“Oh, Chrestien,” she sobbed. “How are we to go on without Papa?” Tears streamed down her wan cheeks. Chrestien lovingly wiped them away.
Aubert averted his gaze.
Chrestien’s voice was calm and soothing, despite the turmoil he knew she must be feeling. “I know not how our hearts shall fare,” she admitted, honestly. “But we will be fine... as long as we go on with our plan. You must go to Aleth,” she said when Adelaine seemed momentarily confused.
Adelaine’s eyes widened with horror. “Nay! It will never work!” she declared. The pitch of her voice climbed higher when Chrestien countered with a nod.
“It will,” Chrestien said firmly.
“Dear lord, Chrestien! I would be the ridicule of all Christendom were I to arrange for mine own marriage! I think you are truly daft!”
“You agreed,” Chrestien argued, reminding her.
“Simply to quiet you! I never truly believed this would come to pass!”
Chrestien’s countenance remained calm. To show apprehension in response to Adelaine’s concerns would do naught but undermine the only practicable solution available to them, Aubert knew. As ludicrous as it might seem, there was nowhere else for the girls to go. And it was simply a matter of time before Henry sent his emissaries to secure Lontaine. They didn’t have much time. Even now, he was certain they were taking stock of their winnings, like victors at quek counting their coins.
“Nay!” Adelaine protested again. “Christian,” she pleaded. “Aleth would think me unchaste and unfit to be so bold.”
“She speaks the truth,” Aubert interjected, uncertain if Chrestien would take offense to his siding with Adelaine in this matter.
“Aye,” Chrestien conceded. “But this is why I have decided to go to Aleth in your behalf… as your custodian.”
“Dear God! Nay, Chrestien! You cannot.”
“I can and I will, Adelaine! Aleth knows naught of me. I would simply tell him I am your cousin. And I will make him believe it was Papa’s wish that you two wed. Whether he agrees to it will be for him to decide, and if he does not, I'll take you with me to La Trinite.”
Adelaine screwed her face, and Chrestien seized the opportunity to sway her sister. “For once Papa would be glad of our little games. Aleth knows not that Papa has two daughters—twins to boot.”
When neither Adelaine nor Aubert gave any sign of concession, she proceeded to give the details of how the deception would be accomplished. “First, I will cut my hair.”
Aubert grunted at the thought of Chrestien’s lost locks. Her hair had been her father’s delight—such a beautiful shade of gold, with streaks of sunlight coursing through waves that fell well below her waist. It was as silky and beautiful as any Aubert had ever beheld—aside from Adelaine’s, of course.
Chrestien eyed him with narrowed eyes, warning him without words to say nothing more. “I have no choice if I am to fool Aleth into believing I am my father’s nephew. It will not matter anyway as I will leave for the abbey as soon as I see Adelaine duly wedded. I warrant the sisters there do not care one whit about the length of my hair, nor does God.”
Adelaine sighed and Aubert nodded in resignation. “What would ye have us do?” he relented.
“To begin with, how many of my father’s men remain?”
The way to Aleth’s was not long, but it was a perilous journey, with brigands lying in wait to ambush the unwary soul. Until Henry cracked his iron whip, these lands were now lawless.
“None... save myself,” Aubert confirmed to Chrestien’s dismay.
“Very well… then I will dress the villein in armor,” she said resolutely, “and myself as well.... we will feign a small troop.”
She was determined not to fail.
If they failed, some louse would no doubt abscond with Adelaine in hopes of possessing her inheritance, and Chrestien would never forgive herself. In fact, she did not doubt there were fortune seekers on their way to Lontaine this very moment.
“I do not believe you could be mistaken for a man,” Aubert warned.
Adelaine sighed heavily, the sound of defeat. “You’d be astounded, Aubert, at what my sister can do.”
Any lackey could carry out this mission.
The task given was such a simple one—too simple in fact. Mayhap that was what irritated Weston FitzStephen most—that Henry would waste his time with such a minor duty, when there were far more important holdings to be secured.
