Yet, he was willing to pursue the negotiation if she desired him to. For the sum, he could easily mount three knights, particularly at this time when the King’s obligation was due. Yet, if Lela asked for it...
Her mind was growing numb.
...Of course, it was also important to remember that white blonde was a common hair color among Norse women. He had no surety that it was Katya. His rider had foolishly not thought to check the slave’s name. But, he sighed, the tradesman had, in truth, been there searching for textiles, not slaves, so he could hardly complain.
Katya. In the Germanies? Her friend?
What was she like? Was she healthy? Was she still beautiful? Did it matter?
A tiny voice protested to be heard: Was it Katya?
Her mind whirling, she realized all at once that she was panting, heaving. She thought she was going to throw up.
He was at her side, his hand on her shoulder. The other was raising her chin, seeing the tears that were springing up in her eyes.
His soft tones caressed her. “I will find out at once.”
And he was striding from the room.
*****
Of course, she had to stay after that. For the first days, she spent most of them within earshot of the windows. If not actually perched in them. Chateau Anjou hummed all around her. As it should. One of the most useful management techniques she had learned from John came into play here – set matters up correctly and, after that, a harsh glance every now and again usually sufficed to keep the gears turning smoothly.
Thus the laundry was changed, boiled, washed, pressed. The housekeeping staff patrolled with brushes in hand, ready to smack any chateau dog on the nose for lifting a leg. The kitchen mistress, much like hers at home, had taken to sending up small treats, such as a tapenade, for Lela’s approval. The mistress was clearly taking a new pride in her mastery of herbes de Provence. Perhaps, Lela mused, she should get the kitchen making pan bagnat – the country bread sandwich of eggs and olives – for Marcel to munch on in his regional travels.
Except that they had ceased. At least for now. What they had been about, he wouldn’t really quite say and she didn’t really quite pry. He would throw out a remark about “seeing to the King’s business” or “just tying up a loose end or two” or “preparing for a rainy day.” In any case, the gloominess that she had seen that morning – so uncharacteristic of Marcel – had cleared up as soon as he saw her excitement about the possibility of seeing Katya again.
She hardly knew what to think. What to say. She had asked him once about the cost of mounting a knight, but he had waved it off with the comment, “Please, Lela, do not trouble yourself. Katya is worth it.” And she had let it pass. About the only matter she had resolved on was – if it was her friend – a reminder that she forced herself to repeat several thousand times a day – she would find out the price paid somehow and, someday, repay him.
In any case, while home, she didn’t see that much of him either. Marcel appeared to be spending all of his time exercising a number of war chargers that had arrived the day after he had. Or, finally, ordering the Guard to practice daily. She had tried watching, but their slow, lumbering movements were a bit of a laugh after having grown accustomed to the lithe grace of her Guard. Of course, she was used to her Guardsmen fighting with rapiers, wearing light leathers and chain mail when “armored” that did not hamper their movements. Marcel’s fighters – which included several new faces, knights from the surrounding lands – wore plate armor, complete with helms, swinging heavy broadswords while throwing up large shields to parry an attacking slice. Of course, their ponderous, clunking around was going to be boring compared to the ballet-like dance of John’s warriors.
All these signs of war preparation only went to remind her of the Master’s predictions of the coming battle with the English King Edward III. At a village called Poitiers, John had said. The Old Crossroads where Charles the Hammer had slaughtered... Then, she stopped thinking about it. She hated war. Hated every part of it.
She also hated seeing that John had clearly been right. Which meant that he might also be proven right about Marcel’s intentions toward Brionde. Toward herself. But she couldn’t believe that. She just couldn’t. She couldn’t believe that Marcel would trick her like that. And even if he did have the occasional thought lying in that direction – all he would have to do was ask her, she protested inwardly – she knew there was no way the King would agree to it. Better to have both chateaus used as booty, attracting more nobles to shore up his wartime army. As feudal overlord, it was his kingly due. One might as well shout at the rain as protest it.
Instead, she turned her whirling mind to Katya, wondering what she looked like. Wondering how to care for her. That she would free her friend from slavery – if it were Katya – was beyond question. Marcel would let her. She knew that. She knew that without asking.
He was coming in now, she could see. Stripping off his tunic, then the linen underneath darkly damp with sweat. She sighed, averting her eyes a bit.
“Lela?”
She turned back to him, not quite looking at him. He walked up to her. She could smell his muskiness and felt her pussy twitch. Damn him!
“What’s wrong?” he was reaching up his hand to cup her chin.
All at once irritated, she pulled away.
“Tell me.”
His voice, so smoothly warm, suddenly made her want to wrap herself in his arms. She shook her head with irritation.
“Please.”
She found herself breathing heavily. Where was this coming from, she wondered? What was wrong with her?
