He seemed to be admiring her face and Chrestien averted her gaze, embarrassed. “You have been told, I’m certain, that you’ve a smile that could fell a mountain, m’lady. And I’d venture to say had ye wielded that instead of your broadsword, Weston might never have recovered at all.” He chuckled. “I suppose I should thank ye for sparing him.”
Heat suffused Chrestien's cheeks. “You flatter me overmuch, sir!”
“For purely selfish purpose. I’d have ye smiling oft.”
Chrestien’s blush deepened, and she made a pretense of hugging Lightning’s mane, when what she really wanted to do was flee from Michel’s shower of compliments. He’d never been so full of adulation before, and although he was comely with his boyish looks and golden hair, she would rather think of him as she would an elder brother.
Besides, she wasn’t accustomed to this type of attention. She was far more accustomed to Aubert’s impudence and raillery.
His expression turned somewhat sober. “At any rate, there is something I would discuss with ye, m’lady.”
Chrestien sat upright in her saddle, curious over what had turned his tone so dour suddenly.
For an instant, it seemed he could not find the proper words, for he weighed them carefully. “Will ye still request that Weston take ye to Caen?”
“The question is will he honor my request?”
“Well, that is why I ask. He sent word from Montagneaux that he is petitioning Henry to allow ye to be cloistered. But are ye certain ’tis what ye truly desire? ’Tis likely you’d be more than welcome in Henry’s court.”
Chrestien averted her gaze, staring into the horizon, wishing she understood this terrible longing that had crept into her heart. It had little to do with her sister, or even her father, and every time she thought of entering the Abbey, she saw Weston's face before her eyes—but she did not even know him.
Michel watched her carefully.
He would not tell her that he had, in fact, already written to Henry on her behalf. With all due respect, he was certain Weston knew naught of her many worthy attributes, and he did not feel it a betrayal to his friend and liege to inform Henry of such matters. “Ye would be Henry’s ward, ye realize, and under his protection. You might make yourself a prosperous marriage?”
She shook her head at once. “I could not! I am quite certain my father would not have me seeking protection from his enemy.”
“I understand, m’lady. ’Tis simply that I would abhor seeing ye cloistered away when it could be such a full life for ye. Each waking breath is precious... ye have such vigor for life. ’Twould be a sin to deny the world your beauteous charms.”
She averted her face again. “I’d not speak on this any longer, my lord,” she said, sounding desperate, and she changed the subject abruptly, tilting him a curious look. “Tell me... how came you by such a curious surname? Steorling...”
Michel chuckled, allowing the change in topic. In truth, it had been a long time since anyone had cared enough to ask after his life before his service to the crown. “’Twas given to me long ago, when I was but a page in Rufus’ court.” He chuckled at the memory. “’Tis quite a mundane tale, I’m afraid.”
“I would like to hear it,” Lady Chrestien said, indulging him as she caressed her gelding’s mane.
Michel nodded, ceding, if only to tarry a little longer in her company. “One morning, Rufus was struggling with his boots and in his frustration he asked his chamberlain the price of the boots. When the man replied that their cost was but three shillings, Rufus hurled the boots at him and demanded that boots be purchased that cost at least a mark of silver. So the chamberlain came to me then, and bade me to find these new boots for the King. And though I searched, I could not find any, and was forced to purchase some for far less than His Majesty had requested. For this I felt extremely contrite, and decided to pay for them of mine own purse. But when I returned to the chamberlain with the new boots, the explanation, and the mark of silver, he merely laughed and bid me keep the coin. He assured me he would reveal naught to the king... and so he did not. Rufus kept those boots, thinking they were worth a mark of silver. In the end, he cocked up his toes with those very boots upon his feet.”
“But that does not explain the name!”
“Aye, but it does.” He grinned. “The silver mark that was given me bore Rufus’s tiny stars upon it. Hence was I called Michel Steorling by all who knew of the ruse. And soon I was known as thus by all—although but a scant few know the true reason.”
