Archive of Our Own

It was difficult to believe it in the soup of February, but Aquila could, in fact, be quite picturesque in summer. The mountains gave way to terraced hills, which while muddy and treacherous in the ice and snow, turned to a green carpet of clover around mid-May. The same mountains afforded streams which fed the city's many fountains, stone to fortify the walls, clay for porcelain, and timber for homes. The region boasted sheep, cattle, pigs, and more pheasant and grouse than one could hunt in a lifetime. Most importantly, the valley produced enough saffron to ensure its commercial importance--which meant it was a tempting prize for kings, emperors, and even the Pope.

Etienne Navarre often thought what a great pity it was that he had not come first to Aquila in its fullness and glory. Instead, he had trudged into its castle on a cold, snowy morning in December, 1254, only two weeks after fighting against the Papal Armies in Foggia. "It's only for a few months," he'd told himself, expecting Prince Regent Manfred to march them south as soon as the weather broke. He thought he would have liked Rome, or Palermo or Brindisi. Little did he realize he would spend the rest of his life in this odd little valley, where the weather never seemed to achieve the warmth or brightness of the southern regions. The Pope would die, and the new Pope would summarily excommunicate the Regent without even bothering to find out what it might be worth to support his claims. Manfred continued to hold out, amazingly. Aquila soon became a melting pot for Saracens, Ghibellines, and all manner of people seeking freedom from papal dominance. Navarre was not on the losing side, but he was, more or less, stuck. He had no safe passage to defect, and honestly, no desire to. He had never had much use for the Papacy, though he had no objection to the prayers of the priests before battle, or on the occasional Sunday. But beyond that, the pay was good, the rations plentiful, and the job was safe enough to make it worth staying.

He'd been just over 14 when he campaigned under Manfred, who was scarcely much older. By the time they took Aquila, he had been knighted for valor. In 1258, the Regent, in an attempt to maintain order after rumors of his nephew's death, seized the throne of Sicily. Despite learning shortly thereafter that his nephew was, in fact, alive, Manfred consolidated his power, arranged powerful alliances, and even married Constance of Aragon in 1262. None of this affected Navarre, who was by now second in command of the garrison. He merely went about his occupation, kept the peace, arrested criminals, and protected the city. But the following year, 1263, his life changed forever.

First, yet another Pope excommunicated Manfred. In addition, that Pope also sought a champion to depose the King, whom he deemed a threat not just to Christendom, but to his own authority. The man who took him up on his proposition was Charles I of Anjou. When, in 1266, Charles's armies arrived to storm the city, Navarre was quick to see how impossible the fight was. The walls had been ruined by Conrad and Manfred in their time; they would crumble before a siege. He refused to die for a heap of mud and jumbled rocks, even if, after 12 years, it had become home.

Two nights before the invasion, he slipped out of the city and through the enemy lines. "I've a proposition for the commander," he told the first picket who encountered him. "We'll lay down arms, if you don't sack the city," he promised.

Navarre saw to it that his Captain spent the battle in one of their own dungeon cells. As acting captain, Navarre ordered his men to stand down. The invaders did not sack the city. When it was over, he let the Captain out, gave him the money Navarre had been paid, and sent the man home to Lombardy. For his assistance, Navarre was made Captain in his place.

Charles of Anjou ordered that the walls, which had been further destroyed, should be reconstructed. He brought in Papal officers, installing a Bishop of his retinue, and several priests loyal to the Pope.

Navarre was 29 years old, and it had been nearly half his life since he'd had much time for the church. But under Charles, services again became part of the routine. "If it were not heresy, one might question why anyone believes," he said, carefully, to his confessor one Saturday.

"My son, one believes because the power of God can be felt in every stone of His Holy House," the man told him.

"There was no power here before," Navarre reasoned.

"There was no Papacy here, either," the father reminded him. He sighed. "Say ten Pater Nosters and ten Ave Marias--"

"I don't know how," Navarre admitted. "I've forgotten."

"I shall teach you," the priest promised. Teach, he did. Father Imperius did not just teach him the prayers. He taught him--or more precisely, reminded him--of the stories he'd set aside when he took up arms. His mother had told him tales from the scripture, on their farm when he was a boy, but he'd barely connected them to the Latin prayers said by the local friar, in their tiny village chapel. He'd never learned to read--had meant to, but it was just much easier to dictate everything to the cleric in the castle, or have the little man read warrants to him. Imperius corrected that, as well. By the time June visited the valley again, the two had become friends.

***

Navarre's life changed again, that summer. For in April, 1267, Bishop Alphonse died. Navarre was dispatched, along with several hand-picked officers, to meet the new Bishop as he traveled the road from Rome. They almost missed him. Navarre had expected an entourage, perhaps a palanquin or a carriage, and a baggage train. Instead, the man rode alone, on a chestnut mare, with only a single donkey as a pack animal. He wore a simple cassock for traveling. The only items that marked his station were a short miter upon his head, and an ornamented cross round his neck.

"Your Excellency," Navarre greeted him formally, dismounting to kiss the man's ring as Imperius had instructed him. "I'm Captain Etienne Navarre. We've come to welcome you to Aquila."

"Captain," the Bishop said, a faint smile touching his lips. His accent was smooth as glass, as silky as his dark hair. He had icy grey-blue eyes. Navarre had never met a clergyman so...handsome. He looked a few years older than Etienne, but even in a plain robe, Navarre could tell he was infinitely more refined than anyone Navarre could name. Of course, he told himself, the Bishop had been ordained by the Pope himself. He knew the King--probably on speaking terms. He was miles above a mere Captain of the Guard.

"Is it far to the valley?" the Bishop asked.

"Just an hour's ride," Navarre told him. He hoped his voice hadn't wavered, but he suddenly felt nervous in the man's company.

"Marvelous," the Bishop said, bringing his mare into step with the Captain. "I hope there's such a thing as a bath when we arrive."

"The...city has…has many natural fountains," Navarre stammered. "A bath shouldn't be a problem." He looked away. He was actually blushing to think of the Bishop in a tub of hot water. Impure, impure thoughts, he chided himself. Though...since when do I care what's pure and what isn't? Damn priests. They confuse everything. "I...think there's a special mass planned, to welcome you. But--but I'm sure you could ask to refresh yourself first."

The Bishop asked several more questions during their return to the city. Navarre answered as best he could: How the previous Bishop had managed the city's poor; how often the King was in residence; how many people attended daily or weekly mass; what, if anything, the other clergy in town did to tend to the congregation; whether they had a library, scriptorium, or other scholastic pursuits; if there was any land owned by the See. Navarre tried to sound intelligent, but was careful not to overreach. More often than not, he recommended that the Bishop speak to Father Imperius or the other friars. "They very much look forward to your leadership, Your Excellency," was his most frequent statement.

So it took him by surprise when, after they passed through the gates, the Bishop said, "Would you care to...dine with me, one night this week?"

"I'm sure that's--wait, what? I mean, I beg your pardon, Your Excellency?"

"It's a simple question, Captain. I need someone to help me understand who the players are in this city of mine, and who better to ask than the chief constable?" Again, the smirk danced on the Bishop's lips. His grey eyes glittered in the sun. He was squinting slightly in the light, but it gave the effect of an impish mirth.

"I...I would be honored, of course," Navarre said.

A few days after the Bishop's installation, Navarre joined him in his private apartments. The Bishop set a finer table on an ordinary Thursday than the barracks hall on the most bountiful Feast Day of the year. Navarre had all he could do to not tear into the food like a recruit after a full day's march.

"Tell me," the Bishop invited, once they finished the soup and moved to a delicate rabbit pie, "about yourself."

"Me?" Navarre almost choked on a bit of crust. "Not much to tell. I was born on a farm, my father was killed by caliphate soldiers when I was just a boy. My mother took me and fled to Gaul and worked as a laundress for Frederick's army. I started fighting when I was ten; marched here under Manfred, and I've been here ever since."

"I hear you're the man who surrendered Aquila," the Bishop commented.

"Who told you that?" he asked.

"Don't be upset," the Bishop said mildly. "I think it shows good judgment. Your foresight prevented thousands of deaths that day. Your allegiance to a Godless Excommunicate was not your fault. But you were granted Grace, to enable this city and all its people to return to God, as ordained."

