by Ling, Maria
"Exactly," Eustace said, his patience fraying at the edges. "That was indeed what I had in mind for you. And for your women, such as you are taking. How many should I make arrangements for?"
"One," the lady said, blankly. "Ought there to be more?"
Well, he'd never known the earl's wife attended by fewer than six. "One is fine. I made preparations for three, I wasn't sure -- " He broke off. His voice had veered upwards, like a boy's in pleading. "Just as you desire." Eustace collected himself, he hadn't yet made the smallest effort at civility. "I do offer my deepest condolences on your recent loss."
She wavered at that, grief stared out of the dark eyes. "Thank you." Her hand rose, he thought at first in a gesture of warding, but she only meant to indicate the servants who now filed in carrying a selection of covered dishes. "This is all rather simple fare, we are still in mourning. But if you and your retinue would care to eat...?" She trailed off, looked for a moment bewildered and confused. Not yet accustomed to entertaining, Eustace thought with a stab of sympathy, she hadn't been mistress of this hall for long. Only the funeral meals -- and if she'd been ill herself, she might not have overseen those either.
"I'm in your debt," he said, with what he could muster of gracious acceptance. All at once he wished himself far from this place. "My men and I will be glad of food."
She made an uncertain curtsey, caught the steward's eye, nodded and withdrew. No suggestion that he should follow her, be received in her own chamber -- but in truth he hadn't expected that. He was the earl's servant, not the earl himself, and belonged in the hall.
The food was good, he made short work of it, and found the steward a courteous and sensible companion, well versed in the intricacies of entertaining a sudden troop of armed men. Eustace found the question of stabling and bedding for all settled with such speed and ease that he began to feel embarrassed. His was not, it rapidly became clear, the largest or most important retinue ever to have graced this hall.
"You will excuse me," the steward said at last. "We shall require this hall for our customary use shortly. My own men will show yours to their rest, and I have a chamber set aside for your personal use and that of your squire and page. If you would follow me...?"
Eustace traipsed after him, and found himself in a box alcove set back from a warming-room. Heaven on earth, after his draughty corner at the earl's castle. He made himself comfortable, slung his belongings on the pallet that would serve as a bed during his stay, left his page cleaning and greasing sundry articles of armour. Saw men and horses tended, made sure he understood each twist of the buildings. Returned at last, and flung himself down bodily onto the pallet, and stared up at smooth candlelit plaster while he recounted every last detail of the lady Aline in the privacy of his own mind.
***
"How did you find him?" Matilda asked.
Aline shrugged. "Younger than I thought. Not much above twenty."
"And did you speak pleasantly to him or was he treated to some portion of that temper?" The older woman smiled gently, taking the edge off her warning, and her hands eased the comb through Aline's hair with long soothing strokes.
"I did my best." Though it hadn't been easy, faced with that expressionless stare and curt tone. As if she were an annoying intrusion in his otherwise enjoyable life.
Which she might be, in fairness. Young fit men had better ways to entertain themselves than by riding along winter roads to fetch strangers from one place to another. And he was fit, she guessed that from the way he held himself, upright and alert, showing no trace of weariness after so long a journey. Though there must have been inns along the way, comfortable enough, she blushed a little to think of the simple pallet bed the steward had prepared for him. Entirely suitable, she'd been assured, and she didn't want to take too close an interest in where he slept, it would be unseemly. Though she wondered, now, if he'd gone to bed yet, if he lay cursing her irritating presence in his life or if he'd already fallen asleep. But that was silly thinking, most likely he was at prayers. Or at dice. She knew her father's men, no saints they, and the earl's men would be much the same.
What did she think of him? She didn't think of him at all. Had no reason to. Though there had been a moment, when she first saw him there in the hall, so confident and low-spoken, taking everything in his stride -- there had been a moment, when their eyes first met, and his brightened as if he beheld a beloved friend -- she'd felt a spark in her chest, a glitter of fire, a stir of life after so much death.
