by Jacobs Delle
In the packed goods, Ealga found a fresh chemise. She dressed Leonie in the green kirtle and a pale blue cotehardie, with a chain of gold and amber for her neck. Then she sat on a wobbly stool as Ealga unraveled the thick braid. Patiently, Ealga combed strands of Leonie’s hair into long ropes of curls, then framed it all with two long, narrow braids crossing and loosely binding the curls like lacings around leggings. On her head, she set a fine, gauzy white veil, held down by a gold circlet.
She stood. ’Twas the best that could be done on such short notice. The Peregrine would have to take her as she was. In a manner of speaking only, since she didn’t expect him to take her at all.
Leonie stifled a shudder. She was not sure which she minded more, that he might take her or might not. Confusion pounded like a rock banging around against her skull. He was evil. He was kind. She looked at him one time and felt only fear and revulsion. She looked again and felt trust, longing. Passion. And no matter what she believed, it changed nothing.
She walked through the doorway of the solar into the hall where the fearsome giant Black Earl of Northumbria awaited. Yet of a truth, she felt no fear of him. ’Twas only Philippe le Peregrine who made her heart tremble.
Reaching the earl, she dipped a very formal curtsy, and the man, completely cleaned and combed since she had last set eyes upon him, responded with a bow worthy of the court of the King of France. Even cleaned up, she could not call him handsome, but she could not help but think there was goodness in the man who was deemed by one and all to have a heart as black as the moonless night.
A sudden surge of longing for her family hit her, and she looked back over her shoulder as if she thought they might be there. But she was beginning a different life now. Many a woman, when she married, was lost to her kin for the rest of her life. But she would always know their love, no matter if she saw them again or not.
She took a deep breath as the hall door opened and they stepped out into the cooling air of late afternoon, still tinged with smoke from the burning refuse, yet fresher than the rotten air in the hall.
“There is no straw in the hall yet for sleeping tonight,” she said.
“The sky is still clear,” the earl replied. “Sir Hugh and his men have been sleeping outdoors, and ’twas good enough for the ladies last night at the outpost.”
“But what about the supper?”
“You worry too much, lass.”
She sighed as he patted her hand. Men always thought they knew best. Well, if these men who put themselves in such authority said she was not to worry, then let them find their supper where they might.
They walked down the steep path, across the lower bailey, and out through the barbican’s thick wooden gate. The sounds of villagers grew as they collected about, their curious gazes on the passage of their new lady on the arm of the more familiar Earl of Northumbria. ’Twas an old church that sat at the foot of the castle, with walls cruck-built from the crotches of huge trees, a thatched roof reaching almost to the ground, and daubed walls almost bare of whitewash. Her uncle’s church had been rebuilt in stone several years ago, but the one before it had been much like this.
At the church steps stood the Peregrine, broad-shouldered and massive in blue surplice trimmed in gold, embroidered with the emblem of Evraneaux, the black falcon in flight. His yellow hair, tossed in the air by the breeze, caught the golden light of the late-afternoon sun. Her heart leaped up into her throat and stuck there, fluttering like an injured sparrow in a trap. She didn’t realize she was clenching the arm of the man who led her until he once again patted her hand.
“’Twill all be well,” he said. “The lad will not harm you, or he’ll answer to me. I give you my word, you can always come to me, and I will keep you safe.”
She hardened herself from jaw through spine all the way to her toes. “I’m not afraid of him,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Um-hum,” said the earl. He led her up to the church steps.
Behind the Peregrine stood his men. Close by, her maids and ladies, and the villagers beyond them in a circle. And nearby, the priest, who stood beside an elderly bearded Saxon man she had seen in the bailey with Philippe.
She took the last step and stood face-to-face with the man who was to be her husband. Her heart raced even faster with the battle between it and her mind. Her heart could not win.
Their gazes locked, his brown eyes intense. She saw in them his resolve to honor his king’s command.
“Do you come willingly, Leonie of Bosewood?” asked Philippe.
