by Ruth Kaufman
One thing was certain. This instant was her best chance to escape. She couldn’t meekly accept more upheaval. She had to try.
Aline slid out of bed. The candles had burned low and it was hard to see the floor. Where were her boots? Though full of holes, they were preferable to none. She couldn’t find them. Dare she continue? Her toes curled against the wood floor, cold beneath her feet. She wobbled, still not very strong.
Was she making a terrible mistake? Desperate need to avoid the king’s command had driven her to this.
The dark, moonless sky filled with stars above an array of huts and tents greeted her when she peeked out of the door. A couple of furs draped over her light hair and Sir Apollo’s cream shirt would partially conceal her from the soldiers sitting around fires or going wherever soldiers went and hold off the cold. For how long?
Whispering a brief prayer that she was choosing the correct direction, she hurried to the right, crouching and keeping close to the huts’ shadows. Only a few men were outside, and fortunately their attention seemed to be on their fires.
How quickly she’d forgotten the biting agony of bitter cold. Twigs, rocks, and who knew what else crunched and bit into her feet. She swallowed yelps of pain.
This was ill-advised. She’d acted rashly, and should return to Apollo’s—surely she could call him by his given name now—hut. No. She should work for her country and family over the Normans. Nothing in her education had prepared her for this. Which path should she choose? She couldn’t make up her mind. What would her mother advise?
Aline picked up speed. And bumped into someone. She gasped.
Apollo. She recognized his size and shape. And pleasant scent.
“I was looking for—the garderobe.” She heaved a sigh of relief at coming up with a plausible excuse so quickly.
“Mmm hmm.” Did he believe her? “There’s a chamber pot under the bed.”
“Of course. I should’ve looked.” She hated dissembling. But the stakes couldn’t be much higher.
“I was on my way to tell you that the wedding will proceed shortly.”
Her heart sank faster than a stone tossed in the river running through her garden in England. Time was running out.
“Let me get you back inside. You’re shivering, and not even wearing shoes, pauvre petite,” he continued. “We must find you some proper clothing.”
Before she could protest, he swept her into his arms and carried her back to his hut. She found that she didn’t want to protest. Being held by him made her feel warmer, of course. But also protected and secure. And without meaning to, he’d saved her from acting out of desperation. A sigh of relief escaped her.
“I want you to know I had no idea King Philip was going to command us to marry. And that I don’t want this marriage any more than you do. I tried to talk him out of it, to no avail.” Apollo spoke softly, into her ear. A tingle raced down her neck.
“Thank you for trying.” She did appreciate his efforts, but hearing him say he didn’t want the wedding either somehow made things worse.
They were well and duly caught.
Would she ever feel free? Under her father’s rule, she’d been forced to live in, then trapped in the Norman chateau, then stuck in the ravine because neither her father nor the French would let her go. And Apollo’s choices subjected her to French rule. Next the enemy king would hand her to him, another man. to serve his purposes.
Yes, her groom was handsome, strong and interesting. And drew her more than any man had. But she didn’t want to wed any Norman, especially if he served a king. Even if he wasn’t a soldier and had no control over where he was born. Their loyalties lay on opposite sides of the Channel. She knew exactly how long it took and how difficult it could be to traverse that body of water. Covering the distance between Frenchman and Englishwoman could be even more challenging.
Of course it would be far better to be out of danger, well-fed and well-dressed in her own home than out freezing to death in the ditch, but if that home was in the land she abhorred…how would she find peace? Was she being ungrateful and expecting more than she ought as a woman who had few rights, or was she standing up for what she wanted and would have had, if not for this horrible, hateful siege?
Would she ever return to the land she loved?
When he set her down on the bed, she was surprisingly reluctant to leave his arms. And almost raised hers so he’d hold her again. That showed just how alone she felt in this strange land and stranger situation. How much she needed consoling. What if she had…and he refused? What kind of marriage would they have?
