Her fingers shook as she pulled grass and leaves from her hair, all too conscious of the virile man standing beside her. What had she seen in his eyes while they lay upon the ground entangled, their bodies pressed together? Had he thought her to be some easy maid? Were his thoughts ones of seduction? Ailénor glimpsed the Saxon from the corner of her eye. Never had a man looked on her as he had, as though ready to gobble her up.
At Felise’s bidding, Ailénor quickened back to the pear tree to retrieve her slippers, then rejoined the others as they departed the orchard.
Richard and Kylan flanked Garreth and engaged him in a rousing conversation concerning the English court, causing Ailénor to trail behind the men with the children and Felise.
Once inside the palace gate, the twins directed Garreth toward the garrison quarters, while Felise escorted Ailénor and the children back toward the keep with a stern lecture on proprieties.
“What will your maman and papa say to find you so . . .so . . .compromised?” she tutted.
“Felise, please. Do not tell them,” Ailénor pleaded.
“You must remember your station, Lady Ailénor,” Felise continued with a decided sniff. “You are the daughter of the Baron and Baronne de Héricourt. Never must you disgrace your parents but always bring honor to them. Viens, maintenant. Come along now. We must see you out of those clothes and dressed for dinner. And look at the wreckage of your hair . . . and the stains upon your clothes.” Felise clucked her tongue as they mounted the stairs of the keep.
“Oui, Felise.” Ailénor sighed, then slipped a final glance in Garreth’s direction, lingering over his splendid frame a moment longer than might be considered respectable for a lady.
Without warning, Garreth turned and looked back, straight at her, sending Ailénor a huge smile and a generous wink.
Ailénor’s heart skittered. She hastened to join Felise and the children, who were now disappearing through the door of the keep. As she gained the portal, she could scarce bridle her thoughts for, all too vividly, her senses overflowed with memories of the dark-haired Saxon.
Chapter 2
Garreth finished toweling his damp hair, feeling refreshed and infinitely grateful for the bath Richard and Kylan had managed to arrange.
Dropping the towel beside the half-barrel tub, he reached for his clean braies, folded neatly atop his other clothes on a small three-legged stool.
Thankfully his sea chest had been delivered from the ship. His traveling clothes had proven quite thoroughly stained from his roll in the orchard.
The image of Ailénor flooded to mind. He could not help but smile as he pulled on fawn-colored braies and tied them about his waist. He pictured the maid as he first saw her perched amid the foliage, so stunningly beautiful. Briefly he allowed himself to relive the moment she cast herself from the tree — the sensation of her thudding against his chest, the feel of her supple body as he clasped her against his own and they rolled time and again down the incline pressed intimately together. Ailénor. He envisioned her trapped beneath him, all feminine softness and loveliness, and so utterly beguiling — an enchantress.
Garreth heard a sigh escape his lips and wrested himself back to the moment. His gaze fell upon the shirt he now held in his hand, yet he couldn’t recall having taken it up.
The maid has you behaving like quite the green fellow, he chided himself mentally, humor twitching the corner of his mouth. He drew on the shirt, then reached for his tunic.
But with a will of their own, his thoughts bent back to Ailénor.
Ailénor. Such a captivating minx. He had desired a dalliance while in Francia — a “good tumble,” he had phrased it to himself while walking the streets of Rouen. He certainly hadn’t expected to have one thrust upon him quite so literally or so soon.
A liquid warmth spread through Garreth’s chest as he considered the autumn-fire maid. He smiled inwardly. He’d favor a good tumble with the beauty — one of a much different nature than they had so recently shared. He desired nothing more than to sweep her away to — ”
He arrested his thoughts. There could be no dalliance with Ailénor. Not only was she a woman of gentle birth and noble breeding, but also she was kinswoman to Normandy’s duke. That reality both frustrated him thoroughly and pleased him enormously. Frustrated him because he could not touch her. Pleased him because socially she was his equal.
