by Ling, Maria
"I told you no," one of the guards muttered without stirring. "Get back in your room."
Eustace kept utter silence. The man shifted, began to raise his head. Eustace slipped past, eased his way into Aline's room, and pushed the door shut.
Well, he was here. In her chamber. While she slept.
Hardly a knightly thing to do.
Though she had attendants, guards outside and a sturdy woman in her bed. She'd have reason to be frightened, if she ever realised a man stood here, but in truth she was safe. And from him, always.
He discovered a deep joy in just being near her. Listened to her breathing in the dark. Matilda's he knew, had cause to remember it from the tavern sickbed. Aline's he recognised too, light and even as when she was awake.
It would be no great sin to remain a little while, here by the door, without impertinence or harm. Whisper a blessing, a prayer maybe. Wait for the guard to sink under again.
Then slip away, Eustace promised himself. Quietly as he came, striving not to wake his friends outside as he left. No one would ever know.
A hand closed on his arm and made him freeze with fear.
"I don't know who you are," Aline said in a distinct and wakeful tone, "but I have a knife right where you least want it."
"Er," Eustace said. "That's commendable."
"Oh my..." She slid close to him, and he couldn't help but wince at the possibility of that drawn blade. A whisper, faint as the touch of a breeze against his cheek: "Eustace?"
"Sorry," he whispered back. "Should have asked you first before venturing here, I know. I couldn't sleep."
"Nor I." She definitely wasn't holding a knife, both her hands traced his shirt-clad shoulders, and the touch made him shiver with delicious anticipation. He let his own hands drift around her waist and trace its curve, as his mouth and his tongue found hers. She tasted fresh and crisp as new-fallen snow. Her breasts lay soft and full against his chest, her buttocks round under his hands. Desire caught him and shook him, like a sudden gust of wind through the naked branches of winterworn trees.
"I want you," Eustace whispered, with her breath in his.
Aline pressed tight against his body, stroked his shoulders and neck with delicate hands.
"I want you too," she whispered, and the heat in her voice thrilled him. He eased her down onto the floor, pushed his cloak out as a rudimentary bed. Wrapped his arms around her and sought her mouth again, open and generous, eager to lengthen each kiss.
He'd sworn an oath. Duty and obedience, setting his lord's will above his own. But he must break it now, or else he himself would break -- shatter against the hard merciless rock of convention, while this warmth and passion bled away into frosty ground.
This was his chance to share that warmth. His only chance, because they couldn't hope to meet again, not like this, body to body and skin to skin. Too much stood between them, wealth and power and duty, hard and cold as walls of stone. They had a moment now, to be together in the way he'd longed for since he first saw her -- he admitted as much to himself, though she would never know. Just this once, and the memory would comfort and warm him for the rest of his life.
It stretched out ahead of him, a lifetime as harsh and cold as his years of service had always been before. With comradeship enough, good food and safe lodging, it could be worse. But it wasn't like this, could never again be like this, all heat and lust and passion, a flurry of caresses, bare skin touching.
He threw aside all thought of duty, let his hands quest further under her shift. Found that most sacred chalice, hot and wet under his fingertips. Tugged up his shirt and slid in between her thighs, and heard a drumming as of hoofbeats loud within his ears -- as if he rode across open fields in perfect freedom, and she with him.
***
CHAPTER 7
Aline started awake. She'd slept, and the floor lay hard underneath her, with only Eustace's cloak for protection between her skin and bare boards.
Eustace. Who slept beside her, long deep easy breaths. She wanted to lie like this forever, huddled close to his body, listening to him as he slept.
She allowed herself a moment longer, the luxury of togetherness. Wished they could share this always, that she might wake this way every night, just watch out the darkness with him beside her.
And more. Much more. The private ecstasy of ultimate communion, such as they had already shared. She smiled at the memory, gloried in the pleasure that still coursed through her body. She'd soared, then, with the speed and strength of a full gallop across open fields, except that it was all her doing and his, the two of them flying fleet together.
It was wonderful. Had been wonderful. And now he must leave, quickly and quietly, so that no one else discovered what they'd done. She hated that, the need for them to part. But they must. At least for now.
She didn't know what hour it was. Late and dark and icy, deadly still, with neither stir nor murmur that she could discern. Not yet approaching morning. This must be his best chance to slip away unnoticed.
She shook his shoulder, as hard as she dared. His breathing shortened at once, his body tensed just a fraction. Then he whispered: "What?"
"You'll need to leave." Before Matilda woke, she was always first to rise. And Aline needed privacy before then, must find rags and wadding and make good use of it all, dispose of it discreetly in the pot without betraying either him or herself.
"I suppose I must." Eustace cuddled Aline to him, kissed her brow and cheek and lips. Lingered there, opened her mouth with his, and she was weak, she joined him in extending the kiss. Wished it need never end.
But it did, as it had to. He released her with a faint sigh. Whispered in her ear: "Meet me outside if you can. Usual place."
"I'll try." But she'd be there, she already knew she would. Whatever it cost her of lies and stratagems, she must have another moment with him. Another chance to touch and hold each other, to find a space -- no matter how small and how fleeting -- for the two of them to cling together as one.
