Peony Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Medallion Press, Inc.

  Printed in USA

  Bio:

  Award-winning author Traci Hall writes genre fiction for both adults and teens. Believing in happy ever after, she pens stories guaranteed to touch the heart while transporting the reader to another time and place.

  www.tracihall.com

  [email protected]

  Published 2013 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchase this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2013 by Traci E. Hall

  Cover design by Arturo Delgado

  Edited by Emily Steele

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-60542-657-0

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Fred Renfrow for Ragenard, a heroic name if ever there was one. Emily Steele, editor extraordinaire, and the Medallion family for their continued enthusiasm and support. My critique group, the Wednesday Writers, and my plot partners. Cherry Adair, Sheryl McGavin, Cherry Adair, and Sheryl McGavin: love you, friends, and thank you for reading. Over and over and over. Special thanks to Heather Graham, Kathleen Pickering, and Mary Stella in the Florida Keys. To readers, everywhere, for enjoying the story.

  Prologue

  I paced the warped floor of our windowless room, waiting for Ragenard’s return. Uneasiness shadowed my heart, and I blamed the jousts he loved almost more than he loved me. Married a year, our passion burned while my conscience roared like a caged beast.

  “Please,” I’d say in my sweetest voice, “let us go home and fall upon our family’s mercy. Surely they will understand young love.”

  “One more joust, Catherine,” he always answered. “For a purse large enough to command forgiveness.”

  Twelve paces by twelve paces, our rented room housed a lumpy mattress I’d freshened with lavender, a dining table, and two benches. The walls smudged with candle smoke, the low ceiling where Ragenard hid his lance and shield. Would this be the day of the big win? Or would he come home wearing the crooked, mischievous smile that captured my heart, a meat pie or trinket hidden behind his back? I touched my fingers to my lips, remembering the taste of his kiss hours before.

  Tingles tripped across the breadth of my shoulders, the short hairs alert at my nape. My breath hitched, as if my body prepared to bolt. These feelings came without instruction, sometimes a warning, other times the result of my sensitive emotions.

  I shook my hands, drying my damp palms. My mouth dried too, as if I’d swallowed cloth. Staring at the poorly fashioned wooden door that barely kept out the wind, I pondered running to the field. Ragenard didn’t like me to watch him joust. He said I made him nervous.

  “What of my nerves,” I’d asked, “waiting alone at home?”

  He’d laughed as if a woman’s woes were the least of his worries.

  Masculine, with his broad, strong build, Ragenard made me feel feminine, protected. Cherished.

  Exhaling, I paced the room one last time before sitting on the bench. It was time to move on. We rarely stayed anyplace more than seven or eight days. Perhaps that explained my apprehension.

  Fresh-cut flowers in a water jug, an apple, a small knife. If I had to run, it would take but a moment to pull my two gowns from the hook on the wall and toss them in the same bag I’d left home with. I had the shoes on my feet, my scrying dish for when I told the occasional fortune, a comb, a flagon of empty perfume. Two thin gold bangles and—I brought my hand to the diamond pendant at my throat—my wedding gift.

  No matter how poor things got, Ragenard refused to give it up. The truest token of his love, he told me.

  Hearing the clomp of heavy booted feet in the hall, I jumped. Stared at the door. My breath caught; my heart stopped beating. My gaze went to the small, sharp knife on the table. A knock sounded, but no cheerful voices called, “Bonsoir.”

  I pounded my fist to my chest, forcing my heart to beat, my feet to move. Do not open the door. Do not open the door.

  The knob twisted; my belly clenched. With courage pulled from the depths of fear, I yanked the door inward. Ragenard’s drinking and jousting friends faced me with dour expressions. They held Ragenard’s shield between them, my husband’s body dripping blood like a stuck pig on the wooden floor.

  “Come in,” I said, trying to understand the tableau before me. The broken lance in Ragenard’s belly. His pasty, white face. Shining golden hair dulled now by mud.

  They pushed the flowers to the floor, the jug breaking with a crash, the knife clattering, the blade snapping beneath their boots as they cleared the space.

  “It was an accident,” one said as he set the head end of the shield on the table. “He was losing and fought recklessly.”

  “The constable is on his way. We cannot stay,” said the other, positioning Ragenard’s feet, hardly able to meet my eyes. “I wish we had a purse, but there was nothing, Lady Catherine. You should go.”

  Jousting, while entertaining for soldiers between wars, was forbidden. I nodded, knowing they had to leave before ending up in the stocks or, worse, what passed for a cell to await a traveling judge. My nod was all they needed. I had no choice but to stay.

  I watched them go, then went to Ragenard’s side. I prayed with all my might, prayed for a solution. Ragenard gasped, his brown eyes opening, bloodshot with pain. I brushed his hair back from his forehead, pressing a kiss to his cool lips. He was dying. I knew it. He knew it. I bit back tears and took his hand, bringing it to my breast, as if I could give my thundering heart to him.

