The outer bailey, little more than a wide, defensive strip of field, sloped upward toward the mortared fieldstones of the curtain wall. Here there were deep trenches running in staggered stripes, a casual glance noted them filled with hay, a closer inspection revealed the pointed tips of stakes jutting through. A second wall, a second drawbridge admitted the cavalcade to the village of workshops and stables clustered around the castle grounds. The tradesmen broke work for a few moments to stare at the colourful procession of knights and men-at-arms who rode through their midst. Theirs was a small, bustling town of skinners, vintners, tailors, salters, bakers, brewers, fletchers, armourers—all of whom contributed in some way to sustain the castle and its inhabitants.
By way of showing respect, the men doffed their scruffy felt caps to Lucien Wardieu as he rode past. The women, smudge-faced and brawny with muscles gained by toiling day after day at heavy labour, stopped and used their coarse woolen skirts to wipe ineffectually at the grime coating their hands and faces. They gazed with dull eyes upon the slender figure who rode in the midst of so much masculine power. Servanne attempted to smile at a face or two belonging to those who stared the hardest, but the gesture was met with either blank looks, or overt suspicion.
“Not a very friendly flock, are they?” Biddy observed beneath her breath. “And not a very friendly place to get into or out of with any ease.”
Servanne suppressed a shiver and concentrated on what lay ahead. The cavalcade was approaching a smaller drawbridge slung over a dry moat, where a much less threatening portcullis gate was already raised. The bridge and gates admitted a steady stream of pedestrian traffic passing to and from the outer and inner bailey, and here again, conversations ceased abruptly and people scrambled hastily to clear a path for the mounted knights.
Once inside, the men-at-arms and half the mercenaries broke out of the strict formation and veered toward the massive jumble of stone and wood buildings that comprised the castle barracks. The other half remained as escort to Wardieu and the women, who followed a wide cobbled path between buildings and under stone arches until they reached the innermost private courtyard.
Perhaps fifty feet square, the paved space was surrounded by high-walled towers, most covered more than halfway up with a thick, furry blanket of lichen and ivy. Above this, the cold stone facings were gray and weathered, with long ranges of rooms and apartments buttressed to the walls so the square of open sky was reduced by yet another half. Standing in the centre, staring straight up at the small patch of gray sky, Servanne and Biddy felt suitably humbled. Sir Hubert’s castle at Wymondham would have fit unobtrusively into a corner niche of one of the outer baileys of Bloodmoor and made very little difference to the imposing silhouette. Neither could even begin to estimate the numbers of servants, maids, and workmen required to keep the castle running smoothly. Provisioning and maintaining accounts would surely require more than one able mind.
Twin arched doors swung open as the horses were reined to a weary halt. Servants poured out into the courtyard, one of whom stopped by Undine and set an elaborately carved set of wooden steps against the single stirrup. A young page of eight or ten years clambered importantly up the steps to assist Servanne out of the saddle. She accepted his hand with an apologetic smile for the stiffness of her limbs, and was grateful to feel solid land beneath her feet once again, regardless of the doubts and fears that had grown with each step taken inside the massive outer gates.
Wardieu finished issuing his orders to the servants and groomsmen, then took Servanne’s small, gloved hand into the crook of his arm.
“I do not doubt you will feel overwhelmed at first by the size of Bloodmoor. It is rather overlarge and gaudy for a simple man’s taste. I grew up exploring the alleyways and alcoves, yet there are still times I stumble across a corridor or an apartment I have never seen before. Over the years there have been many renovations and additions as well, so I prefer to remain in the main keep; by far the most hospitable area of the castle.”
Said with a smile, Servanne was left wondering if she was being given advice … or a warning.
“I was never one to enjoy exploring, my lord,” she assured him quietly. “A few rooms and a garden will satisfy my curiosity more than adequately.”
“There are gardens aplenty within the main bailey. I would most happily take you on a tour myself when you have rested sufficiently from your travails.”