Of a sudden, Michel grabbed the reins to Lady Chrestien’s mount, pulling her closer. Within seconds, an approaching cavalcade could be seen in the distance.
“Should we hasten to Lontaine, my lord?”
Spotting the silver banner, Michel relaxed. “Nay, ’tis Weston, returning from Montagneaux.”
Chrestien stiffened in her saddle. “How can you be certain?”
“The silver wolf in his banner reflects the sun,” he said simply.
She tilted him a glance, her expression suddenly far less congenial and Michel sensed the tension in her body. “Is that why they call him the Silver Wolf?”
He considered her, wondering whether he sensed attraction or fear. He knew beyond a shadow of doubt that Weston was not immune to her. “That... and other reasons,” he told her, and was quite certain she had no desire to hear of his bedroom conquests.
“Oh,” was all she said, but the growing tension was nearly palpable.
Nervously, she ran her fingers up and down Lightning’s braided leather reins. And then, without warning, she tugged her reins and spurred her destrier toward the gates. Michel jerked the reins tight, preventing her flight, and she had accomplished little but to rile her mount. He gave her a nod, reassuring her. “He’ll not harm ye, m’lady. Do not fear.”
Weston spied the two on horseback and made his way toward them, rankled by the way their heads were bent together. He took his time closing the distance, and once he reached them, he avoided Michel's gaze for the moment.
He’d been wildly curious about the vixen he’d left at Lontaine, and now that he finally set eyes upon her again, what he saw took his breath away. Her beauty was beyond compare—even in contrast to her lovely twin sister. There was something about this one that was mesmerizing—the eyes, he realized. Deep and dark, they pierced his soul like a Welshman’s arrow—with breathtaking accuracy.
Her golden hair was shoulder length, but instead of being straight and greasy as he recalled, it fell in lovely wavelets about her face. She was as night is to day to the fair, gentle lady he’d met at Castle Montagneaux. They were so alike, these sisters, but not alike at all, and he vowed he would stay away from this angel of fire.
His destrier pranced impatiently beneath him, responding to his tension, and abruptly he turned his scrutiny to Michel.
“Why is she away from Lontaine?”
The muscles in his jaw twitched in protest against his clenched teeth. His anger needed unleashing and it seemed Michel was the most viable target. His old friend was aiding and abetting his tormentor. From the moment he’d set eyes upon the wench, she’d supplanted herself within his brain—some whore’s trick no doubt, for he knew she was no lady.
Michel released her reins and spurred his mount forward, signaling for Weston to follow. They moved but a few yards away and spoke in whispers.
Chrestien watched the two of them bend their heads together, resisting the urge to flee, for she realized it would be Weston who would pursue her. He was looking for a reason to mistrust her, and if he expected the worst, she refused to give him cause.
But whatever Michel said angered him enough that he waved furiously to his men-at-arms, urging them to follow. And then, without waiting to see that they obeyed, he sprinted toward Lontaine.
Michel returned to her, looking troubled.
“What did you say to him?”
“Naught,” he lied. She could tell it was a lie because he wouldn’t look her in the eyes. “Do yours
elf a favor, m'lady... keep out of his way.”
Chapter Nine
Kind? Virtuous? Pious?
Michel had used those words to describe Chrestien. Had she blinded him? Was he daft? The only kind thing Weston could say of her was that her beauty had the power to confuse a man’s senses.
Leave her be?
What gall! Leave her be—it was she who would not let him be!
Henry had not yet returned Weston’s messenger and he was anxious to remove the vixen from his sight. The sooner she was removed to the abbey, the better for all involved. To that end, he had remained at Castle Montagneaux as long as was feasible to avoid a prolonged period in the girl’s presence. He was heartily afraid he would throttle her if he were around her for any length of time—for her insolence—for biting him. The marks she’d left upon his shoulder were blue-black now, proclaiming to the world his stupidity. And he blamed her most for inhabiting his dreams.
