Faerie

by Jacobs Delle

  “I only say he is most mistaken. He listened poorly. I said nothing that could be construed as a promise. My cousin and my aunt’s ladies were within hearing, and they will vouch that I tell you the truth.”

  “You said you would marry him if the king gave his consent.”

  “I did not. I said only I would marry whoever the king chose for me. I have no choice in the matter. I said it then just as I say it now. Surely both you and he know that to be so, so why would I make any promise I could not keep?”

  The bishop’s eyes gleamed strangely and he stared so hard at her eyes she felt the urge to turn and run. “You encouraged him to make his plea to the king.”

  She fixed her own gaze back on him and stood tall, for she was tall enough to look him squarely in the eye. “Nay, Your Grace, I did not even say that much. I said very little, in fact, as Fulk talked and I merely listened.”

  “You nodded your agreement.”

  Leonie took a deep breath, remembering Fulk’s strange persistence. So this was the impression he meant to give, to support the claim he made now. “I shall be blunt, Your Grace. Not even a nod. I did not wish to marry Fulk then and did not want him to go to the king. And I do not wish to be married to him now.”

  The bishop continued his fierce stare as if he could drill his words into her. “Your mind has gone daft, lady. Aye, you cannot remember the very accusation you made against this despicable man, who only a greedy and uncaring guardian would ever choose for you. I must fight for your soul, for you cannot.”

  Nay, it was the bishop who was daft. Why? Would he say whatever would please his vassal? Was the knight the bishop’s vassal, or was it reversed?

  “I beg you, do not,” she said. “I am content.”

  “This is an unholy alliance. I will complain to the Archbishops of York and Canterbury and have the marriage declared invalid.”

  “If you do so, Your Grace, you do it without my consent and against my will. This conversation has come to an end.”

  For a moment as he stared at her, she thought he looked as if he might finally have heard her. But then his face turned angelically cajoling. Too much so. It didn’t fit.

  “Walk with me to the gate, then, lady,” he said sweetly, his voice softened and quiet. “’Twould be only mannerly to do so.”

  “She will not walk anywhere with you,” Philippe responded, dashing up from the back of the chapel.

  Leonie blinked. It seemed this husband of hers had unusually good hearing, to understand such low-spoken words.

  The bishop grabbed her wrists. “I’ll not leave her here!”

  “Then you’re a dead man.”

  Leonie launched her knee upward to the man’s groin, and the surprised bishop yelled and lost his grip. She dodged and slipped sideways before the bishop could recover. Philippe stepped between them and shoved the bishop across the chapel and through the doors. Leonie held back, following cautiously out of the bishop’s reach.

  Once out in the bailey, Philippe drew his sword and forced the bishop toward the barbican. “If you touch her again, Durham, I will count you the aggressor, committing an act of war against me and my property. Hugh!”

  Hugh’s men surrounded the bishop. Philippe didn’t even have to give his order, for the men pressed forward, leaving a path only in the direction of the wicket gate.

  “You will all burn in Hell for this! You, Leonie of Bosewood! Repent or I shall see you both excommunicated!” The bishop kept walking, his arms waving wildly, and with each step, Hugh’s men filled the gap behind him, forcing him ever forward.

  “I think not,” Philippe replied, all but growling. “But if you think you can, do what you will.”

  The bishop was still screaming as he stepped through the tiny wicket gate within the bigger gate, and could be heard even as it was bolted behind him. Leonie breathed easier.

  “Do you expect them to attack?” Leonie asked Philippe.

  “Part of his purpose was to test our defenses. That’s why I did not want him to see the double wall we built in the upper bailey. He already knew we’re severely undermanned and under-armed, which is why he held off until he knew de Mowbray was gone.”

  He turned to his lieutenant. “Hugh,” he said, “send a man to de Mowbray. We’ll hope he can get through. Set men to arming the parapets. Finish that second wall quickly. That will save us if anything does.”

  “I’ll gather the women to help with making arrows,” Leonie suggested.

