Marie (The Curse of Lanval Book 2)

by Rebekah Dodson

  “Yeah, like a philanthropist or some shit, I don’t know.”

  “What are we going to do once we actually get to a convent?”

  She thought about that for a minute. “I have no idea.”

  I startled at that. Where was my sister that wanted desperately to return to our time? I asked her as much.

  “I don’t know, I’m enjoying it here. And you get to be King now. I’d think you liked it.”

  “I’d like it better if there were cheeseburgers and clean water.”

  “It’s not so bad. The pies and cakes are to die for.”

  “You’ll get fat,” I laughed at her.

  “Marie said the same thing!”

  I frowned. “Where is Marie?” I asked.

  “She’s been holed up with Becket for a while.” Jules frowned. “I haven’t seen her much. She keeps to herself. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason, but …” I trailed off. At the mention of her name, my little friend sprang back to life. Damn it, Gill! I clutched the pillow harder, my knuckles turning white.

  “What’s this?” Jules snatched the pillow I was holding. She gasped at me and rolled her eyes. “Oh, shit, Gill, you’re disgusting.”

  The blanket covering it wasn’t very thick, and even moving the pillow scraped it, even through my pants. I groaned. I glared at her and snatched the pillow back. “I had a good dream.”

  “Gross,” she gagged twice and stood up. “I don’t even want to think about that.”

  “Think about what?”

  It was Marie.

  This time her brown dress revealed a small bit of her dress, a golden embroidered front panel that exposed just the top of her breasts. I dropped the pillow on my lap and ran both hands through my hair. There was no way my raging hard-on was going to leave now. I tried to think about nuns again. Ugly nuns. My mother as a nun.

  Nothing was working.

  “Nothing,” Jules said, stepping to the end of the bed and blocking my view of Marie. “Gill’s just a little indisposed now.”

  “I see,” Marie said slowly, eying Jules curiously. “Becket sent me to tell you that the queen would like an audience.”

  “The queen?” I looked from Marie to Jules.

  “Yes, your wife,” Marie said, crossing her arms.

  Jules' face fell, and her shoulders drooped. “She doesn’t want to see him,” she said.

  “How do you know?” I asked her.

  Marie shook her head, interrupting Jules. “Also, the French ambassador is on his way. There’s a type of informal coronation that must take place before you can travel to London.” She turned around. “I’ll give you a minute to, uh, freshen up, Prince Henry.”

  The way she spat out those last words bothered me. “Marie…”

  She turned and smiled at me. “Also, there is the matter of consummation, as I overheard Becket talking to the ambassador.”

  “Oh shit,” I said. My little man fell out of attention. The queen was gorgeous, more beautiful than Marie by a great deal, but that c-word struck fear into my heart. Have sex with a woman I barely knew? That had only happened to me like once, maybe twice. Okay, there was Lisel in tenth grade, but she was a German transfer student, and time had been of the essence.

  Jules turned and looked at me, biting her bottom lip. “I’ll just go see what’s going on.” She pushed past Marie and left the room.

  Marie paused at the archway and turned and looked at me. In her bold English, she said, “You’d better take care of that.”

  “Of what?” I pulled the pillow over my lap, suddenly realizing the gig was up.

  “God forbid the queen arrives and sees your hard-on.” She disappeared without another word.

  My mouth gaped open for a good minute. A fine medieval lady of the court, even if she somehow knew English, blew me away with her nonchalant colloquial phrases. She left me speechless, for the second time in the last week we’d been here. Me! No one ever left Guillaume Lanval speechless.

  “You’re an awful brain,” I said to the empty room. I moved the pillow. “And you, sir,” I pointed at my dick, “can just fuck right off, right now.”

  Slowly but surely, it listened.

  Well, that’s a first, I thought.