"I...never thought about it that way," Navarre admitted. "I just didn't see the point when there was no way to win."

"It was God's will," the Bishop insisted.

That made Navarre uncomfortable, so he changed the subject. "May I ask, where you are from? Have you lived in Italy long?"

The Bishop smiled. "I'm from a place called Derby, in Mercia, so I'm rather used to this cooler climate. I came to Italy, oh, it must be four years ago, now. Before that I was the Prior of Kaltenbach."

So young, Navarre thought.

"Not that young," the Bishop laughed, and it was only at that moment Navarre realized he had murmured his thought aloud.

"I meant no disrespect," he said quickly.

"It's all right. Our Lord was 33 when He died to save mankind; I was already 34 when I was elected Prior. I was Prior for only a year, at which point I traveled to Rome for His Holiness's election. I brought many copies of books with me from Kaltenbach's library. I thought, I would exchange them for new volumes at the Vatican, when I returned to Kaltenbach. But once I arrived…." he trailed off. "I'm sorry. I'm--you didn't ask, did you."

"It's fine," Navarre said. And it was--he didn't really care what the Bishop talked about, as long as he kept talking in that voice.

Later, on his way back to his quarters, Navarre reflected that perhaps he ought to believe in God. It was certainly a miracle that he hadn't committed any mortal sins that night. The Bishop had turned the topic back to Aquila, and somehow, Navarre had managed to stay focused and somewhat intelligible all through the meal.

He knew he ought not to indulge, but he liked the Bishop. All right, he was a bit too...effusive about God, now and then. Other than that, though, he was interesting. And--attractive. That's a sin, he reminded himself. He'd never even admitted to Father Imperius that he found both men and women attractive--he knew better than to confess such a thing to anyone, least of all a man of the cloth.

More to the point, though, it seemed that the Bishop was also interested in Navarre. Which seemed unbelievable. He wanted to know Navarre's opinions of the town, of the other people in positions of authority. And it made sense. As Captain of the Guard, he was an authority himself. Not that he was equal to the Bishop. There was a logic to maintaining an alliance, however. Maybe even a friendship.

They met often, though both had duties that occupied most of their time. Throughout what remained of the summer, they had many discussions both academic and political. Navarre did his level best to remain professional, courteous, and proper. But it was difficult, especially when the Bishop did so many little things that made him wonder if there were mutual feelings, or if he was just imagining the strange gravity that seemed to pull him in.

After two months, Navarre could not stand the tension that simmered below their every interaction. He resolved to confess, even if it meant a year's penance. He contrived to accompany the Bishop on a ride into the country, to pay a call on one of the remote farm enclaves that hadn't heard a mass in over a month. The journey required an overnight stop at an inn. It was there Navarre planned to express his concerns.

Once on the mountain trail, though, with the clear air and the bright crocus blossoms blanketing the hillsides, he decided the open road was perhaps the best place. He was just gathering his thoughts when--

"You seem pensive, Captain," the Bishop said.

"My name is Etienne, Your Excellency,"

"I know, my son. And mine is Oswyn," he replied.

Etienne rolled that around in his head for a moment. It felt more wrong to call him that than to admit he lusted.

"There's something on your mind," Bishop Oswyn continued. "Come. You will be relieved if you confess."

"I...do not need the seal of the confessional," said Navarre slowly, "though I do wish for this conversation to remain...private between us. I have valued our...relationship. But I cannot help noticing that--I fear that it may not be entirely correct. I am not a man of words, like you. I read men by their stance, their action--the way they wear their swords. Tell me I misread your signals. That I imagine something that is not there."

"Why, Etienne, whatever do you mean?" Oswyn asked--and this time, the playfulness was unmistakable. He smiled in that charming way of his. "You do not imagine," he agreed. "Do I imagine that you are not repulsed by the very concept of what you are inferring?"

"You do not," Navarre confirmed. "This is where you tell me that it's a sin."

Oswyn chuckled. "I myself believe that several of the disciples might have loved Our Lord--and each other--in the way you mean. There are...quite a few members of the Holy Orders who ascribe to such an interpretation. It's not the official line, of course, nor, I think, will it ever be, more's the pity. But personally, I have always found the vow of celibacy to be the least explicable of our sacrifices."

"Uh," Navarre grunted. His mouth had gone dry. "That's...a lot of...information." He rode silently for a while, and Oswyn let him think. As they came over a rise, they could see their evening destination, but it was still many miles away.

"I have an idea," Oswyn said pleasantly. "Before we arrive, let's go into that grove there, on the left, about a quarter of the way down? and I can provide a homily on the subject."

Navarre's groin tightened, but he also shuddered. "I'm...not sure I'm ready for that."

Oswyn's smile turned down at the corners. "Of course," he said. His tone aimed for neutral, but Navarre could tell he had inadvertently stung the powerful cleric.

"You are a puzzle," Navarre told the man.

"What would you like me to say? That we ought to deny ourselves in service to that divine love which will be ours one day?" He scoffed. "Let lesser men struggle with their desires." He paused, waiting for Navarre to relent. Navarre merely rode along. He was still worrying about his soul. Oswyn must have guessed it, because he made another attempt. "If you're worried about your soul, you know, I can absolve you immediately. Possibly even before, if that's more to your liking."

"I've only ever met one other priest who jokes," Navarre observed, "but he's not likely to find this funny."

"Then I suggest you do not tell him. Let me be your confessor." He pulled his horse alongside Navarre's, and they halted. Oswyn touched Navarre on the shoulder with one white-gloved hand. "Etienne."

It was enough to push Navarre exactly where he wanted to go. And it was the beginning of several months of assignations and, Navarre thought, a valuable relationship. He learned more from Oswyn about the politics of the world, about history, and all manner of academic study, during their many hours together, than he had in twice that long under Imperius. Navarre's education made him a better officer and a better servant of the city, too. His men noticed and grew in their respect. As his reputation improved, so did order in the kingdom. He suspected Oswyn sang his praise to the King, as well, because he was favored in Court. Scarcely a year after he and Oswyn first stepped into the grove, Navarre had his own hawk, a Damascus-forged sword, a hunting horn of genuine ivory from Kashmir, and a magnificent new Freesian charger named Goliath, eighteen hands tall and black as midnight. They were his, not the garrison's. He was a rich man.

Which meant, he was quite well turned out, the first time he met Isabeau.

***

He would recall every detail of that day for the rest of his life. It was spring, 1268, and King Charles was visiting, as he did occasionally. The King himself invited Navarre to join a royal hunting party. They rode out in the mist of dawn. It was chilly but not cold, a minor miracle considering the season.

"Captain Navarre," a page called. "His Majesty wishes you to attend the royal household."

When he kicked his horse forward and joined the King, he saw her for the first time. They were separated by only three other riders. Her dappled white horse had a delicate neck and a graceful gait, and she sat her straight and proud. Her gown of cloth-of-gold glinted in the rising sun, underneath a light cloak of blue wool, clasped at her shoulder with an ornate brooch adorned with rubies and pearls. Her long hair was bound in a webbed snood that extended down and out of her hood, all the way to her waist. She was no girl; if he'd had to guess, he would have said she was somewhere between 18 and 20 years of age. As he glanced over, one of her maids whispered something to her; she laughed, and it was a sound of pure silver. Her eyes were as clear blue as a mountain lake--they shined when she laughed. Navarre started thinking, right then, of ways to make her laugh.

"Navarre, good, good, you're here," King Charles said, noticing him. He looked away from the woman to his liege, but not before the King noticed. "My niece," he said. "Lovely creature, is she not? She's come here for a season while We find a suitable match for her. Ride with Us. We wished to speak to you. His Excellency reports there have been raids to Our east…."

The King's message had been clear; the woman was off-limits. Nonetheless, all through the hunt, he searched for a way to get close to her. She rode fiercely, often outstripping her ladies in waiting. As the sun warmed the air, she threw back the edges of her cloak, offering a flash of slender arms in dark blue sleeves trimmed in velvet. Occasionally, her boot heel would extend well out of her hem, as she showed no fear in directing her mount. She had an utter disregard for modesty in favor of the chase, which, he saw, left her attendants rather baffled. When the party stopped for luncheon, she did not wait for a groom to bring her a step, but swung out of the saddle and onto the ground in a practiced, smooth motion. Her ladies fussed, but she smiled at them and they subsided.

