Chapter Thirteen
Aliénor sat at the end of the trestle table, her nerves as tight as a bowstring. Considering that her world had turned upside down only weeks ago, she should be content with the crackle of the hearth fire and the bounty of food upon the table. Between energetic bouts of Laurent’s and Rostand’s sword play, carried out in a cleared space in front of the trestle table, she could hear soft laughter coming from the servants in the buttery. Pewter plates graced the table and the tapestries had been reattached to the walls as if the prince’s attack had never happened.
But this apparent calm felt false, fragile, and ready to snap with one knowing look or ill-placed word.
“You forget that I fought at Crécy, Jehan,” Thibaud bellowed, making her start as he banged his fist upon the table. “The English used shameful trickery, putting knights’ weapons in the hands of worthless freemen in boiled leather jerkins.”
Jehan shrugged. “The Welsh archers are skilled, Thibaud. Their longbowsmen fire three arrows to a crossbowman’s one.”
“In my day, no knight of any honor would send the archers ahead of the mounted men, and certainly no king—”
“They would if they knew a Welshman’s arrows can pierce a knight’s mail.” Jehan raised his voice above the fresh crack of wooden swords as her brother and Rostand began another round of sparring. “Try fixing your foot, Laurent. Your bad foot, so you can better maneuver with your better one.”
Aliénor watched her brother, grinning and dripping with sweat as he flexed his hand over the hilt of his sword. Today, Sir Rostand and Laurent had eschewed the cold, drizzly courtyard for the relative warmth of the great hall for his now-daily practice. Amid the clatter and grunts, she couldn’t take her eyes off Laurent, obeying Jehan’s command with a determined nod.
Wordless obedience, she thought, from a boy who’d once spit fire at Jehan. She should be satisfied that he and Jehan weren’t at each other’s throats, but she just didn’t understand the change of heart.
“King Philip,” Thibaud said, waving his cup as wine sloshed over the rim, “now he knew how to fight like a true knight. I can’t say the same for your liege lord, Sir Jehan—the bad foot, Laurent, make a pivot of it.”
“Perhaps the French should adapt to changing capabilities.”
“By burning villages? Destroying harvests? Who is your liege lord fighting against, Sir Jehan? Princes or peons?” Thibaud grunted and shot up from his seat. “Hold the sword like it’s welded to your hand, boy, else your attacker will knock it out every time.”
Jehan’s gaze drifted to her with an indulgent half-smile. Blood rushed to her cheeks as warmth flooded her loins. Oh, how she wished she could stand up and slip her hand in his and lead him across the hall to the stairs. Liaisons were becoming more difficult and dangerous. Perhaps she was imagining the smiling, quickly averted glances of the maidservants and the sly looks from the English men-at-arms, but in her heart she feared the worst. For Laurent’s sake, she couldn’t move an inch closer to the man whose touch she craved.
If only the abbot in Toulouse would respond to their messages. Jehan had already sent two, one with a peddler, and the second with a group of pilgrims, but six interminable weeks had passed with no response. She could only assume the messages were intercepted, or the monastery couldn’t spare a man to return news. In either case, the silence indicated how dangerous the roads had become since the Prince of Wales had come warring. She couldn’t possibly send her brother off on such roads, with either English or French men-at-arms as guards.
Jehan kept his patience, but she sensed his bated frustration whenever she deemed it too dangerous to seek his bed. Worse, she wasn’t sure she could bear this deception much longer. She wanted to embrace her new position, live openly as Jehan’s lover, and stop skulking around in shame. The longer she delayed, the more likely it would be that Laurent would find out through rumor, or, worse, he’d catch them together. Then all hope for reasonable discussion would be lost.
Yes, she would take matters in her own hands.
“I got you, Rostand!” Laurent let loose a wild whoop of laughter as he swept a sweat-drenched shock of hair off his brow. “A point to me.”
“And so the match is done.” She stood up with a clatter of bench.
“Done?” Laurent said. “But—”
“Wasn’t it you who urged me to distribute the extra food from dinner?” She reached for the bowl of figs on the table before Thibaud could take another, then gestured to a platter heaped with the ends of gravy-soaked trencher bread and a few joints of quail. “Grab the platter and act the monk. There will be many in the village who’ll appreciate the meal.”
She strode away toward the door, expecting her brother to follow. Leaning against the iron strap work, she watched as Laurent took his time about it, laying down his wooden sword, bantering with the men, and then, finally, taking the tray to do her bidding.
