by Allegra Gray
“Have you ever been in love, Alisoun?” she asked without preamble, taking a stool next to her and near the fire. Even in spring, the castle chambers held a chill.
The older woman’s eyes clouded. “Once.”
Celia waited, but when nothing more was forthcoming, she couldn’t help but ask, “And were you happy then?”
“In a way.” Alisoun plunged her needle in and out of the fabric, never breaking rhythm.
“But not completely? Love is supposed to make one happy, is it not?” She could hear the pleading in her own voice.
Now Alisoun set her work aside, turning to Celia with pity in her eyes. “Oh, my dear, ‘tisn’t always that easy. You’ve gone and fallen for the count.”
Miserably, she nodded. “I know you warned me not to.”
“You fear your love for him is greater than what he feels in return. And, with him gone, those fears are your closest companions.”
“You know this story well. Who was he?”
Alisoun sighed. “The Count of Savoy. The older one. Nicolas’s father.”
“The count—” Celia tried very hard not to gape.
“I loved him very much, and I like to believe he cared equally for me.”
“But his wife—”
“He held no love for her, nor she for him. When she had given him three sons—Nicolas, of course, being the eldest—she decided she’d done her duty to provide an heir, and that was it. She rarely even stayed at the same estate with him.”
“How sad.”
Alisoun shrugged. “’Tis the way of many nobles.”
“And it gave him the freedom to be with the woman he really loved,” Celia realized.
“To an extent. The count was older than me, of course, but a few kind words from him and I fell hard. We spent several years together, whenever he was not on campaign. He saw to it that I would always have a good position in the castle, even after his death.”
“I always wondered how you and Marie came by such nice chambers. I mean, before we started sharing. Did the other servants resent you?” Celia thought about how some of the castle dwellers had been treating her, and she hadn’t even been given a real position for them to be jealous of.
“In the beginning, perhaps, but his lordship made clear he would not stand for it, and over time they simply accepted me, and Marie. I have always done good work, and they came to respect that too. It’s been so long now, I doubt many even remember when I first came here.”
“But Marie—”
“Is Nicolas’s half-sister. Unacknowledged, of course.”
“Does she know?”
“No, her lot is easier to bear without such knowledge. I trust you’ll not tell her.”
“Certes, no. She believes you keep her from Nicolas lest he cast his eye toward her.”
Alisoun smiled. “’Tis easier for her to understand that than deal with the repercussions of her birth...I fear if she were too often in his presence, she would notice her resemblance to his family...though fortunately she continues to favor me in appearance.”
“Do others at Chillon know? Does Nicolas?”
“I’m sure many of them suspect, but ‘tis not something often discussed. Nicolas was a young lad, away being fostered in the courts of France, when she was born. I’m sure he knows, though. I imagine that’s why he asked her to look after you, when you arrived. I’ve told Marie only that her father was a soldier, which, in a way, he was.” She sighed. “Someday I shall tell her. When I was young I believed that if a man and woman fell in love, they married that was that—especially if they were rich and noble, and never had to worry about going hungry. Things don’t always turn out that way, though. I traveled with the old count often enough to know that even among noble families there is much unhappiness and many children born outside of marriages. I was not blessed to marry the man I loved, but I am thankful that we had the time together that we did. Marie, too, has been outside the chateau and seen that many around her live in far less luxury than she. I do not think she is unhappy.”
“’Tis true that many of the servants here have more than my own family.” Celia wasn’t sure she’d want to trade her family’s relative independence for servitude, but she had to admit that her decision might be reversed if she’d been home this winter, freezing in the cold that seeped in through the log walls of their home and wondering if the food would last.
“What of your family, then? Do you miss them?”
Celia felt her cheeks grow hot. It was all very well for Alisoun to speak of a long-past forbidden love, but now she understood why Alison was so perceptive when it came to her own situation.
“You know my father came, and yet I am still here.”
“A difficult choice, to be sure. But his lordship is gone on campaign now, and may be gone for many weeks, even months. Will you continue to wait?”
Celia bit her lip. “He did say he looked forward to seeing me upon returning.”
Something that looked suspiciously like pity came into Alisoun’s eyes. “Did he now?”
Celia looked away. “He did. But once he has had that welcome…”
Because of love she’d made choices that let her father down, and made some people shun her. And yet nothing could come of the love she’d done it for. Shame and unfulfilled longing mixed with those feelings of love, wrenching her insides into knots.
“Aye, it hurts sometimes,” Alisoun said. “Not everyone will respect or understand your choice. But if the love is there, then what other choice is there to make?”
“I could have run, before it became too late,” Celia replied feebly.
“And where would that have gotten you?”
She shrugged. “I would still be an honorable woman, I suppose.”
“Rubbish. Do you believe a woman’s honor lies only between her legs? ‘Tis not so for a man. Does anyone you truly care about think less of you for daring to love a man?”
“My father,” Celia whispered.
Alisoun’s face softened. “Oh, well, fathers do have the hardest time letting their daughters go. Many would have them remain celibate even in marriage! I only met your father briefly, but I do not believe he is ashamed of you, Celia, so much as he is saddened by the thought of you getting hurt.”