She forced herself to look at him. He was no John, that was certain. Nor would Marcel ever need to be. While always the consummate courtier, Marcel was, indeed, fantastically gorgeous. Those dark locks tangled with sweat around his honeyed eyes. That smooth skin, with its Provencal flush, his muscled chest, his rigid abs, below that, the shapely hips... He didn’t need John’s bulk, John’s knotty muscled roughness. She could easily see him seducing a Hohenstaufen imperial daughter. Could see him mounting between her thighs, his sculpted, round buttocks tightening with every thrust...
She closed her eyes.
“Are you not well?”
She had to chuckle at that. Yes, Marcel, I am not well. I want to fuck you.
“Wine!” his voice rapped out. “The dry, white one m’Lady likes.”
Her eyes opened at the use of the old title. She saw Cherelle pouring her one, then bringing it to her. Her eyes flicking over Marcel’s chest as she drew nearer. It made Lela ball her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms. Were she staying here longer, she would really have to talk to him about that. But she wasn’t. None of her concern. She idly wondered if he had fucked her. Knowing him...
She shook off the thought and took a sip. The old title. She missed home.
He was toweling off, then dropping it, like he had his tunic and linen, on the floor for the maids to pick up. Were she staying, they would have a conversation about mistreating the servants, too, she clucked. It was the little things, like draping your clothing over a bench, or even the chest you knew would store it, rather than tossing it on the floor so they had to bend over to gather it... It was the little things that made the staff happy, feel valued, even treasured. John had taught her that.
God’s tears woman, get the man out of your head!
She sat down. What else could she do? She sipped, and watched him throw on a new linen undershirt.
“Feeling better?”
She nodded.
“Good, because I have news.”
Her breath caught. He was striding to her, kneeling in front of her, his hands palming the tops of her knees, almost, but not quite pulling them apart. Or were they? Was she opening them herself?
“It’s her.”
She sobbed.
“A messenger by fast horse just arrived. I stopped practice immediately to come tell you.”
She was crying, sh
e was sobbing, she was starting to wail.
He leaned forward, her knees opening for him, taking her in his arms. She could smell him. She wanted him. She needed him. Saint Genevieve, he smelled good. All that lovely muskiness, even the hints of rosemary wafting up from his ass that, if she dropped her fingers just a few hands-breadth... His damp locks rested on her temple. His lips just King’s inches away from hers. All she needed do was turn her cheek to the right just a bit...
Then he was pulling back to sit on that same finely toned ass. Looking up at her, his arms balanced on his knees. If she looked down, she could rest her eyes on that cock of his. But, of course, she couldn’t.
She swallowed, trying to get control of herself. Wiping her eyes.
“Have some more wine.”
She nodded and complied.
Cherelle was pouring her some more.
“So, now that we know, perhaps we should talk a bit?”
Lela nodded again. This surreal feeling of haziness enveloping her as if she were lost in a cloud was...deepening? She didn’t know what to do about it. She took another sip, taking refuge in something that she understood. She tried to focus on the pinot gris. It was a recent find, from Rennes. It was a grape that had been recently cultivated in Burgundy. It was light, dry, not really sweet at all. It even danced a bit on the tongue, particularly in the morning. And being so light, it didn’t make her head fuzzy, something she never really liked so early.
“The messenger couldn’t relate much, just that it is her and that she isn’t well.”
She swallowed again, hard. Wanting to ask and not finding the words.
“And that the deal is done. Large coin, yes. But done.”
She looked down at him, love flooding her eyes, she knew. She couldn’t help it.
“Come, Lela. She’s worth it. You’re worth it.”
Her tears were starting again.
As he continued talking, her ears slowly made out – despite all the buzzing in her head – that he expected her childhood friend to arrive within three days. He himself would not be there to welcome Katya.
That got her attention.
“Why not?” She ran the back of her hand over her cheeks.
He sighed, a heavy one. His unhappy look of the previous morning had returned. He got to his feet and mustered up his courtier’s smile...
Only to have her cut him off.
“Please, Marcel! Just...just...tell me.”
He began pacing. His hands moved to his hips, then to the small of his back. He was bent at the shoulders. He looked...old.
“Wine.” He said, then corrected himself. “Ale.”
Ninon was there a moment later, a look of concern on her face as she brought him a goblet. He paused in his subdued pacing and, taking a sip, looked at the ladies-in-waiting.
“Clear the room,” Lela ordered.
They all, many furtive glances between them, gathered themselves and left.
“Think of me as your oldest friend, Marcel. Please tell me what it is.”
He paced back and forth a few more times. She chewed the inside of her lip and then, suddenly thinking of John and how many times she had waited him out, took her own sip of wine.
That seemed to free him a bit.
“I have to report to the King.”
“Why?”
“I am failing in rendering my feudal obligation to my overlord,” he replied, the sounds clipped from between his gritted teeth. He looked...so...cynical.
