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  Wild Wind

  Book Two of the Périgueux Family Series

  by Patricia Ryan

  "This is a powerful, absorbing story readers will cherish. Ms. Ryan earns a place of honor on medieval romance readers' shelves with this masterful tale that brings an era, a people and a brilliant love story to life. Fans of Anita Mills, Denise Domning, Roberta Gellis and Sharon Kay Penman, rejoice, here's another star!" Romantic Times

  Copyright © 1998 Patricia Ryan. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  For my sister, Janice Kay Burford, with love

  * * *

  And first, in the security born of many harmless marriages, it had been forgotten that love is no hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine, sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower, and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always wild!

  —John Galsworthy, The Man of Property

  Chapter 1

  July 1073, Normandy: The Rouen palace-prison of William the Conqueror, Duke of Normandy and King of England

  "Alex, who is that woman? Do you see how she's looking at you?"

  "Which one, Faithe? Is she pretty?" Alexandre de Périgeaux shielded his eyes against the morning sun and scanned the sizeable crowd assembled in the courtyard of the Tour de Rouen, grateful for some diversion from such a long wait in such hellish heat.

  Faithe of Hauekleah, Alex's sister by marriage, shifted the babe on her shoulder and cocked an eyebrow. "I thought all women were pretty," she teased, flinging his own, oft-repeated words back at him, "if you but looked at them from the right angle."

  "Cheeky wench. So they are." Alex studied the multitude of lords and ladies—the flower of Norman aristocracy—garbed in peacock-hued finery, fanning themselves restlessly as they anticipated the upcoming ceremony. Some had gravitated around a jongleur accompanying himself on lute, who serenaded them with a long and lyrical chanson about knights going in search of the holy Grail. At the outskirts, clerics chattered in small groups, like clusters of blackbirds.

  "She's wearing white," Faithe offered. "An exquisite silken tunic."

  "No lady in white is looking this way." Worse luck. A little harmless flirtation—and perhaps a bit more, if the fates favored him—was just what he needed to adjust his bodily humors, unbalanced by having re-crossed the English Channel for the first time in seven years. It should gladden his heart to stand on Frankish soil, the soil that had bred and nurtured him, after so long an absence. And it wasn't as if he was alone here, his brother's family having journeyed with him from their Cambridgeshire farmstead for this great occasion. Yet he missed England—missed it terribly—and had from the moment he'd left its shore.

  Perhaps he should have stayed there. Having little tolerance for court life and less for standing about waiting, Alex wondered how he would bear up under the full week of royal celebration to come.

  Faithe peered into the crowd. "She must have turned back round. Her mantle is blue."

  "Little help there." The courtyard was a sea of blue-cloaked backs.

  Faithe patted the squirmy infant Edlyn. "She turned and stared at you, with the most curious expression. I thought she must know you."

  "There you are, brother!" Luke of Hauekleah greeted Alex with a slap on the back that he felt in his bones. "Do you never tire of flirting with my wife?"

  "Never. You'd best stop wandering from her side, lest I resolve to steal her from you."

  Faithe rolled her eyes. Luke guffawed. Even five-year-old Robert, perched high on his father's shoulders, smirked at the familiar empty threat. Luke and Faithe's middle child, Hlynn, oblivious to the adult banter, gripped her father's hand and sucked her thumb as she gazed with wonderment at the grand noblemen and their ladies milling in the courtyard. The three children were identical in coloring, with their Saxon mother's creamy skin and calm hazel eyes, and the distinctive blue-black hair that Luke shared with Alex and the rest of their swarthy kin.

  "Steal her from me, eh?" Luke exchanged an amused but softly intimate look with his wife. "You'd have to kill me first. And I don't die easily."

  "The Black Dragon didn't," Alex conceded. "But the Cambridgeshire farmer standing in front of me hasn't defended himself with a weapon in years. I, on the other hand" —he patted the hilt of his broadsword, sheathed on the belt buckled over his ankle-length, ceremonial overtunic— "have been honing my skill in the service of our liege for fully a decade now."

