Weston raised a brow. “You slept in the prisoners’ tent?”
Michel nodded and Weston frowned.
“Alone?”
“Nay, not alone, though I’d not realized ye cared overmuch.” Michel winked and received another frown for his effort.
In the distance, one wall-enclosed tower rose along the horizon, its quaint size belying its underlying strength. It was a small fortress by most standards. There was absolutely naught exceptional about the stronghold to look at it. The curtain wall itself seemed only of moderate height, and the rectangular keep bore tiny, well-placed arrow slits for windows.
As they neared, they could see that a profusion of well-kept wattle-and-daub huts dotted the landscape. The thatch roofs were obviously new and each hut had its own small but goodly stocked garden. Chickens scratched and children played, while the villein made busy with one chore or another. They stopped what they were doing as the cavalcade neared.
No doubt they recognized his standard, and as it was Henry’s intent, he knew they would cede to him without lifting a single sword.
Several women crossed themselves. One woman swooned. Mothers gathered their children near.
It was a sight he should be accustomed to by now, but it still ate at his gut to witness it.
However, when Weston reached the gate, it remained drawn and the guard made no move to open it, so he removed his helm as a sign of peace. Were he compelled to, he would take Lontaine by force, but could he help it, there would be no bloodshed today—even if it meant that he would place himself in danger with the gesture. “We come in the name of King Henry of England, fourth son of William the Conqueror, now Duke of Normandy!”
The guard upon the parapet stood silent and unyielding. The man said nothing, and seemed to be studying Weston and his men—his look full of contempt. Then, of a sudden, the man’s dark look turned to one of shock and he nearly fell from his post.
Chrestien heard voices and groggily opened her eyes. Her heart started when she realized where they were and she bolted to her feet, nearly falling from the wagon in the process.
Sweet Mary! Not Lontaine!
Did he realize who she was?
Nay—he could not know, or he would not have treated her so wickedly. Or mayhap it would not have mattered to Henry’s horrid Wolf that he was abusing a highborn lady.
She took a deep breath and tried to speak, but her voice would not come. Then again, she wasn’t sure she should speak up anyway. The guard would not open the gate without a word from her first.
And yet... if she did not have the guard open the gate… she looked about her fearfully. There were at least thirty fully armed knights. Her villein would be easy prey for them, and she’d not have them suffer for her stubbornness. Already, nineteen men had died in her behalf—slaughtered like sheep by the Wolf.
Knees shaking, she peered down at Aubert. He needed his mother. Janelle would know how to care for him and his fever was high.
“Open the gates,” she called out, and then she held her breath as all eyes turned to her.
The Wolf spun to face her, his eyes blazing with sudden fury.
Perhaps had she realized he was coming to Lontaine, she might have told him her identity—or at least that Lontaine was her home.
The portcullis lifted immediately and the drawbridge was lowered. It fell with a clang.
For a moment, no one dared set foot upon the wooden bridge. They all seemed to be waiting to see what the Wolf would do.
Chrestien averted her face from the odious man, grateful to God that Aubert slept through this terrible moment. She knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he would have risen to defend her.
The Wolf bade his men cross and the cavalcade made quick work of the wooden span. At the end of the line, the springless cart jolted forward, nearly pitching Chrestien from her feet.
The Wolf held back until the cart that held Chrestien was alongside him, then he spurred his mount into a slow canter to ride alongside the cart. The muscles in his jaw twitched, and his eyes glittered coldly. “Why did you not tell me you were of Lontaine?”
His voice was taut with restrained ire and the color of his eyes deepened until they were as dark as the midnight sky, giving him a malevolent appearance.
Chrestien would not give him the satisfaction of seeing that her knees were shaking, so she concealed them by kneeling with the pretense of inspecting poor Aubert. Once she regained her composure, she looked up at the Wolf and asked defiantly, “Why did you not tell me you had business with Lontaine?”
“Should I discuss intentions with my prisoner?” he asked between clenched teeth, again making the muscle in his cheek jump.