Garreth regarded the tunic in his hands, a practical garment of sufficient, though not overly impressive quality. He was unsure how Ailénor might look upon him. ‘Twas necessary that he present himself as a royal envoy, an agent of Athelstan’s court and a man of indeterminate rank. To reveal his true station — or the one to which he would soon be elevated — could only bring suspicion upon himself and his king.
True, envoys of any kind drew suspicion in foreign lands. But a man of high rank would not be sent solely to quest for items to enhance the royal collection, be they of heaven or earth. Leastwise not without an accompanying delegation, and only for objects of considerable import.
Garreth looked again to the tunic in his hands — dark forest-green in color, unadorned about the neck and hem, with plain, close-fitting sleeves. The sleeves were not the fashionable, overlong cut, as was the current mode, so that one need push them back up over the hands, creating wrinkles of cloth above the wrist. Such indulgences, like other embellishments, would serve only to imply status.
Sorely, he wished to distinguish himself in Ailénor’s eyes, but to do so by revealing himself would be a betrayal of his true mission and, thus, of his king. That he could not do. Never would he betray Athelstan.
Garreth vented a breath. He carried a sharp ache in his loins for the bewitching, untouchable maid. At least he could enjoy her presence while in Normandy. Likely he would be as hard as a rock his entire stay — a torturous state, but one he would willingly forbear. All too soon he must leave and bind himself elsewhere.
Garreth again took firm rein of his thoughts and chided himself for his fixation on the maid. Belting his tunic, he then drew on long woolen hose, pulling each to the knee and covering the end of his braies. Making quick work of the cross-gartering on each leg, he then slipped into his boots and tugged them up to midcalf.
Reflecting on the past hours, Garreth deemed he had made substantial progress in little time. ‘Twas providential, indeed, to have encountered the kinsmen — and kinswoman — of the duke. Richard and Kylan disclosed that they themselves were the sons of the Baron of Valsemé, and Ailénor, the daughter of the Baron of Héricourt. Their fathers — Rurik and Lyting Atlison — were both nephews of Normandy’s first duke, Rollo, and thereby first cousins to Rollo’s son and heir, William Longsword.
Garreth pondered that. From what he understood, the brothers Atlison had served Rollo since the founding of Normandy, twenty-two years past. He could not help but wonder where their personal loyalties lay in the matter of Francia’s crown — with the exiled Carolingian or the Robertian usurpers.
Duke William himself had shifted his loyalties — something his sire had staunchly refused to do. While Rollo lived, he and his barons had steadfastly supported the throne of the Carolingians, then held in the person of Charles, called “the Simple” — the same Charles who had granted Rollo his fiefdom in Francia and created him “duke.”
Even when most other Frankish barons of the realm revolted and supplanted Charles, the Normans — along with the Acquitainians — remained faithful. But on Rollo’s death — and, soon after, that of Charles — the political landscape altered once more. The Robertians solidified their position, winning a crucial victory over the Norsemen of the Loire. The Acquitainians then swore fealty to the Robertians, soon followed by Normandy’s new duke. In pledging their oaths, they turned their shoulders on Charles’s son and rightful heir who dwelled in exile at the court of his uncle, King Athelstan.
The thought of the young Carolingian drew Garreth’s thoughts back in time once more.
At the first of the uprising, Charles
’s queen and their small child, Louis, had remained in his eastern kingdom, that of Lorraine, the source of the king’s problems. Charles had unwisely shown open favoritism for their people. When he replaced his high officials with Lorrainers, his barons revolted, led by Robert, the powerful Marquis of Neustria. Aiding Robert was another mighty baron — Robert’s son-in-law, Raoul, Duke of Burgundy.
While Charles was engaged in Lorraine, Robert usurped the throne and saw himself crowned. Scarcely a year passed when Robert fell in battle against Charles at Soissons. Charles was routed in the combat, however, and the crown snatched up by Raoul.
‘Twas at this time another grasping baron broke from the others and gave challenge to all — Herbert II, Count of Vermandois, and brother-in-law to Raoul. Through deceit, he entrapped Charles and imprisoned him. Queen Eadgifu fled with four-year-old Louis across the Channel to the court of her father, King Edward.
