Merry Medieval Christmas

by Elizabeth Rose et al.

  A familiar lump rose in her throat. Her beloved brothers were lost forever.

  “Did you survive the oysters, demoiselle de Toeni?”

  She clenched her jaw, the Breton’s teasing tone raising her hackles. “I am well, thank you,” she replied. “Are the horses ready?”

  Satisfied that she’d reminded him of his place, she rose from the table and sauntered outside, perplexed to discover it was pouring rain.

  ~~~

  Dervenn hoped the rain would stop by the time they embarked at Gravesham. Though now only a drizzle, the moisture from the heavens had done nothing to improve Victorine’s mood. She wasn’t an expert rider—surprising for a woman from such a high ranking family. He had a suspicion she was uncomfortable after yesterday’s ride, though it was unlikely she would admit it.

  She seemed lost in thought and her sadness perplexed him. He’d seen a hint of her beauty with yestereve’s rare smiles and wanted to coax it back. “I knew your brothers,” he told her.

  She glanced across at him sharply, the pain of loss evident in her green eyes. He wondered if perhaps she’d been thinking of them. “They were fine men,” he said.

  For a moment he thought she might burst into tears and he wished he’d chosen another topic of conversation. But then she nodded. “Yes, they were. I miss them.”

  It was a chink in the armor.

  “I knew your father too,” he added.

  She stiffened her shoulders. “I expect you did,” she replied. “He was known to everyone.”

  The armor was back in place, but the momentary glimpse into the heart of Victorine de Toeni told him her father hadn’t treasured the jewel he had in his daughter. But then he had met the arrogant sod and wasn’t surprised. It saddened him. He suspected her brittle exterior was a defense against years of neglect. It was a shield only a determined man would have any hope of breaching.

  His memory went back to the Saxon shield wall at Hastings. For hours William’s forces had despaired of ever breaking through that impenetrable barrier. Yet they had.

  “The river,” Marie cried from beneath the protection of his cloak. “I can see the river.”

  It lightened his heart that the sun chose that moment to reappear. “And the rain has stopped,” he replied. “A good omen.”

  He risked a glance at Victorine, unsure whether what he saw on her rain-dampened face was hope for a new beginning in Westminster or despair at the hurts of the past.

  He too had a peculiar sense he was at a crossroads. Did he have the courage to pursue the campaign to conquer Victorine’s heart? Better to take himself off to some godforsaken part of William’s new kingdom and lick his wounds.

  He’d never considered himself a coward, but the challenge of winning over Victorine de Toeni was more daunting than any battle he’d ever fought. Military strategy he understood, but the way into a woman’s heart?

  ~~~

  It was an honor to be sailing up the Tamesis in a barge sent by King William. They drew many a curious eye as they passed, not all of them friendly, which served to remind Victorine they were in a hostile land.

  However, she barely paid attention to any of the points of interest Sir Dervenn indicated, fascinated by the muddy river itself. It was wider than she’d expected, perhaps as wide as the mighty Seine, another river she’d never seen but heard a great deal about.

  When her maternal grandfather was still alive he’d regaled her and her brothers with tales of their Viking ancestors sailing longboats up the Seine into the heart of the Frankish kingdom and capturing Rouen.

  They’d left Norway in search of a new life. She was on a journey to an uncertain future, one that would be laid out for her by a king.

  She just wished the Breton would stop staring at her.

  She was tempted to ask him if he knew how her brothers had died. Had he been there? Did she really want to know? Fritz and Charles were gentle, fun-loving souls who weren’t suited to the warrior life their father imposed on them, but it was of some solace to think they’d died bravely and with honor.

  The long voyage in December proved to be a bone-chilling experience and by the time they arrived at the Palace of Westminster, she had lost feeling in her fingers and toes. She feared her nose must be as red as a winter beetroot.

  She was anxious and excited to meet her guardian for the first time, but it was a relief to learn the audience would take place on the morrow. Mayhap by then her frozen extremities might have thawed.