  “We should have gone home, mon chéri.” His lips twisted in a wry smile.

  I blinked and swallowed around the lump in my throat. “Be serious, this once.”

  “I must be forgiven my sins, Catherine.” A current of pain spasmed across his handsome features. “Buried. Promise me.” He paused to suck in a breath, his nostrils flaring as he pulled his hand from mine and gripped the splintered wood. “We must make things right.”

  How? I wanted to ask yet silently cried as my irresponsible but beloved husband lay dying before me. He’d lived larger than life, and who was I to take away from his death? �
�I will find a way. I promise.”

  “The necklace,” he whispered, his eyes closing. “It is—”

  His entire body shuddered, and I felt his spirit move through me, like a wind touching my soul.

  “Ragenard, please don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.”

  Tears clouding my eyes, I understood my situation well enough. Bleak to dire. What to do? I had no coin to bury him, and he would not want a pauper’s grave. I could sell the necklace, but his last words had been a reminder that I’d promised to cherish the piece. Fear of the unknown shook my limbs, the future an uncut cloth.

  I bathed him, trading my best gown for dressings and an inexpensive coffin. It came to me as I prayed over Ragenard’s body that he’d wanted to go home in the end. Would George see me? Even though I’d broken our betrothal to run away and marry his younger brother? I felt Ragenard’s spirit ruffle my hair, and I accepted this familiar gesture as a sign of approval.

  It took both thin bangles to rent a cart, and I had nothing left for a driver. Two days traveling, blisters on my palms, and I arrived at Clemont Manor, my husband’s family home.

  Not once did my deceased husband open his eyes or speak to me.

  For Ragenard, I’d run away from home, broken an engagement, and lived as if tomorrow would never come.

  Tomorrow had arrived.

  “Catherine! Catherine, darling, wake up.”

  Catherine sat straight, her mouth dry as her eyes flitted around the dark chamber, centering herself. Ragenard, gone over a year. She traveled with Queen Eleanor as one of her lady guards. A bed shared between four women as they went toward Jerusalem and salvation.

  “Mamie?”

  “Oui. Stop dreaming of Ragenard,” her friend and fellow guard ordered in soft tones, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “He always makes you sad.”

  Lying down, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress, Catherine closed her eyes but fought the lure of sleep. There was no peace in it.

  Chapter One

  Nicaea, November 1147

  Payen de Montfer dismounted, his horse’s breath steaming plumes into the crisp November air. “Wait here, Jacques,” he told his squire, tossing him the reins. “This should not take long.” For once he bore glad tidings rather than messages of delay.

  Jacques bobbed his head, his dark eyes flashing with suppressed mirth. “The queen’s joy will be so great she might ask you to stay and share a meal.”

  Payen ignored his squire’s teasing. “And I will decline so we can return before dark, as always.” He would rather eat dried meat from the saddle than stay with the queen and her women.

  It took an entire morning to reach Nicaea from King Louis’s encampment on the Bosporus, only to deliver a message, wait for a response from Queen Eleanor, and go back. In the ten days since the French army left Constantinople, he’d made the journey five times. Perhaps only once more, if things went according to plan. King Louis, done with Emperor Manuel’s machinations, readied to move at last.

  He opened the door to the inn. Warm air brushed his face like a yeasty wind, and he deciphered bread, mead, and at least a hundred bodies in varying states of cleanliness packed into the dining hall. Shutting the door, he looked left, immediately spying the beautiful queen sitting upon a dais as she shared a midday meal with her elite women’s guard.

  Scandal whispered up and down the caravan about the ladies, though King Louis insisted they entertained the queen and were not a hindrance. Payen preferred to judge for himself.

  The one with the raucous laugh and flaming hair was Mamie of Rou. Next to her, the pale, ethereal blonde, Sarah. Also on the bench perched a waifish woman with light brown hair and indiscriminate features: Fay. Across the table, an empty space in homage for the exiled Isabella de Lacey. Last, Catherine le Rochefort.

  His belly coiled as if punched. The woman had milky skin, pale green eyes, and thick hair the color of toasted chestnuts. She was tall, slender, with curved hips and breasts. Her manners seemed impeccable, her mouth quick to smile, her laugh an invitation for a man to come closer.

  A trap. Such beauty surely masked a poisoned heart. Her grace was a lure to tempt a man into losing his common sense. That she guarded the queen, often in men’s attire, betrayed a willfulness hidden beneath her smile.

  Prior to Nicaea, he’d noticed her from the safety of the king’s retinue. He’d easily avoided close encounters while riding thousands strong from France to Asia Minor. Lady Catherine stayed in the queen’s vanguard; he remained with King Louis, guarding the back of the caravan.

  Mindful of his simmering attraction to her, he’d kept his distance. His eyes occasionally strayed to her while she walked with her fellow guards, rode next to the queen, or sat embroidering by the campfire. Well, the king valued his observations, even the ones not included in his reports.

