by Allegra Gray
Helena took to the work surprisingly well. With no one persecuting her, she began to shine. The master was not particular about what the women did with their time off, nor did he ask questions of their faith. It was, Helena confided to Celia, the most freedom she’d ever known.
Celia, however, did not find it quite so easy to adapt. It was self-pity, she knew, to remind herself that before they’d escaped Chillon, Helena had been in rags anyway, while she had been living the luxurious life of a nobleman’s mistress. The work itself did not bother her. As she’d told the tavern-keeper, she’d been raised to it. But hard work did not ease the dull ache in her heart, or the longing in her mind, for Nicolas hovered ever at the edge of her thoughts.
How could she have been so wrong about him? She knew there had been more than physical lust between them, despite her lack of noble birth. They’d spent so many hours in one another’s company, both in bed and out, that she’d been convinced of his regard for her.
She accepted that he had duties as a lord, and those duties included going to war. But if he’d truly cared for her, wouldn’t he have taken her concerns more seriously, and ensured her security in his absence? Or, failing that, wouldn’t he have sent someone to find them once Marie got a messenger through? It rankled her sorely during her waking hours. Nights were worse.
Too often she would wake suddenly, her breasts aching for his touch, her thighs damp with unsatiated desire.
Outwardly, Celia put on a cheerful face and went about her work, but inwardly she recoiled at the prospect of endless days of labor, scraping by with barely enough coin to have her thin boots repaired. Perhaps her father had been right all along, for what had her grand adventure gained her in the end?
Helena, once a pitiable stranger, was now her only friend and confidante. Even she was not oblivious to Celia’s pain.
“You miss him.” Helena spoke quietly one morning as the two women spread fresh rushes on the floor.
Celia sighed. There was no use pretending she hadn’t heard, or that Helena was wrong. “Oui. And the greater the fool I am for it.”
“Do you hope he will come for you when his war is over?”
Celia shrugged. Of course she did. Every day she listened for news of the war among the travelers who stopped at the inn. The news was always a little behind, mostly coming in with men traveling on foot or by mule-drawn carts. But since the news was much the same from day to day—the siege was at a stalemate—the timeliness mattered little.
Celia listened nonetheless, her ears perking up at any snatch of conversation involving the Count of Savoy. Even though she listened, she was beginning to think she could never live her life as his mistress, loving him, giving up her own dreams, if all she got in return was a meager portion of affection.
Nor could she bear to return home. The more she thought about it, she believed it would be safe to go home. Her father would accept her—though undoubtedly there would be some profuse apologies on her part, for being such a fool. But then he’d marry her off to the first neighbor who’d have her, and she’d spend the rest of her life as a farmer’s wife. She’d work her fingers to the bone, yet never be secure enough not to worry that if the crops failed, they would starve. No better off than she was now.
Much as the idea of reconciling with her father appealed to her, she could not consign herself to that fate. Her position now had at least one advantage— it was temporary. She was free to seek her fortune elsewhere, should the opportunity ever arise.
And so she waited, and listened, praying that Fortune would turn to favor her soon. One ear was always kept open for news of Nicolas. She could not spend her life loving a man who did not return her love, but she couldn’t seem to forget, either.
The news she did hear was not good. Nicolas’s retaliation against Geneva, well-planned though it was, had turned into a long, drawn-out siege.
“A mess, Geneva is,” a heavy-set traveler declared one night in May, as he sloshed down his ale. “Took the long way around, myself. Avoided it entirely. Lost profits, of course, but I’d rather lose my coin than my head!” The other men chuckled.
“Hasn’t there been any sign to an end?” Celia burst out as she refilled his mug. “I thought ‘twas supposed to be a quick battle.”
“Well, I don’t know what ‘twas supposed to be,” the burly traveler said, stroking his beard, “but sieges are a tricky thing. Savoy, now, he’s powerful, but Geneva is stubborn. Savoy could win, of course, if he brought all his forces from his other lands. He has to be careful, though. Geneva owes allegiance to the Holy Empire, and even Savoy wouldn’t want the full wrath of the empire raining down on him.”