The afternoon breeze was cool, but in the confines of his armor, he was afire. The metal of his helm drew the warmth of the sun and the extreme heat registered acutely upon his senses. He needed a break from the stifling headpiece.
Reining in his destrier, and causing a stir from his troops, he loosened the nose guard, pulling the helm from his head, baring the mailed coif beneath.
It was not oft their leader succumbed to his own discomfort and there was no other apparent reason for the respite. Two days they’d ridden from Tinchebrai, stopping only when exhaustion demanded. Doubtless, it confused them now to see him halt when they had scant few daylight hours left to ride.
The indentations the conical helm left in Weston’s flesh were conspicuous against his swarthy face. His thick jaw set in a tight line, giving evidence to his displeasure.
One thing was certain. Beyond the obvious political gains Tinchebrai had garnered them rich, fertile lands. And seeing it clearly now, he understood exactly why Henry was loathe to lose it—verdant hills and fields for miles.
The scent of wild rosemary teased his senses, but his discomfort was too great for the tantalizing scent to rouse any hunger.
Only Michel Steorling, his captain, came forward, curious. “What is it?”
Weston turned to consider his long-time friend and read the concern in his face. “I felt confined is all.”
He indicated the conical headpiece and Michel returned a knowing nod, a wry smile curving his lips. “You don’t much relish this duty, I take it?”
“Nay,” he admitted, and he bent to retrieve a skin of water from his saddlebags. He drank from it deeply, then offered the skin to Michel.
Michel declined, lifting a brow. “I have mine own, thank you, auld wolf.”
Weston raised a dark brow. “Ever you mock me—bah! Did I know you would taunt me incessantly about my chosen device... I’d have taken another.”
“Nay... it serves you well, my friend. I warrant ’tis the reason you’ve been sent here. These Normans will spy your banner and their gates will fly open faster than a whore spreads her legs for gold.”
Weston scowled at him. “If my device brought us here, then in truth, I should have taken another.”
Michel chuckled, his teasing turning to Tinchebrai. “Nay, but God’s teeth, you reduced the number of our enemies in just the time it took to recognize that gaudy banner of yours. Henry was wise to time your arrival. At the very moment when the tide may have turned, their will was vanquished by the Silver Wolf's timely arrival. Fresh reinforcements alone would have dismayed them, but I watched men throw down their arms once they spied your banner.”
Both men turned their gazes to the pennant their shared squire Guy held so proudly. The stark black background offset the snarling silver-threaded wolf in its middle. The animal’s dauntless, blood-red eyes glared back at them like a devil from the dark. The breeze held the banner outstretched, playing with its folds, contorting the wolf’s head, and giving the impression that the animal snapped its powerful jaws in warning.
Somehow, that image, along with Michel’s account of the battle, irritated Weston all the more, and he returned the helm to his head without a word, spurring his destrier forward.
His troops fell in procession behind him—their immediate destination... Lontaine.
Chapter Two
Time was running short, Chrestien realized. As dangerous an enterprise as this may yet be, remaining at Lontaine was more dangerous by far. The garrison was inadequate to sustain them in the event of an attack. The most t
hey could hope for was to wait out a siege, for the walls, at least were strong and well kept. Still, she was not fool enough to risk her sister’s life for such an uncertain end. Nay, taking her to Aleth was the right thing to do and she had set to the task with a singleness of purpose.
Aubert gathered as many villein as Lontaine could spare and on the day of departure, Chrestien disbursed among them what armor could be salvaged from her father’s armory—not much of value.
To some she gave battered shields, but not swords. To Big Adam she gave a dented helm, but then retrieved it, rolling the silver head gear in her hands as she inspected it carefully. She wasn’t certain it would fit over Big Adam’s head. Deciding it would not, she handed him the much-coveted broadsword instead. The helm she gave to Little Theo, the smallest man among them. And because Little Theo was so small, she took pity on him and gave him a sword as well. Four others were lucky enough to receive broadswords, but to the rest she gave daggers. It was a pittance, she knew. But when one had naught else, a dagger was much indeed. Every good piece of armor had gone to Rouen with her father, and save for Aubert, none of it had returned. Like the pheasants, and their pantry, the armory had been picked clean. Once she was finished, there were nineteen cobbled soldiers standing before her—each of them proud to defend his mistresses. She was proud of them as well, for they were brave and true.
