Aubert stepped forward and placed his hands upon Chrestien’s shoulder. And when Chrestien did not push him away, he lifted her face tenderly and gently brushed the damp soil from it. “Come, Chrestien... help me ease my burdened heart, for she was my sister too.”
It was the time to tell her, he realized.
What she needed most now was the closeness of two who were flesh and blood. She’d loved her sister well and truly and without Adelaine, Chrestien felt not whole. Aubert knew this as well as he knew his own grief.
To see his father fall in battle, without ever having called him son, had caused him much sorrow. But to see Adelaine buried in holy ground… the cruel finality of it all was heartbreaking. His duty now was to be a brother to Chrestien, even though she knew not she was possessed of one.
Chrestien looked into her brother’s eyes and knew he spoke the truth. His golden hair and proud stance proclaimed his Viking heritage—his features were too like those of her father. She had long suspected it, and to see the grief in Aubert’s eyes confirmed it. She allowed him to lift her from the ground, falling into his arms, sobbing; for her father, for her sister, and for the brother God had mercifully given her.
Finally, when her tears were spent, she looked into Aleth’s pained face. He seemed to have aged overnight. Fine lines crinkled his eyes like little bird’s-feet, and on his pallid face was etched a permanent frown. How cruel to give him a taste of true love and then wrest it from him in such a short time.
He reached for Chrestien and she went to him, embracing him with all the might she had within her, giving him her strength, her anger, and finally her tender words. “You loved her, I know, and for that I am grateful, Aleth.”
His voice was rough with emotion. “She was easy to love.”
Scalding tears slid down her cheeks. “That she was.”
“Although she came to me but a short time ago, I shall never...” Aleth’s voice broke, and it took him a moment more to compose himself. “I shall never erase her memory from my heart, for ’twas as though she had been with me always. The only comfort I have now... is in knowing that her murderer has paid for this act of treason.”
Chrestien’s eyes sought his. “You know who it was?”
Aleth nodded, jaw taut. “His shield was found where my men said he gave up his chase.”
“And so he is dead?” Chrestien wanted to hear that he had suffered—that he died without mercy.
Aleth’s eyes were pits of sorrow, overflowing with emotion and he could barely speak. “Justice has been served,” was all he could say.
He turned his face and Chrestien could tell that he would speak of it no more. His jaw was set tight, and his eyes became daggers. Briefly, there was a hint of something more, a glimpse of someone else, and she shuddered at the thought of it. Knowing she would not hear what she sought to, she nodded in acceptance, and finally turned to Weston.
He stood apart from the others, letting them grieve without distraction. But there was a sadness about him too.
She went to her husband, placing her hand in his, for he had turned away from her. Tenderly, she kissed his fingers and when she looked into his eyes there was such compassion there that she wondered how she could have ever doubted him.
It would take time, she knew, but taming the Wolf would be worth it, for this man would give his heart only once. Her father had oft said that something worth having was never easily attained.
She watched Aleth ride toward Montagneaux and then returned her gaze to the newly dug grave. By now, all had gone, but for Aubert and Weston and she motioned to them both that she would leave as well.
Weston mounted his destrier and Aubert aided Chrestien into Weston’s arms, then mounted his own horse.
Once seated upon the black destrier, Chrestien’s hand went to Weston’s arm. Without realizing it, she dug her nails into his flesh.
Weston seemed to know instinctively that she was not yet ready to go, so they sat there a long moment; Weston with his arm about her waist, Aubert with his head lowered in prayer, and Chrestien staring blankly at her sister’s grave.
A sharp breeze swept her hood from her head, and Chrestien shivered but did not retrieve it. Winter was coming. It would be the first without her father and Adelaine.
Her sister had always loved winter, writing into her little volume of its beauty, finding wonder in all it had to give: a flock of birds heralding autumn’s end, a lone crocus lifting its flowery head from the snow. Even in the dead, colorless winter landscape did Adelaine find glory... for, from the sparse limbs of winter-humbled flora, came spring’s flowers.
A lone tear crept down her cheek as she stared at the newly disturbed soil, then she placed her fingers to her lips and said, “I give to thee my song, along with that of God’s, to rise unto the stars and echo in the wind. I bid to thee good-bye with fingers to my lips and send to thee my kiss to be carried to your soul on petals in the wind…
“You see, Adelaine... I did take the time to read, but ’twas your prose that moved me... I love you.”
She kissed her fingertips and held them into the sailing breeze. In response the wind picked up and rushed through her fingers. “Goodbye, sister,” she whispered after it.
There were no candles lit, but the full moon illuminated the chamber well enough for Chrestien to know she was alone. A shade disoriented from her long sleep, it took another moment to realize that she was in her chamber at Lontaine.
The ride from Montagneaux had tired her more than she’d realized, for they’d arrived at Lontaine near None and she had only thought to take a little nap. That nap had turned into a dead slumber that stretched for hours.
Weston had ridden fast and hard. And that had suited Chrestien perfectly fine, for she had longed to be where there were precious memories of her sister.
Aleth had been kind enough, offering the comfort of Montagneaux until arrangements could be made for them to return to Lontaine. But Chrestien had needed to be at Lontaine and he and Weston had understood.
