The Devil's Bargain

by Allegra Gray

  Nicolas nodded briefly at both Celia and the villager, then gave his attention again to the men next to him. The discussion at the high table was carried on in whispers for some time. Finally, he held up two hands on either side of him as if to say “enough.” She knew he had reached a decision.

  “You have two options,” he said, intoning his judgment firmly. “You may repent now and ask forgiveness as a Christian, or prepare yourself to meet your Creator and ask forgiveness of Him.”

  The priest wore an expression of intense disapproval at his master’s words, and Celia knew instinctively that with his whispers he’d been arguing for the woman’s death. She looked at Helena. It seemed as though a quiver passed through her, and then again she stood perfectly still, silent.

  “I will have your answer,” the count commanded.

  She frowned. “To choose one’s own death is a sin. If I repent?”

  “You will wear clothing always that will mark you as a former heretic and Jew, but you will go free.”

  This was the best offer Helena was likely to receive. Nicolas had to keep peace among all his people. They would not approve if he treated accusations of witchcraft too lightly.

  Indeed, the crowd around her seemed stunned, and a few hushed whispers were passed back and forth. “She should die!” one man said, “Just as Christ the Redeemer died at the hands of the Jews!” “Aye, a Christ killer! Let there be no mercy for her,” said another. Celia wrinkled her nose at the words. She was no theologian, but her limited understanding was that Christ and his followers had actually been Jews. Aside from that, it had been over a thousand years since the death of Christ. These people’s hatred for Helena, their willingness to blame her, made no sense.

  Yet Celia knew that to argue further would be to mark her own self as a heretic—a mark only slightly better than the death sentence the villagers so favored.

  If Helena were marked as a recovered heretic, she would still face great troubles. No decent household would employ such a person. Still, Celia hoped she would accept. Surely she could join one of the caravans traveling along the road and make a new life somewhere else. If she moved far enough from here, there would be no one to force her to wear heretic’s clothing or even to live as a Christian. It would be dangerous for a woman alone, but her other options were to remain here with a life of constant harassment, or death.

  The rumbling in the courtroom had reached a fever pitch, and still Helena stood silently.

  “Your answer?” The count was forced to repeat.

  Still Helena stood calmly. The only sign of any distress on her expressionless face was that she softly bit the corner of her lip.

  The expressions on the faces of the men at the high table said they were getting impatient, and the crowd buzzed even louder, not bothering to temper their volume. Time seemed to have come to a standstill in the little area that made up the trial stage. Anxiety pricked at Celia. Why would the woman say nothing? Was she determined to become a martyr? A vassal next to Celia whispered to his partner that she probably was a witch and was silently hexing them even now.

  Finally, the count nodded towards the guard. He came forth, bearing a heavy set of irons, and Celia’s spirits sank. The priest next to Nicolas looked inordinately contented.

  Celia had the urge to wipe the satisfied smirk off his face but was spared the need when, just as the guard reached her and had the irons in position, Helena looked at the count and inclined her head in the slightest nod of acquiescence.

  Celia’s spirits lifted as she watched Nicolas nod in return, and Helena was led away, unchained.

  Days turned into weeks with no sign of Robert Lyndon. True winter settled in, bringing occasional snow and intermittent thaws. Travelers came and went from the southern pass, but the mountain roads remained too unstable for anyone with a heavy load. Knowing this, Celia tried to relax and enjoy her time with Nicolas, but as that relationship grew, so did her anxiety over what the future held.

  Many of the castle-dwellers spent the cold days lingering indoors, gossiping over the results of the recent trials and sipping ale.

  Not Nicolas of Savoy. Instead, he returned immediately to his preparations for battle with the Genevans. Normally weapons practice was held only in the mornings, but as the battle drew nearer, he’d called for additional practices.

  Cold weather or not, the men would prepare.

  This was a side of her lover Celia found it difficult to understand. Respect, certainly. There was no warrior as determined or driven as Nicolas of Savoy. A lord had to protect his people. But the fury that drove men to kill one another in the first place was beyond her understanding.