  “Nay, prepare the stores for a siege. We’ll have to take in all the villagers, so they must learn how to fight a siege. Have them bring all their stores and animals, or all of us will starve.”

  “They are still cutting the chaff,” said Hugh. That could mean they wouldn’t have enough fodder to keep the stock alive.

  “Aye.” Philippe sounded so grave she wondered just how serious he thought their situation was. “You must not leave these walls, even with a guard,” he said. As she opened her mouth to protest, he touched his finger along her lips. “Listen to me. Not even for a moment. Not at all.”

  He turned away, for he had more than enough to do to prepare for a siege on such short notice. If she did anything but help him, she could be destroying all of them. Quickly she passed his orders to Cyne and the others.

  She had decided the bishop was insane. That was the only thing that explained his strange behavior. Or could he be perfectly sane, but had something to gain and needed this insane justification for it? What could possibly be so important that he would take such steps? Although she had inherited a handsome demesne, she herself was not all that valuable. Was it the siting of this castle? Philippe had said the river pass it guarded was vital to the defense of the North from the Scots. But Malcolm had twice taken his army down the eastern coast through Alnwick, even to Durham. Why would he bother going through the mountains?

  Leonie closed her eyes, imagining armies marching, one through the mountains, another other along the coast. A third, the king’s Normans, coming up from the south.

  Caught in the prongs between the two from the north. Rufus would be trapped. So Durham really was aligning with the Scots.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BOSEWOOD WAS NOT a large castle, but it was what they had, and Leonie was grateful for it. For the remainder of the day, the women of the village brought their stores and necessities into the castle, preparing for a siege. The men remained in the village to complete the harvesting. They might need every bit of it to survive. Hugh’s and Philippe’s foot soldiers continued their work on the second palisade hidden behind the original one.

  The women went into the woods and cut fine, straight branches from the pollarded trees for arrows, while the children gathered round rocks from the riverbed for slings. The forge fires burned night and day, making new arrowheads. Many a fine chicken would soon be losing its preening feathers to fletch arrows.

  Leonie did as she was told and stayed within the castle. Truth to tell, she could not have left, for every minute of the day the Peregrine knew exactly where she was. In a time of lesser danger, she might have rebelled, but she’d had her taste of the dangerous knights of Durham and knew Philippe would be the one they would kill if they could. At least they wanted her alive. And more and more, she was beginning to believe Philippe would willingly die to protect her.

  Where was the man whose hands had closed about her throat while his brown eyes gleamed with such evil pleasure?

  She must not think of it. It would only bring on the pain. She was resolved. She’d had the sense knocked out of her and had her mind scrambled.

  At the end of the day, the villagers trudged home, for they had no wish to remain within the walls of a Norman castle unless they must. Not even the most vulnerable, the aged, infirm, and mothers with tiny babes, would stay.

  Yet, Cyne had said, they felt secure in knowing as much of their harvest and foodstuffs as possible were stored safely behind the gates, lest raiders scour the countryside and burn whatever they could not
steal. How odd it was that the common folk trusted their fate so greatly to their Norman lord, this man who was now her husband, who had vowed to protect the villagers as much as his own men. And they had seen Philippe risk his life to protect Cyne as well as her.

  At the long trestle table set up for supper, Philippe carved slim slices of pork and lamb and laid them neatly on her trencher. The aroma of the delicious juices drifted into her face, making her salivate. She could not remember ever being so hungry. Or so tired. She watched impatiently as he trimmed the meat into delicate strips. She was no delicate maiden who needed her food minced for her. Yet she was so tired, she almost wished he would chew it for her as well. Even do the swallowing.

  “You have worked hard today,” said Philippe. “A lady should not have to do more than ply her needle in her solar.”

  “It’s my nature,” she answered, and thought she sounded a bit too gruff. “I’m fond of my needlework, but restlessness overtakes me. And this is no time for maidenly airs.”

