by Allegra Gray
“Do all servants at Chillon have their own chamber?” Celia asked, squeezing excess water from her hair.
Marie laughed. “No. Many of the vassals and others sleep in the great hall, or the stables, or wherever they see fit. ‘Tis only a few of us here in the chambers. My mother is head chambermaid, so we’re treated well.” She nodded at her pallet. “Normally there’s another girl to share, but she moved to the village when she married.”
“You’re very fortunate.”
“I suppose. It gets lonely though, and cold. I hope they bring on a new girl soon. Will you tell me of your father now?”
“Yes.” Celia proceeded to tell her story, trying her best to remember every detail of the battle and its aftermath. She could only hope that Marie would repeat the tale far and wide, perhaps counteracting some of the ugly rumors spread by others. Celia told of her fear when she’d realized her father had been captured while she’d stayed behind with their cart. She told of her panic at being unable to reach him until it was nearly too late. She told of bursting into the count’s meeting—“My, you must be brave,” laughed Marie—of her frightening experiences in the dungeons, her guilt at abandoning their goods, and finally of her hasty offer to take his place.
“No,” Marie breathed.
“I had to. He could have died down there. But my father would never have agreed if his lordship hadn’t made it clear I would not be mistreated .”
“’Twas a kind offer, then. You’d not have fared so well with the dungeon-keeper.”
Celia nodded soberly.
“Cruel, Hans is.” Marie gave a shudder. “And his guards, as well. I shouldn’t speak so of my betters, but you’ve seen them for yourself. Hans, well, most everyone’s afraid of him. I don’t even think Bernice would like him if he didn’t have access to the count.”
“Does his lordship favor Hans, then?” Celia fervently hoped not.
“He’s one of his lordship’s men. I suppose that counts for something. I’m not privy to what goes on in the war councils.”
When she was through washing, Celia turned to the garments she’d discarded earlier, but Marie turned up her nose.
“Erm...these haven’t had very long to air out. Maybe you could just borrow my other dress,” the girl said.
“You have a spare?”
“Oui. You may borrow it.” She lifted the lid of a wooden trunk and began extracting garments.
Celia watched, feeling a twinge of jealousy. She didn’t have a spare gown, only an extra shift and stockings. That was as much as anyone in her village had, and more than most.
Her pride forced her to protest. “Nay, truly, I could not put you to so much trouble.”
“Not at all. Even if the rumors are untrue, your circumstances warrant every effort to make a good impression, no? And I have an extra.”
Heat crept into Celia’s cheeks in her embarrassment at having nothing of her own. But she really didn’t want to put her smelly old clothes back on. Nor was she anxious to cut short her time with the only friendly person she’d met at Chillon. Fie on her pride. She would borrow the garments.
She gasped when she saw the gown Marie held up. It was made of soft peach linen, with a fitted bodice and long, wide sleeves. She briefly worried that the sleeves would indecently expose her arms whenever she moved, but Marie produced a chemise for underneath that would cover her from head to foot. Both garments were far finer than her own things.
“These are so lovely. Nicer than anything I’ve ever worn. I’m sorry if I’m being unbearably rude, but how did you come by them?”
“Oh, well.” It was Marie’s turn to look embarrassed. “When the noblewomen here tire of their clothing, sometimes they give cast-offs to us servants. It’s a sort of payment for our work. The clothes they think are worn or out of fashion seem terribly nice to the rest of us. Sometimes a small tear, or a frayed hem, is the only thing wrong. When the count is gone, there are very few nobles left at the castle, but other times there are great crowds, and sometimes the ladies are quite kind. This one here came from the count’s sister, who left for Flanders just last spring.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “They’re exceedingly wealthy, you know.”
“Who?” Celia was still reeling from the idea of noblewomen who would apparently toss out a perfectly serviceable garment on a whim. She’d heard of such things in legends, but never believed it happened in the actual world she inhabited.
“The Savoy nobles, of course. The count’s family. Chillon is only one of his holdings, but they make a goodly lot from all the merchants who use the road. Sometimes they pay in gold, other times a portion of whatever they’re carrying—fabrics, ceramics, spices—anything, really. Some bring terribly interesting things from foreign parts.”
Celia absorbed this information. She was dying to ask Marie about the lands the travelers came from, and what exactly they brought with them. What did they look like, and how did they speak and act, these merchants who sold their goods so far from home?
Her own father was a merchant, of course, but rarely traveled farther than Chillon to sell or trade. When she’d suggested taking their wines further abroad, he’d waved her off as a dreamer and a foolish female. Maybe she was foolish, but she’d spent so many winters carefully rationing their food and their firewood, praying it would last, that she couldn’t help but dream. Her father worked so hard. If only they could grow his trade just a little, bring in a few extra coins, her prayers would be answered.
Much as Celia wanted to ask about the foreigners, she desired even more to learn about the man who held her—and her father’s—fate in his hands. “What can you tell me of him?”
Marie gaped. “Nicolas of Savoy? Where do you come from that you don’t know of him?”
“Near Gruyère. I know of him, of course, but ‘tis difficult to know truth from rumor.”