She’d slept a bit in him arms while on horseback, but it was by no means a restful sleep, for thoughts of her sister had haunted her. Feeling the puffiness of her eyes for the first time, she pressed her fingertips to the offended area. Janelle would need make an herbal compress to ease the swelling. Their sweet maid had returned along with them and apparently Aubert had accepted a position in Weston's company.
Glowing embers from the brazier gave her half of the room a toasty feel, but when she went to the window across the room she was struck with the icy feel of the air there. She made quick work of unlatching the shutters and looked out to the bailey below.
Not a soul stirred in the courtyard and by the look of the sky it would be a few more hours before sunrise. But she wasn’t at all sleepy. Yet she didn’t dare leave her bower for Janelle would be sleeping in the antechamber and Chrestien didn’t wish to wake her.
Janelle and Aubert had taken Adelaine’s passing as hard as she had. She winced, remembering Aubert’s tears. She had never seen him cry before. Even as a child, when he had fallen from Chrestien’s horse and broken his arm, he’d not allowed himself a single tear. When Janelle had set his snapped bone, he’d merely grimaced, all the while he’d stared at her father. And when her father had smiled approvingly, Aubert had beamed in response.
It was clear to her now that Aubert had always known they shared the same blood. That he had never showed the least amount of bitterness toward her or her sister was remarkable, for given the same circumstances Chrestien might not have been so gracious. But it seemed that Aubert had genuinely loved their father.
She sighed heavily.
The past could not be changed, however much she wished it.
Shoulders slumped, she made her way back to the bed, falling upon it dejectedly. She started to pull the coverlet about her when all of a sudden she had a strong urge to be with Weston. It was funny how the feeling would just come over her at times. And suddenly, even the thought of waking Ja
nelle was not enough to keep her in her room.
A quick peek outside told her that Janelle was indeed in the antechamber, but the maid did not stir when she opened the door—a testament to her weariness.
Although it was dark, Chrestien had no need of a candle to make her way through the small keep. She could do it blindfolded—and she made it to her father’s chamber, down a flight of steps and behind the screened partition in the great hall without waking a soul.
When she’d arrived at Lontaine she had only craved solitude, but now suddenly she needed her husband’s strong arms around her. Crawling into the bed next to Weston, taking care not to wake him, she lifted his arm and slid into its welcoming warmth.
Not surprisingly her eyes suddenly felt as heavy as lead, forcing her to close them and welcome sleep.
Chrestien opened her eyes to find her husband staring down at her. “Good morn, sweet.”
“Good morn,” she whispered back, smiling. He was so handsome... and when he looked at her just so, it made her heart skip a beat.
“I’m surprised to find you here,” he said, brushing a lock of her hair out of her face.
“You would prefer I slept in my own bed?” she asked and started to rise.
His arm snaked about her waist and he drew her firmly against him, his lips brushing hers, so softly that her heart fluttered at the caress.
“You,” he said, smiling languorously, “are going nowhere, my love.”
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from his smile. She reached out to run her hands through the silver hair at his temple and he drew her closer yet, his eyes burning a smoky blue as he studied her.
“You don’t seem so very auld,” she teased him.
His brow rose. “If I did not already have silver in my hair, this past ordeal would have aged me overnight,” he swore.
“I’m sorry.”
He squeezed her gently. “Do not be. It is I who should be sorry for all that has passed between us. I should have been with you that day.”
Chrestien shook her head. “You could not have known.”
He nodded, and after a moment said, “’Tis why they call me the Silver Wolf, you know… my hair.”
Chrestien grinned. “That is not what I was told,” she returned saucily.
“Aye? And what is it you’ve been told?” he challenged softly.
Chrestien shrugged, drawing away a little, thinking of Michel’s words—that his prowess on the battlefield was only diminished by his prowess with the ladies. “I do not believe you need me to disclose such things.”
He pulled her back. “The past is now behind us,” he swore. “You are my wife.”
Chrestien wanted to hear that he loved her as well, but she knew it was too soon for him to own as much. A flicker of a smile lit upon her lips, but disappeared as quickly as it appeared.
“What thoughts bring such a wan smile?” he asked softly.
“I was but remembering the day we set out for Montagneaux—Adelaine and I.” She brushed away a wayward tear. “Would that I could relive that day again. I would not have made her go so readily.”
“She was happy,” he said, and Chrestien knew it was true. Still, it didn’t ease the terrible ache in her heart.
“You never told me how you came to the decision to present Adelaine to Aleth. Did your father bequest it?”
Chrestien shook her head. “Nay, ‘twas my idea,” she admitted easily. “Although Papa had a bond with Aleth.”
“So I’ve gathered, which makes it even harder to believe Aleth did not know your father had twin daughters. Did he never present himself at Lontaine?”
“Not oft, but he did come. Though it seemed Papa went out of his way to avoid allowing both of us in his presence. I did happen to overhear a quarrel of theirs once. Papa desired Aleth to wed with Adelaine but Aleth was already promised to another. He refused and the two did not speak for years after.”
“And yet Aleth did wed your sister? What happened to the woman he was promised to wed?”
