Chateau of Longing

by Monica Bentley

  John had fallen to his knees. His eyes anxiously sought out her own in the dark. She sat up, touching the stump of the arrow, broken off now, protruding from his shoulder. He winced.

  “Next time, m’Lady, please do not assuage your pride at the expense of daylight.”

  She suppressed the very strong urge to hug him.

  *****

  Well trained, the Guard took over. The Messenger’s body was wrapped in his cloak and laid on the Master’s mount. John was placed in the carriage with the three other wounded Guardsmen. The two who had fallen, not to rise, were quickly buried under a pile of rocks, the site marked. And an entirely chastened m’Lady quietly rode alongside the carriage to the next village and its inn.

  Chartres being just three days away, she over-rode John’s objections, insisting on taking all the wounded into the city to find the best medical help she could. No village sawbones would suffice, she was damn sure of that. She also insisted on paying for clean beds for them at each inn. Coletta reveled in her new role as nurse. After the stream, Lela was doubly cautious around her, almost strictly formal to John whenever her lady-in-waiting was near. It made her chew an inner cheek.

  In Chartres, at its wattle and daub buildings soaring to two and three stories, its crowded streets, its several markets, its fine coaches and bedraggled miserably poor wretches, her entourage gaped with widened eyes and wider mouths. She snorted, grumpy. Chartres was, in truth, not that much bigger than Rennes. It was just new. Wait until they got to Paris, she thought, watching a juggler tossing four wooden balls painted in bright colors. That’s me, she thought, wondering what Paris held for her. John had stopped the carriage, then gruffly asked directions of a passing tradesman for the Golden Harp, an inn he knew well from his travels.

  Lela watched the nearby market scene in the local Place aux Pourceaux – Avignon had a pigs piazza, too – as local farmers hawked their hogs, cattle, lambs, and chickens to skeptical servants. She imagined that Avignon’s law that farmers living within seven leagues must sell their produce and livestock in the city held sway here, too. Her father relied on that law, housing his largest herds and growing crops on the largest fields he could rent within the seven league circle – right up to the edge, at the cheapest rents – all to fetch the higher prices of the city. The stench was overwhelming, merde mixed with vomit from last night’s revels, she guessed. But to a farm girl such as herself, it seemed oddly refreshing.

  The babble was deafening. Hawkers shouting about the finery of their chickens’ eggs or the thickness of their legs and breasts if they were past the laying stage of life. One, his knitted blue cap askew on his head, his dark smock belted at the hips, was picking up a squawking hen, its muddy white wings flapping crazily, trying in vain to peck him as he measured the breast to a servant cook who was pursing her lips in distrust. Near them, a farmer was lifting a tail, showing that the ass was worm-free she presumed, to a wary buyer. The cow began lowing, then started pushing out mounds of shit. The buyer skipped away in his fine shoes. The farmer shrugged and slapped the cow on the flank.

  The carriage was moving on. The old cry of “’Ware below!” behind them showed that someone had waited for them to pass until dumping their night slops into the street. John must have given directions to the leading Guardsman because they were now turning into a slightly quieter street, away from all the tangled byways they had been pursuing. Up ahead she could see an overly-large harp, painted yellow, hanging above a door on a building two stories high. The upper story, as usual, hung out over the street. Odd that John would get lost, she mused. That was so unlike him. Another sign that he was suffering far more than he let on.

  Knowing that she could do little otherwise, she let this new, demure Coletta fuss over her as she dismounted and was led into the inn. Let the innkeeper place a large goblet of mead in her hand, let John be fussed over by that big-titted bitch with the huge smile, she caught herself thinking, as he walked stiffly up the stairs, his arm in a sling. Horrified that she was referring to her loyal Coletta, Lela buried that thought and several others in a deep swallow, then ordered some ale instead.

