Angel of Fire

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Much to Chrestien’s dismay, Adelaine’s questions returned to Aleth de Montagneaux. “Surely, Papa would not regard Aleth so warmly were he a violent man?”

  Chrestien knew instinctively what had her sister so worried. “You needn’t fret, Adelaine. There is naught you could ever do to deserve a lashing, dear sister. Papa’s warnings were all for my benefit, I assure you.”

  “Go to sleep!” Aubert dared to reprimand from outside the tent. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  Chrestien smiled and turned on her side, picking at her hauberk in annoyance. The chain mail was poking through her undertunic, into her flesh, and it irritated her that she would need to wear the offensive thing at all. How could men bear it? Why not simply cease the senseless fighting after all? She couldn’t fathom sleeping in the irksome thing, but that was precisely what she was about to do—lest someone wander into their camp and discover two helpless women and a troop of farmers disguised as knights. That Aubert was well trained in the skills of war was of no consequence. What could one man do against many?

  She stared at her sister in the darkness, wishing things had been different—wishing their father had lived. She stared so long that Adelaine closed her eyes, her breathing slowed and Chrestien knew she was asleep.

  Reaching over, she gave her sister a gentle kiss upon the cheek and laid her head down and tried to sleep. And somehow, despite the prickly mail, she was so weary she succumbed at once.

  Chapter Three

  Made of darker stone, Castle Montagneaux loomed before them, the eighteen-foot-thick walls rising nearly seventy feet into the air.

  An aura of undeniable foreboding swept over their little troop and the tiny hairs at the back of Chrestien’s neck prickled at the sight of the monstrosity.

  Bringing her snow-white gelding to a halt, she silently reconsidered the likelihood that they would dupe the lord of this demesne. Its suzerain seemed to have taken every precaution against intruders. Six towers kept a watchful eye over the horizon.

  The castle was seated upon a solid, steep sloping hill, which was elevated at least forty feet in itself. A man-made reservoir joined a natural lake to the left, encircling the majority of the massive curtain walls. The only visible entrance was through the main gate, which was set along the narrowest expanse of water.

  The curtain wall itself was a monumental masonry eclipse and there was not a single peasant’s hut below the fortress, leading Chrestien to believe they would be found nestled within the protective arms of the curtain walls.

  Aleth, Chrestien observed, must be very kind to care overmuch for his people, and with that thought came a bit of relief. Adelaine would, indeed, be safe with the lord of Montagneaux.

  Aubert brought his mount between Chrestien’s gelding and Adelaine’s mare. “This is not the time for misgivings,” he said more to Chrestien than to Adelaine. Nudging Chrestien’s gelding with a black boot, he nodded in the direction of the nearest tower, where the vague outlines of men could be seen.

  “They know we approach... ’tis not like Lontaine, where there is but one tower and few men to garrison the keep.”

  Chrestien knew he didn’t mean to remind her that her father’s death had left Lontaine in a quandary—without any real protection—but it saddened her nonetheless.

  She gave a curt nod. Then, without warning, she started for the castle, forging ahead before her mind could warn her to turn back.

  Like a black tongue from the depths of a mouth, the drawbridge was lowered, and the little troop cantered across with unrepressed reverence.

  Adelaine’s eyes were wide with apprehension.

  The villein kept their heads lowered—half out of fear, half out of learned respect.

  Directly inside the outer wall, the land sloped downward. They passed through the small barbican into the lower bailey, where row upon row of wattle-and-daub huts peppered the sloping view. A smaller curtain wall spanned the left side of the fortress, separating the huts from the middle bailey, and an open postern revealed an expansive lake beyond it. Two towers stood sentinel over the waters so that none could approach in that direction unobserved.

  Feeling more like prisoners than guests, men came to escort them into the middle bailey, which flourished with well-stocked gardens. Then came the last of the inner curtain walls, and beyond that lay a beautiful courtyard. At long last came the keep—an immense rectangular building, so big that it could have swallowed three of the Lontaine’s tiny donjon.