Servanne smiled with what she hoped was demure acquiescence and touched a hand to her skirts to lift the hem as he led her toward the stairs.
The great hall, in every castle the centre of all activity, was usually built a storey above ground level, entered by means of an enclosed stone stairway. Constructed with defense in mind—although it seemed ludicrous to suppose any attacking force could ever penetrate this deeply into the stronghold —the stairs were steep and narrowed immediately upon passing through the arched doors. The walls were slanted sharply to the right to hamper a swordsman’s arm if he was attempting to fight his way into the keep. Servanne was forced to walk close to the stone in order to keep abreast of Wardieu, who showed neither reluctance nor discomfort in finding his hip and thigh brushing frequently against hers.
At the top, a wide landing opened into a windowless gallery with a high, vaulted ceiling. The only sources of light were large multi-branched candelabrum, some wheel-shaped and suspended from the ceiling on chains that could be raised or lowered, some on tall wrought iron stands fit into niches in the walls. Iron cressets were bolted to the stone to provide racks for extra torches, but they stood empty for the moment. Only the lazily smoking candles yellowed the air with their acrid perfume of animal tallow.
“My dear,” said Wardieu, holding a hand toward an open doorway on the right. Servanne’s skirts rustled softly over the bare stone floor as she walked to where he indicated. Later, she would think it odd to have heard such a faint, delicate sound when the chamber they were approaching echoed with voices, laughter, and the squall of daily living.
De Gournay halted on the threshold of the great hall, his blue eyes moving slowly around the cavernous interior. Suitably named, the room stretched up nearly as high as it sprawled out. Several dozen men and women bustled about at one task or another, their voices drifting shrilly upward to where Wardieu and Servanne stood at the top of a short flight of steps. An enormous raised dais commanded one end of the hall, and below it long trestle tables flanked the length, the farthest stool looking no bigger than a speck through the haze of smoke and murky light. A relatively modern innovation—a fireplace—was hewn out of one wall, its cavity filled with seven-foot lengths of blazing tree trunks. Ornamenting the empty spaces were the pennants and captured banners, crests and shields of past enemies. Crossed swords, iron starbursts, full suits of heavy armour, crossbows, lances, and scimitars captured on Crusade were mounted prominently on the walls; here and there, stretched out on display, were the skins of exotic animals killed in faraway lands: tiger, leopard, and panther. The floor was covered in rushes, none too fresh by the look and smell. Dogs fought and fornicated in snarling abandonment, and in one corner of the hall, a man and woman had obviously caught a similar enthusiasm and were panting and heaving to the cheers of several rowdy onlookers.
“My men fight hard,” Wardieu murmured in Servanne’s ear. “It is only reasonable to expect them to play hard as well.”
“I would not deny them their right to relaxation, m’sieur,” she replied stiffly. “I would only gainsay them the need to do it before an audience.”
Wardieu studied her expression a moment then left her in the care of his squire while he descended the steps alone. He walked toward the frenetic group of men and, without warning, drew his sword and slapped the flat of the blade across the man’s bare buttocks. The mercenary jerked upright with a bark of surprise, the curse dying instantly in his throat when he recognized who had wielded the sword.
“My lord,” he roared with good-natured drunkenness. “Care to ’ave a wee slap at
her yerself, do ye?”
“Sunrick, you hoary old boar. Can you not conduct your affairs in private?”
“Eh?” The knight was older, his skin as leathery as bull-hide armour, his hair a shock of snow white scattered over his shoulders.
“My betrothed”—Wardieu cast a meaningful glance to the top of the stairs—“finds such open displays of affection in poor taste.”
The knight and his group of merrymakers squinted up through the smoke and sifting dust and gaped at the pale figure standing in the gloom. One of them muttered something ribald enough to win a broken-toothed smile from Sunrick, who spat a rejoinder carelessly out of the corner of his mouth and ran a loving hand over the whore’s bare thigh. With a grunt, he bent forward and pulled the wench upright, causing her to give a shriek of laughter as he slung her over his shoulder and carried her into one of the adjoining antechambers. The other men hefted their tankards of ale and followed, some still grinning over their shoulders at Servanne de Briscourt.
