Almost Innocent

by Jane Feather

  Margery handed her the cup, and she drained the contents with a satisfied gulp.

  “Your bath is ready, my lady,” Erin announced. “Will we wash your hair?”

  “Yes, certainly.” Magdalen stepped into the round wooden bath. For some reason, she felt the need to start the day fresh and clean, all traces of the last twelve days washed from her skin and hair, so that when Charles d’Auriac rode from her gates, she would be left cleansed of anything that might remind her of his touch, of that dark and slimy aura that had sullied her during his visit.

  When she appeared in the great hall two hours later, however, she gave no indication of her intemperate joy, unless it was in the added sparkle in her eyes, a certain coiled expectancy in her body. Dressed in emerald velvet and an ermine-trimmed surcote, her hair hanging down her back in heavy, gleaming plaits threaded with pearls, she took d’Auriac’s breath away as he became immediately aware of her suppressed excitement. For some reason, he did not associate the excitement with his impending departure—a mistake Guy de Gervais did not make.

  Guy’s heavy eyes were matched with a heaviness of spirit that he could not explain except in terms of a too short night. But he had spent many such nights in his life, many nights where sleep of any duration was absent, and had felt not the least ill effect. He looked at the radiant Magdalen, remembering her joy of the previous evening. She certainly had the air of a satisfied woman this morning. Maybe his own restraint and consequent lack of satisfaction lay behind his present disaffection.

  “I give you good morrow, my lord.” She greeted him with a smile, a hinting, glinting glow in her eyes that told him she too was remembering the artistic experiences of the previous evening. “We are to bid our guests farewell this day.” She turned to Charles d’Auriac and his knights. “I wish you Godspeed, mes sieurs, and a safe journey.”

  “My thanks, my lady.” Her cousin bowed slightly, his eyes hooded. “Your mother’s family welcomes you as a de Beauregard, Magdalen of Lancaster.”

  A cold shiver lifted the downy hairs on her spine. The words seemed invested with a meaning she could not understand but knew instinctively were sinister. Yet it was a perfectly reasonable courtesy, an acknowledgment of the ties of kinship. She inclined her head, a wintry smile on her lips. “I am of de Bresse now, sir.”

  “Ties of diplomacy, cousin. In ties of blood, you are of de Beauregard and Lancaster.”

  “Magdalen.” Guy spoke her name quietly. When she turned to him, her relief at his interruption transparent, he gestured to the table where a two-handled emerald-studded hanap stood beside a chased silver pitcher.

  She had not forgotten this ritual but was grateful for a reminder that, however unnecessary, had spared her the need to respond to her cousin’s intense declaration. She went to the table and filled the goblet with wine from the jug.

  “Cousin, the cup of friendship.” Her tone was neutral as she touched the rim of the chalice with her lips before offering it to her guest.

  He took it, drank, and passed it around. Guy took it last, and by then Magdalen’s unease had dissipated under the knowledge that her cousin’s departure could not now be delayed.

  They accompanied their guests to the inner court and saw them to their horses, then watched them ride into the outer ward. Magdalen on impulse gathered up her skirts and ran across the court and up the stone steps to the battlement, spurred with the need to see them well gone from her gates.

  The heralds blew the exchange of civilities as the party rode forth, standards snapping in the wind, and Magdalen began to dance on the tips of her toes. She ran back to the court, to where Guy still stood. “Oh, come into the orchard,” she demanded. “I must shout my joy to the skies and may not do it here.”

  Shaking his head in mock censure, he followed her to the seclusion of the orchard where Magdalen instantly began her prancing dance of delight again.

  “He has gone! He has really gone! Oh, I could sing such a song!” She flung her arms wide in a gesture to encompass the earth. “I need never see him again. I will never see him again. My heart is so light, my lord, I feel as if I have been carrying the burdens of mankind and they are suddenly lifted from me.” She laughed in pure delight. “Is it not wonderful? Do you not feel wonderfully lighthearted?”

  Guy wearily rubbed his temples. “Not really. In truth, you make me feel old.” It was the truth, he realized, at this moment, when she was so full of life and energy and unregarding happiness, made so easily happy by the simple immediate relief of something that had been causing her discomfort. It was the way in which the young and innocent were made happy

  Magdalen stopped her prancing. She regarded him with a frown in her eyes. “Why, how should that be?” Suddenly the frown disappeared, to be replaced with an impish twinkle. “Why, it is because of that silly hat you are wearing. It is indeed a hat for an ancient, not for a man of such strong and youthful mien!”

  She jumped suddenly on the tips of her toes and snatched the flat velvet cap from his head. “There now! That is better.” Tossing the hat in the air, she then caught it deftly, laughing at him.

  “Give it back, Magdalen.” He held out his hand, unable to respond to her mood.

  “No, I shall not!” Still laughing, she danced away from him. “If you wish for it, my lord, you must catch me first.”

  “Magdalen, I have neither the time nor the inclination for this,” he said, irritated now.

  Magdalen did not hear the irritation. She was too enwrapped in her own exuberance. She danced behind an apple tree, shaking his cap in taunting invitation, grinning at him from around the trunk.

  “I am not in the mood for games,” he warned, snapping his fingers imperatively. “Would you give me my hat, please.”

  “Oh, you are just pretending to be a graybeard,” she declared, still convinced she could draw him into her game. She tossed his cap into the branches of the apple tree. “Now see what you have made me do, Master Graybeard.”

  With a muttered exclamation, Guy turned on his heel and strode out of the orchard, leaving Magdalen still standing beneath the tree, the laughter dying from her eyes, a sudden tremor on her soft mouth.