  She saw a smirk play on his lips, and he looked down at the meat he had carved so carefully. “Such maidenly airs would play you false, my long-legged wife.”

  Her face filled with a fiery flush. “You thought my long legs fine enough this afternoon, kind, handsome husband.”

  The sudden flash of his startled brown eyes as he stared at her took her by surprise as well. Quickly, she averted her gaze and began to pick at the slender strips of mutton, though now she had no appetite for them.

  “Aye,” he said, “I did. And I do still. I would not have you turn delicate and squeamish now. If I must ever leave my castle in your hands, I must know you have both body and mind to protect it, and yourself.”

  “Your castle, is it now?”

  “You know it is. Though I did not wish it any more than you.”

  “So you say, esteemed knight and revered vassal of the king.”

  His jaw jutted into a hard line, for he had not missed the sharp edge of her jab. “You speak rightly,” he replied, drawing out the words into carefully measured syllables. He added, “Lovely lady.”

  Abnormal silence fell upon the diners, and only faint clinks and clunks could be heard. To a man, the knights studied their trenchers with unusual interest. Leonie felt the flush pervade her entire body. It was not one of embarrassment, but one of shame. She had spoken harshly to her husband in front of his knights. If he were a brutal, violent man, she knew his hand could fly at her mouth faster than she could flinch away, and none would fault him. Instead he admonished her with a compliment. He did not think her lovely, nor ladylike, but all the same, he had given the compliment, not a vicious slap. He had not spoken ill of her before others. As she had of him.

  Well, he had begun it.

  Well, a good wife never derided her husband. And there was only one thing to do.

  “Your pardon, lord husband. I mistook your meaning.”

  “Aye, haps you did. Methinks you know not your own charm.” The tip of his tongue glossed his lower lip with enticing moisture. “Sweet bride.”

  Muffled chuckles floated about the room, coming from who-knew-which mouths.

  “Gracious and well-favored lord,” she mumbled back.

  Eyes full of curious twinkling peered fleetingly from the knights about the table, then as swiftly darted back beneath their hooded lids.

  “Lovely, gentle, demure lady,” he answered.

  Leonie choked on her drink. Dark wine sprayed on the white linen. The deathly silence as she coughed told her the knights were frozen as they sat, and Philippe slapped carefully on her back. She waved him off as she caught her breath, and finally sat back, leaning back her head and breathing a loud sigh of relief.

  “If he continues to flatter her, haps she’ll need to use the wine to dye all the tablecloths,” Hugh said.

  The chuckles about the table had an oddly tenuous sound to them, but Leonie broke into a new burst of laughter.

  “They say you do not lie, Philippe le Peregrine,” she said, still catching the odd cough in her throat between her words. “They say you seek peace through sleek words of truth, so that all believe you and fall under your spell. But I say to all, I am none of those things you call me. Though I was born a lady, I am my aunt’s bane, for I never remember to be one.”

  Around the long trestle table, the knights roared their approval and pounded their crude metal tankards and wooden mazers to the rhythm of their cheers.

  Hugh rose from the bench, lifting his wooden mazer high. “I say the lady speaks the truth, for never have we seen one like her. Yet I say our lord does not lie, for he has been enchanted by her wondrous spell. Lovely is not quite the word, yet I do not know what it might be, for we would not have you be any other than what you are, my lady. Cheers, then, to the lady’s long legs that saved the day!”

  “Holá! Holá!” the soldiers cheered, and pounded their tankards on the table again.

  “And to her long arms that shoot an arrow so straight, Durham’s archers flee in fear,” shouted another knight.

  “Our warrior lady,” quipped Philippe quietly.

  She thinned her lips at his remark. That was what she was to him. Something no woman wished a man to think of her. But she could not blame him, for he had wished for none of this. At least he had some respect for her, if not as a woman. She could not remember any time when she had blushed in so maidenly a fashion, and oddly, too, for such an unmaidenly act.

  “You forget the boy,” Leonie said, for she had to say something. “It was his quick thinking that saved us.”

