Candle in the Window: Castles #1

by Christina Dodd

  Saura shivered at the tone of his voice. As she’d promised herself, she’d listened to the speeches and they left her troubled and confused.

  Raymond meant more than he said, Nicholas said too little, and Charles mumbled in the excess of drink. Or was it guilt? She didn’t know, she couldn’t tell. Her usual sharp instincts were clouded by fear for William, and since last night, fear for herself.

  It seemed so odd, but her unease had been growing during the past week. Some instinct warned her of treachery and stealth. She hadn’t really even been surprised when that voice hoarsely declared her beautiful, but she had been frightened. And doubtful. Her fancies had conjured a menace; now her fancies conjured a voice and a presence. And her perplexity grew, for she still felt that menace. She felt it right now. She flinched; someone was staring at her. Even when he didn’t speak, even when she couldn’t hear that hoarse whisper, she could feel those eyes on her, and it made her want to squirm.

  “Saura?” William spoke close in her ear, interrupting her discomfort and patting balm on her fears. “’Tis time.”

  Blank for a moment, she remembered and grimaced. “For the mêlée? Of course.”

  He helped her away from the table, and she retained his hand. “I’ll help arm you,” she informed him.

  “My squire is here for that,” he said.

  “As if I didn’t know.” She tugged at him. “Come, you’ll find no better help than I.”

  “I’m too easily persuaded by you, my lady,” he rumbled, following her like a lamb.

  “You’re a fraud,” she scoffed. “You tell me I am in charge, when you only do as I suggest if it follows your own convenience.”

  “That I should be reduced to such chicanery,” he mourned with false sadness. He checked behind; young Guilliame followed on their heels. The three of them entered the solar and he saw his clothes laid out on the bed. “Are you both to be my squires?”

  “You’re not the first man I’ve dressed for battle,” Saura answered, shutting the door. She found the stool that waited beside the bed and dragged it to the center of the room where William waited. Climbing up, she pulled his embroidered surcoat off and carefully passed it to Guilliame. Guilliame folded it, placed it in the open chest and returned with the padding William wore beneath his hauberk. With a smooth teamwork, Saura and the squire stripped him and reclothed him, then hefted the hauberk over his head and buckled his sword on. The hauberk shone, free from rust, and his sword was honed to a fine edge. The leather of his boots gleamed with oil and the leather of his gloves moved with supple ease. His gilded spurs clanked as he strode around the room, pleased with his return to the world of the knight.

  “But I have no helmet.” He frowned. “My own was crushed in the accident. Didn’t the armorer send one up?”

  “We thought you could try this one first,” Saura replied calmly. From her own chest, she pulled a fine helmet, banded with iron and protected by a nose guard. “It was my father’s. ’Tis the only memento of him I have retained. How my mother saved it, I’ll never know. He was a large man, too, they tell me, and perhaps this will fit you. If not, there’s another waiting.”

  She held it out to him with both hands, and he took it, handling it with care. She said, “The armorer inspected it. He says it’s in good condition, although old-fashioned. The conical shape is called a basinet, I believe?”

  He examined her face, and she looked serene, waiting only for his approval. Red and lush as an apple in the fall, her lips curved in a gentle smile. Like a prayer, her hands rested before her, and she waited in delicate expectancy. Trying the helmet on, he was surprised to find it fit. Big hands, big feet, big head, his father teased him, but it seemed Saura’s father fit the description also. “Thank you, my lady. I am honored to wear your father’s helmet.”

  “You’re sure it fits properly?” she questioned. “’Tis not so large it slips, not so small it binds?”

  “’Tis perfect,” he assured her.

  “In that case, it is my wedding present to you.” A smile broke across her face like sunshine. “Wear it as my token.”

  He stepped close and caught her in his arms, and her hands flew up around his neck in a desperate hug. The links of his armor pricked at her, but she clenched him in a fervor and then broke away. “I’ll be waiting for you to bring me the prizes.” She smiled at him again, and her mouth trembled. He leaned down to kiss away her silliness. The kiss, of necessity, was light and insignificant. The nose guard bumped her cheek, and they were aware of Guilliame waiting in the room. But as William strode out, she touched her lips with her fingers, treasuring the token he left her in return.