She nodded, though every part of her was as rigid as an old oak. She would not tremble. She would not be afraid. “Aye.”
He nodded his own consent in return. “Robert de Mowbray, Earl of Northumbria, do you stand in the king’s stead to give away the bride?”
“’Tis my duty and my pleasure,” the earl responded.
Leonie frowned, confused. Had the man accepted the Peregrine, then? Trusted him? She had thought at least they stood at odds over their loyalties to Rufus. And it had not been many hours ago the man had offered to spirit her away to Scotland. If not to kill outright the man he now encouraged her to marry.
“Then call everyone to the chapel steps,” Philippe said to the elderly man she had seen before. “Let us have all to witness this marriage. Have you a priest here?”
“Aye, lord,” said another man, a Norman, but as filthy a Norman as she had ever seen. Not one of Philippe’s men.
The throng began to buzz with noise. Leonie let back her veil and heard a common gasp as her mother’s name echoed through the crowd, then her own.
So. She was home. At last. Her true family, she knew, were those who had cared for her, sheltered her through childhood, defended and protected her from her wild father’s wrath. She would always honor them as her family. But something about this place had always drawn her.
It was her destiny.
Ealga stepped before Philippe, her face twisted in a knot of worry as she gave him a servant’s curtsy.
He nodded, waiting.
“All is ready, lord,” she said.
Leonie frowned. What was ready? Of course she was ready. What had he expected, that she would come to him adorned head to toe in gold coins?
“Then let us be on with it,” he answered. “Lady, are you willing?”
“As I have said,” she replied.
For a bare moment, her hand hovered as she hesitated. But there was no purpose in waiting. Let her strange mind think what it would. She gave her hand into his.
There were the words of the priest, Father Ivo, asking for the bride to be given away, and the low rumble of the Earl of Northumbria’s voice as he stepped forward, said his words, then backed away.
Leonie had seen many weddings in her lifetime. Nothing was new, yet all of it was, for this time it was her life that was to be changed. She knelt, as did Philippe, the man who was both strange and familiar, each facing the other, hands held up, his encompassing hers, interlocked as if in prayer. The warmth of his palms shocked her. The priest wrapped his shawl around their hands.
The words she had heard so many times echoed in her head with the ringing of her ears as her heart pounded. So familiar, yet so strange, as this day had been.
“I, Philippe of Evraneaux, take Leonie of Bosewood.”
She had not heard him called that, although she knew who he was. He had always been the Peregrine to her, the wandering falcon, the man who kept himself so aloof, the man who did not want her and now must have her. It was all so strange, like a faraway echo in the hills.
Now the turn was hers. She knew by the jostling at her elbow, for her mind had been playing tricks on her again.
She spoke her name and his, and added her vows. “As long as we both shall live.” It was that last that frightened her so much. Was it marriage that had destroyed her parents? Would it do the same for her?
“So be it,” said the priest. “Amen.”
They stood, arms interlocked, and steppe
d out from under the church porch into the slanting rays of a bright sunset.
The solemn crowd exploded in cheers.
Pipes began to wail. Surprised, Leonie turned about, and the villagers leaped into a frenzied dance that became a long caroling line, singing a strange song in tune with the pipes and following alongside the newlyweds as they began their procession back up the hill. She had seen such a thing before, yet not quite like this.
Nor did they go uphill at all, but instead to a village green that was thick with lush grass and decked with tables of all sorts, laden with food, roasted fowl and pork, something that looked like a greyish gruel, and even a dark, round bread. And ale. Great wooden kegs of it.
“It’s your bride ale,” Philippe said. “The gift of the village, for Herzeloyde’s daughter.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DESPITE THE WARRING inside her, Leonie couldn’t resist smiling back at the delicious way Philippe’s mouth crinkled at its corners. He smiled so seldom, always the darkly solemn knight with terrible dark secrets behind his calm face.
“Why?” she asked, still surveying the feast and dancing.
