The Mistress of Normandy
#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs transports readers to the lush French countryside of Normandy in a tale of love, family honor and true knights in shining armor[unknown-8230] www.SusanWiggs.com
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#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs transports readers to the lush French countryside of Normandy in a tale of love, family honor and true knights in shining armor…
“Wiggs adds humor, brains and a certain cultivation
that will leave readers anticipating her next romance.” —Publishers Weekly on The Drifter
“Susan Wiggs delves deeply into her characters’ hearts
and motivations to touch our own.” —RT Book Reviews on The Mistress
“[Wiggs] has created a quiet page-turner
that will hold readers spellbound as the relationships, characters and story unfold. Fans of historical romances will naturally flock to this skillfully executed [Chicago Fire] trilogy.” —Publishers Weekly on The Firebrand
“Susan Wiggs masterfully combines real historical events
with a powerful captive/captor romance and… draws readers in with her strong writing style….” —RT Book Reviews on The Hostage
Also by SUSAN WIGGS
Contemporary Romances
Home Before Dark
The Ocean Between Us Summer by the Sea Table for Five Lakeside Cottage Just Breathe The Goodbye Quilt
The Lakeshore Chronicles
Summer at Willow Lake
The Winter Lodge Dockside Snowfall at Willow Lake Fireside Lakeshore Christmas The Summer Hideaway Marrying Daisy Bellamy Return to Willow Lake Candlelight Christmas
The Bella Vista Chronicles
The Apple Orchard
The Beekeeper’s Ball
Historical Romances
The Lightkeeper
The Drifter
The Tudor Rose Trilogy
At the King’s Command
The Maiden’s Hand At the Queen’s Summons
Chicago Fire Trilogy
The Hostage
The Mistress The Firebrand
Calhoun Chronicles
The Charm School
The Horsemaster’s Daughter Halfway to Heaven Enchanted Afternoon A Summer Affair
Look for Susan Wiggs’s next novel
THE MAIDEN OF IRELAND available soon from Harlequin MIRA
The Mistress of Normandy
Susan Wiggs
Refreshed version of THE LILY AND THE LEOPARD,
newly revised by author
Contents
Westminster
January 1414
He sat naked in a wooden tub; the King of England loomed at his back. He shivered, tensed, and awaited a sluice of cold water from Henry V’s own hand. The wind whistled, harmonizing with the voices in the shadows of the stone chamber.
“Always thought he’d earn his spurs on the battlefield,” remarked Thomas, Duke of Clarence. “Enguerrand Fitzmarc is the king’s own avenger. He served us right well at Anjou.”
“It was a different dragon Rand slew for the House of Lancaster,” said Richard Courtenay. The Bishop of Norwich leaned forward, the rushlight giving his face a ghostly aspect. “A far more deadly dragon,” he added. “God in heaven, Tom, if not for Rand, you and your brother the king would be but carcasses carved up and served by the Lollards to the Thames.”
Listening, Rand felt pride in Courtenay’s tribute. Then he felt shame in that pride. What had he done, after all, save overhear a plot of ill-guided religious fanatics? A peasant could have done as much. But it hadn’t been a peasant; it had been Rand, gone a-harping at twilight, stumbling into intrigue, barely escaping with his hide intact to alert the king at Eltham.
“Are you ready,” King Henry said with quiet solemnity, “to wash away your former life?”
Rand paused before delivering the expected response. Unlike many aspirants who yearned for the glory of knighthood, he did not want to shed his former life: the quiet sunsets over Arundel keep, the baying of the alaunts on a hunt, the silvery tones of his harp across the heaths of Sussex, the warmth of Justine’s hand in his.... Jesu, could he wash her away?
The men in the chamber fell silent. The king waited.
“Aye, Your Grace,” said Rand.
Water, blessed by the bishop and chilled by the January air, drenched Rand from head to toe, crawling like rivers of ice over his naked flesh. He sat unflinching, although inside he clenched every nerve against the cold.
Jack Cade, Rand’s scutifer, stepped forward. Awkwardly Jack held a pair of barber’s shears in his maimed hand. He flashed an irreverent grin as he bent to his task, the crude scissors biting into Rand’s golden locks. “Enough baths like this,” Jack muttered, taking up a razor, “and you’ll be well able to hold to your vow of chastity.” The razor nicked Rand’s chin.
Hearing King Henry clear his throat, Rand swallowed his laughter. “Hush, Jack, and mind that blade. The shearing’s supposed to show my submission to God, not to your clumsiness.”
Washed clean of his former life and shorn of his former identity, Rand was dressed in shirt, hose, and shoes—black, the color of death, that he might never forget his own mortality. Over this he wore a white tunic for purity, then a red cloak of surpassing richness to show his nobility and willingness to shed blood for God and his king.
Jack secured a white belt around Rand’s waist. “Another symbol of chastity,” he whispered, disgusted. “Would you like me to loosen it, Enguerrand Sans Tache?”
