“Wait!” he said. “Please.”
She took a deep breath.
“I would never make such a silly assumption, Lela.”
Oh.
They paused, looking at one another, then looking down. She felt foolish. He wandered over to the pitcher Ninon had left behind, poured himself some more ale. Then, glancing at her wine, now empty, he poured one for her, as well.
“I wish to thank you for your offer, Lela,” he said, crossing to her. “And were this a time of peace, I would gladly take you up on it.”
He handed the goblet to her. She took a sip. It was sour, yeasty. Surprisingly fitting given the discussion at hand. She waited for him to finish his thought.
“However...”
She waited.
“...as generous a thought as it is, we both know in our hearts that you are not free to make it.”
She glanced at him, her throat catching.
Seeing her look of alarm, he hastened to reply. “No! No. I have not heard of Brionde being promised to anyone.”
She sighed in relief.
“Yet.”
Yet. That fucking word. She was sick of hearing it. Still, she abruptly remembered John’s most troubling question: Had the King written to her, summoning her own feudal obligation to him? His Majesty hadn’t. Why not?
As if guessing her thoughts, Marcel was commenting while sitting with a sigh. “I don’t understand it. Jean le Bon knows that you are visiting here. I’ve been expecting the declaration any day now. Of whom you are to marry. To whom the archers of Brionde belong to.”
She looked down at him, quizzically.
He smiled. “Lela, I have known the turning of many glasses in the saddle, pondering all kinds of options to keep Anjou.”
She had to smile at that herself.
“I doubt he would allow me to hire them, whoever he is. He has his own obligation to the King to fulfill.”
Her mind’s eye filled with the gate of the gilded cage closing on her. The fat belly of a King’s crony climbing into her bed, reeking of ale, demanding the rendering of her own feudal obligation to her lord and master.
Marcel’s comment broke into her thoughts. She almost missed it. “Unless he’s forgotten.”
What?
She looked her question at him.
He was gulping his ale to the last. Then getting up to pour himself another. She watched him cross the room. Waiting. Saint Genevieve, she was tired. Her head was starting a slow spinning from the ale.
“Forgotten?” she asked him.
“Hmm?” he looked at her. “Oh, the King. That’s a possibility that occurred to me in practice this morning. Almost lost my head being distracted at the thought.” He grinned at the memory, mimed ducking a sword strike at his temple while crossing back to her.
She waited for him.
“It just occurred to me. Why haven’t we heard a word about Brionde’s obligations? Quite possibly, with all the moving pieces on his chessboard, Edward and his son the Black Prince moving up from Aquitaine, this or that noble filling with fear, abandoning His Majesty at the word...what if Jean le Bon has forgotten all about you?”
Elated for just a moment, she quashed the thought. Then, felt it arise again. Marcel was sitting down, sipping now. Tugging at a stray thread on his breeches. She thought of her father, of his extraordinary negotiating ability. She thought of the first deal she ever made with John, about the kitchen scamp Twig.
“What does His Majesty need?”
Without hesitation, Marcel answered, “Loyalty. Nobles who won’t flee his side.”
“Offer him that.”
*****
And before she knew what she was doing, she was laying out her plan. She and Marcel to marry. The union of Anjou and Brionde. His feudal obligation fulfilled, plus whatever she could bring in dowry. A child sent as hostage to guarantee loyalty. She blushed as she said this last. But Marcel barely turned a hair. He merely sat, dumbfounded, his mouth agape as she laid out the entire plan.
When she finished, his mouth finally closed shut. Abruptly, as if he suddenly realized that he had been sitting there, looking like a simpleton.
“Jean le Bon will never go for it.”
“Ask him.”
* 8 *
Marcel left the next morning. Courtier to the bone, he always had some knowledge of where the King and his entourage may be found. In this case, His Majesty was gathering his forces at Chartres, several days ride away. It was there that the Lord Constable expected to meet the English in battle. Marcel thought it prudent to arrive with his force of twenty knights as a sign of good faith, and Lela agreed, even if she kept silent about John’s prediction that battle would be met further south, at Poitiers. She helped him send out word for the remaining few to be gathered and spent the rest of the day overseeing the preparations of food packed by the kitchen and of the horses and their tack by the stables. The weapons, of course, she left to Marcel and his knights.