Well, he was new and pleasant to look at, something to distract her from grief -- no matter how briefly. She'd soon returned to sombre thoughts, made her payments and farewells, heard mass in the small chapel below, wandered through familiar rooms and remembered too many happy moments for her to be able to stay her tears. She was all cried out now, sore-eyed and swollen-faced, but with a heart strangely at peace.
"Sleep well." Matilda kissed her on the brow, then turned and tucked herself in with the other half of the blanket. "You have a long ride ahead of you, dear."
CHAPTER 2
It was pleasant, Aline conceded, to ride out on a morning like this, crisp and clear and with a light frost dusting the ground. Her palfrey danced and pricked its ears, delighted with this fresh new world. And Aline felt new hope rising within her own heart, too. She'd been weighed down for so long, sunk so deep in grief and despair, she thought she would never recall what it meant to be happy. And she wasn't happy now, couldn't be, while all those she'd loved -- all but one -- slept eternally in this frosty ground. Except it wasn't them who lay there, she reminded herself, it was only their mortal raiments, laid aside as no longer needed, while they stepped through the cleansing fire to put on heavenly robes.
She had to believe that: the thought strengthened her. And she could see the church from here, dark and low against pale fields. She'd never go there again, she realised with a pang, never see those stone slabs, never pray before that altar. Nor do her own daily devotions in the small chapel off the great hall, as she had done for as long as she remembered.
Never again. She belonged to another man now, must live in his house and under his rule. All she had to hope for was that he might be kind, or at least indifferent. Not cruel.
"What manner of man is the earl?" she asked.
Eustace shifted in the saddle, turned an odd look on her, as if surprised at the question or reluctant to answer. Though he couldn't be either, she struck the thought away. He must know she'd wish to understand the man she would answer to at their journey's end, he must have had time enough during his own service to form an opinion of the earl.
"Fair-minded," Eustace said. "Concerned for your welfare. Open-tempered and plain-spoken, there's no doubting his thoughts. Er."
Saints above, she was going to the house of a bull on the rampage. "Violent?" she asked bluntly, because she would need to know what faced her when she arrived.
"No," Eustace assured her quickly -- too quickly, maybe. "Well, not with the women and children, not that I've heard of. I'll admit he can be pretty free with a belt among the squires, if he thinks we need it. They need it, I mean."
Oh. Aline winced in sympathy. "You grew up there?"
"I did," Eustace said. "And I can't say I have cause to complain. I don't think I've ever known him judge man or boy unfairly, nor without hearing their side of the tale. Anyone who serves him honestly can be certain of good care in return. Which is worth a great deal, I think."
"So do I." She studied him for a while longer, a fresh and cheerful face oddly frozen without a smile. Surely there ought to be a smile there, he looked as if it would belong. "I am sorry to be the cause of all this trouble," she offered hesitantly.
He stared at her with genuine astonishment. "No trouble, madam. The earl wished to have you fetched in the best possible comfort. I'm sorry I can't offer better, to be truthful." He glanced at her palfrey. "Though at least you have a good horse under you. That's something."
"So do you." It was a well-made
creature, sturdy and strong, well able to cope with the weight of armour. Her father had taught her to appreciate horses. Aline's breath caught, and she pushed the memory aside.
"A gift on recognition of my knighthood. The earl is a generous master."
When he wants to be -- she heard the addition as clearly as if he'd spoken it outright. "I'm glad to hear it."
"You need not fear for want," Eustace assured her. "He is not that kind of man. And he'll take pains to show you off to best advantage, since you are to be -- " He broke off, with a faint flush between helmet and cloak.
"Married," Aline completed with resigned understanding. "I'd guessed as much. You need not spare my feelings. I'd rather know what I'm facing."
"To a man of importance," Eustace said. "It will reflect well on you and your guardian both."
"A man of means," Aline said. "To fill his purse, which must have lightened when he bought the wardship."
"That too," Eustace admitted.
