Angel of Fire

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Lady Adelaine’s golden-brown eyes were radiant with the light of kindness, and she smiled brilliantly. “Oh, thank you! I would be ever so grateful to you, my lord!

  Once again Weston wondered whether Chrestien was capable of such a wondrous smile. Moreover, he wondered whether he could be the one to bring it about, and then quickly dismissed the notion. The girl’s destiny did not mingle with his own—nor did he desire it if the truth be known. She would be more trouble than she was worth, he assured himself.

  Aye, but he would petition Henry on Lady Adelaine’s behalf. However, he would also be certain Henry knew that Chrestien was not cut from holy cloth. It was only fair that Henry should know what he would bestow upon the Holy Church. There was dissension enough between Church and Crown, with Henry having inherited Rufus’ many quarrels. Once all the facts were presented, Henry would make the right decision... and Weston would abide by it. It was as simple as that.

  * * *

  Autumn was coming to a close.

  The forest was a backdrop of gold and russet against the amber meadow. The meadow itself was nearly devoid of wild blooms and the birds screeched their secret alarm of winter’s advance from their perches in the molting trees.

  Chrestien plucked a wildflower from a lone patch of late bloomers and placed it in her hair, turning her attention to her faithful horse, caressing his nose with great affection. Adelaine, Janelle and Aubert were gone now. Lightning was all she had left, and she spent every afternoon riding him through the changing meadow.

  How many times had they ridden together through the years? Countless times. The gelding had become a faithful companion and she loved him dearly. The gelding she would take with her to Caen and she refused to part with him no matter what the Abbess said!

  She wiped a tear that sprang to her eye at the thought of her sister. It was not that she was unhappy—not really. Michel and the others had been kind, attentive, chivalrous, and quite entertaining. Every one, in his own way, had helped to make this very trying time a bit more endurable.

  The Wolf’s captain was witty and gallant—much as she imagined her father would have been at his age. He looked after her as though he were her mother, in truth, making certain she was never alone in the company of his men. Even now, she could see a pack of his men lurking atop a distant knoll, trying to be inconspicuous. She was grateful to Michel for taking such great care with her. In a way, it filled the void her father had left.

  Grateful for the moment of peace they had allowed her, she knew it was time to get back. Mounting her horse, she led him in the direction of Lontaine, and the magnificent gelding galloped knowingly toward the gates. It was only now that she bemoaned her shorn hair for she could almost feel the wind rippling through her long tresses—almost.

  The four men Michel had assigned to guard her stood entranced as Chrestien approached them. When Lightning came to a halt before them, all four men rushed to her side—like bees to a spring blossom. The sight of them clamoring to help made her smile.

  William was the first at her side. “May I help you dismount, m’lady?” he offered. His hands flew out with unrepressed eagerness.

  James, who was a head taller than William and more muscular, successfully elbowed his way to Chrestien, pushing William by the wayside, and stood smiling, the look of victory painted upon his youthful face. His blond hair ruffled in the wind.

  Chrestien giggled inwardly as she noted the bright flush that crept to his face when she sat her mount, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him she had no plans to dismount as yet. The other two, John and Ned, hung behind the more boisterous two. Nevertheless, they vied in their own way for Chrestien’s attention, although it seemed a smile was enough to appease them, while William and James nearly came to blows every time Chrestien set eyes upon either.

  Michel appeared, seemingly from nowhere, as though he sensed the rivalry between his men. “You’ve been away overlong this morning, m’lady. I was given to worrying.” He eyed his pack of young dogs, silently commanding them to give her breathing room and bringing his mount next to hers, he leaned in to whisper, “I see that ye have your hands full with my lovesick puppies.”

  “’Tis not a burden, if ’tis what you mean,” she assured, as she watched the four men mount their geldings to give their captain a private moment with her. Chrestien had not seen Michel send them away, but he clearly had for, like puppets, they all fled at once.

  “I thought, mayhap, ye would join me for a short ride,” Michel suggested.

  “’It would be a joy, my lord.”