  “Lord de Montfer!”

  He turned toward the male voice calling his name. “Dominus.”

  The loyal Knight Templar stood squarely before him, his shoulders the width of a dining table. “Would you care for something to drink before you see the queen?” The knight’s inscrutable expression gave nothing away as he folded his hands behind his back.

  “Non.” Payen, the king’s trusted messenger, felt the demanding weight of Queen Eleanor’s gaze from across the room.

  Regarding her, Payen pitied King Louis, as a friend, as a king. The royal advisors, usually divided in their opinions, all agreed fullheartedly on one thing: keeping the king away from his wife. Eleanor’s beauty ensnared the man wearing the crown. Her advice often directly opposed that of his counsel.

  What must Dominus’s ten days have been like with an irritated, albeit stunning, queen and her court? King Louis prayed when angry, while it was well known that Queen Eleanor shouted. With a jolt of brotherly empathy, Payen offered, “This message brings joyful tidings.”

  Dominus released a slight sigh of relief. “Later, then.”

  Payen walked toward the dais, feeling curious gazes following him. Would this be the day orders came to continue their pilgrimage? The common goal of the caravan was to save Edessa from the Turkish heathens who’d captured the holy city.

  The queen’s unfaltering stare drew the attention of her ladies, until they turned toward him too. He bowed. “King Louis sends his warmest regards.”

  “I hope you bear good news, de Montfer.” The queen’s brittle smile brought no warmth to the greeting. She wore a crimson velvet gown with gold trimmings. Her hair was hidden beneath a veil of lighter crimson, which was held in place by a crown of gold and rubies. She held out her pale, royal hand. “I am through with the other kind.”

  He offered the missive from the leather pouch at his waist, keeping any opinion of the message to himself as the queen broke the wax seal. Tension weighted the air in the hall as the court watched for the queen’s reaction, yet beneath it all Payen scented Lady Catherine’s spiced perfume. So near. Completely forbidden.

  The queen’s lips lifted in a real smile as she stood, waving the parchment. “We leave in two days,” she pronounced. “Everyone, ready for the journey.” She clapped, and her court cheered. “Our first stop will be Pergamum.”

  She looked down at him and gestured toward the table where she’d been sitting with her ladies. “Join us, de Montfer, while I answer my husband.”

  She snapped her fingers, and a servant went to fetch a quill.

  Dread threatened his composure, but since he couldn’t tell the queen no, he nodded briskly and stepped up to the dais. The only seat available was that of the dishonored Lady Isabella. “May I?” he asked the ladies.

  “Certainly,” Fay said.

  Sarah thinned her lips and shot daggers from her icy blue eyes. Flaunting convention by riding with the queen as a guard, for mercy’s sake. Forsaking marriage. Worse, rumors flew of her pregnancy. Her slender figure kept her secret, though he wondered at the hollows in her cheeks.

  Mamie leaned an elbow on the table and greeted him with a gap-toothe
d grin. “Welcome.” Her confidence exuded sensuality and reminded him of the whispered tributes of men awed by her favors. A goddess, some said, who thoroughly enjoyed male companionship.

  Not interested in her charms, Payen turned to Catherine. He commanded himself to remain unaffected by her sea-foam green eyes, her thick eyelashes, her dark brown hair. His head spun like a drunkard’s.

  After murmuring a welcome, she lowered her gaze and studied her eating dagger. Was she sending him a subtle signal to keep his distance? He knew why he avoided her. What reason did she have to keep him at arm’s length?

  He gathered his rattled confidence and swiveled toward Queen Eleanor. “I have another message for you. A private one.”

  Eleanor’s smooth forehead furrowed. “Private? My guards are trusted confidantes. Speak, if you will.”

  Stubborn, just as the king’s council all said.

  Payen whispered, forcing the women to lean in. He focused on the queen, doing his best to ignore Catherine’s perfume. “As you are aware, the king’s half sister, Lady Abigail, is in your caravan.”

  “Oui.” Queen Eleanor shrugged.

  “Part of King Louis’s delay in leaving is because of Emperor Manuel’s promises to aid our journey. Meanwhile, he’s charging us triple for inferior goods.”

  “We’ve seen such in the market here too.” Eleanor exhaled. “I warned my husband not to trust the Byzantine ruler. He is a sly fox with a viper’s tongue.”

  Payen tapped the table between them. “You are correct, of course. In this instance, Emperor Manuel wants Lady Abigail to marry his nephew, ensuring King Louis’s cooperation as we continue through Asia Minor.”

  “Cooperation?”

  “Oui. That France won’t claim Byzantine lands.”

  “Ah.” Her eyes glittered. “I understand, but it is unnecessary. Louis is as honorable as a saint. Besides, Abigail is promised to another.”

  “Robert, Count of Perche,” Fay offered.