  From beyond Montagneaux’s walls, it would have been all but impossible to determine the vast expanse of land the fortress contained.

  The master of this citadel was either very extravagant... or he simply trusted no one.

  Chrestien chose to believe the former because a man who trusted no one could not be trusted himself. Had her father not often said so?

  Standing before the doors to his keep, Aleth de Montagneaux awaited them eagerly.

  He was as striking a man as Chrestien recalled—and just as amiable, albeit only to Adelaine.

  From the moment he set eyes upon her, he seemed quite besotted with her sister, and Adelaine with him. Chrestien could easily see why Adelaine might be so taken with her father’s longtime ally. He was possessed of deep blue eyes that bordered on gray. And she was certain one look from him could weaken a grown woman’s knees—though she could hardly swear by it, for he never even glanced her way long enough for her to confirm it.

  His hair, which was reddish brown in color, defied the standard for red hair in that it was unusually satiny looking. It made one want to feel the softness of it, Chrestien mused. He was not so tall, but his chest was thick, and his elegant finery boasted of riches far beyond any she and Adelaine had ever known. His mantle and surcoat were of a burgundy Italian velvet not oft seen in these parts, covered with jewels of every sort—including a few gems Chrestien did not recognize.

  For her part, Aleth treated her with aloof respect—if it could be called that. He allowed her to sit at the lord’s table to sup—Aubert too, although he neglected them both in favor of her sister. And yet even if she did not take kindly to being ignored by her sister’s betrothed, she was entirely relieved, for it was so much easier to keep up the pretense in silence and without scrutiny.

  They had arrived in time for Montagneaux’s None day meal, and were pleased to find that Aleth had arranged to serve the main meal upon their arrival. The tables all groaned beneath a spread of roasted pork, beef, mutton, and herring flavored with cream and herbs. Sliced apples, pears, and peaches were arranged in the shape of a bird in flight, and an assortment of cheeses filled trays that were interspersed along the table.

  The only unpalatable item was the wine. It was bitter and grainy, and a mouthful of it reminded Chrestien of the time she and Adelaine had made mud pies by the stream at home. Adelaine’s had looked overmuch like a tart, and Chrestien, at five years of age, had decided to sample it, much to her dismay.

  But acrid wine or nay, her only real complaint was that she was forced to share a trencher with an obnoxious knight by the name of Gervais, whom she’d neither met nor heard of before now. Albeit, to hear him speak his sword was sought after by all, for he was, of course, unmatched in the skills of warfare. Oh, and the women all enjoyed his other sword, for he could wield it far better even than he did one made of steel.

  Jesu! Had he the dexterity to find his own mouth while eating, she might have believed him. As it was, his beard was filled with bits of food and dribbles of wine spotted his plate. His breath smelled of stale wine and poor hygiene, and Chrestien wasn’t certain which was more offensive. And if he whacked her back just once more, or recited another repulsive tale of female conquest, she was going to stab him with her eating dagger... and accuse Sir Rolfe, Aleth’s elder brother, who was scrutinizing her from across the table with the intensity of a hawk sizing up its prey.

  She did not particularly enjoy being a man, she discovered.

  Seeking out Aubert, who was seated next
to the fair-haired Rolfe, she gave him a glimpse of her ire. To her dismay, his only reaction was to laugh.

  Adelaine giggled at some witty remark of Aleth’s and Chrestien turned to see her sister’s cheeks bloom with color. Adelaine’s eyes met Chrestien’s then and lowered in chagrin.

  “What find you so amusing?” Chrestien asked innocently, smiling, for she was in dire need of something humorous to brighten her spirits. As she waited for her sister to reply, Adelaine’s color deepened to a shade somewhere this side of violet and for the first time in her life, she refused to share her secret.

  Chrestien frowned.

  Aleth cleared his throat. “I simply told my lovely bride—Christopher, is it?—that I had originally arranged to wed her a sennight from today... but that was before I set eyes upon her. Your sweet cousin has blossomed into a lovely lady.”