“We need to talk after you—”
“Yes,” she quickly agreed. The chamber pot.
“I’ll step out. Call when you’re ready.”
After she finished, she did. Apollo re-entered, then poured two cups from a pitcher and handed her one. Watered wine. She wished for something stronger.
“There is what some would consider good news,” he began with a slight grin. “Great news, in fact. The king is raising my rank to baron, and the title includes a manor with lands near Rouen. Near my family. Most men would be beyond pleased, but I treasure my current position as his messenger. I’m honored to be one of the only messengers who isn’t a monk or bishop, and want to deliver and receive important information, be in the midst of change and politics. I don’t want to be worrying about rents, villeins, serfs or the success of my crops.” Not everyone wanted to be a leader. He was content to serve.
“I can understand that. We want what we want. Congratulations, nonetheless.”
“Congratulations to us both.”
She’d be a baroness. Better than the wife of a knight, but still a lower rank than if she married according to her station in England. Status mattered to her and to most everyone she knew. Had known. Who knew what would matter to her new neighbors. What if they hated her? She cringed.
At least she and Apollo were united in one thing: their inclination not to marry each other. “I can’t believe we’re discussing this so calmly.” Her heart was racing, her hands trembled, but she hoped he couldn’t tell how nervous she felt. “I don’t want to be French or live in France. I just want to go home. As you said, return to normal. Isn’t there anything we can do to stop this?”
Chapter 5
Apollo wished he’d never tried to help his king or his opponent, even in the form of Aline. His tendency to act without thinking, his willingness to be of service, had taken their tolls again.
“I can’t think of anything that would satisfy Philip,” he said. “We have nothing to offer him in return for our freedom. Thanks to my idea, he wants to make an example of us to show how the victor can show mercy to the loser.”
“My enemy becomes my friend? Ha. Is that possible?”
Was it possible? And if so, could more than friendship follow? My enemy becomes my lover? My love?
He’d loved his mother. Even his horse, Tencendur, named after Charlemagne’s horse. But he’d never felt romantic love. Could that emotion exist for him?
If he were to wed and settle down, he’d want a wife as exquisite as Aline. The brazier’s light gilded her hair, her skin was soft and smooth, and her features were finer than any Norman woman he’d met. Her vivid blue eyes were so expressive. He imagined her pretty hands and slim fingers on his skin. The image of her slipping off that night robe before she came to his bed made him yearn to think of anything else so his desire wouldn’t be evident. Milking a cow. Yes, that worked.
Surely any pleasures she’d yield would fade as he was forced to deal with day-to-day obligations of running an estate. As a youth, he’d oft heard his father complain about their overlord and irresponsible tenants who didn’t pay rents when they ought and their demands for less work and higher pay.
Aline leaned forward. The fur slipped, revealing a delightful glimpse of her décolletage.
He didn’t want to look away. He could have access to that glorious display of soft flesh and more in mere hours. That thought
did make him hard.
Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice as she readjusted the fur.
“I’d hope we could at least be friends,” he managed.
“The rest of our lives are at stake.” She paused. “Extreme diseases require extreme methods of cure, according to Hippocrates.”
Smart, and educated, too. He liked that, though such knowledge was rare in women. But…. “How does that follow?”
“I have an extreme idea,” she said, with a conniving glimmer in her eye he hadn’t yet seen. “Instead of going to your new home, you’ll help me return to England. You can say I took ill and died. That my weeks in the ravine took its toll, as it did for others.
“Then you can remain in your current position. Your king need never know the truth. We both get what we want.”
He went flaccid. He admired her cleverness, but her willingness—nay, eagerness—to be dishonest disturbed him. Even given their alarming fate. Disappointment filled him. “I told you earlier and just told my king that a man is only as good as his word. You’d be asking me to live a lie. Not only that, if we were to wed again, our next marriages wouldn’t be legal in the eyes of the Church.”