  As Celia looked down into the twilight-filled courtyard one evening, she saw several pairs of men facing off. The clash of sword on shield rang throughout the upper courtyard, echoing off the stone walls and creating such a din she was tempted to retreat within the depths of the castle to avoid the noise. Yet she could not tear her eyes from the warriors.

  They were impressive as they slashed and lunged. Even in the cold weather they would work up quite a sweat, often stripping off their heavy tunics and practicing only in their linen shirts.

  Nicolas was especially fine, she thought, not bothering to lower her eyes at the sight of his body displayed to advantage by the damp linen. They’d been working particularly hard this evening. She’d seen him in action that first day she and her father had approached Chillon, and as she watched now, she knew he was holding back, allowing his partner to gain strength rather than dispatching him in a single stroke, as he’d done his enemies. ‘Twas not only kind, she realized, ‘twas wise. His men would be the better for the practice.

  Watching the preparations bothered her, for it was not so long ago she’d seen a real battle, where men did not fight with blunted blades. In real battles, men were maimed and even killed, and she could not help but wonder what made it so worthwhile that the count chose to fight again so soon.

  Finally, the count and his partner bowed to one another, signaling the end of the session. Nicolas headed to the water trough to sluice off. A young vassal stood near the trough, stirring it to keep it from freezing in the chilly air. Another vassal ran up to the trough with a bucket of steaming water fresh from the hearth and poured it in, just in time for his lord.

  She watched Nicolas rinse and dry himself, then head for the circular stone stairs that lead directly to his chamber.

  When he arrived, she was waiting, and the question burst from her before she’d had time to think it through.

  “Why must you make war? Surely the blow to your pride from the previous attack is not worth the risk to your men.” She clapped a hand to her mouth. Proper ladies did not speak to men on subjects like war.

  He gave her a sharp look. “’Tis no mere matter of pride, mistress. Were’t that, I should not hesitate to call it off. ‘Tis strategy. The Genevans wish to control the road.”

  “The road?”

  “Aye, the road that passes Chillon is used by many travelers, especially in the warmer months. It is one of the few paths between the north and south in this region. There are ships, of course, but ships are costly, and for many it is a long journey to reach a port. My men keep the road near Chillon safe and open to all merchants and travelers—they must pay only the tax for passing.”

  “And it brings much revenue.” She swallowed. “’Tis wealth you fight over.”

  “Wealth, yes, but more importantly, the security of my people and my lands. The Genevans will never leave us in peace if they believe they may take it. My ancestors fought to control these lands years ago, and we have kept them in prosperity ever since. The people here rely on the security of the Savoy name. If we were to do nothing after an attack, word would spread, and all these lands would soon be overrun. The road would no longer be safe, and the livelihood of many would be destroyed. A mighty defense, a strong counterattack, are the best way to prove to the Count of Geneva that he holds no power here.”

  She s
ighed. “I understand. I do. ’Tis difficult to find fault with the logic of your position. I admire your resolve, my lord. I only worry over the danger to you and your men.”

  “No,” he laughed gently. “The selfsame woman who would go dashing alone into foreign lands to try her luck as a merchant? That woman is worried for me, a trained warrior surrounded by the best of fighting men?”

  “Laugh if you will, my lord. While my mind follows your logic, my heart remains unconvinced.”

  “Ah, my sweet,” he said, gathering her close, “it flatters me to know of your concern. Your compassion is one of the things I admire most about you, and ‘twill provide me that much greater incentive to return unharmed. You need not worry. My men are trained, prepared, and as well-equipped as any could hope for.”

  He gave her a wayward grin, tracing the neckline of her gown. “The affection of a pretty maid is enough to sustain a man through much toil, and I shall be luckiest of all, for I shall have you to dream of.”

  “Now you flatter me.” As his hand dipped lower to follow the curve of her breast, her worry gave way to desire. “And distract me,” she laughed.