She was having a hard time grasping what he was saying. Failing in rendering his feudal obligation? Marcel? The Marcels of the world didn’t fail to meet their feudal obligations. She may not know much about life at Court, but she did know that. They always found a way. This didn’t make sense.
He wasn’t making sense.
“Marcel, what do you mean? How is this possible?”
He paused a moment, then resumed pacing. “The King demanded, as is his due, when he gave me Anjou...”
“Twenty mounted knights and thirty supplied archers,” she finished for him.
He stopped at that, turning to face her. “You don’t miss anything, do you?” He was shaking his head in admiration.
John’s gruff prediction filled her head. She swallowed and tried to make light of Marcel’s remark. “I just thought it was an interesting request that the King had made.”
Marcel snorted. “Request. Demand is more like it.”
“Of course. I meant the same.” She felt her voice grow small.
He darted a glance at her, then she saw his features grow tender. He shook his head again, saying, “It was typical of Jean le Bon, throwing out numbers that have no earthly manner of being fulfilled. I only agreed because I thought I would have years to make good on them. But, now, this wretched battle...” He paused, looking at her, as if not knowing how to explain.
“I know about Edward and Poitiers and the Old Crossroads.”
His eyes grew wide at that. Then, he looked down. He looked for a second like the boy who had disappointed his father in Avignon long ago. She remembered that look, suddenly. Something about failing to negotiate the right price for some grain for the city’s silos. His father, the mayor, was incensed. Marcel had been crestfallen.
Then his voice came out, low, yet clear. “I am short. I will lose Anjou when I tell him. He will hand it to another.”
Short?
“How short?”
“Twenty short,” came his terse reply. He had turned from her. Not looking at her. Afraid to show his eyes, she guessed.
“Of knights?” She thought of the ones gathered about the chateau, practicing daily with the Guard. “But, surely there must be the odd knight or two who can be hired...” The Walrus had made many such an arrangement over the years. He had bitched about the large coin that such ad hoc arrangements cost, but he had paid when he needed to.
“Lela, I have scoured the countryside!” Marcel protested.
“I...I have seen you,” she was protesting right back, defending him. She needed him to know. “I have seen the hours you have ridden, gone all day, returning late at night. Surely...”
He was about to cut her off.
“No, Marcel! If it is a question of money...Brionde can surely pay.”
He chuffed, incredulous.
“Something! How much do you need?”
He was saying, “You don’t understand!”
Thinking he refused to take coin from a woman, she threw that irritating thought aside. “Surely your father, then? He would not suffer you the loss of Anjou. The loss of pride, of dignity. Surely...!”
“You’re not listening to me!”
“I am!” She was standing now, going to him. Her hands were in the air. “There must be some way!”
His own hands were up now, cutting the air between them. “Wait! Just wait!”
She stopped. She could hear her breathing, loud in her ears. Looking down, she could see her breasts heaving in her gown, the velvet patterns of the ruby red fabric rising and falling.
He was heaving, too. His eyes were tearing up. Actually tearing up! She reached out to him, to comfort him.
“No!” He took a step back. “I will not! Not in that way.”
What way? She paused, confused.
He was speaking again, now pacing again. She focused, trying to hear him, trying to understand.
“Coin is not the problem. Do you understand? I mean, you are certainly correct. Father is angry at how much I have spent equipping my Guard, stripping the chateau bare, then gathering the older knights of the surrounding lands in order to make up the lack. But, I have done it.”
Oh. She made as if to speak, then paused again. What was she missing?
“I have my complement of knights. Maybe not mounted as well as some, and certainly not as vigorous as many, but I have met my obligation to His Majesty.”
Then...she waited. She heard John’s voice from deep within her mind.
“It is archers I lack. The last co
in I have I spent on supplying fifteen. I require fifteen more.”
She looked at him, steadily. “Then...”
“No, hear me! No coin – even were I to go to my father for more, which I cannot imagine – even were I to do it, were he to fill my purse for more archers, I cannot buy what I cannot find.”
She blinked at that.
“I have scoured the land, Lela. All the available archers are already hired by others. I came to the game too late.” He darted a glance at her, a weary grin on his face. “My mind on other things, I guess.”
Resolutely not thinking what a tiny voice was whispering to her, she said, “Use Brionde’s.”
“No.”
She almost growled in frustration. Men! Why do they have to be so damn proud?! Instead, she swallowed, took a deep breath. “Brionde’s Guardsmen are accomplished at archery. Use fifteen to fill your ranks.”
“The King would never accept it.”
“Why not? I assure you, John...!”
“John?”
She caught herself in time. Almost. “The Master of the Guard insists that all the Guard be as adept with a bow as they are with a rapier.”
He was already shaking his head.
“Don’t, Marcel! Don’t assume that because I am a woman, I would not know a quality man-at-arms when I see one!”
He stared at her.
She stopped. Drew herself up, crossing her arms. “I assure you...”
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