Well, at least he was honest. "Does the earl have any particular man in mind?" Aline asked. She might as well hear it now, if so, and have a few days to prepare herself.
"None I've heard of," Eustace said. "Of course, he'll have house guests for the festivities. One of them, maybe. But I don't know. I'm not that far into his confidence." He shot her another embarrassed glance. "Do not be deceived by the fact that I have the great honour to escort you to his home. He is ill from an injury and cannot come himself, nor can he spare men better thought of than myself, for they must now be his tongue and hands about all other work. I am a simple knight, no more, though I hope a devoted one."
"I see." She wasn't sure whether to be pleased or offended by his honesty. If he had any sense at all, he ought to seize this chance to ingratiate himself, to strengthen his own position by influencing those in a position to aid him later. But he seemed rather intent on making her see him exactly as he was, no better and no worse. It confused her. It didn't fit with her vision of an ambitious man.
Not all men had ambition. She knew that. But her father, veteran of many campaigns, and her mother, a daughter of earls, had taught her one thing that shone before her mind right now. In a world ruled by coin and sword, men without ambition ended up dead.
"And so," she went on, still hesitantly, "you remained in his service after he knighted you. Were you not tempted by service elsewhere -- in Normandy, perhaps?"
"Not really," Eustace said. "That costs money. And I was content to remain in the earl's service, when the place offered. Should he ever go to war, I'll see fighting enough."
"Of course." She searched her memory for any mention of the earl before she had particular cause to take note of him. "He ranged with the king against the empress, I believe?"
"And came well out of it." Eustace nodded. "I was just too young to march with him then. He left me behind as part of the regular garrison. We held the castle twice against outright assault, survived a brief siege too. He was pleased to commend me, after."
That was more like it, more what she'd expect to hear. Though his tone was not boastful, nor even proud. Just a plain statement of fact: such had been his service and such his reward.
"And..." She cast around for further topics of conversation. "Your own family, they held also to the king?"
"For the most part. Lost a brother on the empress' side, lost a sister on the king's -- she was married on the coast, died when the Angevins stormed her husband's stronghold. I understand it was quick." He spoke entirely without emotion. "The little ones, of course, were too young to trouble themselves with loyalties. I had a brother as squire at one of the Angevins' strongholds, Father bought him free and found him another lord to serve. We pulled through pretty well, on the whole." He nodded, gravely. "I heard about your own brothers. Sorry about that."
Aline winced. Burned alive, both, in their own monastery, set on fire by one of Ranulf's fiends. But that was in the past, they were safe with God, both of them. And stood ready to welcome their parents and little siblings into Paradise, had conducted them through those shining courts to cushioned chambers filled with angelic music, to spend all their heavenly hours in singing praise to the Almighty. She wished she could join them, though she had no talent for singing.
"Thank you," she said, as collected as she could manage. "You are most kind."
They rode in awkward silence for a while. Almost she wished he was less courteous, that he'd let her amble along with only Matilda for company. But he kept to her side just ahead of the carts, preceded by outriders and main guard. All carefully correct, exactly as it should be. It made her nervous.
"Tell me about the earl's court," she said. "Is there amusement there? Music, dancing?"
"On occasion. He keeps a storyteller and a couple of lute-players, you may find them entertaining. Damned racket, I always think." He flushed again, and turned beseeching eyes on her. "That remark was, er, not meant to travel further than my own mind."
Aline stifled a giggle. "I won't betray you," she assured him. "I take it you don't play yourself?"
"No ear for it," Eustace said. "Tried to learn, banned for life after the first lesson."
This time the laugh escaped from Aline's throat. "You poor man," she teased.
He looked cheerful enough about it, his face had softened into almost a smile. Now he cast a glinting look at her, from under that forbidding iron rim. "I know my limitations," he said. "Fortunately the earl doesn't care much who plays, as long as it's done well. I am content to listen."
"And enjoy," Aline said, to emphasise her promise of discretion.