  It was a bitter disappointment when they were ushered into a large musty-smelling chamber whose walls were lined with a dozen pallets.

  She turned to express her outrage to Sir Dervenn before it came to her that he hadn’t accompanied them from the dock to the Palace. He must think her manners atrocious. She hadn’t even bidden him farewell.

  Thoroughly dejected, she traipsed into the chamber behind the others.

  “Oh well,” Guerlaine remarked. “We won’t be here long.”

  “Why not?” Marie asked sleepily.

  “King William will soon find husbands for us, silly,” Guerlaine replied. “If he hasn’t already.”

  Victorine claimed one of the pallets, not understanding the peculiar resentment that she wouldn’t be allowed to choose the man she wed. It was ridiculous. She’d never had a say in anything affecting her life, so why the choice of a mate should matter…

  A mate.

  The notion of spending her life in a loveless marriage filled her with dread. She didn’t want to live like her mother, chained to a brutal man who didn’t know the meaning of the word love.

  Servants toted in the iron trunks. She identified hers and stood stoically as Jumelle got her undressed and ready for bed. She’d never known the girl to have such cold hands, but couldn’t find it in her heart to chastise her. It was a sad truth that a peasant had for years been her only female confidante.

  No pallet had been provided for Jumelle. The other four or five servants huddled together near the cold hearth with only their damp cloaks for warmth.

  She curled up on the pallet and drew the icy linens up to her chin. Feeling gradually returned to her fingers and toes, but she couldn’t stop her teeth chattering.

  Jumelle curtseyed. “Sleep well, milady.”

  Victorine had never shared a bed with anyone, but…

  “Climb in here,” she whispered, lifting the linens. “We’ll sleep back to back.”

  The girl looked at her as if she’d lost her wits, but then quickly cast off her cloak and shyly climbed between the linens.

  As the chamber gradually quieted, exhaustion claimed them. Victorine drifted off, comforted by the warmth of another body pressed against hers.

  INTERVIEW WITH A KING

  Shortly after dawn the next day, Dervenn was ushered into the royal antechamber where he bent the knee before his monarch.

  William, clad in a long linen nightshirt with a blanket around his shoulders, smiled and came forward to embrace him, pulling him to his feet. “Dervenn! Bienvenu! Forgive my attire. It’s cold and damp in this wretched place. I do not know how the Confessor tolerated it.”

  The king seemed to have conveniently forgotten that Harold Godwinson had ruled England after the Confessor’s death, but then William had always maintained Harold had stolen the throne promised to him.

  Having spent a fitful night in a cramped and dingy barracks he had to agree about the conditions. “Westminster lacks the comfort of Norman buildings, but I am confident Your Majesté will soon put matters to rights. I caught sight of the construction of the new castle as we came down the Tamesis.”

  William preened, gesturing Dervenn to a chair. “The White Tower will be the most magnificent castle in all of England. I intend for it to last a thousand years.”

  Dervenn laughed. “At least.”

  William shared the humor as he sat across from Dervenn. “So. These new charges of mine. I thank you for escorting them safely from Dover.”

  “My honor,” he replied.
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  “Tell me about them.”

  Why was the newly crowned king of a conquered land concerned about a bevy of orphaned girls? “The youngest is seven,” he began.

  William waved a dismissive hand as if shooing away a pesky gnat. “Oui, oui. Marie de Monluc, but she is too young. In five years or so she’ll be a fine catch for some young nobleman. I was proud to call her father my friend.

  “However, I have knights to whom I have promised wives as a reward for their bravery. I cannot send them off unwed to the estates I’ve granted them. With a Norman wife of good family, it’s more likely they’ll establish themselves quickly.”

  This was news to Dervenn. He didn’t recall the king mentioning the reward of an estate, nor did he particularly relish the notion of occupying lands confiscated from Anglo-Saxons. He decided silence was the best reply.

  “What did you think of the de Toeni girl?” William asked.