“Your Church would think I was dead. Mine would never likely know I’d been married before. I don’t like lies, either. Or going against values my mother taught me. I certainly never expected I’d consider much less attempt to defy the Church. But I’ve never been faced with such catastrophic events impacting the rest of my life. Have you?
“My father literally threw me to the wolves. You and I are being forced into a sudden marriage neither of us wants…being moved like chess pieces by your king. Is it preferable to live together in misery until death do us part, or do what we must to seek happier futures, even if a bit of deception is needed? We aren’t hurting anyone or committing any crimes that I know of, and we’d benefit ourselves and our future children.”
He shook his head. Annoying how she echoed his thoughts. She was convincing, but this didn’t sit well with him. “I will do you the courtesy of considering your idea, though I think you’re asking us to commit assorted sins, if not crimes. I understand why you suggested it and agree your plan has some merit. But how I could face Philip, my anointed king and liege lord, knowing I’d defied his direct order? How could I attend Mass again without confessing, or feeling guilty? I must do what feels right.”
“Right for whom? Does your conscience rule your head? You’d rather relinquish control over a score or more of years when ordered to act against your will than forge your own path. You’d rather we both suffer a marriage you don’t want?” Her passion for her plan showed in her flushed face and intense gaze. If possible, she looked even more beautiful.
Apollo admired her determination and bravery, though he didn’t think he could go forward with her approach. “I don’t know if you’re right that our happiness apart is more important than what I’ve been taught. What duty demands of me.”
He disagreed with Aline and wasn’t sure if he truly liked her yet. He wanted her, nonetheless. Her lovely face, form and intelligence called to and stayed with him, sweet as his favorite song “Tant m’abelis joys et amors et chants” by troubadour Berenguer de Palol.
Apollo sat beside her on the bed, no longer hiding the longing in his gaze. She drew in a breath as he leaned forward slowly. Her eyes widened as he slid close, then closer until their hips touched. That slight contact heightened his ardor.
He put his hand on her waist, welcoming the feel of her sweet curve in his palm. Closer still he moved. She didn’t pull away. One more slide toward her, ’til their lips were inches apart.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. Her breath smelled enticingly sweet.
“Seeing what we might have. And if I find what I think I will, and you do as well, perhaps we should wed. Desiring one’s spouse and welcoming his or her caresses would be something significant to build on.”
Apollo yearned to kiss her and assess her response. What would she taste like, feel like? Was there even a hint of compatibility? Perhaps they could be intimate and share pleasure, briefly setting aside their opposing politics and loyalties. His erection grew and pulsed.
So lovely. So sweet and soft. Soon to be his.
“I desire you, Aline,” he said, his voice low and deep.
“You do?”
“Yes. First, I want to kiss you.” Her lips parted, the sensual invitation spurring him on. “Then…we’ll see. What do you desire?”
Aline didn’t move away, but met his gaze boldly. And that gleam was back. Inquisitive. Clearly interested.
He angled his head slightly for better access to those soft, pink lips. Did she really want this, too, or was she using her feminine wiles to sway him to her cause? No matter, for she was willing. Ready.
They jumped apart as two young women entered, their arms laden with clothes, shoes and other feminine items.
If only they’d arrived a few moments later. He’d so wanted, nay, needed, to kiss Aline.
* * *
Apollo leapt away as if he’d been scorched. He’d been about to kiss her, though she hadn’t answered his question. And, she reluctantly admitted, she wished he had. His words, his nearness made her woman’s parts yearn for his touch. A traitorous need for succor and to be close to someone, even for a moment, filled her to overflowing. Would she ever feel welcome again? Be somewhere she belonged? Be cared for?
“Lady Aline, meet Medemoiselles Melisende and Jehanne,” Apollo said with a slight bow.
No surnames? A short blonde and a taller brunette nodded greetings. Their hair was piled loosely on their heads, and not contained by veils, wimples or even scarves. Black kohl outlined their eyes. Their tight-fitting gowns were immodest, and their sleeveless surcoats didn’t look like they were made to go over them.
