise, the hastily erected tent was orderly. It was too warm and humid to remain inside it long. Later, when the heat of the August day had dissipated, the tent might be bearable. "My lord, your stars." Guilamu looked up from his portable scribe's table stretched across his legs. Charts and curious writings cluttered it. "Yes, what is it?" John paused at the tent flap to look back at his servant seated crosslegged on the floor under the halo of a lone hanging oil lamp. "All the elements point to tomorrow being your most valorous day, but the shadow of Venus marks this night." "What's that supposed to mean? Should I have someone carry me up the hill to the king's pavilion so I don't trip over my own two feet in the dark?" Guilamu chuckled. "Nay, milord, it means you must beware of all women. Tonight, Venus rises against Mars. By morning the sun will rule and Mars ascends as he should." "Anything else I should be warned of?" Chandos asked tongue in cheek. Guilamu took his dry question at face value and returned his attention to the charts. "Yes." Impatient now, Chandos asked, "What?" "There will be an eclipse of the sun in the forenoon." "Are you certain?" Chandos asked, because that was definitely an omen, good or bad, and in who's favor was anyone's guess this night. Guilamu nodded solemnly. "Fine, I shall tell the king. Do not wait up for me. Peace be with you." Chandos stepped out of the tent. Immediately, he asked his horse master if Robin had returned. Earlier, John had sent scouts out to reconnoiter, Robin, among them. Chandos wouldn't rest easy until his eldest returned from patrol. Life was that simple and basic on the war trail.

The off and on storms laden the air with humidity making the fifteen miles the army had marched since midnight a misery. Philip of Valois closed on their heels. King Edward had not wanted to meet him in battle with the wide Somme River at his back. Scouts sent ahead had come back with a good description of this valley. The desire to rest the march weary men had been paramount in every commanders' mind, but the final decision was King Edward's. The king had taken one look and authoritatively announced that here at Crecy he would make his stand. Let Philip of Valois come to him. More important to Chandos was they had arrived soon enough in the day that he could deploy the troops, making doubly certain the valley belonged entirely to the English. Philip had harried them for days, but did not press for a decisive engagement. Now, his vast army had only one means to enter this valley--through the narrow tree-bogged road up from Abbeyville. Chandos had made certain there would be no opportunity of a surprise attack on any of their flanks. Crecy valley had the appearance of the gently rolling hills and downs Chandos was well accustomed to in Sussex. The village of Estrees sat in a hollow formed between the slopes, about two miles to the east. Another village, Crecy, lay tucked into the forest beside the northerly flowing Maye where Chandos had bathed. Beyond the Maye the land became marshy and would not support fighting or easy movement of troops. Crecy was abandoned as it stood. Its villagers had fled into the forests, abandoning pots at boil over their supper fires the moment Sir John's vanguard had entered the valley. Estrees' peasantry had holed up in their church and bolted themselves behind the stout door. Chandos' had sent James Graham to Estrees with orders to evict the peasants by whatever means necessary and extend the army's camp to that ridge, securing their rear. As he listened to Richard Wynkeley give his report, Sir John saw the thatch roofs at Estrees ignite with fire. He turned to the scouts, listening with grave attention to each man's report. John's satisfied assessment of their position was echoed several times by the earls and barons in command. Not long after supper, they got down to the true business at hand--which troops to hold in reserve and how exactly to best utilize the valley's strengths to shore up their weakness. Every commander at the king's council knew they were gravely outnumbered by the approaching French army. The last of Sir John's patrols returned in time to report before the final decision making got underway. Prince Edward stated excitedly that he, Robin Chandos and Roger Mortimer had daringly backtracked the whole fifteen miles to Abbeyville where Philip of Valois had taken rooms at St. Peter's Abbey. There, the French king had summoned his advisors for a council meeting just as Edward was doing here. Also they had gained the added good news that the earl of Savoy had not, as of yet, arrived with his thousand lances pledged to Philip of Valois. By ten o'clock most of the pre-battle decisions that could be made, had been. Sir John lingered at the king's insistence, sharing a bottle of good red wine. James Graham had yet to put in an appearance, but every so often, Sir John would let his gaze stray to the diminishing fires at Estrees. The moon rose, nearly full and though clouds scattered across the sky, there was adequate moonlight to

scan the valley from one end to the other. The bottle of wine the king had shared with Arundel and Chandos was neatly finished. As John stood up, bidding the king a good night, a commotion erupted at the edge of the forest where the Maye cut a gouge in the woods. "What the devil?" Edward said, rising to his feet to see better. Maybe five thousand men had also gotten up from their pallets blocking the king's view as someone large and angry came charging straight through the rank and file. "A deserter, you think?" "I can't tell." Chandos' eyes were pretty sharp. He caught the glint of moonlight reflecting off the head of the wildly gesturing man. "It's Graham." "Yes, well, I can see that." Edward set his goblet on the trestle and strode down the rise, signalling to several torchbearers to proceed along with him. The pages, one of them Geoffrey Chandos, ran forward with torch in hand. The king advanced resolutely down the hill to investigate what sort of wildcat it was that James Graham had caught. "What goes here?" Edward demanded. "Your Majesty." Graham spun around, dangling his black clothed prisoner from both of his fists like a wild animal caught by the scruff of the neck. "I've caught a spy." "A spy?" the king said, still elbowing his way through the curious crowd of men who now stood full circle and a hundred deep around Sir Graham. The king grinned. "Are you certain? It looks to me as if the spy has caught you." A laugh rippled around the circle as Graham's prisoner struggled violently, kicking out booted feet, but failing to make solid contact. "Damme me, Your Majesty, but I daren't put this little bastard down before the whelp's hands and feet are tied. He put me on my back twice in quick succession and nearly kicked my cods back to England. Ho, Hubert, give me a rope." "Ha! Let's have a look now," Edward said with a scowl. He turned and took the torch out of young Geoffrey Chandos' hands, lifting it to give better light onto the small person clothed completely in black. "Graham, I believe this spy struggles so fiercely because you are nigh onto choking it to death. 'Tis just a boy, no more. Put him down." "Your Majesty," Graham protested the order. The king merely looked at Graham. The huge Scot shrugged his strained shoulders and lowered his captive's feet to the ground. The kicking ceased, but the captive's hands remained at his own throat, desperately clawing at the choking knot of clothes that had bunched there. Bella would have crumbled to a heap if Graham had actually let go. As it was, black spots spun before her eyes and her tongue felt so thick and swollen she thought it would also choke her. She hadn't the wind or the strength to fight back now. The big Scot had surprised the hell right out of her. She'd had the presence of mind to throw him when he charged, but she hadn't been able to run fast enough in the dark forest to escape him.

Coughing and still choking, she reached back and drove a wimp's punch into Graham's rock hard belly, croaking out, "Let me go, you bully." "I'll let you go, you little rat, when you've learned a lesson or two about paying respects to your betters. Kneel, whelp. The king of England speaks to you." "So kiss my Aunt Fanny," Bella complained as she crumpled to her knees. God, let me die right now, please. She sank onto her bootheels, covering what might be visible of her face with her black gloved hands. Nobody upstairs was listening. She felt the crowd shift as more torches were brought to the center by taller squires. Right in front of her, Geoffrey Chandos stood at King Edward's side, as curious as every man and boy in the crowd. God, she'd been so close, so close. Why did You have to put James Graham there? She wanted to turn around and latch her arms and legs onto his right leg and bite his kneecap till it bled, the pig, the swine! Why did he have to have balls of solid brass? "Your Majesty," a deep voice inquired from the shadowy periphery. Recognizing that voice even when it was speaking Norman French, Bella froze. "Did we not just agree that there will be no prisoners taken at Crecy?" "Chandos, I believe that is exactly what we just decided. Can't be bothered with feeding them when we're on the march." How sophisticated, Bella mentally sneered, the oldest interrogation trick in the book; good guy, bad guy. She'd read it in a thousand mysteries and seen it acted out much more effectively on television. She glared at the gold lions rampaging across the the King of England's cotte hardie. "Fine," Bella growled in a voice that would never sing soprano again. "Make it quick. I'd hate to linger." King Edward scowled. He couldn't believe what he was hearing...such disrespect and deplorable manners...even if the boy was a peasant and ignorant he should know better than to speak to his elders and nobility so crudely. "Unmask the boy," Edward ordered. That was the last thing Bella wanted. She immediately raised one hand and called out, "Wait!" She had her breath back. Now, if she could just escape. How? Geoffrey. She looked quickly at the boy, seeing that he wore a dagger at his waist. If she was quick, she could take his knife and use him for a hostage. No, she couldn't. Stop thinking like that! She hadn't come here to put Geoffrey in danger. She'd come to take him out of danger. "Your Majesty." Bella raised her hand to her throat, as if that gesture might somehow heal her crushed larynx. "I'm not a spy." "What's that you say? You are not a spy? Then, pray, do tell us who you are and why you sneak about my camp?" With one hand up in a gesture of surrender, Bella reached behind her head with her right hand and loosened the tie on her mask, pulling it down from her face. "I'm a mother," she said to the king.

Geoffrey gasped. Bella tried to keep her eyes fixed on Edward, since he was in control of all these other raging mountains of testosterone, but she couldn't. It was Geoffrey who pulled on her heart strings. She saw his face flood with color and those gentle brown eyes tore a hunk right out of her heart when they hardened into Apache tears. "It's a woman," someone gasped. Geoffrey's face twisted with shame, solidifying as fast as quick lime to a mask of fury Bella had never thought to see in her lifetime. "Goeffrey, no! Wait, let me explain!" She fought to gain her feet as the child bolted. His small agile body dove through gaps in the ranks. Bella hadn't gotten more than one knee off the ground before Graham's hands clamped onto her shoulder, holding her where she was. She couldn't hold back the soft curse that followed. "Damn." Another fierce hand clamped onto her head. Ungentle fingers tore at her black scarf, disposing of the cloth. "Lady Chandos," King Edward announced. There really wasn't anything to say to that. Bella didn't much want to look at Edward Plantagenet. She wasn't willing to risk looking at Chandos or Graham either. There was this wave thing going through the crowd, echoing what the king had just said about a thousand times. "What do you here?" The king repeated his question. Bella stared at the wrinkled hose at his knees. Would the truth help her cause? "I'm here to take Geoffrey home." For a very long time the king of England just stared at Bella. The expression on his face boded no good. Bella gulped, swallowed and couldn't hold his direct stare. "How did you get here?" he asked suspiciously. "I've got a horse back in the woods." Bella pointed toward the forest. "A horse brought you from England?" His question sounded as preposterous as her previous answer. Bella took a breath before answering, "No, I have been in Calais with my father since the second day of August." "Calais is twenty leagues north, Lady Chandos." "Yes, Your Majesty, it is." Bella's voice broke and she cleared her throat once more. "But Jean de Vienne's vineyard is but four leagues northwest. It is the week of the wine harvests, sire. Flanders is not expecting a war to interrupt their celebrations." Bella let her hands fall into her lap. She saw that King Edward had his right hand raised, palm up. The gesture could be a call for silence from the crowd, but it looked more like a specific signal to the man on Bella's left side to hold himself in check. She didn't dare glance at Chandos higher than the

white-knuckled fist clenched on her left shoulder. "Then what are you doing here?" The king echoed her qualifier. "Isabella Chandos, stand! You will come with me." "Your Majesty," Bella said quickly. "I don't think I can...get up...that is." The king glared down at her. Color flooded his cheeks as he again motioned to Chandos not to put a hand on her, calling instead upon Prince Edward to escort Bella to his pavilion. As newly-knighted Edward stepped out of the crowd and took hold of her arm, Bella let out a small sigh of relief. She hadn't seen Robin yet, but expected he would be the last person here to rush forward owning up to being related to her. It wasn't just Bella's knees that were shaky. Shock had set in. Her whole body trembled badly. At the canvas-roofed pavilion adjacent to the king's tent were four long trestles. Obviously, a meal had been consumed. Few scraps remained on the boards. Prince Edward drew out his father's lone chair and seated Bella, tilted the chair slightly and pushed the armrests flush against the trestle. She felt like a small child being seated at the grown-ups table. She let her hands fold atop of the sticky wood and waited. Something delayed the king down the hill. His son circled the trestle and picked up a pitcher and a tankard. Prince Edward brought both to where Bella sat. He set the cup before her and poured a foamy helping of stout English ale, saying, "Drink this, Lady Chandos. You'll need it." "Ah, you're a prince of a fellow, Your Highness," Bella said flippantly and reached for the cup. The youth drew up a bench and sat down beside her. "Tell me, I'm curious. What are you really doing here? How did you find us?" Bella heard the question, but as it was actually taking some concentration to make the abused organs in her throat work properly, she concentrated solely on drinking. She set the cup down empty and wiped the foam off her upper lip, then looked at the young man. His emotions were completely obscured in a way that made her think he'd been taking lessons from Chandos. He'd grown a handlebar mustache since she'd last seen him, as droopy as Sir John's. He had a deep nick at the arch of his right eyebrow, healing. His large hands sported the well battered knuckles of a prize fighter. Handsome, was the word that came to Bella's mind to describe him, followed by--mature. In a month's time, this startling young man had passed into adulthood. Not a trace of soft muscle remained in his youthful face. Everything about young Edward Plantagenet said he was a man. Like his father. Like John Chandos. "What do you think I'm doing here?" Bella asked.

"Frankly, lady, I am baffled. You crop up in the most unusual places. I feel deeply troubled for you at this moment. You're either going to hang for being a spy or else be beaten to death for disobeying your husband. I heard what he said to you at the watergate. Which fate you rightly deserve I cannot hazzard. I will say you should not be here." "Hung?" Bella choked back a nervous laugh. Beaten to death? How absurd! Bella knew not to say that. She'd be better off laying some sort of groundwork for getting Geoffrey absolved of all duties and the two of them escorted back to Calais. "Your Highness, if you have any compassion at all, I beg you, help me leave here with Geoffrey. I am in great fear for his life on the battlefield tomorrow. Chandos knows this but would not accede to my wishes. That's what I came here for, to take Geoffrey away from the danger. It is only a mother's love that has driven me to do this reckless and desperate act. Why else would any woman risk what I have this night?" "Why else, indeed, lady?" Prince Edward admitted confusion. "Are you not concerned for your eldest son who is also in the path of danger? Your husband more than they? What demon possesses you to do such a thing? And where, lady, did you ever get the idea that you could countermand the order of a king? Geoffrey but does his duty as every good and loyal son of England is expected to do." Bella reached for the cup and refilled it. Clearly, she was ill equipped to reason with a warrior. "What's taking your father so long?" Edward gazed into the night shadows. He cleared his throat and said, "It appears they are drawing lots to see who gets you." "Very funny, ha, ha." Bella said into the cup of ale. "I'm curious, milady. Did you really put Sir James on his back and...ah...the other as well?" "He exaggerated." "Odd, he isn't given to overstatement." Prince Edward stood abruptly, clicking his heels as he made a courtly bow to someone who approached from behind Bella's chair. She upended the tankard, determined to down as much of the potent brew as possible. A couple more glasses and she'd sink numbly under the table out of sight. She set the cup down empty. The Dutch courage had come too late to help her. She turned around in the king's high backed chair and leaned over the armrest to see who it was that approached Prince Edward. Chandos. "Well, well! Look who drew the short straw," Bella deliberately interrupted with her all time favorite line of Mae West's. "Hello, Sir John. Is that a gun in your pocket or are you glad to see me?"

"My, my, my, said the spider to the fly..."

ROLLING STONES

-29-

No man on earth should ever move so fast. Bella words no sooner left her mouth than she was yanked out of the king's chair and rudely thrown over Chandos' shoulder like a hundred pound sack of potatoes. Carted ignominiously across the whole camp, Chandos dropped her inside his tent. Bella fell hard onto some low, unidentified piece of furniture inside the close, dark tent. She reckoned the fall had been all of four, maybe five full feet. From the point of Chandos' shoulder, to this...she felt the surface under her...groping for identity...this cot about a foot off the hard ground. Chandos seethed like a Columbian jaguar cheated of its kill. His breath rasped harshly in and out of his lungs, whistling past clenched teeth. Someone scuttled in the inky shadows. Bella heard a flint strike iron. A spark caught then a small golden glow of light rose from the wick of an oil lamp that Guilamu, Chandos' body servant, lit in the center of the tent. The servant sported only loose yellow pantaloons, but Bella's mouth dropped open discovering Guilamu's head sans turban as bald as a cue ball. He stuck the lamp into a chain holder suspended from the tent poles, bowed very deeply, and got out. Smart man, Bella gulped as she pressed her elbows into the bedding to raise her head and shoulders. "Okay, I take it you are not happy to see me." "Happy to see you!" John shouted. "Woman, have you forgotten what I said I would do if you dared to follow me here or interferred in the training of my sons?" "Now, wait a minute, they're my sons too." Bella started talking, hoping to gain enough distance so he couldn't kill her. Angry didn't describe him. Livid, yes. "You can't hold a few words exchanged in anger against me. I know I didn't mean what I said at the watergate. So you couldn't possibly mean what you said either." He spun around and caught hold of a folding chair. yanked it open and slammed it to the floor. "Sit there! So help me God, woman, you have pressed me beyond the bounds of decency. If you value your life at all, don't you dare get out of that seat." Bella lurched onto her feet. The wet domino tangled on her legs and arms. On the way to the chair, she dispensed with the cloak. Chandos snatched it out of her hands and sent the rain soaked garment flying to a corner of the tent. It smacked against the tautly-stretched canvas with a loud wet pop. Bella sat abruptly. Chandos paced from corner to corner with his hands fiercely clenched behind his back. Metal resounded about him. Golden spurs rang with every angry step. His sword and scabbard clanked against silver plating and cabachon stones set into his belt. Bella swallowed nervously. He stopped abruptly in the center of the tent. The eerie light of the oil lamp cast diabolical shadows

under his hardened jaw. "How many men ride with Saint Pierre? Where did they camp?" "What?" Bella asked, leaning forward, unable to process the true meaning of those questions. He took two steps forward, dropped his hands onto the armrests of her chair and bent intimidatingly close. "Answer me!" His proud, aquiline nose loomed a scant inch above Bella's. "How many soldiers has Eustace brought to attack us from the rear?" "None." Bella gulped. "Lady," he growled in a voice so deep the devil himself couldn't have heard him. "We have played all the games we are going to play. You stand accused of consorting with the enemy. This is the last chance you have to save your neck from the hangman's rope. The king has decided you are more trouble than you are worth. Where has your father and his army camped?" Understanding his meaning sent a bolt of terror into Bella's queasy stomach. "The comte has no army. This is the week of the wine festivals. I came alone...from Jean Vienne's estate. It's just a few hour's ride across Picardy. In the vineyards, south of Calais." "You expect me to believe that lie?" he asked in a scornful, mocking voice. "It isn't a lie. John, you're frightening me." "Good. The charge against you is treason. King Edward wants the truth wrung from you regardless of the cost." Chandos straightened. His hands moved with deliberate purpose to the buckle of his sword belt. "Uh oh," Bella whispered as he cast his precious sword and belt to the carpet covered earth at their feet. His cotte hardie flew the way of her cloak. "Chandos," Bella whispered. She had to do something before he cast off the last shred of humanity. "You can't believe that I'm a spy. You can't." Bare-chested now, Chandos rounded on her. She stared in horrified fascination at his gloriously powerful chest when she ought to be bolting out the exit. But the truth was she was morbidly frozen to her seat. Just how far could she run? How many Neanderthal's of James Graham's ilk lurked outside? "Lady, since meeting you I have learned to believe many things. You stretch the realms of credibility over and over again. But I will not believe that you travelled from Jean Vienne's vineyards alone...unescorted." "Why?" Bella asked. "Why can't you believe that? It's true. I swear on the soul of my son, Iain, I came alone." "Do you truly want me to think you are that foolish? This province is crawling with dispossessed churls. A woman alone could not travel a mile safely much less twenty." "That's why I came in a disguise." Bella waved her hand at her costume. "It rained most of the day. I met few people and those I did pass, took me for a boy. Even your king and James Graham thought I was a boy at first sight. I didn't stop to talk to anyone. I had to get to this valley before nightfall."

