Desiree

by Roberta Gellis

  Desiree grinned and snuggled down into her feather bed. Eadgyth was not only loyal but clever. It might seem to the women that she was warning them, but Eadgyth knew that Desiree did not wish to lay any traps for her maidservants. Their mistress only wished to let them know that they were being carefully watched so that they would work industriously and to the best of their skill. In addition, when Eadgyth went down to send a manservant for water, she would order the table set up for food for breaking their fast and send another man to the cooks.

  She was so cozy and content, she nearly fell asleep again, but the sounds of the women stirring and anxiously inspecting one another’s work kept her awake enough to hop out of bed as soon as Eadgyth returned with the washing water. That was cold enough to bring her wide awake and the thick, rough linen used for toweling completed the process.

  Clean and dressed, Desiree went into the main room. The women were still in the process of rolling up their sleeping pallets, but Desiree did not criticize because the looms stood ready. She examined each piece of work carefully, feeling for loose spots or weak spots. She found none and had not expected to find any, not so soon after she had threatened to have them whipped for their carelessness and sloth. Most were wearing the ugly, sagging results of that dereliction too although a few were shivering in no more than shifts; that should keep the cost of idleness fresh in their minds.

  Satisfied, Desiree said a few words of praise—and warning—and gave the women leave to go down to hear Mass and break their fasts. She stopped by Gunilda’s pallet, but the woman was still heavily asleep. The maid was breathing well, however, and showed no signs of fever. Desiree gently touched the exposed fingers on the arm that had been burned. They were cool, like those of the uninjured hand, and not markedly swollen. It looked as if the arm was healing well. She would look more carefully after she had eaten and wished Frewyn good morning.

  She slipped through the crowd of servants to her usual place to hear Mass. There were some men-at-arms at the back of the chapel, but she had not dared turn her head to see whether Alex was among them. The urge to look for him was wrong. Father Harold had warned her against thinking about any man other than her husband. Dutifully, glad she could be glad to know Frewyn was stronger, she prayed for him.

  After Mass, she was stopped at the door of the chapel by a cluster of worried servants who asked her eagerly about obtaining more provisions or using what had been stored against siege. She assured them that she was aware of the need and that Elias would make arrangements to fill it. When she came to take her breakfast, Desiree was surprised to see only Father Harold standing near the table with a wedge of cold pasty in his hand and a cup of ale beside him.

  A single glance had told her Alex’s door was open as it always had been since… Warmth began to rise in her and she doused it with disappointment. Alex had probably already eaten and gone about his duties. He used to linger to say a few words to her, but not since… Her lips filled and her nipples pressed against her shift; she felt his mouth on hers again. She had to wrench her mind away. Guilty and ashamed, she did not dare speak to Father Harold, but Elias, who usually broke his fast with them to tell her what kind of night Frewyn had spent, was also absent.

  It was safe to ask about Frewyn. Far safer to speak to the priest about her husband than to let her mind wander to Alex again. “Did Elias already take Frewyn his breakfast?” she asked Father Harold and then frowned anxiously. “I do hope that medicine did not keep him awake all night.”

  “I doubt it,” Father Harold said, smiling. “More likely Frewyn was tired after not falling asleep every quarter candle all day long and slept more soundly than usual.”

  “Oh, I hope so.” Desiree smiled too. “It was wonderful to see him almost back to his old self yesterday.”

  They talked while they ate of the possibility of Frewyn taking a more active part in the life of the keep, but came at last to how he could be kept from overexerting himself. Both fell silent for a moment, and finally Desiree said anxiously that she could not help fearing Frewyn was burning himself out. Father Harold tried to reassure her, but he sounded doubtful himself. After a moment, Desiree put down the unfinished portion of her cheese and said that she would just step into Frewyn’s chamber for a moment.

  Father Harold nodded. “A good notion. Do not wake him if he is sleeping, but tell Elias that I am ready to say Mass as soon as Frewyn wishes to hear it.”