  She was in a dark mood, she realized. About the only bright spot on her horizon was that John had agreed to send a fast horse to Palais de la Cité to let the Court officials know about the attack, the Messenger’s death, and that the Countess of Brionde would rest a few days in Chartres before resuming her journey to the Summons. That gave her a break of a few days. Giving her time to think. Maybe she could scheme, she thought. About what? Without knowing what the Summons would say? Was she to be married off with the chateau as dowry? Was she to be sent home to Provence, the chateau given away completely? Or, least likely of all, was she to be married off to some noble in another region, even another land? She could protest that decision, but she already knew what her father’s response would be: Do your duty or go to a convent.

  John would help her, she thought. But John was in bed, surrounded by others, not least Coletta. She wondered if the bitch would fuck him. They only had the two rooms but, knowing her lady-in-waiting and John’s reputation, she was certain that Coletta could arrange something. She slapped the table in a rage at the thought, startling the Guardsmen standing near her, over her. Guarding her. That was her life. A gilded cage. A songbird who got to enjoy the brief taste of freedom only to have a royal ass take it away from her. She cursed the King, taking another deep swallow. Maybe his cock would fall off.

  Abruptly sick of it all, she rose to her feet and stormed out of the inn. The Guardsmen protesting until she waved them silent with the order to take her to the cathedral.

  This was the other bright spot of her visit. Cathedrale Notre-Dame des Chartres. Only the cathedral in Paris went simply by Notre-Dame. She didn’t care. She was going to see both anyway. Besides, Chartre’s was six King’s Feet higher. Not that it mattered, she thought, approaching it from it’s Place, the square in front, the Guardsmen clearing the way through the ever-present thronging crowd. One banged on the tall doors until a priest came. At his refusal to let her in, the Guardsmen showed him a couple inches of steel, each. He agreed. Then agreed more enthusiastically as she placed a large coin in his palm, asking her name.

  “Countess Brionde,” she stated, as grandly as possible. Why not? She might have a new name entirely before next Sunday’s Mass.

  He bowed.

  She wandered the dark, quiet interior silently. The richly colored stained glass windows provided the lighting, particularly when the sun came out from behind a cloud. She was bathed in rich blues, vibrant reds, soft pinks and so many others. All were magnificent. As extraordinary as the rose windows and other scenes were, however, she surprised herself into tears at the sight of the stained glass depicting Mary with her baby. Mary was wearing a crown. A baby and a crown. Lela expected neither in this lifetime, she suddenly realized.

  She sat there in silence. For the first time in her life, she prayed. Really prayed. Not just little prayers for the safety of Katya wherever she was. This was far deeper and it was very simple. She wanted nothing more than a little happiness.

  The glasses passed. Indeed, there was one in a small chapel to the right, next to a table with candles lit for the souls of the departed. She had never lit one for Katya and she never would. If Katya wasn’t in this world, Lela firmly reminded herself, then she was a valkyrie, swooping above battlefields, then fucking the warrior she rescued from the pain of death into utter helplessness. A priest interrupted her thoughts, turning the hourglass. She watched its sands descend, just barely visible at this distance. Her life ebbing away.

  She shook that really unhappy thought to pieces. And thought of John’s cock. Then decided that was a little too naughty even for her after the river and went back to...thinking of nothing at all. Just a little happiness. Just a little. That’s all she wanted.

  How many times that priest had turned the hourglass, she couldn’t say. She wasn’t really paying attention. The Guardsmen, as trained, said nothing
. They merely waited, eyes out. Finally, feeling such a great sense of peace filling her, Lela stood, bowed to the altar and walked out.

  The Guardsmen were different, she noticed. She smiled at that. So like John to quietly replace them at some point. Guardsmen needed to relieve themselves if they were to be vigilant, Louis had once explained. That’s why the sentry shifts lasted no longer than four hours at Chateau Brionde. The Master insisted on it.

  So, she had been longer than four hours. Well, it was dark anyway, she saw, leaving the cathedral. The streets were quieter. She wasn’t worried, however, for she saw two more Guardsmen join them as they crossed the Place. Where they came from, she never learned. John knew. That was all that mattered.

  Coletta pressed a meat pie and some ale on her in her room upon her return. Her lady-in-waiting’s eyes were downcast which intruded on Lela’s sense of peace. It annoyed her. She asked if something was wrong.

