“I believe you promised to share a place at table with me this eve, cousin Ailénor.” He bowed graciously, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, then slipped a glance at his father.
Rurik gave a faint nod of his head, approval reflected in his eyes.
Kylan maneuvered Ailénor quickly and deftly away from the dais and escorted her toward the far side of the hall.
“You need not remove me to the kitchens to save me from the Burgundians.” Ailénor laughed, seeing they neared the entrance end.
“Was I?” Merriment laced his words.
“Were you not?”
Kylan stole a glance back toward the dais. “Vraiment. Ah, here now. The others hold us a place at table just ahead.”
Good for his word, their numerous siblings gathered at the next trestle, draped in a snowy white linen and set with goblets, spoons, and rounds of bread trenchers stacked at the ends. Kylan conducted her to an open space beside Richard and Marielle. At the familiar trill of the pipes, signaling the blessing, they stood with heads bowed before their places.
A moment later, benediction complete, Kylan stepped back, allowing Ailénor additional room to seat herself.
She was still settling herself when the edge of her vision caught a blur of dark forest-green. She glanced toward it and found Garreth dropping down beside her.
Ailénor started, rising off her seat in surprise. Deftly Garreth caught her elbow and drew her back down.
“Forgive me for startling you, Lady Ailénor. I did not know until this moment what your cousins were about.”
He glanced at Richard and Kylan who were chuckling to themselves, Kylan now seating himself with Gisele, to the other side of him.
Garreth returned his interest to Ailénor. “‘Twould seem they are intent on our sharing a cup and trencher this eve. If it pleases you, I know it pleases me, and I promise to be most attentive.”
He disarmed her with the most engaging of smiles, and Ailénor felt a small thrill pass through her. Swiftly it turned to a jolt as their thighs chanced to brush, recalling to Ailénor their previous, more intimate entanglements.
“Pardon,” he murmured.
“Mais, oui.” She gave a quick nod, her heart skipping madly. Happy as she was to sup with Garreth, she shivered at the thought of the coming hours she would share with him. It promised to be a very long meal indeed.
Servants rapidly appeared with ewers, basins, and towels. Ailénor thrust her fingers over the bowl a trifle too quickly, bumping them into Garreth’s. She began to pull back, but he caught the tips of them, then drew them into the bowl with his and held them there.
Cool, fragrant water, perfumed with rose petals, poured over their joined hands, a soothing sensation of silken liquid over warm skin. A fragile pink petal caught between their fingers.
Releasing his hold of Ailénor, Garreth captured the fragile treasure on a fingertip and lay it in the palm of her hand, gifting her with it. Ailénor sucked in her breath as his fingertip pulled away, grazing the sensitive flesh of her palm. She avoided his gaze altogether and reached for the towel on the server’s arm, her palm still tingling. A very long meal indeed!
Additional servants appeared to fill the goblets with spiced wine and distribute the trenchers of day-old bread along the table, one to each couple.
“You look greatly changed since last I saw you,” Garreth commented, a smile tilting his lips. “I can only wonder if you possess as many bruises as I.”
Ailénor warmed under his admiring gaze and thought of a few unmentionable places where she did have bruises. She began to reply, but at that precise moment another pair of cousins, Brand and Delling, installed themselves nearby.
Garreth’s brows shot upward. Two golden-haired men, possessing identical features and appearing only slightly younger than Richard and Kylan, regarded him closely. In coloring and countenance, they greatly favored Marielle.
Laughter rippled along the table.
“We tried to warn you,” Kylan reminded. “And there are more still.”
“More?” Garreth voiced with amazement.
“Aimery and Tyr,” Richard supplied. “But they are not present tonight. They are at Ivry where they are in fosterage to the castellan, Ketil, and his wife Aleth.”
“Our father begat his sons in sets of two, and the girls singly,” Kylan added blithely.
“Mind you, our uncle begat nearly as many children, doing so one by one,” Brand added in a rich voice.