  He seemed to be admiring her face and Chrestien averted her gaze, embarrassed. “You have been told, I’m certain, that you’ve a smile that could fell a mountain, m’lady. And I’d venture to say had ye wielded that instead of your broadsword, Weston might never have recovered at all.” He chuckled. “I suppose I should thank ye for sparing him.”

  Heat suffused Chrestien's cheeks. “You flatter me overmuch, sir!”

  “For purely selfish purpose. I’d have ye smiling oft.”

  Chrestien’s blush deepened, and she made a pretense of hugging Lightning’s mane, when what she really wanted to do was flee from Michel’s shower of compliments. He’d never been so full of adulation before, and although he was comely with his boyish looks and golden hair, she would rather think of him as she would an elder brother.

  Besides, she wasn’t accustomed to this type of attention. She was far more accustomed to Aubert’s impudence and raillery.

  His expression turned somewhat sober. “At any rate, there is something I would discuss with ye, m’lady.”

  Chrestien sat upright in her saddle, curious over what had turned his tone so dour suddenly.

  For an instant, it seemed he could not find the proper words, for he weighed them carefully. “Will ye still request that Weston take ye to Caen?”

  “The question is will he honor my request?”

  “Well, that is why I ask. He sent word from Montagneaux that he is petitioning Henry to allow ye to be cloistered. But are ye certain ’tis what ye truly desire? ’Tis likely you’d be more than welcome in Henry’s court.”

  Chrestien averted her gaze, staring into the horizon, wishing she understood this terrible longing that had crept into her heart. It had little to do with her sister, or even her father, and every time she thought of entering the Abbey, she saw Weston's face before her eyes—but she did not even know him.

  Michel watched her carefully.

  He would not tell her that he had, in fact, already written to Henry on her behalf. With all due respect, he was certain Weston knew naught of her many worthy attributes, and he did not feel it a betrayal to his friend and liege to inform Henry of such matters. “Ye would be Henry’s ward, ye realize, and under his protection. You might make yourself a prosperous marriage?”

  She shook her head at once. “I could not! I am quite certain my father would not have me seeking protection from his enemy.”

  “I understand, m’lady. ’Tis simply that I would abhor seeing ye cloistered away when it could be such a full life for ye. Each waking breath is precious... ye have such vigor for life. ’Twould be a sin to deny the world your beauteous charms.”

  She averted her face again. “I’d not speak on this any longer, my lord,” she said, sounding desperate, and she changed the subject abruptly, tilting him a curious look. “Tell me... how came you by such a curious surname? Steorling...”

  Michel chuckled, allowing the change in topic. In truth, it had been a long time since anyone had cared enough to ask after his life before his service to the crown. “’Twas given to me long ago, when I was but a page in Rufus’ court.” He chuckled at the memory. “’Tis quite a mundane tale, I’m afraid.”

  “I would like to hear it,” Lady Chrestien said, indulging him as she caressed her gelding’s mane.

  Michel nodded, ceding, if only to tarry a little longer in her company. “One morning, Rufus was struggling with his boots and in his frustrat
ion he asked his chamberlain the price of the boots. When the man replied that their cost was but three shillings, Rufus hurled the boots at him and demanded that boots be purchased that cost at least a mark of silver. So the chamberlain came to me then, and bade me to find these new boots for the King. And though I searched, I could not find any, and was forced to purchase some for far less than His Majesty had requested. For this I felt extremely contrite, and decided to pay for them of mine own purse. But when I returned to the chamberlain with the new boots, the explanation, and the mark of silver, he merely laughed and bid me keep the coin. He assured me he would reveal naught to the king... and so he did not. Rufus kept those boots, thinking they were worth a mark of silver. In the end, he cocked up his toes with those very boots upon his feet.”

  “But that does not explain the name!”

  “Aye, but it does.” He grinned. “The silver mark that was given me bore Rufus’s tiny stars upon it. Hence was I called Michel Steorling by all who knew of the ruse. And soon I was known as thus by all—although but a scant few know the true reason.”