  Maud entered the room almost before William had left. “Come, m’lady, I’ll take ye to your seat in the gallery. As the bride, ye have the place of honor.”

  “Where everyone can watch me, I suppose,” Saura said glumly. “I’ll have to appear confident and at ease.”

  “William’s a great warrior,” Maud soothed. “Ye can be confident and at ease. He’ll not disappoint ye.”

  “He has enemies.” She bit her lip. Should she tell Maud about the feeling that had been creeping up on her these last few days? The feeling that grew as the crowd around them swelled? The feeling of malevolence, the sound of a whisper in the dark?

  “He has more friends. Ye’re being ridiculous.”

  Maud scolded her, and the worry slipped away. Her maid’s common sense helped persuade her she deceived herself, and she listened to Maud and was comforted.

  “Lord Peter’s fighting, and he assured me he’d never let his son out of his sight. Not even a fool would harm Lord William in his own bailey surrounded by his own family and friends.”

  “Not a fool,” she said soberly. “But a madman.”

  Maud grasped Saura’s shoulders and shook her firmly. “Give Lord William credit. He’ll not widow ye before ye’re a wife.” She brushed Saura’s gown with her hand, straightened her belt, resettled her veil. “Ye are worthy to be the center of all eyes. Ye’re gorgeous in these clothes Lord Peter gifted ye with. Now go out and make him proud. Ye’re the hostess. Ye’re the bride. Ye’re the guest of honor. Remember who ye are, and never lower your chin.”

  As the stern encouragement sank in, Saura nodded and took Maud’s arm. “I’m ready.”

  She made her way outside to the gallery where the ladies watched the mêlée, and she did look like a queen. More than one guest envied her the blue linen bliaut that turned her eyes to the color of hyacinths. The scarlet cotte accented the black wing of her hair and the belt, woven with scarlet and blue and precious gold thread, focused the gaze of all on the slender sway of her hips. Young and beautiful—and blind—she had stolen a great marriage prize. She settled herself in the chair on the little raised dais as if she could see the fighting, and she appeared to have her nose in the air, for she neither smiled nor greeted anyone.

  She had no friends among these neighbors. The anarchy of the past fourteen years had limited travel. Bandits ruled the road and dishonorable lords laid waste and took what they wanted. It took a major event to bring the people out, and then they rode quickly, surrounded by bodyguards and bristling with armament. No respectable lady would visit Theobald’s infamous castle, ruled by a cowardly lord and rife with licentiousness.

  Saura’s years of isolation had effectively placed her away from noble society, and many who attended William’s wedding were of the highest nobility. Earls rubbed shoulders with landed barons. Their wives knew one another from other weddings, other funerals. They traded their sons for fostering. Saura felt the great gap when the women called greetings with the comradery of old acquaintanceship. All around her buzzed the news of babes newborn and pregnancies just begun, of grandparents who ailed and husbands who strayed. She wished she knew someone, just one person, to whom she could speak and smile and not feel as if she were breaking in like a bold-faced hussy.

  She’d never felt so unsure. She was failing as hostess. She knew how to feed a hungry a
rmy, how to provision a castle, but never had she been forced to mingle with a group of strange women. Her hands were clumsy and she tucked her feet far beneath her skirt.

  Why did it have to be now? She desperately needed someone to tell her what was happening on the field in front of her. She squeezed her fingers tightly in her lap. She didn’t think she could bear to sit there like some marble statue while her love fought to recover his skill and his pride and she was not to know what happened.

  Anxiety wrapped itself around her as she heard the teams lining up on opposite sides of the bailey. The clank of spears and the muffled snort of horses, the smell of the sunshine on the grass and the slowly rising dust marked the preparations of the knights. The gallery sat against the outer stone curtain wall, out of the sun and out of the way, and she knew a wooden wall protected the rows of benches from the accidental incursions of horse and knight. Mêlées were dangerous, dangerous enough that the Church strove to control them with bans, but for the knights who fought for prizes and glory and practice, they were a glorious imitation when battles were too few.