"Oh, aye. And you just happened to know in all of France, where and how to find a king's army without the benefit of a guide? You...a stranger to this land and this time...can find your way about foreign soil without benefit of a map. To whit, the army has been on a constant march for days, never staying in the same place two night in succession." "John, I know dates and I've got a good memory for facts. I came here knowing the battle of Crecy would take place, August 26th, 1346. Calais will fall after a siege of nearly a year, on the fourth of August, next year. What King Edward has started here is recorded throughout history as the Hundred Years War. It won't end until the reign of King Charles the Seventh in 1455. Thousands of scholars have written about these times and the strategies used by the English to win battle after battle." "Bella!" Sir John raised his voice, shouting her name with the impact of a crack of thunder. "Stop it!" He kicked an unlocked trunk violently. It fell over, spilling shirts, tunics and his gear across the carpeting. "I am not going to spend your last hour on this earth listening to fairie tales about some fantasy world where you and only you know everything that will happen." "It's not a fairy tale!" Bella gripped the armrests of her chair, half-rising from her seat. "Don't do it!" Chandos warned, pointing an ominous finger at her. "Leave that seat at your own peril. I count four leather straps within the reach of my hand, Bella." "Damn you to hell, Chandos, if you beat me now, I'll never forgive you. I'm practicing passive resistance here, but not if my cooperation means nothing to you." "Lady, resist or accept. I care not. All I want from you at this moment is obedience and truth." "You wouldn't recognize the truth if it rose up and smacked you in your face. Look." Bella sat and yanked the gloves off her hands, needing uncovered skin to deal with a blinding rush of tears. "Can I just explain what's at stake here?" Chandos' hands fisted impotently at his sides. He damned her to hell and back for looking so vulnerable. His own throat constricted with the emotions at war inside him. He feared he could kiss her just as easily as he could kill her. It went past all decency that she had willfully put him in this position with his king. He growled roughly. "Hold your tears until you have reason to shed them. They will not sway me." "Damn you! It isn't fair of you to terrorize me just because you're bigger and stronger." She dashed away the tears that streaked her dirty face. "Can't you look beyond your pride this once? I am not defying you. Maybe I have disobeyed you, but I have good reason to do that...if you will hear me out. I'm desperately trying to save the life of one of your sons." Chandos closed the distance between them and gripped her trembling chin in his hand. "Aye, I am bigger and stronger and for good reason God has made me so. As to your defying me, the answer is grossly evident. You are here, are you not?" "Yes, but not because I wanted to defy you." Bella dashed her fingers across her eyes. She cast a quick prayer to heaven that he would listen to reason. "If Geoffrey's birthday hadn't been on August 23rd, I wouldn't be here at all."

Chandos' eyes fairly glittered. For the first time since he'd come inside the tent, the aggression in him diminished. "What has Geoffrey's birth to do with any of this?" "Everything!" Bella drew a quick breath to explain. "Please, please, let me tell you why I'm here. I'm not trying to interfere with Geoffrey doing his duty to the king or to you. I'm trying to make certain that he stays alive." "That is the most presumptuous bit of nonsense I've ever heard in my life," Chandos responded, wanting to take his hand away from her soft as silk skin, unable to break the contact between them. She pulled him to her just as surely as iron moved to lodestones. "No, it isn't," Bella argued fervently, willing him to accept the truth she brought him and hurt by the depth of his rejection. "My son...my Iain...died...on the twenty-sixth of August...three days after his ninth birthday." She swallowed air, choking as she forced herself to continue. "John, I believe Geoffrey is the reason God sent me here. Iain and Geoffrey are as identical as Lady Isabel and me! Geoffrey can't be anywhere near a battlefield tomorrow. Can you understand that? History repeats itself...over and over again. My son died because...my husband told me I was so overprotective I was smothering the boy. You practically said the same thing." "Damn you, Bella!" He dropped to his knees before her and gripped her shoulders hard. "Stop the lies! You know as well as I that the day you claimed Geoffrey was born is a lie." "What?" Bella got hold of his forearms. "The date recorded in your family Bible is August 23." "Geoffrey wasn't born in August. I have known the truth behind that lie from the day I returned from the Holy Land, woman!" "What are you saying?" Bella gulped. "Geoffrey was born in December." "What?" Bella asked, confused. "I don't understand. It says in your bible he was born on August 23." All at once Chandos released her and lurched away from her. Bella stared up at him, afraid of the violence taking over control of him. The man seethed with cold fury that turned more dangerous by the second. "You don't understand," he mocked her. "Then you are a greater fool than I if you think to pass off an eight month old infant as one of a full year. Geoffrey will not be nine until December 12th. I care not what date you ordered written in my Bible." "December 12th?" Bella shook her head. "I don't understand what you're saying." "You don't understand...how convenient. It was one thing, Isabella, when you play your games against the child and James Graham to control me. It is another when you try to use me to control the king of England." "Chandos, this is getting out of hand. I am not here to manipulate you or King Edward or James Graham. I am here for Geoffrey's sake. He and Robin and Henri have taken away the emptiness inside me. You can't call that interference. It's love."

He returned to where she sat and put one knee to the carpet. "I can and I do call it interference, woman." "Listen to me. Please, I'm trying to make this as clear and simple as I can. My son, my real son...the only one I've ever given birth to...died three days after his ninth birthday. It was an accident, a waste, a tragedy. It didn't have to happen. Iain didn't have to die. I'd give anything to have been able to prevent his death. When I realized Geoffrey's birthday was on the twenty-third and knowing that the Battle of Crecy was going to happen August 26th, well, I freaked. I thought history was repeating itself, or that maybe, my whole history started here, with you and Lady Chandos. I am a Saint Pierre. I know you don't want to believe that, but you've got to try to understand what I'm saying, John." He understood too well and it made his flesh crawl. Witch or sorceress, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes upon. He said nothing, needing to force his concentration on something mundane and tangible. He fixed his attention on her boots. She took his silence for acceptance and continued to blabber like one touched by the gift of prophesy. "I can prove I'm from the future. I know everything that what will happen tomorrow. I know the battle plan King Edward's going to use, how his forces will be lined up in three division, two in front, one in reserve in the back. The Black Prince is going to take the brunt of Philip of Valois charge. "One of the earls, Arundel I think, will run to the king, begging him to send reinforcements to help the prince. The king's going to ask if Edward lives, or if he's fallen under the sword. Then he's going to say to let him earn his spurs. Let the victory go to the Prince. John, what are you doing?" John's fingers probed the buckles of her boots. "What does it look like I'm doing?" Bella didn't want to respond to that. The gleam in his eyes rattled her. He was determined to distract her, take her off her course. If he knew how great the power he exerted over her physically, she'd be lost forever in this century with him. That thought caught every word in her throat. God help her, she wasn't in love with John de Chandos, was she? She gulped and tasted the spicy fragrance of his soap in her mouth and nose. Her fingers itched to reach forward and stroke his glistening black hair. The crisp curls on his naked chest distracted her so badly she couldn't think. Geoffrey wasn't his son? What had he actually said? Geoffrey was Graham's son? Mother Macree, what kind of a mess was she in here? She settled for making a lame complaint to his sarcastic question about what did it look like he was doing. "Well, one thing is certain, you're not listening to me." He reached for her other foot. Bella jerked away. He set his teeth after saying, "That's right," caught her left foot and hauled it right back. "You are the most obstinate and stubborn man I've ever met in my life. I don't know why I love you, but I do. I'm going to keep talking and talking until something I say sinks in, until you believe something I say. "At ten A.M. King Edward's going to ride a white palfrey over the whole battlefield, personally talking to every man. There's going to be a storm in the forenoon, followed by a full eclipse of the sun." "We already know that," John said grimly.

Now that he had both her boots unbuckled he yanked them off, throwing each across his shoulder to the pile in the corner. Both crossgarters followed. His fingers slid inside the hem of her britches, catching hold of her stocking, caressing the sensitive flesh inside her knee. "You know about the eclipse?" Bella asked, stunned. "We're not as stupid as you think we are," he snapped. One black stocking slipped off her foot. "I didn't say anything about your being stupid. I said you're stubborn." Bella bit on her lower lip, unable to tear her eyes from following the stroke of his hands as her second stocking went the way of the first. Her mind went blank. Her heart jumped erratically, mingling sexual tension with fear, anger and puzzlement. She stuttered, "Huh...how about this? The king of Bohemia is going to be led into the battle by his squire. They're going to die, side by side, along with all the rest of King Philip's noble knights and warriors. All of them. It's going to be a horrible massacre for the French." "I shouldn't wonder." Chandos' eyes never wavered. "Charles of Luxemborg is as blind as a bat. He has no business on a battlefield at his age." "How can you just twist everything I say? Edward's going to win! A hundred years are going to pass before the French will recover from tomorrow's defeat. Come Sunday morning thirty thousand men are going to be counted dead on this very field." Chandos batted Bella's hands away as he reached for her last buckle, the thin belt at her waist that held her trews in place. "Will you stop undressing me. I won't make love to you here. There isn't time for that and it's not what I came here for." "Who said anything about making love," Chandos lied. "I'm angry or haven't you noticed?" "That's what I mean," Bella replied with mounting desperation. "We've got to settle this. Haven't you got anything to say about thirty thousand dead men? I can't bear it if one of those dead is a nine year old boy I love very dearly. Chandos, say something." "Oh, aye," he growled something unintelligible as he whipped the narrow leather off of Bella's waist. She caught hold of the ties of her britches, glaring at him. "What did you say?" "I said, I pray God, I'm not one of them." He made her so mad with that comment that Bella shot back, "Since Froissart claimed only one Englishman gets to die, maybe it just ought to be you." "So be it. I will go to my God with a clear conscience, knowing I have done my best in each of my endeavors. And you, wife, shall have paid the price for your disobedience." He caught her right wrist and rose to his feet, pulling her upright. "Chandos! I am not going to let you beat me."

"Wife, there is nothing you can do to stop me. The price of your rebellion is the forfieture of your freedom. Think back, lady. I said convent if you interfered in either the war or the way I am raising my sons. I happen to know there is a cloister less than an hour's ride from this valley. You cannot go there dressed in the clothing of a page." Bella struggled to break his grip. She was as helpless against his strength now as she had been when she turned around in the king's chair and shot her mouth off. That episode had only gotten her picked up like a sack of grain and deposited on his shoulder. "Chandos! Will you listen to me?" "No." He opened the larger trunk and searched it quickly for a clean tunic and surcoat to clothe her more modestly in. "Neither have you been listening to me. But that will change from this day forward." Bella diverted her attention to his grip on her forearm, prying his fingers off one by one. "I've had enough of this insanity, you damned brute. Let me go." "No." Exhausted by the effort it took to give him perfectly good reasons for her being there, Bella took one more look at his face. He wasn't swayed in the least. Her own outrage was running pretty deep, too, but he had a damned funny look in his eye. "What exactly do you mean, no?" "No, Bella, means I won't let you go. My judgment is the one you will answer to in this life." Bella interrupted him again. "You can't put me in a cloister. I've got to be here for Geoffrey all day tomorrow. Chandos, you're only doing this because you believe that I'm that other Bella whose been defying you for years. I'm not her!" "No," he said gravely. "I am doing this because I told you that you were not to follow me to France. I made it clear what I would do if you disobeyed my order. That is the only crime I am considering. You, Bella, need to know that when I give you an order, you are to follow it to the letter of my law." "I'm not one of your soldiers!" "Count yourself lucky, then. If you were one of my soldiers, you'd have already been hung. Best you learn now that as my wife your vow of obedience is more important than fidelity." "Where I come from wives don't have to make vows of obedience any more. That is an archaic infringement upon a woman's personal liberties. On top of which, John Chandos, I am not your wife!" His eyes positively glittered diabolically as he intoned, "You're in my time, woman. Here, vows count and obedience is the root of all that is honorable." "I know that!" Bella didn't want to have to resort to using karate to cripple him. "Can we talk this over, please? I mean, it isn't fair for you to use rules against me that I'm not familiar with." "Fair?" He nearly choked on that word. "I'll give justice. That, lady, is more than you deserve." "Chandos, please, please, don't make me hurt you!" "My lord Chandos! I beg forgiveness for intruding, but I must speak to you at once!" Someone with a

very strong voice shouted just beyond the fabric walls. "Oh God," Bella whispered, struggling to retain control of her own hands against the determined press of Chandos' insistent grips. She thought he wasn't going to respond to whoever was out there hollering to wake the dead. "My lord! Can you hear me? I must speak with you, this moment!" "What is it?" Chandos growled a response. "And you'd better have good reason for interrupting me, Your Highness." Bella wilted against Chandos' chest. She didn't recognize the voice. She didn't have to guess as Prince Edward ducked inside the tent and straightened to face John Chandos' wrath. "Forgive me, Lord Chandos. Truly, I had no desire to intrude upon your privacy at this moment. I only do so at the express order of my father. You are to attend him at once in his oratory. I am to remain here with Lady Chandos until you return. I give you my word, my lord, the lady will not escape from my sight." From the look on Sir John's face Bella thought he was going to tell Prince Edward that both he and his father could sail gaily off to hell before he'd answer any summons. His grip bit deep into flesh and bones of her wrist as John glared at the prince. All at once he released her. Bella sank into a mortified heap atop the trunk. Sir John stalked out of the tent without another word. Talk about being saved by the bell. Bella choked on her own tongue and doubled over, coughing. Honest to God, there were ten, maybe twenty thousand men all within hearing distance and not so much as a peep of a cricket could be heard once she got hold of her coughing and quieted herself. Humiliated beyond belief, she cast a glance up at Prince Edward and didn't know what to say. If he'd come in ten seconds later, Chandos would have been on the floor, writhing in agony. Bella didn't even want to think what that would have done to Sir John's pride...much less his body. Hurting him was the last thing she ever wanted to do. Prince Edward looked as embarrassed as Bella felt. Bella swallowed, wet her lips and said, "I guess I owe you a debt of gratitude." "Don't thank me, lady," Young Edward said plainly. "Thank my father if the plan works. He did not care for Sir John wasting his energy and his temper on the eve of a battle over marital affairs. Best you pray that the ruse works." "Thanks anyway." Bella staggered onto her feet, shaken and disturbed, but seeking her control. She crossed to the tent opening, but as she lifted the flap, Edward's hand gripped her wrist. "Lady Chandos, I gave my word to Sir John that you would be here when he returns. Do not make me regret having done so." "I just want to see if Geoffrey is nearby." "All the pages have been ordered to bed. Sir James' camp is high on the far hill. Geoffrey sleeps there."

"I see." Bella let the canvas fall back into place. She turned around, staring at the enclosing walls, lost and out of place, unable to fathom Lady Chandos' motives for anything. No wonder Sir James hated her so. Why would the woman have dishonored her own husband? Dazed, Bella stumbled back to the low cot. She sat there, exhausted and very, very confused. "Lady," Prince Edward cleared his throat, drawing Bella's attention back to him. "What?" "Do you give me your word to remain sequestered here, I shall give you your privacy. Perhaps, if you made better use of your lord's cot, he might be discouraged from seeking more vengeance upon his return." "What?" Bella looked stupidly round the disorderly tent. Clothes were scattered to the four corners as though a tornado had struck inside the canvas walls. She looked at the cot underneath her and then back at Prince Edward before the import of his words sunk in. She said, "Oh?" "Exactly, milady. Were I in you, I would seek any means available to turn my lord's wrath another direction." "Yes, yes, you're right in that." Bella stuttered, embarrassed all over again. Leave it to a damn randy sixteen year old to point out the obvious. "I'll certainly keep your suggestion in mind." "Do that. Have I your word you will remain here?" Bella saw little chance for escape at this point, so she gave her word. "Then I shall leave you to your own counsel, milady. Mind you that the tent is well guarded and I will remain outside until Sir John returns." "I expected you'd say that. Good night, Your Highness and thank you for preventing what would have been a very humiliating experience for Sir John. I don't think he would have appreciated my efforts to unman him." The prince gave Bella a very peculiar look. "I doubt that you could have done that, milady. We are even now. Your assistance to me at Winchelsea has been repaid and I will consider my debt to you absolved from now on. I pray you not press for more from me. I can not compromise my honor further." Those words made Bella return a very sharp look at the young man. "Your Highness, I do hope you are not telling me that your father did not send for Sir John. I need no help in making his rage anymore dangerous this night." "Suffice it to say my father sent for him, Lady Chandos. Whether or not the man's temper reignites when he returns will depend upon what you do to incite him. I will say, Sir John is the fairest, most honorable man I know. He would not punish anyone unless he had just cause." Bella wished she could be as certain of that as Prince Edward. He bid her good night and stepped out of the tent. She sat in stifling confinement wishing she was anywhere but at Crecy. Geoffrey had been born in December, think of it. After a little while she mustered enough of her composure to risk poking her head out of the tent to ask

Guilamu for water to wash. While the servant fetched her a bucket, Bella picked up the scattered clothing and opened Sir John's war chest. She put his sword and scabbard belt inside the large trunk and folded away their clothes. She found a gauzy muslin shirt of his that she could use for a nightgown. Guilamu came with the water and a small plate of meats, wine and cheese. Bella told him where she'd left her horse tethered and asked for someone to be sent to secure the animal and bring it down to the camp. He assured her he would see to that himself. Bella stripped off her trews and cotte hardie, washed the dirt of her journey and the sweat of fear from her body. She let her hair down and used Sir John's boar bristle brush to take away the tangles. Then the truth struck her. John Chandos would hold Isabel's sins against her till the day she died. That truth hurt more deeply than anything he'd said or did. How could she ever atone for someone else's sin of infidelity?

