The Rose Of Lorraine Part 16

"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 a.s.similated 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 G.o.d make it?"

"Oh, well, G.o.d 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 antic.i.p.ated. 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 sh.e.l.ls, 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 gla.s.s, 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 b.a.l.l.s. 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.lo 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 pa.s.sed 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 d.a.m.n 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 modic.u.m 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. G.o.d, 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 pet.i.te?"

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 circ.u.mstances, 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 ent.i.tled 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.