She had not looked his way all morning, but when the servants laid the tables, she took a seat opposite his in the semi-circle, and their eyes met for the first time. It was all Navarre could do not to stare, thirstily, not to blush or give away his immediate attraction. But to his surprise, she held his gaze for a few seconds longer than proper. Then she broke away, turned to her maid and said something he could not hear. She laughed at the lady's answer, and only grazed him with her eyes as she turned to the lord on her other side. Crestfallen, Navarre made awkward conversation with his tablemates.

A few minutes later, however, the lady-in-waiting appeared at his elbow. "My mistress wishes to invite you to ride with us following the meal," she whispered.

"Tell her I will do so happily," Navarre murmured. He could barely look away for the next hour.

"My lady asked for me?" he said when the riders had reassembled.

"I did," Isabeau confirmed. "Captain Navarre, we've not been introduced. My uncle tells me you are one of his best huntsmen."

Navarre blushed. "His Majesty is too kind. I have little leisure for hunting."

"But you hunt all the time, do you not?" She wagged her eyebrows at him with an impish grin. "For men, if not for boar."

"Ah. Now it is my lady who is too clever for me." He smiled back at her. She was witty. He liked that. "You are lucky, to first arrive here in spring."

"Oh, why is that?"

"It's the only time Aquila is pretty," he said, and sensing an opportunity to turn a compliment, he added, "though, it will be a good deal prettier this winter." He inclined his head to make his meaning plain. He hoped he did not sound ridiculous, but it was the kind of flowery talk, he was assured, that noble ladies appreciated.

Her eyes shone when she smiled back at him, which he took to mean he had not sounded like a complete imbecile. "Well, as I am new to Aquila, you must not begrudge me wanting to make a good impression." She nudged her horse a hair closer to his. "You see, I have made a little wager with Lord Matthias, that my party shall catch more today than his. Are you acquainted with him?"

"With Lord Matthias?" He was. Matthias was a conniving, somewhat petty man whose main claim to any popularity in the court was directly related to how much money he had in his purse. More than once, Navarre had had to step in to avert an incident involving a dispute he had started or caused. "I have met him, several times, my lady."

She smiled knowingly. "Then you'll understand how badly I want to win," she confided. "Can I count on you to help?"

Navarre glanced over at Lord Matthias, who was oozing empty boasts to one of the other courtiers. He shrugged and said to Isabeau, "You will have to send back to the castle for another wagon to pull the game you'll catch today."

They flushed a young boar within an hour. Within two, Navarre had shot a brace of pheasant. By nightfall, Isabeau had easily won the bet.

Two days later, she appeared in the practice yard while Navarre was training the men. She stood and watched for several minutes. Navarre had to concentrate on the sparring, so it wasn't until she moved into the courtyard that he noticed she was wearing a short tunic and loose-fitted trousers. They looked a bit like the ballooned pants that the Turks favored.

She picked up one of the practice swords and a small buckler. "Shall we?" she invited Navarre. She held her weapon at the ready.

"Does His Majesty know you like to play with swords?" he teased, setting up to attack.

"The King plans to auction me off to the highest bidder, so I don't much care if he knows or not. I, on the other hand, do very much care if I can't defend myself--" she broke off suddenly, for Navarre had begun while she was speaking. He brought the blade down in a sharp cut, then inverted his wrist so the blow would land off-side. Isabeau got her blade up in time, but the force of his swing drove her sword toward her own head. She stepped back, twisting her wrist, which turned his sword downward neatly.

"Good," he observed. "You react quickly and you don't panic. That's useful." They reset. This time, Isabeau went on the offense first. Her first swing was efficient, but slow. Navarre blocked without much effort. But then Isabeau disengaged after he had brought his arm up. She stepped forward with a thrust under his arm. She nearly touched his chest with the point, but he saw her gambit just in time and side-stepped to avoid it.

He did not reset this time, but pressed hard with a long combination. Flat-snap to the leg; then one to the head; leg again; leg again; then head. As he swung, he stepped in each time, until after the fifth shot, he was close enough to throw a wrap-around toward her off-side shoulder or hip. Isabeau managed to block with the buckler, but as he closed, she was forgetting to use her sword. When he tried the wrap, she did something he had never seen. She turned even closer to him, backing up against him as if they were dancing in the castle hall. She brought her buckler across her body and pushed up into his blade, forcing him to hit his own left arm.

Navarre laughed. "Well done, my lady!" he complimented her sincerely. But the nearness of her, the scent of her hair under the elaborate silk net it was wrapped in, the warmth of her back, the way she was panting lightly with exertion….it gripped his desire unlike any woman--any person--he had ever met. God, he wanted her.

He let his sword fall so that he could back away, out of range of her perfumed hair. He had just enough time to register the white flash of her neck under her veil when he felt a stinging slap against his leg. Isabeau hadn't stopped, hadn't realized he was resetting. She'd struck him clean on the thigh.

"Good!" Navarre acknowledged. "Go again?"

They went for perhaps three more passes. Isabeau had trained well, though if the swords had been real, she would have lost. She had consistent trouble getting inside his range, to find her own. That could be remedied, with some training. And that trick...that--dancing turn...he would have to think about how to counter that. It wasn't as wild as a fighter attempting a moulinet, or as insane as executing a full turn in the midst of an engagement, but it was something that should not have worked as it had. Clever, and resourceful. He longed to know how she'd come to master it.

He held out his hand for her sword and invited her to the side of the yard for a sip of water. She nodded and joined him. "Who did you find to agree to train you?"

"My cousin's tutor," she told him. "Though in his defense, he didn't realize I was a girl for the first two years. After that, he complained that it wasn't proper, but he never stopped allowing me to work with Pepin. He said we made an even match."

Navarre could not stop smiling at her. "You'll continue to train here, then, with...with us?"

"Yes, if I may," she said questioningly.

"You may," he answered. He could barely choke out the words, for his throat had gone dry, despite having just had a ladle of water. She curtseyed and began to turn away. Let her go, Navarre screamed at himself, but as if some spirit possessed his limbs and voice, he stepped forward to capture her hand, bow over it, and bring it to his lips. "You may have anything you wish of me, my lady," he heard himself murmuring. He groaned inwardly. The words were crass and boyish and overly obsequious, even though his voice, rough with the depth of his desire, came out more seductive than he'd intended. To his immense relief, she was slow to take her hand away, and when she did, she clasped it with her left as if to caress the spot where his lips had, too briefly, touched her flesh.

"That is...good to know, Captain," she replied softly. Her voice filled his heart, though her words could barely be heard above the clatter of wooden swords in the yard. Their eyes met for a moment, and suddenly, Navarre could hear nothing but the beat of his pulse in his ears. He saw nothing but the clear blue of her bright, shining eyes. Yes, the curve of her lips pleased him, and he knew he would, in fact, do anything to keep her smile upon them. But it was those eyes, and the mind that lay behind them, that captured him. He may have won the sparring with their swords, but she had clearly defeated him in every other respect. They held each other's gaze, moving slowly toward one another….

Then Isabeau drew a breath, and broke the spell. The noise and smell of the muddy courtyard flooded back into Navarre's senses. "Yes, well. I've taken up more than enough of your time today, however. Until next time, then?" she said, all in a rush, and dropping another curtsey, she turned quickly for the nearest retreat.

Navarre watched her go.

"Captain? Captain? Captain!" one of the recruits called. "Sir, you said you'd show us the rolling wrap shot."

"Oh?" he blinked at the young man. "Oh, yes. Very well. Francesco!" he hailed one of his lieutenants, and got on with the lesson.

He watched Isabeau all through the evening meal. He dreamed of her that night, after lying awake wondering what it would be like to speak with her at leisure. He completely forgot that he was supposed to meet Oswyn after supper for a game of chess (or anything else). It wasn't until the next morning's Sunday mass, as he watched the Bishop administer the sacraments, that he even remembered Oswyn's existence. He sat there, watching the man intone prayers, and wondered what he could say--how he could tell him there was someone else. He wondered if he should simply make up an excuse and continue with Oswyn as things were.

