~P.G. Wodehouse
VICTORINE
December 28th 1066 AD.
When the white cliffs loomed out of the mist, Victorine de Toeni grasped her maidservant’s hands. “Thanks be to the saints I didn’t retch in front of them,” she confided, thrusting her chin at the other eleven wards of William, Duke of Normandie. The newly crowned King of England had magnanimously declared himself their guardian and protector. It was, she thought, the least he could do for motherless daughters whose fathers had been slain at the Battle of Hastings.
The youngest, a whimpering green-faced child of unremembered name, was seven; the eldest, the overly chatty Guerlaine, possibly eighteen. However, none came from a family as illustrious as Victorine’s. It wouldn’t do to show weakness in front of girls of lower rank.
Jumelle smiled. “We are fortunate the sea was calm this day. Mayhap it’s for the best the captain refused to sail for four days.”
Her maid’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on Victorine. She had been less than kind in her choice of words when told of the seaman’s intransigence. However, that was all in the past. “Bien, I am disappointed I missed my guardian’s coronation, but I suppose the celebrations will still be ongoing.”
She dug her fingernails into the wood as the longboat scraped bottom. Crewmen jumped into the shallow water and heaved the vessel onto the sandy shore. Relieved she’d survived her first sea voyage, she inhaled the chilly air, determined to be optimistic. “King William will soon find a husband worthy of me among his brave knights,” she told Jumelle confidently. “Given my father’s rank, I’m certain he will choose a noble warrior, a hero of Hastings, perhaps.”
She disembarked carefully with the captain’s assistance, mindful of what had happened to Duke William at Pevensey in October. In his haste to come ashore and begin the invasion he’d fallen flat on his face in the mud.
On the beach, she surveyed the newly conquered land that had cost her family dearly. She’d never touched the heart of Berenger de Toeni, the arrogant father who’d lavished his love and attention on his sons. Now they were dead too, ground into the muck and gore of Hastings. The extensive de Toeni estates had passed to a male cousin.
She held on to Jumelle when her feet sank in the wet sand. “There is nothing left for us in Normandie. England is our future now.” She gazed up at the stark white cliffs that seemed to mock her fragile hopes.
The captain pointed down the beach. “Yonder comes the escort sent by His Majesté.”
She narrowed her eyes. The winter sky was overcast, but the glare off the water made it difficult to see anything except the silhouette of a tall knight who strode towards them. He looked like a giant, but mayhap it was the leather armor that made him appear larger.
He effected a bow when he reached them, though the gesture certainly wasn’t as deferential as it should have been. She thought perhaps the blame lay with the sand. However, this wasn’t the lavish reception she’d expected. “Surely our escort consists of more than one knight,” she said peevishly.
Annoyance prickled her nape when he chuckled. “Indeed not,” he assured her in the deepest voice she’d ever heard. “I am Sir Dervenn de Roure, milady, and I bring Yuletide greetings from King William. I’ve men and wagons aplenty beyond the beach.”
He eyed the baggage stacked on the longboat. “Hopefully, we brought enough wagons.”
Bristling at his mocking tone, she shaded her eyes and moved slightly to get a better view of his face. Her belly dropped to her boots, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the livid scar that ran down the right side of his face, from hairline through eyebrow to lip. His narrowed gaze rendered it impossible to tell if the vicious wound had taken his eye. His hair was cropped short in the style of the Norman cavalry, but blonde, like his bristly-looking beard. There was something different about his manner of speech.
“Souvenir of the battle,” he growled, jolting her thoughts back to the beach.
She looked away hastily, noticing a score of soldiers making their way towards them. “I—”
“No need to apologise,” he said gruffly. “My disfigurement takes everyone aback.”
She stiffened her spine. Apologise! As if a de Toeni would apologise to…whatever this brute was. “I was about to say that most warriors wear their battle scars with pride.”