"...truth can wait: she's used to it." DOUGLAS JERROLD

-30-

Towards dawn, when the cicadas and the crickets made less racket than snoring men and restless horses, Bella gave up making useless plans to escape. All through the long night she'd tried to figure out some way to get Geoffrey out of this awful place. Every idea she devised brought her to confronting James Graham face to face. On that thought, her plans withered to dust. How could she possibly face that man ever again when Chandos believed that she-Isabella had betrayed her marriage vows and born Sir James a son? The injustice of that charge fueled a temper inside her that wouldn't go out any too soon. How so like a man to say such a thing! And on what basis did Chandos make such a charge? Was it because Geoffrey was the only son of his that took after the Saint Pierres'? How dare he! God! What an awful coil! By morning she'd made up her mind. Chandos had not returned. The camp was quiet except for the sounds of numerous snores nearby the cloth walls. She would risk facing James Graham in order to secure Geoffrey into her custody and take him to Calais with her. John Chandos could rot in hell before she'd kowtow to him again. How dare he accuse her of being an

adulteress! How dare he brand his own son was a bastard! She gathered up her clothes that were scattered to the four corners of the tent and dressed with deliberate care. Footwear was a problem. She had just managed buckling the last cross-garter and regained her feet when the tent flap lifted and Chandos strolled inside looking as self-righteous as the Anti-Pope. "Good," he said briskly. "I heard you get up. Guilamu is bringing you water to wash." "How kind," Bella said. "All the comforts of home." "Not hardly," he corrected, stopping in the center of the tent to use his height to dominate her under the pretext of striking flint and iron to light the hanging oil lamp. The frayed wick burst into flame, clearly illuminating his stern and set expression. "Since you brought up the subject I will remind you, had you stayed home where you belong, your comforts or lack of them this morning wouldn't be at issue." Bella replied scathingly, "You may tell Guilamu not to bother bringing me anything; food, water or otherwise. I'm capable of fending for myself." "You'll not find any food until after mass and communion." "If you said that to stop me from leaving, it won't work. I'm out of here, Chandos. Good bye and have a nice life." Bella stalked to the tent flap, furious and very determinde. She ducked under the fold of cloth and emerged in pre-dawn twilight. A small apron of cleared space fronted the tent, that contained two empty pallets and a three-legged stool. Just beyond the stretch of the tent ropes and spikes, a fire crackled and sputtered in a circle of rocks. Guilamu tended a blackened pot above the flames. Beneath the black coil of his turban he returned Bella's glare with servile placidity. No sun graced the horizon. The valley remained a dark and silent sweep of scattered campfires. A veritable carpet of wool-shrouded bodies stretched end to end beyond Guilamu's fire. King Edward's army slept in peace. Behind her, Chandos emerged into the open air. He laid his hand on Bella's shoulder, staying her flight. She tensed, resenting his touch. "Do you care to be the alarm waking all these soldiers, walk away from me, wife." "Didn't they hear enough screaming last night?" "And will hear more shortly do you continue this tack." "I'm going to find Geoffrey and take him away from here, now. I told you, his life depends on that. I have a ship waiting in Calais. Geoffrey and I are going to be on it by noon, Chandos. Don't try to stop me." He applied pressure on her shoulder. Bella twisted in opposition as the urge to escape his dominance

made her think only of bolting for freedom. She wasn't prepared for swift retaliation. Not one second after she wrenched her shoulder free, that same hand that had gripped her, impacted soundly on her breeches-covered bottom. That was the last straw. He'd humiliated her as far as her pride would allow. Four years of karate lessons primed her rage, fueled by her fear for a child's life that ran deeper than any other emotion inside her. The split-second glimpse Chandos had of Bella's eyes as she turned, was all the warning he had of eminent attack. He'd seen the expression before, in men cornered in battle, whose desperation resulted in a brutal fight to the death. Her assault caught him off guard because of the ferocity of her attack. He expected shrieks and clawing nails aimed at his face and received instead a rib-crushing kick followed by the direct impact of an oddly flattened slab of knuckles rammed into his throat. Stunned, not because she'd caused any true damage, but because he'd never experienced such odd manner of fighting, he ducked under her next offensive. His shoulder impacted on the soft flesh of her belly and he clamped his right arm around her furiously pumping legs. As he straightened with his wife's legs clamped in a crushing grip of his arms, he barked an order at Guilamu. Chandos strode crossways down the hill, past the sea of startled men that his wife's screams awoke. Twice her fists impacted hard enough near his kidneys to make him flinch. By then he'd reached the Maye. The swiftly running current swirled well past his knees. "Don't you dare!" Bella strained to get upright, fighting his momentum, grabbing fistfulls of his hair. "I dare, hell cat." Their eyes locked as Chandos lunged forward, submerging her in the deep center of the stream. Immersed in the shockingly cold water, her struggle altered directions in a heartbeat. The blind rage to kill became the desperate will to live. He held her under long enough for true struggle to sink in, then brought only her face above water, allowing her to spit out the water she had inhaled. The very second that she recovered her wind the fight in her escallated back to full intensity. That Chandos could not allow. He shook wet hair out of his own eyes and plunged her underneath the surface again. On the bank an audience formed. Geoffrey waded waist deep in the stream, screaming, but Sir James caught the boy by his arm, holding him in check. Robin charged through a score of Welsh archers and young Edward plowed through the shallows at his heels. Both ran on bare, unshod feet, coming to the screaming lady's rescue. Aware of all of that was going on around him, Chandos concentrated only on Bella's fighting hands seeking any purchase they could. Her nails raked his bare chest. Her kicking feet and twisting torso strained with every ounce of strength she had left to free her shoulders from his iron grip. Again, John brought her up into the air. She spat water, choked and that wild red hair of hers spread like blood staining the water. She didn't curse this time.

Or claw at him with intent to injure. She threw her arms upward, trying to secure a hold around his neck, babbling, "No, no, stop, please, for the love of God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He refused to allow her to gain the fierce arm lock she wanted around his own neck. He would not be forced into having to dunk his own head again to submerge her if the fighting didn't stop. Her hands clamped behind his ears and she managed to lift herself enough to weld her mouth to his, kissing him. That Chandos allowed. Sweeping his arm behind her back, he pulled her body flush against his own. She came to him, yielding her mouth to the raw thrust of his tongue. Her parted legs gripped his left thigh intimately. Chandos tightened his fist on the wet sheet of hair at the nape of her neck. He pulled her head back as he deliberately kept her bent vulnerably over the water. Ginger freckles starkly glazed her pale skin. Her lashes spiked around eyes that had exchanged rage for remorse. "Oh, John, what have I done?" she whispered. "You've lost the battle, lady," he affirmed, pulling her to him. "And the war. You know in your heart I cannot let you win. There is too much at stake between us." "What do you mean?" she whispered as a shiver made her lips quiver. "Time bedamned. You are my woman and belong only to me, lady." He kissed her with all the need and hunger that had tormented him night after night since he'd brought her out of the Well of Souls. He would never be satisfied until she belonged to him, body, heart and soul. Along the bank of the Maye the curious and the rudely awoken began to disperse. Prince Edward had Robin in a Welsh armlock, a good ten feet shy of his parents. Edward tightened his hold to spin Robin around, shoving him back up the embankment, growling an order to disperse to those who hadn't got the idea that this was a private moment, not to be intruded upon for which Chandos was eternally grateful. Goeffrey stubbornly stood his ground, refusing to obey the Prince of Wales order to depart. That got him the first cuffing he'd ever had from James Graham. Every man in the camp knew, that today of all days, orders from the top were to be followed to the letter. When Sir John finally raised his head from Bella's lips, only one person stood on the rocks by the Maye, Guilamu. He waited, holding the two towels he'd been ordered to bring. Shivering in the drape of fresh linen, Bella followed Guilamu back to the tent. He gave her the heated water and soap and went to find her dry clothes from Sir Robin. Sir John dried off at the stream and sought the king's confessor so that he could make his peace with God before attending mass and receiving communion. As there was time yet before the sun would be completely risen, he spoke to the king of the troubles that haunted his conscience the most...the validity of his marriage. Edward, in his blunt way, cut to the heart of what troubled John Chandos so gravely, telling him, "The solution is obvious. Repeat each of your vows, renew them before God and before going into battle."

The king commanded his confessor to see to that before doing anything else this morning. Last, he sent for his son, and informed the prince that they would stand as witnesses.

Bella tugged Sir John's boar bristle brush through her hair one last time then shook the heavy mane of damp curls loose across her shoulders. Dressed temporarily in only her silk panties and a gauzy shirt of Sir John's, she sat on her heels, picking red strands from the brush, mentally praying, God, don't let me have ruined everything here, please. A fat lot of good it did her to think God had time for her paltry prayers. Bella put the brush back where she'd found it. As she closed the lid when the tent wall parted and John de Chandos and King Edward's confessor straighted up right before her eyes... and she didn't have a stitch of decent clothing on her body! "For the love of God, woman, what have you done with your clothes?" Chandos shouted. The vestment-robed priest about-faced so quickly his beads struck the canvas with a wallop. Mortified, Bella crossed her arms over her chest to cover her breasts. What little calm Chandos gained since his confession evaporated into the muggy air. He took two steps forward, snapped open the trunk at Bella's knees and rifled in it for the first piece of clothing he could find. His ungentle hands yanked her to her feet and thrust one of his everyday tunics over her head. "What's he doing here?" Bella hissed through her teeth, as she thrust her arm through a sleeve and pointed at the priest. Chandos jerked the tunic down her hips, covering Bella's lewd and sexy silk britches and most of her thighs as well. "Answer me!" Bella's fist thudded weakly against Sir John's naked chest. She'd be going for his nose next, if he thought to pull the same dirty trick he had the first morning she'd gotten to this blasted world. John caught a hold of her offending fist and turned it down, his eyes blued steel piercing her to her core. "The priest is here to administer a sacrament." "Which sacrament?" Bella demanded. Chandos picked up his cotte hardie and shrugged it onto his shoulders. The flap parted again and this time a crowd entered. King Edward and his son, Robin, Geoffrey and Sir James all stepped inside, flanking the priest who had yet to turn back around. "Sounds like you are ready for the witnesses," the King said with forced joviality. "Father Thomas, proceed." "Just one minute!" Bella lodged another protest as John pushed her firmly under the light of the single lamp. His hands remained on her shoulders, making her face both priest and king. "Ahem," Father Thomas cleared his throat, his breviary open in his hands. He raised his right hand and looked past Bella to Sir John. "You are ready, sir?"

"Yes, proceed." Sir John nodded assent. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to celebrate the sacrament of matrimony..." Bella twisted against the hands clamped on her shoulders, turning her head to stare into John's fathomless eyes. "You want to marry me? Why?" "One moment, Father." The king halted the priest. "Your Majesty, I prefer to answer that question myself," Chandos said preemptively. "Bella, today in battle I could very well be asked to surrender my soul to to God. Will you repeat our vows, removing all doubt of the validity of our marriage from my conscience, so that I may face judgement before God Almighty with my eternal soul shriven of all sin?" Bella already knew John de Chandos walked a devilishly narrow line between what he considered good and evil. She shook damp hair away from her face, nodding. "So long as you are not doing this out of pity for me." "Pity has nothing to do with this." John's arms encircled her, bringing her hands together under his, properly folded before the priest. When she bowed her head, she saw her bare knees and feet. That made high color rise into her face as she realized her backside was flush against his aroused body. "Proceed," ordered Sir John. Father Thomas did exactly that. It wasn't very long before Bella repeated after him, "I, Isabella Saint Pierre pledge my troth to you, John de Chandos my lawfully wedded husband, to love, honor and obey from this day forward, for richer, for poorer in sickness and in health until death do we part." Then they were both kneeling for the priest's blessing which came with an addendum for Sir John, absolving him of all the sins he'd confessed. Bella kept her comments to herself, a little too flabbergasted to make sense of what was really going down. Especially since King Edward made a point of clapping Chandos on the back and admonishing him with the words, "There, that should set your mind completely at rest. You may ride into battle with a clear conscience, my friend." The priest had other confessions and mass pending so he departed immediately. Prince Edward bowed elegantly, congratulated Bella and with a devilish grin making his eyes twinkle, kissed her on the mouth. Robin and Geoffrey remained silent witnesses. James Graham offered Sir John his best wishes. Sir John took hold of Graham's extended hand and clasped his other hand to his friend's shoulder. "My friend, should anything happen to me this day, I entrust my sons into your keeping. See that they are upright Christians, strong in their trust in God, and loyal to their king." "I will, my lord." Graham answered gravely. He bowed formally before Bella, touching his lips to the back of her hand and wished her well. The king was more circumspect, having a few private words with Chandos that Bella wasn't privy to. Then he turned to her, giving her a rather curious examination, bare legs and all, then bowed to her,

claimed he was her servant, always, and departed. Her foundations rocked, Bella regarded Chandos with deep mistrust. "That was about the sneakiest trick I've ever been subjected to in my whole entire life, John Chandos." One dark brow arched above his beautiful eyes and he stared at her without denying his duplicity. "You object to repeating your oath of marriage before God and king, Bella?" "I object to being manipulated into making an oath of blind obedience to your will." "But you enjoy practicing the skill of manipulation ...greatly." Bella threw up her hands. She wasn't going to win any arguments against him. It wasn't in the cards. "So now what?" she wanted to know. "Now," John said evenly. "All doubts of the validity of our marriage are resolved. You are my lawful wife in this time and era. I may do with you as I see fit, including bed you without sin, guilt or recrimination. So you may remove that tunic I put on you for the priest and resume the fetching pose you had for my benefit when I returned." "I don't think so," Bella countered. If he thought he was going to consummate this union after the way he'd treated her since ten o'clock last night, he had another think coming. "What just transpired here doesn't come under my heading of as long as we both shall dig it." "I have no idea what you mean by that." "I mean that you just made this whole arrangement between you and I permanent." Chandos raised his hand to the closure of his cotte hardie, opening it and discarding the garment as easily as he'd put it on. He sat on his clothing trunk and unbuckled his wet boots, unfastened his crossed-garters and stripped away drenched knitted stockings. Bella remained standing, warily watching him rise and with deliberate purpose release the ties on his trews. "Remove my tunic, Bella. Now." "No. Why wouldn't the priest absolve you of your sins until after you'd said the vows of marriage to me?" "Surely that is obvious enough without my having to explain." "No." Bella shook her head. "It isn't." "I am not an adulterer, Bella. I do not knowingly break any vow I have made. To bed you when there exists the slightest question as to the validity of our marriage, is adultery. I could not continue to desire you and at the same time, resist the occasion of sin. By having the priest renew our vows removes all doubt from my mind." "Is that why you avoided my bed after I went back to the Well of Souls?" "Aye," he answered solemnly.

"Do you believe I came here from the future?" That tested him. "What I believe is that you are a different woman than the one I married. The how or why of that I cannot explain. So this renewal of our vows was necessary for me. It removes all questions, all doubts. Now, do you remove the tunic as I have told you to do, or do you force my hand?" "That, Mister John Chandos, is exactly what I object to about the vow of obedience and the very reason it is no longer part of the pledge between consenting adults in my time." "Hence, I remind you, wife, you are in my time. Here pledges are kept exactly the way they are spoken. These are the only terms you have available to you." She didn't know what to say to that. He had to make the next move. She couldn't. He met her under the soft glow of the lamp. Bella shivered a little when his hands caught hold of his oversized tunic at her hips, bunching the fabric inside his palms. She still had stubbornly crossed arms which he ought to know meant she wasn't in the mood for any fun and games. His hands tightened on the cloth, drawing her against him with the barrier of her crossed arms an impediment to intimacy. He bent his head and kissed her throat below her left ear. Sharp teeth nibbled at her ear, then his lips moved softly against the outer shell as he spoke. "I am not going to coax you like a pouting child, Bella. It is my right to consummate our marriage and your duty to submit to my will." "After the way you've treated me..." She began a righteous protest and had it cut off by his lips taking hers. He kissed her deeply, both his hands firm upon her head, allowing no path of escape as his tongue plunged like a hot lance between her lips. He raked the soft sensitive tissue of her palate, and toyed with her tongue, seeking it when she tried to avoid contact. Her crossed arms weren't doing much good when he was free to exert all the seductive force in the world on melting her resistance. Melt she did, because Bella had always been a patsy for a well delivered kiss. The minute she gave in to the pleasure and uncrossed her arms so that she could slide her fingers into his hair, he had his blasted tunic up and over her head in a heartbeat. Again, he didn't bother to look where he was throwing the tunic. He just sent it sailing. His gauzy shirt gaped open, exposing her breasts. Taking the collarless neckline in hand, he pushed it across her shoulders, letting the garment fall to the floor at her feet. For a long, agonizing moment his eyes simply feasted longingly on her breasts then he cupped her fullness with his hands, letting callused palms and fingers deliberately stroke and arouse her nipples to hard shuddering peaks. "What sort of garment is this?" he asked as he slid one hand down her belly and grasped the trailing end of the bowknot in the drawstring of her britches. "They're called panties." "They look very impractical and certainly get in the way of the most serious functions of a woman's body.

Were I not a man of infinite leisure this very moment, I would have strenuous objections to your wearing such a garment." "They are absolutely necessary under a pair of rough seamed trews." "Oh, aye," he answered, tugging on the knot with sufficient force to pull the black silk very tight across Bella's buttocks. The knot gave and the silk slithered off her hips and pooled at her feet. "That's better, hmm? Your body is the splendor of all creation, God's most wonderful work of art." "Are you thinking He made a mistake or two on Adam and created Eve just to correct the flaws?" Bella asked slightly on the breathless side. "I can think of one or two." John bent just enough to be able to taste her lips and lay his right hand upon her knee. As he kissed her hungrily, his hand stroked upward between the soft, sensitive flesh of her thighs. He parted her mouth with his tongue at the same time he cupped her sex and used his long fingers to part her nether lips. His hand at the back of her neck drew her closer to deepen the kiss, his tongue probing with the same stirring intensity of his hand. Of her own volition, Bella pressed closer to him, her hands clasping his shoulders, her body answering the summons of his. When it came to lovemaking, Bella was a woman of easy virtue. She simply did not know how to say no to sex. He was truly her husband now and it was his right to make this most basic demand. Only a touch of resentment lingered in the back of her mind over his tactics for gaining this ultimate power over her. Before too many more minutes had passed, even those resentments faded to unimportant. Once aroused, for Bella, there was no turning back. He broke the kiss of their lips to straighten his back. Bella followed his gaze to the cot. It was long and narrow, meant to accommodate only him and she had spent a miserable night on it, unable to find any comfort or sleep. "Lay down, Bella." She shook her head, loose hair swirling around her shoulders. "Not yet," she said, warily watching Chandos with hungry eyes. "I think we'd better establish some ground rules for this relationship first." "Ground rules are completely unnecessary," he replied as he pinched out the flame on the lamp's wick. The golden glow of light faded, plunging the interior of the tent into opaque shadows. She might not be able to see much, but Bella's hearing was unimpaired. She definitely heard the sound of chords ripping out of grommets. Then came the tearing brrrr of tight britches being stripped off very long legs. He released a barely audible shudder of relief that spoke eloquently of man's primitive roots wherein clothes were completely unnatural. Bella focused on the large shadowy shape that loomed so tall above her, not quite able to fathom the ardent man he was now with the toweringly angry man he had been at midnight. Then again, she thought she might die like Desdemona when he got close enough to put his hands on her, but she'd die happy because she knew she'd aroused him. "Have we declared a king's truce?" Bella asked as his arms encircled her, taking her down onto the

quilted coverlet that made a thin mattress on the cot. "Nay." His bare knee impacted first, wedging forcefully at the juncture of her thighs. Then his whole body was above hers with only inches separating them. That knee pressed even harder and he demanded, "Yield, Bella." He dropped the last inch or two, his weight pinning Bella beneath him. His mouth slashed across hers, ending conversation. Bella yielded when she felt the enormous size of his cock pressing against her thighs. His lips sealed over hers and his tongue plunged deep inside her mouth. She felt his teeth and his need filling her and in return suckled very gently upon the sweet flavor of him. She brought her hands up to stroke the slick smooth skin rippling down his torso. Strong, bulging arms, knotted with straining, trembling muscle. For her! It was heaven. He groaned violently over the need building in his loins. He caught hold of both her knees, splitting her wide open. Whatever cry she might have made was lost in the thrust of his tongue as it mirrored the strike of his shaft. Both sank into her in one unified assault, seated to the hilt, conquered. His camp cot was never meant for the service they put it to. He made one mighty lunge at the end and every nerve inside Bella peaked, shattering like chrysanthemum fireworks on the Fourth of July. The cot broke. It wasn't far to fall, but Bella screamed through the whole orgasm that was taking her body, soul and spirit to the limit. Chandos pressed his hand over her mouth, crooning silly lover's words like "I'm sorry" and "Are you all right?" which was totally superfluous. When she finally came down from the shuddering powerful peak, he was on the bottom, cradling her. His blasted hand remained clamped over her mouth in a belated attempt to keep twenty thousand men unaware of what they were doing. Like it mattered what others in this world thought? Bella shook his hand away from her mouth. "Okay, I'm not going to scream again, Chandos." "It isn't the screaming that alarms me, milady, it's the way you demand the Son of God should help you along the way. I don't believe it was ever His intent for a woman to experience such excess." "Then He shouldn't have dropped me in the lap of a man hung like you." Bella laughed. Her head collapsed on his shoulder, her ear pressed against his constant heartbeat. She snuggled against him, loving the way his hair-roughened chest stuck to her breasts, and the feel of his strong as oak legs cradled by her thighs. "I hate to give in to a weakness, Chandos, but I think I could learn to love making up like this. Maybe we ought to argue more often." "Explain to me exactly what you mean by that." "Oh, I don't know," Bella shrugged the shoulder that lay under the palm of his right hand. "I'm just glad things are settled now. Give me a minute or two before I have to get up and get dressed. Geoffrey and I have a hard ride ahead of us if we're to reach Calais by noon. I'm looking forward to going home."

