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  Queen Eleanor delivered a stern look to the eunuch, then returned her attention to Catherine. “What is it, mon fleur?”

  She took a deep breath. “Ever since we arrived in Nicaea, I have been pulled toward a child I saw in the market. A beggar. But not a good one, my queen. He made my heart ache with worry he would be caught and maimed or killed—or die of starvation.” She blinked back the burning tears. “Today, de Montfer and I saved the boy from the bread merchant and followed him home. Not a proper home but sticks of wood ready to fall down on the boys.”

  “More than one now?” The queen’s brow lifted.

  “Three younger boys, all cared for by my boy. I beseech you to help them, as you helped me. Your kindness saved my life. I pledge my wages to whatever church will take them, if you will assist me in making it so.”

  “A beggar, Catherine? With three others?” She shook her head and glanced at Louis.

  “Will you meet them and see for yourself how special they are? How special Gaston is? He is an orphan from the border of Aquitaine. His father was a traveling priest who made no provision for Gaston upon his death.”

  Catherine reached to touch the hem of Eleanor’s gown. “His heart calls to mine. I would foster him myself.” The words left her lips without any previous thought.

  “Catherine,” Eleanor said sternly. In warning?

  King Louis bowed his head as if in prayer, then he looked at Catherine. “Where are these children?”

  Payen stepped forward. “We brought them here.”

  “Call them forth,” King Louis said.

  Queen Eleanor nodded.

  Catherine left the dais. Curious whispers dogged her heels as she beckoned to Gaston at the table.

  His eyes were wide, but his small face was otherwise stoic as he gathered the younger boys. Catherine urged the children forward, her gaze on Eleanor as they walked, stopping before the dais. The queen studied Gaston’s features.

  Catherine felt a spurt of pride, though Gaston was not hers. What did she know of raising a child? A boy, for that matter? Yet she could teach him archery or marbles, reading or writing. She kept a neutral expression on her face.

  “Lady Catherine le Rochefort, you bring before me four children. Three designated for the Greek church, as their heritage demands. The last one whom you care for as a son.” Eleanor’s voice rang with authority.

  Gaston glanced back at Catherine.

  Would he renounce her? Run in fear? Her heart hammered. She nodded at the boy and faced Eleanor. “Yes, my queen.”

  “Because you are dear to me, I grant your request.” Eleanor looked at Gaston. “If I find so much as an apple pilfered, you will return to Nicaea.”

  “I—,” Gaston said, stopping when Payen coughed into his fist.

  Catherine briefly closed her eyes, overwhelmed at what she’d committed to in caring for another. Who would look after Gaston if her crimes came to light?

  Warmth blossomed as if a heated stone were at her feet, and she knew she’d chosen correctly. One look at the boy’s pink-tipped ears, and she knew she would look out for him until he no longer needed her.

  Queen Eleanor curled a finger. “Come closer to the dais, Gaston.”

  Gaston did.

  “Tell me: Who was your father?” She bent down and lifted Gaston’s chin.

  “Roberto of Sordet.”

  She studied his slight frame. Then a smile flirted around the corners of her mouth. “Well, well. I can see it around your eyes.”

  “You met my father?”

  “Non.” Eleanor sighed, tapping the armrest of her chair. “Who was your mother? Was she noble born?”

  Gaston shook his head. “A maid from the village.”

  “It happens.” The queen shrugged. “I wager she was pretty. A vow of celibacy is difficult to keep around a beautiful girl. She is deceased?”

  “Yes. My father thought to change his rotten luck with an offering to God in Jerusalem.”

  “His luck changed,” the queen observed dryly, “for the worse. But yours, for the better. Lady Catherine will do well by you. At least until we return to France.”

  Catherine felt waves of love and fear at the same time. A gift given and lost. “My queen?”

  “He will need to be fostered in a knight’s home, like any other boy, Catherine. For the rest of our journey, I trust you will protect this young man as if he were made of gold.” Eleanor whispered to Louis, who winced at whatever she shared.

