Fra Benedictus seemed taken aback, his face paling before it flushed once again. “That is of no matter, Sir Damien, for I can assure you, God has use foryou—else you would not be here, capable of drawing the breath necessary to speak such blasphemy.”
In the next moment, though, his expression softened and his brow wrinkled with worry. “And yet while I may grant you latitude in uttering such sacrilege in view of the ordeal you have recently endured, others will not. A Writ of Absolution has been obtained for you that will provide some protection from rearrest by the Inquisition in any land, but I advise you to use caution in voicing your disdain for God’s grace in the future, Sir Damien, else you will likely find yourself confined to a cell again, even here in England.”
“I will…consider your counsel, priest,” Damien said, grimacing again at the raw burning that commenced in his throat with speaking. “But you still have not answered all.”
“What is that?…” Fra Benedictus’s brows knitted together for a moment before his face bloomed in happy understanding. “Ah, yes…you also asked why I freed you from the Inquisition and brought you out of France.”
Feeling his grasp on awareness ebbing under the rising tide of a bone-numbing fatigue, Damien only managed a jerky nod. Yet just before he slipped into the abyss of sleep, Fra Benedictus’s soothing voice echoed into his ears, as if from afar…
“The answer to your question is this, Sir Damien: it was not I who freed you from France—it was a lady. Aye, she paid for your rescue, and in doing so gained the protection she sought…that of your name in proxy marriage.”
Alissende paced from the solar into the corridor, then down the stairs of the small, fortified manor home where she’d taken refuge for the past week and a half. Opening the door into the courtyard, her gaze fixed on the stable, where she sought the dark-robed form of her cousin Michael, who had ridden up through the gates a few moments past. He bore news for her; she was sure of it. News of what, remained to be seen.
“Is something amiss, Alissende?”
Lady Blanche’s voice sounded close behind her, her tone gentle, though Alissende knew her mother had been worn to near collapse these past six weeks. They had traveled from her estate in Montivilliers to the family’s second residence in Le Havre, then to Alissende’s dowry home here in Fécamp, and the constant upheaval had taken a heavy toll on her.
“Nay,Mère,all is well. It is only that Michael has returned.”
Lady Blanche only nodded, her mouth tightening. Alissende reached for her mother’s hand and squeezed it. A lance of anger stabbed through her at the thought of her mother’s suffering like this, and all for the sake of overweening masculine pride and greed. Pray heaven that Hugh had grown tired at last of sending his men in pursuit of them.
“I will go and see what news he bears,” Alissende murmured, giving Lady Blanche’s hand a final clasp before she tightened her cloak against the cool April breeze and crossed the courtyard. But before she reached the stable door, Michael strode out, his dark hair windblown and his cheeks ruddy from the chill. His face lit when he saw her, and he covered the remaining distance between them in a few running steps.
“I see that you witnessed my return, Cousin,” he said, pulling her into a hug that was uncharacteristic for the fierce joy it conveyed, even before he swung her around in a circle.
Smothering her laugh, Alissende clutched at the sleeves of his dark robes until he set her down. “You are in a fine mood, Michael. I hope it is because you have learned something favorable about our resistance against Hugh, for I do not know how much more of this fleeing and watching my mother will be able to bear.”
“Ah—well, there may indeed be good news in that quarter, for our ruse to lead him to believe us returned to England appears to have been successful. But that is not what I have come to tell you.”
“What, then?”
Alissende slipped her hand into the crook of Michael’s arm as they began to walk back to the manor house. She was trying to keep her expression bland and to slow the way her pulse had jumped with his words—knowing, somehow, what he was readying to say.
“It is about Sir Damien.”
Alissende’s heart did leap into her throat, then, and she swallowed hard. “Aye?” she managed to ask.
“I have received word from my friend Fra Benedictus. Damien’s fever has broken. He has much to do on the way to recovery, but he will survive.” He pulled a folded parchment from his cloak and thrust it at her, his smile reaching to light his brown eyes. “Here, read for yourself. Is it not wonderful news?”
She stopped walking, half-turning to Michael. As she took the letter, her fingers trembled. Inside this parchment was news of Damien…the Damien of here and now, not just the phantom man of all her regrets, longings, and dreams. The Damien who would live, it seemed, to take his place beside her as her husband. She looked away to maintain her composure, reminding herself to breathe. “Has he been told—of me, I mean?” Her voice sounded small and thin in the crisp air, the words hanging on a thread of hope she could not keep herself from feeling.
Some of the light went out of his expression. “Nay,amie. I thought it best to keep your identity hidden for now.” He tucked her hand back under his elbow, trying to look encouraging for her sake, she knew, as they continued the rest of the way back to the house. “But he was told of the proxy marriage,” Michael added, “and, according to Fra Benedictus’s missive, he did not seem unduly upset by the information. In time I am sure Damien will feel grateful to the person who arranged for his release from the Inquisition’s torment—even if that person is you, Alissende.”
“We shall see,” she murmured, not nearly as certain about Damien’s reaction once he learned that she was the bride to whom he was bound. She had known him far better than Michael had—had tasted the single-minded passion he could give in love and had felt the aching absence left behind when he forsook all tender emotion.
“Aye, we shall see,” she repeated more softly, trying to still the wishful, desperate voices inside of her with the cold reality she faced. Her fears and yearnings mattered naught, she knew, for either way it was done. Damien was going to live. He would learn that she was his proxy bride.
And there was no going back from that now.
Chapter 2
Glenheim Castle, Surrey, England
June 1308
Damien reined in his gelding behind Ben, pausing outside the gates of what looked to be a very prosperous holding. It belonged toher,he had been told, the unknown woman who had purchased his freedom for the price of bondage in marriage. As they waited for the sentry to give them permission to enter, he forced himself to lift his gaze, taking in the fine stone turrets and the scarlet pennants flapping against the blue of the sky—struggling as he did to keep the bitterness from rising into his throat.
At last the gates creaked open. With a click of his tongue, Ben set his mare to a lumbering walk, and Damien gritted his teeth as he rode after him. He had vowed to see through this morn’s events, knowing that he owed Ben at least that. For though he was feeling anything but charitable at the moment, he could not deny that during these past three months the friar had become more a friend to him than a caretaker; he had used his herbs and poultices to restore Damien’s body to its full strength again and had worked with him through all forms of weaponry, sparring with him out in the field to aid him in regaining his notable combat skills.
