The Last Knight by Candice Proctor Read Free Book Online

from his slack grip. “She has agreed to this betrothal. And Attica d'Alérion is too determinedly honorable, too sensible of her duty to her family to ever do such a thing as flee her betrothal to Fulk.”
“Then where has she gone, you tell me that? Because gone she has.” He regained possession of the ewer and poured himself a drink. “I heard it first from one of the pages, and then the guard at the gate confirmed it. Sherode out of here before dawn, accompanied only by that Norman groom of hers.”
Throwing a cloak around her shoulders, Yvette walked, silent and thoughtful, to stand at the open window, her gaze on the turmoil of activity in the bailey below. Suddenly her hand tightened on the edge of the window frame, her head coming round to stare at Gaspard over her shoulder. “That Parisian courtier—Olivier de Harcourt—does he still live?”
“No. The servants found him dead this morning.”
Yvette chewed her lower lip. “I wonder …” Banging the window against the wall, she turned to where her women waited, their eyes hooded and wary, their arms full of silken and velvet gowns for her to choose. “Well, don't just stand there, you fool women,” Yvette snapped, waving her arms at them. “Help me get dressed. And have that guard and page sent to me.”
As the women rushed to do her bidding, Yvette glanced up to find her husband standing gape-mouthed. “Gaspard, why are you still here? Send for that page and guard. Now. And when I'm through with them, I want to see Fulk.”
Gaspard Beringer might be the viscomte de Salers, but he knew the limitations of his own intellect, and there had never been any doubt where the real power in their marriage lay.
He hurried to do his wife's bidding.
An hour later, the viscomtesse de Salers, now splendidly attired in gold silk trimmed with crimson velvet, settled back in the wide, carved chair reserved exclusively for her use and subjected her son to a coldly critical stare.
She noted with satisfaction that he had dressed for his interview with her in gold velvet and crimson brocade, herown favorite colors. Some people might think the flamboyant combination had the effect of making the boy look like an overdressed (and overfed) field mouse. Fulk's mother decided he looked as impressive as could be expected, given the circumstances. She'd often thought it sadly ironic that the only things Gaspard Beringer's son had inherited from his gorgeous father were the traits one couldn't see: a weak will and an addled intellect. Poor Fulk had come out of her womb looking every bit as plump, brown, and pudding-faced as Yvette herself.
As if aware of the unpleasant train of his mother's thoughts, the boy began to fidget. “Stand still,” she barked.
Fulk froze.
Yvette leaned forward in her chair. “One of the pages tells me you knew Attica left the castle this morning. Why did you not come at once to tell me?”
Fulk opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again in a movement reminiscent of his father. Only, without Gaspard's beautiful mouth, the same habit in Fulk had the unfortunate effect of making the boy look like a beached fish.
“ Fulk .”
He sucked in a gasp of courage and blurted out, “She said you knew!”
“I knew? She said I knew. And you believed her?”
Fulk's face went so white, she could have counted every freckle on his pug nose. He wisely kept his mouth shut and hung his head.
“You believed her,” said Yvette again. “You actually believed that I would let your betrothed set out for Laval before daybreak and accompanied only by one groom? God's death, Fulk; where was your head?” Grasping the carved arms of her chair, Yvette heaved herself onto her feet with such uncharacteristic vigor that the boy went scuttlingbackward in alarm. She whirled away from him. “ Idiots . I am surrounded by idiots.”
“But why would she lie?” Fulk asked in a small voice.
Yvette swung to face him again and forced herself to take a deep, calming breath. “I understand you visited her while she was