"You think you are leaving?" "Yes, of course we're leaving." She emphasized. "I'm not sticking around to witness this bloody awful massacre. I'd go ape and I'd just get in the way trying to bandage every wound on the field. Besides, I've commissioned a ship from Mangus O'Donnell to take me and the boys home today." "You commissioned a ship from a pirate?" he repeated flatly. "Sure. Why not? He's perfectly respectable. He is Papa Saint Pierre's next door neighbor." "You are not going back to Calais." "I have to. Henri's staying with the O'Donnell's, waiting for me to come with Geoffrey. I have to go and get him, too." Chados became as still as uncut marble. "Say that again," he said. Bella's eyes slid sideways to gauge the expression on his face. Whoops! she thought, Way to go, big mouth! Did I just make a blunder or what? She wasn't about to repeat those exact words. His arm tightened across her back and that strong, rested hand pressed into her shoulder fiercely. "Bella, where is Henri?" "Uh...uh," Bella ducked her chin down, thinking fast. What rhymed with Henri? Her brain failed her. "Did I say Henri? I meant Geoffrey. You've got me so stirred up I can't think straight." "Is that so?" He moved. Like a mountain erupting and Bella tumbled off his chest and sprawled on the assorted bedding strewn across the tent floor. "You left my son Henri in the care of Mangus O'Donnell?" "Uh, did I say that?" Bella slapped the heel of her hand to her forehead, praying he'd believe her. "Ha, ha, oops, sorry. No, Henri's not in Calais. Why would you think that? Henri's at home where he belongs, of course. I said I had a ship waiting for me at Calais, that's what I said. Henri's much too young to make a trip across the Channel. Why I wouldn't dream of subjecting a child his age to such a dreadful journey." "Is that so? Tell me, little woman, just when exactly did you make this journey to Calais?" Bella didn't like the way he leaned over her at all. Talk about intimidating! "Uh, why, just last week. I forget which day exactly." "Last week, hm?" "Ah, John, forgive me for saying this, but you're beginning to sound like a parrot. That's not very lover-like, darling." Bella took the offensive, scooting deliberately close to him, while trailing her fingers up his bare thigh. Can we save the arguments for after we're finished here?" "Oh, we're finished here, Bella. You may count on that." "Oh?" Bella tried to look surprised. "Don't tell me you're going to get all bent out of shape just because I made a small slip of the tongue. I was only trying to impress upon you how urgent it is that I get back to Calais before the ship sails without Geoffrey and I."

"And I have already said, you are not going back to Calais for any reason." "Okay, okay, don't get hostile about it." Bella immediately changed tactics. "I'm not going back to Calais. I'm sorry I brought the subject up. I don't see what so awful or what I did wrong. I just figured you wouldn't want me around when the fighting got started." "I'll tell you what you've done that's wrong, woman. You've left my youngest son with my enemy and when this army pulls up outside Calais's gate, the king of England will be compromised by the pirates of Calais. That's what you've done." "Oh, shit," Bella gasped. Then she shut her mouth. She knew when not to say another word.

"A brother is a better defense than a strong city, and a friend like the bars of a castle." PROVERBS 18:19

-31-

John Gault, Lionel and Geoffrey huddled under the tilted bed of a baggage wain to escape the sudden downpour. The clumsy cart held war chests and tent bags. Every piece of extraneous equipment had been moved to the rear, behind King Edward's division. The cooks and the animal handlers milled about in the open, getting drenched by the rain, but the boys were small enough to take shelter under the carts. "It's true," Prince Lionel, the oldest declared, firing a rock at a makeshift target; the spokes of a cart twenty feet away. "They just got married this morning. Father said so. That means you, Sir Robin and Henri are bastards just like I said cause yer parents just got married." "We are not!" Geoffrey's hands tightened into fists. "They've been married all along. My father's the bravest knight in the whole world, even yer father the king says that!" "You don't look like Sir John." Lionel fixed Geoffrey with a peculiar stare. "Ya got funny ears and yer hair's all the wrong color." "That's cause I got my mother's hair," Geoffrey argued. John Gault dug a muddy stick in the earth, prying up pebbles for ammunition for their idle game. He

asked, "How come the lady's here?" "Dunno." Geoffrey peered through the spokes of the wagon wheels, sorting through the forest of mud-caked boots, and legs for a skirt, then he remembered his mother wasn't wearing proper clothes. Guilamu had come and got some of Robin's hose and a tunic for her to wear today. "She's a spy for the Duc of Lorraine, that's how come she's here," Lionel taunted. "She came to see how strong we are and was gonna go back to her lover the Duc and tell him everything." "My mother hasn't got a lover and she's no a spy!" Geoffrey choked out those words. "Yes, she is. She's a spy an' a whore," Lionel said imperiously. Protocol demanded he not argue with the older prince, but it took all of Geoffrey's dwindling self-control not to bloody Lionel's royal nose. "Say that again and I'll make you eat your words." "Ha! Then how come she's in the prisoners cart?" "Cause it's got a roof, ya idiot, an' its raining. Father Thomas in in there, too. That don't make him a spy or a traitor or no whore." "Maybe 'cause he's listening to her confession. He's a priest, ya dummy. Priest's can't be whores. A whore's a doxy who buggers any man that wants t' bugger her. My father's gonna cut off her head. Only reason he didn't do it last night was 'cause we had to fight today. But come sundown, he's gonna try her for being a spy and it's off with her head!" "Yeah." Younger John Gault slapped his stick sharply down into the mud like a headsman's axe. "Off with the whore's head!" "You take that back," Geoffrey sprang at Lionel. He'd had all the prince's accusations he could stand. The ten year old prince was built as sturdily as the Black Prince. Geoffrey didn't care. He toppled the bigger boy into the mud, pounding him with all the pent up rage that had simmered inside Geoffrey Chandos since the night before. Geoffrey could fight well, but so could bigger Lionel. They rolled in the mud, evenly matched, exchanging blow for blow. Then Geoffrey got the upper hand and pinned Lionel to the earth, making him eat bitter words as well as mud until Gunnie Douglas and Father Thomas intervened. "Here now, what's the meaning of this?" Father Thomas caught hold of Geoffrey Chandos, hauling him roughly back from shoving another fistfull of mud in Prince Lionel's face. Both boys had bloodied each other's nose. "He called my mother a whore!" Geoffrey rubbed his sleeve across his nose, fighting the priest's restraint. "'Tis God's truth. She is!" Lionel screamed right back. "A whore and a spy and you're a bastard Geoffrey Chandos!" "Why, ya foul mouthed royal brat!" Gunnie yanked the prince out of the fracas. "I've a mind t' box yer ears fer speakin' ill of yer elders."

"Take yer hand's off me, ya bleedin' Scot. I'll order yer bloody hands cut off," Prince Lionel threatened. "Is that so?" Gunnie Douglas wasn't impressed in the least. "Fer half an English penny, I'll blister yer royal arse. Shut yer foul mouth, boy, else prepare fer the skelpin' of yer life." "What's the trouble here?" James Graham demanded as he urged his armor covered horse into the circle of wagons. The rain and lightning was finally letting up, but the sun had gone dark, spooking the Welsh archers and English foot soldiers seated in their ranks on the hillsides. Most pointed at the cloudy sky, jabbering in awe at the moon's shadow devouring the sun. A few of the more superstitious bolted. The rain crossed to the end of the valley and the sun disappeared. An uneasy hush passed over the ranks. The tedious wait for King Philip's expected army grew more restless as the sun receeded from the clouded sky. James's Graham and many of the other commanders, now circled the camp, calming the men, explaining the eclipse was a sign of victory. Graham had spied the disturbance at the baggage train and ridden up to investigate. He was definitely not pleased to find his page involved in a fight with a royal prince. "'Twas only a tiff between the boys," Father Thomas explained. "The wait and the eclipse has us all on edge." "Aye, so it does," Sir James responded. His dark scowl from behind the fierce helm fitted on his head was enough to bring both boys to silence. "Since you three boys have time on your hands, get buckets and dippers and go fetch water for the men. Geoffrey, you go down to Prince Edward's division. Lionel, serve your father. John, see to Arundel and Bouchier. Do not stop until you've made certain every manjack on the field has had a drink." Gunnie Douglas released his hold upon Prince Lionel's collar, glad that someone had sense enough to issue an order that would keep the youngsters busy for a while. They were too young to fight and he was weary of their constant squabbling. Geoffrey refused to look up at his idol, James Graham, ashamed of what he'd done. An apology to Prince Lionel would have to be made, but doing that now was impossible for Geoffrey. He hated it when the prince called him a bastard just because he looked nothing like his father. Now that he knew what a whore was, he didn't like his mother being called that either. He was glad Sir James didn't get down from his saddle. Geoffrey accepted the order given him and took off post haste to complete it. Bella had just come to the fringes of the disturbance when Sir James rode into the fracas breaking it up. She pulled back immediately, preferring not to bring any more attention to herself than necessary. As it was, her cheeks burned because both boys had been extremely vocal in shouting their epithets at one another. Sir James held his restive horse still while he listened to Gunnie Douglas' explanation of the boy's altercation after the three had secured buckets and run on down the hill. He looked up once, fixing Bella with a caustic glare. Gunnie noted the change in Graham's attention and half turned to see Bella standing out of the way. He ceased his Gaelic interpretation of the boy's arguement, tugged on his cap and about faced leaving Bella to face James Graham.

The knight's fair brow arched under his raised visor. He said, "What is the matter, Bella? Does the truth hurt?" "It might if it were true, but it isn't. Geoffrey is Chandos' son. You only have to meet his oncle, James Sainte Pierre to know that is the truth. Black haid does not always win out." Graham's dead stare could have hurt if Bella wasn't prepared for it. But she was. Forewarned was always forearmed. She knew the reason for Graham's hatred now. Before, he had always managed to wound her with his blatant animosity. Not any more. "Is that all you wish to say to me, lady?" "No," Bella shook her head. "I would like you to tell me where Sir John was the year preceeding Geoffrey's birth." "Why, how could you forget? Sir John went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, lady, from Shrove Tuesday until Michalmas. Geoffrey was in swaddling clothes on his return." "And you, James Graham. Where did you spend that time?" Bella asked. "At Chandos Enceinte, lady, as seneschal in Chandos' stead." His his voice dropped lower, to a private tone meant only for Bella's ears. "In your bed, milady." She shook her head, refuting his words, saying, "In Isabel Saint Pierre's bed possibly, but never in mine Sir James. She and I are not one and the same woman. And I will thank you to remember that in the future." He lifted his chin and barked a crude laugh, then put his spurs to his horse and galloped back down the hill to the troops. Bella watched him depart and found Guilamu standing close at hand. He watched her with a dark face as inscrutable as his opaque black eyes.

***

Geoffrey diligently worked his way through Prince Edward's division toward his father. The task given him meant he had to make many trips back to the Maye and back to the lines when the bucket was emptied by the thirsty men. Despite the fact that the sun almost completely disappeared behind the shadow of the moon, it was the hottest day Geoffrey had ever felt. Sweat soaked his muddy tunic and stuck his hair to his head and neck.. The resting foot-soldiers and front like archers were just as sweaty as he and grateful for a drink of cool water. Geoffrey began serving water at the front line of Welsh archers. It took him more than an hour to work his way to the rear eschellon of mounted knights in the back rows. His father, Sir James, Prince Edward and many of the earls and barons waited impatiently for the French army to fill the road into the valley.

The knights consumed more water than anyone else Geoffrey served, because it was dreadfully hot inside their heavy battle armor. Every squire had been kept busy through the forenoon, replenishing water for the armor-covered battle horses. Vengeance nibbled on Geoffrey's shoulder as he stopped beside Sir John and offered his father a cool drink of water. "When that bucket is empty, son, go back to the wagons and remain there." He watched his father bring the tin dipper to his mouth and quench his thirst. His black visor was raised, exposing Sir John's face from his black brows to his strong chin. Tracks of rust-stained sweat streaked his lean cheeks. Though he had seen fear in some of the other men's faces, Geoffrey saw only composure in Sir John. "Father?" "What is it, Geoffrey?" Sir John handed the boy the dipper. His gauntlet covered hand remained extended for a second cup. Geoffrey filled the dipper and pressed the long handle firmly against the palm of his father's gauntlet. "What should I do with Maman...should anything happen to you?" It was a reasonable question for the boy to ask. Sir John drank more slowly of the second cup, considering how to answer. He had neglected to seek out Geoffrey earlier in the day and reassure him before the ranks had formed, but he knew Sir James had deliberately kept the boy busy so Geoffrey would not have time to brood. "I would bid you to take your mother to Calais. Comte Saint Pierre would look after her. But Geoffrey, we are determined that this battle will go our way. Your mother assures me England will win the day." "Why does she say that now?" Geoffrey took the emptied cup from his hand and put it in his bucket, confused by his father's answer. "You shall have to ask her." Sir John's attention lifted from Geoffrey's concerned face to road at the end of the forest. "Go now," he dismissed Geoffrey briskly, seeing the banners of Philip of Valois' army peaking over the edge of the opposite hill. Geoffrey hurried down the line, handing up water to the thirsty knights. The last he served was Prince Edward. He restlessly paced his war-horse back and forth trampling the grass. The sun emerged from the clouds, brighter than ever, blazing down upon the prince's suit of glistening black armor he wore in honor of his godfather, Chandos, as Geoffrey offered him the dipper. "Get behind the lines," he ordered Geoffrey, tossing the dipper accurately into the boy's bucket. "Go now, run! And pray St. George and England rules the day."

Bella anxiously paced before the tilted carts, squinting against the now harsh glare of the sun, searching row after row of soldiers for Geoffrey. Each second that passed and she couldn't find him made her heart thud louder and louder in her chest. From far in the distance came the steady cadence of drums and the tramp of men marching to battle. On the ridge of the last hill, a flock of ravens lazily circled above the advancing enemy. Both the young princes had returned to the questionable protection of the rear where Bella was herself a virtual prisoner. Geoffrey was lost from her sight, somewhere near the English vanguard, which she knew

John de Chandos would lead when the fighting began. The last time Bella had actually gotten a glimpse of Geoffrey had been when he'd run to the Maye to obtain more water. A squadron of paired squires knelt on the battered grass in front of the carts. Between each pair were makeshift stretchers. Behind them a rude collection of physicians and healers chatted in low voices, making plans for handling what injuries were to come. Every man, youth and boy had specific duties to attend. Guilamu had only one charge--keeping track of Bella. Every step she had taken since communion had been shadowed by the Arab. He followed her as she paced around the disorderly jumble of baggage carts edging the forest. Again, she strained her eyes following the line of beautiful pines that made up the woods. There was no one at the Maye, though several men strolled leisurely out from the trees, returning to the ranks after making a nature call in the verdant forest. Bella could use a trip behind the bushes herself, but with Guilamu dogging her heels, she kept putting that call off. Of a sudden four riders crested the distant hill, knights in full armor mounted on horses draped in colorful silk trappings. They galloped down the narrow road, fanning out, taking full scope of the way King Edward had laid out his army. The English remained seated on the ground at ease. Not even the foremost line of Welsh archers moved to their feet to knock an arrow in their bows. The four riders circled down the slope, crisscrossing each other, then whirled about and galloped back up the ridge, disappearing from sight. From Bella's vantage on the hill, she could see the first oriflamme streaming in the wind. She searched again for Geoffrey, but it was impossible to find one small boy lost in ten thousand men. "My Lady Chandos," Guilamu interrupted her search. "It is time you retired to the rear." "I will," Bella told him for the fourth time. "When Geoffrey returns." "My lady, I must insist." "You can insist all you like, but I'm not moving from here until Geoffrey comes back," Bella declared. "If you're so concerned for my welfare, go down and look for the boy for me?" "Milady, my orders are to see that you remain here. Young Geoffrey must have been given another task to do, else he would be here." That was obvious. However, Bella didn't like it one bit. As tempted as she was to march down the field and find Geoffrey, herself, she had only to think of the possible consequences that action might cause. The last thing she wanted to do was to give King Edward or Chandos more reasons to behead her on the spot. Their last words after mass and communion regarding Henri's actual whereabouts had not been pleasant. Bella had enough guilt hanging over her head without adding Henri's circumstances to her worries at the

moment. She didn't believe for a minute that Geoffrey had been born four months after the date written in Chandos' Bible. It just wasn't possible. She didn't want it to be possible either. She didn't want to dwell on it. She would rather find Geoffrey. The Black Prince restlessly paced his charger at the rear of the first division, doing an excellent job of fuelling the escalating tension on the field. In the gap between the forested hills and Chandos' hastily felled barricades and earthworks on the far side of the valley, Philip of Valois's vanguard squeezed into the valley and spilled onto the rutted road in no clear or recognizable formation at all. The enemy swarmed down the opposite hill like fire ants. Bella didn't want to see this. She glared at Prince Edward, recognizable from her great distance by his coat of gleaming black armor. Only one other knight stood out in the sea of humanity as starkly as Edward did. Chandos. His armor also glistened black, ominous, deadly and threatening, as he broke clear of the ranks and trotted forward. A crimson silk plume on the crest of his helmet ruffled in his wake, keeping Bella's eyes focused on him when she did not want to know that he was moving to the very front of the lines. Vengeance reared and pranced into position. As a unit the battalion at Chandos' back stood to attention. Two thousand archers knocked arrows against bowstrings, posed and ready. A boy toting an empty bucket ran around the right flank of King Edward's reserves, his short legs pumping madly. Geoffrey! Bella clasped her hands at her breasts, exhaling, closing her eyes in relief. Guilamu whispered audible thanks to Allah. Bella hurried forward to meet the boy. "Maman," he said. "It's begun. The Valois are here." Bella wrapped her arm around Geoffrey's shoulders, embracing him. "So they are. Come. Guilamu has ragged me for an hour because I have insisted upon waiting here for you." "There were a lot of men who were very thirsty," he presented Bella a sweaty, dirty face and looked as if he could use a cool drink. Content now, Bella hurried past the kneeling squires and between the tilted carts, vowing not to look back for any reason whatsoever. In the farthermost section, a temporary camp had been erected. There cooks slaved over vats of simmering stew that wouldn't be done until evening. The pen holding all the surplus horses was well downwind of the shady clearing the cooks occupied. Prince Lionel and John and the balance of the young pages made up ten boys in all. Most of the others were sons of earls. Bella was the only woman present. She counted four priests, perhaps a half-dozen clerks, and only three animal handlers like old Gunnie who would tend any injured horses returned from the field. No one was just allowed to sit around and wait for the battle to begin or to finish. Each boy had a task assigned him. Geoffrey was sent with Lionel to fetch wood for the cooks. Bella was not given any task to do. All these men, including Guilamu, expected her to park under the shade of the king's pavilion and fan her moist throat until sundown.

She figured the likelihood of being stark raving mad by the time the sun went down was very good if she did as she was expected. The constant beat of war drums, the skirl of pipes and trumpets and the screams and grunts of humans and animals coming from the field was going to drive her insane. Without consulting anyone, Bella concluded she had three options. She could join the medics and tend the wounded. She could sweat the afternoon chopping, pealing and stirring with the cooks. Or she could join Gunnie Douglas, handling the aggitated horses. Considering her past experiences, Bella opted for helping Gunnie deal with terrified and injured horses. She knew she wouldn't be able to stomach the sight of men and boys bleeding. Horses might be just as badly wounded, but they weren't human beings with wives and children, families depending on them. Gunnie had his hands full when Bella came to the corral. It didn't matter that most of the war-horses had armor just as the knights did, close fired arrows pierced most plate armor, lances ripped through boiled leather and quilted padding. The animals took crippling blows with maces, battle axes, swords and multi-pointed halberds. The old Scot looked up at Bella the minute she came into view and barked, "I've no use of a woman underfoot, lady. Get yer squeamish hide out of me sight." "Good," Bella retorted evenly. "I haven't fainted once in my whole life. As to being squeamish, I don't know the meaning of the word." Squires had the duty of bringing up the wounded beasts, exchanging saddles and armor to a fresh animal and taking it back to the battlefield where their knight needed remounting. Bella soon proved she was worthy of any task when Gunnie had more injured animals than three men could handle. The worst, of course, never made it out of the carnage on the field. The animal handlers saw their share of arrow wounds and split haunches needing quick stitching. Bella had the right touch and the right voice for soothing frightened animals. As quick as Gunnie could get to them, pull the arrows and draw a thread through their hide, they patched and cleaned and soothed the wounded beasts. It wasn't long before Bella noticed a drastic change. Squires lead four and five stumbling, wounded horses each. They weren't English horses. They were French. The tide of the battle was changing. She had no idea how bad it was in the valley below, and flat wouldn't go look and see. She knew. Philip of Valois would be damned lucky to escape with his life. Bella held her own, staying very, very busy with the animals, getting as filthy, tired and sweaty as every other living soul on the field at Crecy...until Geoffrey came into the corral leading Vengeance. Squires had already stripped the war-horse of its shaffron that protected its great head, the fifty pound saddle and metal peytral encasing its chest, put it into a halter and gave the beast to Geoffrey to take to Gunnie. It hopped on three legs, its right front hoof curled up against it's deep chest. "Ach," Gunnie straightened, his fingers blistered from drawing needles through flesh. "Wot happened here?" he asked Geoffrey. Bella remained beside the horse they were working on, stroking its sweaty neck.