  Lord Peter shouted for quiet, and announced the prize. A war-horse, an unbroken destrier from his own stables, would be presented to the warrior who was judged most deserving. The destrier snorted and pranced, displaying his fierce temperament. Amid jeers and laughter, Lord Peter assured them he would take himself and his son out of the running, for all knew no one could vanquish such knights as they. Saura heard the panting of the stable boys as they fought the destrier back into the stable. She heard Lord Peter ride to his end of the field, and then someone thrust a handkerchief into her hand and whispered, “Hold it aloft, then drop it!” She did, and with a roar of hooves and the war shouts of the men, the mêlée began. She heard the first clashes as lance met shield and heard the ring of the swords as those unhorsed fought on foot. Women stood around her, calling the names of their men in encouragement.

  “Wilfred, get up and beat that blackguard!”

  “A fine stroke, Jourdain!”

  “Did you see Philip’s lance shatter! Oh, he’s angry now.”

  No one mentioned William’s name, and Saura’s muscles contracted, winding her in coils of fearful imagination. When the ladies’ shouting suddenly stopped, halted by some extraordinary circumstance, Saura blenched and begged, “What is it?”

  The woman next to her, the wife of an earl and daughter of an earl, and outspoken with the privilege of rank, told her, “I’ve never seen this before. Lord Nicholas does not fight today, and he’s coming to sit with the ladies!” The horror in Lady Jane’s voice made clear the indecency of such an action.

  “He says he doesn’t ride well or fight well,” Saura said timidly, unsure how to respond to such outrage.

  “Then he should go out on the field and get knocked off his horse,” the lady next to her snapped. “Do you think all of these knights before us are warriors? Some of them are already so drunk they can hardly sit a horse, like Sir Charles. God’s teeth, he’s down already! Some of them would do better if their wives wore their armor.”

  Saura laughed in relief. “Are they so awful? Then perhaps I shouldn’t fret, for my William is a great warrior.”

  The ring of pride made Lady Jane look at her sharply, but before she could speak, Nicholas’s soft voice interrupted. “May I sit with you, Lady Saura?” He sounded polite and urbane, but he failed to wait for her consent as he squeezed onto the end of the bench, pushing Lady Jane aside. Saura could hear Lady Jane sputtering, and she wished with all her heart Nicholas hadn’t made her the cynosure of all eyes. Then he gathered her hand in his. “You looked so alone, sitting here, and my heart twisted with pity. I knew how you must be worried. I wished to tell you about the dangers William is encountering. I thought it would be better than leaving you to your imagining.”

  She cried, “Aye, oh aye! Thank you!” Her hand tightened on his; she was ridiculously grateful to him, forgetting the negative reactions of the women, forgetting everything but the opportunity to “see” her beloved in action.

  He watched in silence for a moment, and then clicked his tongue in distress. “He fights so carelessly, and his skill has grown rusty with disuse. He’ll be killed for sure. Overconfidence, dear lady, overconfidence.”

  He patted her hand with his damp palm, and she drew a deep breath. “If that’s all you’re going to tell me, you can—”

  Painfully, his fingers tightened on hers, and he leapt to his feet. “Beware, William! Watch the swordsman behind you!”

  On the field, William surveyed the six opposing knights galloping toward him, and he bellowed with laughter. Gripping his sword, he wondered how he could have ever doubted his fighting ability. Some of his friends had engaged him cautiously, granting him time to warm to his sword work, but they soon learned their lesson. They lay on the ground, spitting out dust and swearing.

  Wheeling his destrier to meet the oncoming charge, he disarmed one knight while his horse lashed out behind and threw another down. He ducked beneath the wild swing of the youngest and pushed him off his saddle with a slam of his shield. Then he turned to thrust and dance away. His long reach held them at bay, while the grace of his large body enabled him to escape their swings by a hair’s breadth. The knights challenging him faded beneath his strokes like blades of grass in a whirlwind. Time after time he disarmed his challengers until even the few remaining on the field avoided him in hopes of retaining their reputations.