She’d heard of women like these. Camp followers. Prostitutes or concubines. And been told they were sinners who gave themselves to men without marriage. For money.
Apollo knew their names. Her eyes narrowed. What else did he know of them? Not that she should care.
“I’m glad we had something blue, because of her hair and eyes,” Melisende said.
“Oh, yes. Would this one look best or the lighter shade?” Jehanne asked, holding up a gown in each hand.
Melisende and Jehanne didn’t seem fallen, evil or even different from other women. Did sin lurk behind their friendly demeanor, forming part of their deception? As someone considering a ruse of her own, she examined them with a critical eye. The two seemed genuine enough.
Melisende displayed a cloak lacking a fur lining or decoration of any kind. “And they’re all clean. Enough. No lice or fleas, at least.”
Aline tried to maintain an amiable expression despite the sad state of the garments they proffered. The women were trying to please and help her. Well, they’d been ordered to. Not quite the same.
She was a lady. Whatever the condition, she’d accept the clothing with the grace of a queen.
“Mademoiselle, do you prefer these leather slippers or the ankle boots? Though your feet look too small for either,” Jehanne added with a frown.
Their rapid chatter and high-pitched voices reminded her of chirping birds. Judging them when she knew nothing of their lives or what kind of women they were other than what she’d been taught felt wrong. Now that she was out from under her father’s rule, developing more of her own opinions would be easier.
At least her mind was free. One benefit the siege yielded. Finding some sunshine amidst the clouds felt good.
Apollo said, “I’ll leave you to choose.”
She had no response. The whirlwind of developments stunned her.
In minutes she was clad in a loose deep blue gown of middling wool with tight sleeves, which, in fact, did go well with her eyes. The slight odor of onions took a moment to get used to, and just the thought of lice and fleas made her itch. Who had worn this before? To do what? But being in actual, whole women’s clothes again ma
de her feel a bit less strange.
“If only we had a necklace or earrings.” Jehanne sighed.
“Well, this way, all eyes will be on her,” Melisende replied.
This was almost like being with her friends. Almost.
“Thank you. I appreciate your assistance, Jehanne and Melisende.” She wanted to ask what their lives were like amidst the soldiers, but held her tongue.
Next she tried both pairs of shoes. The boots were bigger than the slippers with pointed toes, but also sturdier if she decided to or needed to flee. How sad that escape was so often in her thoughts. Sadder still that trying on garments for her wedding filled her with trepidation instead of joy or even resignation.
“You look so pretty,” Melisende said. “Your groom should be well satisfied.” She blushed. “With your attire.”
Were they right? Surprisingly, she wanted to satisfy her new husband. If she had to wed, wouldn’t it be in her best interest to do so? Why make things worse, which would also make her more miserable? On the other hand, if she appeared unattractive and acted disagreeably, maybe Apollo would find a way to set her aside after they left the army. But then, what fate would she face as an unwanted wife? He could set her aside and stash her in a convent, as Philip Augustus had done with his queen. For some, days of solitude and prayer might be preferable to being a baroness. Not for her. But a less bad choice wasn’t what she’d hoped for.
“My thanks,” she said.
“I wish it were spring so we could pick flowers to put in your hair,” Jehanne added.
They were as friendly and kind as could be, clearly trying to make the best of awkward and horrible circumstances, but she missed her mother, sisters Alice and Helen and brothers John and Roger more than ever. Her family and friends, not women she’d just met, were supposed to help her prepare for and share what should’ve been one of the most special days of her life.
The ache in her heart added to her sense of helplessness. She’d expected her father to tell her whom to wed, as was the case for most women of her rank. That was back when she loved and trusted him and had reasons to believe he’d make a good choice. She’d never considered the order of the man she had to wed might come from any enemy king.