Celia was stunned to think that the parade of troops she’d seen leaving Chillon was only a portion of Nicolas’s forces.
“Aye, Savoy’s biding his time,” another man agreed. “He’s not razed the outlying fields. He’d have destroyed the crops and stores if he was serious.”
Celia swallowed, but said nothing. She remembered the tall siege towers and battering ram. They’d looked serious enough to her.
“Aye, well, there’s no accounting for the minds of nobles. Like enough they’ll come to terms soon, but I won’t hazard a guess as to how!” The heavy traveler wiped the back of his hand across his beard and set down his mug. “Wish I could stay around. There’ll be profits to be made when the standoff is over, but I’ve got to get back to my woman.” He glanced at Celia. “Tell your master he serves a fine ale.”
“Thank you, sir, I will,” Celia replied absentmindedly.
A thunder of hooves sounded outside the door to the tavern, and a man’s voice shouted, “Here, boy, see to my horse!”
Everyone in the tavern turned as a wild-eyed traveler entered.
“News from Geneva,” the man panted. “Savoy’s been captured!”
Celia dropped the empty mugs she’d been carrying. They hit the ground and rolled away as she grabbed the edge of a table to steady herself. Nicolas? Captured? The room began to spin. Vaguely she heard the messenger recount what was known of the dastardly move that had led to Nicolas’s imprisonment in the Genevan chateau.
“All merchants of trade are being welcomed through the Genevan gates. They’re in bad need of supplies,” the messenger finished.
“Celia. Celia, are you all right?” Helena was tapping her shoulder. “Here, sit down. Lower your head.”
She sat, and slowly the room came back into focus. So, Nicolas was a hostage. Well, that was a tactic with which he was familiar. But her anger over his callous treatment of her quickly gave way to fear. Would they hurt him? Would they…would they…she couldn’t bring herself even to think the words.
“I have to go to him,” Celia heard herself say.
“Are you mad? What can you do?”
“I have to go to him,” she repeated, not knowing what prompted the words, but knowing they were unquestionably true.
“Celia, he’s a prisoner.”
“Well, we both know what that’s like.” She gestured toward the messenger, who was now surrounded by patrons eager for every last detail. Only the burly man who’d been holding court before the messenger’s arrival looked disappointed—probably because he’d miss out on the profits of post-siege trading. “He said the Genevans are receiving merchants. They’re re-supplying. I know what I must do.”
Chapter 21
Robert Lyndon had not been particularly surprised to see his daughter again. But he had stood by his promise, and welcomed her home. Thank God.
Celia had been unable to talk Helena, who had finally found a measure of peace in her work at the inn, into accompanying her. Not only was she free from persecution, but unless Celia was mistaken, Helena had even captured the interest of the innkeeper’s strapping son who farmed the land nearby. Celia wished her the best, then made her way home, riding on farm carts when she could, and walking when she could not. The route forced her to retrace a portion of the path she’d once fled with Helena, but she was no longer worried about pursuit. Sh
e doubted anyone from Chillon would even recognize the dirty peasant girl as the once-lovely mistress of the Count of Savoy.
She’d arrived at twilight. Her father was brushing the dirt off his tools, stacking them neatly under the overhang, just as he always did before going in for the night. A lump rose in her throat at the familiar vignette.
“You look well, Papa.”
“Celia?”
“Oui, Papa.”
He squinted. “You look…as though the past months have not treated you as kindly as either of us would have hoped.”
If only he knew. She wasn’t here for sympathy, though. She needed his help.
“Have you heard the news? Of the siege?”
He nodded somberly. “It is not good news that I hear. Not for your…not for Savoy.”