  "Almost a decade," Luke corrected with an ostentatious yawn. That was true. The de Périgeaux brothers, knights of Aquitaine, had been recruited by William, Duke of Normandy, when Alex was seventeen and Luke four-and-twenty, which would be but nine years ago. They both served their Norman master—Alex with his sword and Luke with his crossbow—through the conquest of England and the duke's ascension to the throne of that kingdom. But whereas Luke had eagerly traded his crossbow for Hauekleah, Alex continued to reject King William's offer of honorable dismissal and an English estate in recompense for his service—to the puzzlement of all, save perhaps for Luke and Faithe.

  "Almost a decade then," Alex said. "And before that, I did naught but study the arts of war—I was swinging a sword when I was smaller than Robert here. So I daresay I could take you, brother. And then I'd have your lady wife all to myself." He bowed with mock formality in Faithe's direction.

  "Let's settle this now." Grinning, Luke handed Hlynn to her mother and bent over to lift his son down. "Like men—with our fists."

  "Suits me." Alex slammed his fist in his brother's stomach as he was rising, earning him an answering blow that stole his breath, if only for a moment. The two men grappled in their long, elegant tunics, laughing breathlessly, as people turned to watch and the children rooted loudly for their father.

  "Stop that!" A furious yank on his hair made Alex turn to find his sister, Berte, scowling at her younger brothers and casting anxious glances toward their audience. A formidable personage, Berte had inherited the de Périgeaux height, making her half a head taller than her round and balding husband, Baron Landric de Bec. He hovered behind her, clucking in sympathy with her outrage. "Have you two no sense of decorum whatsoever?" she demanded.

  "Nay," Alex answered.

  "None," his brother concurred.

  "'Tis my fault, my lady." Faithe looked as if she were fighting a smile. "I should have stopped them."

  Berte shook her head, her expression doleful. "One may as well try to stop a raging storm. These two have always done just exactly as they please, and living on that barbaric island seems only to have made it worse."

  "Quite so," Landric agreed.

  Faithe raised an eyebrow at the slur to her homeland, but wisely kept her counsel.

  "Now everyone is staring," Berte fretted. Alex followed her mortified gaze toward the onlookers, chuckling as they disbanded.

  One figure, a woman, stood perfectly still amidst the swirls of multicolored silk, the ripple of veils and glint of jewels. Pale and slender, as unreal as a church statue carved of pearly marble, she met his eyes across the courtyard...

  Across the years, for she'd looked much the same the first time his gaze had fallen upon her nine long summers ago. Her beauty had a transfixing harmony to it—high, wide cheekbones, sharp little chin, willowy throat. She'd worn white that day, too, although then her hair had flowed in a gleaming flaxen stream down her back. Today it was plaited in two braids over which a veil of gossamer sendal silk trembled in the sultry breeze. Then, as now, her sea-green eyes were la
rge and quiet and intent.

  "That's her," Faithe said. "The woman in white. The one I told you about."

  From the corner of his eye, Alex saw Luke turn toward the woman in question. Recognizing her instantly, he shot an apprehensive glance toward Alex.

  Faithe noticed this. "You do know each other."

  "She's Nicolette de St. Clair." Alex fingered the worst of his scars from that misbegotten summer, a puckered little rivulet that snaked down his forehead, carving a small bare patch through his right eyebrow. "My cousin's wife."

  He definitely should have stayed in England.

  As he watched, the lady Nicolette smiled tentatively, eyes alert and wary. The civil thing would be to return her smile, but his maelstrom of conflicting emotions—shock at seeing her, loathing, yearning—so confounded him that all he could do was stare. Presently her expression began to waver uncertainly.

  A fanfare of trumpets startled him. He glanced toward the sound and saw a procession of youths descending the steps of William's private chapel. A volley of cheers greeted them.

  "They're coming!" Berte exclaimed. "The young knights."

  "They're not knights yet," Luke pointed out.

  Alex returned his attention to the lady Nicolette, only to find her turning away, eyes downcast, mouth tightly drawn.