  Aleth took Adelaine’s pink-flushed hand and started to kiss it, but stopped abruptly, and looked directly into Chrestien’s eyes. “If there are no objections from you... I shall wed her on the morrow. Even,” he assured Chrestien, “if it means I’ve insulted my guests by curtailing the celebration.” He turned to Chrestien then and his smile faded. His very gray eyes bore into Chrestien’s, deliberately and with what appeared to be condemnation. “I simply cannot—will not—wait.”

  Was he warning her not to interfere? Had he made her an enemy without knowing her? The thought made Chrestien’s stomach sour and blackened her mood.

  When he turned again to Adelaine, Aleth was all smiles again.

  Alas, it was clear to Chrestien that the guest he had not a care of insulting was her. Well, it suited her just fine not to remain in this den of wolves. But that he would have such little care for Adelaine’s only surviving kin was insufferable.

  He turned again and seemed to be waiting for her response.

  Chrestien kept her emotions well masked and simply nodded her acquiescence, her anger deterring the telltale tears.

  “Splendid... splendid,” Aleth declared. “Then I trust we understand each other quite well when I say I wish ye a safe journey home. And where did you claim that to be?”

  “Oh! Christopher has lived at Lontaine most of his life,” Adelaine provided quickly.

  Aleth’s brows twitched, but he accepted the answer with a curt, but polite, nod and then returned to ignoring Chrestien.

  It was clear enough that he truly believed Chrestien to be a man, for there was a distinct possessiveness in his gaze—a warning that seemed directed at Chrestien. Forced to enjoy her own company, she lamented that now Adelaine, the only family Chrestien had remaining, would be gone from her life all too soon and it seemed she was destined to become a pariah in her husband’s home. Not that it mattered. Once she was cloistered, she would likely never leave La Trinite again. She stabbed at her trencher. It was enough to make her feel quite sorry for herself and that was not her way. It was an alien emotion—one she did not relish.

  Adelaine yawned loudly, bringing Chrestien’s senses into focus. “Well, my lord Aleth, ’tis been a most grueling day and I am in sorely need of rest, lest I be too weary for tomorrow’s festivities. Shall we retire, cousin Chris?”

  Adelaine seemed quite proud of herself for remembering to use the correct name.

  Aleth’s eyes grew wide and his eyes nearly burst from their sockets as he focused his fury upon Chrestien. At first, Chrestien did not comprehend the ire in his gaze. But it dawned on her all at once, and she feared it would be the end of their charade. Mother Mary! She would be forced to confess all simply to keep from being run through by Aleth’s blade. Jesu, but Adelaine was daft!

  Chrestien did not bother to stand, despite that she wanted to flee from the table. “My lady, I am most certain your chamber is safe!” she asserted as she stared at her sister in disbelief.

  She turned to Aleth and faced his angry glare in an effort to acquit herself of his silent accusations. “My dear cousin has quite a fear of sleeping in unfamiliar places,” she explained. “If you would but be so kind to assure us that her chamber will be adequately guarded... there will be no need for me to inspect it.”

  Incredulously, she did not even stumble over the explanation and it came across very believably. It was quite frightening what a good liar she was becoming—may God forgive her. Once she was in the hands of the good Abbess, she would make atonements then. She turned her smoky eyes on Adelaine, smiling tersely. “Is that not so, Lady Adelaine?”

  Aleth relaxed his menacing posture, if only slightly. “Your chamber is indeed quite safe, m’lady... but if ye would come with me, I would see to it myself.” He rose from his seat, eyes still narrowed upon Chrestien, and took a very contrite Adelaine by the hand.

  Chrestien watched as her sister and Aleth disappeared from the hall and sighed with even deeper relief when Aleth returned only minutes later.

  At least Adelaine would sleep in peace.

  The same could not be said for herself, for she no doubt would be sleeping with the men in the great hall—on the rush-strewn floor, no less.

  With great order, the tables were cleared, the servants dispersed, and the hall was emptied, save for those men of lesser distinction, which of course, Christopher was considered to be.