  “But the younger boys?” Gaston said. “I promised I would see to their care.”

  “And you are,” Eleanor declared. “Through me. They will be educated and fed without having to steal for their bread.”

  Gaston bowed his head. “Merci.”

  “You are correct, Eleanor,” King Louis interjected, clearly upset by the queen’s revelation. “This boy needs a man’s guiding hand. I suggest de Montfer take charge of Gaston until we return home.”

  Payen stepped forward. “I would be honored. My squire, Jacques, will assist in teaching him a trade.”

  “He needs me,” Catherine said, “to care for him. To love him!”

  “A boy doesn’t need to be—”

  “Enough!” Queen Eleanor waved a hand. “I promised the boy’s care to Lady Catherine le Rochefort. My husband feels Lord Payen de Montfer should have guardianship. You will share custody of the boy.”

  No. Catherine stifled the building scream, hiding her shaking hands in the folds of her gown.

  How would she keep her secrets if they were forced together for the rest of the pilgrimage?

  “Oui. A compromise,” King Louis said.

  Queen Eleanor’s pinky twitched. “A true couple complements one another,” she said smoothly.

  Catherine’s knees buckled. Couple? They did not enjoy one another’s company!

  Eleanor stood. Without a glance at King Louis, she announced to the nobles waiting in the hall, “Greetings, my fellow crusaders. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we leave for Pergamum!”

  The cheers were deafening as Payen pulled her back with the children. “Two out of three miracles is not that bad, non?”

  Chapter Seven

  Catherine sat close to the low-burning fire, stitching the sleeve of Gaston’s new tunic. Though her fellow guards slept, she would rather stay downstairs than be haunted by her dreams. Her busy hands seemed separate from the blizzard of her dangerous thoughts, where Payen de Montfer had captured her admiration.

  While the others had danced and discussed the morning journey, she, Payen, and Gaston had taken the young boys to the Greek church. The kindly wary priest had been alarmed at having three new mouths to feed until Catherine had shared a note promising the queen’s largesse.

  The tearful boys had waved good-bye.

  Gaston had hidden his watery eyes. “It is for the best. They are Greek and belong here. I belong to France.”

  Payen had grasped the boy’s shoulder. “Well done, mon fils.”

  Catherine blinked, knotting the thread and biting off the end. She’d had a husband and no child. Now she had a child and a man not her husband to help her with his care.

  Prickles of apprehension traipsed down her spine. Ragenard? She searched the dark shadows beneath the stairs, as if he might be there.

  It was safer to doze by the fire than risk talking of things best left unsaid.

  She was at peace, Catherine told herself, gliding her needle through the fabric. Content to sit alone. She was not waiting for de Montfer to return from the stables.

  She’d wanted Gaston to sleep by the fire on a pallet near her.

  “The boy is too old for a nursemaid,” Payen had told her. “He will sleep in the stables with Jacques.” He’d acted as if the decision was his alone to make. “He’s spent the last few months sleeping on the floor of a rat-infested shack. This is an improvement.”

  She’d forced a smile.

  Gaston had grinned about being with the horses. He hadn’t seemed as sure about
Jacques.

  The hinges of the front door screeched, and she froze, needle and thread poised over the fabric.

  The door closed with a thud. If de Montfer thought to avoid an argument, he would have to be sneakier than this.

  “Lord de Montfer?” she called into the dim room.

  His booted feet paused on the stone floor, and she wondered if he would try to escape her tongue-lashing.

  “Waiting up for me, mon chéri?” He crossed the room. “I’m touched.”

  “In the head.” She searched for his eyes in the dimness. “I would have a word with you about how we guide Gaston. You gave orders, as if you have the final decision. We are to work together.”

  “You coddle him as if he’s a babe.” Payen’s eyes challenged her.

  She swallowed, her mouth dry as she determined to hold her ground.“I realize the stables were the best choice. It is your delivery of the decision I take issue with. Parents discuss things.”

  “Parents? That would imply you and I have a closer relationship than we do.” His gaze smoldered, and she wondered what he saw as he stared at her.