She clenched her fists, annoyed the words hadn’t come out as she’d intended. The man had obviously paid a heavy price at Hastings. If he wasn’t married he’d have a difficult time finding a woman who’d want to wake up every day and see…
Sweat trickled down her spine despite the winter chill, a most distasteful state of affairs. The sun must have come out.
He turned away without reply and shouted orders to the soldiers, then proffered an arm. “You have had a long journey,” he said. “May I escort you to your horse?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to remark that it was about time he showed some courtly manners. However, when she accepted his offer, the astonishing strength of his rock-hard arm stoppered the harsh words before they could emerge.
DERVENN
Victorine de Toeni was exactly what Dervenn had expected. He’d known Berenger de Toeni, and wasn’t surprised the daughter was spoiled, arrogant, and rude. Hence his reluctance to fulfill this errand. However, when a king commands…
What he hadn’t expected were the perfect breasts, the willowy form, the pouty lips that looked deliciously kissable. She’d probably be mortified if she realized the wind had caused her wimple to go slightly askew, revealing wisps of hair. A blonde with green eyes. An unusual and potent combination. If she ever smiled she’d be a beauty.
But it was pointless to let his thoughts wander in that direction. She’d reacted predictably to his wound, drawn to stare in horror, despite herself. Just like the others.
Wait till she found out he wasn’t a Norman. Though the Bretons had fought side by side with the Normans for every inch gained at Hastings, a Breton knight would never be considered good enough by the likes of Victorine de Toeni, no matter that King William had hinted at the possibility of such a match.
It amused him that she was obliged to depend on his arm as they made their way up the sloping beach, though she tried valiantly not to lean on him.
“I am anxious to hear about the coronation,” she gushed nervously. He suspected this proud woman loathed appearing weak, but then she’d recently lost her father and brothers. Facing life as an orphan in a newly-conquered foreign country couldn’t be easy.
“Things didn’t go exactly as planned at the Abbey,” he replied, recalling the chaos that had erupted at the Christmas Day ceremony thanks to the overly zealous Norman guards. “But William is indeed King of England.”
She came to an abrupt halt. “Surely my guardian doesn’t allow you to call him by his given name?”
She averted her gaze when he turned to face her. “As a matter of fact he does,” he replied with more belligerence than he intended. “Something to do with my saving his life and nigh on losing an eye in the process.”
She glanced up at him, doubt plain to see in those green eyes, but she said nothing, evidently deciding not to rise to the challenge in his own gaze. Strangely, her refusal to spar with him was a disappointment. The prospect of trading wits with such a temperamental beauty kindled a spark of excitement he hadn’t felt since before Hastings.
When they reached the horses, she inspected the mount he indicated was to be hers. “A passable palfrey,” she finally allowed.
He bent the knee and meshed his fingers together.
She looked at him as if he’d asked her to put her foot into pig-swill. “Is there no mounting block?” she asked, her voice dripping disdain.
The urge to put her over his knee and smack her bottom was powerful and led to another desire he’d disciplined his body to stifle in the three months since life had changed completely. So he said nothing, leaving her with no alternative but to accept his offer to boost her into the saddle.
>
She hesitated a moment or two, both hands on the pommel, until it apparently occurred to her if she attempted to mount that way she would likely end up on the ground on the other side of the horse.
It gave him immense satisfaction when she put a hand on his shoulder. Too much in fact. This was dangerous territory. He couldn’t afford to become preoccupied with a woman like Victorine de Toeni, or with any woman for that matter. His future was set. He would dedicate his solitary life to helping his king establish Norman law and order in England.
The irony wasn’t lost on his Breton sense of humor.
Once she was safely mounted, he turned his attention to the youngest of his charges. He hunkered down in front of the pale child who stood holding the hand of one of his men, eyeing the horses that were all obviously too big for her to ride. The lingering odor of mal de mer suggested she’d endured a rough crossing. She gaped at his scar and moved closer to the soldier.