Truly, it was not as if he had a chance with Isabeau. Perhaps it was just an infatuation, because she was new to Aquila, because she was so different from the (admittedly few) women he had the opportunity to know. Most were either cowed by the way men treated them (deplorably, in his opinion), or too tired and overworked to care. There had been the occasional barmaid, servant, or camp follower possessed of a spark of life, similar to the spirit he found in Isabeau, but he had always felt uncomfortable pressing an advantage where money or rank or even physical strength held sway. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd been convinced of a woman's willingness. And before Oswyn, he'd known the touch of only one other man--another soldier named Fernand. They had met during the Milanese campaign, when they were both scarcely older than 16. Sharing blankets had turned to youthful fumbling, which had become something both comforting and alleviating. They were knighted on the same day, just before the failed assault on Naples. Fernand was among the fallen they left behind, when Manfred set his sights elsewhere.

The front half of the church stood in their pews, and Navarre came back to the present. He ought not to be daydreaming about dead lovers or princesses he could never have--not in the middle of holy mass, certainly! But then again, he ought not to be weighing his options with regard to a sexual relationship with the Bishop of that same church in which he sat--or stood, more precisely. It wasn't exactly the sin itself that worried him. Oswyn had "absolved" him of that twice a month, or sometimes weekly, for a while now. It was that here, of all places, he might betray their secret.

But he had to think of something. Any moment now the clerics would begin to distribute the Eucharist. He would have to go up to the crossing any moment, kneel before the altar, and Oswyn would look down at him. He could never have Isabeau...but if he was honest, he did not want Oswyn anymore, even without the possibility of being with her. He would rather dream alone than lie to his friend about loving where his affection had been supplanted.

The creed was said; the bread broken; the wine poured. First the King, then the royal family came before the Bishop and received communion. Navarre watched Oswyn's face, rehearsing what he might say...and his jaw slackened at what he beheld. As Oswyn came before Isabeau--yes, there it was! He had looked at her. Not as a daughter of God, but in the way Navarre knew too well. Oswyn lusted for her, too.

That will never do, Navarre thought. It was one thing for Oswyn to claim that the apostles had known carnal love among themselves, that Christ himself had never explicitly condemned sodomy, or any of the other arguments the man held at the ready, to justify their coition. It was quite another thing if Oswyn had a personal interest in Isabeau. Navarre's mind worked at a full gallop: Isabeau had mentioned that her uncle meant to auction her. Charles would certainly seek the advice and counsel of his highest court officers, which would naturally include Oswyn. Oswyn could make life difficult for Isabeau, if he desired...or he could make things go well for her. Given how shrewd he was in all other matters, Navarre had little doubt he would wheedle and whisper, nudge and massage the truth until he got what he wanted.

It was time; the acolyte invited Navarre's row forward. They pressed through the nave and into the crossing to receive wafer and cup. Navarre's path brought him past the Royal pew. He told himself to keep his eye fixed forward, not to look down at her. He could not stop himself looking, however. In the split-second it took to glance in her direction, he was touched to see that she was also watching him. His mouth drew up into the briefest smile, before he mastered his own face back into the solemn peacefulness one was meant to have in church. But his heart sang; she had looked at him. Idiot, he thought.

Then he was past the royal family, he was climbing the short flight of steps. And there was Oswyn. He knelt.

"Corpus Christi, pro vobis," Oswyn chanted. What Navarre heard was, "Where were you last night?"

So instead of "Amen," he said: "Father, forgive me."

Oswyn paused, placed his hand atop Navarre's head, and said, "Etienne Navarre, may the Lord bless you and enable you to serve Him all your days." Then he accepted the cup from his deacon and held it aloft. "Sanguis Christi, qui pro vobis funditur." As Navarre drank, Oswyn leaned in and whispered. "Orangery, two o'clock." He wiped the cup and moved on without missing a beat.

Navarre crossed himself, gathering his thoughts. He rose and joined the other guardsmen returning to their place. Oswyn wanted to meet him at two o'clock, in the orangery. This time he would not be distracted and miss the meeting. But he had all the rest of communion to think about the exchange. It was ridiculous, but his hair and scalp still felt the warmth and weight of Oswyn's hand. Did that mean he was forgiven? Or was it merely an indication that more prostration would be required?

He mused off and on about it through the rest of the service. At its conclusion, he took note of which guards were on duty to protect the King and royal family. He saw to it that the others departed for their posts throughout the city, as the entire population streamed out of the cathedral. Navarre lingered, however, hanging back to see if he could get a better read on Oswyn's mood if he waited until the crowd thinned.

"Will you teach me falconry, Captain?" she said behind him. There was only one voice in the world like Isabeau's. He spun to face her, and bowed properly.

"I thought you'd gone, my lady," he commented. "With the King?"

She shook her head. "Obviously not. Will you teach me falconry?"

"In addition to swordfighting. My lady, did you wish to be a boy when you were a child?" he knew his grin looked stupid, lop-sided and besotted, but he didn't have the strength to force himself to frown.

"I've already told you I disguised myself as one all the time," she reminded him.

"You told me your tutor thought you were a boy for two years. That's not the same thing," Navarre bantered. He couldn't believe it. He was bantering with the King's niece. And she was encouraging him to do so.

"Fair enough," she chuckled. "Did you ever wish you were not a boy?" she asked.

"No, of course not!" Navarre laughed. "Oh," he then said. "I see."

"I thought you might," said Isabeau, with that captivating smile. "So. Will you teach me falconry?"

"There is a royal falconer--" Navarre stopped himself. Surely, she knew that already. "Of course, if I can find the time among my duties, it would be my great pleasure to instruct you, my lady," he said, wincing at the formality but painfully aware that they were in about as public a forum as one could imagine.

"Excellent," she said. She stepped forward. "Peace be with you, Captain Navarre." And with that, she tipped onto her toes to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. As his lips had to her hand, she barely made contact, but the lightest touch made his skin tingle. Her breath smelled of the communion wine. Underneath that, he caught the scent of honey, berries, and fresh cream. And her closeness afforded him another whiff of the perfume in her hair….

He focused on her shoulder to keep from feeling dizzy. "...And also with you, my lady," he croaked, once again unable to give his voice free rein to express what he really wanted to say. As she backed away, his eyes slid behind her, to the narthex and the great door, where Oswyn bade farewell to the departing parishioners. He must have sensed Navarre's gaze, because he looked back inside the church for a moment. But only a moment, before returning to his next postulant and offering a sincere blessing. When Navarre turned back to Isabeau, she was already at the door herself.

Navarre drifted toward her, following like a leaf in her wake. He kept a respectful distance, allowed a few of the older, slower church-goers to get between them. But he was close enough to see when she approached Oswyn, how he looked at her. The cleric made almost no attempt to hide his hunger. As she crossed the threshold, the sun fell onto her veils. It created a halo of light that only seemed to enhance her radiance. Oswyn took both her hands in his gloved ones, then touched her brow as he had Navarre's. Navarre could not hear, but he could see Oswyn's lips move as he prayed for something on Isabeau's behalf. From his vantage point, Navarre could see her cringe, ever so slightly, under the Bishop's touch.

Perhaps Navarre was imagining it. Perhaps his guilt was making him jealous. Oswyn was human, after all, and Isabeau's beauty was plain to see. Maybe he was merely struck by it as any man would be, but was not particularly moved. Maybe Navarre was the one whose naked lust was the more despicable. He hoped so. Somehow, the idea that Oswyn would forsake his vow with a woman bothered Navarre more than the idea of Oswyn favoring someone else over him.

Maybe because Navarre already knew he favored Isabeau over Oswyn. Definitely because he saw Isabeau recoil from the older man.

The old mother took Oswyn's hand, received her blessing, and moved on. Next the elderly man. One more and--

"Navarre! My son," a deep, booming voice called inside the narthex. "You haven't been to see me in an age."

"Father Imperius," Navarre said, chuckling. "I am sorry. I've been…quite busy."