  Of a sudden, Michel grabbed the reins to Lady Chrestien’s mount, pulling her closer. Within seconds, an approaching cavalcade could be seen in the distance.

  “Should we hasten to Lontaine, my lord?”

  Spotting the silver banner, Michel relaxed. “Nay, ’tis Weston, returning from Montagneaux.”

  Chrestien stiffened in her saddle. “How can you be certain?”

  “The silver wolf in his banner reflects the sun,” he said simply.

  She tilted him a glance, her expression suddenly far less congenial and Michel sensed the tension in her body. “Is that why they call him the Silver Wolf?”

  He considered her, wondering whether he sensed attraction or fear. He knew beyond a shadow of doubt that Weston was not immune to her. “That... and other reasons,” he told her, and was quite certain she had no desire to hear of his bedroom conquests.

  “Oh,” was all she said, but the growing tension was nearly palpable.

  Nervously, she ran her fingers up and down Lightning’s braided leather reins. And then, without warning, she tugged her reins and spurred her destrier toward the gates. Michel jerked the reins tight, preventing her flight, and she had accomplished little but to rile her mount. He gave her a nod, reassuring her. “He’ll not harm ye, m’lady. Do not fear.”

  Weston spied the two on horseback and made his way toward them, rankled by the way their heads were bent together. He took his time closing the distance, and once he reached them, he avoided Michel's gaze for the moment.

  He’d been wildly curious about the vixen he’d left at Lontaine, and now that he finally set eyes upon her again, what he saw took his breath away. Her beauty was beyond compare—even in contrast to her lovely twin sister. There was something about this one that was mesmerizing—the eyes, he realized. Deep and dark, they pierced his soul like a Welshman’s arrow—with breathtaking accuracy.

  Her golden hair was shoulder length, but instead of being straight and greasy as he recalled, it fell in lovely wavelets about her face. She was as night is to day to the fair, gentle lady he’d met at Castle Montagneaux. They were so alike, these sisters, but not alike at all, and he vowed he would stay away from this angel of fire.

  His destrier pranced impatiently beneath him, responding to his tension, and abruptly he turned his scrutiny to Michel.

  “Why is she away from Lontaine?”

  The muscles in his jaw twitched in protest against his clenched teeth. His anger needed unleashing and it seemed Michel was the most viable target. His old friend was aiding and abetting his tormentor. From the moment he’d set eyes upon the wench, she’d supplanted herself within his brain—some whore’s trick no doubt, for he knew she was no lady.

  Michel released her reins and spurred his mount forward, signaling for Weston to follow. They moved but a few yards away and spoke in whispers.

  Chrestien watched the two of them bend their heads together, resisting the urge to flee, for she realized it would be Weston who would pursue her. He was looking for a reason to mistrust her, and if he expected the worst, she refused to give him cause.

  But whatever Michel said angered him enough that he waved furiously to his men-at-arms, urging them to follow. And then, without waiting to see that they obeyed, he sprinted toward Lontaine.

  Michel returned to her, looking troubled.

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Naught,” he lied. She could tell it was a lie because he wouldn’t look her in the eyes. “Do yourself a favor, m'lady... keep out of his way.”

  Chapter Nine

  Kind? Virtuous? Pious?

  Michel had used those words to describe Chrestien. Had she blinded him? Was he daft? The only kind thing Weston could say of her was that her beauty had the power to confuse a man’s senses.

  Leave her be?

  What gall! Leave her be—it was she who would not let him be!

  Henry had not yet returned Weston’s messenger and he was anxious to remove the vixen from his sight. The sooner she was removed to the abbey, the better for all involved. To that end, he had remained at Castle Montagneaux as long as was feasible to avoid a prolonged period in the girl’s presence. He was heartily afraid he would throttle her if he were around her for any length of time—for her insolence—for biting him. The marks she’d left upon his shoulder were blue-black now, proclaiming to the world his stupidity. And he blamed her most for inhabiting his dreams.