Chrestien shrugged. “Apparently the lady Gwynith disappeared mysteriously. Papa assisted in the search, but nothing was ever found of her. It was said she set out one day to give alms to the poor and never returned—nor was she ever found.”
Chrestien’s eyes suddenly burned with unshed tears. “After all was said and done, I believe Aleth did wed Adelaine for my father... yet it seems to me he came to love her. He was so sad when we left Montagneaux. Was he not?”
Weston seemed distracted. “Who was the family of this Gwynith?”
“So many questions. What is it you are thinking?”
“Naught,” Weston said. “I simply am curious to know who her family was, for ’tis an interesting tale.”
Weston didn’t wish to alarm Chrestien by voicing his fears. She thought her assailant dead and until he had proof he would say nothing to infer otherwise. But something was amiss at Montagneaux, he was certain. Twice his wife had been attacked too near their gates.
“I believe Gwynith’s father was Aleth’s captain... Roland le Blanc,” she disclosed. “His daughter was said to have had great beauty, but I must admit I never saw her myself. However, Papa said Aleth was smitten with her... so much that he’d not cared she came to him without a dowry or title.”
Weston’s brows knit, recalling Aleth’s expression when his men had shown him the shield they’d discovered. It was unfortunate that Roland had come into the hall when he had. So blinded by rage had Aleth been at the time that he’d not even allowed the man to utter his defenses.
Afterward, Aleth had seemed strangely removed from it all, but had proffered no explanation for his rashness, save to say that he’d always known there were doubts. That statement in itself had offered little in the way of enlightenment, but it was only with Chrestien’s accounting that some light was shed on the matter. It seemed to Weston that the captain must have blamed Aleth for his daughter’s death. But to Weston’s way of thought, the blaming alone was no crime, and there would be more to the tale, or Aleth would not have given him le coup de grace so easily.
Even more puzzling, was that Aleth did not seem the type to judge so quickly and unjustly. And to not allow a man his defense was indeed unjust. What more had passed between them to seal the man’s fate? That was a question to ponder further. And somehow, he knew that whoever was responsible for the maid’s disappearance, was also responsible for Chrestien’s ambush. If, in fact, le Blanc was responsible, then they had nothing more to worry over... and yet, his gut niggled him nonetheless.
Chrestien rose from the bed. Going to the window, she unlatched the shutters. In her nightgown, she stood watching the sunrise from the open window. The morning still held the night’s cold bite in its mist.
As he lay in the bed, his arms linked behind his head, considering all that he had learned, he thought he’d never seen a more fetching sight as his wife. Her hair was set afire by the sun’s soft glow, and with her white linen chainse blowing gently in the morning breeze she looked like an angel from his dreams.
The ache in his groin assured him he was not dreaming and he rose from the bed to retrieve his temptress of a wife. Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her back to the bed.
Chrestien opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a long hard kiss. His lips crushed hers with the fervor of his need. When her arms came about his neck of their own accord, he demanded, “Tell me you love me, Chrestien... that you want only me.”
“I want only you,” she swore. He growled in satisfaction and bent to kiss her mouth in that slow rhythmic manner that foretold of other pleasures to come...
Chapter Fifteen
“Why did you not tell me?” Chrestien asked.
Clearly Janelle knew what it was she was asking about, for she relented at once. “It was your father’s wish. He feared you would believe he had dishonored your mother’s memory... and I was but a lowly maid.”
Chrestien went to the dressing table, picking up a silver comb. She
raked it carefully through her tangled, damp hair. “My hair has grown,” she said absently, uncertain what next to say. But she dared to ask, “You loved Papa... did you not?”
“Aye,” Janelle replied without hesitation, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Please do not judge me for it, Chrestien. I loved him dearly.”
Chrestien reached out, entreating Janelle into her arms. “You were as a mother to me always. My only regret is that Adelaine did not know as well. It would have been wonderful to have shared this with her.”
Janelle mopped her soft brown eyes with pudgy fingertips and took Chrestien’s hand in her own. “Your heart is good and true, Chrestien.”
Tears welled in Chrestien’s eyes. “Not so good and true as my sister’s. I shall miss her gentleness in my life,” she confessed. “She was my other half, Janelle. She was what I could never be. Whatever I lacked, she possessed.”
Janelle gazed at her with loving eyes. “That may be so, child. But all is not lost, for God has given ye another to love. Though it may not be quite the same, you must now place your heart in your husband’s hands.”
Chrestien nodded, for better or worse, she had already done so.
Janelle tilted her a worried look. “Go and ready yourself,” she said. “And be strong now, my child. A messenger has come to herald King Henry’s approach.”
Why would King Henry bother with Lontaine?
Even as she asked herself the question, Chrestien recalled who her husband was—the king’s favored Silver Wolf. Somehow, she no longer saw him as the much feared, ruthless warrior. But he was, nevertheless.
Recalling the day she’d met him, she confessed had to own that she had not had these same thoughts. His eyes had been violent blue flames—dark, smoldering blue and a shudder passed through her as she thought of him in that manner—another thing to dislike King Henry for—for turning her husband into a bloody butcher.
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