"Too busy for your immortal soul?" teased the friar. "Come, come, I am certain it has been months since you came to my confession. Or is it merely that you have tired of my company?" As the man spoke, he clapped Navarre on the back and turned him away from the door. He fairly pulled him toward the transept. Without pausing, Imperius lowered his voice and said urgently, "I've something important to tell you, keep walking." Then, back to his jovial, loud tone, he continued, "I'll wager you would visit more often if you were not so dedicated a captain, but I'm sure I can tempt you with a little cold capon and perhaps a drop of claret?"

"Father, I know you: You mean to tempt me so that I have something to confess!" Navarre joked back, matching the man's volume. "What's wrong?" he muttered between his teeth.

"Not here," Imperius warned. He laughed. "Ah, you do know me!" he agreed, for show. Then he led Navarre out through a door near the quire. They emerged into a small courtyard; Imperius brought Navarre through that and down a set of steps to double back to the castle. When they were inside, Imperius looked in all directions before saying, "I've heard something that concerns you, my lad."

"Me?" Navarre replied, alarmed. "Good or bad?"

"Not good," Imperius said sadly. "There have been...rumors, among the brethren. Rumors that...that your friendship with the Bishop is--impure." He looked embarrassed to say it. "I know, it cannot be so. But jealousy and innuendo, my boy, they take root and can be difficult to weed out."

Navarre let his shock show, so that Imperius could interpret it as disbelief. "Who says these things?" he demanded angrily.

"I cannot divulge," Imperius commented with a shaking head. "But I thought it best to tell you right away."

"Do I look like the kind of man--"

"No, no, not at all, of course not," Imperius assured him. "Nor would I expect anyone to impugn Bishop Oswyn. Monks, however, are worse gossips than fishwives. If they have no village scandal to discuss, they invent one."

"What's your...opinion of Oswyn?" Navarre asked, taking advantage of the father's garrulous mood.

"He is certainly a man of letters," Imperius declared. "But this is a better discussion to be had over a cup of ale. Have you plans for luncheon?"

The bell tolled noon. "I have...some time, before my next appointment," Navarre said.

It being a Sunday, the alehouse was closed. Imperius disliked frequenting it, anyway, and preferred to do his drinking in his quarters. After a stop in the kitchens for the cold capon he had promised, they repaired to his cell, where he produced the bottle he'd offered. He was as full of information as he accused his brothers of being, and as prone to provide it. Navarre learned any number of facts about Oswyn before his arrival in Aquila--things Oswyn himself had never told him. "He is most...progressive," Imperius confided. "Do you know that he was granted a dispensation by the Holy Father himself, to study books of the occult? He says it is to help him recognize witches and witchcraft." He also learned a thing or two about Isabeau, including some background on her family, but mostly about the details of her preferences--books she had read, her skill at dance, her dislike of needlework, and the story of how she had tricked her riding instructor into letting her learn to ride astride. Mostly he learned that she, too, had chosen Imperius as her confessor. Imperius never uttered a chiding word about the fact that Navarre had not come to see him since the day he and Oswyn became intimates, but his worry for his friend was much implied. Navarre was reminded how much he enjoyed his company. He resolved not to neglect the man in future.

They were having such a good discussion, Navarre barely heard the bell strike half-past the hour. "Is that half-past-one?" he asked Imperius.

"It is."

Navarre rose. "I have to go, I'm afraid."

"But we have not discussed your troubles, yet," the priest said, struggling to stand.

"I'll come and see you before the week is out," Navarre laughed, "but I've an engagement to keep."

When Navarre arrived in the orangery, Oswyn was waiting. He showed no sign of annoyance. "I presume something came up," was all he said after Navarre knelt and kissed his ring in greeting. It was for the sake of appearance, in case anyone ever saw them meeting, but Navarre believed Oswyn loved the display, loved the feeling of power it gave him. Sometimes, Navarre loved feeling humbled, too, but not today.

"Yes," he acknowledged. He couldn't elaborate. He couldn't think of a credible excuse and he did not want to add lying to his offenses. "I'm sorry, I should have sent a message. I...haven't long today, either, I'm afraid."

"Nor have I. Nones," Oswyn reminded him. "So let's not waste time. I need your...help with something."

"My help?" Navarre asked. "What can I do?"

Oswyn paced a bit. He seemed oddly agitated. "Have you been introduced yet to the King's niece?"

"The Lady Isabeau?" Navarre said. He watched Oswyn's face closely. "Yes, we...met a few days past, on the King's hunt. Why?"

Oswyn smiled wolfishly. "Charles means to use her for a powerful alliance, if he can make a suitable match. She's twenty, well beyond the age when she ought to have married already, but he expects she'll fetch a good brideprice. Personally, I have doubts, given how headstrong I've heard she is. Nonetheless, he's tasked me with negotiating on his behalf. I have an idea of who might take her, but if we are crafty, we can see that the arrangement profits us, as well."

Navarre crossed his arms. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, Charles has put me in charge of the correspondence, given my connections through Holy Mother Church. If we--that is, if I--make overtures in the right places, I may be able to obtain...a commission, from the high bidder."

"So, you're breaking your vow of poverty, as well?" Navarre quipped.

Oswyn blinked. "I make choices that benefit this city," he insisted. "I should think you of all people would wish for the personal advancement opportunities we might be able to secure for you, as well, through such negotiations."

"And what," Navarre asked curtly, "does that mean?"

"Come," Oswyn continued, cajolingly. He came close to Navarre, placing his hands on his arms. "Remember, you were the man who sold this city to Charles," he reasoned. "You've played situations to your own benefit before--"

"That was because I knew we would lose, and half the city or more would be killed in the siege," Navarre shot back. "I am not proud to have turned on my benefactors, but it was necessary. You speak of expedience, not self-preservation."

"Shhh," Oswyn said. He had the grace to look chastened. "I don't wish to offend you. I only meant that...without some additional intervention, how much higher can you rise? I am thinking of your well-being."

"You are thinking of your pockets," Navarre accused.

"I am surprised at you, my friend," said the Bishop. "I never said anything about acquiring material wealth. Calm down." He gestured to a bench by the side wall, and they sat close enough for their thighs to touch. "My negotiations," he continued pointedly, "could go quickly, or they could...extend for some time. If they drag on, it means the Lady Isabeau would remain here, in Aquila, until such time as a match is made."

Navarre chewed the inside of his cheek lightly, thinking. Was this a trap? Was Oswyn trying to assure himself of Navarre's affection, or trying to decide if he was a rival for the lady's? He inched away so he could look Oswyn in the eye. "I really did not mean to miss our meeting," he said with honesty.

"Oh, I know, I know that," the Bishop said. "But I can tell you are distracted. Shall I tell you a secret? I have noticed her, too. I am not...immune to the charms of women, and nor, I think, are you." He scanned the orangery and lowered his voice before continuing. "The longer she is here, the more likely we can win her virtue. I may even be able to convince Charles she is not the prize mare he thinks she is. You could have her--it would jump you in rank. And we could--"

"No, we couldn't," Navarre said quickly. Too quickly. His disgust was too evident.

"Why not?" Oswyn shrugged, unperturbed by Navarre's rejection. "Think of it. It's perfect. I saw you today; I know you lust for her. So do I. I cannot have her...but you could. And if, on occasion, we were to share--"

Navarre jumped to his feet. "That's a deplorable suggestion," he declared. "You mistake me. And her."

"You barely know her. She's just a woman--"

"No woman is just a woman. That's your church talking." He shuddered. "And it's an affront to your church to discuss her life as if it were yours to play with. I'll hear no more." Oswyn reached for his hand, but he stepped away. "I have to go," he said shortly.

"Please, Etienne, don't be cross," the older man requested. "I merely thought it would please you."

"Then you do not know me," Navarre answered. "And it seems, I did not know you well enough, either."

Oswyn's face hardened. "Have a care, Captain," he said coldly. "I can be as much an enemy to you as I have been a friend."

"How?"

Oswyn cocked his head. "I'm your confessor."

"You wouldn't dare break the seal of confession. And even if you were to confirm the monks' rumors, you would be just as much in danger as I."

"Oh? And who will they believe? You are Captain of the Guard, true, but nonetheless a commoner. Your fine horse, your hawk, your weapons--they can all be taken from you if you lose your rank."