Aubert stood behind her, studying their little troop with arms crossed.
“At close range, they may not make a body tremble,” she admitted in a whisper. “But from a distance... I dare to hope.”
Aubert withheld his opinion, and instead honed in on the hauberk Chrestien had confiscated from the pile of metal the armorer was preparing to melt down, chastising her for it. “At the very least I wish you had a new hauberk,” he lamented. “The newer design is heavier, more solidly built. ’Twould have kept you safer.”
“Aye,” Chrestien agreed, annoyed by his negativity. “But I’ve no mind to be skewered anyway, so never ye mind.”
Aubert gave her a reproachful look. “Neither does the field mouse until he is trapped within the hawk’s talons.”
Chrestien narrowed her eyes at him. “Dearest lord! You are exactly like Adelaine with those accursed parables and I cannot even begin to understand what you mean! Are you comparing me to a mouse?” she asked, incensed.
Aubert gave her a rueful smile. “I meant only that none of us can know when danger lurks, Chrestien, until ’tis too late, and more oft than not, it means death for those unprepared.”
Chrestien rolled her eyes. “Mayhap you should speak plainly and leave off with the riddles. At any rate, you tell me naught I do not already know. What would you have me do? Wait the time it would take for the armorer to refashion this metal sherte? Nay! By then it would be too late, and Adelaine would find herself skewered by the talons of some English buzzard. I will not see it done! This must work, and because it must, it will,” she said resolutely.
Aubert conceded with a shrug, realizing the futility of the argument. Chrestien would never concede.
“Go find Adelaine for me,” Chrestien charged him, clearly nettled. “You fret like an auld woman, and it harries my nerves!”
Aubert took a step back. “Auld woman? You dare to call me one when you are the queen of upset?”
Her patience at an end, Chrestien started to throw her helm at him, but stopped when she spied the horror in Aubert's expression.
“Nay!” he shrieked. “That is the last good helm! Ye would dent the bloody thing. And then, for certain, instead of a seasoned knight you will look like a battered quintain.”
“Fie on you, Aubert! I know you do not agree with this decision, but we have no choice.”
“You mistake me, Chrestien. I do not disagree,” he argued. “I simply do not believe it will work and it disheartens me to see you lower yourself. There is a difference.”
“It will work, naysayer! Leave me now, before I lose my temper.”
“Ere ye lose it?” Aubert muttered. “God’s teeth, but ye never had hold of it to begin with. I warrant, you could learn a thing or two from Adelaine, if ye had a mind to.”
Chrestien hurled the silver helm, sending it flying in Aubert’s direction, and as she intended, it landed away from him. She pointed at the helm. “If, in fact, I never had hold of my temper, you would have found that betwixt your teeth twenty minutes ago.” And, she assured, “I would not have missed.”
Aubert walked over and bent to pick up the helm, smoothing his hand over the top of it, where it had dented. “Look what you’ve gone and done. Aside from mine, it was the only piece of armor that was remotely passable. I shall give you mine,” he said.
“Nay, you will not. Yours is yours. What good will you be to me dressed inadequately?”
“What good for me to be dressed adequately if my mistresses are both dead?”
Aubert inspected the inside of the helm, pressing in vain against the dented metal.
“Why should I look any different than the rest of my men?” Chrestien asked, but then frowned as she watched him worry and nipped at her bottom lip. “Can it be mended?”
He gave her a sullen look. “Not before we leave. Ye shall simply have a crooked helm,” he informed her baldly. Then smiled and added, “To match your crooked head.”
“Oh!” Chrestien exclaimed. “Go! Now! Find Adelaine and leave me be at last, or I swear you will be the end of my sanity.”