She scrambled to her feet, helped him brush down his cloak, set it right about him. Kissed him again, one last time, and gave him blessing. Led him to the door, she could find it well enough by memory, quietly slid it open and peeked out first. They were fast asleep, both her guards, and the lamp on the stairs burned low.
"Go," she whispered, and he did, pausing only to touch her cheek in passing. His footsteps flowed so smooth and light that neither sleeper stirred. Aline watched him disappear around the curve of the stairs, held her breath as the faint breath of soles on stone faded, eased herself back into her own room. To smile, and to grieve, and to delight in what they had shared.
***
Eustace was on gate duty from dawn the next morning. Which he didn't mind, as a rule, but it chafed him to have no chance to see Aline even in passing.
He was relieved to have managed to sneak out of her bedchamber during the dead hours, moving in absolute silence while her guards snored. Turned just once at the curve of the stairs, to find her still standing in the doorway, motionless, with a smile as of angels on her beautiful face. He'd raised one hand, and she'd echoed the gesture, and then he was gone.
Out of her life. Because it had to be that or marriage, and the earl would kill him if he so much as dared to mention it. Which Eustace would risk, or so he told himself, but he feared for what might befall her. If the earl blamed her in any way, beat her or forced her into a hasty marriage just to keep her safe from the impertinent words of a mere knight -- no, it was not a thought to be dwelt on.
But he did dwell on it, all through the frozen hours, until called for the midday meal. He hurried then, arrived as the first man in, was already waiting when she appeared in the train of ladies. Caught and smothered a smile, it wouldn't do to be seen on friendly terms with her, he'd draw suspicion and so would she.
He couldn't bear the possibility that he might cause her harm. No: he'd remain discreet, as she must remain aloof, so that no one else could guess what had pa
ssed between them.
Though the memory coursed through his blood, every moment. He thought the entire hall must know of it, from the flush on his cheeks and mouth and the shortness of his breath. She was there, not ten steps from him, and within his hearing. He caught her every word to the hated baron at her side. Polite, but distant: she knew how to hold him off. Brave girl, fighting her own battle against powerful men, while Eustace brought no aid. It was all he could do to sit here in silence, and pretend he barely recognised her.
It proved too hard. He must glance at her, just once -- just twice -- and found he couldn't stop. Tried to eat, but the food stuck in his throat. He didn't want it, simply yearned to sit and watch her, like a mystic beholding a sacred vision.
Which he did, surreptitiously at first, and then with complete entrancement. There wasn't another woman like her in the world. Tall and beautiful, still with a hint of a smile over those lovely lips, as if she remembered his kisses. He did: they were pressed into his lips like gold leaf on vellum, brilliant as the heavenly light.
She looked at him then, directly, and that gaze frizzled him as if he'd stood too close to a flame. He watched her in return, unwavering, breathless at her beauty.
The hall fell silent all around him, he no longer heard the voices of men from high table, no longer saw anyone but her. As if he was all alone and she was the world, all that he wanted and everything he craved.
"You are dismissed," the earl said. Eustace started: there really had been silence. And everyone was staring at him.
He rose and bowed to the earl at high table, strode out with as calm and even a step he could manage. Heard the low tense murmurs that followed him, none of the disciplined silence of ordinary life. Found his own corner and waited to be summoned. Because he could guess what must follow now, and he cursed himself for an indulgent and oblivious fool.
They came for him after the meal was over, two men he knew well. No friendly greetings, just a curt order and a firm hand on his shoulder. He couldn't grudge that, they had their orders and must obey. But it chilled him, even so.
The earl waited in his own bedchamber, standing squarely in the middle of the room. Dismissed the guards, waited for the door to shut, then fixed Eustace with a stare that sliced clear through the heart.
"You will tell me," the earl said, "exactly what has been going on between you and my ward."
Eustace knelt before him. "Nothing."
"Don't take me for a fool. I saw the way you looked at her. Damn it, every man in my hall saw the way you looked at her. Do you deny you've thought about her in such terms as -- "
"Of course I don't deny it," Eustace flared. "I'd have to be a halfwit and blind not to think of her in those terms." He summoned all he owned of courage -- or of desperation. "But that doesn't mean I'd so far forget the respect I owe to you and to her as to act on such thoughts."
The earl regarded him suspiciously. "Has she -- "
Eustace set his chin. "I will answer for it that it has never so much as occurred to her to forget her duties to herself, her family, her guardian and her kin, to regard me in any other light than as her servant." He fixed the earl with a glare every part as ferocious as the man's own. "I will answer for the lady's complete indifference to me, sir."
The earl drew a deep breath, then nodded thoughtfully. "I will admit that in all the years since you came into my care, I have never once found you to have lied to me. Your honesty has struck me as, if anything, excessive at times. That deserves some recognition. I accept your assurance that nothing untoward has occurred between you and the young lady. However, you will understand that I cannot retain you in my service."
Eustace bowed his head. It had come to this, after all, and he thought his heart would shatter. "I do," he said. "Since I have caused suspicion to fall upon her, I could not continue to serve in the same household in any case."