"Rodney says his leg may be broke. Father couldn't bring himself to put Vengeance out of his misery. Said you'd do it." Huge tears hovered on the rims of Geoffrey's eyes, threatening to fall. Vengeance turned his head and bit the crest of unruly hair sticking straight up from Geoffrey's crown. Gunnie wiped his bloody hands on his leather apron and told the boy, "Tie 'im there. I'll get to 'im by and by." Bella watched Geoffrey tie the lead to the post. He crooned a soft word to the great beast, hugging his lathered neck, then turned away, ferrying more animals in and out of the makeshift pens. Bella tried to refocus her attention on the horse they were treating. He had a gash down his belly and part of his bowels protruded, protected by a thin membrane of whitish sclera, but Gunnie thought the animal could be saved since none of the intestine had actually been cut and the herniated gash was not too long in length. The big chestnut shuddered as Gunnie bent back to his task, pulling flesh together and sewing it with horse tail thread. He tied the last knot and poured his equivalent of antiseptic on the closed wound. The liquid had the look and smell of 90 proof whiskey to Bella. The big test with a wound like this came when the horse tried to get back on its feet. If the stitches held, the first hurdle back from injury was cleared. Bella led the upright animal to a makeshift stall and after she'd removed the halter rope spent a few moments dispensing TLC with soft words and the stroke of her hand across the horse's velvety nose. As fierce as each of these oversized animals were in normal circumstances, badly injured they were strangely docile. Gunnie had the touch for soothing even the wildest creature. Bella watched him untie Vengeance and lead the stallion between the narrow uprights of his triage stall. The horse tried to put weight on that injured front leg and couldn't, balking with a scream of pain. The old Scot crooned to the beast, stroking the arc of its massive sweaty jaw. "Milady, here," Gunnie held out the halter rope to Bella. "See if ya can keep his mind off his troubles while I take a feel of that leg. Keep his head turned and mind now, this one's a biter." "I know that," Bella said emphatically. The four or five times she'd come up against the cantankerous beast he'd made every effort to take a hunk out of her hide. She took firm hold of the halter, drawing Vengence's head down. He rudely butted her belly. Gunnie was quick to feel the bones of the injured leg and straightened, reassuringly patting the animal's flank. "Ach, ma dhoune, thas a bad one, 'tis." "Is it broken?" Bella asked. "Afeard so, snapped clean in two, blast the bastid that struck him." "Could you splint it?" "Splint a horse? When Queen Dick takes the throne. Nah, lassie, I willna splint it. 'Twould be a waste of time. We're on a march ag'in today, tomorrow or the day after. I best do it now, than agonize o'er doing deed overlong in me head." Bella had a hazy memory of the wonders of modern medicine. Horses' legs could be splinted and broken

bones could heal just like human's legs healed...if given the right care...and support by traction. She kept her mouth shut, knowing Gunnie was right. Better to do it now than linger over the decision, agonizing on it. Bella smoothed Vengence's forelock, petting him. His huge dark eyes stared back at her, locked in pain. He didn't seem so fierce and terrible now. She relinquished the lead to Gunnie, wiping sweat and dirt from her face on her sleeve and refused to think of what might have become of the horse's master when the trusty animal had gone down. "I've got to take a potty break," Bella announced. "Mind how deep ya go inside the woods," Gunnie cautioned. "They'll be full of deserters by now." That was a daunting thought. Bella strode out of the horse pens. The temporary camp was now jammed with more wounded men than injured horses. Halfway across she picked up her shadow, Guilamu. He didn't say a word as he fell into step beside her, nor did Bella offer any explanation for her purposeful stride toward the forest. At the treeline, Guilamu had drawn that wicked looking curved blade of his and raised his hand in a silent gesture, telling Bella to wait while he made certain it was safe. A minute later he came back and motioned to her to come ahead, and led the way to a nicely private stretch of cool, shady forest. He'd found her running water as well--a small babbling stream, runoff from the day's harsh rain. Bella said thank you, watched him leave and quickly took care of business. She washed her face and hands in the stream of water, but knew better than to take a drink of unboiled water. She took the kerchief holding her hair at the nape and dipped it in the water. Emerging from the woods, she blotted the wet cloth on her throat, letting the cool water trickled down between her breasts. Hours ago she'd shed Robin's heavy cotte hardie, loosened the heavy cotton shirt from the waistband of her borrowed trews and tied the undershirt in a knot at her waist. Not for glamor or to be appealing in any way, just to be able to survive the oppressive, steamy heat of the summer day. The shadows had grown very long, but the clang of iron and steel continued as hotly as it had begun. No English reserves remained in the back. All three battalions merged into one massive line extending clear across the mid-ridge of the valley. Bella saw no signs of the English sallying forward to drive wedges in the French attack. She winced, seeing spots where the English line gave way and the French flooded through, mistakenly thinking they were leading a rally. It was a sucker's game. Almost as soon as the English line was broken, it closed again, trapping French knights and foot soldiers behind English lines. She turned away, unable to watch the slaughter. She was suddenly very, very tired, sick at her stomach and knew she couldn't go on much longer before she simply collapsed where she stood. Guilamu guided her to the trestles and benches in the clearing behind the cooks boiling cauldrons of stew. He brought her a crust of bread, a spoon and a wooden bowl full of the steamy stew. Bella made an awful face for the greasy, meaty concoction, but as she had not eaten anything all day, she soaked the crust in the thick gravy and chewed mechanically.

Under the shade of the king's pavillion exhausted knights did the same as she, eating by rote because their bodies required it. They were bloody and covered with filth, but not one had removed his armor. By singletons and pairs they staggered to their feet, calling their squires for fresh mounts, hauled themselves back in the saddle and rode back to the battle. Bella thought she could do the same, return to duty, leaving her emptied bowl and spoon on the trestle. There were fewer horses being doctored now, or else the converse: there were more horses dying in the field. No sooner did she reach the corral than Geoffrey came running at a breakneck speed, screaming at Gunnie Douglas. "Gunnie! Gunnie! Sir James is dying! Gunnie, come!"

BOOK FOUR "THE LAMPS ARE GOING OUT ALL OVER EUROPE; WE SHALL NOT SEE THEM LIT AGAIN IN OUR LIFETIME." LORD EDWARD GREY OF FALLODEN

"In the case of news, we should always wait for confirmation." VOLTAIRE -32-

Gunni bolted to his feet and ran. The mare whose rump had been pickled by arrows would have to wait. The old Scotsman chased Geoffrey through the carts and wagons into what had become an open-air field hospital. Bella picked up Gunni's needle and took up stitching where he left off. Her hands shook badly. James Graham was dying? She couldn't imagine anyone more able to withstand the punishment of this day than that Viking get. Grim-faced, Bella bent to the task of stitching up the mare, wishing her own ears would go deaf. Then she wouldn't hear the screaming, the shouting, the horrible grunts and clashes of men making war. She wished her nose and mouth would grow immune to the smell and taste of blood, sweat and fear. How much more of this she could take, she didn't know. When that horse was led away, Bella said, "That's all. No more horses." She told Gunni's squires to wash their hands and tend to the men. Numb, she wound her way through the baggage blockade. The stew rose dangerously in her throat when she saw how many, many men lay on the trampled ground beyond the tilted wagons, waiting to be tended by someone, anyone. Even young

John Gault had been pressed into service. He leaned all his slight weight over an old knight's leg, trying to staunch the flow of blood from a spurting artery. Gunni and Geoffrey knelt beside a stretcher further down the slope. The ever-present cadre of loyal squires flanked Sir James. His massive broadsword protruded from the trampled earth above his bare head, a blood-stained gold and steel cross headstone. Bella knew better than to offer her services to James Graham. He'd only curse and rail at her. She joined John Gault, trying to assist him in aiding the dying man. Nothing could be done. The physicians' skills were limited. Open wounds were cauterized and the stench of seared flesh hung close to the ground in the heavy air. Bella showed John how to wind a pressure bandage and sent him to bring more rolls of linen. While the boy was doing as she asked, she called to Father Thomas. The knight said he needed to confess himself. Bella had no real medical experience. She had common sense and a fair understanding of basic first aid. She did the best she could, comforting, consoling, reciting prayers with him as she held the knight's trembling hand until the last gasp of breath left his body. She hardly noticed the call to vespers rung on a hand held bell. Around the open air infirmary, the physicians were making progress. Fewer wounded were being brought to be treated. Exhausted men built rings of stone every fifty yards, piled newly cut logs into pyres that torch bearers set alight. On the ridge where she'd last seen King Edward's entire army spread out in a thin line, there were now fires burning against twilight's increasing darkness. Geoffrey sat with his narrow back propped against Sir James' upright sword. The big man's head rested in his lap. Geoffrey's dirty little fingers stroked blood encrusted hair back from the knight's temples. Five squires stood like sentinels, grim and unmoving. Gunni remained on his knees at Sir James' side. Bella swallowed hard and gathered her nerve, crossing the rows till she came to where Geoffrey knelt at James' Graham's head. The knight's eyes winced shut against terrible pain. Gunnie had cut his clothes away, exposing his chest and the piercing wound some lucky devil's lance had made. A horrible burn cauterized the deep gash shut. "All right then laddies, we can move him now," Gunnie announced. His old knees cracked as he got to his feet. The squires took the ends of the stretcher in hand and lifted. Geoffrey stood aside as Rodney of Hainault reverently removed Sir James' sword from the ground and followed the others to the shelter of the king's pavilion. Bella watched the procession move to that destination. "Maman." Geoffrey spoke to her at last. Since she'd arrived last night, he had avoided her completely. Now he looked straight at her, his face contorted in pain. "Is Sir James going to die?" "Geoffrey, how could I know the answer to that?" "You told Papa only one Englishman would die. Do you know how many Scots?" What could Bella possibly say? I don't know, Froissart hadn't recorded that? "I hope Sir James won't die, Geoffrey. Maybe his wound looks worse than it is. He was breathing easily. I don't think his lung was punctured, but I'm not a doctor. What of your father and Robin? How did they fare?"

"I don't know...nobody knows...except the king, maybe, he's over there." Geoffrey pointed at the ridge where the fires formed a macabre fence. The battle had ended without any shout of triumph or celebration. "I gotta stay with Sir James, Maman." Bella nodded her assent, scarred of what lay on that ridge. She found Geoffrey's loyalty touching. "Aye, my son, you should. I think your Papa would want you to stay with Sir James." Geoffrey shifted uneasily, staring down at the earth. The soft curve of his jaw appeared amazingly strong for one so young. When he looked back at Bella she saw the hard glint of steel inside his eyes. He was a strong son, a good son. Why she'd doubted him or given him her own son's reckless mien, she didn't know. He looked almost nothing like Iain now. Geoffrey was unique, his own important little person, and more dear to her because of his strength of character. "Is the king going to hang you now that the battle's over?" "Hang me?" Bella asked, confused by such a question. "For...for being a traitor?" Geoffrey asked. "No, Geoffrey. I'm not a traitor. King Edward knows that. The only admonition he gave me this very morning was that it was my duty to be a good wife and mother from now on." "Are you?" "What do you think, Geoffrey? Am I a good mother to you? Do you believe that I love you more than I love life itself?" He considered her question for a moment then lifted both his shoulders. "You never said so." "Then I was wrong to omit such a thing, Geoffrey. Yes, I love you very, very deeply. Don't ever doubt that. I will love you always and forever, without reservation. No matter what." "You will? But, what if the king hangs you?" "Geoffrey, Edward's largess won't allow him to do that. There is no honor in hanging an innocent woman. The king knows I came here because I had to find out about my future...about you, Robin...and your Papa." "But aren't you a spy for the Duke of Lorraine?" "No, I am not. Geoffrey, have you looked around to see who won? King Edward did. Philip of Valois and the Duke of Lorraine have gone home...in defeat." "Oh." He swung around, staring at the fires dotting the hills. Father Thomas' voice lilted on the wind, a smooth full tenor, chanting Vespers. Geoffrey looked back at Bella, firelight flickering in his large eyes. "Why did you and Papa remarry this morning?" "Before your father went into battle he wished to renew all his vows...to God...to King Edward and to

me, Geoffrey. He believes that a man who faces death with a clear conscience is a strong man...perhaps invincible." "Prince Lionel said my brothers and I are all bastards because you and Papa weren't really married before." "No, Geoffrey, that isn't true. You are all three de Chandos' sons. Have you ever looked inside the Chandos Bible? It is written in that holy book that Sir John Chandos married Isabella Saint Pierre sixteen years ago and the Bishop of Canterbury affixed his seal to that entry validating it for all time. That marriage was valid, but the marriage you witnessed this morning is valid too." "But I don't look anything like my Papa." Bella choose her words carefully. The boy would never look more like his father than he did at that moment--tall, erect and stone-faced--prepared for the worst answer and willing to face the truth. "You do not look like Sir John because God choose to give you the mark of Saint Peter, Geoffrey. That's a very special gift," Bella told him. "To my eyes, you look very much like Oncle James. Perhaps when you grow older you will have more Chandos features in you. But he is your father in all ways. Never doubt that, Geoffrey." Geoffrey doubted. "You are sure, Maman?" Bella crossed the small distance to him and placed her hand on the top of his head, smoothing back his dirty curls. "I'm very, very sure." Bella bent down and kissed his brow. "I love you, Geoffrey. Now, you go and see to Sir James. I expect you to give him only the best of care." "I will," Geoffrey promised, then impulsively threw his arms tightly around Bella's waist, embracing her. "I love you, Maman," he said underneath her chin. "I'm glad you came here to find your future...even if it made Papa angry." Abruptly, the boy bolted and ran off into the twilight, disappearing from Bella's sight in the crush of soldiers mounting the hill. She stood apart from the ebb and flow of so many seeking their baggage, a hot meal and a cool drink to quench their great thirst. In the valley the sounds of war were replaced by the solemn chant of prayers. Torches dotted the landscape as men moved about on foot. There wasn't any rhyme to their motion. There was no shouting of triumph. Word had spread quickly that the king had forbidden any and all celebration of victory save prayer. Only at the bank of the Maye was there any sort of commotion that implied there was some sense of jubilation following a victorious battle. A group of knights stripped away their armor, mail and underclothes and plunged into the cold water buck naked. A bonfire on the rocky bank made the scene appear as bizarre as an Hieronymous Bosch painting. Despite a few howls as they entered the cold water, there was a purposeful quiet about their bathing. Bella saw Guilamu's black turban bob against the firelight. He handed toweling to Chandos, Robin, and the Prince of Wales as each emerged naked and clean from the stream. Bella envied them the freedom to wash with such impunity. She felt filthy from head to toe and the smell of her own sweat overrode the stench of blood and smoke that permeated the night air.

As she stood there, watching Chandos rub his dark head with the white towel, it occurred to Bella that for the first time since midnight last night she was unguarded, free to do as she liked. She turned to stare at the baggage wains. Hundreds of men surrounded the tipped carts, seeking bedding, trunks and personal possessions. Even that great task had order to it. The carts had been marked and gear stored in such a way that it could be unpacked at day's end with ease and order. Several tents were being erected near the pavilion. Bella recognized Sir John's by the pennon flying atop the ridge pole. She could go there and wait for him. Or she could take advantage of her freedom to escape. Now she knew Geoffrey was safe. He had no need of her mothering or concern. The date of his birth was unimportant and had nothing to do with Iain's short life. She saw that now. Geoffrey was not the reason God had sent her here. She thought of Henri back in Calais, waiting for her, expecting her to arrive at any moment so they could return to Chandos Enceinte. Bella saw again how easily she could escape unnoticed in the melee of making camp. She swallowed hard on the decision, balancing the consequences of such an action. More than likely Sir John would be too exhausted to follow her. For that matter, she didn't even know if he was injured. Did she care? The answer to that question pierced layer after layer of her armor covered heart. Yes, she cared very, very deeply. She had come here under the excuse of protecting Geoffrey. But neither Geoffrey, Robin or Henri were her future. John de Chandos was her future. He was her knight in shining armor--the true reason behind her lifelong quest --her love. She loved him, more deeply than she'd ever loved Aristotle. Bella's eyes moved down the sloping hill, seeking Sir John. More men than ever crowded the bank. Squires stood on the rocks pulling hauberks over heads and shoulders of the men they served. A glittering pile of armor reflected the firelight. She found Robin's dark head and Prince Edward's pale one above the swath of their toweling togas. She didn't find Sir John. The scales in Bella's head balanced. She didn't doubt for a minute that she had at last found a man who was truly worthy of her love. A man who would reciprocate it in kind. What she found awesome and frightening was the deep and compelling urge to give over to Chandos the true power of love--to place her heart in his hands for safekeeping. Could she do that? She had never trusted Aristotle completely. Did she dare surrender all to Chandos? Bella smiled as her feet took her unerringly to Lord Chandos' tent. Guilamu emerged. He bowed in welcome to her and held the flap up so that Bella enter. There was no lamp lit. She didn't need one to see the weary man standing in the center of the opulent rug. "My lord," Bella said, voicing the first question that came to mind. "Are you all right?" "Oh," he said. "Aye." To say more felt impossible. His woman looked as exhausted as he. His arms hung

at his sides, leaden, raw and aching from the weapons he'd wielded this day. He was numbstruck, awestruck, thunderstruck. The battle now seemed an unreal blur. Yet to Chandos all the events Bella had predicted so accurately stood out; the storm at the height of the eclipse, the blind king of Bohemia, the ferocity of the French attack against Prince Edward's division and the great fear of Arundel's that had prompted those charged with the Prince's safety to seek assistance from the king. And yes, she had predicted the complete rout of Philip of Valois. The sun had already set before Queen Phillipa's Flemish cousin, John of Hainault had taken the reins of King Philip's horse and led him off the battlefield. Chandos had ordered his men to lay down their arms...so that the beaten king of France could escape. He saw no valor in taking a defeated king prisoner and holding him for ransom. Bella's hands made contact with John's leaden arms. She knew without having to ask, that of the two of them, he was the one physically drained, while she was the one whose emotions were all spent. He was her husband now, in heart, body and soul. It was her right to soothe and restore him, to comfort and heal him. Gently, but insistently, she drew him down to the pallet Guilamu had made on the carpet. A matt of thick grass beneath the rug cushioned their bed. Chandos' eyes closed the moment his head rested in the cradle of Bella's lap. She spread her fingers across his shoulders, gently massaging tired, aching muscles. He closed his eyes. Oblivion came right after. Hours later Chandos awoke, refreshed, restored. His wife sprawled beside him, sound asleep and softly snoring. She had not removed a single garment nor her filthy boots. He did that task for her, stripping away her borrowed britches and the filthy shirt and gave both boots and breeks to Guilamu to have cleaned. Sir John washed her face and hands and vulnerable throat, then gathered her in his aching arms and held her close as he went back to sleep. He dreamed very little or else slept so deeply that no dreams registered. Toward morning the scent of her filled his nostrils and aroused him. He opened his eyes and found her head pillowed on his arm, the frazzled loop of her braid twisted around his wrist and his fingers pressed against the back of her head. She moaned in her sleep, dreaming, little clawing fingers scratching at his chest like a cat padding. He stared at the darkness, awake but not really wanting to be. The pressure of her head on his shoulder had deadened his sword arm, lessening the ache of it. He'd fought many, many battles and had come away this one feeling all of his years, and all of his old wounds. Did she but know it, he was as weak as an infant. John did not return to sleep. Dawn came only a little while later and he disentangled himself from Bella's arms and legs. She continued to sleep while he rose and dressed. King Edward had also risen at first light. They met privately in the pavilion to discuss what needed to be accomplished this day. Sir John gratefully accepted the king's request that he return his cadre to the vanguard position. With the taste of victory in his mouth, Edward set his sights on Calais. He bid Sir John travel there post haste, scout the city's defenses and lay the groundwork for making siege.