She pushed against the door and the winter wind slipped through the portal, teasing the hem of her kirtle with cold fingers.
Laurent limped down the stairs beside her, still heaving from exertion. “It’s been a long time since we had enough food to deliver the remnants from our table.”
“Sir Jehan is a good hunter. We’ll take everything to Father Dubose, he’ll know how best to distribute it.”
“I don’t think Thibaud was quite finished eating.” He turned his eyes upon her, crinkly with humor. “What’s got you frowning?”
“You,” she retorted, stepping smartly toward the chapel. “Practicing swordplay with glee, like I never could get you to do before.”
“An army pouring over the walls changed my perspective.”
“And what happened to the wonderful monastery in Toulouse? To spending a life in spiritual contemplation?”
“That hasn’t changed,” he said. “But have you made your decision?”
“What decision?”
“Come, Ally. The whole castle is abuzz waiting for you to make up your mind. I’m not the only one who has heard you say you’d rather throw yourself off the ramparts than take the veil.”
She frowned, nonplussed. “You know I’m not going to a convent.”
“Ah, then you’re going to marry.”
She stumbled on the flagstones, righting herself with effort. “I’m landless and without fortune, frai. No man in his right mind would bind himself to poverty.”
“Sir Jehan has your land and your fortune. He’ll marry you.”
The winter wind gave a howl as it poured over the ramparts. Laurent couldn’t possibly think…. But of course he did. Before she’d learned about Jehan’s betrothal, she’d hoped for the same.
Suddenly, her brother scraped to a stop. He placed the platter of food on the ground, and then took the figs from her and placed them beside the platter. When he straightened up to gather her hands in his, she had to arch her neck to look into his face.
When had he become so tall?
“Aliénor, you’ve gone pale.”
“Laurent,” she said, gathering her wits, “you don’t understand the situation. I’m chatelaine here. That’s enough.”
“You can’t be chatelaine here forever. And religious life is definitely not for you. But marriage is also a sacrament—”
“Listen to you. Father would sooner see me dead than married to an Englishman.”
“Father is probably dead.”
Startled, she searched Laurent’s face but saw no grief. “We don’t know any such thing.”
“Our father may as well be dead, for all the effort he’s made to re-take the castle.”
“Laury, it’s dangerous to leap to such conclusions. Our father is probably with the Count of Armagnac or the king himself—”
“—but he’s not here.” He tilted his head like Thibaud at lessons. “Sir Jehan is strong. He’s kind and generous and honorable.”
She tried not to wince.
“He’s a favorite of the prince and likely to be titled—”
“—with our father’s own title.”
“All the better. You’ll finally be the lady of this house and not a servant within it. Free to live your life as it pleases you, in your very own home.”
“Laurent—”
“Before I leave here, I want to see you happy.” His cheek flexed. “Before I leave, I need to know you’re settled.” He lowered his head to capture her gaze, and the smile that stretched on his face squeezed her heart. “He loves you, Aliénor.”
Her heart did a flutter-roll in her chest.
“His gaze follows you whenever you’re in the room. His voice changes when he talks to you.”
She stared at their entwined hands. With every bone in her body she wanted to believe what her brother said, but she couldn’t trust her own heart, never mind the conclusions of a man too innocent of the ways of the world.
“Love in marriage is an unexpected gift, so I’m told.” He pulled her into a brotherly hug. “Don’t scorn it.”
She laid her head against her brother’s shoulder, breathing in the lingering scent of frankincense in the woolen fibers of his tunic from the morning’s Mass, as well as the faintly unpleasant stink of him, sweaty from sparring. All through their lives, she had been the one to offer Laurent kind words and comfort. How strong he had grown in the past year, strong and true and full of goodness, and suddenly she couldn’t bear telling him a truth that would destroy his happiness.
Her courage, what there was of it, flew away like a flock of sparrows in October.
“I haven’t made my decision yet,” she mumbled against his shoulder, despising herself for lying. “I’ll send word to you after you’re settled in the monastery.”
“No.”
“Laury—”
“I promised you I wouldn’t leave until I’ve drunk a glass of wine at your wedding.”
“But so much is uncertain. We don’t know if father lives, or if the prince will give Jehan this castle.”
“I’m staying.” He turned, swept up the figs and the platter. “I don’t care how long it takes. The monastery can wait.”
