She could smell Arnelaine’s fields, the rich scent of the soil turned with manure before the winter. That mingled with the smell of the fires in the village nestled against the château walls and the sound of the river splashing in the wheel of the mill. The bell rang out from the chapel, a mournfully slow clang, reminding her all too well that the lord of the manor had passed from this earth and been laid to his rest this day.
But Theobald had not been lord of Arnelaine of late, though she had not known of it.
He had deceived her.
Eglantine tore open her spouse’s letter, surprised at the heat of her anger. Theobald had betrayed not only her, but her daughter, her step-daughter and the child they two had brought to light.
Eglantine had believed they at least had shared an honest rapport, but clearly even that had been a lie.
The cur’s letter was dated four months past.
My dearest Eglantine—
’Tis oft said that a man may not savor the view after a night of drinking and that is true enough of me on this morn. I have been foolish, not for the first time and probably not for the last, but I fear that this foolishness cannot be repaired.
Months past I took a wager, thinking it an easy one to win. ’Twas to ensure Esmeraude’s future that I took this gamble, for I worry overmuch about our child’s choices. I would have her wed a king, a prince, a lord of lords, and knew ‘twas my responsibility to ensure she had the dowry to win the most deserving man to her side.
’Tis the irony of such matters that my deeds may well have precisely the opposite effect. ’Tis the way of the wine to make me feel that Dame Fortune rides beside me, and more than once these past months, I have tried to set all to rights. Instead I have only made matters worse—last night, I lost the manor of Arnelaine itself.
I know ’tis not mine to lose, I know I had no right, but with the seal in my purse and the dice falling my way, I dared overmuch. ’Twas my intent to see this corrected, though I know now that I hoped overmuch. After these past months of such efforts, there is naught left to my hand, naught with which I might wager, no honor left in my name which might compel others at least to courtesy.
This morn, I am faced with a dark realization. It is not unlikely that I shall fail in my quest to retrieve Arnelaine. This is no blight upon the man to whom I have lost your brother’s holding, for this man of honor has granted me not only the opportunity to redress my error, but the secrecy in which to do it. ’Tis by his generosity that we have been allowed to continue at Arnelaine as though naught was amiss and to him I owe much.
Yet still, I write this confession to you, my own wife, the one soul destined to wring something from naught. If I succeed in correcting what I have done, then I shall burn this missive and you will never know the truth of my sorry secret. If you are reading these words, then ’tis because I have failed.
And you, you who loved me for what I pretended to be, will surely be dismayed. Though truly, Eglantine, if there is any who can make the most of little, ’tis you.
What I have to grant to you is little indeed. Here is my sole possession, the title to a distant holding, one which I have never seen. This Kinbeath was bestowed upon my father years ago. Truth be told, if any believed it had any value, I would have wagered it and likely you would not even hold it in your hand.
Kinbeath lies in distant Scotland, though its tale is perhaps worth the journey. ’Tis the way of the Celts to make a pagan wedding ceremony called a handfast. A couple pledge to live as one for a year and a day, and if all goes well, they swear at the end to keep all their days and nights together. ’Twas said by my father that this Kinbeath is believed a fortunate place to make such a vow, that locally all clamor to make their vows there.
Perhaps you and I should have made our pledges each to the other in Kinbeath. Perhaps then I would not be writing this missive, perhaps then I would not have failed so badly. Perhaps then you would regard me with other than disappointment in your eyes.
Perhaps then I might have been the man you once believed me to be.
But we did not and I am not. And instead of a fine fat dowry for Esmeraude, I leave you only the deed to a property held to be worthless, at least upon these shores.
Forgive me, Eglantine, if you can find it within your heart to do so. ’Twas not my intent to fail.
Eglantine ran her fingertip over Theobald’s signature, the enclosed title falling to the floor unheeded. She traced the swirls of ink as tears obscured her vision, her heart aching with the memory of all the hopes she had once had.
She had been such a fool.