The next dawn, she rose early, donned her knee boots and some old riding breeches, and began rousting the squires and servants to go over some last details that had not been quite ready when she had collapsed with exhaustion late the night before. She was standing in the courtyard surrounded by boys, war chargers and second mares, blowing a lock of hair out of her eyes as she was tightening a strap on a pack horse when Marcel alighted the stairs of the chateau.
“Saint Denis, m’Lady. You look more warlike than I feel!”
She grunted an anxious smile up at him as he floated down the stairs, several knights and their squires stumping down the steps after him. He gave her outfit a silly grin as he surveyed her work, clearly impressed. More knights were appearing from various corners, looking sleep disheveled, wearing their riding leathers and mail, the armor having been well packed by their squires the evening before. One was kissing a tavern girl farewell, another taking some last gulps from a goblet, a third chewing on a leg of chicken. Another, clearly drunk, gave a final smack to his squire before climbing aboard his second mare, the squire tumbling backward into their pack horse. The knight’s proud war charger – ridden only in battle – blew huffs as it nervously shambled back and forth, tugging on its leads. Lela wondered how old it was. It seemed a bit old for a war charger, as did several she could see. But, choking that thought down, she firmly reminded herself that Marcel was right. He had done the best that he could on short notice.
He was mounting now. With the words “to the first of many” he gave her a peck on the cheek and, raising a hand for attention – and dramatic effect, she suspected – he waited for all to finish mounting. His own squire kneed his mare over to him, the Anjou standard with its bright gold key on its field of blue held aloft ready to flutter in the wind, its pole rooted in the holster at the squire’s knee.
In spite of herself, she felt her heart leap into her throat as his hand came down and they set off at a trot that quickly gathered into a gallop. A gallop that, she well knew, would settle back into a trot once they were out of sight of the castle walls. Still, as she wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, she allowed that he had made an effect. May he make one on the King, she thought.
He had cautioned her to downgrade her expectations, yet, had promised his best. Indeed, commenting with that wry smile of his before retiring the night before that he had more to lose than she – something Lela truly doubted – he had promised to send word by fast horse as quickly as possible.
So, two arrivals to await. It seemed that waiting was becoming her natural state.
She contented herself with a message to John to prepare fifteen Guardsmen with bows to join Chateau Anjou’s forces when summoned by the King. Mindful of his wound, and knowing him, she was careful to include in her instructions that he would remain behind at Brionde. It was the first time in several weeks that she had really let herself think of him. Short though it was, she had a difficult time shutting the image of his piercing eyes or his gruff voice from her mind the rest of the day.
Fi
nally, growling at herself in vexation, she undertook a very slow tour of the castle, asking herself how it would appear to Katya. Then, as part of the tour, she took a long, hard look at a chamber adjoining hers, often used by the ladies-in-waiting for afternoon naps – or the occasional tryst she suspected. She admired the view, paused to listen to a wren outside and decided she simply must have her friend only one door away. Indeed, she wondered how often the door between the chambers would actually be closed.
Which brought about the inevitable question of how often Marcel would be visiting her. She accepted without thinking that he would continue to have his own day and night chambers. That was tradition, befitting a Lord and his Lady, when so many marriages these days were of property – and certainly not of love – arranged at the behest of the King or some other noble, in order to put some property to its best use. She had been married to the Walrus on just such terms. Having separate chambers made for a peaceful marriage. Asking for a happy one was nonsensical. With Marcel’s roving eye and so many of her ladies-in-waiting besotted with him, it would prove no surprise to see several baby bumps among them after Poitiers.
Not her problem. Her problem was to create a child, preferably a son, who could be sent to Court as hostage to prove their loyalty. She would ensure that little Marcel would have the finest apartments in the city that she could find, that the combined worth of Anjou and Brionde could command. She was certain that John would undertake the safest Guard manageable in Palais de la Cité. She was also certain that Katya would have many useful insights to making this awkward transition possible. She might well find that she could not bear to be apart from little Marcel anyway and, grinning, tried to imagine herself, Katya and John living together in the same building complex as Jean le Bon and his
Queen.
John...
Yes, she decided, blushing as she did so, she would think about the possibility of taking John with them to Paris. For safety. And for eye candy. Then she shushed her thoughts and went back to her preparations for Katya.
Besides, she resolved later as she was overseeing the complete overhaul of the chamber – demanding a hot, sudsy scrub of the walls, the floors, the ceiling – it might be good for John’s name. At Court, distinguishing himself in tournaments. Maybe a Constable of some sorts, teaching his controversial rapier-fighting techniques to young warriors. Maybe even see him knighted somehow, someday...