“Need I discuss with my captor—”
“Enough!” he shouted, silencing her. “What are you to Lontaine?” he persisted, and his hand flew to the jeweled hilt of his sword in a gesture that was more instinct than design. “And do not speak... but to give me the answers I seek, boy.” His tone was low, and his eyes were angry blue flames. “What are you to Lontaine?” he repeated.
Chrestien didn’t dare push him further lest he decided to flog her—or worse, kill her. “I am Gilbert de Lontaine’s son.”
“Lies! He has but a single daughter!”
“He had a daughter and a son. My father is dead now as though you did not know!”
“Aye? And where is the daughter? Is she is within to confirm your tale?”
“My sister Adelaine is with Aleth de Montagneaux,” Chrestien answered honestly. It was the truth and there was naught the Wolf could do to remedy it now. “She was wed to him less than a sennight ago.” Her eyes moistened. “So nay, you’ll not find her inside,” she said brokenly. “You’ll find no one inside but innocent men and women.” Her chin came down to face the ground in defeat. “And shadows of my past,” she said much more softly.
He let the cart go before him, watching her as she passed, and Chrestien held her breath and waited to see what he would do.
Apparently, he was moved enough by her words that he decided to have her hands unbound. He gave his squire the honor.
Chrestien was so thankful that she nearly kissed Guy's feet for freeing her, but he seemed to recoil each time he touched her, making her wonder that he thought her diseased. At once she climbed out of the cart and Janelle—bless her soul—came running from the great hall, flying into her arms. As soon as the sobbing maid put her pudgy cheek next to hers, Chrestien nearly cried with relief. Janelle wasn’t just a maid; she was much more than that to Chrestien. Home was in her arms. But one look at Aubert drew a whimper from his mother's lips and Chrestien tasted the salt of her own tears. “Help me get him to his bed,” she directed. “He will be fine. All he needs is your loving care, Janelle.” She had no idea if it were actually true, but she hoped it was so.
As the Wolf and his men watched without lifting a finger, she and Janelle dragged Aubert from the cart. Chrestien’s heart ached to see the silent tears that welled in Janelle’s eyes. Janelle seized his arms but before Chrestien could grasp his feet, the Wolf’s booming voice brought them to a halt.
“Nay!” he demanded. “You come with me.” Her back was to the Wolf, but she knew he was speaking to her. “My squire will see to him.”
The squire immediately took Aubert’s feet from Chrestien’s hands.
Angrily, she turned to follow the Wolf into the great hall. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as he made his way to the dais and took his seat upon her father’s chair as though he himself were lord of Lontaine.
Chrestien stopped midway, furious that he would take such liberties, but the Wolf seemed not to notice her ire. He simply motioned for her to come forward.
Weston stared at the boy, full of pride and piss and felt a strange swell of sympathy for the bedraggled lad. His life had been torn asunder and Weston felt partially responsible for the upheaval. “I mean you and your servants no harm,” he assured the lad. He tried to explain as gently as possible that Lontaine was now th
e property of King Henry. “We shall remain here until word arrives from our king—”
“Not my king!” the boy protested.
Weston frowned. “You’d best be rid of that notion, boy, as Henry would be less understanding of your impertinence. As I was saying, we will remain here until I receive word from Henry. Until then, I will allow you free run of your keep... as long as you have two of my men with you at all times. Do you heed?”
The lad seemed momentarily confused and then appeared relieved. Weston debated whether to reveal more and decided against it. Having imparted that message, he rose from the lord’s chair and strode to the door. Two men entered at his beckoning, then he disappeared into the bailey, leaving the boy to his contemplations.
Chapter Six
Chrestien wasn’t pleased about the buffoons assigned to guard her, though at least she was free to roam her home in peace. She tried her utmost to put them out of her mind as she set out to find Aubert and Janelle. The door to Janelle’s hut was open and much to her joy, she found Aubert awake, albeit groggy and in pain. He was lying upon a cot with Janelle hovering over him, applying salve to his wound.