Charles later died, immured at Peronne. That was scarcely a year after Rollo’s own death. But between the two deaths — just after Rollo’s passing — Vermandois took Charles from his prison and forced William Longsword’s allegiance.
Garreth rubbed his jaw. He guessed ‘twas at that time William took Vermandois’s daughter, Leutgarde, to wife, forming yet another bond of blood in the perfidy.
Not long after, interestingly enough, Hugh, son of the late king, Robert, also made an offer of marriage across the Channel — a move Garreth deemed infinitely wise.
Hugh himself — through his newly acquired titles as Count of Paris, Anjou, Blois, Touraine, and Marquis of Neustria — wielded, in actuality, more power than any other man in Francia, including King Raoul. Hugh had, in truth, refused the crown on his father’s death, having no desire to hold, and then need defend, a much weakened throne in a fragmented kingdom.
Gauging the political airs, Hugh shrewdly sought an alliance with none other than Athelstan, Edward’s successor and one of the most revered and well-connected sovereigns of the day. Through marriage alliances, Athelstan was already affiliated to many of the courts and thrones of Europe. He was also now guardian of the last of the Carolingians, Louis.
Garreth opened the door of the chamber and stood in its portal looking out on the grounds of the ducal palace.
Hugh, he believed, would support Louis when the time came. His informal exchanges with the man had been most encouraging while in Paris. But the restoration of Louis would also require the support of another powerful baron — that of Duke William Longsword.
Despite his changing loyalties, he might still prove himself to be the man his father was.
Originally, Garreth knew, the Norman barons had found their new duke lacking. Not only was William dovish by nature, but also as imprudent as the late Charles. He displayed open preference for the native people of Francia, surrounding himself in court and council with Franks, replacing many of the faithful Norman warriors who had long served his father. William reaped like results as had Charles with his impolitic dealings. Earlier this year, and with few exceptions, the barons of Normandy revolted against him.
But ‘twas then, in the darkest hour of crisis, that the fires of his Norse ancestors flamed to life in his breast. Heading a handful of faithful barons and their troops, William stormed out of Rouen and overwhelmed those who stood against him.
In the midst of triumph, more good news awaited. The duke’s Breton mistress had given birth to a son.
The victory and the birth changed William. The dragon had awakened. He now ruled with new authority, and his barons rallied about him. Added to that, he recognized the babe, Richard, as his heir — born not of the wife pressed upon him and whose offspring would bind him eternally to Vermandois, but born of a woman of his own choosing, his mistress, Sprota.
‘Twas difficult to say where William would place his loyalties in time to come. Circumstance had driven him to pay homage to Vermandois, then Raoul. But prior to those coercions, he had supported his father in arms for the cause of the Carolingians.
Wherever his loyalties now lay, Athelstan needed to know.
‘Twas why, Garreth acknowledged, that he himself now stood on Norman soil — come to test the temperature of the ducal waters.
Garreth stepped outside the chamber and considered with a wry twist of humor that ‘twas lamentable Athelstan had forged no marriage ties with the house of Normandy.
‘Twould reinforce his mission here as it had in Paris. But the king was depleted of sisters, and the duke was still bound to Leutgarde, whether he bedded her or not.
Closing the door behind him, he started across the courtyard. Richard and Kylan had gone ahead to make his presence known. He was to join them in the Great Hall, where the court now gathered for the evening meal. He hoped the twins would be able to arrange for an early audience with the duke, if not an informal presentation this eve.
Garreth’s thoughts quickened ahead — to the duke, to the court, and to the lovely and captivating Ailénor.
A cheery warmth blossomed in his chest, and he grew impatient to see her. Sweet Ailénor the only woman to ever truly knock him from his feet.
»«
Thoughts of Ailénor hummed in his mind as Garreth approached the palace, an impressive structure proclaiming the might and wealth of its duke. More a “tower keep” than traditional hall, it rose tall and square to a considerable height.
