by Ruth Kaufman
A bitter wave of sadness washed over her. Her head spun afresh. She couldn’t make important decisions right now. She snuggled under the furs.
The young man returned with a tray bearing a wooden bowl of steaming broth and a hunk of bread.
Bread. Just one of many things she’d taken for granted and hadn’t enjoyed in months.
“Merci. You may go, Antoine,” Sir Apollo said, regardless of the obviously curious look on Antoine’s face. He took the tray, and set it on the table next to the chessboard, then pulled the stool closer.
Aline’s mouth watered as she accepted the spoon, but her hand shook so much she couldn’t fill it without spilling.
His golden eyes shone with concern that gratified her forlorn heart. How good it felt to be fussed over instead of ignored and forgotten. To believe someone cared. That she mattered, even for just a moment. Or was he fattening her for the slaughter? She shouldn’t trust any stranger too quickly. Look at how she’d been betrayed by someone she had trusted. Her own father.
“May I?” he asked.
She liked the way he smelled, of soap and a trace of herbs. Like the sheets and her hair. She pictured him sleeping in this bed, shirtless, covers down to his waist.
What had led her thoughts down that path? She’d never imagined a man in any stage of undress. Her ordeal clearly had strange effects on her.
When she nodded, he took the spoon, filled it with broth and held it toward her. She sipped and swallowed, too hungry to care about her state of dishabille while alone in a strange man’s bed, as that man, her enemy, fed her. Decorum, her mother’s watchword drilled into her for years, meant little to her now. Only survival mattered. Preferably survival in well-appointed surroundings with a full stomach and without fear of impending death.
The broth was rich and well-salted, much tastier and more filling than the so-called stew they’d made in the ravine out of rainwater or melted snow, roots and grasses. It warmed her to her toes. She couldn’t get too contented. After enjoying this brief reprieve, she had to regain her strength and figure out solutions to all of her troubles.
“Mmm.” The moan escaped her. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
Sir Apollo laughed. A pleasing sound that made her want to inspire his mirth again. His smile quickly changed to a frown. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make light of your hunger. I can’t imagine what going without sufficient food would be like, much less for so long. The worst I’ve experienced is getting stuck in a harsh snowstorm overnight with only dried meat and melted snow for sustenance. We’ve been here so long we now bake bread, but at first only had double-baked bread, hard and crisp to avoid mold. The kind we learned to make while on crusade.”
Talk of such commonplace things at such a moment seemed unfit, yet she wasn’t ready to discuss anything serious or think about what she could do for the rest. “I don’t want to dwell on my good fortune. Especially knowing my friends are still outside.”
“Of course. Our physician believes you should be well within a day or two,” Sir Apollo said.
“More good news.” Still more things to thank him for.
The thought of strange hands undressing, washing and examining her while she was helpless and unaware made her cringe. But better all of that than leaving her unattended to and filthy in the rags her clothes had become.
She sighed. She wouldn’t recall her past, but think only of the future. And how she appreciated and enjoyed being warm and hearing Sir Apollo’s soothing voice. She could listen to him talk for hours. He was most pleasant to look upon, too, likely because she hadn’t seen a healthy, well-fed man in fine clothing in weeks. Or many men who smiled.
“I keep wanting to offer you thanks.” Being beholden to anyone didn’t sit well with her. “I don’t know how I can repay you for aiding me. For bringing me here and for the food. I’m feeling much better already. But I must know, what of the others?”
His smile faded as he shook his head. “I’m sorry. The siege still stands. The trapped people are called useless mouths to feed.”
The soup threatened to come back up. Tears filled her eyes and her jaw dropped. “That’s horrifying.”
“I also have good news. King Philip just returned to Normandy from Paris. He wasn’t aware that your people weren’t allowed to pass, and like me, was appalled to find so many starving in the cold. He’s sending bread to feed them. Then he will let them go.”
More tears threatened to spill, but tears of relief. They’d all go free, and, she hoped, find homes out of harm’s way. She couldn’t wait to leave France. Forever.
“I’m so happy to hear that.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m tired. Perhaps I should wait to eat solid food.”
“Very well.” He carried the tray to the entrance and set it down, then turned to face her. “Let me know when you feel ready for bread or meat.”
Their gazes met. Whatever sparked in his sparked something heartfelt in her. As did his courtly care. Perhaps her father’s abandonment and weeks of misery left her overly receptive to any kindness.
“Thank you again.” Would she ever truly feel good, or had she been changed forever? When you couldn’t trust your own father, who could you trust? When you’d been left outside in winter to forage, could you put that behind you? She’d never forget.
While she and the others endured seemingly endless night after night in the cold without even a blanket to shield them from the hard, frigid ground, her father hadn’t deigned to acknowledge much less respond to any attempt she’d made to contact him. Weeks ago she’d given her cloak to an older woman who’d worked in the kitchen, though she regretted the gesture whenever she tried to sleep. Daily she’d made a pilgrimage to the French camp to seek aid, daily she’d been ignored or turned away. At least they hadn’t shot at her again.
“I hope I’ll be well enough to travel with the others,” she said.