“My lady?”
Servanne looked beside her and was surprised to see Eduard’s perplexed expression mirroring her own. Apart from Biddy and Sir Roger, the young squire had been the only friendly face in the long journey from Alford—clearly smitten, Biddy would have said, by her ladyship’s youth and fragile loveliness.
“The running of the castle has been left in the hands of men too long, methinks,” he said, offering one of his rare smiles. “’tis certain your presence here will work a change or two for the betterment of us all.”
Servanne started to smile back, but a burst of laughter from farther down the hall caused the boy to look away, and something in his profile caused her breath to stall in her throat. For a brief, dizzying moment, another profile as angular and rugged superimposed itself over Eduard’s. The similarity was made even more pronounced by the darkness of his hair, thick and swirling softly against the nape of his neck, and, when he turned back to face her, by eyes that were the same smoky gray that placed a hint of wolfish cynicism on every glance.
Servanne stared, and Eduard stared back.
“Eduard!” Wardieu called. “Bring Lady Servanne forward that she might be properly introduced to some of our more loyal retainers.”
Eduard’s smile shifted again, becoming tauter and grimmer than the situation warranted. He offered Servanne his arm and escorted her down the steep flight of steps, whereupon, at the bottom, she could have sworn she heard a murmured: “Courage, my lady.”
The Baron de Gournay strode forward and relieved Eduard of his delicate burden. Like a king leading his queen to the throne, he held his arm outstretched so that Servanne had to reach up and out to keep the tips of her fingers in contact with his wrist. She was led along the length of the hall toward the dais, her skirt dragging gently over the grimy rushes, her dainty slippered feet snapping the occasional thin bone overlooked by scavenging dogs.
Long before they reached the end of their promenade, the silence had become as pronounced and oppressive as the windowless gloom. Wardieu extended greetings to a familiar face here and there, some of them wedding guests who had arrived early to take advantage of their host’s good food and strong wine. A goodly number of knights and ladies stopped their eating and drinking to stare curiously at the prospective bride. They were not of the same ilk as the villeins who owned tenancy on Sir Hubert’s estates. These knights were bleary-eyed and coarsely dressed; their women were blowsy and vulgar, their gowns spotted with grease, their fingers and chins slick with sweet fat.
“Wardieu, ye old Dragon!” One of the knights came forward, a goblet in one hand, a partially gnawed joint of mutton in the other. “I see ye’ve resolved yer difficulties with the outlaw rabble. Have her back safe and sound, do ye? Not tupped, were she?”
“Godfrey, Lord Tydfil,” Wardieu murmured by way of an introduction. “A brazen old warrior, but a stout ally and keeper of the peace on my marcher estates. The Lady Servanne de Briscourt.”
“Ahh.” The mutton was levered to one side for a closer inspection of the new bride. “God grant ye health, honour, and joy, milady.”
“God grant you peace and health, milord,” she replied by rote.
Lord Godfrey peered up at Wardieu through eyebrows that resembled nesting squirrels. “Not tupped, were she?”
“My lady finds herself in perfect good health, praise God,” Wardieu responded dryly.
“Mmmm.” The knight looked disappointed, but he nodded. “Good. Good.”
“And your own fair Drucilla?”
A woman with painted cheeks and a rack of teeth broken off to their blackened gums squealed with laughter and tipped a goblet to acknowledge the compliment.
“Bah!” Sir Godfrey spat a wad of yellow phlegm into the rushes and scowled. “A sour old trull she is. Tupp her now and then just to keep my gear well greased, but for pleasure’s sake, I’d ruther swive a sweet wee bit like yours.”
A broad, leering wink sent Servanne shrinking back against Wardieu’s arm, a gesture that was seen and remarked upon by a smiling Nicolaa de la Haye.