He shrugged. “Who knows? The common folk are not usually generous with any conquering Norman. And they didn’t respect your father, so de Mowbray tells me. But the name Herzeloyde brings awe to their faces. I don’t know why.”
Leonie didn’t know either. No one had ever been willing to talk about her mother. De Mowbray had told her little more than she had learned from Ealga.
“But come,” Philippe said, leading her by the hand. “Let me introduce to you the villagers. This is Cyne, their elder, and once a powerful thane, so de Mowbray tells me.”
Cyne bowed very low, showing to Leonie the balding top of a head of greying long hair. “’Tis my greatest pleasure, lady. Once I held a babe with a froth of hair so pale, ’twas like a crown of snow. Though your hair has grown long, I know you still by your look. ’Tis one a man can never forget.”
Her heart had no doubts, and her smile warmed. He was kind. A man of honor. “I am at a loss, Cyne. I remember so little. Yet I know by the feel of it I have come home. I thank you for your kind welcome.”
“Naught is too much for the daughter of Herzeloyde, though we have little, and the fare is poor.”
Philippe shook his head at the old man. “Good food doesn’t need elegance to please. We’re very hungry. We’ve eaten little save boar meat and the rough fare of de Mowbray’s outpost, and he does not have a cook worth praising.”
“’Tis true, I vow,” de Mowbray said, sadly shaking his head. “’Tis said the man boils rocks for stew.”
Leonie snickered. She had not minded. “I’m as hungry now as I was then. It is a fine feast.”
The whine of Celtic bagpipes began, and when the bags were filled, burst into a lively tune. A drum picked up the beat as villagers jumped up from their tables and joined hands to dance in a wide circle about their Norman lord and his bride. Other than the circling with joined hands, it was not like any dance Leonie remembered. Their brown kirtles and tunics, dun-colored leggings, with their dull plaids of brown and blue, were nothing like the vivid flashes of color she’d known in her uncle’s hall. Yet the dancers kicked and swayed as if their lives were every bit as vibrant and rich, turning to each other, dancing in twos, then fours, and back to their ever-circling line. Voices both deep and high sang in northern words she could not recognize, to a tune she had never heard.
“Is this the way they treat all weddings?” she asked Cyne.
“Aye, lady. The song speaks of Adam and Eve on their wedding night, and all the things they shared with each other, save the apples on the tree, for they dinna dare. And for a sennight, they dinna think of apples, only each other. But then they saw the apples again, and Eve couldna resist the gift of an apple to her sweetheart. And that is how Adam came to fall from God’s grace.”
“It does not seem it would be a happy song, though,” she said.
“Ah, but if she dinna, we wouldna have apples! And if ye’ll taste the tarts, lady, forever ye’ll be grateful to Mother Eve.”
Leonie laughed and took a bite from the tart he gave her. She laughed again amid her hums of pleasure. “I’ve never tasted better.”
Some of the Norman soldiers knew the steps of the dance and joined in. Others stumbled, clumsy from the ale, bringing laughs to all. Some found maidens among the village, but Leonie saw their behavior was carefully watched, and they minded their manners well enough. She resolved she would do her best to see they did not misuse the women and girls, although she had the feeling the great Black Earl and her noble husband had already seen to that. For now, they wanted peace, not dominance.
The caroling lines came to a halt at the end of the song, and the pipes droned on, depleting their bags. The common folk stood round, waiting expectantly as the pipes began to wail a new tune. De Mowbray left their lines and walked up, huffing as only a very large man can do. He placed his fisted hands on his wide hips, waiting along with the others who stood behind him.
“What is it?” she asked.
“’Tis the time for the bride to take her husband’s hand for the marriage dance.”
“But I don’t know the steps. All I know are court dances. They do not suit with this music.”
Philippe’s deep laugh rumbled from his chest. “Nor do I know them. I’ve never seen such steps. The court dances I learned as a boy in Normandy. You know them too, de Mowbray, and you know the music and rhythm are not the same.”