Garreth followed those others now converging on the hall and mounted the flight of timbered stairs leading to the entrance floor.
Upon entering the keep, he found himself on a level obviously occupied by the officers of the garrison. Many of the men whom he accompanied into the building — those of the soldiery — now separated from the others and headed down a passage, presumably to the Lesser Hall to take their meal with their comrades.
Following Richard’s instructions, Garreth climbed a second set of stairs spiraling to the upper floor. Gaining the top of the flight, he passed through a barrel-headed doorway and entered the lower end of the Great Hall.
To the left rose columns, arched over and curtained between with costly painted fabrics, screening off the main hall from the drafts and the traffic of servants at the entrance end.
To his right, servants bustled back and forth with jugs of wine and rounds of bread from the buttery and the pantry. More servers hastened to and from the passageway that lay between the service rooms and obviously led down to the kitchens and likely a storage cellar as well.
Garreth made his way through the activity toward the main body of the hall, approached through two widely spaced and undraped pillars. He glanced ahead, skimming the gathering for a glimpse of rich auburn hair.
His gaze continued to travel the room as he entered. Stepping aside from the brisk flow of traffic to complete his search, he nearly blundered into two men, standing beside the column there.
Garreth began to pardon himself, but the words stilled on his tongue as he looked more fully on them — hall servants who seemed oddly out of place, one with a pock-riddled face, the other with overly large and protruding eyes.
Neither man took notice of him, but continued to peer intently into the hall. Inexplicably disquieted by the men, Garreth looked to see if their interest might be held by the duke himself. He scanned the room — a spacious, high-raftered chamber, handsomely appointed, and crowded with brightly clad nobles and their equally resplendent ladies.
The dais stood at the far end, where the massive chair of the duke stood empty before the high table, beneath a canopy of crimson and gold.
Garreth beheld none to match the description he possessed of William Longsword. Still, the two servants continued to stare, their interest sharpened on something particular in the hall. Garreth followed their line of sight to the upper gallery that overlooked the hall. There a swath of scarlet and patch of green-blue caught his eye. A nobleman waited as his lady hurriedly joined him, settling her veil over her hair — a deep, dark, and very singular shade of red.
Ailénor. His heart leapt as his
lips formed her name, yet he gave it no voice. He saw her face only a scant moment before she turned to the noble, giving her back to those below.
Garreth’s eyes narrowed over the man. He was impressive in stature, tall and broad of shoulder, with striking silver-blond hair — not that of an aged man, but rather that rare Nordic white, bright and shining and whiter still where contrasted against his scarlet mantle.
The man was far from old, Garreth observed, though older than himself. To Garreth’s consternation, he looked fit and vigorous and quite totally enamored of the lady who stood before him.
The man smiled warm and deep as he caught up the lady’s fingers and pressed his lips to the back of her hand. Turning it over, he pressed a more intimate kiss to her palm, then her wrist, and higher still as he tugged her closer. She yielded with ease and spread her hands upon his chest. Pulling the veil from her rich auburn tresses, the noble trailed his fingertips down her spine to the small of her back, then drew her behind the pillar and out of sight.
Garreth bristled, taking a half step forward. A fusion of anger and jealousy surged through his veins, and his heart thudded hard and heavy. It pounded solidly still as Ailénor moved back into sight, plainly affected by what had transpired behind the pillar. The noble’s hand remained resting at her waist, while she smoothed order back to her hair.
Garreth caught her profile then. She smiled and laughed and gave a mock scolding with her forefinger before gracing her companion with a swift kiss upon his cheek, retrieving her veil as she did. Resettling the piece, she placed her hand on the noble’s arm and accompanied him across the gallery toward the stairs. Though Garreth could no longer see her face, it seemed she carried contentment in her every step.
A storm of emotion crashed through Garreth. He stood unmoving, battling against the violence. He’d not considered that Ailénor might be married. But then, at first, neither had he considered her a lady, given her state of dress and dishevelment, her unbound locks, and the very fact she had been climbing in a tree.
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 4