“Would you like to ride with me, demoiselle Marie de Monluc?” he asked. “I’m not as scary as I look. Antoine will help you.”
He’d discovered that children tended to accept his disfigurement more readily, so he wasn’t surprised when she smiled and nodded. He mounted Haritz and Antoine lifted her into his lap. She nestled into him, sparking a twinge of regret that he would never hold a child of his own. He loved children and had always assumed he’d sire many strong sons and beautiful daughters.
Antoine signalled that the baggage was loaded onto the wagon. Dervenn suspected that one of the handful of maids riding amid the iron chests served Victorine.
As he set the column in motion towards Westminster it was of some satisfaction that the haughty blonde glared at Marie. He chuckled inwardly. Mayhap he should have offered her a ride in his lap.
MILTON REGIS
Half of the cohort led the cavalcade, the remaining men brought up the rear. Dervenn positioned himself with the women in the middle. Victorine made it clear she considered herself above the others by riding alongside him, her back ramrod straight. She didn’t make conversation, but then most of them were strangely quiet. He had to keep reminding himself they’d suffered horrendous losses in their young lives.
His feelings about Victorine’s silence were mixed. Marie had quickly fallen asleep and he didn’t want her to waken. He felt comfortable with the haughty woman’s closeness. It would be easier to protect her should they come under attack. William may have won the crown but the Saxons were far from contained.
A thousand bees buzzed in his head, each bearing a notion of how to get beneath her bristly armor.
To his surprise she seemed quite taken with the rolling Kentish landscape, so he began there. “Today we journey to Milton Regis, milady Victorine, where we will lodge at an old Roman villa.”
She narrowed her gaze. “I did not give leave for you to use my given name,” she said. “And I prefer we proceed directly to Westminster.”
He inclined his head to conceal his amusement. She had no notion of the distance involved and had risen so readily to the bait. “Your pardon, milady de Toeni,” he replied, lowering his voice so as not to alarm Marie. “Unfortunately, travelling all night would render us vulnerable to Saxon bandits and it’s likely none of us would make it to Westminster alive.”
He regretted the fear in her green eyes when she swivelled her head to look at him, but best she be aware of the dangers. This was a ride through newly-conquered lands fraught with peril, not a leisurely jaunt in the Normandie countryside.
“Bandits?” she whispered, looking furtively into the bushes on either side of the track.
“We are relatively safe on this well-travelled road in daylight. The Romans built this thoroughfare they called Watlingestrate,” he explained in the hope of taking her mind off the fear he himself had planted there. “Although it was apparently an ancient route from the coast to London long before that.”
He was relieved when her shoulders relaxed. “You seem to know a lot about the history of this place,” she conceded, though she didn’t smile.
He hesitated. If he told her of his origins she would become even more aloof. But what did it matter? “I visited these shores many times before I came here with William. My ancestral roots are in this land. I am from Bretagne.”
She stared, looking like she’d swallowed one of his imaginary bees. He’d destroyed any hope of a friendship between them. Perhaps it was as well.
OYSTERS
The villa was impressive, but Victorine wouldn’t divulge her opinion of it to Dervenn. Though the Romans had left England hundreds of years before, it was evident the villa had been lived in since those times. The elaborately tiled floors were chipped and cracked, but still breathtakingly beautiful.
She wasn’t impressed that the soldiers in their escort and the Norman servants were given leave to eat at a table adjacent to her own. She didn’t want Jumelle associating with riffraff. However, at least she’d been assigned a small chamber of her own with a pallet for her maid. Sharing with Guerlaine during the long wait for the weather to clear had been a trial.
Dervenn, seated next to her, came to his feet as Saxon servants appeared with trenchers. His grin was unsettling. “For an appetizer, we have a local delicacy. Milton Regis is famous for its oysters.”
She came close to grimacing in loud disgust with the other girls when the trenchers were placed on the table. She regained her ladylike composure just in time. “Surely you don’t expect us to eat those?”