  Coletta darted an uneasy glance up at her, then liking what she saw, she smiled. “The Master’s shoulder is better. The doctor was able to remove the last of the arrowhead from his shoulder bone today.”

  Lela sighed. That had been a concern. She didn’t know much about arrow wounds. But she knew enough to be worried if the arrows were barbed. Those from the attack hadn’t been. They had been like the ones the Guard carried, smooth heads designed to penetrate mail and, at a close distance, even armor. On the other hand, smooth heads tended to penetrate bone if they could find one. Removing it was difficult, sometimes resulting in death. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about that, trusting that John’s gruffness would see him through. And it had.

  She smiled.

  Encouraged, Coletta smiled deeper, saying, “It was very gallant for the Master to leap in front of you. I can’t bear the thought of that arrow reaching you.”

  Lela’s smile froze, tears springing to her eyes. So that is what happened in the battle. That’s why the significant looks of pride directed at John, that she mistook for satisfaction over a battle won with so few losses. Of course he didn’t say a word.

  She wanted to hit him.

  Instead, a wave of weariness hit her with such strength that she lay back on the bed. Coletta tucked her in as she closed her eyes and let darkness take her.

  * 4 *

  The next afternoon, sitting quietly in the cathedral, trying in vain to shush her increasingly morbid thoughts about her immediate future, she heard something that she hadn’t in years.

  Her name.

  “Lela?”

  Astonished, she turned to see a man her age in garments that, even in the dim light of the cathedral, she could see were well-made. He was standing a dozen or so pews back, his head cocked in a question. A respectful distance from the nearest Guardsman. She stood.

  He came a few steps closer. “It is Lela, isn’t it? Formerly of Avignon?”

  Something about him seemed familiar. She couldn’t place him. Nevertheless, someone so well-dressed clearly wasn’t any threat. She nodded at the Guardsman who took his hand off the hilt, letting the man pass.

  “Now Countess of Brionde? Lela?”

  Saint Genevieve! It couldn’t be!

  “Marcel!?”

  He nodded. She ran to him, she couldn’t help it, grabbing him in a hug.

  “It’s really you!” she exulted. “Saint Genevieve!”

  “And Saint Denis,” he smiled back. A handsome smile. A very handsome smile, she corrected. Keeping her hands in his own, he stepped back, surveying her. “Look at you. You are incredibly beautiful. Marriage suited you well.”

  She nodded. A bit dazed.

  “I was sorry to hear about your husband.”

  She didn’t know how to respond to that, but she nodded anyway.

  “dooo Ge klin,” he said, shaking his head while drawing out the bandit’s name. “I heard all about the sack, of course. And your valiant Guardsmen.” He looked over at the one standing quietly at the end of her pew.

  Finally finding her tongue, she asked, “And what of you? Are you still in Paris?”

  “Well,” he smiled. “That is a story. I am famished, however. Sup with me. I arranged for a light repast at the Fleur-de-lis. Their wine collection is a gem all on its own. And, they have the most amazing pissaladiere, you know. The King tried it when staying there last.” He rose, taking her hand.

  Her whirling thoughts crashed together with the hunger of her belly and the taste of the flatbread dish from her – their – native Provence leaping onto her tongue. Her mouth watered. She nodded.

  He handed her down the pew and out to the aisle. All the time he was talking – not in the way that the Walrus used to rant. No, Marcel’s voice was soft, warm. Sweet, at times, particularly when he smiled a question at her. He talked with her, not at her. He was talking about his horror at hearing of the attack, never liked that Messenger anyway – too obsequious around the King, too officious with everyone else – got on his horse immediately and rode through the night, the day and the night to make it. Had to change horses three times.

  “But you look so fresh!” she objected, thinking that was something that John would do.

  “Ah,” he said, tapping her on the nose, just as he used to in the old days, making her laugh. “The Fleur makes a nice, hot bath. Quick change of clothing, a brushing of my boots and voila!”

