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Chapter Twenty-One

Lothair screwed up the parchment and flung it into the brazier. Flames surged around it, the cracked wax seal of the d’Louncrais melting. He turned his back on it, staring out of the window. His wife had made an alliance with Faucher. Below, weaving her way through the throng of servants, peasants and merchants, Marguerite crossed the bailey. Two chevaliers from House Allard trailed behind her. On her way to the chapel? Right under his nose, as if she cared not if he caught her. She was becoming more brazen by the day.

He sighed. You could command a woman, but not her loyalty. And when they chose, women could be more devious than any man Lothair had ever known.

He leaned against the window ledge, following her progress. As if sensing she was being watched, she stopped and turned, searching the sea of faces. She glanced up. His eyes narrowed on the thin sneer on her lips. With a haughty toss of her head, she continued on her way, her back ramrod straight and her head held high.

He thumped his fist against the shutter. Anyone else and he would have had them hanged for treason long before now. Others had betrayed him and were long dead. His own siblings included. He was the comte. This was his county, and yet his own wife plotted against him. Blatantly defied him. He turned away from the window. He should have cast Marguerite aside at her first betrayal. Locked her up in the tower or had her sent to a monastery. Have her spend the rest of her life in humble quarters thinking on her sins. Would that he had a wife as devoted to him as Gaharet’s. Or any of the Langeais wolves’.

The hanging on the wall, with the embroidered figure of a half-man, half-wolf, taunted him. Lothair glared at it. He was not a Langeais wolf, and he did not have a wife who stood by him. He was human and vulnerable. And he had Marguerite.

He stalked from his chamber, his guards trailing him down the corridor. Marguerite had also made an alliance with a witch, according to Gaharet. So it seemed had Faucher. That he could work with. It would be the undoing of both his wife and the ambitious eveque.

Lothair came to a halt at his wife’s chambers, the door guarded by chevaliers of House Allard. He made to enter, and her guards blocked his way.

“I will see my wife.” Nobody forbade him anything. Not in his keep. Not in his county.

“Madam Comtesse is not here.”

Lothair stared down the insolent guard.

The chevalier flushed. “Mon Seigneur Comte.”

Lothair dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword. “I know she is not here. I will wait in her chambers for her return.”

“Mon Seigneur—”

“Report for cesspit duty. My men will guard the door.”

Neither chevalier moved. “Mon Seigneur—”

“Now!” He unsheathed his sword. If they did not move, he would have their heads. He would not tolerate insubordination in his own keep, and he would not have his wife and her chevaliers undoing all his work establishing fear amongst the populace. He had a reputation to maintain. It was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Yes, Mon Seigneur Comte.”

They scurried away, and he pushed into the room, his senses assaulted by strong floral unguents and an opulence that far exceeded his wife’s status as a comtesse. Gaudy-colored hangings covered every inch of the walls, and swathes of brocade and samite draped across the bed. How much of his coin had Marguerite wasted on this room alone? Or was someone else paying for this—he flipped a silk throw from the back of a padded chair—this frippery. He glared at the ladies-in-waiting lounging about the chamber. How many did one woman need? He counted ten, all staring at him wide-eyed. His fist tightened on the grip of his sword. “Out. Now.”

The women fled in a swish of skirts and pitiful whimpers that failed to satisfy his fury. All but one.

“Did you not hear me?” He did not roar, but there was death in his tone for all who defied him.

The woman quailed before him, dipping her head in deference, but she did not leave. “I beg your indulgence, Mon Seigneur Comte.” Her voice cracked, but the desperation in her eyes was unmistakable.

She wanted something. They all wanted something. Whether he was of a mind to give it to them would depend on how useful they could be, and on the cost to him. On his mood. Now was not a good time to test his benevolence.

“I have information that may be of use to you, Mon Seigneur Comte.”

Lothair paused, taking in the girl as she studied the rushes on the floor. Tersa, Teresa, Therese? Something like that. From a noble family fallen on hard times. Her betrothal to the Escrue’s only son would secure the family well. What could she possibly have that would warrant risking her future? Or angering that brute? It had best be something exceptional.

“It concerns the comtesse.”

She had his attention. Whether she would be pleased about that was yet to be determined. He waved his hand, urging her to continue.

“If it pleases you, Mon Seigneur Comte, I suspect”—her gaze darted about before settling back on him—“I suspect your…the comtesse might be plotting against you.”

She was. She had been since the moment of their betrothal. “And what makes you think that?”

“There is a chevalier who is sneaking into the comtesse’s bedchamber, Mon Seigneur Comte. Not from House Allard. One of yours.”