To her annoyance Marie de Monluc seized one of the shells. “We have these at home,” she exclaimed.
It was the first time Victorine had seen the girl smile. She was actually quite pretty. More cries of revulsion followed when the silly child tilted the shell to her mouth and let the loathsome sea creature slide down her throat.
Victorine feared she might be sick, but her dismay was tempered when Marie’s smile disappeared and a tear trickled down her cheek. “Papa loved them,” she murmured.
Dervenn frowned, but quickly reached for one of the shells. “Then I salute your Papa. He was obviously a man of good taste.”
With that he tipped the oyster into his mouth, but, unlike Marie, he chewed a few times before swallowing. “Sweet,” he declared, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
Marie wiped away her tears, preened at the praise and reached for another oyster.
Apparently emboldened by the child’s enjoyment, one or two of the others tried them. All seemed pleasantly surprised by the taste, but Victorine remained determined not to demean herself by eating offal from the sea.
“King William loves oysters,” the knight declared with his mouth full. “He considers them a great delicacy.”
She was torn. She didn’t want the Breton informing her guardian of her reluctance to try the creatures. The other girls had enjoyed them. Gritting her teeth she reached for one of the shells.
“Make sure it’s not too clear,” the scarred fool advised, obviously enjoying her discomfort. “They should be opaque. Means they’ve been well fed.”
If she looked too closely at the glob of creamy flesh floating in what she assumed was seawater, she might retch and that would never do. Saying a silent prayer she tipped the oyster into her mouth and swallowed.
Utter silence reigned.
Relief surged. They were salty and sweet at the same time, the aftertaste pleasantly briny. “Quite good,” she conceded, reaching for another.
The Breton leaned towards her, a strange half smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “They say oysters are a powerful aphrodisiac,” he whispered.
She was tempted to slap his ruined face, but her thoughts became muddled by a rush of unwelcome heat. It was intriguing how the Romans had managed to design dwellings that were alarmingly hot even in winter.
~~~
Having made sure his charges were all tucked up in their beds and the guards awake at their posts around the villa’s perimeter, Dervenn retired to his pallet in the stables.
The
meal had been a success and he was happy he’d managed to remove some of the sadness and apprehension from the faces of the young orphaned women, especially Marie. Her love of oysters had been a happy coincidence.
Even the pouty Victorine de Toeni had allowed herself to smile once or twice, and she had definitely enjoyed the local delicacy. But he ought to have squelched the urge to tease her with his comment about aphrodisiacs. He doubted she even understood the meaning of the word, though her deep blush had caused pleasant stirrings at his groin. He wondered absently if the flush had reached her breasts.
He drew the blanket to his chin, resolved to think no further on the possibility of a relationship with the snobbish chit. William had hinted he could have Victorine if he wanted her, but he had no interest in spending his life with a woman forced to share his bed.
On the morrow he would deliver her and the rest of his charges to the king, and that would be that.
WESTMINSTER
It was apparent to Victorine as they broke their fast the next day that the Breton knight had won the regard of the other girls. It was irritating. They oohed and aahed when he announced they would ride for an hour or two then board a barge to sail up the Tamesis to Westminster.
Evidently all it took was the charm of a handsome knight to make them quickly forget the recent voyage across the Narrow Sea.
Except he wasn’t handsome, though perhaps before his disfigurement…
She clenched her fist in her lap and nibbled on the fresh bread and creamy cheese, resolved to think no further on Dervenn de Roure and his charm, or lack thereof.
The prospect of travelling along the mighty river she’d heard so much about was preferable to spending several more hours on horseback. Her derrière was still sore from the ride to Milton Regis. She’d never in her life spent an entire day on a horse. Her father deemed females unsuited to riding. Her brothers had taught her. Papa would have been furious if he’d seen the three of them cantering across the fields of the estate, she riding astride. As a member of Duke William’s elite cavalry, he’d rarely spent time at home.
Merry Medieval Christmas Page 27