Edward said he would finish at Crecy, bury the dead and then move leisurely north through Flanders. After taking his leave from King Edward, Sir John stopped to visit James Graham. The squires were grim-faced, but Gunni Douglas had a more positive look in his eye than he had the night before. James was a patchwork of bandages with every appendage wrapped in clean linen. He ran no fever. The worst of his wounds, the gouge in chest, had not festered overnight. Young Geoffrey rubbed dirty knuckles into his sleepy eyes. Sir John studied his second son for a long moment before speaking. "Geoffrey, you look worse than your uncle James Saint Pierre does after an all night debacle in the taverns of Calais. Fetch a bar of brown soap, clean clothes and get yourself down to the Maye. You are to scrub until you are clean from head to toe. Is that clear?" "Yes, Papa," Geoffrey hid a grin behind the swipe of his sleeve across his filthy face. "Good." Sir John continued to consider the rapidly growing boy who ears stuck out from his head in the same way James Saint Pierre's did. How was it that he had looked at this son and not seen the truth? Geoffrey was his son as much as Henri and Robin. The day of his birth mattered not. Sir John cleared his throat. "When you have finished bathing, pack your belongings, saddle your horse and attend your older brother for further orders. We ride out in one hour." "We do?" Geoffrey's eyes widened in surprise. "Am I going with you and Robin, Papa?" "Aye," Sir John said solemnly. "Your mother will need a page at her beck and call. And Geoffrey, remember that I said you are to be clean from head to toe." "Yes sir!" The boy saluted properly in spite of his excitement. As he bounded out of Sir James' tent, Gunni chuckled and shook his head. "You've made that lad's day, milord. He's itched t' join yer vanguard from the day we landed." John nodded. "I know. Take care of Graham, Gunni." "Not t' worry, milord. I'll see that he mends." Sir John wasted no more time, ordering his lieutenants to break camp and prepare to depart. He strode inside his own tent with a full bucket of fresh water, set it down beside his sleeping wife and soundly slapped her raised hip to rouse her. "Wake up, slug-a-bed. You've a quarter hour to wash, dress and saddle your horse." Bella awoke groggy. "Sir John? Did you just hit my butt again? Ow!" "Aye, woman, I did. Wake up." Sir John caught her shoulder as she tumbled out of the blankets nude. Her braid was fetchingly wild and rumpled. Sleep creases marked her right cheek and chin. "Who took off my clothes? It better not have been Guilamu." "Ha, that's my right, wife." John chucked his forefinger under her chin. She snapped her teeth at the digit but didn't connect. "There will be none of that, lady," he admonished sternly. "We haven't the time to dally about this morning. We're marching out. You are in the army now, lady, understand?"

Chandos' gaze lowered, appraising the lush naked body rising before him. "However, there is nothing stopping us from relishing the coming night." He bent his head and dropped a kiss on Bella's upturned nose. "I suggest you wear the garments you arrived in. Guilamu has laid them out for you. And Bella, wash as best you can. We will ride hard today." Still sleepy, Bella said, "I'll bet nobody remembered to pack the coffee." John ignored her strange request as he rose to his feet. At the tent flap he paused and looked back. She had grabbed the sheet and yanked it over her, pillowing back into the rumpled pallet. "Bella!" he called out her name loudly. "Whaaaa?" She threw the sheet off her face. "Chandos, let me sleep! I'm exhausted." "A quarter hour, Bella. Then this tent comes down. Return to sleep at your own peril. You'll be tossed out naked." "You wouldn't," she countered. "Try me," he invited with a wicked leer then exited. Bella rolled over and stared at the tent poles. The red, black and white panels glowed with daylight. She struggled upright, trying to shake sleep and exhaustion from her head. Her eyes blurred, her mouth tasted like old shoe leather and her brain had never been more sluggish. She saw the bucket of water, the clothes laid out, neatly brushed and clean on the top of Sir John's war chest. A flannel and a bar of brown soap sat on top of the other trunk. She couldn't move without every joint and muscle in her body screaming. Nor did she want to. Then the noises outside the cloth walls penetrated. Voices...a lot of them...all males. Horses, men, and Chandos barking orders for this and that. Bella scrambled onto her feet, grabbed the soap and flannel and dunked it in the bucket. The water felt cold. Outside Chandos glared at the rising sun, then the tent, willing Bella to emerge dressed and decent. He gave her more time before ordering his men to take down the tent. Two of his burliest soldiers dropped a canvas wall and went in to remove his trunks. Bella screamed and came charging out barefooted, shoes and stockings gripped in one hand, the other clutching her cotte hardie together over her chest. His men laughed, but John managed to keep a straight face. She sat on a stump, to don hose and garters, fussing. Her hair was still a sight for sore eyes when John walked up to her and said, "You'd better find your horse and get it saddled. Else you'll be running on foot the whole long day." Bella saluted. She fastened garters, buckles and buttons with unheard of speed. By the time she had her boots on, the tent had been collapsed, rolled up and tied into a tight bundle and

packed on a baggage wain. The two dozen men and boys affected by Sir John's order to move out were strapping packs behind their saddles. Bella ran to the corral to find Jupiter. Fitting her horse, a bit and bridle was no problem. Picking up a fifty pound saddle and hoisting it onto Jupiter's high back was a whole different story. One of the handlers intervened, feeling sorry for Bella. He pawed through the stacks of confiscated equipment until he found her a lighter, more durable saddle instead of the high cantle and upright pommel jobs suitable for battle. Geoffrey cantered up, shouting, "Maman, vite, vite, Monseigneur sen aller. At that point Bella balked. She hadn't combed her hair, made a nature's trip to the woods, or had a single bite to eat. She stared at Geoffrey while a zinging retort sang in her veins, crossed her arms, set her jaw and said, "Geoffrey, I'm moving as fast as I can. If that's not good enough, tell your father to go fly a kite. He can leave without me." The man saddling her horse choked. Jupiter snorted. Geoffrey gawked at her with a mouth open so wide she could see his eight year molars. "What's a kite? And how can we leave without you when the whole reason we're going ahead is to get Henri out of Calais?" "We are?" Bella said stupefied. "Oh, aye," Geoffrey colored as red as a beet for having given away his father's plans. He said, "But you're not supposed to know that, Maman. Could you hurry, please?" Bella looked at the animal handler. He linked his fingers together, making a step to boost her into the saddle. That was Bella's undoing...picking her foot up, that is. Every muscle from her seventh rib down screamed a protest when she raised her leg. Worse was the outcry from the overtaxed inner thigh muscles when she straddled the saddle. Bella gasped, "Holy cow!" "What's wrong?" Geoffrey asked. "Nothing," Bella groaned, closing her eyes against all the sore aching points. She knew why she hurt...she'd overdone the riding bit to intercept the army and topped that off with a bedding that surpassed all bounds of decency. A couple of serious fights with two very big, strong men hadn't helped either. "Are you all right, Maman?" whispered Geoffrey. "Just peachy," Bella lied. She said thanks to the groom, tucked her feet in the stirrups, dug her heels in Jupiter's sides, gritted her teeth and bid Geoffrey to lead on. But she told herself that at the first opportunity possible, she was going to disembowel John Chandos and stake him out in an ant bed. Anything less than an Apache death was too good for the likes of him.

"A hope deferred makes a heart sick, but a wish fulfilled is a tree of life." PROVERBS 13:12

-33-

There were forty riders in all in Sir John's free company of which thirty-seven were armed and dangerous as they prowled northward toward Calais. Bella didn't consider Geoffrey, Guilamu or herself armed, even though they had a weapon at their hip. She didn't have so much as an eating knife. At the same time they set out, two other chevauchees also embarked. The purpose of the mounted raids was to clear the road ahead for the King's army and to seek out any stragglers from the battlefield to destroy them before they could regroup and attack again. Prince Edward and his cadre accompanied Sir John's for the earliest part of the morning ride, but by necessity, the Prince's troops swept eastward after a few miles in the direction of St. Pol. Chandos headed due north obstensibly to scout the abbey at Montreuil. Another sortie led by Lord Bouchier moved west to the coast to take Etaples. The plan, Bella found out by listening to the soldiers talk, was for each troop to take command of their assigned area and await the arrival of the main body of the army. In the back of everybody's mind there seemed to be a unified wish to take the rich city of Boulogne. However, at around four that afternoon, with Montreuil going up in smoke and the abbey surrendered to English occupation, Boulougne seemed about as attainable as Paris in Bella's mind. She wanted a bed and the sooner she found it, the happier she was going to be. Complaining that Jupiter had picked up a stone about a mile back Bella had dismounted. After checking the animal's hooves she made a duty call behind a hedge of unburnt bushes and walked up the sloping path from the vineyards to the abbey. Her Arab shadow followed. Geoffrey lost patience with Bella's plodding pace. He galloped ahead to join the action and excitement of routing more peasants. There was no actual taking of Montreuil to do. The word that English troops were in the area was telegraphed from location to location by the time honored tactic of scorch and burn. The first thatch-roofed hut bursting into flames cleared the peasantry from a five mile area. As there were no forests nearby, Montreuil lay deserted as they arrived. Likewise the abbey. Bella said a grateful prayer for there not being any dead bodies littering the single street, if she could call the path between the abbey and the communal well a street. Sir John's patrol spread out, dismounted, moving from building to building, engaged in their systematic search for booty, people and deserters. Bella tied Jupiter to the post beside the well, plopped onto her stomach, dunked her head in the water and sat up, scrubbing away the afternoon's crust of dirt and grit. She smoothed her hair back from her

face, using damp hands to twist it into a coil. She had two straight twigs making do as chopsticks to hold the heavy coil off her shoulders. She pushed up her sleeves, rinsing hands and forearms, flapped the open lapels of her cotte hardie and welcomed the dribble of cool water inside the heavy garment. She gauged the temperature to be ninety-five. Few clouds dotted the azure sky. There was something to be said about not wearing stark black wool and leather garments in the summer. The honest truth was she was about to die from the heat. She sat on the rim of the well while Jupiter drank his fill, envying the horse his ignorance of disease and water-born pollutants. She was dying of thirst herself, but until a pot of water was boiled, she wasn't drinking the stuff, no matter how thirsty she was. Gradually, Sir John's men emerged from the scattered buildings, regrouping at the well where Bella sat and waited. Robin and two of his cohorts had secured an armful of wine bottles. He pulled a cork with his teeth and spat the cork on the dirt, upended the bottle and drank his fill, then passed it to the next man. Sir John stood apart in conference with his lieutenants. Curiously, they only torched the village huts. The abbey, at this point and its vineyards remained whole. Bella stared longingly at the inviting darkness beyond the open doors of the church. It would be twenty degrees cooler in there and quiet, peaceful, just the place to take a nap. Decisions made and orders given, Sir John marched toward the well. Geoffrey tagged after him leading both their horses. "We ride on," Sir John announced to the wine drinkers. Robin wiped his mouth with his sleeve and tossed the bottle in the dirt, turned to mount his horse. "Can't we stay here for the night?" Bella asked when the sweaty man was close enough that she could smell him. "Nay, Bella, there's five hours of daylight left. We will push on." "Great," she mumbled, forcing herself onto her feet. Sir John followed her around Jupiter and laced his fingers to give her a boost. Bella put one hand on his shoulder and complained, "If you knew what my body feels like, you wouldn't make me ride one inch farther down the road." He caught her foot and hoisted her up into the saddle. "No one ordered you to join the army, milady. 'Twas your choice. Cease your complaints." He mounted his own beast, as did five others soldiers also Robin, Geoffrey and Guilamu. The rest of the vanguard remained at the abbey, to hold possession of it until King Edward arrived on the morrow. That left ten of them riding due north as the sun dropped into the western sky. They had reached land Bella recognized as familiar. As the sun set they skirted around the country manor of Jeanne de Vienne. The gates of the walled estate were closed. The road to Calais deserted. Here the land became less cultivated. Open fields were well separated by stands of uncut trees. Bella knew from the week before the woodlands designated property lines. At dusk, Sir John finally stopped at a clearing in one thickly forested grouping, announcing this would make a secure camp for the night. "The horses are tired," he declared.

Horses, Bella snorted as she swung one screamingly painful leg over the saddle and slithered to the ground. Chalk from sweat and dust coated Jupiter's brown coat. His big head drooped to the verdant grass. While scouts secured the perimeter, Bella led the horse to the adjacent stream. Everyone else unsaddled their mounts, removing packs and rubbing them down. Bella knew she was expected to do the same for Jupiter. Apparently the code of the West that valued horses above everything else in life had been imported from Europe. Realizing how close she was to rescuing Henri from Calais, Bella couldn't begrudge the horse that had brought her this far. She continued to harbor the private complaint that there had to be a better way to tour Europe than in the company of John Chandos, aka, Attila the Hun. Everywhere she had been this day, thatched roofs went up in smoke and peasants ran screaming for their lives. Cattle were run off or slaughtered. Every field of grain and barn was scorched to the bare earth. When they came upon deserters from the French army, holed up at a crossroads shrine, no mercy was shown. Sir John and his vanguard swiftly put the men to death. Their orders from the king remained; take no prisoners. Bella's thoughts couldn't have turned more dismal when Geoffrey took Jupiter in hand, saying he would see the animal hobbled with the others. "You look tired, Maman. Why don't you sit down and rest. Guilamu will see to the cooking and I've already gathered the wood." "Where's your father?" Bella looked around for the first time to see who was or wasn't in camp. "He and Robin went to scare up some game. Else we'll have nothing to eat but coneys." "Coneys?" Bella frowned. "What's that, pine cones?" "Naw," Geoffrey laughed. "Rabbits, Maman." He dug in his pockets and produced a small yellowish object that he offered to Bella. "What's that?" "Soap." Geoffrey grinned. He pointed up the stream. "There's a pool up the bend. You might go there. 'Tis private." "You are a godsend, Geoffrey, my boy." Bella sniffed the curious bar of scented soap. "Where ever did you find this?" "At the abbey," he shuffled his feet, embarrassed. "I stole it. Papa told us not to take anything from the monks, but I thought God would not begrudge one small bar of soap. The Dominicans have no use for it. It is against their rule to bathe. Some traveller must have left it behind." "I shall use it with heartfelt gratitude," Bella managed a grin as she tousled Geoffrey's hair. He led her horse away. Revived by the prospect of a thorough bath, Bella struggled her way up the

tangled undergrowth lining the stream until she came to the pool. A natural barrier of rocks damned the stream, forming the deep pool Geoffrey had told her about. It was perfect. The spring water sparkled as clear and unpolluted as could be, bubbling out of fissures between the rocks. She dropped to her knees, testing the temperature, cupping the delicious stuff in her palms, drinking her fill at last. Frankly, she didn't care what the temperature was. She set the soap on the stones and began unfastening her clothes from her feet up. As she slipped naked into the water and submerged completely, she felt as if she'd never been in real water before. Sir John and his eldest son stepped into the clearing by the pool in time to see the lovely lines of Bella's back as she sank into the water. "So much for snaring a deer," Robin grinned. "That's not quite the doe we were looking for." Sir John handed his brace of black squirrels to the youth. "I believe your mother has had a good idea for once. Take these to Guilamu. We'll be along shortly." "So you shall." Robin took the squirrels. "Enjoy the water." "Indeed, I shall," Sir John asserted. He wound his way silently through the undergrowth to the far edge of the pool. As he put aside his hunting bow, John watched Bella surface near the flat rocks where she'd left her clothing. Wet hair clung to her back and hugged the firm globes of her bottom. She treated him to a spectacular view of her splendidly naked body when she took her soap to hand and brought all of that heavy mane of hair up to her head, scrubbing it energetically enough to raise a white, foamy lather. Chandos wanted very much to have a hand in lathering all the rest of her. He swiftly removed his clothes and slipped into the water without a sound. Bella clasped whole handfuls of hair, diligently working her fingers into her scalp and the cleansing lather through the length of her hair. The lemon-scented fragrance filled her nose. It felt absolutely glorious to massage her head. She looped the heavy tresses on top of her head and carefully laid the soap on the rocks for safe keeping. Then she slowly sank into the water, dunked her head completely under, fingers spreading and separating her hair around her to rinse it clean. Her backside bumped into something under the surface. Bella popped head and shoulders out of the water, exclaiming in surprise to find Chandos naked beside her. "Good evening, wife," he said huskily. Both his hands grasped her waist and lifted her against him. "My lord!" Bella gasped. He drew her effortlessly forward, flush against him, delighted by the way her legs instinctively parted and wrapped firmly around his hips. She had her arms raised, hands busily pressing tangles of hair away from her face. Her breasts thrust out of the water, rosy tipped and glistening.

The temptation to taste them before he tasted her lips overwhelmed him. He took the bead of delicious water from the tip then opened his mouth over the sweet dusky circle, drawing all of it deep within his mouth. A shudder whip down her belly where she pressed against him and her womanly crevice bucked against the head of his hardening shaft in a blatant invitation to enter. She gasped out his name and both her arms found his head and shoulders, tightening with the same possessiveness that her legs did, enveloping him. Her nipple budded against his tongue, swelling to a hard arousal mirroring the lengthening of his rod. "My sweet lord," she whispered huskily as he released the one and sought the other sweet jewel. He tightened his hands on her ribs, lifting her higher, tugging deeply on her breast, marvelling at how sensitive she was, how greatly such suckling aroused her. When he released the hardened nub and looked to see what effect he'd had upon the rosy jewels each stood proudly at attention, pebbled and pointed, quivering with each of her shuddering breaths. "You surprised me," Bella said with glazed eyes as he let her body slowly settle properly against his. "Did I?" he inquired, hooking one arm lightly around her waist. He was tall enough that his feet could touch the bottom of the pool and lever them closer to the rocky ledge. He found the rocks she'd stood upon and settled his hips there, crooking his legs, pulling her firmly onto his lap. "Yes, you did," Bella shyly regarded his mouth, wanting very badly to kiss him, but uncertain if she should take the initiative when he had so obviously started this tryst with a purpose. "You were expecting someone else to come along and bathe you, lady?" His brow rose, but Bella instinctively knew that he was teasing. "No, of course not," Bella glanced sideways to double check that they were alone and unobserved. "I was too tired to care about anything but cooling off in the water." "Cooling off, hmm?" John reached for the scrap of soap. He brought it to his nose and sniffed its tangy fragrance just as Bella had done. She straddled his parted thighs, completely out of the water save for her ankles and feet. "Shall we see how cool you've become?" he said as he began purposefully to wash her, beginning at her throat and building a slick, thick coating of lather over her breasts and down her belly. When his hand reached the golden red triangle at the apex of her thighs, he deliberately widened the gap between his own legs, opening her more. Bella caught hold of his shoulders, watching his expression as his hand dipped between her legs, stroking and lathering her intimately. He remained completely intent upon his task, putting the soap aside for later, using just his fingers and her own secretions to thicken the suds. She couldn't help but moan with the pleasure his hand produced. He dropped his palm into the water and gently splashed away the lather, rinsing her clean, but she was far, far from dry. He brought handfuls of water to her throat, her breasts, her belly, until all the soap was gone. "Better?" he asked with a puckish smile. "Much," Bella admitted. "Is it my turn?" she asked, reaching for the soap.

