by Delle Jacobs
She stood at the head of the stairs and took a deep breath. Shoulders squared and chin lifted, she took the stairs slowly, moving as her mother had taught her, with grace. There was nothing else for it but to go down.
Today she would not let terror consume her.
* * *
"Holy mother!"
Alain glanced up from his meat at Robert, who gawked up the staircase. Curious, he turned. His jaw dropped. He thought his heart stopped. All things around him stopped, stunned by the vision.
Melisande descended the stairs, her dress a blue like the sky, and green like the new green of trees in spring. All about her, her hair, yellow as sunshine, fell in waves. This was the way she should have been, all along.
But her solemn blue eyes said naught of the night they had passed together. She still had that characteristic grimness about her. Smiling was something everyone could do, could they not? All, except this woeful angel.
He swore to make her smile. It would be like the warmth of sunshine after a hard winter. Aye. He would bring her the happiness she lacked, for surely she would bring much of it to him. Standing at the base of the stairs, he awaited her descent as eagerly as he awaited the rest of their lives together. He held out his hand to her.
The blue eyes lowered, assessed him, raked over him head to toe, and returned to meet his gaze, not with the warmth and light he had expected, but a cold and hard, angry challenge. They had just returned to winter.
Contempt met his puzzlement. Her hand lowered onto his, touching only where it must. How could she be indifferent to him after the night they had shared?
"Lady?" Gerard asked, his voice distressed.
"Do not trouble yourself, Gerard. I am unharmed." A brittleness tinged her words, so that Gerard nearly flinched.
"You did not sleep well, Melisande?" Alain asked.
The knights on the dais sniggered. Wallis snorted, choked on his ale.
"Well enough," she replied. "Under the circumstances."
He could not fathom what that might mean. Mayhap she was a bit sore this morning. But she had never seemed to be one who resented such things, and she certainly had not appeared to be so last night. Best to let the subject drop.
"It will do you good to break your fast. You did not eat well at supper."
"With good enough reason."
"You were upset. But come and be at ease. All will be well."
And she did not believe that, he could see. Something was amiss. But what? Something she would not wish to share in the company of lesser intimates, surely. He led her to her chair, and although many had finished their meals he sat beside her in the lord's chair and carved slender slabs of pork with his knife.
"Will you have pork this morning, lady? It is very juicy and tender today."
"Tis not the pork he speaks of, I'll wager."
Alain shot a warning glower at Robert. The man had never been noted for delicacy, but Alain was not inclined to overlook the lack at the moment. He offered the first of the pork from the point of the knife. She shook her head.
"You must eat, Melisande, or you will grow thin."
"I care not."
"Mayhap. But I do. Eat."
She did not turn toward him, but a narrowed, angry eye peered sideways from beneath her golden lashes. Angry, then. Because he had not stayed with her, but left at first light?
He carved off a smaller piece, offered it. She sullenly accepted it, and chewed it slowly. By the time she had finished that piece, he had another dainty morsel ready, which she also took. The fourth, she refused.
"Bread, then, with fresh butter? It is unusually sweet and soft this morning."
"Aye, at least something is sweet and soft," said Gerard, who frowned in the direction of his lady. Ire blazed back from her eyes.
The exchange puzzled Alain. Why would Gerard be changing sides now? But that was the least of his problems. Gerard could go hang himself, and Alain would not be overly affected. But what was the burr the lady had beneath her saddle?
"Bread, then," he said, as if he had not noticed Gerard's barb. And he slathered the warm butter on a freshly trimmed slice of the fragrant bread.
She eyed the slice with avarice, seeming to be utterly torn between the rebellion in her heart and the empty pit that was her stomach. Her stomach won, and she took the bread without a word.
She was hungry, then. He trimmed off another slice and spread on the rich, yellow butter. Something about that act seemed to aggravate her ire, yet she took the slice.
Whatever was the matter with the girl? It was as if she wanted to eat, but didn't want to take it from him. He felt his patience wearing thin.
"If we have something to discuss, Melisande, I would prefer it in private to this show of defiance."
"I should prefer the company of others, lord."
"And I would prefer to hear you use my name."
"I do not wish to. Lord."
Devil take it! Alain slammed the point of his dagger into the table as he stood, shoving back the huge chair so that it nearly toppled. Melisande flinched. Her eyes widened with fear.
"Feed yourself, then," he boomed. "Chrétien, let us be about the business of men."
Astonished, Chrétien rose to follow. Alain regretted his flash of temper, but he would not withdraw it. Best to withdraw himself. He strode angrily toward the narrow steps that led down from the dais.
Something swished past his hand, and thudded into the wooden pillar beside him. His dagger, still quivering, sank into the hard oak.