“Laurent, this is just stubborn foolishness. I insist—”
“Insist all you want, but I intend to be the one who gives you away at the church steps, Ally.” He grinned, showing a slight chip in his front tooth. “Even if I have to battle Thibaud for the honor.”
***
Jehan watched her.
He watched, on Twelfth Night, as she swathed herself in a cloak and mounted a mare to invite the villagers to the castle. He watched as she returned with a crowd in her wake, making a racket with reed pipes, cornets, and skin-drums, weaving up the steep path to the castle carrying tallow-drenched torches while Aliénor, wearing a coronet of woven ivy, dismounted and danced like some woodland fairy. Aliénor threw open the door. The mead hall was festooned with garlands of greenery she’d ordered his men-at-arms to gather. She invited in the crowd, offering a feast generous with both food and wine.
The meal was merry, and just as it was finished she summoned a few villagers to blow music through their reed-pipes. Soon there was clapping and dancing and, for the children, games of hoodman blind. She wove through the crowded room, made warm from torches, the hearth fire, and the close proximity of so many bodies, keeping an eye on possible trouble as she dodged the reach of drunken men-at-arms while checking pitchers for fullness.
She was a sorceress, conjuring the season to life, filling the castle with the greatest of cheer. He scraped back his chair where he sat in supposed majesty, stood up unsteadily, and plunged into the crowd so he wouldn’t be the only man in the room who hadn’t danced with her. When he finally came upon her, he wound an arm around her waist and pulled her back against his body.
She smelled of pine and new wine and woman, and she giggled as if she’d had one cup too many.
“Jehan,” she whispered, grasping his forearm, “you shouldn’t—”
“It’s Twelfth Night. I could strip you bare on the stairs, take you as I will, and no one would raise a brow.”
“You,” she said, “are exaggerating.”
“Every other man in this room has embraced you, touched you, or danced at your side. Am I to be the only one denied?”
“I have turned them all away.”
“But I am your liege lord, and thus you cannot say no.”
He splayed his hand over her abdomen and wished he could dissolve the wool and linen beneath it so his fingers could feel her naked skin.
She whispered, “My brother—”
“—has gone to chapel to pray for all our souls.”
He’d seen the boy leave, uneasy with the revelry, looking aghast at all the wild eyes and drunken laughter.
“Besides,” he added, burying his face in her soft hair, “there’s not a sober eye in all the room. No one will notice if we leave.”
It had been two days and several hours since their last coupling, a furtive thing, a stolen moment in his tower room under the pretense of arranging the meal for the feast, with Esquival outside the door on watch.
His cock stiffened with the need to feel her body against his. To feel, if only for a moment, that this was not an interval with a beginning and an end, but one moment in a long lifetime.
“I’ll leave first,” she whispered, her breath against his mouth. “Meet me in my room.”
She flashed a bright gaze over her shoulder before she disappeared amid the crowd. He found his way to the hearth and stared into the flames, counting the moments, trying his best not to imagine the sound of her gasp in his ear, the undulation of her slim, strong body beneath his. Then he was stepping over kissing couples as he climbed the stairs to the upper floor.
The torches had sputtered out, leaving the second floor gallery in darkness. He clung to the shadows as he passed her brother’s room—empty, he saw it for himself—and set as his goal the faint, orange glow spilling out from her door, neatly ajar.
Ensuring no eyes were upon him, he slipped in and closed it behind him. A quick glance around the room showed her maidservant was not here, likely enjoying the revelries below and told to continue to do so. The drapes of the bed had been drawn. He approached and pushed them aside.
She lay propped against the pillows, with her dark blonde hair, bronzed in the flickering light, spread across the pale linen. Blood roared in his ears as he drank in the sight of her, wearing nothing but a smile.
“I’ve been waiting so long.” Her voice was husky. “I was starting to think you preferred Thibaud’s company to mine.”
He dug a knee into the bed and pulled her into his arms, breathing in the smell of pine and woman.
“If Rudel had grabbed you one more time,” he murmured as he pressed his forehead against hers. “I was going to draw a sword.”
“Rudel was drunk, he grabbed at every woman.”
“No, he was fixed on you.”
“Hush.” Her hands ran over his back, soft as a breeze. “I am blind to all men but you.”
With a groan he pulled away long enough to yank off his clothes, tossing them at the end of the bed before climbing in.
“Pull the drapes,” she whispered, drawing him close.
“I want to see you.” He filled his hand with a heavy-bottomed breast. “I want to watch your face when you—”
“Jehan.”