  “And it will stay that way!” Catherine looked down at the snap of thread. She’d broken the piece in her agitation. “We are not a couple. I have no wish to be. I . . .” She took a calming breath, knowing she rambled. “How does he fare?”

  “He has a full belly, and Jacques took to him like a brother.” He crossed his arms. “Catherine, we do not need to be adversaries.”

  His words sounded like a concession when she’d asked for nothing but respect.

  “I would have you treat me like, like . . .” Like what? They couldn’t be friends. She risked too much to let him close.

  “Like what?” His voice sounded deeper as he stepped a half inch closer. Too close. His scent, his form even in the dark . . .

  “Nothing. We can be nothing to each other.” She eyed the stairs leading to her second-floor chamber, where nightmares waited. Mother Mary, please grant me strength.

  “King Louis and Queen Eleanor have joined us in this mission. We have no choice but to follow direction. Or do you rebel against that too?”

  Catherine folded the garment over her arm.

  The firelight cast a red, demonic hue on Payen’s profile as he took the chair beside hers.

  “How could you say such an unwarranted thing?”

  Payen looked over at her. “My apologies,” he said smoothly.

  She didn’t believe him. “Not everyone is as sensible all the time as you.” Her attraction had to be cut from the stalk. Attack and retreat: that was her plan. “Rebellion costs too much.” Ragenard, George, her family. She would not lose Gaston. “However, a well-formulated battle plan leads to victory.”

  “What do you know of battle plans?” Payen scratched his jaw. He needed to shave. She preferred his skin smooth. No, she didn’t have a preference. Her belly turned. “I find that if you take a moment before reacting, the emotion is unnecessary after all.”

  She took a moment to imagine people’s reactions if they discovered his bloody corpse sitting beside the embers of the fire the next morning.

  But one man’s death on her hands was already one man too many. She sought salvation, not damnation.

  “That is called passion, and thank all the angels in heaven that hot blood warms cool hearts.” As soon as Catherine said the words, she regretted them.

  “I said nothing of passion,” he said tensely. “I understand passion.” Firelight danced along his shadow.

  By the Virgin, she’d done her best to stay clear of the subject.

  They stared at one another, their heads so close she felt his breath on her cheek.

  “Passion caused the problems with Gaston’s father,” he said. “Getting the maid with child. Now look. The boy is stranded in Nicaea.”

  “He may have started the day as a poor child, but he ended it far stronger.” She laced the needle in the sleeve of the tunic for later. “He will have clothes and boots.”

  Payen reached for the goblet of warm wine on the table at her side. Her wine. He sipped. “I will outfit the boy in weaponry.”

  Catherine grabbed the goblet. “I have a sword, for practice. He is too small for a real weapon.”

  “Then what am I to do?”

  “Let him sleep with your horses.” She drank and peered at him over the goblet’s rim. “Why do you care what happens to him?”

  “Why do you?” He gazed into her eyes. “What are these feelings you have?”

  She took a longer swallow and handed him the cup. “I can’t explain them.” Because of the darkness or the wine, she answered honestly. “Sometimes my neck prickles or my belly knots, and I know something is happening. I don’t always know what.”

  “What good is that?” He sat back and tugged at his chin.

  “I wish I knew,” she said with a low laugh.

  “Is it magic?”

  “Non. It is extra. You have it to a certain extent. Everyone does, I think. Mine is more pronounced. Unexpectedly and without explanation, I knew Gaston needed me.” She touched Payen’s hand, wanting him to understand how important the child was to her.

  Payen crossed his ankles, propping one fist beneath his chin. “I feel responsible for him as a fellow Frank. I feel empathy for him. But no prickles, no knotting gut. It is a matter of honor that I assist.”

  She sat back too. “I’ve observed that honor directs you.”

  “What would you know of honor?”

  Her blood hummed. “Are you saying I cannot be honorable? Or is it women in general?”