"You're just as low-born as I am," Navarre pointed out.

"Not anymore," Oswyn said, with a dangerous smile. "I am a Bishop. That makes me liturgical nobility. So ask yourself, Etienne...how much risk can you afford?"

Navarre was trapped, and he knew it. He'd stepped right into the snare, despite his earnest attempt to navigate the treacherous terrain. "You cannot do this," he muttered.

"Do what?" Oswyn said, and all at once, he seemed perfectly pleasant again. "I'm only discussing things that might occur, if we are not all on the same side." He held out his ring, silently dismissing Navarre. It forced him to kneel again to kiss the Bishop's ring. When he did so, Oswyn put his other hand on Navarre's hair. "Come to me tonight," he commanded. "I shall ensure we are not interrupted."

The threat was clear, and the stakes, now, could not be higher. One way or another, Oswyn would get what he wanted. But perhaps, Navarre could buy protection for Isabeau at the price of his own flesh.

***

Later that week, Isabeau met him for her first lesson in falconry. She was accompanied by the same lady-in-waiting who had spoken to him on the hunt, but it quickly became clear the young chaperone was only there for the sake of appearances. She installed herself on a folding stool and bent over an embroidery hoop, at a respectful distance, paying them no attention.

Isabeau donned the glove Navarre gave her and looked on the peregrine with admiration. "She's so pretty," she said, as he passed the bird to her.

"She'll bite if you try to touch her," he warned, removing the falcon's hood. "Here. Give her a piece of this." He handed her a strip of raw squirrel meat.

She was not squeamish about handling the bloody strings. She held up the morsel, surrendering it when the falcon nipped it from her fingers. "What's her name?"

"I've...never named her," Navarre admitted. "You choose one."

"Me?" He nodded his encouragement. "Minerva."

"Minerva," he repeated. "Now, here's the whistle. When you're ready, just push out with your forearm and she'll launch. Use the whistle to call her back."

"Shouldn't she hunt?"

"Yes, but not now. First we've got to get her to return to you."

They practiced taking off. Isabeau blew the whistle. "Let me take her, first, to show you," Navarre said. He held out his gloved arm to demonstrate catching the falcon as she landed. He wrapped his fingers around her talons to hold her in place. After a bit of meat, he launched her again. "Now you," he told her. He positioned himself behind her to guide her arm.

Isabeau leaned backward into him, so that her shoulders touched his chest. She blew the whistle. Minerva wheeled and returned. When the bird flapped her wings to perch, Isabeau betrayed the first sign of nerves he had yet seen: she flinched a tiny bit, rocking backward. Reflexively, he put his arm round her waist to brace them both. She drew a deep breath. Her hand fell on top of his and gripped, not in shock, but with warmth. He held her tighter.

Minerva found purchase and settled. She screamed once. "Steady, my lady," Navarre told Isabeau. He added tension to his arm to support hers.

"My name is Isabeau," she told him. "I wish you would use it."

"Isabeau," Navarre said, shuddering. She twisted her neck to look at her lady-in-waiting, and sent Minerva flying again when she turned to face him.

"Yes," she said, smiling at him. Then she ducked underneath his arm, escaping the circle of his embrace. "Catherine!" she called. "I forgot my shawl. This wind is chilly; would you go and fetch it for me?"

The maid rose and curtseyed. "Of course, my lady," she said gleefully. Navarre had the distinct impression this errand had been pre-planned between them. Catherine left without even bothering to remind them to keep a proper distance.

Isabeau took his hand. "We haven't long," she warned. "I need your help."

He sighed. "Your Uncle the King, and the Bishop," he said simply.

"Yes," she exclaimed, pleased he seemed to know all about it. "Can I count you as an ally?"

Navarre took a step back. "Are you...do you think I require anything from you in return for protection?" he asked suspiciously.

She looked stricken. "I hope not. I spoke to Father Imperius. He said you are a man of honor."

"Forgive me," he said instantly. "I only meant...I believe you to be a lady of quality. I would not wish you to lower yourself out of fear."

She searched his face. "Do you consider yourself below me?" she asked.

"It's not what I consider or do not, my lady," he said. He made himself sound colder than he wished to be. "I am beneath you. You would do well to stay away."

"You say that, but you agreed to be my tutor, my teacher," she pressed forward. "I haven't time for games. If you do not feel as I think you do, say so, and I will...I will do my best to keep my uncle and the Bishop at bay, on my own. But...I think you are as intrigued by me as I am by you. I would like to know you, Captain. I would like us to be...friends, at least."

"Believe me when I say I will always act in your interest, whether we are friends or not, but yesterday is not today. I cannot--if you indulge your desires, you will be in even more danger." He sighed. "You are not wrong. If I were a nobleman, I would sue for your hand myself. But I cannot command the price the King expects."

"And I am not chattel," Isabeau said hotly. "I am not to be sold."

"I agree," Navarre told her with a shrug. He didn't mention that he had no power to stop it happening.

"I should not be--you do?" she asked, suddenly changing course.

He sighed again, scanning the horizon for Minerva. It was easier than meeting her eye. "I have seen many things in this life, my lady. My mother was a strong woman, and the world treated her cruelly when my father died. I think one of the worst things about men is...the way they see women as things. Too many think they can help themselves, without regard for the lady's desires. It's--"

He didn't get a chance to say what it was, because suddenly Isabeau was in his arms. "I desire you. And we only have a few minutes before Catherine comes back. So if you feel as I do, then stop wasting time." She raised herself on tiptoe and pressed her lips against his.

"Isabeau," he breathed, and clutched her tight. "I do, God help me, I barely know you, but--"

"I know, I know. Just kiss me," she said desperately. They embraced with passion, the falcon forgotten as they stole what time they had.

"She's coming," Isabeau warned after too brief an interlude. She separated, straightened her veil and gown, while he forced his body to obey his command and settle itself. Catherine walked primly up to them, shawl in hand.

"My lady," she offered, and put the cloth about her mistress' shoulders. Isabeau blew Minerva's whistle. The hawk returned to her hand, and this time, she did not need Navarre's support, but he stood close anyway.

So it went for several weeks, especially once Charles left Aquila for other cities in his realm. Isabeau and Navarre practiced falconry every other day. He looked forward to their time together like nothing else--especially the falconry lessons, for they were essentially unchaperoned. While Catherine remained nearby, she pointedly ignored the little ways in which they touched, brushed hands, or leaned into one another. It gave them time to talk, as well. Navarre valued her conversation above most things on earth. He loved to hear her tell him tales, and she often asked him to think about the world in ways he never imagined. Meanwhile, Isabeau was inventive in her excuses to spend time together. She trained with the guards once or twice weekly. She organized riding parties and market trips, and always requested that the Captain personally head her security. It reached the point where he was hard-pressed to maintain his obligations. As for Oswyn, he found more and more excuses not to see him privately. But every week, every day, there was mass. And there was Oswyn. His scrutiny grew more and more pernicious. Navarre feared he might strike soon; the trouble was, he had no idea what form of attack the man would take. And he could barely bring himself to play the willing postulant, in order to discover the Bishop's intentions.

One night in early October, there was a knock at his chamber door. It was late; he had been laboring over the garrison accounts, using too many candles and even more quills, as he struggled to write still, and tended to ruin them by pressing too hard and bending the straw. He tossed the feather aside, happy for the interruption, but alert. Knocks after vespers rarely meant anything good.

It was Isabeau. She was alone, hair unbound, and in servant's clothes. "We have to talk," she said urgently. Navarre stood aside to let her in. He checked outside the hallway before closing the door.

"No one followed you?" he asked.

"No," she confirmed. Before she continued, she kissed him. "Hello," she said when she had finished.

"Hello. I hope you didn't risk coming here just for that," he teased.

She rolled her eyes. "No. It's Oswyn." She held up a letter. "This is from the King. He's...he's put it into my Uncle's head that he should be my confessor."

"That's not good," Navarre agreed. "What did you tell them?"

"That I have a confessor, but of course, that's just a breath of wind to them. Navarre, we need a plan."

"Do you have a plan?" he asked.