"Nay," he caught her hand, bringing it back to his shoulder deliberately. "I would shame myself if I allowed you to touch me in such a way. A man fresh from battle is too eager for more conquests to dally, Bella." "Is that so?" She glanced down to his throbbing red headed rod and moistened her lips with her tongue. "The battle was yesterday." "Aye, so it was. And I have exerted restraint ever since, but no longer." "Such noble intent is to be admired, my lord," Bella said tongue in cheek. He responded by picking her up as he rose from the water, striding over the rocks to the grassy embankment. Bella sighed as he laid her down on the soft grass. She didn't try to hide the smile on her mouth as his shaft slide deep inside her. "That's very direct." "Think so?" he also grinned. She smoothed his wet hair back from his face. There was enough of it that she could twine her fingers in it and capture his head. "That's very nice," she said approvingly. "Nice," John adjusted his position, resting on his elbows, gripping her head between his hands. "Will you kiss me now?" Bella requested. "Wife, I am far beyond the kissing stage," he replied sternly. "Best you know in advance that I've contained my baser urges as long as I can. Bring your legs higher and lock them behind my hips." "Aye, aye, my lord." Bella obeyed with alacrity, that grin twitching mischievously at the corners of her lips. Chandos settled deeper inside her, revelling at the pleasure of her tightened sheath encasing him. He dipped his head and took her smiling lips with his own. That was the last gentle gesture that he could afford as need ruled by raging desire took over.

The full moon was up before Chandos and his wife strolled into camp. Geoffrey squatted beside the fire poking a stick into the embers under the grilled squirrels and rabbits. Guilamu and Robin played a game of dice. "Ho, Maman, Papa," Geoffrey greeted the newcomers with a grin. "The soap was good, then," he decided. "Excellent," Bella answered as John released his firm hold upon her waist. She sank down to the grass, setting aside her stockings, garters and boots, and plowed her fingers through her wet curls. "What's to eat?" "We've already eaten, but Guilamu saved you a rabbit," Robin said over his shoulder, concentrating on

Guilamu's tricky roll of the dice. The Arab never failed to beat him. As his parents settled to their late supper, he remembered his gift for them. Snatching the dice from the ground to keep Guilamu at bay, he strode to pack and saddle and withdrew a dusty bottle of fine red French wine and presented that to his father. Sir John grinned over the gift. "How thoughtful of you, Robin." "And I thought they drank it all at the abbey," Bella teased, clucking her tongue. Sir John uncorked it, tilted the bottle to his lips and tasted the aged brew. "As fine as the pope's own altar wine," he pronounced and passed the bottle to Bella. A little more fastidious than he, she took the time to wipe the dust off the bottle with a damp corner of her sleeve before putting it to her lips. It was surprisingly sweet and mingled very nicely with the after-taste of Sir John. As for Guilamu's undercooked rabbit, Bella ate sparingly of that. Chandos didn't seem to notice as he devoured what she did not want. Bella looked around and realized they had no tent. "Where do we sleep?" she asked Sir John. His eyes met hers rather steadily while he gnawed on the knuckle end of a bone. "Here." He indicated the clearing around the fire where several of the men already had stretched out and begun snoring. "Here?" Bella's head turned from side to side, examining the canopy of trees, listening to the chirping of nocturnal animals and insects. "You're kidding?" "A kid is a young goat, Bella. Speak the king's English." "I mean you're joking...playing a trick on me. Where's the tent?" "Back at Crecy in the baggage train." "What do we do if it rains?" "Get wet," he lifted one shoulder easily. "Cool," Bella said. "It could be. It could also be cold. At this time of year it is more likely to remain exceedingly warm for the duration of the night." As he mentioned the heat, Bella lifted her open collar of her cotte hardie and fanned her throat. The swim had been nice, the lovemaking even better, but he really didn't have to remind her about the heat or the humidity. Stuck in wool and leather clothing, it wasn't likely she'd forget how warm it was. "Can't we go on and ride to Calais now?" she suggested. "It's very unlikely that I'll get a wink of sleep here." "Why's that?" John tossed the last bone into the fire and wiped the grease from his fingers on the grass.

"Too spooky in the woods." Bella shivered. "I'll be listening to owls hooting and waiting for a bug to crawl up my leg." His eyes rested steadily on her, a secret sort of smile lingering at one corner of his mouth. "Like the way you listened to the owls hoot and the bugs crawl all night long last night, eh?" "I was sleeping in a tent, last night," Bella reminded him primly, fluttering her collar to cool her throat. His eyes strayed lower, considering the swelling fullness of her breasts. "I doubt you'll notice the difference once I let you go to sleep." "Let me?" Bella's brow peaked. "You've got another think coming." "Aye, that too," he smiled broadly and turned his gaze deliberately away from Bella's blushing face. He handed her the dregs of the wine and got up, moving to his saddle bags and unpacking his bedroll. Bella watched him shake out the roll of wool and lay it lengthwise at the base of a fairly distant tree. She hadn't got a bedroll of her own to unpack. Robin and Guilamu's game had wound down to the last roll of the die. Guilamu stood abruptly and stretched then went to his saddle and removed his bedroll. Geoffrey had long since curled up in his blanket and dropped off to sleep on the far side of the fire, between the two soldiers who would take the second watch. Bella finished off the wine then stood up and decided this was as good a time as any to make the last trip to the bushes. She rubbed her back gingerly on the way, knowing she'd be very glad to sleep in a good bed tomorrow night. Eustace Saint Pierre's luxurious house in Calais seemed the answer to all her prayers after this gruelling trip. On her return she found everyone bedded down except her. Chandos offered her the sharing of his blanket. As a promising place to bed herself his wool blanket lacked even the amenities of his blasted cot. Bella sat on the grass near Chandos and patted the ground for rocks. She removed each one and tossed it away. "What are you doing?" he asked. Bella brought her hair over her shoulder, splitting it into three sections and deftly weaved a braid. "Getting ready for bed." "Come to me, Bella!" he commanded. Bella ignored the shiver his words caused her, waved a hand to the various bodies curled under blankets and whispered, "Shush, everyone's to sleep." "I said," he raised his voice louder on purpose, "Come to me, Bella." "Sh!" she answered. "The boys, the men, you'll wake them." "Very well," he tossed the wool off his bare legs and started to get to his feet.

Shocked by his revealing nudity, Bella scrambled over to him, pressing her fingers against his mouth to quiet him. He sat in the fold of wool, delighted by her easy capitulation and began the determined work it would take to remove her clothing once again. He caught her chin, lifting it and sealed her mouth with his, savoring the heady flavor of the wine on her tongue. She woozy with drink and stubborn too, furiously buttoning buttons he opened, twisting like an eel to evade the purposeful search of his hands. John caught her head between his hands and whispered in her ear, "Bella, you can't sleep in clothes." "Yes, I can," she answered. "Nay, my love. You won't." He lifted her chin, staring into her eyes, seeing the surprise awakening there as she processed his words. "Did you just call me, your love?" Bella whispered. "Aye, so I did," John affirmed. He kissed her mouth languidly, sliding his tongue deep inside, duelling with her, dominating her, laying her back on the damp grass. She made no further protest as he easily parted her cotte hardie, exposing her breasts to the moonlight. Her tongue toyed with his then slide inside his mouth to be teased and suckled. The ties on her trews gave to the tug of his hand. He pressed the buttery soft leather down her hips. Her body quietly told him that she wanted to give in to him, but her sense of propriety wouldn't allow her to make love in so public a setting--even if their sons and the soldiers were all asleep. "Ach, Bella, 'tis no shame between us. Do you forget I'm a newly wedded husband?" "But there's no privacy," Bella wailed, so softly though she wasn't positive even he heard her protest. John lifted his head then and cast a look over his shoulder at the humps here and there on the ground. He knew his men and his sons. They would sleep through the end of the world tonight...as she had slept the night before. He rolled her over him, settling her backside on the wool and shifted to cover her from any view with his own long body. He stripped the heavy cotte hardie off her arms and cast it to the pile of clothing beyond her head. Moonlight shifted into shimmering shadows through the trees glazed her body. He laid his hand on the gleaming whiteness of her belly. "You're the most beautiful woman in the world, Bella," he admitted in a throaty whisper. "I love you, Bella. Let me make the most of the moments we are given. Deny me not your sweetness, I beg you." The dying fire outlined his head and the firm ridge of his upraised shoulder. Bella turned her face away, looking at the nearby woods and shuddered. "You're sentry could be watching." "My sentry is the other direction, Bella." To placate her modesty he drew the edge of the blanket over his shoulder, forming a make-shift tent of sorts. He had not lied to her earlier, when he promised to plow her belly. His cock was again rock hard, painfully so. He slid his fingers through her moist curls.

"You do not really want me to stop. Part your legs, sweetling, aye, that's better now, isn't it?" He dipped his head to her breast and licked the protruding nob of her nipple. With his arm enclosing her, he found the other thrusting nipple and compressed it between his fingers. Her resistance melted against his triple assault. He pulled upon her breast, drawing her deep in his mouth, tugging the hardened nipple with firm steady strokes. Her hips bucked against his hand, belly rising, legs straining open wider and wider as her sweet cleft became creamy and slick, wet for him. "That's it, my sweet," he encouraged. "Come to me." He pressed her nub rhythmically and slid fingers inside her, lifted his mouth and whispered in her ear. "Ach, Bella, feel how wet you are for me. Tell me you want me as badly as I want you, sweetling." "I want you," she gasped. Chandos chuckled deeply as he moved over her, bringing the shelter of his crude tent on his back. "And so, my lady, you shall have me. Each night and each day for the rest of our lives, I promise you."

"Happiness is no laughing matter." RICHARD WHATLEY

-34-

"How long is she going to sleep?" Geoffrey whispered persistently. Guilamu looked from the fish he was deftly filleting to study the woman enshrouded in the scarlet wool. Her hair spilled across the green grass and a dappling of midday sun filtered down through the trees to illuminate the gold in her tresses. "Not long if you continue to jabber." Geoffrey scowled over Guilamu's answer. It was very hard to remain quiet this late in the day. If Robin would have let him go hunting with him it wouldn't have been a problem. But Geoffrey's only outlet for his vast energies had been to catch the fish. "Do you want another fish?" he asked with a tired sigh. Guilamu's turban moved placidly up and down. "Another fish would be good. White women have a taste for fish." Geoffrey sighed, got to his feet and shuffled back to the stream. He was good at catching fish. Sir James had taught him how to tickle trout, and praised him for having the patience to do so. There weren't many who could master the trick of it, or so Sir James had told him. Soon enough another fat trout nosed around his quiet fingers and quick as he could blink his eyes, Geoffrey snatched the unsuspecting fish out of the water.

"Ha!" he shouted in triumph, bounding onto the rocks to catch the flopping fish. "I did it again." "What did you do again?" Bella asked over a soul deep yawn. She blinked bleary eyes at Geoffrey and part of the wool blanket dropped from her shoulder. "Maman! You're awake!" Geoffrey's mood brightened even further. "I caught another fish, barehanded, he announced proudly, holding the good sized trout up for her inspection. "Wonderful," Bella told him around another deep yawn. "Where is everybody?" "Oh, they're around," Geoffrey said purposefully. "I've got to give Guilamu this fish. He's going to cook it. Are you hungry?" "Famished," Bella admitted. "Good." Geoffrey hopped over the rocks and skipped onto the grassy bank. "Be back in a minute." "Take your time," Bella advised. "I'm going to wash up." "Oh, aye." Geoffrey remembered his manners and the fact that ladies took ever so long to ready for anything. "I'll tell Guilamu to cook the fish." "Geoffrey." Bella turned to watch him. "It would be very nice if you'd bring me my clothes." "Your clothes? Uh, I can't." "Why can't you? They should be right there by the tree where I was sleeping." "No, they're not. Monseigneur took them." "I beg your pardon?" That shook the last of Bella's sleepy haze from her head. "What do you mean your papa took them?" "Ah, he said you can't go riding about looking like a boy any longer. So he took your clothes. But, don't worry, he'll be back tomorrow morning." "Tomorrow?" Bella gasped. She also became aware of the dappled sunlight shining on her. The heat of it made her look up at the sky and there was the sun straight over her head. "What time is it?" "Noon." Geoffrey edged further back in the trees. "I can bring you your boots," he offered in a placating voice. "Noon!" Bella said. "Noon! Where has your father gone that he won't be back until tomorrow morning?" Geoffrey wasn't sure he should answer that question. He looked anxiously around for Robin and wished his older brother was there to fend off his mother's questions. "Geoffrey!" Bella said in her sternest, I'm-not-a-happy -mother voice. "Uh, I don't know." He gulped and backed farther into the trees. "Best you ask Robin."

As the boy turned tail and ran, Bella howled into the trees, "What is going on here!" What was going on she had the dubious pleasure of learning some time later over a brace of tasty fish filets. Her adoring husband sans his sons and his body servant, had gone with his men to scout Calais. Wrapped in a scratchy wool toga that smelled to high heaven of Chandos' heady lovemaking, Bella fumed over the meal. Robin arrived before the fish were all consumed, proudly bearing the dressed carcass of a yearling. Once he hung the venison he tossed a gunny sack at Guilamu. "Shallots and mushrooms," he announced the contents with a grin. "Good day, Mother. You slept well, I see." "Oh, do you, you supercilious whelp?" Bella said. "Where have you hidden your saddle bags? I want something decent to wear." Robin's brow arched in perfect imitation of his father. "My pardon, Maman. We travel light. I have only the clothes on my back, as do we all." "So help me God, Robin Chandos, if you don't wipe that smirk off your face I'll...I'll...cram this fish down your throat, bones and all." His teasing, young and truly innocent eyes widened in genuine surprise. "By all that is holy, Maman, is that the best threat you can muster? You've lost your touch, you have. I vow, you are not the same terror you used to be. Is she, Geoffrey?" "Aargh!" Bella groaned in frustration. She tossed a bony fish spine at the fire, yanked her blanket over her head and stalked back to the pool. She soaked in the water until her skin literally pickled, then sulked the late afternoon and evening away watching Guilamu turn venison steaks into mouth watering delicacies. Stuffed and sated with food for the first time in days, she curled up in her blanket and listened to her sons and Guilamu exchange scary stories around the crackling fire. Every sound in the forest seemed intensified and Bella wouldn't have been surprised to hear wolves howl or have a wild bear come crashing through the woods on a rampage. Geoffrey spread his blanket out and said he'd sleep beside her and protect her all night then dropped right off to sleep. Bella tousled his head, loving him more than it seemed possible. Robin produced another bottle of wine, offering it wordlessly to Bella. "Where did you find room to pack all of that?" Bella asked half-suspiciously. "Oh, there's another where this came from." Robin grinned boyishly. He tossed his head as he pulled the cork, flipping his black hair out of his eyes. His jaw had taken on a shadowed look again, another testimony of maturity. Bella propped her elbow on the fallen log at her back and rested her chin on her hand, studying him, comparing him to Chandos and to what her vision of an older Iain would be. She had never been able to see any Saint Pierre traits in Robin before, but as he filled two cups with wine, she saw that his mouth was fuller than John's, softer. The shape of his jaw was a tad different, not so squared and determined.

He handed her a cup and took the other in hand, raising it in a salute. "What shall we toast, Maman?" "Hmm?" Bella wondered. "To life, all its mysteries and wonders." "Ah, an excellent thought--to health as well." "Yes, that too." Bella tapped her cup to his and took a sip. "The brothers at Montreuil make very good wine. I hope Edward has sense enough not to burn their vines." "I'll drink to that, but I would not wager on it, were I you." Robin kicked off his boots and stretched his legs out toward the fire. He wiggled pale toes and sighed, content. Bella also sipped her wine, oddly content. "Did you mean what you said earlier, Robin? About my not being the same terror I used to be?" "Odd that you should ask that." Robin shifted his shoulders which looked to Bella as if they gained more width by the day. "Everyone has remarked upon it." "Everyone? Who is everyone?" "Oh, why, Prince Edward, James Graham and Guilamu, too. Geoffrey doesn't know what to make of you." Bella wasn't certain, but she thought she saw a slight blush heighten the color on his cheeks. It might have been the wine, though. Robin cleared his throat, then added. "I will admit I am glad you treat Geoffrey more kindly...as he deserves." Bella extended her hand, gently stroking the soft curls crowning Geoffrey's head. "He tries very hard to please. A mother couldn't ask for more from any son." "He's a pest," Robin said fondly. "As are all younger brothers." Bella fingered a curl on the sleeping boy's head then let it fall back into place. "He's grown so much since July. I think he's going to be taller than Sir John." "I expect he will." Robin tossed back his wine, finishing it. He stood to his feet and looked solemnly down at Bella. The expression on his face reverted back to kind; Chandos sobriety. "I expect that by the time he is full grown, Geoffrey will be the very image of his real father. What will you do then, Maman?" Bella blinked. "What are you saying, Robin?" His brows flattened. He resisted the urge to shrug his shoulders and Bella saw the tension in him. So much for the shared comradarie. His sharp gaze was full of wariness and warning. "Say what you mean, Robin," Bella commanded. His eyes swept down her casual dishabille, noting the bare arms and bared knee protruding from her swaddling of wool. "I mean that the time has come for Geoffrey to be fostered. He looks more like

James Graham with every passing day. And he suspects the truth, Maman. It will destroy him when he wakes up some morning and realizes father is not truly his father. It would destroy me were I in Geoffrey's place." "That's utter Nonsense," Bella countered. James Graham Geoffrey's father? Impossible! She didn't dare exclaim those words outloud least Geoffrey wake and overhear them. "You have no right to say such a thing." "You forget, madame. I was there. I know the truth." "Do you?" Bella laughed. "How old were you, seven, eight? Humph! You think at six and ten you know everything?" Outraged, but containing it well, Bella reached for the wine bottle and filled her cup to the rim. "Geoffrey takes after me, is all. He's a St. Pierre." "Mother, please," Robin said with a belly full of disgust. "That might work on a stranger, but I was present when Geoffrey was born. He came on the coldest day of winter, not the hottest day of summer as you told Papa when he returned from Jerusalem." Bella's jaw worked up and down wordlessly. Robin was the second person to tell her those facts, but she wasn't going to admit that to him. She brought the filled cup to her mouth and drank deeply. The wine was already surging in her bloodstream, making her brain swim. Damn Lady Isabel! How could she possibly deal with this? She sipped the wine, seeking a solution that wouldn't come from potent alcohol. "I have to stand watch," Robin dragged on his boots, then turned to leave. "Robin." Bella delayed him. "What is it?" he asked. Bella moistened her lips. "I am going to forget we had this conversation, comprende vous? I want you to give me your word that you will never mention this subject again. Not to me, not to your father, not to Geoffrey, ever." "Why should I?" he asked. "Do you ask me to be a hypocrite?" "No. I beg you to consider the love your brother has for you. He idolizes you as much as he does both Sir John and James Graham. He takes nothing from you. You are the first born, your father's heir. Geoffrey will always love and serve and honor you. That much is evident in his character now. I beg you not to hold a mother's sins against an innocent child." Robin stared at her long and hard, his dark eyes hard and solemn. Then all at once he pulled himself together and bowed very formally to her, his arm crossed over his body, gripping the gold embossed handle of his sword. "As you wish, ma mere. I am astounded by your honesty and never thought to see the day that you would put my brother's best interests ahead of your own whims and pleasures. You have my word of honor that the subject will never rise again from my lips. Good night, Maman. Sleep well."

He turned and strode away from the camp, taking his post somewhere far away in the woods where he could see to the safety of those sleeping. Sleep for Bella became something she wasn't likely to obtain very soon at all. She felt as if a great burden had been laid on her shoulders. Could it possibly be true? Had Lady Isabel lain with James Graham and conceived this son that was so like her own Iain it made chills rise on Bella's back. How much of Iain's looks were St. Pierre or Wynford? How much of Geoffrey's were Saint Pierre or Graham or Chandos? The boy turned over in his sleep and his precious features faced her. She loved him all the more. His existence was a gift to her. Her existence here in this plane was a treasure God had bestowed upon her. She wanted so much to love each of Sir John's sons and think of them as if they were her own. But they weren't. They were Isabel's sons. She resented the burden of that woman's sins resting on her shoulders and could only thank the heavens that when her judgement day came, God would be judging her for herself, not for somebody else. It was not until she came to the dregs of the wine that Bella's dark turn of thoughts brightened at all. Then she remembered that Sir John knew the truth. He had all but conceded that she was not the same woman as the one he had first married. He'd even come round so far as to harp at her to forget her past and accept only their future together. Bella gulped down the last swallow of wine, muzzy headed, but smiling. She hugged her arms around herself and grinned. The whole world thought Isabel Saint Pierre Chandos was a heartless bitch! Spoiled and good for nothing, was she? Time had come, Bella decided, for her to stretch her own wings...her real wings. She could do anything, make all things possible. Each of these wonderful sons were here for her to love. Most important was Sir John. His love was the greatest jewel she'd ever been handed into her hands. In time they would all realize, Bella Chandos was a woman of courage, decision and fortitude. A woman who knew what was right and what was wrong. By the time she woke up, Sir John would be back. That contented her. Very satisfied with that thought, Bella bedded down beside Geoffrey and promptly went to sleep. The hooting owls didn't bother her. The buzzing mosquitos never lighted and Guilamu's raccous snores never penetrated her cocoon of newfound security. John de Chandos knew the truth. What he thought of Bella was all that truly mattered.