  “Aye, to Sigge,” Philippe said, lifting his cup. “He has a knight’s heart. I shall make him your page when this war is ended. For now, I cannot spare him from the forge.”

  Leonie sidled a glance at Sigge where he sat beside his brother, and watched his face fall and shoulders droop. She sighed, knowing Sigge’s dream. He did not want to be a lady’s page. Even in this small gathering, his place at the supper table far below the salt signified to all that the blacksmith’s son could never achieve knighthood.

  “But enough for now,” Philippe said, rising. “We must rest. Tomorrow is like to be troublesome.”

  “Aye, lord,” replied Hugh, wiping his chin as he also stood. “Have you heard from Rufus?”

  “None of our couriers has returned. I hoped to hear from Northumbria, but that man also has not returned. We have been isolated, my brave knights. The battles will soon begin. Set the watch with frequent reliefs. We shall all rise before cock’s crow on the morrow, and very quietly. We do not wish to signal our readiness to the enemy.”

  The knights became solemn. All mumbled quietly. Leonie took Philippe’s arm as he led her to the small, primitive solar behind the hall.

  “Your little friend was not as happy as I expected.”

  “He would rather be your page than mine, gracious lord.”

  He shook his head. “It cannot be. The king would never allow it. A knight’s page must be one who could become a knight himself.”

  “Was there never a tanner’s grandson who rose to become a king?”

  He kept his gaze fixed ahead, but Leonie spied the telltale jutting of his jaw that said he would become stubborn about this. “Do not compare him to the Conqueror. Never has there been one like him. Sigge is the grandson of a traitor. That is what condemns him.”

  Well, she was stubborn too. But she was learning to be less strident in her requests. “The Conqueror was known to be generous to his foes. His son has many times been forgiving, also. Did he not forgive de Mowbray and his uncle, the Bishop of Coutances?”

  “It cannot be, Leonie. Can you not understand that? Some things a king will never forgive, and betrayal is one of them. Whatever was the enmity between the Conqueror and Severin de Brieuse, we know little. But the Conqueror considered himself generous in allowing the son to be raised by a blacksmith instead of putting him to death with his father. Do not open old wounds. Rufus would not be pleased.”

  They reached the doorw
ay to the solar, and he pulled back the draping tapestry, one that she sorely wished to replace when she was able to make a new one. His voice turned gentle as he guided her, and she allowed it, for at least that was recognition of her womanliness. “Come now,” he said, “you are very tired. I like it not that you must work so hard. But at least you are strong and capable. Let us get our rest now.”

  “Surely you are very tired too.”

  “Aye. We must sleep while we can.”

  Philippe pulled his tunic over his head and unbound his hose. Leonie quietly turned her back. It was an empty, hungry feeling to see his beautiful, lean body and know there would be nothing between them but dreams. She blew out the tallow candle stub he had carried into the chamber, then unbound her hair from its ribbons. This was such a primitive place, with no chests or tables other than those brought in her dowry train.

  “What worries you, wife?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Come to bed, then.”

  “I must comb my hair. If I do not, tomorrow I will sorely regret it.”

  He made some sort of rough grunt, and the bed ropes groaned as he rolled over. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he had turned his back to her.

  Leonie picked up her ivory comb and tiptoed to the roughly cut window, wondering as she had so many times since coming here why her father had made no effort in his years at Bosewood to build a decent stone tower. She looked out over the quiet, moonlight-bathed upper bailey at all the unfinished work. Only the lord who already made the noises of sleep stood between the Scots and the survival of England, and now he must face Durham’s assault with only this tumbledown castle.

  Hank by hank, she combed her long curls. Not a person stirred, other than those walking along the parapet of the stone wall. Slowly as she eased the tangles, combing first the tips in a small section, then moving higher up until she could run the comb smoothly from scalp to tip, she went through one strand after another. When at last she had completed her task she parted her hair into three sections to braid it. She looked back to the bed to her sleeping husband.