  I climbed out of bed, taking my time, feeling stiff and still exhausted, despite the massive amounts of sleeping I’d been doing lately. A mostly clean bowl of water had been placed next to the bed with a dingy towel hanging over the side. Had soap even been invented yet? I didn’t know. I ditched the towel and splashed water on my face. It was freezing cold, but enough to wake me up. I longed for a hot shower but knew it wouldn’t happen. No one knew what electricity, plumbing, or even hygiene was yet. Ugh. Sometime in the last few days being a-bed, I had donned a wool shirt that tied at the neck and wrists, but this castle was chilly. A freezing breeze of air ruffled the heavy curtains at the open window.

  Someone had laid a fresh pair of clothes in front of the roaring fire, where I stopped to warm my hands for a moment. I pulled on the wool tunic, dyed half red and half blue, which fell almost to my knees. It smelled musty and a little like urine, but was softer than the one from the other day. The pants, too, were a finer quality, tan, like most of them, but only went to the knees. Finally, there was a sleeveless cloak with brown fur around the collar, which I threw on and buttoned around my neck. Long socks, thin and soft like silk, and soft leather boots completed my ensemble.

  There was no mirror that I could find in the room, but I stood in front of the fire, feeling the cloak and the fur between my fingers. I ran my hands over my new beard, wishing I could have a shave, but knowing I had to stay in fashion. I felt ready to take the stage as I had in high school playing King Richard, though now I realized our costumes had been off by a couple hundred years.

  I felt regal.

  Yet I was no match for the queen.

  She entered the room just after I’d dressed, flanked by Becket, a man I had never seen, and finally, Marie. The queen’s wild red curls, now neatly braided and wound around her head, displayed a magnificent crown with a pointed tip, adorned with jewels. She was dressed in a dark blue, almost velvet, dress, embroidered with gold down the front and along the edge of the long sleeves. She wore a red cloak identical to mine, with the same fur around her neck. She held her hands clasped in front of her, and although she stood upright and took small, stilted steps, she held her head down, examining the floor.

  She took my breath away but still wasn’t the most elegant woman in the room. As Marie stepped in after the stranger, she stood at attention in her simple brown dress, her arms straight at her sides. Her fierce brown eyes met mine. She nodded quickly, her eyes closed briefly for a moment. She focused her attention on Becket and the other man, but occasionally her eyes flitted to me, and her face softened.

  Being nervous wasn’t something I was used to, but this wasn’t a stage, and I was clearly on display. Marie’s subtle confidence from the back of the room was inspiring. I rolled over my kingly speech in my head, as I had practiced for the last few days.

  Becket bowed and held his hands toward the other man. Marie translated quickly, “Presented Francis Bellateaux, the English ambassador to France.”

  I eyed him carefully, nodding. Francis. I remembered a picture of Becci and her fiancé, or Frank as she called him, taped to the inside of her locker back at the ambulance depot. Becci’s tool had looked exactly like that – a goddamn Playboy if ever I saw one. Bleached blond hair and pearly white teeth that I’m sure were fake to some degree, over a body that no less than fourteen trainers had worked on for a few years. I’d never met him, but he looked like a regular asshole, a cocky bastard if ever I’d seen one. I had hated him a little.

  This Francis, the English one, had that similar air of rich white boy, just like Becci’s fiancé. He looked nothing like that other Francis, especially dressed in a tunic, cloak, and pants similar to mine. No Hollister jeans and polo shirts here in 1154, I reminded myself. The ambassador had a gold ch
ain made of etched squares circled his neck instead of fur, which added to his pompous look. He was the shortest man in the room, even shorter than the women, but thin with wide eyes and thin brows sternly crooked into a frown. I almost laughed, but swallowed instead and cleared my throat.

  Behind Becket, Marie cleared her throat and held up her hand, pointing to it. Her meaning was clear. I held up my hand, and Francis took it and kissed it, smiling with an air of confidence. Fuck.

  “Prince Henry,” Francis said in old English, akin to Becket’s speech. Marie translated. His voice was high and unnatural; like a squeaky mouse. “I have traveled far.”

  I pressed my fist to my mouth to keep from exposing a smile. I cleared my throat again. I looked at Marie and started to panic. What language was I supposed to speak?

  Francis lost no time. “Archdeacon Becket tells me you have been wounded. Not seriously?”