"Good." The earl laid a hand on Eustace's shoulder. "I find no fault with you, nor with her. But you must never meet again. I happen to know that my friend the baron is a few men short at present. You will serve him, I hope as faithfully as you have served me, until he can dispose of you elsewhere. I release you from the oath that binds you to my service, I no longer stand as lord to you. I shall speak to the baron this instant. If he accepts, you will no doubt be required to leave at once. If not, I must nevertheless ask you not to remain within my walls another moment. You may retain one horse and armour only, I shall have need of the rest. Make ready and await further orders at the gate. Go."
Eustace rose, and bowed, and strode out of the room. Men stood aside for him as he found his own corner, slung his few possessions into his blanket, shouldered the small load and hurried off down the stairs.
###
"It was all so strange," Aline said with all the innocence she could muster.
They sat in Ysolt's chamber, sewing as usual, as if nothing at all had occurred. Aline had permitted herself to hope, just at first, that it had all been a dreadful coincidence, that it was her own guilty conscience that embroidered shock and distaste on the faces of her guardian and his lady. But she'd relinquished that hope as the meal went on, and the murmur subsided but the sidewards glances did not.
After the meal ended, and the musicians' infernal racket ceased, Aline had been whisked away with dizzying speed. To sit here, in a warm chamber that grew more stifling with each breath, and be regarded like a weevil newly crawled from a festive loaf.
"My lord earl appeared displeased with the man," Aline fought on. "Had he done something wrong?"
"He had," Ysolt said through tight lips.
Aline's thread snagged, and she realised she'd been stitching over the same place for several moments. With an inward oath, she set herself to unpicking the mess.
"I thought he acted commendably after the accident," Aline insisted. "So calm and so proper. Rode for help at once, escorted me along the way so that I would not take a chill from waiting." She improvised there, didn't know what excuse -- if any -- Eustace had given. But it was worth twisting everything into a favourable light if she could.
It worked. Ysolt grew visibly less tense. "That was well thought of," she admitted. "Though he could have ridden on in haste, and left you accompanied by your groom."
"I believe the groom thought he was best used in caring for the horse," Aline offered. "Since the other men were very naturally concerned about their fallen lord. I'm afraid I was rather in everyone's way."
"Hmm." Ysolt's lips tightened again. "I do not understand this preoccupation with a mere horse."
Aline tugged her thread free. "An intelligent, trustworthy creature who provides such loyal and excellent service ought to be cared for in return, surely?"
Ysolt ignored the question. "In any case, it was unpardonable for him to gawp at you in such a way. Shaming you in the eyes of every man there."
"Did he?" Aline widened her eyes a little. "I had no idea. When?"
Ysolt studied her for a long moment. "It hardly matters. He has been dismissed from service."
Aline caught and strangled a yelp. "Indeed? I trust he'll be able to find a more suitable position. He seems very competent."
"I wouldn't know." Ysolt stabbed at her sewing.
Aline turned the conversation to less contentious matters, mostly the health of the baron's son. She didn't dare betray herself further, and she needed time to think.
By the time she was seated beside the baron at high table for the evening meal, watching some interminable mummery, she had the makings of a plan.
"How is your son?" she asked with pretended concern. "It was a most dreadful fall. I understand it will be some weeks yet before we can have the pleasure of his company at meals."
"He'll mend." The baron cast her a shrewd look. "You feared for his life?"
"It did seem a most dangerous venture. I am so relieved..." She sank her voice, strove for a baleful expression. "I am glad to have him here safe. For an instant out there I did think -- though I know it is foo
lish of me -- but I did imagine the physician was right after all."
"About what?" the baron asked with a puzzled frown, still half watching the play.
Aline lowered her voice even further. "Witchcraft."
The baron gave a violent start and turned fully to face her. "You surely do not think that my son was brought down by some hag's curse?"
"Not for a moment," Aline said. "Although..." She let her voice waver.
"Speak up, girl!"
Ysolt hushed them both. Aline leaned unpleasantly close, so near she could smell his skin, acrid and stale. "On my journey here, my maidservant fell ill. Fever, you know, the same as took my family. Except this was different, not nearly as fierce, and passing quicker. The physician thought it witchcraft, and said so."
"Yes." The baron fixed her with a critical stare. "I heard that's how you escaped it yourself."
"I didn't," Aline said. She was about to tell of Matilda's care, but held herself back. She didn't want her beloved woman implicated in so dreadful and dangerous a matter as this. "We were all ill. I did think Father would pull through, but he succumbed in the end. No, that was a test of our faith -- the priest said so, you may send and ask him. My family, all, were welcomed into Paradise. I must remain a little longer -- a further test, so he said." Her voice wavered and broke, but she pulled it taut once again. She must convince. She owed it to herself, and to Eustace. And she'd spoken truth so far, it was exactly what the priest had told her. Cruel beyond reckoning, she'd thought at the time. Now...perhaps she could discern a glimmer in the world, after all. She had Matilda. She might yet have Eustace, too.
It would not replace those lost, nothing could ever do that. But it might console her, grant her some measure of happiness after she'd thought her life a wasteland. Which was, perhaps, a sign of faith returning.