  “Ah, Celia, there will be little enough time for distraction in the weeks ahead. Would you rather we spent these few moments now speaking of danger?” He’d bent his head and spoke huskily as he nuzzled her neck. His hands circled her waist, pulling her against him, then rose to tease her nipples through the layers of fabric separating them.

  “No, my lord,” she sighed, letting her head fall back. “Please, distract me.”

  Chapter 14

  Not until late February did the cold weather finally break. Celia, like many, seized the opportunity to stroll outdoors. She was glad to escape the castle walls, though she went no further than the narrow strip of land along the lakeside, still on Chillon’s tiny island. Small children chased one another while their mothers looked on or brought their chores outside.

  The breeze blew chill, but the sun was warm. She let the hood of her cloak fall back as she drank in the fresh air. She longed to be free of her veil as well, to let the sun warm her hair, but her time at Chillon had taught her to bow to the dictates of propriety, at least outwardly.

  She exchanged pleasantries with those she passed, but joined no one. No matter how proper an appearance she tried to maintain publicly, a certain level of solitude came with being a noble man’s mistress. The servants treated her with deference, the nobles with mere tolerance. Some scorned her for keeping Alisoun and Marie—the only true friends she’d met—as roommates, while others were jealous of the fine possessions she now had. So Celia had learned to be quiet, unobtrusive, and save her true thoughts for the precious moments she spent with the lord of the castle or his mother-daughter team of chambermaids.

  What she was thinking now, as the sunlight melted the winter chill from her marrow, was that the change in weather would bring change elsewhere. And she wasn’t certain how she felt about that.

  Her father could return any time now. When he’d first left, she’d wanted nothing more than to see him safe and for both of them to leave Chillon forever. Now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave at all, though she still dreamt of learning her father’s trade. But her father did not want her in the trade, and her lover had not spoken to her of their future. What was to become of her?

  The count’s mind was on battle, and had been for some time. He’d said nothing to her about staying once her father returned, nor did she dare raise the subject. Soon, he would heed the call of battle, where she could not follow.

  The long winter weeks had offered a respite from all the possibilities and turmoil swirling in her life. That respite was nearly over. She was going to have to make some decisions.

  It happened one sunny afternoon when the last of the snow was melting from the stones and trickling away in cheerful rivulets—Celia’s father returned. She had long since stopped listening for the clatter of wagon wheels over cobblestone. Besides the various carts belonging to the castle, many merchants traveling the road from warmer parts had been passing through for weeks.

  At first, she’d run to a window, or out to the courtyard, every time she’d heard any conveyance arriving. Her spirits would soar crazily in the hopes of seeing her father, then plummet precipitously when it turned out not to be him. Months of winter weather, combined with her torn feelings for the castle’s master, had cured her of the watchful habit.

  So it was, that she paid little attention to the cart that came rattling through the gates that bright late-winter afternoon. That is, until the breeze drifted toward her, carrying with it the mingled scents of fine cheese.

  Instantly Celia felt a wave of homesickness wash over her, and she wondered how long it would be before she saw her home again. It was only then that the movements of a man unloading a cart caught her attention. Soldiers and castle servants were gathered around, poking through and exclaiming over the cart’s contents, but in the middle stood a man who, despite being mostly covered by a heavy wool cloak, moved in a manner that looked awfully familiar.

  Hardly daring to hope, she edged closer until the man turned and she could see his face.

  “Papa!” she cried, running towards him, slipping on a patch of ice and coming to a careening halt only inches from the familiar gray beard and twinkling brown eyes of her father.

  “Ah, Celia, my daughter.” He gathered her in close and she inhaled the scent of cheese, rubbed her cheek on the rough wool of his cloak. “Darling, I’ve been so worried about you. First the weather foiled my return, and then your brother fell ill—he’s well now, thank the Good Lord, but we had quite a scare—so it’s taken far longer than I ever planned to return. Have you fared well.”