“But never was he known to complain,” Delling rejoined with devilish good humor and brought a gasped response from the ladies.
Garreth glanced the length of the table in both directions and, noting the marked similarities there, realized that he and Ailénor would be sharing their trencher under the scrutiny of nearly her entire combined family.
Ailénor’s cousins quickly caught him up in introductions. Brand and Delling proved second oldest to Richard and Kylan. Next came Marielle, then Gisele, both of whom he had already met. The other set of twins, Aimery and Tyr, as explained, were in absence. The youngest daughters, Brietta and baby Linette, took their meal in an upper chamber with their nursemaid.
Ailénor next presented her side of the family, directing his attention to where Etainn sat, her hawk resting on a perch behind her. Beside Etainn sat Galen, their brother, who bore the same striking silver-white hair as Etainn. Galen, Ailénor informed, was eldest after she herself. Farther down the table sat her younger brothers — Brenden, Lucán, and Michan, who seemed occupied trying to quiet faint mewling sounds coming from beneath the table.
“My sister Adelis is sleeping with Brietta tonight,” Ailénor continued. “You will most often find them together, hand in hand, for they are the best of friends. The littlest, Ena, is not feeling well and stays with Felise upstairs. I believe you met most of the younger ones in the orchard today.”
“So I did.” And the aggressive nursemaid as well, Garreth thought to himself. “An impressive family.”
“And you?”
“I have none.”
“No family? None at all?” Ailénor’s brows twinged upward.
“My parents and sister died some years past.” Garreth diverted his gaze. He wouldn’t mention his half siblings or the stepmother who had cheated him out of his titles and lands.
The pipes sounded once more, signaling the first course. Servers bore great platters from the kitchens, parading through the hall to first present them at the high table. Meanwhile, butlers reappeared to top off the goblets with more wine.
Supper commenced, each course announced with a trill of notes. Being the last meal of the day, it proved of lighter fare and fewer courses. Still, meat and fowl were served in variety, some sauced, some in pasties. Added to this were leek and onion dishes, eel, a vegetable pottage, fresh bread, and a compote of walnuts and pears pickled in honey.
Ailénor found Garreth proved most attentive, selecting choice morsels of meat, offering her their goblet before he drank, and entertaining her with a steady stream of light repartee. In truth, the banter that passed up and down the table made the entire meal seem a great family occasion, as those often shared at Héricourt and Valsemé — one that easily embraced the Saxon, who was, for all purposes, yet a stranger.
As evening deepened and their conversations took diverse paths, Ailénor came to realize that despite being surrounded by her beautiful sister and cousins, Garreth’s interest remained concentrated upon her own self. This pleased her immensely. And caused her to tremble like a custard, acutely self-conscious and so very aware of the potent man beside her.
Garreth’s eyes traveled to Ailénor for an endless time this night. He steeled himself when she suddenly bent to retrieve a fallen napkin, causing the neckline of her dress to drop slightly away from her breasts, allowing him a most tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. Garreth drew a stabilizing breath.
Ailénor looked up just then, her eyes colliding with his. She began to straighten, but he didn’t withdraw his gaze.
Ailénor stilled, astonished by his words, and at the same time mindful the others watched them. Judging from his tone, she believed he meant to flatter her, that his words were meant as no insult or to emphasize the fact that she was yet unmarried. Still, lost in his liquid brown gaze, she could scarce form a response.
Richard came to her rescue. “Our fathers are Danish by birth and, though protective of all their women, hold to the customs of the North. There, women are given a voice in the choice of a husband.”
Garreth blinked in surprise. “Women may accept or refuse their suitors?”
The others nodded along the table.
Turning back to Ailénor, a teasing grin stole up to his eyes. “And did you refuse all your suitors? Or have you a husband or a betrothed lurking somewhere?” He plucked up the tablecloth sportively and pretended to look beneath.
“Non. No husband.” Ailénor whisked the cloth from his fingers with an admonishing look, wondering if he sought a glimpse of ankle. “Or betrothed. There have been suitors, of course,” she added quickly lest he think her wanting in some wise.