The maid gave a slight laugh. “So it is. I suppose you’re only too aware of that just now.”
“Indeed. Also, there is another count in Gruyère, so mostly the people worry about pleasing him. He is old, though, and in his cups overmuch.”
Marie shook her head solemnly. “Savoy is not like that. He is terribly powerful. The other nobles around here owe allegiance to the Holy Empire, but Savoy is independent, or as independent as one can be. His lordship has many powerful allies. He’s stern, but he treats his servants well. He’s a warrior, too. Chillon gets attacked fairly often, on account of the wealth and location.”
“Are you frightened, living here?”
“Not really. Since he’s held the title, he’s raised the fortifications and no one’s ever succeeded at pillaging the castle. His lordship is not a man to be trifled with.” Marie cocked her head. “I think he’s fond of you—especially after all you’ve told me. He’s treating you awfully well...No wonder there are rumors.”
“There’s nothing to them, as I said,” Celia protested.
“Mayhap not. But tongues will wag.” Marie helped Celia into the peach-colored gown, then began tightening the laces on the bodice.
Celia sucked in her breath, realizing that Marie and the count’s sister must be a bit less well-endowed than she. The garment fit over her waist and hips, but was quite snug in the bosom, making Celia conscious of how it outlined her breasts.
Marie studied her. “You’ve a bit more up top than I, but you look quite nice now. Are you married?”
Celia shook her head quickly. At twenty she was certainly old enough to be married, but she’d begged her father to discourage the young men in her village from offering. She wasn’t ready to trade in her dreams of adventure for a tiny home and a small-minded man in Gruyère. Lately he’d been tiring of her excuses.
“Good, then I won’t need to find you a veil. I’m not, either, and I haven’t any.”
The only women who didn’t cover their hair in society were unmarried girls or prostitutes. As the former, Celia was free to leave her hair unencumbered. She was rapidly approaching the age where she o
ught to wear one, married or not, to convey a proper impression, but she hadn’t brought herself to do it just yet.
Marie handed Celia a long, soft leather belt that tied just above her hips and hung down the front of the gown. “Perfect.”
Celia smiled. Somehow, everything seemed better when one was clean and held the ear of a sympathetic friend.
Marie looked at the heap of Celia’s old clothes. “Erm, why don’t you just keep this dress whilst you’re here. Washday is coming up, and I’ll just put your things in with the rest of the linens. No one will mind.”
“But I may need to return your things before then. What if I cannot find you?”
“’Tisn’t likely you’ll be leaving that soon, is it? It will be some days until his return. Then, you’ve trading to do once the matter of your father is cleared up. There’s no hurry.”
“Marie, it’s too much. How can I repay you?”
“No matter. Living within these walls, everyone knows everyone else’s doings. ‘Tis nice to talk to someone new. Now, though, I really had better see to my other duties.”
After Marie left, Celia spent most of the day alone. She wandered about the castle, but everyone seemed occupied. Some men worked to improve the castle’s fortifications, while others laid in extra stores for winter.
She came upon a group of soldiers’ wives working on a tapestry, but their conversation stilled the moment she entered the room. Their leader, a thin, brown-veiled woman with small eyes and a sharp nose, cast a contemptuous glance her way. Bernice, she recalled, remembering Marie’s warning about the dungeon-keeper’s wife. Celia slunk from the room, feeling distinctly unwelcome.
The sun came out in the afternoon, allowing her to at least escape to the courtyard. Once, she saw the count speaking with his master-at-arms and another man. She tried to watch him without being obvious, wondering if he would notice her, but he never paused in his intense conversation to even glance her direction.
Last night, she’d thought she was making a noble sacrifice—her own freedom for that of her father.
Today, it was all but forgotten.
She’d no cause for complaint, Celia knew. She’d fared better than any hostage had a right to expect. So why did she feel so ill at ease? It was as though she was waiting for something—but what?
At suppertime she went to the lower great hall, where everyone gathered for food, hoping to dispel the loneliness she’d felt all day. She was hungry. At home her family always took their main meal at midday, but at Chillon, she learned, the count postponed it until evening so as not to waste the daylight hours.
She stood at the entrance of the great hall, though, at a loss for what to do. A giant hearth stood on the north side of the room, while windows on the opposite side overlooked the lake. Savoy and the men closest to him ate at the high table on a dais. The soldiers sat at a long, low table along the wall, and the serving people at yet another lower table.
She belonged none of those places. She was neither noble, soldier, nor servant. As the daughter of a common merchant she belonged somewhere below the salt, but she didn’t know the other castle dwellers well enough to determine exactly where to sit. There might be other men of trade somewhere in the crowd, but she didn’t know them, either. Before she could decide, the count looked up from his meal and, seeing her, beckoned her over.
Suddenly she was quite certain she would have chosen the servants’ table if the decision had been left to her. She shook her head, but the count pointed at an open spot further down his table. She obeyed, now feeling distinctly uncomfortable. This would certainly fuel the rumors. But as she owed him her father’s freedom, she could hardly ignore his instructions now.