By all that was holy, he would leave the girl to Michel, for his captain seemed to be having an easy enough time of it. No doubt she had offered him a few of her favors for his trouble by now.
In truth, he did not fear losing Michel’s loyalty. That was something Weston trusted would be his until death—too many times Weston had come to Michel’s rescue as he and Michel had fostered together. Nay, there was overmuch between them to suspect a turn of loyalties, so he had no qualms about leaving her to Michel’s care... as long as Michel kept her out of his sight.
Thankfully, he found Lontaine much as he had left it.
The villein were bustling about, minding their chores, and the swishing and clanging of steel upon steel could be heard throughout the bailey. The smell of sweat accosted his senses and he knew the men had not been slack in their training. A smile curved his lips as he dismounted and led his destrier to the stable. A good sweat would ease all that troubled him, he decided, and he planned to join his men at their swordplay.
Before turning his attention from his gelding, he patted the horse’s black rump, and silently wished that women could be as loyal as his horse. A good horse could make or break a knight. And though a man could do without the permanent appendage of wife, sooner or later, most were affixed with one. A bad one could definitely be his ruin.
He usually took more time stabling his prize destrier, for any knight worthy of the title knew his life depended upon his mount. In fact, he’d seen many an untrained horse panic in the face of battle, leaving his rider to face certain death... or to be trampled amid the melee. But, by now, he had been away from his men overlong and he was overeager to rejoin their training, so he hurried from the stable, leaving the care of his horse to Lontaine’s stable master.
He strode across the bailey with purpose, but stopped in his tracks at the sight that greeted him. Every one of his men—save Michel, who made his way to Weston now—had ceased his training and was standing, ogling the mistress of Lontaine. Three of his men rushed to her side and held their arms outstretched to help her dismount.
Weston shook his head in utter disbelief.
His men were surely bewitched!
His desire to spar was gone now, and whatever joy he had been seeking was lost in the moment. Once Michel was standing before him, he finally unleashed his fury. “Three men, Michel! Not one?” He could scarce believe his eyes. Moreover, the three idiots were nearly shoving each other for the privilege of aiding her. “Dear God, I’ve stressed chivalry, but this is preposterous!”
Together they watched as James managed to fight off the other contenders, lifting the Lady Chrestien delicately from her gelding, and setting her down before him. She smiled beauteously at the lad. Weston rolled his eyes. “She rides a damned gelding as would a man!” He’d not noticed what she rode in the meadow—only her face—and he cursed himself for the distraction. Nay, he cursed her for it! “What manner of woman rides a bloody gelding?”
As Michel opened his mouth to deliver an explanation, Weston cut him off. “Never mind, I know the answer to that already!”
Weston watched her hand the reins of her mount to John, who took them eagerly, acting as though he had just been entrusted with the crown jewels and Weston shot his captain a withering frown, concluding that Chrestien must be extremely generous with her favors for his men to be acting like besotted twats. In a matter of days they had become witless, bumbling simpletons! Aye, in truth, the woman was a witch!
“I tell you I have seen her,” James persisted.
“I don't believe you,” said William.
“I don't care what you believe. Last night I saw a ghost!”
Chrestien overheard the conversation on the way to the stables and smiled. Although she had never spied the Lady of Lontaine, both Janelle and Adelaine claimed to have seen her. Her father, too, had sworn their mother’s ghost dwelled in the topmost chamber of their donjon tower—in the room where she had died. It was in that room that her parents had begun their wedded life and her father had abandoned it after her mother's death, unable to bear the memories. But no one in Lontaine was actually afraid of the apparition. She came suddenly, sweeping through the stairs like a cold draft and disappeared like the wind, doing no harm to anyone. At the very most, she left the stairs in utter darkness, extinguishing candles with a soft breath that blew through the tower like a lamenting sigh. In fact, it had given Chrestien much comfort to believe her mother remained here with them, and Adelaine had visited her oft in that tower chamber, communing with her spirit, so she claimed.