“Of course.” He grinned.
“And offers for my hand.”
“I am not at all surprised.” He waited a moment, but she held silent. “Might I ask what became of them?”
“Well, the first died on campaign of . . . well, of . . .” She cleared her throat. “Dissenterie.” She reached for the goblet and took a quick sip of wine.
“Dysentery.” Garreth coughed into his hand. “Tragic. Many a good man has succumbed to the disease.”
Ailénor saw that he shook his head with compassion, yet somehow he did not appear in the least bit remorseful for the man’s plight. She lifted her chin and continued.
“The second died during an engagement against Flanders.”
“He died in battle?”
She nodded, nibbling her lip, then cleared her throat once more. “He fell from his horse, and the beast took an arrow and fell atop him. Well . . .” She waved the remembered accounts of that event away with her hand and took up the goblet once more.
“The horse fell . . . I see.” Garreth considered her words. “Normans battle mounted — to advantage and disadvantage.”
He caught Brand’s and Delling’s look. They were grinning as irreverently as were Richard and Kylan.
He glanced back to Ailénor. “Were there others?”
She hesitated a moment. “Actually, after having lost two prospective husbands, I thought mayhap the Good Lord meant for me to serve him as a religious. My family agreed that I go to the monastery of Levroux. Only we found I am not well suited for the religious life either.”
Garreth tipped his head, intrigued. “And why was that, minx? Did the abbess catch you in her tree?”
Ailénor’s eyes swung to his, and she found him grinning with that heart-quickening smile of his. She smiled, too. In truth, until that moment she had quite forgotten her reasons for leaving Levroux. But now recalling them, she knew there was no way she could confess them and risk his reaction or that of her many kindred who listened so intently at the table.
Certes. She was not well suited to the rigors of monastic life and the discipline required. But her shortcomings had been more than ones of tardiness at services or woefully wandering thoughts during prayer.
Increasingly there had come upon her a strong sense of fate, of destiny. A destiny that lay heavily upon her heart, bidding her beyond the convent walls.
Then, too, there followed vivid, recurring dreams, possessing an eerie realism. Dreams of a man who swept into her life and changed it forevermore. She could never quite see his face. Still, the feeling, the strong pull to leave, remained until it became so overpowering that she finally succumbed and returned home.
No sooner there, word came that Marielle wished to join her brothers, Richard and Kylan, at the ducal court. Ailénor’s parents encouraged her to join her cousin for a change, and so she did.
Coming back to herself, Ailénor found Garreth still waiting for her reply. She gazed on him pensively, through new eyes, a fluttery feeling building in her stomach and rising to her chest.
She groped for his question. He had wondered why she left the monastery.
“The Lord directs our paths, Garreth, wherever they lead. ‘Twould seem, for now, mine leads to Rouen,”
“As doth mine.”
Garreth’s smile eased to a more sober look, his dark eyes reflecting something she could not name, but which caused her to flush with warmth.
His smile returned, slowly lifting the corners of his mouth. “And to good purpose this day, I deem. Should ever you be in need of rescuing again, my fair Ailénor, I promise to come promptly to your assistance.”
Holding her gaze, he took up the goblet they shared, then, turning it round, sipped from the very place her lips had just touched.
»«
Rurik drew on his goblet as he listened to a congenial dispute among the duke and the Burgundians as to whether elephants’ legs were jointless or not.
Knowing Lyting and Ailinn had once seen one in Constantinople, he turned to his left to ask them of it. He found Lyting engrossed, staring across the hall, his interest fixed on Ailénor and the dark-haired Saxon.
“His name is Garreth of Tamworth.” Rurik leaned slightly forward, speaking across Ailinn. “Richard and Kylan say he is a thegn of King Athelstan, a royal agent purchasing relics and holy objects in Francia.”
“Do you believe that?” Lyting took a swallow of ale, not taking his eyes from the couple.