“And will I be hurt, do you think, Alisoun?”
“Oh, young one, there is always some hurt that comes of loving a man you cannot truly have. You are learning that already. But I will pray that you know no hurt beyond that which is inevitable.”
That didn’t sound too reassuring, but Celia gave her thanks. It was nice to know that at least one other person understood the turmoil in her heart. But Celia didn’t know if she could, as Alisoun had, withstand a lifetime of such hurt.
Though the beads Nicolas had given her were not the declaration of love she’d hoped for, Celia treasured them anyway. They reminded her during his absence that he did care for her, perhaps even more than he was willing to admit.
It never occurred to her that his generous gift would be questioned by others. The castle-dwellers had, after all, become accustomed to her wearing the fine clothes she’d been given the night she became Nicolas’s mistress. Though Bernice made snide remarks and some might give her nasty looks, no one dared openly question her.
She draped the beads over her neck one morning when she felt particularly lonely, hoping that wearing them would give her the sense that at least a part of him was with her. She studied her reflection critically in her tiny looking glass. The saffron kirtle, one of her first gifts from Nicolas, was the perfect color to accentuate the inner glow of the amber beads. The kirtle’s matching cap covered her hair enough to be respectable, but a few braided loops hung just below the edge of the material.
The amber felt warm against her skin, and she pressed a hand to the beads for a moment, longing for the greater warmth of lying next to the man who’d given them to her.
Finally Celia turned away from her wavy reflection. Though the beads were lovely
, the effect was for naught. Nicolas would not be home for weeks yet, and it was his admiration she craved most.
In the weaving room that afternoon she noticed a few of the women give her curious looks, and Bernice glared at her through narrow eyes, but that was nothing new. She tried to focus her attention only on the new pattern she was learning, a complicated and decorative weave she’d had no time for as a poor merchant’s daughter. Her absorption in the task was so complete she paid no notice when Bernice slipped from the room.
She did, however, pay considerable attention when an armed castle guard walked into the room.
No men ever came in while the women were weaving, preferring by far the male companionship of the armory or practice yards. His sword clanked softly at his side as he stopped in the center of the room, then cleared his throat. All the women dropped their work to stare at the guard.
“Mistress Lyndon, you will come with me.” His tone brooked no argument.
Uneasily, Celia stood. As she followed the guard to the door, she spotted Bernice lurking in the outer hall, and a sense of foreboding crept over her.
That foreboding was confirmed when the guard led her directly to a small chamber where the seneschal and Hans waited. The room was windowless and chilly, the small fireplace unlit. The two men sat on stools near a table. Only the seneschal, Arnaut, stood as she entered the room with the guard.
Arnaut wore a worried expression, but Hans’ normally expressionless mask showed hints of a sinister glee.
“Mistress Lyndon,” the seneschal said uneasily, casting a glance back at Hans, “you have been accused of stealing. What have you to say for yourself?”
Utter shock flooded her. Stealing? Her, a thief? She tried to quell her rising panic. “What do you mean?”
His gaze found her neck. “Those beads you wear.”
“No,” she managed, her throat drier than sun-baked earth. Everyone knew the count gave her gifts—even if she’d never worn this particular gift before. He couldn’t be serious. “They were a gift.”
The seneschal’s face relaxed a little and he looked back to the dungeon-keeper as though to say “see, I told you.” Hans, however, stood now and stalked toward her.
“We know, Mistress Lyndon, that you have received certain, ah, favors from the count,” he said silkily. “However, those beads were never seen in your possession until today, and one of the ladies of the castle swears they belonged to Lady Margret. It does seem convenient that you wear them only now, when neither the count nor the lady are here to see you do so.”
“But...but,” she stuttered, “they were a parting gift from his lordship. I have never even met Lady Margret.” The lady in question was Nicolas’s sister—that much she knew. The one whose chamber of ice-blue silk he’d shown her on their first tour of Chillon. But she hadn’t even visited that chamber since.
Hans waived a hand as though her words were mere fluff. The seneschal shrank back into the corner, and Celia’s heart sank. Arnaut seemed to believe her, but obviously he would not go against Hans.
“The Lady Margret has many possessions. I cannot speak to her method of accounting for them. Perhaps you too counted on this, believing that anything she’d left here must not be of importance. A lady with so many fine things would surely not miss one trinket among the many.”
“Never have I taken anything that was not given to me freely. Never!” Fury seeped into her head, filling and stretching until her skull pounded with it. “Who would even accuse me of such a thing?”
“A lady of the castle.”
No need to wonder who that might be. Bitter dread mixed with her fury. This man was going to frame her no matter what it took.
“I would never stoop to thievery. I have no need. Even if I did, I would starve before I would dishonor myself so!”
Hans’ thin lips peeled back to bare his teeth in a macabre imitation of a grin. “Forgive me, Mistress Lyndon, if I have trouble believing your claim of honor. My experience with your family has not led me to believe you are above anything...Your father spent time in my dungeon, and you worked his way out by spending time in his lordship’s bed. No, I do not think we will consider honor to be a factor in this case.”