  By all that was holy, he would leave the girl to Michel, for his captain seemed to be having an easy enough time of it. No doubt she had offered him a few of her favors for his trouble by now.

  In truth, he did not fear losing Michel’s loyalty. That was something Weston trusted would be his until death—too many times Weston had come to Michel’s rescue as he and Michel had fostered together. Nay, there was overmuch between them to suspect a turn of loyalties, so he had no qualms about leaving her to Michel’s care... as long as Michel kept her out of his sight.

  Thankfully, he found Lontaine much as he had left it.

  The villein were bustling about, minding their chores, and the swishing and clanging of steel upon steel could be heard throughout the bailey. The smell of sweat accosted his senses and he knew the men had not been slack in their training. A smile curved his lips as he dismounted and led his destrier to the stable. A good sweat would ease all that troubled him, he decided, and he planned to join his men at their swordplay.

  Before turning his attention from his gelding, he patted the horse’s black rump, and silently wished that women could be as loyal as his horse. A good horse could make or break a knight. And though a man could do without the permanent appendage of wife, sooner or later, most were affixed with one. A bad one could definitely be his ruin.

  He usually took more time stabling his prize destrier, for any knight worthy of the title knew his life depended upon his mount. In fact, he’d seen many an untrained horse panic in the face of battle, leaving his rider to face certain death... or to be trampled amid the melee. But, by now, he had been away from his men overlong and he was overeager to rejoin their training, so he hurried from the stable, leaving the care of his horse to Lontaine’s stable master.

  He strode across the bailey with purpose, but stopped in his tracks at the sight that greeted him. Every one of his men—save Michel, who made his way to Weston now—had ceased his training and was standing, ogling the mistress of Lontaine. Three of his men rushed to her side and held their arms outstretched to help her dismount.

  Weston shook his head in utter disbelief.

  His men were surely bewitched!

  His desire to spar was gone now, and whatever joy he had been seeking was lost in the moment. Once Michel was standing before him, he finally unleashed his fury. “Three men, Michel! Not one?” He could scarce believe his eyes. Moreover, the three idiots were nearly shoving each other for the privilege of aiding her. “Dear God, I’ve stressed chiv
alry, but this is preposterous!”

  Together they watched as James managed to fight off the other contenders, lifting the Lady Chrestien delicately from her gelding, and setting her down before him. She smiled beauteously at the lad. Weston rolled his eyes. “She rides a damned gelding as would a man!” He’d not noticed what she rode in the meadow—only her face—and he cursed himself for the distraction. Nay, he cursed her for it! “What manner of woman rides a bloody gelding?”

  As Michel opened his mouth to deliver an explanation, Weston cut him off. “Never mind, I know the answer to that already!”

  Weston watched her hand the reins of her mount to John, who took them eagerly, acting as though he had just been entrusted with the crown jewels and Weston shot his captain a withering frown, concluding that Chrestien must be extremely generous with her favors for his men to be acting like besotted twats. In a matter of days they had become witless, bumbling simpletons! Aye, in truth, the woman was a witch!

  * * *

  “I tell you I have seen her,” James persisted.

  “I don't believe you,” said William.

  “I don't care what you believe. Last night I saw a ghost!”

  Chrestien overheard the conversation on the way to the stables and smiled. Although she had never spied the Lady of Lontaine, both Janelle and Adelaine claimed to have seen her. Her father, too, had sworn their mother’s ghost dwelled in the topmost chamber of their donjon tower—in the room where she had died. It was in that room that her parents had begun their wedded life and her father had abandoned it after her mother's death, unable to bear the memories. But no one in Lontaine was actually afraid of the apparition. She came suddenly, sweeping through the stairs like a cold draft and disappeared like the wind, doing no harm to anyone. At the very most, she left the stairs in utter darkness, extinguishing candles with a soft breath that blew through the tower like a lamenting sigh. In fact, it had given Chrestien much comfort to believe her mother remained here with them, and Adelaine had visited her oft in that tower chamber, communing with her spirit, so she claimed.