Unwitnessed, she buried her face in her hands and wept as never she permitted herself to do. Eglantine was alone but for her responsibilities and one worthless title, and felt more like a young girl than a woman widowed once again.
* * *
When thunder rumbled in the distance and the sky darkened, Eglantine straightened. She wiped her tears and found her composure once again.
She opened Reynaud’s letter, every word feeding her dawning conviction to make a change in her circumstance.
My lady Eglantine—
Be advised that I shall arrive at Arnelaine in a fortnight’s time. It is my understanding that your spouse has recently passed from this earth, and accordingly, arrangements have been made with the Abbess of Courbelle for your acceptance there as a novitiate. You are however welcome to linger at Arnelaine, as my guest, until the nuptials between Jacqueline and I are celebrated two months hence. I shall, with your certain agreement, be delighted to arrange for Esmeraude’s marriage when she comes of age.
Please ensure that all is made ready for my arrival and that the keys to Arnelaine are entrusted to Jacqueline.
Reynaud had not signed his missive beyond a lazy R, but he had marked it heavily with red wax, imprinted so deeply with Arnelaine’s seal that she could not have doubted the image. A second seal bore the arms of Charmonte, his home estate.
His letter motivated her as naught else might have done. Indeed, Eglantine’s lips drew to a tight line at the sight of that seal.
So this was who had taken Theobald’s wager! No wonder Theobald had been so evasive in naming the other man, for Eglantine had made no secret of her objections to Jacqueline’s match.
Clearly, Reynaud de Charmonte did not approve of Eglantine’s objections to his marriage to her daughter and made to ensure that she had no right of protest.
And a convent for her! Eglantine would join no convent! How dare Reynaud make such an arrangement?
’Twas as though Eglantine was only so much baggage, and baggage that must be removed. His deed confirmed the worst of her fears and changed all of her assumptions. Although another lord might have allowed Guillaume to retain Arnelaine by the payment of Theobald’s debts, Reynaud would not let the matter end so simply.
First he would ensure he had Jacqueline.
But a man who treated Eglantine in such manner would not make Jacqueline a fitting spouse. When he tired of his bride, would he dispose of her with such indifference as well? Eglantine guessed as much. As for Esmeraude, well, Eglantine heartily doubted that Reynaud’s choice of spouse would better suit when the time to wed came.
She must ensure he did not win his way, for the sake of her daughters. Perhaps then, Guillaume might regain his holding, as well.
But what could she do?
Family loyalty prompted Eglantine to turn to her brother. But she had asked Guillaume repeatedly about Jacqueline’s betrothal and repeatedly, he had quoted the law to her, albeit with apologies. ’Twas the way of a man of honor to uphold the law and Eglantine knew that her brother would not be swayed to her side.
Men! Eglantine paced the chamber, hating the fact that her fate was yet again not her own.
There had been a time when she might have thought her friend Burke de Montvieux would champion her cause, but those days were gone. He was in love with his wife, and enamored of his young son, and Eglantine knew she had no right to intrude on that ha
ppy scene. Burke had persuaded her once of the merit of love—though that course had won her naught but trouble, Eglantine was tempted to find such love for her daughters.
What if even one of them might win the hand of a man like Burke?
’Twas a possibility that halted Eglantine’s pacing. Aye, she would not stand aside and let her daughters be compelled to repeat her own fate. They would not marry old men, they would not be trapped in households hostile to them, they would not be so much chattel in men’s lives!
They would have the love of which Burke so eloquently spoke.
Eglantine would ensure it. She crumpled Reynaud’s missive as though she would destroy his plans with that one gesture, then flung the parchment across the room. She would not bow to this man’s will!
And she was not compelled to do so—because Theobald had unwittingly granted her the means to make a difference.
’Twould not be an easy task, but the alternative was sufficiently unattractive to make her reckless. Eglantine picked up the deed to faraway Kinbeath, a smile playing across her lips as her decision was made.