She dared throw his dagger at him? Alain yanked at the knife from the wooden post, whirled fiercely at her. Chrétien's hand clutched Alain's shoulder.
The girl glared, her fists tightly wrapped in rage. "You forgot something."
The dagger rotated in his hand as if he actually contemplated throwing it. He did not, only meant to have her think it. Her seething eyes dared him. For whatever terror she had experienced the day before, today she was brimming for a fight.
He would not give it to her.
"How kind of you," he said, anger gripping around his eyes. He spun again to head out the door at the far end of the hall, with Chrétien close at his heels. But not fast enough to miss the banter behind him.
"Mayhap I will go home," said Gerard, and his voice danced with acid amusement. "It becomes dangerous here."
"Aye, Gerard, go home to your wife. You risk your life to stand between these two," said a Saxon voice.
"Aye, that's the thing, Gerard," said another. "Go home to your wife. Throw a few pots. Toss a few daggers. Methinks you'll have a rollicking good romp of a night."
"Aye. And safer, too."
Gerard's hearty laugh quickly subdued to a bare snicker. "Mayhap the lady is able to fight her own battles, and has no more need of me."
Alain slammed the door behind him and stomped all the way to the stone steps of the allure, then up them, muttering epithets he hadn't used since he was a boy. Villein and knight alike scurried out of his way.
"Out! Begone!" he shouted to the masons and hod carriers, who abandoned the allure to the angry Norman.
"What do you rant about, Alain?" Chrétien asked, with an odd lilt to his voice.
"Rant? Nay, I am praying."
"Praying? Indeed."
"I ask God if I have sinned so greatly that I must spend the remainder of my days shackled to a lunatic."
"Mayhap it is not all that bad."
"A lunatic, I tell you. A demon-possessed, night-crazed
lunatic. The girl is scrambled in the cockloft."
"Mayhap she was not as eager as you thought."
"She welcomed me, I tell you. What manner of woman takes a man to her bed so willingly that she will not let him go, yet disdains his very glance the next day?"
"One who was not satisfied?"
To Alain's indignant glare, Chrétien merely stood amiably where he was, grinning.
Chrétien laughed. He clapped his hand on Alain's shoulder. "Cheer yourself, Alain
. That she is troubled, all can see. For all that she is a rare beauty, never have I met a maid so grim. But it will all work out. You merely must unravel the thread."
Alain could not long stay angry with Chrétien. The man's infuriating good humor always got in the way. But he was not yet ready to let it go. "Hah. Now you are philosopher and weaver, as well. Begone, Chrétien. I cannot abide such good cheer."
But Chrétien would not be gone. With his implacable good will, he stayed near his lord and friend for the remainder of the day.
* * *
The Lady Melisande went about her day as if nothing had happened to her, either. Alain came upon her sitting in the bright sunshine mending a white linen cloth. For a moment, he watched the tiny stitches running through the cloth, back and forth across a diagonal slash, and guiltily realized it was the one in the tablecloth he had stabbed earlier that day. She glowered at him and returned to her task with renewed energy.
Around him, men hastened off to their tasks, eagerly accepting any assignment they could get that would put them a distance from their lord's short temper. He had only to ask, 'what news of Rufus?', or 'how goes the new motte?', and men rode off to find out. It was not just that the lady had gotten the best of him and he had allowed her to keep it that way. It was that infernal headache again, that throbbed at his temples, pounded behind his eyes, making him feel dizzy and trembling.
He dared not admit it, nor let it show in his demeanor. To display that weakness would leave him open to insurrection from the Saxons, and he could not risk that, when Rufus was so close and depending on him. Yet he could do nothing to change it. Well, it would go away on its own eventually, and he would just have to tolerate it until it did.
A hot bath. That would do. And the lovely lady who played servant could assist him. On the other hand, this might not be the best time to give her the advantage of hot water as her weapon. His squire would just have to do.
* * *
Melisande did not seat herself at the lord's table for dinner, nor for supper. She bustled about in her customary fashion, directed the servers and carvers, and those who came afterward to clean. She ate in the kitchen with the servants, as if she were one of them.
Alain did not stop her. He ignored her, as if that truly were her place. Just as he ignored his desire to grab her by her waist and pull her into his lap. And no matter that he couldn't divine the nature of her subtle trap, he would not fall into it again.
He excused himself early, telling his comrades they had much to do the following morning, and took a jug of wine with him to his chamber. After a few more swigs of the wine straight from the jug, he undressed and lay for a while on the bed atop the cover. He had never possessed a quilt of down before, and ran his hand back and forth across the light, springy surface, in awe that anything so soft and light could be so warm.
Gradually, the wine's effect seeped in, softening the pain in his head, and the haze of half-sleep crept up on him. Slowly, he lost the cares of the day.