“I warrant she might find you a little hard to take, dear Godfrey,” she purred, advancing with the sinewy grace of a cat. Her head was bare and her black hair flowed sleek and loose over her shoulders. More than one appreciative pair of eyes widened as she unfastened her mantle and shrugged the garment into the waiting hands of a page.
“Hard to take? Why, ’tis my normal state,” Sir Godfrey bellowed, grabbing his crotch for emphasis. “I should hope she’d find me so!”
Wardieu was watching Servanne’s face, aware of the tightness growing around her lips and the distinct pallor of aversion draining her complexion as she looked from one guest to another.
“You seem tired, my lady,” he murmured. “It would serve you well to rest and refresh yourself before we sup.”
“I would beg leave of you to rest the night, my lord,” she said. “I … fear I would not make happy company tonight.”
“Of course she must rest,” Nicolaa insisted. “After such an ordeal as she has endured, what can you be thinking, Lucien, to expect her to sup as if it were any ordinary day? Have you chambers prepared?”
The cool blue eyes narrowed as if he might object to being overruled, but the annoyance passed and he signaled to Eduard.
“I would trust you to see Lady Servanne to her chambers. As well, you may remain to see to any necessity she requires.”
“Aye, my lord,” Eduard said, bowing and offering his arm almost eagerly. Equally relieved to be able to escape the smell of stale bodies and sour food, Servanne touched her fingers to his wrist and nodded formally to Lucien Wardieu.
“My lord,” she whispered.
“God’s night to you, my lady,” he replied.
Nicolaa moved at once to place herself between Wardieu and Servanne before the latter had even turned away. The sound of her husky laughter and Lord Godfrey’s garrulous barking followed the two until they had ascended the steps and removed themselves to the relative quiet of the vaulted gallery.
“This way, my lady,” Eduard said, gently covering the lengthy pause she took to fill her lungs with a breath of clean air. He led her to the far end of the gallery and made two wide turns down converging stone hallways before climbing the corkscrew staircase to a private tower. He leaped ahead to open the oak door, then stood aside as Servanne entered a plainly furnished, but comfortably expansive suite of chambers.
The outer room, where the maids would sleep, was fully ten paces square with curtained slumber niches built right into the walls. A second door led into a large wardrobe with whitewashed walls and small painted flowers decorating the stone arched stone ceiling above. A wooden tulip-shaped tub sat on a raised platform at one end of the room; lining the walls on either side were rows of pegs set into the mortar for hanging clothes. There was space for dressmakers to sit and sew, a cabinet where a lady’s most treasured collections of scents and spices could be safeguarded. A small table and chair for the dressing of hair
, and a tall, prettily painted cupboard that concealed the bench for the privy completed the furnishings.
Servanne absorbed most of it in a single glance before following Eduard through yet another set of doors, these double-slung and banded in filigreed wrought iron. She found herself standing in a huge solar, half of it squared to fit the shape of the main keep, half of it circular and jutting out over the central courtyard below. There were three enormous windows stretching from waist height to the top of the domed ceiling. Each was recessed to hold wide window seats, each rose to a pointed arch and was divided, into smaller lights by decorative stone casings. On a bright day the chamber would be drenched in sunlight, the beams playing across the dazzling white walls. Lines had been painted in red to outline each masonry block, and in each block, a depiction of a rose, a tulip, or a honeysuckle blossom. The high French bed had red velvet curtains which rose above the top of the frame, climbing in a thick, twisting spiral to the ceiling. There were rows of wood and leather chests along one wall to house valuables, a low table and stools for doing needlework, and, the rarest luxury of all: a mirror of polished steel, the surface so flat and smooth it was like looking into glass.
There was more: a fireplace as tall as a man and deep enough to hold the big kettles used to heat water for bathing; there were panels of coloured silk hung on either side of each window embrasure, used to diffuse the light when the shutters were open, or camouflage the wood when the shutters were closed.
Through a Dark Mist Page 26