  She called through the door softly but received no reply. Thinking it would be better just to ease inside the chamber and slip out again if Elias and Pollock were assisting Frewyn to relieve himself or do something else she knew he would prefer she did not see, Desiree lifted the latch and opened the door a crack. It was dark, the fire banked, no torches lit, and the shutters not drawn back from the oiled parchment panels that let in light but kept out some of the cold.

  All was perfectly still and Desiree could sense no movement so she felt it was safe to ease inside the door. Once inside, her eyes adjusted quickly and she made her way softly past Frewyn’s chair to the far side of the room where the bed stood. She made out Pollock’s pallet by the near side of Frewyn’s bed.

  The manservant was sprawled out, fast asleep. Desiree swallowed nervously. They must have had a very bad night for Pollock to sleep so soundly. He was so attuned to his master that the smallest sound brought him instantly awake.

  Anxiously she tiptoed around the foot of the bed to the far side where Elias’s cot stood. He too was unmoving, snoring lightly. Desiree held her breath and listened. She could not hear Frewyn breathing. She bit her lip. She certainly did not want to wake any of the exhausted men, but she had to look more closely at Frewyn.

  Sidling along between Elias’s cot and the bed, she came close enough to see better. Frewyn was lying on his back. His eyes were closed, his mouth just a little open. Desiree leaned closer but she still could not hear him breathe. Fear woke a pain in her throat and a rising pressure in her chest. She fought it back. She must not scream and startle him. He was asleep just like Pollock and Elias. Asleep. He must be.

  One of Frewyn’s hands hung a little over the edge of the bed. Drawing a breath, Desiree took it gently in hers. Cold. Cold as death. No. Since his fit Frewyn’s hands were always cold. She tried to lift his hand to lay his arm across his chest… The elbow would not bend.

  The scream of terror, of pain, of loss that had been building burst from her. And neither Pollock nor Elias leapt up. She screamed again and again. The door slammed open, but still Elias and Pollock did not stir and Desiree could not stop screaming.

  Someone pushed her roughly aside so that she staggered, bent over the bed. Torchlight from the doorway gleamed on the bared blade in his hand. The screams choked in her throat and then burst out anew. The torchlight came closer. Father Harold, carrying a torch, handing it to Alex, kneeling by Frewyn’s bed.

  “Do something!” Desiree shrieked at Alex. “Help him. Save him. Do something.”

  Alex stared at her, tear streaks on his cheeks glinting gold in the torchlight. “He is dead,” he whispered. “Long dead.”

  “Knife!” Desiree breathed. “Why are you carrying a knife?”

  “You were screaming—”

  But whatever explanation Alex had been about to give was never finished. Another torch appeared in the doorway—Farman carrying it followed by half a dozen servants, all bearing household items that could serve as weapons.

  “M’lord,” Farman cried, seeing Alex, “what’s wrong?”

  “Sir Frewyn is dead,” Alex said. “Lady Desiree found him and…and cried out with grief.” He looked past Farman at the other servants. “Thank you for coming to our lady’s defense, but you cannot protect her from grief with weapons. Go now, except Farman. Farman, open the shutters so we can see and douse the torches. Father Harold will instruct us what next to do.”

  Farman had taken in the tableau of Father Harold kneeling by the bed on which Sir Frewyn lay still. He had also seen Pollock, apparently still
asleep. If Pollock had been sleeping when his master died, he might be severely punished. Farman managed, as he hurried to obey Alex’s instructions, to pass close enough to kick Pollock’s feet.

  Desiree saw, but could make no sense of the gesture. She could make no sense of anything. Her safe place, the person who had saved her from Nicolaus, who had valued her, taught her, showed her that she was a person of equal importance to any other person, was gone. Gone. She was again alone without defense against any shame or indignity anyone wished to heap on her.

  She went to kneel beside Father Harold. “Frewyn,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me. Come back.” The whisper broke on sobs. “My fault,” she cried. “My fault. I should never have given him the medicine. I should never have told him about it. I knew he would want it if he learned of it. My fault. My fault.”

  Father Harold turned away from his old friend’s peaceful face. He wondered for a moment how he would fill his days now that he would no longer be needed to talk to Frewyn. Would he still be welcome in Exceat? Then he felt ashamed of the selfish fear. Frewyn had been very ready to go to the hands of his Lord. He had been a good man. He had died shriven clean of his sins. Many prayers would lift him quickly out of purgatory into the arms of God.