She would take her daughters to Scotland, a place so distant that she could barely imagine it. Louis would go with them, Eglantine was certain, for there was no future for him beneath Reynaud’s hand.
Aye, she would take any of the household willing to travel with them, Reynaud’s wishes be damned!
Once established at Kinbeath, Eglantine would launch her own Bride Quest, not unlike that of the brothers Fitzgavin. She straightened at the sheer good sense of the thought. Aye, she would summon men to her court, she would persuade them to undertake tests of valor, she would coax them to win the hearts of their ladies fair!
Three particular ladies fair did come to mind. Eglantine would ensure these men competed, the best of them winning the hearts of her daughters three. ’Twould be just like an old chanson, just like the Bride Quest tale which already was recounted in the halls hereabouts and in which Burke had participated.
Perhaps Theobald’s legacy would bring more than he had hoped. Eglantine lifted her chin and strode from the chamber, her footstep light with her surety of the future. Perhaps she truly could wring something from naught.
For the sake of her daughters and their happiness, Eglantine certainly intended to try.
Chapter One
February 1177
Eglantine was growing to loathe Theobald with a most uncharacteristic vigor. If she had not been so vexed, she might have found it amusing that in his death, he had succeeded in thawing the icy demeanor of Eglantine de Crevy.
He had always pledged that to be his goal, though ’twas cold comfort that he might be well pleased with her anger now.
All over a deed.
Not only were they crossing a land of barbarians, but the weather was foul beyond expectation. They had traveled much longer and farther, under more primitive conditions than Eglantine had ever expected.
And still they were not there. She had never imagined Christendom to be so very large. She was chilled to the bone, her wet wool traveling kirtle weighed more than could be imagined and, worst of all, her feet were nigh frozen. She cursed Theobald soundly beneath her breath as she rode, surprising herself with her creativity.
It could not be said that their passing went unnoticed. Eglantine traveled with a retinue of some fifty souls, including maids and squires, stablehands and scullery maids, cooks and a candle-maker, a seamstress and a saucemaker, a falconer and a stonecutter. Eglantine had borrowed a retinue of palfreys from Guillaume’s stables, assuming that he would not want her to travel unprepared for eventuality—along with, of course, the requisite trap and wagons, tents and pots, hunting dogs and tools.
The same rationale had prompted her to partake of her brother’s treasury, though she had left him a note of apology for that. Her daughters’ happiness, after all, rode in the balance and Guillaume could well spare the coin.
But one eventuality for which Eglantine had not prepared was the cursed rain. ’Twas incessant, ’twas a burden upon the soul. It turned the rough excuse for a road to a river of mud, it frayed tempers thin, it prompted usually tranquil steeds to fight the bit and defy command. ’Twas no mystery why they found so few inhabitants in these parts, nor indeed, why Theobald’s deed was held so worthless.
Eglantine was more than prepared for a roof and a hearth though none loomed ahead. “Surely, Louis, we draw near by now?”
“I cannot say, my lady.” The châtelain gestured to their local guide. “And he most certainly will not say.”
The rough and rude individual hired to guide them was no better than a crooked gnome from some child’s tale, though he kept a killing pace. He cackled incomprehensibly to himself and trotted ahead of the horses, his knobby knees moving in a blur, his pace one that the horses had trouble matching in the mud.
Eglantine knew she had never seen a more ridiculous garment than his long yellow chemise. Leather sandals were strapped to the guide’s feet, but otherwise his legs were bare, as crooked as the rest of him and decidedly hairy.
“In the manner of the Scots,” Louis had supplied in response to Eglantine’s incredulous stare upon introduction to this creature. “The leine chroich ’tis called, the saffron shirt, though my pronunciation of the language of the Gaels may be somewhat lacking. And I do question the availability of saffron in such a cold clime. Perhaps they use other sources for their dyes.”