The cupbearer quietly placed a goblet of mead at her place, and another servant set a trencher of stale bread, meant to serve as a plate, in front of her. Everyone else shared a trencher with the diner next to them, but as there were now an odd number at the table, Celia’s was hers alone. She shifted on the stool, attempting to shrink herself as small as possible. She looked for Marie’s blond head among those at the lower tables, feeling acutely alone.
A page began carving and serving the roast mutton from the center of the table, mincing about as he sliced the meat, looking inordinately pleased to have the honor of serving his lord. After Savoy and his lesser nobles were served, he placed a portion of meat and trimmings in Celia’s trencher, then retreated to stand against the wall. She looked down at her food. Mutton, with brown gravy and mushrooms. She shuddered. The meat was fine, a richer meal than she’d have had at home, but she had hated mushrooms passionately since childhood. No doubt the chefs believed they were serving a special treat. Likely those at the lower tables didn’t even get them. She carefully pushed them to the very edge of the bread, away from her meat, and helped herself to some of the squash and beans piled in steaming bowls in the center of the table.
She cast a surreptitious glance toward the count. In the congenial atmosphere of the hall, he seemed less imposing. A powerful lord, no question, but as he laughed at the jest of a companion, she saw another side to him. Perhaps Marie was correct—a strong ruler, but not a tyrant. After all, he’d loaned a mule to a man accused of treason, just to give that man a chance at proving his innocence. His chestnut hair was burnished in the glow of torches, and his burgundy tunic fit him to perfection. Heat filled her cheeks.
She hastily glanced away, but not before he caught her eye.
He lifted his glass in a half-salute. “To my lovely guest.”
Others around the table followed suit, though she saw looks of amused knowledge and veiled distaste on a few. She swallowed, the meat sticking in her throat. If the count had decreed she was to be treated as guest and not prisoner, would his men not honor that promise as well? Or were they too influenced by the rumors flying about the castle?
For now, she could do nothing but school her features as though she were perfectly at ease. She watched the count as much as she could without being obvious. She needed to understand him better to understand his game.
For certain, Nicolas of Savoy was toying with her. But to what purpose?
Nicolas studied Celia across the table. Celia, in turn, studied her hands. They were lovely hands, he saw, with long, tapered fingers more suitable for a noblewoman than a country merchant. She looked acutely uncomfortable. Her station in life dictated she sit at a lower table, and she most likely knew it. If he’d wanted to show favor, he could have offered her a seat near a salt cellar. Certainly not on the dais. By putting her there, he’d effectively announced his claim on her. Did she know that, too?
After the men at the table followed his toast, silence had fallen. He knew the even if Celia didn’t fully understand the implications of her seat, they did.
Nicolas inclined his head toward her. “The young lady,” he informed his men, “has graciously agreed to grant me her company until her father returns with”—he glanced balefully at his mead—“some much-anticipated wine.”
Murmurs and half-hearted smiles went in Celia’s direction.
She returned them uncertainly. “His lordship has been very generous in considering my family’s case.”
“Has everything been to your liking?” Nicolas inquired.
“Oui, my lord. You and the members of your demesne have provided all I could wish for.”
It was a polite but mechanical response, Nicolas thought, though he conceded there really wasn’t anything else she could say. Her cheeks flushed at his continued attention, their color matched by the gown she wore. It was different, he realized, than the one he remembered from the night before. An improvement, definitely. Peach fabric hugged her bosom so closely as to verge on indecency. Nicolas paused in his thoughts to fervently thank God for creating the female form.
He needed to get her alone—for more than the reason most obvious to his baser instincts. He wanted to know what she’d seen and heard the day of the battle. He needed to earn her trust, so that she would speak freely. Assumin
g she didn’t end up revealing traitorous deeds, he could move on to his next pursuit—her.
Since neither of those interests was appropriate to pursue at the dining table, he struggled for a moment, searching for something to say that would keep those amazing blue eyes focused on him. Finally he noticed the little pile of mushrooms at one end of her trencher. “Everything is to your liking, you say?”
She nodded.
“I am pleased. Shall I have the kitchen bring another serving of mushrooms? They are Cook’s particular creation.”
She flushed deeper, sending his thoughts immediately to other ways he could make her blush. “I confess I have never understood the attraction they hold for others.”
Nicolas motioned to one of the men next to Celia, who happily helped himself to the offending fungi.
He needed a way to prolong the evening with her. Preferably alone. He could just order her to do and go wherever he wanted. But common sense told him he would need a different strategy with Celia. If he wanted her trust, he had to win her over. Beyond any military intelligence he stood to gain, there was the matter of pleasure. He stood to gain more of that, too, if she was a willing participant in the seduction. A lackluster tumble was hardly worth the trouble. He had to move quickly, or in a few days she would disappear from his life as quickly as she’d entered it.
A minstrel had been playing softly in the background while they ate, but as the meal drew to an end, he plucked his lap-harp with renewed vigor. The player was deformed, one side of his body sagging and twisting while the other appeared normal, but he cradled his instrument lovingly and produced a music of such surpassing beauty that his deformity faded into the background.