De Mowbray rubbed his black beard. “Hm, aye. They aren’t the same at all, and of a truth, I don’t know how to dance anyway. I just jump around, and they don’t seem to mind. But you must dance. The people expect it. If you don’t—well, you must. Can’t you make them fit?”
“Oh no, ’twould never work,” she replied, shaking her head.
Philippe stood and held out his hand to her. “It could be done. Ignore the music, and count the steps to ourselves. Shall we give it a round or two, precious bride?”
She shook her head, imagining her feet stumbling over themselves.
His eyes took on that haughtily narrowed look she despised, half smile, half sneer. “Are you afraid, adored sweeting?”
At the taunt, her eyebrows shot upward. “I?” She lifted her chin. “I am afraid of nothing, esteemed husband. It simply cannot work.”
A wicked smirk crinkled Philippe’s face. “But if the piper can play our tune? What shall it be? The danse real?”
“He would not know it.” How would a rough northern piper know the music of the royal French court?
With mischief gleaming in his eyes, he called out, “Piper! Can you play this?” Philippe hummed out a tune. The piper quickly picked it up.
Leonie felt a hitch in her breath. To dance with him. And later to lie in his bed.
She shook away the shudder. She had said she feared no man. And she had so promised herself. She could change nothing with fear, only with courage. So she must make it so.
“Slowly, piper. Ta dum, ta dum, tada dum, dum.” Philippe waved his hands to match the beat he wanted. The piper slowed accordingly. He turned back to her, his head cocked at an enticing angle.
“Now, my sweetest bride?” he asked, thrusting his upward-turned hand toward her again. It was no question; it was a demand. She could see that in the way his eyes smoldered.
Well, then, she would match him. Dare for dare.
With a gimlet eye focused back on him, she took his hand and walked into the circle. Then they moved apart to the clearing’s edge, the proper space for the danse real’s beginning. The fiery light of torches outlined his hard, lean body in his pale blue tabard, and a light gust of wind tossed his golden hair like strands of pure light.
Leonie’s eyes met his, full on, demanding her own answers. What are you, Peregrine? What do you mean for me, good or ill?
His brown eyes threw challenge at her and the smirk twisted both corners of his mouth.
Her shoulder
s squared as she stood tall, resolve hardening like tempered iron in a forge. So shall it be, then, Philippe le Peregrine, whatever you are. I will not be cowed. No matter what comes, it will not be said I have merely lain down and let my fate come to me.
Did he read her meaning? As if he did, he tilted his head and the corner of his mouth turned up. Aye. Challenge met and accepted. Let the dance begin.
They stood several arm lengths apart, the farthest arc of the circle they would traverse, he facing one direction, she the other. Each sliding step would move them slowly closer to the center, winding round and round like wool on a spindle.
Philippe signaled to the piper, who began the dance, his wailing pipe making it sound like a dirge. Step-slide, step-slide, one-two-three, one-two-three, arms rigidly at her side, eyes straight ahead in the formal posture of the dance, Leonie matched her steps to the pipes, while a drum somewhere near the piper picked up the slow cadence. She could hear Philippe humming the tune as he circled on the opposite side of the spiral.
With the first repeat of the music, they continued around the circle, now with their faces turned toward each other, looking down along the arm each of them extended toward the circle’s center. Step-slide, step-slide, the inward spiral began, subtly closing toward each other with each step, until at the end of the second refrain, their upraised fingertips barely touched.
With the next repeat, their hands clasped, zapping lightning between them. Leonie spun gracefully beneath his high-raised arm, and back to their upward-held clasped hands.
“He’s playing faster,” she whispered to Philippe.
“Aye.” Danger sparked in his eyes. Or was it wild pleasure?
Her heart beat faster, in rhythm with her own excitement. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. A danse real was a sedate dance! They should reel outward again, moving in and out, slowly, in exactly measured steps. But the piper played ever faster, ever faster. Philippe hooked his arm around her waist and spun her about in the wild way the villagers had done.