He looked much as though he wanted to say more, but left her at last, although once his back faced her, his shoulders shook suspiciously.
Chrestien sighed. She would dearly love to throw something else at the cad, only there was naught within her grasp.
How she would miss him. That sweet, lovable oaf.
To many, their arguing might seem undignified, but she and Aubert were of like temperaments and it seemed he thrived on their wordplay as much as she did. He was the only one who had ever dared to assert himself with her—not even her father had done so. In every sense, Aubert was like a brother to her—a prankish brother, and she adored him beyond measure.
Once she was cloistered, she realized, she would never see him again. Saddened by the thought, she busied herself with the task of saddling Lightning. And though she’d forbidden herself to cry, a tear stole down her cheek, spurred by the image of her father as he had ridden from the gates of Lontaine to join the Duke. Sweet Jesu, but he and his men had been fearsome to look upon.
Unlike her sorry band of misfits.
He had worn his finest armor that day, and had looked so like she imagined the legendary warrior Arthur of Britain might appear. Jongleurs yet sang of his fierce bravery, and she wondered, briefly, if there would ever be ballads sung to Tinchebrai’s dead.
Henry of England had advised her father against his support of the Duke, warning him that it would be an act of treason, but her father had not seen it as such. The dowry lands Gilbert de Lontaine had once held of Chrestien’s lady mother had been forfeited to Baron Grey upon her death. Perhaps if he had not relinquished his English estates to her grandsire, then he might have felt differently, but as it was, he held land of Normandy’s Duke alone—had sworn fealty to Curthose. And so it was that he had ridden out upon his destrier, clad full in armor to meet his duty... never to return.
The only comfort Chrestien could take was that she knew the Duke had valued her father, and he had died for something he believed in. Alas, it seemed, he was one of few loyal to the Duke, though she could not fathom why Aleth would not defend his liege. Whatever the reason, her father had known about it and had obviously accepted it—so then could she.
Composed now, despite the grim turn of her thoughts, she turned to the task of readying Adelaine’s mount as well. As soon as Aubert returned with her sullen sister, they would be ready to ride. Chrestien suddenly felt as though there was a war waging within her belly. Despite her show of bravado, she wasn’t at all certain she could pull this off.
What then, if not? What if
Aleth did not believe her? What if he already had plans to wed? And what if he chose to take back his lands without bothering to marry dear Adelaine?
She couldn’t think on any of that right now. As far as she knew, he was an honorable man. There was a task to be done. And now that the path was set, there was no turning back.
Nearly thirty minutes later, with Adelaine at his heels, Aubert stepped into the bailey and stopped to admire the changeling standing before him. He chuckled inwardly at the sight Chrestien presented.
She wore men’s braies tucked into thick brown leather boots, and a hauberk that fell nearly to her shins—on her father it had fallen about the knees. But if her disguise made him smile, he frowned as his gaze fell upon her hair. It now fell scant inches below her shoulders—worn to a length like that of a peasant boy’s. Her perfect face was blackened with soot from the hearth to make her creamy skin seem more weathered, and she carried her grandfather’s heavy jewel-hilted broadsword in her scabbard. Finally, Gilbert’s spare shield, which was an elongated oval shape and bore his chosen device—a golden, winged lion, poised for flight—she carried in her hand.
He marveled that she would even be able to stand upright in her father’s coat of mail as heavy as it was. It had taken Aubert years to acquire the dexterity to carry his coat with ease. Yet, here stood Gilbert’s daughter, bearing its entire weight proudly upon her small body. She stood barely to his chest in height and he could look down on the pate of her head, but aye, she did look like a man at this moment—or rather a boy-man, for she was whisker-less, with skin as smooth as a baby’s arse. The heavy mail hauberk, worn over an ill-fitting undertunic, flattened her breasts effortlessly. And her heavy boots, stuffed with cloth, hid the delicate curve of her limbs. To give herself the appearance of one who has labored, she had soiled her hands with grime, blackening her skin with it until it was nearly a part of her flesh. Then, she had applied grease to the unruly curls that fell upon her nape.
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