  God help her. What did she know of honor? She’d left her dead husband and his brother alone at Clemont Manor. No burial. No prayers. Ragenard’s necklace warmed.

  “I have seen you act dishonorably.”

  “What?” Her instincts urged her to flee like a rabbit before the fox. What had he seen?

  He shrugged. “Why aren’t you in bed with the others?”

  She swallowed, her mouth dry. Reaching for the wine, she said, “Sewing. I wanted to finish Gaston’s tunic.”

  “You didn’t rest, taking care of the emperor. You would not need so much powder beneath your eyes if you slept.”

  She brought her hands to her cheek. He’d noticed such a thing? Just as she’d feared, he delved into her private life. Blinking, she focused on the task at hand. Not dead Ragenard and not the very alive, very appealing Payen de Montfer, who would condemn her past without heeding her reasons. She shivered.

  Damn him. Payen noticed. “Shall I stoke the fire? I don’t know how you can see. Surely it is warmer in your bed?”

  “Three other women in the bed keep it very warm. Unfortunately, I wake them with my tossing and turning.” And talking in my sleep. “I am done sewing. Let the fire die.”

  “Do you want more wine? I will go to the kitchen.”

  She shook her head. More wine might lead to . . .

  “Go to bed,” she suggested. “I am fine with my thoughts.”

  He stood, took a rod from the hook next to the fire, and poked the red-orange embers. “You spike my curiosity, Lady Catherine.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know why. I am quite dull.”

  Payen laughed. Right from the belly. It sounded magical. It was easier to keep him at arm’s length when he behaved cool and distant. “Far from dull.”

  Her skin flushed, and she was grateful for the dark.

  “How long were you married?”

  “A year.”

  “And how long have you been a widow?”

  “The same.”

  “Did you like being married?”

  She brought a finger to her lower lip. “Oui.”

  “Catherine, you are an abominable storyteller.”

  “One of the things to admire about you, monsieur, is your directness.” She laughed softly, the sound deeper than she intended.

  “You admire other things about me?” He placed the rod in the metal holder hangi
ng by the fireplace.

  “I refuse to spend the rest of my night stroking your pride.” Poor word choice, she realized. She shifted. It was time to go. Nightmares or no.

  “So tell me of your dear husband.”

  “My dead husband. Ragenard.”

  “Tell me of dear, dead Ragenard.”

  “You are persistent.” Her heart tripped, but there was no place for Ragenard’s memory in the same space as Payen.

  “You are deliberately elusive. Given the invitation, most women would chatter.”

  “If we did all the things you accuse us of, it’s no wonder you don’t like women.”

  He stared at her. “I like women! I certainly don’t like men, if that is what you are implying.”

  “I implied no such thing.” She’d wondered, briefly, in the tent. But her body sensed he enjoyed a woman’s touch. “You never miss an opportunity to denounce women. Did your mother hate you? Did you have sisters who beat you? A mistress who loved another?”

  “Finally you speak more than a word, but it is to attack my family. I will be more forthcoming than you. If I am leery of womankind, it is because debauchery tempted my beautiful mother from her husband’s arms. And a woman tempted my brother into hell.”

  Finding her courage, she pressed, “Details?”

  “My brother envied young King Philip. He was two years older, and the two became thick as thieves.” He clenched his jaw. “One day Philip and Henri went too far. Drinking, whoring, racing. Now Philip is dead, Louis is king, and my brother is exiled.”

  That explained much. “Leaving you to carry the family honor.” She clenched her fists in her lap rather than reach out to touch him. “Drinking and whoring?” Catherine clucked her tongue. “You will find none of that here.”

  “Really?” He dropped his arms to his sides. “Let us say . . . looser morals, perhaps?”

  Catherine stood, reached from behind him, her arm under his chin and her hand fisted in his hair, cutting off his air supply. “Loose morals? No. But I’m a fine wrestler. I protect the queen. And if I do it with flare and pageantry, then what of it? You have no right to judge!” Satisfied she’d made her point, she let go.

  The instant she did, Payen took a deep breath and turned on her. “How dare you?”