Hot fury spilled over and Celia lashed out, moving to strike him with her fists, her feet, anything she could to wipe the smirk from his face.
Before her fist could connect, though, the guard who’d escorted her to the chamber hauled her backward. She squirmed in his grasp, but his arms locked around her like manacles of iron. She stomped her foot down on his, but he only grunted. His grasp did not weaken at all.
Hans only watched, unmoved by her display of temper.
Finally, when she’d stopped struggling, he stepped forward. “Until the matter is settled, I must take these to ensure their safekeeping.” He lifted the beads from around her neck.
Celia felt suddenly bare. Tears sprang to her eyes as she watched her gift from Nicolas disappear into a leather pouch. “You’ll pay for this. When Nicolas returns, you’ll be sorry.”
Hans shrugged. “That could be months from now…or even never. Arnaut had a message from Chambéry just this morning—there are politics afoot and the count is needed there as soon as this battle is over. Like as not, some other pretty whore will have turned his head by then, and he’ll not care a whit what happened here. In the meantime, I can’t have a thief running loose. I’ll take my chances.”
She tried to ignore the spiteful suggestion that Nicolas would forget her, but it was hard. Hans knew just how to play upon her own fears. She knew where Nicolas’s priorities lay. If he was needed in Chambéry, he would ride straight for Chambéry.
“Arnaut,” Hans said briskly, “let us discuss this matter in more comfortable surroundings. I would also,” he added, his voice becoming unctuous, “like your opinion regarding the high costs of feeding Chillon’s remaining prisoners. Perhaps with your skill you may find a solution I’ve overlooked.”
Arnaut stood obediently, looking pleased at Hans’ show of deference, though Celia wondered how the man could possibly believe it genuine.
Hans allowed the seneschal to precede him out the door, then turned back to Celia.
“I suggest you spend the next few hours thinking either of a way to exonerate yourself, which is no doubt a difficult task, or saying your prayers.” He swept from the room, the guard following him after releasing Celia with a backwards shove.
She heard the door shudder as a heavy object was slammed against it from the outside, imprisoning her in the small chamber.
Without a window, it was impossible to tell how much time passed before the dungeon-keeper returned for her. The brace of candles on the wall had burned down to sputtering flames, suggesting at least a few hours, before she heard movement outside. Celia stopped her pacing and stood still, wondering what could possibly befall her next. She was smart enough to realize that no matter what reasoning she used, the dungeon-keeper had no intention of believing her.
He’d seized on the beads as an excuse to torment her openly, to take out the anger he’d held toward her ever since she’d arrived at Chillon.
She’d muttered a few brief prayers, hoping to find a way out of this mess before he could cause her any real harm.
The door creaked open to reveal Hans, alone this time. “Come with me.”
She made no move, which was a mistake, for he grabbed her roughly and hauled her from the chamber, dragging her along with him toward all-too-familiar territory.
The afternoon glow had given way to dark night as they passed through the main courtyard. The guard at the top of the dungeon stairs leered as Hans pulled her past him. She stumbled down the stone stairs in his wake, unable to break the hold he had on her arm. All the prisoners watched as they crossed the length of the miserable chamber. There were fewer now, since the count’s judgment day, but there were still too many eyes following for Celia’s liking.
She passed Garr, the guard who’d attacked her before. Though stil
l imprisoned, she briefly registered his lack of chains, and that he seemed cleaner and better fed than his companions. He gave her a mocking wave.
Hans thrust her through the doorway at the far end of the dungeon, then abruptly stopped, his grip on her upper arm still so tight she could feel each finger bruising her flesh.
Celia promptly forgot about the guard. She took in her surroundings in horror, recalling all too clearly her father’s warning about this man’s pastimes.
This room was much smaller than the main dungeon chamber, and lit only by two small wall sconces. Along the walls were hung sturdy metal collars and chains whose use she didn’t care to contemplate. The only other furniture in the room was a small table covered in a clean white cloth.
On it were blades of all sizes, some thin and wicked, others thick and curved, all neatly laid out and glinting evilly in the flickering light. In contrast to the cleanliness of the white tablecloth, Celia saw that the rushes on the floor were spattered and stained a dark red-brown in many places.
The acrid smell of human fear hung in the air, and the dungeon-keeper breathed deeply. “Finally.”
“What have I ever done to you?” Whatever he was going to do, Celia wanted at least to know why. He’d detested her from the moment she’d set foot at Chillon, and now there was no one to stop him having his way. But she would not give in easily. Perhaps if she knew his thoughts, she could talk to him, reason with him—until she could figure out a way to escape.
“What have you done?” He whirled her to face him. “You interfered. The dungeons are mine, do you understand? Mine. I am in control here. I control it all, you see? Who lives, who dies, and who only wishes to die. They beg me, they fear me. They are mine.”
“No,” she whispered. “These are the count’s people. He decides their punishments.”
“Pah. Only when he is in residence, which is not so often as that. When he is away, no one would dare go against my recommendations. Even when he is here, he usually has more pressing matters than to see to what I have always handled for him. That is, until you showed up.”