  Dervenn gripped the chair’s ornate arms and shifted his weight. He’d thought of nothing else all night long, worrying for some inexplicable reason about her comfort in this dank palace. “She is pleasing,” he replied.

  William guffawed, scratching his hairy shin. “A man of few words, as usual, my dear de Roure. She might be pleasing to look at, but she’s prickly, like her father. Do you want her or not?”

  Yes, he wanted her, prickles and all. Biddable women weren’t to his taste. But she would never accept him, never love him.

  However, giving voice to such fears would sound maudlin to a man like William. “Non, majesté,” he replied. “I will not marry.”

  William pointed to his own eye. “You think to hide from life behind your disfigurement, mon ami?”

  Dervenn bristled. William had survived Hastings unscathed. Who was he to judge how it felt to be horribly scarred for life? “You are right,” he replied with a strained smile. “No woman would want to wake every morning to this face.”

  William stared, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Victorine may not realize it now, but she needs a man like you. You are well suited.”

  “She won’t see it that way. I’m not a Norman for one thing.”

  “Bah,” William exclaimed as he rose from the chair. “On the morrow we mark the end of this month of December of Our Lord One thousand and sixty-six. The coronation has interfered with many traditional Yuletide festivities and tomorrow’s celebrations will hopefully make up for that. I intend to invite all my wards. See if you can’t charm the little minx.”

  The king’s perfunctory wave let Dervenn know the interview was over. He chuckled inwardly as he left the chamber thinking of Victorine’s reaction if she knew the monarch’s opinion of her. Little minx indeed!

  As he made his way along the narrow hallway, his male urges stirred when he conjured a vision of the minx in his bed. Life with Victorine wouldn’t be dull.