"We run away, together," she proposed. "This week. As soon as possible."

"Have you considered telling the King that you suspect Oswyn has carnal desires for you?" Navarre suggested.

She considered. "Not a horrible idea. Worst case, he doesn't believe me; we run. Best case, he sends to Rome and destroys Oswyn…" With a grimace, she dropped into one of his two chairs. "Is this how you live?" she asked, but it wasn't with judgment. "Simple. I could grow accustomed to it."

"Write and tell him you fear Oswyn's intentions," Navarre pressed. "It could also help you with respect to your marriage prospects."

"I don't want marriage prospects," she reminded him. "But...it would buy us time. We could lay aside some traveling clothes, my mother's necklace, oh, and money, of course. Have you any men you can trust? If we had to run, could they be called on to help get our horses ready?"

"Slow down," he cautioned. "I can groom our horses, if needed. If it comes to that. The men will do as I tell them; they don't need to know why. But before that--"

"So, you're willing? You'd run away with me?" she asked breathlessly.

"Isabeau," he said, taking her hand. "I told you, you may have anything of me you wish."

"I don't have your name," she replied. "That's one thing I wish."

"Etienne," he offered, deliberately misunderstanding. "I've...wanted you to use it, for a long time."

"I meant--"

"I know," he cut her off. "And if we run, we'll go to Imperius first. He'll do it, if we ask him."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Even if I have to drink him under the table to make him agree."

Isabeau leaned into his hand to lever herself out of the seat. "In that case, Etienne, why wait?" she asked.

"Because--"

"Why?"

"Because…." He searched for the reason that would make sense to her. He couldn't find one. There were dozens of reasons, of course, but none of them held up when he looked into her eyes. "Because it's dangerous. We could be outlawed, accused of treason. It's a rash choice."

"Is it? I want you. I love you. You love me. You want me--are you really going to allow the King to send me God knows where and marry some gout-ridden old man for his political gain?"

"That's not--"

"If that even happens," she continued. "And you can't tell me you want that horrible Bishop to force himself--"

"No!" he cried. "I don't want him to touch you. He's more treacherous than you know."

"So, what do we do? Are you going to let them have their way, or are you going to take what I offer freely? Are you just like them or no? Etienne?" She raked her eyes over his face. Her lip quivered. Unspilled tears shone in her eyes, but she blinked them back.

He picked up Minerva's whistle. He offered it to her. "I'm yours, Isabeau. I'm at your call the way this hawk is at mine." He moved close. "Say my name again," he implored.

"Etienne," she obliged, and pressed up for another passionate kiss. He captured her mouth, pushed her lips open to taste her with his tongue. She pressed her whole body against his, soft, yielding, and sinewy. His desire flamed anew. Never before had her hair been loose; he let his fingers weave through its blonde waves, slip underneath the golden tresses to touch her delicate neck, her gently curved shoulders, down the bones of her spine, and lower, to the round globes of her buttocks. He pressed her closer, so she could feel him stiffen against her. She moaned and ran her hands over his jaw, down his chest, and then, up under his loose shirt. "Etienne," she repeated, and let him lift her into his embrace. He stumbled toward his bed, wishing it were the down feather mattress he was sure she was used to. "Yes, yes," she encouraged him. As he lowered her onto it, the spent candle on his table guttered, leaving only the moonlight.

***

Hours later, she rose and threw her dress back on. "I have to go," she whispered, "or someone will see me."

"Be careful," he told her. "Shall I--"

"Better you don't provide an escort," she said, shaking her head. "If I'm stopped, I'm just a serving wench, after all."

"I've a better idea," he said. "Open that cupboard. Take my other shirt; there should be a pair of trousers that will fit."

She shook her head again. "No, but...that's a fine notion. If we run, we should run as two men, not as man and woman. I'll see if I can lay by a set of boys' clothes." She returned to the bedside and leaned over him for another kiss. "You're smarter than you look, Navarre," she teased.

"No, I'm not," he admitted. "I'm fool enough to love far above myself."

Her smile faded. "Stop saying that," she chided. "Your character is what defines you, not your birthright."

He disagreed, but was not about to cause her any further disappointment. He only ever wanted her to smile.

After she left, he lay in bed, thinking long and hard about the difficulty that faced them. Running was likely to be their only option. He didn't believe Charles would accept her protestations for a moment, but at least, if she attempted to drive a wedge between the King and the Bishop, they had some time to plan their getaway. He still had another rôle to play, himself.

It meant keeping yet another summons from Oswyn, a few days later. He arrived, as requested, for dinner with His Excellency. He had every intention of stringing Oswyn along while they played for time, but inwardly, he dreaded the prospect of another assignation. He bitterly regretted ever responding to Oswyn's advances--not for the alleged sin of it, but because Oswyn had proven such a scheming snake.

"I'm glad you accepted my invitation," the Bishop said, after they were served and he ordered the acolyte to withdraw. "I've been thinking, about our last disagreement. Have you also had further opportunity to examine the matter?"

"I...have," he said carefully. "But I have not reconsidered. I will not help you in the way you wish. Ask anything else of me, and if it's in my power, it's yours. But not that."

Oswyn said nothing. He picked at a platter of grilled snails, pulling the mollusk out with a two-tined fork and sucking it down noiselessly. "You have not confessed, these last few weeks," he commented pointedly.

"I have been...going to confession in the parish," Navarre claimed.

"To whom?" Oswyn demanded. "You have not made a full shriving, have you? With the whole catalogue of your...sins?" The way he leaned on his words made it clear what he was asking.

"I have said nothing either of us would regret," Navarre confirmed.

"Then you have not been absolved properly," Oswyn said. "Aren't you burdened?" He shifted in his seat and put one hand on Navarre's knee. "Do you not long to know God's grace?"

Navarre remained motionless. "I am at peace," he said mildly. "And I am not in the mood for games. What would you have of me?"

Oswyn smiled. "You're so stubborn," he chuckled. "Eat your supper, Etienne. Enjoy yourself. You used to enjoy my company."

"I used to think you were a man of principle," Navarre said, though that was not entirely true. He had always seen the signs that Oswyn was selfish and predatory. He had chosen to ignore them because he liked him. But the more Oswyn revealed of himself, the less attractive he became.

"I am a man of principles," Oswyn responded without ire. "My principles are, really, quite simple." He ate another snail. "You really should eat. I've plans for this evening. You'll want all your..vigor."

Navarre suppressed a twitch of revulsion. How had he ever considered Oswyn a friend? Truly, he had always been power-drunk, egotistical and even a bit sadistic. Where at first, Navarre had actually found the denigration just a little bit exhilarating, its novelty had worn off quickly. Now, he had no appetite--for Oswyn or for anything on the table. But he had to put up at least a bit of pretense, for Isabeau's sake. He took a small portion of a cheese tart, and poured himself a bit of wine to wash down both the pie and his disgust.

"You ought to be happy, incidentally," Oswyn continued. "My plans are coming to fruition. I could never begrudge you, you know. Quite the opposite. I've been thinking of a way to get you want you want, even without your assistance. So I've arranged for you to go with us, when we take Isabeau to her intended."

Navarre nearly choked. "Intended?" he repeated. "His Majesty has accepted an offer of marriage for her, then?" He kept his tone carefully neutral.

"Yes, to Æthelstan of Mercia," Oswyn disclosed. "And naturally, I'm to conduct her there, as it's my homeland. We will require protection, of course."

"My protection," Navarre confirmed.

"Just so. Unfortunately, she will not reach her destination. Gaul is so dangerous, especially in winter." He smiled. "I've decided...you can have her. When I'm done, of course. Unless you wish to share her equally, as I once offered."

Navarre's hand convulsed toward his sword. It was perhaps lucky for them both that he was unarmed that night, or he might have driven the blade between Oswyn's ribs there and then. "She does not desire you," he bit out.

"But she does desire you," Oswyn countered. "And just as you have prostituted yourself to protect her, my dear boy, I believe Isabeau will do as much to keep you alive. Don't you agree?"

"Why are you telling me this?" Navarre asked.