“I see we yet live—more’s the pity,” Chrestien said with a smile as she went to his bedside and kissed his cheek.
A low growl came from behind her and she saw that one of her guards had turned his back to them. The other was smirking and she turned back to Aubert, refusing to allow them to dampen her spirits. Janelle left the bedside momentarily to prepare more salve, leaving Aubert and Chrestien to speak alone.
“Are we are prisoners?” he asked her at once.
Chrestien nodded.
“I remember very little,” Aubert confessed. “How came we to Lontaine?”
Chrestien touched her fingers to his lips, urging him to be quiet. Inclining her head, she indicated the guards at the door. Whispering, she explained, “You’ve been with fever since yestereve.”
The look in his eyes was full of dread. “Henry’s Wolf?”
Chrestien nodded again.
Aubert closed his eyes. “God help us.”
“There was not much either of us could have done,” she assured him as she took his hand and kissed it affectionately.
Another disapproving growl came from the doorway and Chrestien gave the vermin an irate glare, then turned her attention again to Aubert. “My father would have been proud of you, Aubert. You are brave and loyal.”
Aubert grimaced and tried to smile at her words, but tears spilled from Chrestien’s eyes suddenly. For the first time since her father’s death, she let them flow unheeded.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she sobbed. “I know not what I would do without you, Aubert!”
She rested her head upon Aubert’s chest, over his heart, and he winced against the pain, and moved her face to rest against his own, letting her tears stream onto his cheeks without protest. His arms embraced her weakly, holding her to him, letting her weep. It had been a long time coming.
“Your Papa would have been proud of you as well, minx. I saw the way you wielded that sword.” He winked at her when she looked at him, and he wiped the tears from her eyes.
“I used to watch Papa train you,” she confessed.
Aubert smiled at her admission. “At least ye gave the Wolf something to remember ye by,” he said somberly. “Along with the leader of that first band,” he remembered suddenly. “’Twas a nasty gash ye gave him, Chrestien—just below the eye, I believe. Another inch and ye would have plucked out his eye.”
In truth, Chrestien couldn’t recall wounding anyone else. The entire ordeal remained a blur—so much blood and death—all so quickly. The cries of her helpless villein would haunt her until her dying breath. Those men all had families and she had yet to even pay them her respect. There was so much to be done, but she needed the Wolf's men to leave her in peace.
“Aubert... the man I gave the gash to… did you recognize him? He seemed familiar to me, somehow.”
Aubert held her gaze, the look in his eyes sober. “I cannot say who it might be, but ye realize, Chrestien, he must have come from Montagneaux.”
“How can you be so certain?”
Aubert grunted as he repositioned himself on the cot to whisper closer. “It was obvious to me that he was after you,” he disclosed.
Chrestien considered that, wondering who it could be and what they had hoped to gain. Aleth had practically pushed her out his gates, so she knew it could not have been done by his knowledge. The only thing she knew for certain was that, in truth, they would have all perished without the Wolf’s intervention, much as she loathed to confess it. “It pains me to say it, but it seems we owe the Wolf a debt.”
Aubert nodded soberly.
She smiled. “The odious beast still believes me a boy.”
“Because you look like one,” Janelle interjected as she returned to inspect Aubert’s wound and his fever. She eyed Chrestien reproachfully. “’Tis a blasphemy what you have done to that hair!”
Chrestien put her fingers to her lips. “Shhh, Janelle. “It could not be helped.”
“I swear your Papa would turn in his grave,” she persisted.
“At any rate, I attacked the Wolf,” Chrestien admitted. “In his tent. I bit him, and I do not think he will forgive me for it.”
Janelle stared at her in horror. “And how is that supposed to honor your father?” She crossed herself and Aubert choked on weak laughter.
“You bit him?” he asked incredulously.
Chrestien nodded slowly, her face flushing with chagrin.