  “The prince was hit with an arrow, and fell and hit his head,” Becket supplied, eyeing me and snapping to look at Francis. “His speech is …” Marie paused, trying to keep up translating between both of them, and I looked at her. “I don’t know the English word,” she said. “It is close to wrong,” she said. I nodded to her. Jules was right, I thought, she is creative.

  Francis held up his hand for silence. He narrowed his eyes and clasped his hands behind him. He walked around me, looking me over slowly and carefully. “In England, we heard news that you had been gravely injured,” Marie translated.

  “It was a small wound,” I said carefully in French. “A knight, who was escorting his sister, a beguine healer of sorts, nursed me to health.”

  France looked at Becket, shrugging, saying something in his high voice.

  “He says: ‘His language is strange,’” Marie translated. Francis was still talking. “He wants to know where the knight is, so he may be rewarded.” She frowned at me.

  “Tell him that he is removed to his homeland for pressing concerns.”

  Marie nodded and swiftly translated. Francis frowned and responded.

  “He wants to see the wound,” Marie said to me. “To assure that it is not serious.”

  “I, uh,” I looked at Becket, then to Marie. “Really?”

  “Yes,” Marie said and promptly turned around.

  The queen shuffled her skirts as she turned around to face the door.

  I pushed the cloak back with my left hand and lifted my tunic with my right to reveal the stab wound we created. Sweat poured down the back of my neck. Had they even seen stitches before? Why hadn’t I had Jules remove them?

  Francis reached out to touch it, but withdrew his hand quickly.

  “What is this?” Marie translated for him. “Why is there thread?”

  Becket stepped in front of the queen. “We have a healer, Sire, a beguine from Eastern France. Her convoy was attacked and sought refuge at Chateau de Guillaume.”

  Marie didn’t need to translate the humph that Francis uttered. I couldn’t tell if it was approval or dismissal. He motioned to lower my shirt. Marie and the queen turned back to face me.

  “Where is this healer?” Francis asked Becket. “Summon her.”

  Even as Marie translated, I saw her eyes go wide. The queen’s head came up then; worry painted on her face. “She is indisposed, Sire,” she said softly.

  Francis seemed to accept that. “Very well,” he said. “Fetch her later and inform her the Prince intends to travel. Her convent arrival will be delayed, as we need her to tend the prince.”

  “Travel?” I said, which, thankfully, Marie didn’t need to translate.

  “Prince Henry, I’m afraid I’ve bad news,” Francis said, stepping back to stand on Becket’s left. “Your cousin, Stephen, has signed the peace treaty to end the anarchy.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “A half fortnight ago, at the battle at Anjou.”

  “At a good time,” Becket supplied, and Marie struggled to keep up. He looked to Francis.

  “The King is dead.”

  I wracked my brain for the current monarch. “Ste … phen?” I said haltingly. “He’s dead?”

  “Yes,” Francis said.

  “Fuck,” I said, without even thinking about it. Marie quickly translated to Francis, “Prince Henry is distraught.”

  Nice save, I thought.

  The queen was looking at me, her head slightly tilted. The way her face remained carefully poised, I guessed she had already heard the news.

  “We must travel for the coronation,” Francis said. “It’s imperative that you reach London right away, or another will come forward to claim the thrown.”

  I nodded. That’s exactly why we had chased this silly plan in the first place.

  “Very well,” Francis said, gathering his cloak around him. “As soon as the consummation of your marriage is complete, we will leave France.”

  “Consummation?” I threw the ancient word back at him. “Of the queen?”

  Becket pursed his lips together. “Sire, you and the queen have been abroad since your marriage. Considering her first marriage to King Phillip….” He trailed off and looked at the queen, who wilted under his gaze, “Well, we will need to ensure that the new King can arrive triumphant that an heir will be produced.”

  “Sire, the healer should confirm he is well enough for the consummation,” Marie spoke up.

  Francis looked at her, annoyed that a lowly woman had interrupted us.

  I stroked my beard. Isn’t that what Kings did? I pretended to ignore Marie’s outburst. “We should contact the healer, just to be safe,” I said.