  “Do not worry, Papa,” she squeezed his hands, still cold from traveling outdoors. “I’m just fine. I’ve been treated well.”

  He cupped her cheeks in his large hands. “Truly?”

  “Oui, Papa. I have missed you, though.”

  “And I you, daughter.” He hung his head. “I must tell you that with all that happened over the winter, we did not do so well in our trading. I was not able to make as many trips as I’d first planned, and had to sell the rest of the goods locally, where you know they don’t fetch much of a price. The Count of Gruyère was fair, but just barely. All the local merchants went to him when we realized the early snow would keep us from going farther. I held only this load in reserve, to pay your ransom. I’m afraid we are starting the new year even further behind than we were before.”

  She swallowed. “Oh, Papa, none of that is your fault. Surely Fortune will come ‘round to favor us once again. I’m certain the seneschal here will give you a good price, now that you’ve met the count’s terms.”

  “Aye, I pray that is so.” She stepped back, and for the first time, her papa seemed to take in the whole of her—including the extravagant gown she’d forgotten she was wearing. Not as fancy as the crimson and gold, but fancy enough.

  Something flickered in his eyes. “You’ve been treated well, indeed.”

  What could she say?

  A beat of silence passed. He looked at the cart. “Now, unless you’ve grown soft from such fine castle living, how about you help me unload these goods so we can trade and be on our way home?”

  Celia squirmed as she went to help him.

  Home. She longed for the familiar comfort of it. But could she bring herself to leave Chillon? To leave Nicolas? She’d found passion and acceptance in his arms. It wasn’t the adventure she’d once hoped for, but in many ways it was so much more. She didn’t think she could give it—him—up.

  As soon as she could manage it, Celia left her father to talk terms with Chillon’s seneschal while she ran to find her lover.

  With the approaching spring, Nicolas was so busy making preparations for battle that he’d had one appointment after another and hadn’t been able to leave the outer rooms of his chambers since he’d awoken.

  He still needed to visit the armory to check on th
e last of the preparations and speak to the men who would be going on the campaign.

  Finally, finally, he would have his retribution for that dastardly attack on his demesne last fall.

  He’d just dismissed his secretary when the door creaked open again and he looked up, fully expecting to see one of his advisors or officers. Instead, Celia slipped into the room. His initial thought was that she’d come to steal a moment to be alone with him, but the odd combination of happiness and anxiety on her face suggested otherwise.

  “Good morning, sweet.”

  Celia smiled, then bit her lip. Nicolas wondered if she knew how sexy that unconscious habit of hers was, then forced himself to pay attention to her words.

  “My father has returned. His cart and all our goods are outside.”

  Nicolas set down his work, surprised. He’d expected the man to return, eventually, but then when it had taken so long, he’d just stopped thinking about it. It was easier to avoid the situation. His heart began to pound.

  “I see. He will wish to trade and be on his way, I should think. Do you wish to return with him?” Please say no. She’d never promised to stay, but life seemed so much more fulfilling, so much more interesting, with her here. She brightened his company by day, and was a laughing, fiery temptress by night. He’d never really had that before, he realized. His wife had been a cold fish, married in name and duty alone. He suspected her heart—if she’d had one at all—had belonged to another. Perhaps someone far away, or even deceased, for she’d never displayed even an inkling of impropriety. She just hadn’t been…interested.

  When she’d passed away, women from all over the land had pursued him—and still did. His family had even encouraged the women, reminding Nicolas he needed an heir. He did, but if that heir was to have anything to inherit, he needed to focus his attention on politics, and the rule of his lands, rather than sorting through the prospects who all claimed to be in love with him, but with whom he’d never shared so much as a conversation. He took pride in knowing the House of Savoy had flourished under his leadership. He would see about an heir, eventually. He just had no urge to hurry back into a political marriage—and with his rank, there was rarely any other kind. His brother had children who could inherit, if it came to that.