Her gaze was steady and determined, one brow lifted in expectation of obedience. He’d seen this look on her face when she chastised servants lagging in their duties. How he looked forward to a night when the risk of discovery wouldn’t linger between them, bringing an element of shame to something that did not in the least feel shameful.
She wound her arms around his neck. “Pull the drapes, my love.”
With a grunt he yanked the linen hangings closed. No sooner had he done so when she pressed against him so her breasts softened upon his chest. Desire flavored her kiss. He wanted to take his time, to touch her until she writhed under his hand. Running his tongue across her bottom lip, he slipped his fingers between her thighs. She let them fall open. His fingertips slid through her wet, soft cleft and she quivered at his touch.
But then her hand was on his hip, pressuring him so he would slide between her legs as she wriggled into a better position. He removed his hand from where he stroked her and shifted his weight evenly on either side of her body. She let out a soft gasp as his cock kissed her cleft. Before he could stop her, she pushed up against his shaft so she took inside her the throbbing head.
“God’s Blood, Aliénor,” he rasped, his teeth gritted.
All his well-made plans for a slow, long lovemaking, all the wicked, glorious things he intended to do with her, they would have to wait. Instead, he gave up to his aching cock and her pleading and filled her with one swift plunge.
Her cry of pleasure made his heart leap.
Her fingers dug into his hips as he withdrew a fraction before plunging deeper. His head clouded as she arched beneath him, making breathy little noises. He ran his hand down her side to palm the fullness of one buttock. He lifted her hips to meet his with the next hungry thrust. She gasped as their loins pressed tight. He opened his eyes but he couldn’t see her well, not with the drapes drawn tight. He could only imagine the flush rising on her face, the parting of her lips, the pleasure crossing her face.
This lovemaking felt guttural, animalistic, and unstoppable. He tightened his will to take care, not lose control. He nearly lost it when she whispered his name in rising desperation before shuddering against him like a silk pennon in the wind.
He buried his face in her shoulder, holding himself back until her strong spasms gentled. Only then did he make his last strong strokes and pulled himself out. His own passion exploded and he released his seed into the linens.
“I’m always ravishing you,” he muttered into her hair moments later. “I’m always taking you like a man who hasn’t had a woman in years.”
Her throaty laugh seemed to ripple through the air. He ran his fingers through her unbound hair, spreading the tresses across the furs. He wiped the perspiration from the nape of her neck and then slipped off her body to lie at her side.
A draft moved amid the folds of the drapes. A slivered opening let in a slim shaft of pale light. For a long time, he gazed at her in that dusky light, waiting for those soft, gilded brown eyes to finally blink open.
When they did, she turned her face and her smile lit up the space between them.
His throat went dry.
We winter in Bordeaux, the prince had said.
How much longer did he dare linger at her side?
***
Aliénor woke to the sound of her chamber door banging open.
“Ally! I have a message from the abbot at Toulouse!”
She grunted at her brother’s voice and curled into herself. Her mouth felt as dry as the lees of last night’s spiced wine. She heard the whoosh of the bed curtains being knocked aside as light flooded over her.
“He invited me,” he said in that pummeling voice, “to join the order as soon as I can get there.”
“Laury, for the love of Mary.” She raised a hand to shield her eyes. “What ungodly hour is it?”
“Long past when you should be awake—”
Laurent’s words halted with a wet, glottal sound. Assuming she wasn’t fully covered, she clasped at the furs and pulled them higher. If her lark of a brother was embarrassed by her nudity, then so be it. It was no more than he deserved barging in on her like this. And on the morning after Twelfth Night, no less.
Then her eyes flew open and the daylight blinded her. She shot up to a sitting position, a move made all the more difficult by the naked arm lying heavy across her waist.
“So,” her brother said in a high, strained voice. “Now I understand why you lingered abed.”
“Laury, I can explain.” She licked her dry lips with a sandpaper tongue as she struggled to adjust to the brightness of day. “Twelfth Night is—”
“Please don’t.” He raised the flat of his hand. “It’s enough for me that you’ve finally made your decision.”
Words gathered in her throat but she couldn’t muster them to her lips.
“You’ll have to say penance, of course, the two of you, but this won’t be the first time a bedding was made before the wedding.”
Her brother stood before her with a shaky half-smile on his face, flushing crimson to the roots of his hair.
He didn’t understand, she thought, her heart sinking.
He didn’t understand at all.
Then the warm mass of the naked man in her bed moved behind her, jiggering the hay-stuffed mattress.