  Francis nodded. “Very well, but as I said, we must travel within the fortnight.” He turned and strode toward the doorway, Becket close behind him.

  I smiled at the queen, hoping to put her at ease. Instead, she gritted her teeth and glared at me.

  Whoa, where did this come from?

  “You … are not my husband,” she whispered in French, looking over her shoulder to make sure the two men had left the room.

  “I know that,” I said.

  “He died, in that bed, where you have laid for these six days.”

  “Your majesty …” Marie started to say, but the queen held up her hand. “You can make up stories as you like, but you will never be my Henry.” She spat in my face. Behind her, Marie gasped.

  I’d been slapped a lot, but never spit on. I wasn’t sure what to do, except make her feel at ease. So, I smiled brightly and took it in stride, wiping my cloak across my cheek. I stepped closer to her and placed my hand on her arm. She was gorgeous, I was gorgeous, we could have gorgeous sex, if she let us. Or, she could run to Francis and tell him everything. I didn’t want to think what the consequences would be then.

  “What will you do?” I asked her in French.

  “Nothing,” she said, her voice dripping with her disgust, “for I am a woman, and I do what and go where I am told.” She whipped her regal gown around her and slowly left the room.

  I sat in the chair by the fireplace, my head in my hands. “This is a fine mess,” I said.

  “It is,” Marie said, coming to stand next to me. She put a hand on my shoulder. “It is much to bear.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

  “I’m sorry, Majesty.”

  “My name is Gill,” I said, looking up at her. I wrapped my hand over hers, but she yanked it away.

  “Not anymore, now it is Henry.”

  “I never liked that name.”

  “You should learn to respond to it,” she said, and I knew she was right. I nodded.

  “Marie, will you do me a favor?”

  She smiled briefly. “What do you ask of me?”

  “Find my sister,” I said, “we have work to do.”

  “Yes, your majesty.” She backed out of the room.

  “And tell Piers I need food!”

  “You got it,” I heard her call from the stairwell.

  Her voice echoed in my head even when she was go
ne. You got it. How informal, modern, and very millennial – not to mention American - of her to say such a phrase.

  Who are you, Marie?

  Chapter Six: Some Kind of Magical Shit

  “Why do I have to get out of bed, again?” I protested to Piers, who was holding a boot for me. I couldn’t bend at the waist, not yet, and Jules insisted my stitches needed a few more days at least. I slipped my stockinged foot into the boot and pulled it up over the knee-length britches.

  “I’m afraid it was my idea,” Jules said, leaning against the arched doorway. A plaid blanket draped over one arm, and a picnic basket swung on her other elbow. “The prince needs to be seen as alive and well.”

  Piers stood and took the blanket and basket from her. I stood, holding the bedpost for support. “Aren’t you coming, Jules?” I eyed her.

  “I’m sure Piers can handle it,” she smirked at me. “Can’t you?” She looked at him.

  “I support, my lady. Will the queen join her husband?” Piers asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Jules said, and without another word she fled down the stairs.

  “What has gotten into her?” I mumbled, trying out my legs that had been mostly abed for the last six days. “Goddamn it,” I said to myself as my knees wobbled under me. I had made it to the fireplace a few times in the last couple of days, only because Jules kept calling me a pansy. It’s just a stab wound, Gill, she had said. It’s not like you had a hip replacement. I found I could walk with little effort, but turning quickly or bending down reminded me I still had stitches that didn’t want to be fucked with.

  “So, what? She wants us to wander out of the drawbridge and into the courtyard when there’s a war out there where I could get stabbed … again?”

  Piers just stared at me, and I realized I’d rambled in English, and he couldn’t understand me. I swore in French then and told him, “Let’s get this over with, then.”

  Piers frowned, but he followed me as I took the stairs slowly down to the bottom level.

  “Is there an apple in this basket?” I asked him. My brain often made me do strange things when I was upset.

  Piers looked at me, and I said it again in French. He frowned and said something about raw fruit and demons. Whatever. We continued out into the great hall.