“You will be the death of me yet,” the maid swore. “Go and wash yourself already! ’Tis no wonder you fooled them all so well! Who would ever credit that a lady lurks behind all that filth?”
“Ugh! You harrow me like your son!” Chrestien complained and with a tired sigh, rose from Aubert’s bedside. “Very well. I shall go bathe. You stay abed,” she demanded of Aubert and turned to go, marveling how much alike they were, mother and son. Neither of them seemed to recall their station, but Chrestien loved them just the way they were.
To her dismay, the scowling guard pushed her as she tried to slip by him. The lout seemed to take great joy in bullying her, she decided, as he finally let her pass.
The walk to the keep was a lonely one, as no one dared approach her. They gave her sideways glances, but kept to their own devices, uncertain what to do to help. Certainly, the sight of the two burly guards behind her was enough to keep even the devil away.
In the great hall, the Wolf had once again settled in her father’s chair upon the dais, and resentment welled within her to see him there again. She cast him a ferocious glare before turning to instruct Eauda, a chambermaid, to fetch her bathwater, then she climbed the stairs to her bower. Thinking the guards would wait outside—never even considering they would wish to come in—she attempted to close the door to her chamber. The scowling one placed his foot inside the door to prevent her from barring him. And then, grinning, he stepped into the room behind her.
Sweet Mary! What was she to do now? She could not bathe with either of them present! She began to pace as Eauda came in, bringing a procession of servants behind her, each carrying two large wooden buckets. They shouldered the buckets to the large ornate wooden tub, and one by one emptied the contents of their pails. Finally, when the tub was filled, they left hurriedly—all of them save Eauda, who remained to bathe her.
But she would not—by the love of God—bathe in a chamber full of men! There must be some way to get them out—before her bathwater froze! The Wolf had been adamant that she have his men with her at all times, and she was certain he’d given the same instruction to her guards, so asking them to leave would be pointless no doubt. Eyeing the tub longingly, she paced back and forth until anger well outweighed her distress. If she waited much longer the water would be ice... and after everything she had endured, the least she deserved was a warm bath!
Suddenly, she recalled the jewel-encrusted poniar
d—the one her father had given her—buried beneath her mattress, and before she could consider the consequences, she went after it, turning on her guards, and shrieking at them. “Out! Out!” The blade swished furiously between them and the smiling one left the room at once. The ugly, scowling one stayed but seconds longer, then he too scurried off like the vermin he was.
“There'll be the devil to pay, mistress,” Eauda said and crossed herself.
“He will not fault you,” Chrestien assured the woman. “'Tis me he'll blame. Now come.” She motioned for Eauda to aid her in barring the door with a coffer—the wooden bar she usually used was nowhere to be found. Had he removed it so quickly?
Once the door was barricaded with a coffer, Eauda helped Chrestien remove the heavy hauberk, the greasy undertunic, and the filthy breeches, shaking her head in disgust all the while. Unlike Janelle, however, Eauda would never berate her.
Chrestien watched the garb fall to the floor with revulsion. More than offended by the smell of her garments, she grew ill to think she’d need to don them again. Poor Eauda was in agreement, for she could barely stand to put her hands on the foul material. The maid made a hideous face, and Chrestien shrugged.
“You’ll have to steal a clean tunic from my father’s chamber,” she said, and lifted a dirty leg into the tub. Sinking into the warm delicious water, she sighed wistfully, exhausted and Eauda immediately set to washing Chrestien’s hair with Janelle’s rose-scented soap. Chrestien breathed deeply of the sweet scent, and for a moment, she pretended all was as it once was—with her father waiting downstairs and Adelaine sewing in the solar.
Once the filth melted away, Eauda eyed the blue-black marks that marked her fair skin, but said nothing. She would not ask, Chrestien knew, but the look in her eyes was full of concern. “The Wolf will be angry,” she worried again.
“Aye, but I do not wish to think on that just now. I shall be forced to face him soon enough,” she said, and stretched her tender legs out to be soothed by the warm water.
Once Upon a Knight Page 36