The thought of leaving Lontaine saddened her more each passing day, but as it was inevitable, she tried not to think of it.
Chrestien planned her week so as not to see Henry’s Wolf. The first three days of his return she busied herself within the stables, working with the stable master to impart some order. Although most of Lontaine’s horses were long gone now, the influx of new mounts had the stables overrun. And though Michel had politely informed her that Lontaine was now a forfeit of war, she cared too much for the poor animals to let them live in less than favorable conditions. The chore offered a welcome diversion and she embraced the task wholeheartedly.
All would have gone quite well if the Wolf had not taken it upon himself to venture into the stables and to eavesdrop upon her conversation with a stable boy. Lately, it seemed he turned up everywhere she was, finding fault with anything she attempted.
The following day Chrestien decided to hide in her bedchamber in an attempt to avoid him completely, but about midday, she began to wonder what he was about—as it was her home after all—and had unshuttered her window to look out into the bailey. And curse him if he wasn’t right there, staring up at her window. Aye, so he was training his men at the time, but he didn’t have to catch her spying on him!
And then later in the day she busied herself with the preparations for the evening meal and thought to forge a truce. Her favorite, baked capon, was to be prepared, and Eauda set the lord’s table with the finest tableware. She wanted to be certain everything would be perfect tonight. Why? She couldn’t fathom, but somehow she needed Weston’s approval.
Perhaps because the odious man was always frowning at her? Oft during the past days she would sense his gaze upon her, and when she chanced to look at him, he would indeed be watching, his face a mask of absolute contempt. It galled her that she needed him to look at her… differently. By God, he was the enemy, not her lover!
Giving the hall one last inspection, she saw that all was in order, and after looking over the washbasins to be certain the water was scented properly, she ventured upstairs to dress for the evening. Tonight she would don her best gown. Surely the Wolf would not find her lacking then?
She took from her coffers an aqua silk undertunic and a beautiful bliaut of ivory brocade. Tiny roses were embroidered about the sleeves and neckline, and each flower boasted a tiny pearl. Even without the delicate stitchery, the gown was a sight to behold, for the gossamer silk was as sheer as a silken web and it hugged her every curve with a certain passion.
This gown was to have been Chrestien’s wedding vestment... were she ever to have wed. But that was never to be, so she might as well wear it at least once before she found herself cloistered forevermore. Naught could be done with her too-short hair, so she contented herself with a mass of unkempt curls. That was her penance for cutting her maiden’s tresses. It seemed as though there was naught she could do to tame its innate wildness—that too served her right, her father would say. She combed it oft and yet it still seemed to behave with a mind of its own. With a discontented sigh, she peered again into the looking glass and decided that all that could be done was done. And then she took a deep breath and ventured belowstairs.
Time seemed to stand still as she entered the hall.
It was as though ten thousand eyes were focused upon her and all of a sudden Chrestien wished she could sink into the ground. But she squared her shoulders, and walked directly to the dais, taking her usual seat at the lord’s table.
Michel sat beside her, Weston to his left.
She could feel his eyes upon her, but didn’t dare look to see whether he was watching. She knew he was, for the hall had never been so silent. The hush made her skin tingle—nerves, she reasoned, for she felt this way every time she was in his presence.
It seemed everyone was afraid to speak. Sweet Jesu, the silence was maddening!
Weston could scarcely believe his eyes.
Every time he saw the woman, she seemed to grow more exquisite. She was possessed of a stunning quality—something mysteriously beguiling, beyond the obvious physical beauty. She had the allure of a pagan goddess.
His eyes feasted upon the gentle sway of her hips as she glided across the hall. Her waist was so tiny, he was certain he could encircle it with his hands.
And then his eyes fell upon her gown and he found himself gritting his teeth. The nearly sheer cloth clung to the curves of her slender body, accentuating her proud bosom and delicate hips.
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