  Pausing a moment to lightly cup her chin, just as he used to, he continued with a tender smile that made her stomach quiver. “Besides, it was worth it. My own guard could keep up.” He passed through them now as they bowed to him and followed on his heels. Behind them, she could hear the footfalls of her own Guardsmen as well.

  All the way to his hotel, he took her arm, protesting that he wasn’t trying out the new Parisian custom, he just liked the feel of it. She blushed. When she had stopped in wonder at the sight of the Fleur – for hotel it truly was, no mere inn – being several stories of stone not simply wattle and daub or wood and being ornamented with arched windows, he commented that it was formerly an abbey. Then, he asked where she was staying. Blushing, she replied. He gave her a wry look and the comment “how...provincial of you” then laughed that gay chortle of old.

  Saint Genevieve, it felt good. She could feel her smile splitting her face wide open, like a sun coming out that had been hiding behind some mountain for far too long. They passed through the crowded common room, she admiring the tapestries on the walls detailing court life, he gesturing to a chamberlain, whispering something in the man’s ear. Whatever it was, the servant raced away. The tables were full of the well to do. One could tell at a glance from the fine gemstone-dyed fabrics of their clothing, the more fashionable form-fitting cuts than one usually saw among the landed gentry. This was a Parisian crowd, she realized. She felt like a country church mouse in contrast and put her eyes back on the tapestries.

  Noticing her attention toward one, he commented, “Yes, it’s not bad. Looks like the work of Rochelle Abbey.” Then, he expertly pointed out the variations in their weaving to her amazement. Seeing her look, he paused and smiled. “You see a lot of that in Paris. I still prefer the works coming out of Burgundy these days. And, of course, you know, your own monks at Le Thoronet are making quite a name for themselves with their illuminated manuscripts.”

  She nodded, hopefully not looking like a simpleton. She had no idea that her dowry abbey had become so well known and thanked the gods that she had prevailed on John to spare them.

  “You’ve seen Arnwulf’s work, of course.”

  She smiled again, not knowing what to say.

  He gave her a quizzical look. “Truly? The pride of the Cistercians, well, at least in Provence. Your own monk? Still, I know you’ve had your hands full lately. And he did come to them after the sack of Brionde, now that I think of it.”

  He was leading her through to the stairs at the end of the room. Clearly he was taking her to his private chamber. She wondered about the appropriateness of that. Still, it was only Marcel.

  “I simply mu
st show you the Mary he did for me. Magnificent!” They went up several stairs, his and her Guard’s boots following reassuringly behind them. She felt foolish. She felt... She didn’t know what she felt.

  His room was quite grand, far grander in fabrics, furniture and space than hers at the Harp. On a table were a few rolls of parchment, neatly tied. He began sorting through them, continuing with his description. “Poor boy looked like he was about to faint when he realized that I wanted a Magdalene, not the Virgin,” he flashed her a wicked grin.

  But her eyes had wandered on to the windowsill. She could see a small cup with a tooth brush sticking out of it. Looking back at him, she realized that he was waiting for a response, but that now his eyes had followed hers.

  “Oh, that!” Walking over to it, he picked it up, turning to her. “Come, Lela, surely you don’t think that Court has not heard of the Brionde Way.”

  She gaped.

  “Although Her Majesty insists that it was her idea all along and has named them, respectively, the Morning Brush – mine’s back at the Palais – and Evening Brush.” He set it down. “Don’t tell the King, however. He doesn’t think it manly.”

  She started giggling at that. Then, laughing. Then, all at once, she was crying. Glad that John had trained the Guard not to enter rooms, she sat on his bed. Marcel was sitting next to her, holding her.

  “Shhh, shhh,” he cooed. “There, there.”

  “I’m sorry,” she struggled out, hating how weak she sounded. “It’s just been so much. Too much.”

  “Yes, yes. It has been a lot,” he said, patting her on the back.

  He held her. It felt wonderful. It felt like an escape. From Chateau Brionde, the sack, the Walrus, the Summons, the attack on the road.