  Most men expected a wife to be obedient and subservient, something he suspected Victorine would never be, unless some brute beat the spirit out of her. He knew many who wouldn’t hesitate. The notion knotted his gut.

  ~~~

  Victorine had assumed her audience with the king would be private but deemed it inopportune to let her disappointment show. He must be busy with affairs of state and could hardly be expected to meet with each girl separately. No doubt a private ceremony would be arranged later for her to become acquainted with her betrothed.

  She’d only ever met King William once, for two minutes. The Duke of the Normans had come to their castle to discuss the proposed invasion with her father. She was a nuisance, shooed away soon after being formally presented.

  Her memory was of a tall, gruff, travel-worn man. The richly-garbed nobleman who lounged before her on an ornately carved wooden throne looked like a powerful king. Her heart sank. He probably didn’t even remember her.

  To her surprise, Dervenn stood below the dais, arms folded.

  The king smiled.

  The disfigured knight did not, yet it was strangely comforting to see his familiar face. A shaft of sunlight suddenly angled down from a high window and he turned his ruined features away from its glare. She tried to imagine how difficult it must be for a proud man…

  But the king was speaking. She’d been preoccupied with the arrogant Breton and had no notion of what her guardian had said.

  She watched in confusion as Guerlaine curtseyed and glided across the small hall to curtsey again in front of a knight who had stepped out of the shadows. He bowed and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

  What was going on?

  The king picked up a parchment from his lap. “Lady Micheline de Courcy is betrothed to Sir Raoul de Brun.”

  It was a betrothal ceremony!

  She tucked an errant curl behind her ear, mortified she hadn’t been given the opportunity to prepare herself adequately for the first meeting with her future husband.

  Micheline joined her bridegroom on the other side of the hall. Victorine breathed a sigh of relief. Raoul de Brun was at least twenty years her senior and reminded her too much of her cruel father. Dervenn de Roure would be preferable.

  She glanced at him, irritated by a strange half smile that, annoyingly, made him look almost handsome. The still-bright shaft of sunlight lingered like a halo over his blonde head.

  She fidgeted with the sleeves of her gown, sweat trickling down her spine as one by one the other girls were paired off.

  When only she and Marie remained, she peered into the shadows where the unmarried knights had stood. It was apparent the only unwed knight left in the chamber was Dervenn de Roure. Anger tightened her throat. Surely he was not her intended husband.

  She couldn’t breathe, wondering what dire punishments might befall her if she refused the king’s choice.

  “I regret,” the king intoned, “that you are yet too young to become betrothed, Lady Marie. Lady Victorine de Toeni…”

  Non! Non! Non!

  “…your father’s death has caused me immeasurable personal grief.”

  She clenched her fists as the King of the English lavished praise on her late father’s contribution to the great victory. Did he even know her brothers had died?

  “I regret that my recent coronation has delayed some of our yuletide celebrations which we will make up for on the morrow. All these festivities have interfered with arrangements regarding your betrothal.”

  She quickly shut her mouth when she realized she was gaping like a floundering fish.

  “I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

  She curtseyed, then smiled smugly at Dervenn. A king had humbly begged her forgiveness, and if the ugly knight thought he had a chance at her hand… “Of course, Majesté.”

  The monarch glanced at Dervenn. “However, we cannot allow you to be the only honored guest without an escort at the celebrations on the morrow.”

  An icy hand gripped her windpipe.

  “Accordingly, Sir Dervenn de Roure will accompany you, and Lady Marie.”

  She had an urge to scream that the father whom the king had purported to lament would be outraged that his only daughter was being treated like a seven-year-old. Then she remembered he’d never shown the slightest interest in her.

  It was difficult to say if Dervenn was pleased or annoyed. The shaft of sunlight had moved on to bathe the king and a thousand dust motes in its light.

  However, one thing was for sure. She intended to wipe the snicker off Guerlaine’s face if she got a chance.

  UNEXPECTED COMFORT

  There was a time Dervenn would have liked nothing better than to accompany a beautiful woman to a grand party. Indeed, he loved to join in merrymaking and women had been known to compete for his favor.

  Things were different now. He had planned to spend the last day of December alone, with several tankards of ale.

  It was obvious from the pained expression on Victorine’s face she didn’t welcome his company. Marie would likely prove a more pleasant companion.

  The king’s revelation that
several knights had expressed a keen interest in marrying Victorine was worrisome. The prospect of fending off suitors stuck in his craw, especially since it would rile her further. After the royal slight, he got the feeling she would agree to marry anyone but him.

  She’d taken the humiliation well. For a brief moment it seemed she was going to treat the monarch to a display of her temper, but she’d kept her disappointment under control. Her future husband would be a fortunate man. She had beauty and a strong backbone, attributes a conquering knight would need in a wife if he planned to establish himself in this new land.

  The king appeared bound and determined Dervenn should consider her as his bride and had tasked him with finding her a suitable chamber. All he wanted was to slink off to some remote corner of England, mayhap Northumbria, and…

  An unexpected reverie of lying naked with Victorine before a smoldering peat fire somewhere in the wilds of the northern moors confused his thoughts.

  The insistent shaft of sunlight seemed to have addled his brain.

  ~~~

  As she left the audience, Victorine’s anger was heightened by Marie’s insistence on holding her hand and enthusing about the fun they would have with Sir Dervenn. The man didn’t know the meaning of the word fun. Come to think of it, there hadn’t been many occasions for laughter in her own life, though she had to admit the sojourn in Milton Regis…

  Servants came to collect the belongings of the other girls. Victorine paced, hands fisted in the skirts of her gown. His Majesty had said nothing about a more suitable chamber and she doubted anyone involved in the feverish preparations for the festivities would give her a second thought.

  Jumelle fussed, clucking in agreement at her loudly voiced frustrations, but then tapped her shoulder. Marie had fallen strangely silent. Victorine followed her maid’s gaze. The child sat on the edge of her pallet, sobbing quietly.

  Jumelle sat beside her. “What’s wrong, ma petite?”

  Victorine pressed her fingers to the pulse throbbing at her temples. She should have been more sensitive to Marie’s sorrow. It was difficult enough for a young woman to lose her whole family in one horrific day, but for a child—