"Absolutely. Show me a good lute-player and I'm the first man to pull out a coin." He grinned at her, and it transformed him: eyes alight with humour. He ought to look like this all the time, that grim-faced act when he first arrived hadn't suited him at all.
"So," she said. "Dancing?"
"Competent," Eustace said. "I wouldn't say -- " He broke off with a grimace. "You meant for you. Yes, when there's company. Table games. Hawking, of course, he takes great pride in his mews."
Aline nodded. She didn't care much for outdoors pursuits herself, except for riding too fast across open terrain and enduring the inevitable scolding after. "Stables?" she asked.
"Very fine." He glanced at her palfrey again. "You take an interest?"
"I love a good horse." She stroked the chestnut neck. "This one could outrace yours."
"A challenge, is it?" Eustace grinned across, with a competitive glint in his eyes. It stirred Aline's mettle, she longed to prove herself against him. "I'll bet my Christmas cloth that she can't. Pity we're not in a position to put it to the test. Maybe at the earl's court -- though I wouldn't count on that. He'd never risk your safety for a wager." The grin faded, and Eustace looked the palfrey over with honest appreciation. "You've had her a long time? The pair of you seem well suited."
"She's my third, and my best." Grief clouded Aline's heart. "My sisters got the ponies. Won't need them now, of course." She'd hidden out in the stables after each funeral, leaned close to each pony as she whispered the terrible truth, rested her cheek on each warm shoulder and closed her eyes at the affectionate nuzzling of her hair. Dear God, so much grief, she didn't know how she could bear it.
"I am sorry," Eustace said, all trace of a smile gone, his face shadowed with concern. "Truly I am."
Aline could only nod in acknowledgement. She was dreadfully afraid she would burst into tears.
"Do you play chess?" Eustace went on, changing the subject with a delicacy that heartened her. "The family are all very keen. I'll admit I favour the game myself. Though I can turn my hand to others, at need."
"I do." Aline gratefully caught the new topic. "Father taught me." She winced again, and this time tears did start to her eyes.
"Tell you what," Eustace said. "I'll just shut up."
Aline shook her head, and blinked feverishly. "Please don't. Talk to me about the journey. I have never been so far before. When do we stop?"
"Late afternoon," Eustace said. "I arranged lodgings on the way. If you'll permit, I'll stay within earshot. Not saying any man of the earl's would dare take liberties, but you never know. Passing strangers can't always be trusted."
"Oh." Aline stared at him, shock putting grief to flight. "You don't really think -- "
"Put it this way," Eustace said. "If anything happens to you, the earl has promised to thrust my head on a spike. I prefer that it remain attached to my neck. So if I might beg your gracious indulgence... You'll get very tired of my company, I fear."
She had to smile at that. "With such concern on your part, I doubt I could wish for better."
That startled look again, as if he'd never heard anything like it. "Er," he said. "Thank you."
A whistle from one of the men riding behind the guard caught his attention. He left her with a brief excuse, and disappeared from her side. Which left her with only Matilda for company, and strangely bereft.
***
So far so good, Eustace thought. They had made it to the first night's stop, women and horses and men were all settled in various quarters. He himself slept by the lady Aline's door. Which was no less comfortable than what he'd been used to for many years, and gave him an agreeable sensation of service.
She certainly wasn't what he'd expected. Arrogant, had been his first impression of her, but that had been so wide of the mark he blushed to remember it now. On this first day's ride she'd proved engaging, thoughtful, kind -- and beautiful too, his breath caught at the memory of her smile. And her laugh, just that once: it lit up his day. She was utterly lovely, and worth every penny of whatever fortune the earl had paid for her.
And what some other man would pay to bring her to bed. Eustace dwelled on that thought for a moment, imagined her lush figure freed of fur cloak and robe. Stopped there, abruptly, as he got to her shift. In part because he didn't know what it looked like, though his imagination furnished her pleasantly enough in a man's undertunic. Mostly because it got him aroused.