  “Come,” he said to Desiree, rising and pulling her to her feet. “Frewyn’s death was no more your fault than mine. I agreed that he should be allowed to take the medicine. And I am sure that Lady Alinor’s grandmother did not die two days after her first dose or the lady would never have sent us the drugs. I would say from the warning in her letter that it was months, perhaps even years, that the drugs lent strength before Lady Alinor’s grandmother died.”

  Desiree allowed herself to be led a few steps away from Frewyn’s bed, but then she turned back. “No, I must stay with him. He must not be alone. But how can he be alone? Where is Elias? Where is Pollock?”

  She and the priest both looked from side to side. Pollock had drawn up his legs when Farman kicked him and had turned on his side. Elias still slept without stirring.

  “That is impossible,” Father Harold said. “It is not possible that either Elias or Pollock should have slept through your screams. No, nor slept through any sound that Frewyn made. They are both devoted. And even if Pollock should have been exhausted and slept more soundly, Elias is an old man and does not sleep well.”

  He let go of Desiree and went to Elias, bending over him to listen to his breathing and then beginning to shake his shoulder. Elias mumbled and tried to pull away. Meanwhile, Desiree had begun to give the same treatment to Pollock, but she could not wake him any more than the priest was able to wake Elias. They turned to look at each other and with one accord went to the small table beyond Pollock’s pallet. On it stood the flagon that was filled every evening for Frewyn’s nighttime drink.

  “Look,” Desiree breathed, “there is still residue in the bottom of the vessel.” She lifted the flagon, smelled it, shook her head, inserted a finger and gingerly tasted the few grains of sediment that clung to it. “It is not Lady Alinor’s powder,” she said. “That is very bitter.”

  “And it was not stirred before it was poured,” the priest said, his voice rather faint.

  “Which means that it was not a sleeping draught that Pollock and Elias decided to use to calm Frewyn.”

  “You are sure it is a sleeping draught and not…poison?” Father Harold’s voice shook.

  “I smell the valerian,” Desiree said. “Why bother to put valerian into a poison. Besides, Pollock and Elias do not seem in any distress, only sleeping too soundly, as if the dose of sleeping potion were too strong… Oh.”

  She remembered suddenly that Eadgyth had told her she had given Byford two doses of the sleeping powder. Byford had never been near Frewyn, but it would be easy enough for him to pass the packets to Alex, to Alex who had rushed up to Frewyn’s bed with a naked dagger in his hand. She began to shake and dropped the flagon onto the table, where it fell over and rolled with a clatter.

  Simultaneously, Alex made a strangled sound and rushed out of the chamber. He had been standing quietly a little way from Frewyn’s bed, ready to obey any order Father Harold gave or offer any other assistance, but far enough apart so he would not intrude on mourners with closer ties to Frewyn. He was not much aware of what Desiree and Father Harold had been saying because mind and body were both in turmoil.

  Every bit of him hurt. He and his troop had received rough treatment for their injuries from a leech in Newhaven. His men’s bruises had been salved, Morly’s fingers had been set and splinted, Chad’s gash on the shoulder and the one on Alex’s side had been stitched. Then they had set out for Seaford where they had bedded down in the garrison barracks, but Alex had not been able to rest. Leaving Godric to bring the remainder of the troop home when they were ready, Alex had set out in the dark with Hring and Brydger. He had ridden from Seaford to Exceat, arriving before first light.

  He had no idea why he was so uneasy—Byford had assured him that all was well—but he had had no more success finding sleep in his own cot than he had on the pallet of the captain of Seaford’s guard. He ached from neck to knee, as he had after one of his brothers’ more vicious beatings, and could only conclude that he had been hit more often than he remembered in the fight. At least he could take off his armor in his chamber and put on comfortable old clothes.

  The knee of his chausses had been mended he saw as he drew them on, and the shirt had been patched along the seam in the back so it would not be too tight over his shoulders. He had just pulled the tunic over his head when Desiree’s first scream rang out. It took a moment to pull it down so he could see, then he fumbled for his sword belt, but as she continued to scream, he simply pulled out his knife and ran to see what was wrong.