“I am not certain. Richard and Kylan say he also bears his king’s greetings to the duke. Anywise, they perceive no threat.”
“Do our guests know of his presence?” Lyting indicated with a tip of his head toward the Burgundians, where they now rose with the duke and began to move from the dais.
“Nei. William is informed but thought not to bring attention to the Saxon while the king’s hawks circle. Best see what he is about first. For the present, Richard and Kylan keep close watch of him. His visit here could be as he says. I dispatched a messenger to St. Ouen. The monks have, indeed, a completed Psalter in readiness, commissioned by the English monarch.”
“What do you know of these thegns of the royal household?” Lyting brought his eyes from the couple to Rurik’s.
“Only that they are nobly born and of diverse ranks.”
Lyting’s gaze returned to the hall. “Garreth of Tamworth does not look like a mere ‘hall-thegn’ to my eyes. He has too much presence about him.”
Ailinn, who sat between the two men listening silently, smiled at this last and laid her hand to her husband’s arm. “You look so grim, my darling. Do you fear the Saxon’s mission here is to carry off our daughter as well?”
Lyting darted Ailinn a quick, stormy look. She burst into laughter and placed her hand to his chest. “Do not worry, my love. After all, they are more than well chaperoned. What maid could enjoy even the slightest flirtation with such a brood hovering?”
Seeing that Lyting appeared yet unswayed, Ailinn patted his hand. “Well, you continue your watch, but I must slip upstairs to check on Ena’s fever.”
“I shall join you.” Brienne rose from her chair. “Ena was playing with Brietta and Adelis earlier. I need to check on them and Linette as well.”
Taking leave of Rurik, Brienne caressed his arm with her fingers, which he promptly covered with his own hand and gave a gentle squeeze.
“I’ll watch over Lyting while you ladies are gone.” Rurik grinned, giving Brienne a spirited wink. His eyes fell to a spot on her gown as she began to move off.
“Astin min. You have stained your dress,” he called after her. She stopped and examined the front of her skirt. “Mayhap I should have fed you,” he teased.
Brienne glanced up and caught Rurik’s look.
“Later . . .” She gave a wink back to him, a bright smile breaking over her face.
Brienne joined Ailinn, and they made their way across the hall, discussing the best method to remove mustard sauce from fabric. As they passed beneath the arched columns, leading to the stairs, Ailinn’s gaze hesitated over a man standing a short distance away — a man with huge, bulbous eyes. Slowly he shifted the cask of wine from his shoulder and set it down. His great eyes continued to follow her.
A chill spilled down Ailinn’s spine as she ascended the stairs with Brienne. Feeling his gaze continue to bore into her, she slowed her step, then stayed it altogether. Pivoting in place, she tossed her glance back down.
The man was gone. As was the cask.
“Is something amiss?” Brienne halted on the step above her and followed the direction of her gaze.
Ailinn’s brows gathered together as she scanned the vacant space below. Had her imagination run wholly rampant?
“Non. Naught is amiss.” Ailinn dismissed the incident, not wishing to concern Brienne.
Turning, she followed her up the stairs, but a wintry cold spread through her bones.
»«
Descending the stairs, Ailinn thought to herself how precious the children looked asleep. Ena rested cool and comfortable now, and Adelis and Brietta shared a pallet. The two should have been twins.
Brienne remained in her chamber, treating the stain on her gown, but she bid Ailinn to go ahead and rejoin their husbands. She would be down momentarily.
Ailinn roused from her musing, a hushed voice catching her ear. She thought it spoke in the Gaelic tongue of her native homeland.
Halting at the bottom of the shadowy stairs, she glanced about only to find herself alone. She then looked toward the hall, through the portal, where the meal had ended and the tables were being disassembled.
A scraping sound brought her gaze back. She turned toward it, to behind the staircase. There, wrapped in deep shadows, a servant bent, stacking a dismantled trestle against the wall. It struck her as odd, yet she abandoned the thought as the servant moved into the torchlight, revealing a pock-ravaged face.
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 6