The man had been untroubled then by their obvious discussion of him, and still did not appear to care that Eglantine conferred with Louis in familiar French. Louis had taken it upon himself to develop a passing familiarity with that language of the Gaels, a talent which had already served them well.
When they encountered other living souls, at least. Her palfrey’s hooves made a sucking sound as the creature struggled to follow the guide. They passed yet another of the tall stones standing on end that seemed to fill this barren countryside and Eglantine glared at it.
“One would think that even a land of barbarians could put this curious habit to better use,” she commented to Louis. “But a few of these stones together and one might have a wall, some thatching would make for a shelter far better than any we have enjoyed these few weeks.”
“I believe I did warn you that ’twas not a land for tender sensibilities,” Louis replied and there was naught that might have been said to that.
Esmeraude began to wail, as she had done more or less constantly since leaving Arnelaine. Eglantine steeled herself against her own child’s cry, her heart clenching in compassion. She knew all too well that her intervention would only make matters worse.
Eglantine cursed Theobald yet once again, this time for the child’s dependence upon him alone. He had been so jealous of every moment Eglantine spent with the babe that it had seemed simpler to cede to his suggestion to use a wet-nurse. But now, Esmeraude was inconsolable without her Papa or the wet-nurse’s teat. There was no prospect of either making an appearance soon in this sorry place.
Unless they had traveled all the way to hell. The faithless wet-nurse earned a silent curse from Eglantine, too—they had not been long departed when it became clear the young girl lied about Esmeraude being weaned. Too late it was obvious that the wet-nurse had not wanted to leave Crevy—and had been prepared to say whatever was necessary to so ensure it. ’Twas no marvel that Theobald had chosen the wench.
The toddler wailed, her cry echoing over the hills and setting the entire party’s teeth on edge. Eglantine felt an ache begin to loom behind her temples. She hoped that Theobald was rotting in hell for his considerable list of sins.
Indeed, what else could go awry?
Their guide disappeared suddenly over a small rise ahead of them, his absence giving Eglantine a new fear. What if they did not draw near to Kinbeath at all? What if their guide led them astray? What if they had been led into a trap to be robbed?
Who would know?
Who would aid them? They were past the ends of the known world!<
br />
Eglantine and Louis exchanged a concerned look. Eglantine gave her steed her heels and crested the rise, her heart in her mouth and Louis fast behind.
But there was no one other than the guide lurking ahead. Eglantine was only briefly relieved, for her eye was drawn over the desolate landscape arrayed before her. The sea gleamed in the distance, the shadow of distant islands rising in the mist that shrouded the horizon. Birds wheeled overhead, their cries shrill.
They truly had come to the end of the world, for the sea stretched into the distance.
The land stretched before her feet was rough and rugged, cut in sharp crags that fell into an angry sea. Another of those cursed stones stood on end just ahead and on the lip of the point, a curious rounded tower stood, its roofline crumbling. The setting sun touched the stone with gold, as savage and forbidding a sight as she had ever seen.
“Ceinn-beithe,” the guide croaked as he beamed at her, then gestured broadly to the land ahead.
Eglantine’s heart sank to her chilled toes.
Despite his Gael pronunciation of the estate’s name, she immediately understood that they had arrived at their destination. Though the point itself was stony, a thick brood of trees grew a short distance away.
“But where is the manor?” she asked, fully expecting ’twas hidden by the copse of trees.
The guide shrugged.
Eglantine frowned, in no mood for guessing games. “Where is the manor?” she demanded again, biting out each word even though she already guessed the truth. Her voice rose in frustration, though she knew that volume would not magically grant him understanding of her language. “The house? The dwelling? For the love of God, where is the stable? And the church? There must at least be a chapel!”
Louis translated as Eglantine drummed her fingers impatiently, but the guide shook his head slowly. He indicated the sky, then mocked sleeping, his face on his folded hands, his smile beatific.
Eglantine understood him perfectly well. She swore with an eloquence that obviously startled her châtelain.
The Bride Quest II Boxed Set Page 2