With his stealthy, measured pace as he approached, he reminded her of a lion she’d seen at the new menagerie at the Tower of London. “I’ll make it so.”
His tone incited something in her, deep and hot. Desire. She hadn’t felt interest in any man since arriving in Normandy, why now with this one she barely knew and would soon leave? Because he’d saved her life, was in fact her hero, as she’d heard tell of in bard’s tales and the Greek myths after which he’d been named. Because he was the handsomest man who’d ever been so near her. Maybe because she’d never before been in any man’s bed, and lying amidst his linens with her feet bare and him beside her sent her thoughts down sensuous paths rarely traveled. Or maybe because she was tired and completely vulnerable.
His gaze was just so intense, his bearing so confident and sure. As if he had the power to banish all doubts and make all well. His deeds and attention made her feel intimately connected to him. She shouldn’t like it, but she did.
If only he weren’t Norman. Or as she’d heard Philip now styled his people, French. The enemy, no matter what they were called in any language. Yet she couldn’t summon anger at or hatred for him. He hadn’t been involved in the siege, and had gone far out of his way to assist her. In fact, she wanted to know more about him. Where did he live? Was he married? Did he have children?
He seemed sincere, but….
“Why do you care about the English, your enemy? Until you saved me, I was one of those ‘poor people,’ those ‘useless mouths.’ I feel guilty being the only one who is inside and comfortable.” She could no longer meet his all-seeing gaze. “And I feel worse because guilt isn’t enough to make me return and join them.”
That was for the best. She could do more for them if she were stronger.
“It’s not your fault. You don’t owe them anything.”
“I feel like I do. I was one of them.” And my father is responsible for locking them out. She couldn’t bring herself to say the horrible truth.
“How would your continued suffering benefit the others?” Annoyingly, he echoed her thoughts again.
“Nothing is fair in war.” He paused. “How did you survive?”
Her throat tightened. “Many of us didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve never been so miserable for so long. We foraged…for grasses, roots and any small game we could snare. And collected rain and snow to drink.” Such a bleak, chilled, hopeless existence. She shuddered.
When King John summoned her father to Château Gaillard, she’d thought nothing could be worse than living in Normandy, a foreign land far from her happy home. Being a victim of siege was worse. And being trapped outside, worse still.
How she’d loved every minute and enjoyed every benefit of her former life as a coddled earl’s daughter. How she resented her father’s command of the fortress. She’d had had no choice but to go with her family. As an unwed woman, she had no means of her own if her father refused to support her.
Without his aid now, how would she procure enough coin for herself, much less her family and the others? Women like her didn’t work, they wed for financial, political or other gain. Would she find someone willing to hire her to run their manor, to use the only skills she had? Questions, questions and more questions wore her out. She sank back onto the bolster with a sigh.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” he said in a low and sultry voice, as if they’d met at a court dance rather than under such dire and uncertain circumstances.
If only that were true. She could make it seem true, if only for a moment. Since arriving in France, she’d learned to retreat into her imagination on occasion to alleviate melancholy. The respites brought her to a friendly, happy place instead of worrying about where she lived, the siege, or the future.
Her mind flashed to what meeting Sir Apollo at a dance would’ve been like. He’d see her across the crowded room. At first, she’d wonder if he looked at her or another woman, perhaps her closest friend, Matilda, known far and wide for her beauty. But he’d weave his way through couples and groups until he reached her.
She wore her favorite gown, died yellow with birch leaves. He looked regal in a long tunic of dark red.
“Would you like to dance with me, Lady Aline?” His heated, tender gaze and the way he said her name melted her as fast as the last snow clinging to the hills near her home in spring.
“I—” She was a fairly good dancer, but he was so handsome, the twinkle in his eye so charming, her tongue wouldn’t form an acceptance. Smiling, she extended her hand to meet his. “I’d be honored.”
He took it in his much larger, warmer one. As he led her to the other couples at the center of the high-ceilinged room, heat traveled up her arm, then down her body straight to her woman’s center. Startled yet intrigued, she almost pulled her hand free.
A jaunty tune conveniently ended. A slower one began as she moved to his right side. Their gazes locked as they smoothly completed the steps as if they’d often danced together. His intense regard as the song continued made her feel special. As if no one else was at the gathering and the musicians played for them alone. Did he feel the same? She didn’t want the dance to end, but of course it did. He bowed, and she curtsied.
As she rose, he leaned forward. Her heart skipped a beat. He was going to kiss her, and she wanted to—
“Mademoiselle? What are you smiling about?”
She jumped. Why were her thoughts so wayward? “Forgive me, my mind drifted.” She braced her arms against the mattress. “I’m very tired, but I’d love to see if I can get out of this bed. Will you help me stand?”
Why was she asking for more of his assistance, encouraging him to touch her? She should just wait until she could stand on her own.
“Oui. As soon as you tell me your name.”
Her name. It used to mean something. But now? She was merely the highest ranked “useless mouth.” The thought of the heinous appellation made her stomach turn. Perhaps in Philip’s camp her status as the chateau commander’s daughter would garner better treatment than if she were a peasant. Unless…was there a way she hadn’t thought of that Apollo de Norville could use it against her?