At that thought, she gave herself a stern mental slap in the face. She was the Countess of Anjou and Brionde now. There would be no lusting after the Master of her Guard. Not anymore. She could never disrespect Marcel like that. It would be ghastly. Nor could she disrespect the reputation of little Marcel.
She clucked at her girlish silliness and went back to her preparations for Katya. A new bed must be constructed from scratch, her best imperious gaze melting the incredulity of the chateau carpenter to have it done in three days with as much ornamentation as he could muster. Asked what kind of ornamentation, she clipped out “valkyries, of course.” He left, scratching his head in utter perplexity. She ordered housekeeping to prepare a completely new mattress, freshly stuffed and entirely cased in linen, with dark-blue satin sheets and pillows to match Katya’s eyes. Scouring the chambers of the chateau, she found a large, forgotten armoire to store all the dresses she planned to give her friend. She had it completely cleaned and oversaw the nerve-wracking transport of it up the stairs to the chamber.
As the days melted away, the room took shape. Decorations were the most difficult, she knew from experience. Fresh rushes, fresh-cut flowers placed in the chamber even if Katya hadn’t arrived yet for Lela wanted their scent to linger in the corners of the room. Night and day tables, a copper tub, all found resting ignored in a dusty guest chamber. They were too fine for a servant but she didn’t care. Katya could never be a servant to her anyway, she thought giddily. Then wondered how Marcel would take that and decided that she didn’t care. The tables were brought in, stocked with water and mead goblets and pitchers, to the wondering glances of her ladies-in-waiting. Of course, she commissioned Brionde Way brushes – tried to imagine explaining them to Katya, but gave up laughing – and had the silly, hazy, dislocating feeling that all of the shards of her life were coming together into one new mosaic.
She couldn’t decide on a tapestry until she found one, high up in some forgotten room, near the very top of one of the towers. It was of a landscape that looked vaguely like the stories Katya had told her of the Norselands with all their ice, snow, and craggy cliffs.
The bed turned out to be beautiful, of darkly polished mahogany. She looked at the carpenter, standing there, shifting nervously from one foot to another, and wondered whether he or his assistants had slept at all these last days. He had even brought the large valkyrie he was carving to mount on the headboard. She teared up as she took it in her hands, the horse spreading its wings, just waiting for their feathers to be filled in, the hints of a saddle waiting for its rider. She stifled a sob as she handed it back to him and heard him nervously clearing his throat, his apologies for how long it was taking. She gave him an impulsive peck on his sweaty, badly unshaven cheek. Which made him run away, swearing he would have it “by sundown tomorrow m’Lady, as Saint Denis is my witness!” (She later sent word that she was very pleased with the results and that he need not hurry.)
The rest of that last evening and all night she spent in Katya’s bed. Waiting.
Dawn came bright and beautiful. As it should be, she thought. She wondered what to do, how to dress, wondered how close Katya was, was struck at the awful thought that there would turn out to be some delay which she shushed down.
Finally, in vexation, she dressed in her knee boots and riding breeches and ordered fast riders out to find Katya’s party then return with an estimated arrival. She spent the morning forcing herself to attend to her duties, refusing to allow herself the pleasure of riding out with them – what if she chose the wrong road – and tried not to listen for the sound of galloping hoof beats.
She was in the kitchen tasting a planked fish, a trout that had been smoked on a plank of cedar wood – Viking style, the kitchen mistress swore on Saint Genevieve, a cousin had told her all about it – when Lela heard the call.
“m’Lady!”
It was distant. But it was distinctive. Tears sprang to her eyes. The kitchen mistress reached out and convulsively grasped her hand then gasped at what she had done and pulled back. Lela patted her on the cheek. Told her it was delicious.
Then ran full tilt out of the kitchen and to the front of the castle. The rider was just coming in the gate as she made the courtyard.
He was gasping from the effort, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he dismounted.
“m’Lady...!”
She cut him off. “Which road?”
“Le Mans!” Of course. The road to Paris and the Germanies beyond. But she was already mounting the horse and turning its head to the Gate.
He was shouting, “One glass, maybe two, distant at a walk.” She nodded and quirted the mare into an immediate gallop.