  She watched in horror as the men undressed right in front of her and prepared for a night’s rest on their thin, smelly, flea-ridden pallets. She cringed when she realized Sir Rolfe was still watching her, but she was determined to make the best of this. She busied herself with preparing her straw mat next to Aubert’s—all the while cursing him for disappearing yet again.

  When finally Rolfe quit the hall, Chrestien settled onto her pallet, fully dressed in her hauberk, and closed her eyes. She tried to conjure images of Lontaine... to pretend she was home in her comfortable bed. But naught would come to her, save for thoughts of Montagneaux and her sister’s upcoming wedding. Solace came only when Aubert’s voice interrupted her troubled thoughts.

  “I shall not sleep tonight,” he whispered softly at her ear. “Have no fear. I will keep watch over you, minx.”

  She opened her eyes to look into Aubert’s familiar blue ones. “Thank you,” she said gratefully.

  He smiled and said, “'Tis the least I should do.”

  Exhaling a sigh of relief, she settled again into her pallet, ignoring the sensation of tiny bugs crawling through her hair. It was just her imagination, she reassured herself. Soon it would all be over.

  * * *

  The night air was clear and cool as Rolfe made his way across the yard to the stables.

  There was more to this Christopher than met the eye, he was certain. He’d heard a rumor once that Gilbert de Lontaine had twin daughters, but had dismissed it as idle talk. Even then, so long ago, it had wrenched his gut to know his brother was offered the beautiful Lady Adelaine to wife, and even when Aleth had refused her, Gilbert had never bothered to offer her to Rolfe.

  This time, he’d masked his anger well enough. He had been the one to convince Aleth to wed the young girl. Dead men had no need of women and if Rolfe carried out his intended plan, his brother would have little need of a woman in his bed.

  Now, for once, he would not have to settle for his brother’s leavings. Having met Adelaine’s cousin, Rolfe had little doubt the old rumor was true. Christopher de Lontaine looked too much like the lady Adelaine for it not to be so. Mayhap Aleth was too stupid to note it, but even considering the disguise—and it was a good one at that—Rolfe could see the uncanny resemblance. The hair, though much shorter and straighter for the filth, was the same rich golden color as Adelaine’s. The whisker-less face, though dirty, was as smooth as porcelain. A good soaking would reveal much, no doubt. But there remained one difference between them: the eyes—such dark, smoldering eyes the unnamed one had—almost spellbinding.

  If the obvious were true, and Christopher was in fact a maiden... it would also be true that the unnamed one had to be the more beautiful of the two. Why else would de Lontaine keep her locked away? She w
as either beast or beauty, and he could see very well that she was no beast. Gilbert de Lontaine had been renowned for his avaricious and hoarding ways. Did he not shun all who came to his gates? The man had surely turned Rolfe away oft enough! Truly Gilbert would keep his most valued treasure close to him always—it was his way.

  Rolfe had stood next to the unnamed one but once this evening, and though she reeked of perspiration, there was also the unmistakable odor of rosewater that drifted from her hair. He ached to go to her now, remove her men’s garb, wash her dirty face, and see what lay beneath the filth. But for now, he would content himself with what he could learn within the stables. The state of her mount would tell him much and he planned to check her saddle and bags for evidence.

  Why she should go through such pains to remain inconspicuous now that her father was dead was beyond him, but her efforts were all for naught, for Rolfe would have her regardless. She needed a man to protect her and he fancied himself to be that man.

  He rubbed his groin as he imagined all that he would do to the girl. Aye, he would wait until she left Montagneaux and seize her then. By the time it was discovered she was missing, who would trace her to his castle in Poitiers? He’d gotten away with it once before—but nay! He waived away those distant memories as quickly as they emerged. This girl would make a warm and willing whore by the time he was through with her, of that he was certain. She would be nothing like Gwynith. And, if Gervais was about his duty tonight, the girl and her men would be far too tired to put up any resistance on the morrow. A warm flush crept to his face even as he thought of her lying beneath him.