I can’t trust my own father. That truth was a constant knife to her heart. But then, the commandments said nothing about honoring thy children. “How do I know I can trust you?”
His smile heated her more than the furs. “Trust is earned by actions. What do you think of mine thus far? Trust is also something you feel. What do you sense about me?”
Things she shouldn’t when alone with a man not her husband. His kindness, delicious voice and confident mien did strange things to her. Made her want to spend more time with him, know more about him, just be close to him.
“My name is Aline. Lady Aline de Lacy.” Her voice came out a near whisper. She was no longer proud to share her sire’s surname.
His brows raised, clearly in surprise, then lowered in what appeared to be anger. “So your father is John de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, the chateau’s commander. Did he know you were among those trapped outside?”
“He must.” Her head dropped and she flushed with renewed shame. “I hated him for locking me—us—out. Then I hoped the guards weren’t delivering my messages, prayed he was so busy with his duties and protecting the chateau that he somehow remained unaware. As days passed, I had to accept that he knew. And by then I knew even if he allowed me inside, I would’ve remained with the others if he didn’t accept them, too.”
He stood and began to pace. “That’s one of the most disturbing stories I’ve ever heard.”
His sympathy made her feel more vulnerable on the one hand, less alone on the other. She must be desperate if she could garner any comfort from an enemy.
“What I don’t know is where my mother and siblings are—two younger sisters left the inner bailey with me, but I never saw them outside. And I have two younger brothers. I don’t know if they left or stayed.
“Or if I can go back home to England, or how I’d get there. Assuming I still have a home.” For the first time since the ordeal began, tears dripped down her cheeks. When thrust outside, she’d had to focus every bit of her energy on where her next morsel of food was coming from and how she’d stay alive through each night. She hadn’t even known if she had a future. Tears had been a luxury she couldn’t afford. Now, they were the only things she had of her own.
He took her hand. His was warm, solid, reassuring, better than it had been in their imaginary dance. She didn’t want him to let go. Her attraction to him and the solace filling her in his presence didn’t change the fact that he was Norman. “A man is only as good as his word. I give you mine that no harm shall come to you while you’re with me.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
His words and actions countermanded everything she’d heard or thought about Normans. No Englishman she’d known had been this kind, this perfect.
He was named after the Greek god of music, truth and healing, if memory served, who had an oracle at Delphi. What her hero’s fatal flaw, as she’d read all heroes had? It was unlikely she’d get to know him well enough to find out.
Asking for more help was hard. She’d never needed any until now, unless she counted having her gowns laced or her hair done by her maid.
“I don’t have any coin.” Her mother had carried it. “Could you loan me enough for passage back to England? I’ll find a way to repay you, I promise.”
She’d stay with relatives, then figure out a more permanent solution. How could she face, much less live with, her father? If he, or the rest of her family, survived the siege.
Heartache and uncertainties drained her energy. If only she could curl up and sleep, dreamless and worry-free, for hours and hours.
“You won’t need coin if I take you,” he said.
The weight of his offer was welcome yet suffocating. She already felt deep in a debt she didn’t know how she would repay. And she feared more time with him would make parti
ng all the more difficult. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“I offered. As it happens, I’ll be leaving for Paris soon and could escort you—”
A trumpet sounded, startling them both. Two men in deep blue livery with embroidered gold fleurs de lis and swords in scabbards entered, followed by a man with a prominent nose and curly dark brown hair wearing a gold crown and a robe of dark blue velvet. The king, who she knew to be 37 years of age. Philip Augustus.
Chapter 3
Sir Apollo bowed along with the two men.
Aline gasped and drew the covers to her neck. She’d met England’s King John before, garbed in her finest gown, shoes and jewels, standing with her parents in a grand hall. Not wearing a borrowed man’s shirt with her hair tumbling about her shoulders as she sat in a Norman man’s bed. With one hand, she pulled one of the larger pelts around her like a shawl.
Embarrassment swamped her. She was a lady, and wouldn’t let it show. Though her cheeks had to be bright red. Standing before the king in her bare legs and feet would be even more awkward than sitting beneath the covers.
“Apollo, word has reached me that you are harboring one of the English,” King Philip said.
Apparently soldiers gossiped as much as courtiers. And the king cared enough to see if the rumor was true.
“I had to see such an unusual occurrence for myself. What a lovely—captive,” he continued.
Aline quivered beneath the shrewd perusal of this man who’d taken so many lands from the English and had had the power with his hired army to place Château Gaillard under siege. The first to call himself king of France rather than king of the Franks.
Aline raised her chin and sat as proudly as she could. She wanted to rail at the king for his part in leaving her and many more to freeze in the ravine, but didn’t dare. For any transgression, he could toss her in prison or order Sir Apollo to send her back outside. Or devise some worse punishment. She had no defense unless the messenger came to her rescue again and the king allowed it. Could she repay his kindnesses with defiance? For the nonce, her best choice was to stay quiet so she could stay safe and snug.