  "They soon will be," Berte said. "There's my Charles, third in line. Do you see him?"

  "Aye," Luke said, frowning at the red-haired lad and his comrades. "God's eyes, how many are there?"

  "Four-and-twenty altogether," Berte answered. "Come, we must follow them to the sporting field. That's where the dubbing is to take place."

  Alex allowed himself to be swept along in a slow surge of humanity toward a field of mown grass on the right bank of the Robec, near where the small river fed into the Seine. Unable to wrest his thoughts from Nicolette, he searched the strolling horde for her as he walked, but didn't see her.

  "I've never known so many young men to be dubbed at once," Faithe said as she herded her two older children along in front of her while cradling Edlyn. "'Tisn't the English way."

  "'Tisn't generally the Norman way, either," Luke said, taking the baby from her to free her hands, "unless, as today, a man of unusually high rank is bestowing the honors. Few families would pass up the opportunity to have their sons knighted by a king."

  The candidates for knighthood came to a halt at the base of a carpeted platform on which had been erected a long table displaying a dazzling array of armor and weapons—gifts from their families and invited guests. King William and his queen, Matilda—crowned and draped in ermine-trimmed mantles despite the heat—sat on grand thrones in the center of the dais, flanked by courtiers and high churchmen. To one side, a band of minstrels played a lively canso on flute, harp and castanets.

  Berte squinted into the crowd as it settled into position facing the platform, her rouged bottom lip caught between her teeth, rings glittering as she wrung her hands. "Where's Christien? I knew he'd be late."

  "Merciful heavens," Landric muttered. "Christien."

  The eldest of the siblings, Christien had inherited the family's Périgeaux estate in its entirety upon their sire's death, prompting his landless younger brothers to leave the southern duchy of Aquitaine and take up arms for William in the hope of earning holdings elsewhere. Christien boasted many virtues of character, but punctuality was not among them—a potential complication today, inasmuch as he, along with Alex, Luke, and of course, Landric, was sponsoring young Charles for knighthood, and was expected to participate in the rites to come.

  "Don't trouble yourself, Berte," Alex soothed. "He traveled all the way from Aquitaine for this. He wouldn't miss it."

  "Aye, but did you see how much he drank last night? He might still be abed."

  "Not if Alyce has anything to say about it," Alex said. "She wouldn't let him sleep through his nephew's initiation into knighthood."

  The music ceased. The audience quieted as the king rose to his feet.

  "Find him," Berte ordered her husband in an agitated whisper.

  Landric darted like a fat squirrel through the crowd as King William stepped forward to address his vassals. Having expected long-winded and tiresome preliminaries, Alex was relieved when, after a brief word of greeting, William gestured for the first candidate and his sponsors to ascend the platform.

  Everyone watched in silence as the young man's male relatives outfitted him in his newly forged mail and presented him with his sword. Then the king delivered the colée—the ritual open-handed slap that transformed its recipient from callow youth to chevalier. Unfortunately for the chevalier in question, the colée knocked him off his feet, and he landed with a clank of armaments on his back. Crimson-faced, he allowed the king to pull him up.

  When the second youth was summoned onto the dais, Berte began to mutter anxiously under her breath. "Charles is next. If his eldest uncle isn't up there with him, what will people think?"

  Alex and Luke exchanged a look. Berte hadn't changed much in the years they'd been gone.

  During the second lad's initiation, Berte frantically searched the onlookers, finally gasping in relief. "There he is! He and Alyce and their two boys. Landric's found them." She returned her husband's wave. "Who is that with them? By the saint's bones. Is that Nicolette de St. Clair?"

  Alex whipped around, tracing his sister's line of sight to a small group near the front of the crowd, by the platform. Landric pointed proudly toward Christien while Christien's wife, the lady Alyce, spoke into Lady Nicolette's ear. The two women had met when Nicolette came to Périgeaux nine years ago. He recalled that they'd become fast friends, but they couldn't have seen much of each other in recent years, what with Alyce living in Aquitaine and Nicolette up here in Normandy.