"Why not? What are you going to do about it?" Oswyn mocked. "If you attempt to flee, I can accuse her of witchcraft. I can tell Charles that you abducted her, and send every soldier in the Kingdom after you. And don't forget, I can reveal you for a sodomite. Or I can do worse than you would ever imagine. But believe me, Navarre, you will never possess her, except by my leave. I will see to it that you are kept apart. Even if I must use sorcery to do it."

"You're a devil," Navarre growled.

Oswyn clicked his tongue. "Temper, temper, Etienne. You're speaking to a representative of Holy Mother Church."

"If you are its best example, then to hell with the Church," Navarre exclaimed.

"Ah, blasphemy," Oswyn said. He wiped his lips with his napkin. "Well, I think I'm quite sated. You? Given what I've just heard, I don't think we should delay your confession a moment longer."

Navarre stood so quickly that he upset his chair. "I'm quite done," he declared. "If you harm her, if you denounce her, if you so much as insult her honor, I'll kill you." He strode to the door, then turned back. "Or she will. She's quite handy with a sword herself, you know. You might have noticed as much, if you bothered to think of her as a person."

He shut the door behind him without giving Oswyn a chance to say anything more. He was grateful that the stairs from the Bishop's apartments were long, and empty, giving him the chance to compose himself before he ran into anyone else.

He moved quickly. There was no time to lose; Oswyn had hinted they would be traveling during winter, which meant he likely already had set his plans in motion. Their best chance was to leave before the Bishop could take another step. They had to run, that very night. He took advantage of his proximity to the monastic quarters to find Imperius and beg him to prepare a sacrement of marriage.

"But...to whom?" Imperius asked.

"You'll know when I return with the bride," he promised. "I'll be back before compline."

Next, he went to the barracks. He found one of the pages changing the rushes on the floor. "You, come with me," he ordered sharply. He did not wait to verify that the boy had followed, but instead opened the door to the storerooms. He selected two rucksacks, filled one with clothes he judged would fit Isabeau, added a pair of boys' boots, and handed it to the page. "Take this to Lady Catherine in the royal apartments and ask her to give it to Lady Isabeau. Tell her to tell the Lady that if she wishes me to recruit her brother, she should have him meet me in the chapel at compline, so he can take his vows of loyalty. Can you remember that?"

"I can, sir." The boy scratched his head. "I didn't know the Lady Isabeau had a brother, sir."

"He's newly arrived," Navarre said, "and don't be impertinent to your superior officers."

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir," the lad stammered, blushing.

"It's all right." Navarre reached into his purse. He had very little in coin, but he drew out a shiny farthing and handed it to the page. "Tell no one about this, understand? The Lady's brother was meant to go into the church, but he'd rather soldier. The King would be very angry if he learned of it."

The page blanched. "I won't breathe a word, sir," he promised.

"Good lad. Off you go," Navarre instructed. Even as the page left on his errand, he went to his own chambers. It took no time at all to pack his few possessions. As for Minerva, she was sleeping on her perch. He gently lifted her into a covered basket for transport. Then he hefted the rucksack onto his shoulder, threw his cloak over it, and carried the bird with him back to Father Imperius.

He reached the chapel just as compline began to ring. Navarre paced nervously...would they be discovered? Would anyone challenge the page, and if so, would he lie credibly? Would Catherine deliver his message, and would Isabeau understand it?

"I suppose it's true, all bridegrooms are nervous," Imperius joked. "But, you still haven't told me who it is you're wedding in such a hurry."

"Do you need me to tell you, my friend?" Navarre asked.

Imperius was silent for a moment, reading Navarre's face. "No, I suppose I do not." He sighed. "I need a drink."

"Drink all you like, but save enough for us to take communion. We want a lawful marriage," Navarre insisted.

"If it's a lawful marriage you want, then I will hear both your confessions first," Imperius demanded.

"Yes, fine," Navarre agreed. Imperius's face lightened, as if transported. "What?" Navarre wondered. He didn't think his words had transformed the priest's mood so completely.

"She's here," Imperius told him.

Navarre whipped around. Isabeau was dressed in the clothes he had provided, and she looked so fetching he wanted to catch her up there and then. She stepped over the threshold of the chapel. "Wait one moment, please," she implored. She reached into her rucksack and pulled out a long gown of fine white wool. This she pulled on over the boys' clothes. "If I'm going to be wed, I'd like to look presentable," she chuckled. She threw a veil over her hair and held it in place with a tiny circlet of gold.

"Then come, my children, and let me shrive you before we begin," said Imperius.

Navarre said, "You go first. I'm sure if I do, I'll commit another sin before you finish."

"What sin could you possibly--"

"Lust," he said with a wink.

"Well, we'll both have to put it into our next confessions, then," Isabeau said, "because I'll have the same problem."

"Can we stop wasting time?" Imperius called.

"Go," Navarre told her. Her confession was brief; he entered the room next. Under the seal, he told Imperius all--Oswyn's threats, the information about Isabeau's planned betrothal, and even that he and Isabeau had already been in love before he had resumed confessing to Imperius over the summer. He stopped short of admitting Oswyn's and his liaisons, but came as close as he dared to confirming that Oswyn had propositioned him both in the past and during the current crisis. Imperius must have been flabbergasted by it all, for the penance he prescribed seemed, to Navarre, disproportionately low compared to all he had imparted. Still, he wasn't going to complain.

No sooner did Imperius complete the office of confession than he was out of the chamber and behind the altar. He beckoned them forward. "Let us begin, my children. And God go with you."

Isabeau pulled off her gown and veil moments after their first kiss as husband and wife. She rolled them expertly, stuffed them into the rucksack, and twisted her hair into a bun with practiced efficiency. Then she produced a knitted cap from the bag and tucked her hair up into it. They put on their cloaks.

"Quickly, and quietly," Navarre told her. With a final farewell to Imperius, they slipped out of the chapel and across the darkened yard to the stables. Navarre busied himself with Goliath's saddle. Isabeau turned at the stable doors to scan the area before closing them.

"We're clear, for now," she announced. She walked down the stalls to her own mare. "Easy, Callista, shh…." She led the horse forward, grabbed another blanket and saddle, and began to groom her for travel.

"Here," Navarre offered, having finished Goliath's saddling. He tightened Callista's girth straps before returning to bridle his charger. Moving quickly, Isabeau hooked her mare's bridle into place. Navarre knelt by her, and before making a stirrup of his fingers for her to mount, he pressed his head against her, nestling between her breasts. "My love," he murmured.

"Navarre," she said. "Etienne. Husband. Let's away."

"As my lady wills," he agreed. She set her foot in the steeple of his hands, and he hoisted her into her saddle. He handed Minerva's cage to her to hold. Then he opened the stable door wide, led Goliath out beside her, and shut the door again before swinging himself up onto the stallion.

They walked the horses to the city gates. "Captain," the guards on duty saluted him.

"Night patrol," he barked with authority. They parted without further question. Isabeau tugged her cap down further, but they made no challenge; she was a shadowed fellow guardsman in the company of their Captain. For all his threats, Oswyn had not anticipated they would run so quickly; no orders had apparently come from the Bishop or anyone else to restrict their movements.

"Keep a steady walking pace," he advised her as they rode out. "Don't speed up until we're well out of sight."

She nodded. "Are you nervous?" she asked him.

"Only that they'll realize you're gone," he said. "But not that we're leaving." He chanced a look behind them, but Aquila still slumbered in the deep night. They were far enough from the gates to risk bringing his horse closer. "Give me that cage," he offered. She surrendered it, and he positioned it in front of his saddlehorn, so he could hold it and the reins in one hand. Then he reached across for her hand.

"Wife," he said, grinning.

"Husband," said Isabeau, with a matching smile.

They held hands for a few paces. Then he twisted again, to check the pathway back to Aquila. He nudged Goliath into a faster walk. Isabeau kept pace. "Well, my lady. The world, it seems, is ours for the moment. Where shall we go?"

She flashed that impish grin that had utterly won his heart. "How about Navarre? Show me where you came from." She reached into her pocket and held out a shiny object. When he extended his hand, she pressed Minerva's whistle into his palm. Then she laughed, that silvery sound as joyous as the bells on Minerva's jesses. "I'm your falcon, my love. As long as we're together, I'll go anywhere with you."