  As soon as he entered the chamber, he knew that Frewyn was dead. The shock of grief was terrible and he was further confused by the lack of response from Pollock and Elias to Desiree’s screaming. At first he assumed that the other two were dead also because all three always shared Frewyn’s nighttime drink, but when Father Harold brought the torch and Desiree fell silent, he heard Elias snoring.

  He knew Desiree had shouted at him to do something to help Frewyn. What could one do for a dead man? If he knew, he would have done it. He had a vague memory of speaking to the servants; Farman had taken the torch from his hand. But the next thing that was clear to him was Desiree sobbing “My fault. My fault.”

  Her fault? How could Frewyn’s death be her fault? Unless… After he had violated his trust by kissing her—his sin, yes, but he remembered how she had pressed herself against him, how her mouth had opened to take in his tongue. Women… The priests all said that women were evil. And Alex remembered her voice outside his open door saying to her maid that she had prepared a triple strong sleeping powder with hemlock in it.

  Alex’s gorge rose. He clapped a hand to his mouth and ran from the room.

  Vachel had not slept as well as he expected. Not that he regretted what he had done, merely he was concerned he had not been thorough enough. Perhaps he should have taken a greater risk of being seen and stopped to stir the drugs into the wine. Perhaps he should have used more of the powder.

  He rose twice during the night to open his door and listen, but all was still. No one raised any alarm or came to call for the priest. Finally, he left his door open so he could hear. After that he dozed fitfully until Alex’s heavy footsteps at a run woke him thoroughly. The hall was bright with sunlight; it was full morning. A moment later he heard a woman screaming. Smiling, Vachel rose and dressed. Apparently Desiree had found her dead husband.

  He knew he would need to allow news of Frewyn’s death to spread, but that would not take very long. Servants had followed Alex into Frewyn’s chamber. Vachel waited near his half-open door. As he expected, they soon came out, excited and distressed. An older man ran up the stair to the women’s quarters. Moments later, several women talking in high excited voices came down.

  Some of the othe
r servants dispersed among those waiting for news in the hall; others went down the stair to the bailey, no doubt to tell the outdoor servants. They were spreading the news. Soon the men-at-arms would hear.

  Vachel took a deep breath, slipped out of his room and made for the outer door.

  Vachel was delighted to see that there was considerable disorder in the inner bailey too. Now all he needed to do was say correctly the single sentence in English one of them had taught him. He led his horse to the gate of the inner bailey. It was open, men and women coming and going from the outer bailey.

  “Messenger to Sir Simon to report Sir Frewyn’s death,” Vachel said, terrified that the guard would speak to him in a language he could not understand.

  But the guard only waved him through as did the guard at the outer gate. Vachel kicked his horse into a full gallop, and rode down toward Cuckhaven and the coast road. He would be far out of sight of the keep when he turned north on the road to Lewes instead of continuing west toward Roselynde.

  Vachel had no unpleasant surprises on the road and reached Lewes in time for dinner. It was there he got his first bad news. The keep was shut tight and no one was being permitted to enter. In the town of Lewes Vachel heard more disturbing news. Sir Nicolaus was gone and most of the men-at-arms were also gone. Vachel cursed under his breath. He had been wrong, it seemed, in hoping that Sir Simon would not act against Nicolaus until he was able to obtain approval from the earl of Warenne. His safe haven was gone. Instead of riding on, Vachel found lodging and thought about his situation.

  He soon realized that neither England nor France would be safe for him. He could not hide in Exceat and he could not return to France and admit to Prince John that Simon was alive. He had to go to Roselynde and destroy Simon.

  Later, after Vachel had purchased bread and cheese and some cold meat for his evening meal, he finally heard something to his benefit. At a large central table, a group of men-at-arms were discussing how long it would take to move carts with certain designated provisions from Lewes to Telscombe. Thus, he learned that Sir Nicolaus had left Lewes but had settled into a keep that overlooked the sea and had a good harbor.