  Whatever Alyce was saying made Nicolette smile—that cryptic half-smile that had always intrigued him so. Her air of mystery had enchanted him, drawing him to her like a bee to a tightly closed blossom full of promise—a promise never fulfilled.

  The flesh around Berte's eyes tightened. "What is she doing here? Did Alyce ask her? I certainly didn't."

  "Why not?" Alex asked. "After all, she's married to our cousin."

  "Milo?" Berte plucked at her wimple. "He's the reason I didn't ask her—or them, rather. Hardly anyone invites them anywhere anymore, considering what's become of him."

  "What do you mean?" Alex asked.

  "You don't know?"

  "I've heard naught of him since I left Périgeaux nine years ago."

  "You never thought to write to him? You two were such good chums."

  "I was trained to wield a sword, not scratch away with a quill like some soft-bellied monk."

  "You could pay some clerk to do it."

  "Berte," he ground out impatiently. "What did you mean? What's 'become of' Milo?"

  His sister glanced around with feigned nonchalance and lowered her voice. "I'll tell you later—best not to air such matters here. Suffice it to say he declines what few invitations still come their way, and it's just as well. I hear he hasn't set foot outside Peverell Castle in two or three years. She's never seen, either, since it would hardly do for her to go larking about on her own. From what I hear, she spends all her time writing those long, tiresome poems about ancient battles and tragic lovers—a shameful occupation for a girl of her breeding."

  "Then what do you suppose she's doing here today?"

  "I can't begin to imagine. And I must say I'm surprised to find her showing up here unescorted. Not like her to ignore propriety—not like her at all." Returning her attention to the dais, Berte gasped and shoved Alex toward the stage. "It's Charles's turn! Go! You, too, Luke. Go! Go!"

  Banishing thoughts of Nicolette from his mind, Alex mounted the platform, along with Luke, Christien, Landric, and young Charles.

  First, Lord Landric, as his son's primary sponsor, endowed him with a hauberk and gaiters of fine chain mail, which Alex and his brothers helped him to don over his gold-embroidered red tuni
c. The boy was flushed and sweating by the time Alex pulled the hauberk's mesh coif over his head. It took a strong young constitution to tolerate a full suit of mail in midsummer. At Berte's insistence, every one of the double-woven iron rings had been silvered, causing them to gleam like white fire in the bright sun. Alex turned from the sight, blinking...

  And saw her again, gazing directly at him from the front of the audience, as doe-eyed and motionless as before. She quickly looked away.

  "Alex," Luke hissed as he buckled the lad's swordbelt around his waist. "The sword."

  Quickly Alex crossed to the table and retrieved the broadsword he'd commissioned for Charles, the honor of giving it having been granted to him in light of his own renowned swordsmanship. The blade, of brilliant Poitou steel, shimmered in the sunlight. In the knob of the pearl-encrusted hilt could be seen a bit of dried blood of St. Romaine encased in transparent crystal. Alex handed the weapon to his nephew, who kissed the holy relic before sheathing it.

  Alex watched Christien present his jeweled helmet and Luke his shield and lance, all too aware of Lady Nicolette's gaze upon him. His skin prickled beneath his clothes; his body felt oddly large and unwieldy.

  He'd thought he would never see her again, nor had he wanted to. He'd never expected her to be here. According to Berte, no one had.

  He wondered about Milo. Despite everything that had transpired that last, eventful summer in Périgeaux, Alex harbored no ill will toward his cousin. What happened wasn't his fault, not really. And he and Milo had always been, as Berte pointed out, the best of chums, the ten-year difference in their ages inconsequential—especially once Alex reached adolescence and could tag along with Milo and his mates as they hunted and caroused. Life was carefree and exhilarating and golden, and Milo was at the center of it all. Educated for Holy Orders as befitted a second son, but lacking the temperament for a religious vocation, Milo dedicated his considerable intellect to the pursuit of pleasure. Intensely charismatic, he possessed the striking de Périgeaux looks—the height, the raven hair—combined with a quick wit and amiable disposition that earned him many friends.