  All in vain. Drunk with the joy of fighting, he sought them out and vanquished them. At last he alone remained, and he raised his sword and howled in triumph. His erstwhile enemies flocked on the field, congratulating him, pounding his back and shouting insults that sounded like admiration. He dragged off his helmet, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, and tore off his gloves. Young Guilliame appeared to take the accoutrements in charge, grinning with reflected glory.

  William loved it. He revelled in the praise and adulation he had scorned and then missed without realizing it. He lingered until he glanced toward the gallery and saw Saura, standing alone on the dais with the still expression that bespoke intense listening. Breaking away from the men, he strode toward his lady, glancing neither left nor right, and as he neared, Lady Jane took his bride by the hand and led her to him. Saura dragged at first, but when Lady Jane spoke to her she brightened and hurried. She ran the last few feet, rocking him back with the impact of her small body against his. Pleased by her frantic embrace, he picked her up with one arm beneath her knees and one behind her shoulders and swung her around. “I’ve beaten them all! All!” he exulted, and she shrieked with equal parts of exasperation and pleasure.

  At last he slowed his wild cavorting, and she grabbed his ears. “By the Virgin, William, never frighten me so again. My heart stopped with every battle you fought. I don’t know whether to slap you or love you,” she told him.

  “Oh, love me,” he said with naughty intent, and she swept her hands over his face.

  “Your dimples are showing, and there’s not one sign of regret for the worry you’ve caused me,” she pronounced. “Why should I love a scoundrel such as you?”

  Beneath her hand, he rearranged his features into a parody of distress and she took hold of his neck and shook as hard as she could. It was like trying to rattle a rock column, its only effect to bring his face closer and closer until his breath was hers. More than she could stand, less than she wanted, she kissed him greedily.

  That kiss didn’t taste as if she wanted him only so she could have her land. It didn’t taste like lust or mild affection. It tasted like a deep and desperate fear for his life, and for the first time he hoped for everything. She slanted her mouth, as if she wanted to absorb his essence; her hands tangled in his beard and tugged him closer. Carried away by her passion, he let her legs slide down his body and held her like a child; one arm clasped around her back, one arm held her thighs. Her feet dangled, her little body trembled, and power swept through him, unequalled by the pleasure of fighting
. Raising his head with the intention of finding the nearest bed, he discovered with a jolt that he stood on the field of battle. The sun shone with a westerly slant, the dust from the mêlée had settled, and he still wore his hauberk and boots. The quiet bound the air, and all around them people stared with unabashed curiosity or appetite. As his gaze swept them, the men whistled lasciviously, nudging each other and chuckling, amused to find such a mighty warrior vanquished by such a gentle weapon. With a cool assessment, the ladies of the gallery stared at them.

  “Son!” Lord Peter called, and William suspected he’d been saying it for a long time. “Son, if you’ll put Lady Saura down, we’ll award the destrier and everyone can prepare for the evening meal.”

  William blinked at his father.

  “We have more guests to greet.” Lord Peter enunciated every word as if he knew how slowly William’s mind was working. “Saura’s vassals arrived during the fight and were greatly impressed with your prowess in the saddle.”

  He gestured, and William found three men standing not too far away, dressed in traveling clothes and watching him with a staid disapproval. Saura’s head lifted from its spot on his shoulder, and he looked down at her dazed face with its swollen lips and rosy skin. She distracted him, pulling him back with the sensual promise she projected, but Lord Peter whacked him on the back and said, “Let us present the award now.”

  Signs of cognizance appeared in Saura’s face, and reluctantly William let her slide all the way down to her feet. He steadied her with one hand under her arm until she no longer swayed, and thanked God for the hauberk that protected his form from exploring eyes. “Who wins the prize of the destrier?” he asked.

  Lord Peter suggested, “Sir Osbert of Carraville must surely claim the prize, don’t you agree, Lady Saura?”