“They say Nicolas is being held captive,” she confirmed. “Chillon’s men have withdrawn in deference to their lord’s safety. The siege went on for many weeks, and the Genevans ran dangerously low of supply. The road has been cleared, and they are welcoming merchants and supply wagons into the castle,” Celia repeated what she’d heard at the inn.
Her father shook his head. “What has that to do with us?”
“We could go.”
“Daughter, we have nothing left to sell. As it is I had to lean heavily on the charity of our neighbors to purchase my freedom with the last cart I took to Chillon.”
“But, Papa, if we were to get in, perhaps we could find a way to rescue him, and prove our innocence once and for all.”
“I owe that man nothing! Our last dealings with him nearly robbed me of my life, and have likely cost me my livelihood, and the virtue of my daughter.” He slammed his fist on the wooden table in their small home. “Surely I have repaid my transgressions.”
Celia managed not to flinch at the reference to her lost virtue.
“Transgressions?” She grew uneasy. What was Papa talking about? Her mind flashed back to the night before they’d first come to Chillon, and the boy her father had spoken with at the inn. And suddenly she knew.
Robert Lyndon hung his head in shame.
“I was supposed to help a man—a single man—gain access to the chateau. I never asked why. The lad offered a tidy purse for my help. It never occurred to me I would enable an assault on the castle. I thought, perhaps a fellow merchant, fallen from favor, or even a petty thief. Mostly, I thought of the coins—last year’s trading went so poorly, and even if we did well this year we were certain to fall short over the winter months. Have you any idea how a father feels, knowing his child will go hungry?”
“I didn’t know it was that bad, Papa.”
“Nonetheless. I did wrong. Even had it been just one man, that man could have been a spy. Or an assassin. My actions do not speak well of me.”
Her father wasn’t perfect. His action hadn’t been honorable. But he’d done it for her. No matter what, he’d always cared for her. When they’d approached Chillon, he’d made sure she stayed behind with the cart, protecting her. He’d sacrificed his own honor in a misguided attempt to do better for her. And then she’d done the same for him.
She shook her head slowly. “I understand.”
“I nearly cost us both our lives.”
“But you didn’t.” Celia pressed her case. “We’ve both made mistakes in the past months, Papa. But this is our chance to put them to rights.”
“Have I not given enough already?”
Maybe. Maybe not. “Papa, this is something I must do.”
“You are a fool to care for him so.”
“Perhaps.”
“Certes.” He folded his arms.
“Then fool I am. But I do care for him, and I know that whatever his faults, he is a good man and a strong ruler.”
“Unh.”
She gave him a small smile, knowing that although he didn’t want to agree with her, he didn’t entirely disagree, either. “Papa, I need your help.”
He sighed heavily, and Celia sensed he was near to giving in.
“This is a chance to truly prove our loyalty. You never meant for Chillon to be attacked, I believe that. But the ruse of a merchant at the gates allowed for that attack. We can use the same trick again, only this time we will be working for Savoy, not against him.”
“I see your point, and it holds a certain appeal, to use the very thing that caused all this trouble in the first place. But I still don’t like it. And what of the mules? We lost ours outside Chillon.”
“Jean has mules,” she said, referring to her oldest brother. “His crops are likely laid in. He could spare them a short time.”
He grunted in assent, but then argued, “There is the problem of the goods. Are we to be merchants with an empty wagon?”
At least he was warming to the idea of going. Celia looked around their small home. It was disheartening, after the wealth at Chillon, to realize how few worldly possessions her own family claimed.
Supplies from last winter were nearly exhausted, and this year’s crops only just planted. Her brothers had the cows, but without those there would be no cheese come fall, destroying the family trade. They truly had nothing they could sell. She bit her lip.
“Men behind fortress walls run out of food long before their weapons fail,” her father mused. “They will be most happy to receive merchants selling food or fuel rather than durables like cloth or trinkets.”
“Fuel, then,” Celia said. “There are woods aplenty nearby. Henri and Jean can help us gather it.”