She raced through the walls and out of the Gate. Through the village outside to the squawking of several geese standing nearby and the scurrying of several tradesmen and women going about their daily work. Out into the fields. Past the workers busy at the harvest. Seeing the signposts of the crossroads ahead – Rennes, Le Mans, and Tours – taking the middle road at a full gallop only to feel the mare stumble. Damn! She repented, thinking that she was riding the horse into an injury and forced herself to slow to a trot. She chewed her lip all through the next several bends until...
She saw her! Coming at a gallop straight toward her. Looking every inch a valkyrie herself. The same white blonde hair streaming behind her, the same large breasts heaving up and down, seen even at this distance, the same brawny arms urging her horse on faster. Her attendant rider striving to keep up. So much for being sick! All of it, right down to the old, brown, badly worn smock Katya was wearing, toppe
d by her huge smile, all of it drowning, smearing in Lela’s tears as she stopped and dismounted for fear that she would fall.
“Lela! Lela!” Katya’s cries sounded in her ears before she even heard the hoof beats. Lela kept crying. She didn’t know what else to do. She just stood there, twisting the mare’s reins in her hands.
Until her friend galloped up with a roar and a running dismount. Shouting “Lela!” one last time her Viking tackled her in a cloud of white hair, screaming her name and hugging her as they tumbled to the ground, their tears smearing their kisses, their hugs. Their everything.
Finally, when Katya heard her choking for breath, her friend sat back in the dirt, holding her, tight. “Let me look at you. It really is you.” The same Norse lilt to her words, the same bright smile. The same flashing sparkle to her eyes.
“Whatever are you doing here?”
And then before Lela could answer.
“Do you know anybody at Chateau Anjou? I belong to the Countess now.”
*****
She didn’t know how to respond. She just kept crying. Finally, Katya rose to her feet, pulling her up. Looking over Lela’s mare, she clucked, “You’ve over-ridden your horse. No matter.”
And then, she mounted her own ride and with one grasp of her brawny arm, pulled up Lela in front of her, saying, “Saint Genevieve girl, you are as light as a bird. Who is feeding you?” And they were off, her attendant taking up the reins of Lela’s mount and leading it in.
Lela closed her eyes, resting back on Katya’s breasts, her cloud of white hair all around her as if she were in a dream. She let Katya talk on and on.
“We came around the curve, my back aching as usual from this ride, that scoundrel peeking at my teats as usual when I look up and blink and blink and blink again. Yes, it’s you. It has to be you. You haven’t changed a bit.”
Lela tried chuffing at that, but couldn’t. She just rested. Happy. Letting Katya’s words flow all around her. All about how it has been ten years! Ten years! And that bastard of a condottiere whose cock she slit off that very night after he had raped her. Then escaped, only to get caught by the pickets of his band, then tackled. “It took four of those nags to bring me down!” Then thrown in a cage for her troubles, raped several more times, several more cocks slit off, until they finally sold her to a slaver. Who took her to a count in Bourges, central Francia. “Lela, you would love the cathedral there. I used to go, everyday and light a candle for you there, praying that Saint Genevieve would look after you.” Then, how she figured out if she let the count fuck her – he loved her teats – she would get better food, a better chamber, dresses, the like. She wasn’t proud. She did it. Until he was fucking her so much that it became embarrassing. He gave her a dress that was finer than his wife’s. So, the bitch had arranged to sell her to a cousin far away in Saarbrucken, good sausages there. It was a crossroads of the world. Every emissary who passed between Paris and Prague – “Where the Emperor lives, Lela!” – stopped at Saarbrucken. “Mein Gott” – which meant “my god” in Germania – how fine the ladies were there. She herself was there for years. She used to imagine that some day, Lela would come through Saarbrucken and find her. Once or twice she even thought she saw her, but never truly. Once, she even swore that she had seen Marcel. “You remember, Marcel, Lela? The spoiled mayor’s boy of Avignon? Who wanted to sink his sausage in you but I wouldn’t let him?” How she had raised the spoiled brats of the Herzog – that meant Duke – and let him fondle her teats from time to time, but never to fuck her. She had learned her lesson. Until one day, this strange Count of Anjou asked to buy her. The Herzog asked a really large coin because he didn’t want to lose his favorite teats around the castle. But she cut him off, would not let him touch her anymore. Mein Gott! He was mad. So mad her ripped her dress. So, she told his wife. Who arranged to sell her to Anjou for the price of two hay bales. “Two hay bales!”
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