"Here's a new day. O pendulum move slowly!" HAROLD MUNRO -35-

They rode into Calais as a family, drawing absolutely no interest from any casual observer. It was noon, Bella judged by the sun, Wednesday, August 30th. A bank of heavy, scudding clouds edged the north sky. Rain felt eminent. Bella's heavy skirts fluttered about her boots, lifting and ruffling in the gusty wind. Sir John cast a stern look Bella's way outside Comte Eustace's palace and said only one thing, "Best you hope Henri is here." "I have faith in Clair O'Donnell," Bella answered. Guilamu rang the bell that alerted the steward that there were visitors at the gate. Moments later the wide doors were flung open and all five travelers trotted into the outer courtyard. Henri jumped up from his toys and shouted, running down the steps excitedly. On the balustrade, Comte Eustace got to his feet. He was down the steps before Bella dismounted, his arms wide open to greet his grandsons. He clapped Robin on his back and crowed over his height and the newly gained width of his shoulders. He rumpled Geoffrey's hair and kissed him. He pumped Chandos' hand solemnly and turned to Bella last, his face stern and full of displeasure. She rather stiffly accepted his embrace and kept her face downturned for the scold that followed. "I have been beside myself, Isabella, worrying for you! And here you crop up in your husband's company. Do you have any idea how I have worried and been in fear of your safety? How could you take off like that...without any word to me of what you planned to do? Daughter, I could beat you." "I'm sorry, Papa," Bella said lamely. What else could she say? "I certainly didn't mean for you to worry. If it helps at all, I assure you I did not plan to be gone so long originally." "Humph!" Comte Saint Pierre grunted. "If you think that satisfies me, you are wrong. The stable boy at Jean de Vienne's told me you'd paid him for the horse and that you were going to go fetch Geoffrey. And I had Clair and Mangus here to tell me the truth as well. I've been sick, just sick over this." Chandos said, "In that we are in full agreement, mon Pere." "Chandos, I beg you, keep a better eye on my daughter. You are not stern enough with her by half. She hasn't the sense God gave sparrows when it comes to exercising good judgment." Chandos and his three stairstep sons remained curiously mute while Lady Isabel's father wound into a terrible scold. It wasn't easy to remain silent in her own defense, but Bella managed it. In the end, the elder threw up his hands and urged them indoors out of the blustery weather. Henri tugged on Bella's hand. "I knew you'd come back for me, Maman. But Grandpere was very afraid something terrible had happened to you." Bella stopped in the entry foyer to bend down and hug Henri, kissing both his rosy cheeks. "Never doubt me, my son," she whispered to him. His eyes brightened at once. As she straightened, Bella lifted Henri in her arms, cherishing the feel of his little body once more. Sir John cast her another of those unfathomable looks, this one saying very clearly that she was lucky the boy was with his grandfather, not a captive of a pirate. Bella deliberately ignored him and followed Saint

Pierre into the house. She let the menfolk do the talking, which all in all was very stiff. Sir John made no bones about the ease with which his king had engineered a swift and stunning defeat of the largest army any king of France had ever raised. Saint Pierre edged in and out of the questions that remained unasked...what were King Edward's intentions now? Would the English army go home and leave Flanders in peace? Over luncheon the dialogue continued. The pace increased when Jeanne Vienne arrived with other aldermen of the city. There was grave concern for Calais' safety, understandable in light of the pirates they harbored in their city. Chandos committed to nothing. Bella excused herself, telling Saint Pierre she had to pack her and Henri's things. "You are not leaving?" he said stricken-faced. Bella wisely deferred the question to Chandos. "Yes, mon Pere, I assure you, she is," Sir John answered unequivocally. Comte Eustace looked crestfallen, then with typical Gallic elan, shrugged his shoulders and accepted his son-in-law's decision. Henri tagged along after Bella. In the privacy of her room, she dropped to her knees and hugged him tightly, then asked if he would run next door and tell Clair O'Donnell she was home. Bella wanted to speak with her friend before Chandos hustled her out of town. It wasn't long before Clair appeared and her first words were as scolding as Saint Pierre's had been. "And here ye be, then? Safe and whole, sound as the day you left. Do ya have any idea, Bella Chandos, what a fright you gave us all? Why, Comte Eustace has been beside himself. You should be ashamed of yourself." "Not you too, Clair," Bella said. "Sure and why not me, too, hiney? Yer daft, woman, daft. Let me look at you." Clair hugged her then held Bella at arms length. "You look wonderful. Not at all what I expected for being captured by the English." Bella laughed. "Surely you mean, captured by my husband, don't you? Clair, I'm fine. Have you time to talk? I haven't much time left." "Why?" Clair paused to look around the bedchamber and saw the open trunks and stacks of clothing Bella had been sorting. "Ach, yer goin' home then. Is that yer man down below, scowling at Comte Eustace? The one with the black hair and the eyes as flinty as the stones of Finn's walkway?" "Probably," Bella grinned, her pride showing. "Ooh, my, then! Don't he and the Comte come close t' blows. Why, I've never seen the like. They both must love you fiercely t' be so possessive. Henri missed ye terribly." "Clair." Bella raised her hand to stop her friend's aimless chattering. "Listen to me. You know that talk

we had before I left...about contingencies?" "Aye." Clair grew solemn. "Well, it's time for Mangus to act. You and the girls must leave Calais. No later than Saturday. By Sunday the English will be here. I don't want to frighten you, but... do you understand what I'm saying, Clair?" All the color drained from Clair's face except for the bright red spots on the crest of her cheeks. "Ya don't mean it?" "Yes, I do. Please, don't panic, Clair. There's plenty of time for you and Mangus to leave safely. I just want you to know what's coming. I care about you and the girls. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you." "Bella, I canna leave. Mangus is gone t' Antwerp, trading. He won't be back for a week." Bella groaned. "That's not good. Not good at all. Can you take another ship?" "I don't see how and how would I explain that t' my husband? I can't just run out on him. Why, I'd be terrified t' cross the Channel with anyone at the helm but Mangus." "You could come home with me, now. Chandos is putting me on a ship this evening. I could talk the captain into taking you. You and the girls are welcome at Chandos Enceinte. You could leave word for Mangus. He'll come for you." "Aye, he'd come for me, but would he live t' take us away. The English have a bounty on his head, you know." "I could ask the queen to give him a pardon. She's a friend. Oh, Clair, it would be worth it to try." Clair shook her head. She felt and understood Bella's urgency, but at the risk of losing her husband, she couldn't take the woman's offer. "No, I canna do it. We're safe here. We have t' be. The mayor says the English willna harm us. Calais is too strong." Bella saw that it would do no good to say more. She hugged Clair again and patted her. "Well, just so you'll know what's coming. Store up your kitchen, Clair and be prepared for a long siege. And if you need my help, you and Mangus know where to find me. I'll speak to Chandos. Send word to him if you need help. I swear he'll do everything he can to help you." Uncertain and fearing the future, Clair stopped and laid her hands on her enlarged belly, feeling the child growing there move restlessly. She grimaced then looked up at Bella. "If I could, I'd send Moira with you." "I'll take her if you want me to," Bella said. "And I'll love her just as well as you did Henri." "Sure and I know you would, sweetie. You would. But I could never part with a one of me bairns, not across the sea. We'll make do. Will your father be going?" "No," Bella shook her head. There was no sense asking Eustace to leave. He wouldn't. His heart was here in this city, for better or for worse. Bella returned to the work at hand, packing all the new and fancy

clothes. Clair stayed a while longer, asking about Bella's adventure, laughing at the way Bella turned it all into a joke at her expense. They parted friends, knowing that no matter what the future brought, they could count on one another's aid. That, Bella reflected, was what friendship was all about. After Clair had gone, Bella felt the awesome futility of failure. She might as well be Chicken Little, running about crying that the sky was falling for all that anyone paid any attention to her. Her crust of sheer bravado that had fueled her through the past four days crumbled. What good did it do to know the future if she couldn't do anything at all about changing it? Not even for one family? Surely, in the scheme of things, the fate of one Irish woman and her daughters couldn't possibly affect the outcome of history. Disheartened, she closed the last trunk and sat on it silently weeping, and uselessly wiping the sheen of tears from her eyes. That was the way Chandos found her. He paused on the threshold of the French doors off the balcony, hesitant to step inside the sun filled chamber. Bella sat very still, only her bent head and the uneven quality of her breathing truly indicating that she was caught in a bout of tears. Her hair had tumbled out of its coils and the simple elegance of her gown intensified her beauty. He felt a fool and resented her tears because they so easily cut through his armor and pierced his heart. "Are you packed then, Bella?" he said gruffly. Her head jerked his direction and those wonderful eyes of hers showed genuine surprise. Just as quickly she dashed a lace edged handkerchief to her nose, jumped to her feet and turned away from him. "Oh, aye. 'Tis all packed." She hurried to the bed and picked up a soft wicker basket, snatching up Henri's scattered toys and stuffing them inside. Sir John stepped onto the polished tiles, his heels clicking with each pace and he stood for a moment looking at the four oversized trunks. They would be outrageously heavy, stuffed to the very tops with more clothes than she could ever possibly wear. Likewise, Henri, Geoffrey and Robin would be spoiled with gifts, clothes and useless jewels. In all his married years, Chandos had never been able to put a stop to Eustace Saint Pierre's over-indulgent spoiling of his only daughter. The man equated his gold with love. Chandos was disappointed his Bella wasn't more resistant to Eustace's smothering. Still avoiding facing him, Bella yanked on the bell cord to summon footmen to take the trunks, then she snatched up Henri's cape and his cap. Turning to face him, she said, "I'm done." Her jaw was set, her eyes clear and her nose quite pink. John offered her his arm. "Very well, we will go down and tell the comte our farewells together." "I want to tell him the truth before I go, John. And I want you to make him go to Chandos Enceinte with me."

John took a deep breath. "What purpose would that serve, Bella? You would deliberately break his heart?" "No." Bella shook her head. "Look, Chandos, how do you think my family felt the day I disappeared? They've been grieving for me all this time we've known each other. Comte Saint Pierre has the right to know the truth." "Bella, he won't understand the truth. Even I do not understand it." Desperate, Bella argued. "You have to do something. I can't bear to leave her father here. You can make him go with us." "And how would I do that? Do I draw my sword and hack his retainers to pieces in his very house? Shall I bind and gag an old man and cart him against his will to a ship? Don't be absurd, Bella." "He's old. He'll die when this city goes under siege." "You don't know that," Sir John quickly countered. "I do. I know that all these people here are going to starve....August 4th, Chandos. Almost a year from now... that's how long its going to take." "They each make their own choice. Just because you know the future does not give you the right to make choices for others. God allows us free will. So must you, Bella. Here, there is honor in surrendering to a greater force." "Would you do it? Surrender to a greater force?" "Thus far Bella, I have not had to. Come, you are upsetting yourself needlessly as well as meddling where you have not the right to interfere. Say nothing more. I will extend to Isabella's father the invitation to my home. More than that you cannot ask of me nor of him. The Comte also has his pride. Now take my arm and conduct yourself with the dignity required of you." "That says it all, doesn't it? I don't belong here, I never did...and I never will so long as...." "Bella! I am in no mood for this discussion. It is not the time nor the place to resolve this." "Why? You don't have to feel obligated to look out after me. I would as soon remain here, where I could be of greater use and feel needed, as to be shuffled back to England where I must twiddle my thumbs and wait for you and your king to tire of playing war." "Is that what you think?" he sparked in anger. Reaching out for her, he took hold of her upper arms, drawing her to him, shaking her rather gently. "So I only look after you from obligation, do I?" "It's true, isn't it?" "Nay, Bella. I look after you for love. You have become my heart and soul. I am no good with words, not like you are. You twist me inside. It is agony to see you cry. Would that I rather face a thousand armed men in battle than deal with a woman's tears."

His voice broke and he crushed her to him. His mouth sealed on hers, speaking more eloquently the real truth between them. He kissed the dampness from her eyes then held her gently in his arms. "Bella, you are my wife. Stubborn, headstrong and willful are the least of your faults and graces, aye, but you are my wife none the less. You aren't some foundling cast onto this earth to wander about aimlessly spouting doom and gloom. God gave you to me for a purpose. And I shall keep you the way I see fit. Sometimes you will not like that, but so it is the way it must be. Now. Do you cease this pouting because you haven't had your way, or do I tip you over my knee and settle this argument the only way God empowers a man age to deal with his woman's tears?" "With brute force?" Bella exclaimed. "How can you say that after telling me so sweetly that you loved me? Oh!" "Because I know of no other means allowed to me to use as defense against your tears. God gave women tears. All he gave us poor men are our fists. One is no contest against the other. Your tears melt the most hardened heart. Cease, Bella. Give in to me on this. I will find some way to make it up to you. I promise you no matter what fate befalls this city, the Comte St. Pierre will not be harmed. Somehow I will find a way to see us all through these perilous times." "You will?" Bella asked, but she didn't really have to. She could see the truth shining from his determined eyes. "Oh, Chandos, I do love you so. You are the most noble, most wonderful man I have ever met in two lifetimes." "You love me?" he asked incredulously. "Is that true, Bella?" "Oh, aye," she whispered, hugging him for dear life itself. "I will love you always and forever. God gave you to me, John de Chandos. You touched me and woke me up to see and feel all the colors in the rainbow. You are my life, now and forever more."

Epilogue

"Maman! Maman! Vite, vite!" Henri shouted from the edge of the allure. "The Christopher! It has come!" Bella rose from her comfortable chaise in the garden, startled by Henri's urgent call. Clarise was quick to take tiny Gracie from her mother's agitated arms. "Go on then, milady. You've been waiting long for this ship to come in." "Thank you, Clarise," Bella flashed a smile as she snatched up her hems and started running with everyone else in the castle for the watergate. By the time Bella reached the castle's dock, Sir Neville had the gates open wide. Henri gave a hoop for joy and bounded up the gangplank and into his father's arms. "Papa!" Henri spilled the news.

"We've got a baby sister, finally!" Bella hurried after him, grinning. She was swept up in the same encompassing arms and kissed soundly. "Qu'est-ce que c'est, mon couer?" demanded Eustace Saint Pierre. Bella turned in Chandos' arms and saw the comte waiting impatiently with Robin, Geoffrey and James Graham to also be greeted properly. "Oh, Papa," Bella said. "You look so thin." "Nonsense!" he declared, proudly patting the lost bulk of his waistline. "I've never felt better in my life. Come here and kiss your father, you ungrateful child, and tell me about this new bebe of yours? Who does she look like? Is she a Saint Pierre or another blasted Chandos?" Bella looked at Henri and nodded that he could tell what his little sister looked like. "She's got black hair, Grandpere, and can scream louder than all us men combined!" "Ach," the old man said, kissing both of Bella's blooming cheeks. "That's the way of it, Chandos. You'll have no peace from this day forward." Chandos smiled. Bella cast him a wink and went on to greet Geoffrey and Robin. In her new contentment she even found she could welcome Sir James with hugs and kisses. He held her hand a moment longer than necessary, those icy blue eyes of his searching her happy face. "You have changed, lady," he admitted. "You are not the same woman, I think." Bella smiled puckishly. "What makes you say that?" He brought his hand up, touching her jaw, turning her face slightly more toward the sun. "I can't explain it, lady. Someday, when we're both old and gray, maybe we will talk about it. Until then, I remain your servant, always." He bowed formally and touched his lips to the back of her hand once more. "Thank you, Sir James." Bella smiled and turned to greet the king and the Black Prince. Both were all in one piece and home again. The war was as over as it could be for now. Calais belonged to Edward the Third. But for Bella what mattered most was the tiny daughter she proudly placed in her husband's strong and capable hands. "Did you suffer?" he asked Bella, almost oblivious to the tiny girl squirming and waving her arms to gain his undivided attention. "Honestly, no." Bella laughed. "All children should be born as easily as this little darling was." Chandos looked down at the baby girl who had twisted enough to loosen her cap. Tufts of Chandos black hair sprouted from her little head, but her eyes were that indiscriminate color that in good time

would be the same ginger as her mother's. Bella leaned over his arm, admiring her daughter. "She's not exactly perfect, my lord husband." "Oh?" Chandos scowled, examining the infant more closely. He counted arms, legs and fingers in the blink of his eye. Bella's lips twitched. She had everyone's rapt attention as she reached across Sir John's strong arm and lifted off the baby's embroidered cap. "Ha!" Geoffrey shouted. "Look, she's got ears just like me." Bella laughed and for once she slid her thick hair behind one ear and winked at Geoffrey. "And...just like me!" Robin colored to the roots of his hair, and muttered, "I'll be damned." "Whisht!" James Graham growled. "There's ladies present." He offered the tiny miss in her father's arms a battle scarred finger to grasp, asking, "Have ye christened the wee lassie?" "Well, there really hasn't been time," Bella answered. "Besides, I had to wait for her father and all of her godfathers to come home. You certainly took your time. Father Kerwin's about beside himself, offering prayers for safe voyages and heathen, unbaptized babies. First stop, Chandos Chapel. Young Grace needs a real name." "Grace suits her fine." Chandos laughed, deeply pleased and amazed. He bent his head to kiss Bella. Robin leaned over his father's shoulder and Geoffrey poked his head in from the other side. "I dunno," Geoffrey said, shaking his head. "With ears like that, she looks more like a weasel to me." Robin hooted in delight. "Ha! Weazie it is, then." To Bella's chagrin, Weazie stuck for years and years.

Author's Notes:

According to history, Calais fell in siege on August 4, 1347. King Edward's terms of surrender were severe. He called for heads of six prominent burghers and the keys of the city. With the death of six, he would allow those who remained within Calais walls to live. Upon hearing the terms mayor Jeanne de Vienne wept. Then the richest man in town, Eustace Saint Pierre stood up and said. "Gentlemen, it would be great pity to suffer so many people to die of starvation, if means there be to prevent it. If that were possible, such means would please our Savior, Jesus Christ. I believe that if I die to save my townsmen, I shall find grace with God. I will be the first of the six."

Then a second man, John Daire, stood and said, "I will be second." His cousin James Wisant and his brother, Peter came next. In all six volunteered to die so that the rest of Calais could live. "Cut off their heads," King Edward commanded. All those present entreated the king to have mercy. Queen Phillipa is said to have fallen to her knees, begging the king to spare their lives. King Edward responded to his queen, "Lady, I wish you had been anywhere but here. I can not refuse you. I give them to you; do with them as you please." The queen conducted them to her apartments, clothed them, fed them and sent them on their way in safety.

It was Eustace Saint Pierre's sacrifice that inspired me to write The Rose of Lorraine. I hope I have done him justice as well as each beloved historical character whose lives I drew upon to craft this story. John de Chandos lived and was one of the most chivalrous, noble knights of his times. King Edward said that of all the men he knew, only John de Chandos could have prevented the war with France. He was truly le plus illustre chevallier du monde--the most noble man in the world. Visitors to the Jardin Richelieu in Calais can see the six Burghers commemorated by Rodin in sculpture. Curiously, Rodin's models for these statues can be seen in the McNay Institute's permanent collection in San Antonio, Texas. I cannot say how many times I have studied those sculptures at the McNay in rapt fascination, visualizing the people and events that inspired such magnificent art. Like Bella, I was drawn to their mystery and fell in love with this cruel and uniquely chivalrous time.