“I confess, Sir Jehan,” her brother said, raising his voice as if Jehan stood across the room instead of supine on the bed with his backside against her own, “I’d expected better of you, but I suppose my sister needed some…convincing.”
Jehan’s warmth shifted as he sat up behind her. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You said you received a message, Laurent?”
“Yes, yes.” Her brother lifted the folded parchment and stared at it as his skin began to blotch. “It arrived with a peddler from Toulouse.”
“Any other messages?”
They’re talking about messages, she thought, while she lay naked in bed with a bachelor knight.
“None but this.” Laury waved the thing so it kicked up a breeze. “My news will be overshadowed by yours, but happily so.”
“So,” Jehan persisted, “you’ll be going to the monastery.”
“And this shall make my leave-taking all the more joyous.” He took a trip-step backwards toward the door. “I’ll speak to Father Dubose about the arrangements for the ceremony. It can take place before breakfast—”
“No!” She’d all but shouted the word.
“Would you prefer a midday ceremony, Ally?” He gave her a sweet tilt of the head, as he dragged his leg along. “Because the time for hesitation is clearly past.”
“I made my choice some time ago.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Laurent paused and spread his hands. “Will it be a breakfast feast, or a dinner one?”
“Not that choice.”
She ached for a cup of wine, as much for fortitude’s sake as thirst. With a squeeze of her shoulder, Jehan retreated as he reached for his clothes, rumpled at the end of the bed, and slipped off through the drapes on the other side. He was trying to give them some privacy, she supposed, for she’d told Jehan from the start that Laurent would have to hear the truth from her lips alone. But bereft of his warmth, her will faltered, while every silent moment stole another measure of brightness from her brother’s face.
Clutching furs to her chest, she pulled her chemise from under the bed. She gathered it in her arms, a shield against the inevitable.
“There can be no wedding, frai.”
“Nonsense. There will be a marriage before dinner today.”
“The prince has put Sir Jehan under obligations.” She searched for the neck-hole of her chemise, holding furs close to her body until the linen covered her. “These obligations prevent him from making any other…attachments.”
Laurent switched his attention to Jehan, who came around the bed buckling his belt. “Tell me you will marry her.”
Jehan said, “I shall make arrangements.”
“See?” Laurent grinned at her anew. “I told you—”
“Arrangements,” Jehan interrupted, “for you to leave for the monastery this very day.”
“After the wedding.”
“I will send two of my men to guard you.” Jehan’s words were low and calm, as if he were murmuring to an unbroken colt. “The roads are still dangerous.”
Laurent shook his head, his black eyes narrowing, and a look came over his face that made her heart falter.
Laury said, “You will marry my sister.”
A muscle moved in Jehan’s cheek. “If it were in my power, I would wed your sister this hour.”
“Then do so.”
“The prince has arranged a betrothal with someone else.”
Laurent’s face went ashen-white. He took one step forward to seize a handful of Jehan’s shirt with a fist.
“It was my choice,” she said, swinging her legs out from under the covers before her brother did anything foolish. “My choice, Laury.”
“How could it have been a choice,” he argued, “when there is no alternative?”
“I could have refused him.” She stepped toward the men and clasped Laurent’s wrist, pressuring him to open his hand. “I offered myself of my own free will. I’d be lying if I pretended otherwise.”
“You,” her brother said, throwing the word in Jehan’s face, “promised to protect her.”
“That will never change.”
“This is your vengeance against my father. You’ve turned my sister into a—”
“Careful,” Jehan interrupted. “I won’t abide disrespect to her, even from her own brother.”
With one swift move, Jehan knocked Laurent’s grip away so sharply that Laurent’s wrist escaped her grip. Startled, she looked from one to the other, glaring hard at each other.
They both loved her. They both wanted the best for her.
“Come with me, Ally,” Laurent said in a soft, oddly calm voice. “There’s a convent alongside the monastery.”
“Go to the monastery with my blessing, frai.” She swallowed against the tightness of her throat. “I am staying here.”
He took a stumbling step back. Her ribs squeezed until she could hardly breathe. The look he gave her cut her to the quick.
She stared at her feet so she would not have to witness him leaving, though she couldn’t help but hear the drag of his foot as he headed toward the door. Whether she chose a convent or a leman’s bed, she supposed she’d always known she would lose one of them.
“Ally.”
She forced her chin up. Framed by the doorway, Laury gave her one last, inscrutable look.
“I always knew I would have to save you from yourself.”