“A cartful of wood? That is your plan? Even if we do get past the gates, what then? We are not soldiers. What makes you think we can do this thing? We don’t even know where in the castle he is being held.”
“I cannot say if Fortune will favor us, but we must try.” Celia knew her plan was weak, but it was all she had. And she would have a few days’ travel to work out the rest.
“Daughter, what is it you are really after? If, by some miracle, we succeed, what then? Do you think your illustrious nobleman will offer for you, when he left you so easily before?”
That stung. “No, Papa, I do not believe he will. I do this not for myself, but for him, and the people of his lands.”
“And when it is done?”
She hesitated.
“I’ve no wish to lose you again, Celia. Perhaps, if I speak with his mother, Bernard may still have you to wife. Not all men care for virgin brides. He may understand—you were in no position to deny one such as the Count of Savoy. Besides, I’ve aided him and his mother through some lean times. If Fortune favors us, they may even donate a lamb or two to our cause.”
Celia swallowed. Fresh meat would certainly be in demand within the Genevan gates, far more so than mere wood. She had no wish to be indebted to, let alone marry, the neighboring shepherd and his overbearing mother. But she’d known when she came home that she was asking a huge favor. There would need be sacrifice on her part.
“If I do this thing, daughter,” her father said, “you must make me a promise. When it is done, you return home. And if he will have you, you will marry Bernard.”
Celia closed her eyes. Perhaps marrying a man she could not love would be less painful than loving the man she could not marry.
“Oui, Father,” she agreed quietly. “When it is done, I will come home. And I will marry Bernard.”
As their cart rumbled closer to Geneva, Celia was no closer to a plan.
She walked beside the wood-laden cart, leading two bleating lambs on short tethers. Every glance at them was a reminder of her newly betrothed husband, who had not cared one way or the other about Celia’s questionable past, so long as she would provide company for his aging mother while he tended his precious sheep. In fact, his mother had done the negotiating, while Bernard, as always, tended to his animals.
She sighed. At least a husband who ignored her would leave her plenty of time to dream of the lover she’d once had.
This morning, they had reached the camp of the Savoy army. The men had
withdrawn but not gone home, and were now sheltering in sad little camps at the side of the road as they awaited news of their leader.
Celia hooked the lambs’ tethers to the back of the cart and climbed up beside her father as they rolled past.
“Shall we talk to them, Papa?” she asked in a low voice. “Perhaps they know where Nicolas is being held, or can tell us how the chateau is laid out.” If the men had been in contact with those Nicolas had left at Chillon, they might refuse to speak to her, believing her a thief. Then again, they might not. It seemed worth the risk.
Her father disagreed—or different reasons. “Nay. We do not know who along this road may be spying for the Genevans. If we are seen talking to their enemies, they will have reason for suspicion. They may deny us entry to the chateau. We shall simply have to take our chances.”
A small party of soldiers rode toward them on the road, coming from the castle.
“Papa! Those are Savoy’s men. See their colors? And I know that one.” She nodded at the slightest man in the party—the sentry she’d had to attack the first time she’d met the count. Pierre.
Her father drove his team closer to the edge of the road, making room for the other party. “We cannot risk it, Celia. They are wearing Savoy’s colors. Any words we share would be noted by others, certes.”
As the parties drew even with one another, Celia saw Pierre’s mouth fall open. He, at least, recognized her. He said something low to one of the other men in his party, who shook his head. The young sentry said something else, then guided his horse to the edge of their party, as close as he could get to the Lyndons’ cart.
Her heart thumped painfully hard. Never did Pierre slow his pace, but as they passed one another, he made eye contact with Celia. She heard him say, his voice low but clear, “North tower.”
She gave him the briefest of nods, such that any passerby would think was simply an acknowledgement of one party passing another along the road. Only she and Pierre knew better.
The north tower. How would she get there? Nicolas was certain to be guarded.