The same odd whimper he had heard the night before brought him to his senses. He sat up.
Nay, he would not fall for that one again. He lay back down, yanked the down pillow over his head, and tucked it tightly about his ears. Now he could not hear it.
But aye, he could. A little fainter, mayhap, but he could hear it. Well, he would ignore it.
The faint noise escalated to frightening gasps, painful sobs. He could hear her begging. Pleading to someone. To him?
By God's Blood, he would make her stop it! He would tell her she would not fool him again if she screamed all night.
He flung open the door, and it banged against the wall behind it. The girl shrieked, whirled about and shrank down to the floor, her back against the wall. Her wild eyes stared emptily across the chamber toward the beamed ceiling.
"Oh, please don't! She didn't mean it! No, don't! Oh, no! Oh, no!"
Demented. The girl was demented. Sweet Christ, what was he going to do, now?
"I won't let you! Ow! No, it hurts, don't– "
She dissolved into plaintive moans, fell to the floor with her arms laced over her belly. His resolve collapsed, and he knelt beside the tortured girl.
"Melisande, it is all right. It is just a dream. You must wake up." He stroked his hand over her hair, that was already soaked with perspiration.
"I won't do it again, please, no, I won't!" Her voice sounded like a child crying. "Please don't hurt her!"
Someone else? Not just her? Or was it only a demented girl's tortured mind?
"Melisande. Come now, wake up. It will all be gone then. Wake up." He wriggled his arms in about her waist to raise her from the floor.
"No!" she shrieked. "You can't make me!"
"Up, girl."
He brought her to her knees, then lifted her higher, to her feet, except that she couldn't seem to stand on them. He pressed her gently against him, to absorb her weight, held her still and talked softly, stroked tenderly at her back. "Come now, girl, you will be all right."
Somehow her feet began to take her weight. She leaned her face into his chest, and slowly the cries subsided to an occasional gasp.
"You see? It is but a dream. There is no one to hurt you."
Aye, it was but a dream, brought on by the terrible way her life had spun about her, like Chrétien's dreams. How could he have forgotten? Her father had died merely a week before, and not long before that, her mother. Then the Normans had come, taken over her home and forced her into marriage. She needed better of him than she had gotten.
"Come to the bed now, love. I will stay with you until you sleep, and you will be safe."
She went obediently. Her feet seemed almost not to touch the floor as he led her. She didn't seem to know how to find it by herself, but stood submissively at its edge, looking at him, her eyes darkened with earnest, pleading fear.
"I'm cold," she said.
"Let me wrap you up, then."
"It's so cold. And dark. It's so dark down here. Please don't leave me."
"I won't leave you."
"Please don't leave me down here! It's so dark and cold!
Please don't! Don't leave me down here!"
She didn't know he was here. She was looking straight at him, yet did not see him, or know he was here. Her words were not for him, but for some mysterious tormenter. She was locked inside her dream, and couldn't get out.
Alain pulled her into his arms, gulping back his own sorrowful shock. Oh, sweet Jesus, what had he done? She had not invited him to her bed. She had only been begging her abuser to let her free.
"Ah, lady, I have wronged you again. I did not know. I thought you wanted me. You do not remember anything, do you?"
Of course she did not, for her dreams were not like Chrétien's after all. She appeared awake, but she was not, for the dream still possessed her. Unlike her, Chrétien always remembered every horrifying detail.
What was he to do now? He could not leave her like this. What might happen next? Might she, in her dream state, somehow hurt herself? Yet she would be furious if she found him with her in the morning.
Well. She might as well become accustomed to it. From here on, he was going to be beside her every morning. Alain scooped her into his arms, grabbed her quilt of down by its corner, and carried her into his bed chamber. He eased her down onto his bed.
"Nay," she said, and clung to his neck as he began to straighten.
"I will stay with you. But you must let go now."
She still clung, and protested when he pried her loose. He lit his wax candle from the brazier and brought the second quilt over her before crawling into the other side of the bed. He drew her body snugly against him.
"You will never be cold again, my lady. And as long as you need it, there will always be a candle burning. Someday, you will wake for me, and the darkness will go away forever. You will see."
CHAPTER 12
The dawn came softly, in pale slivers of pink and grey light through the plank shutters. En
compassed in her down cocoon, and becoming aware of a delicious, comforting warmth, Melisande slowly opened her eyes.
Her hand wrapped about another hand, a large one with silky black curls on its back, that rested against her breast. She jolted awake. Her gaze traced from hand to arm to the Norman lord, whose body nestled against her back. Her startled shriek split the air.
His eyes popped open beneath his black, angular brows as she flung his hand away from her, and he smiled. A lazy, easy smile.