  She felt embarrassed, as if she had committed some childish solecism and been dismissed by a weary, exasperated guardian. She had miscalculated, she realized, nibbling miserably on her thumbnail, remembering how tired he had looked. Perhaps the strain of d’Auriac’s visit had told on him also, but in different ways. Perhaps he was too old to feel the simple exuberance of relief, and she still an annoying babe who had not acquired the gravity and wisdom of experience. Unfortunately, Magdalen didn’t think she wished to acquire those things if such acquisition would mean an absence of the high spirts that she had been feeling. But they had simply led her into trouble, they always had. It was a melancholy reflection.

  She looked up into the branches of the apple tree where perched Guy’s burgundy velvet cap, its jeweled pin gleaming against the bare gray bark. An experimental jump confirmed it was too high to be reached from the ground. She was not dressed for tree climbing and had enough wisdom at least not to attempt that. Disconsolately, she wandered through the orchard in search of a long stick with which to poke it down.

  That achieved, she returned to the castle, her pleasure in the day sadly diminished as she wondered how Guy would greet her at dinner. She wasn’t sure which would be worse: that weary disapproval of the orchard, or the overt displeasure that had driven him from her. Maybe she should discover in advance. She turned the velvet cap over in her hands. Returning it would give her a pretext for disturbing him, and maybe he would see it as an apology and put aside his annoyance.

  She was about to go in search of him when she saw him crossing the court, deep in conversation with the master of pages. With a resurgence of her embarrassment in the orchard, she put the cap behind her, suddenly shy of being seen publicly holding the evidence of her foolishness. She stood uncertainly in the shadow of the donjon, watching his approach and debatin
g her own.

  Guy saw her as his discussion with Master Edward drew to a close. “Some further hours at the quintain should improve the lad’s marksmanship,” he said absently, his eyes on Magdalen. “Use the swinging target. A few thumps from that after an ill-placed lance have been known to improve skills with some rapidity.”

  The master of pages chuckled. “You speak truth, my lord. But young Paul’s a timid lad.”

  “Then he must learn to overcome his timidity,” Guy said briskly. “It will stand him in bad stead, and he is ill served with too much gentleness.”

  Master Edward bowed to the undeniable truth. Ten-year-old boys destined for knighthood had a hard row to hoe, and little would be gained by pandering to their youth and diffidence. Young Paul must learn to handle the great lance on horseback, and if a few unseating thumps from a heavy flour sack were needed to teach him the consequences of failure, then so be it.

  Guy nodded in farewell and strode across the court to where Magdalen was standing. His annoyance had vanished almost as swiftly as it had arisen, and he found himself now curious as to why she should be standing there so still, with her hands behind her back and an air of penitent anxiety that somehow amused him.

  “Magdalen? Did you wish to speak to me?” He came up to her, greeting her, one eyebrow raised interrogatively.

  “I wished to give you back your hat,” she said, bringing the cap out from behind her back, brushing a dried leaf from the border. “You left it in the orchard.”

  “How careless of me,” he said solemnly. “I thank you, my lady, for your attention.” He took it from her, and his eyes laughed at her. “How did you contrive to get it down? It was much too high for you to reach.”

  “I poked it down with a stick,” she said, the anxiety gone from her expression. “I ask your pardon if—”

  “There is no need for that,” he interrupted. “Let us go to my study. There are one or two matters I would discuss with you.” He laid a hand gently on her shoulder and turned her toward the donjon.

  Magdalen accompanied him readily, her step once more light. Outside the study, however, they found Olivier waiting with the watchful patience of one accustomed to waiting and accustomed to making the most of the activity.

  “You said to come for your instructions, my lord,” he said, acknowledging Magdalen with a bobbing motion of his head. “And the means of travel,” he added.

  Guy frowned. He had forgotten his summons to Olivier when he had invited Magdalen to accompany him. It was an unfortunate lapse since he could hardly conduct this business with the servant in front of the lady. Neither could he postpone his discussion with Olivier, since the sooner the spy left on the heels of Charles d’Auriac the better.

  “Come within,” he said, opening the door. “Magdalen, I must ask you to wait here. I will not be many minutes.”

  Magdalen regarded the firmly closed door with a raised eyebrow, aware that she did not care to be left standing outside in the passage like a summoned servant or a suppliant. What private business did Guy have to conduct so urgently with the olive-skinned, agile, bright-eyed man of Provence? A mysterious man, Magdalen had always thought. He came and went, and as far as she could tell, had no clear-cut, official function in the Lord de Gervais’s household. But it had always been clear to her that he was on unusual terms with his lord.

  She had first noticed him, clinging like a shadow to Lord de Gervais, his eyes everywhere, when they had come to Bellair to fetch her after their return from France. Since then, she had been aware of him only occasionally. He was the kind of man one forgot about unless he did something to attract attention. And she could not remember his ever doing that, except now.

  Behind the heavy oak door, Guy handed Olivier a fat purse. “You will be able to insinuate yourself into his household, I trust.”

  “No doubt, my lord,” Olivier said with calm confidence, taking the purse. “I have been to some pains to gain the confidence of the laundress in their company. She believes me to be dissatisfied with my present employment, and …” He shrugged his bony shoulders, stating the fact without emphasis or particular interest, “I think she will be happy to see me again. She will enable me to find kitchen work with them while they travel and in Paris.”

  “You are certain you have not come to the notice of d’Auriac? I’ll not have you running unnecessary risks,” Guy said, frowning.

  Olivier shook his head. “He’s not a man for poking around the kitchens, my lord. One servant looks much like another, and it’s the chamberlain who does the hiring. I doubt the sieur has ever knowingly laid eyes on me.”

  Guy nodded. Migrant workers, picking up domestic or laboring work where and when they could, were not unusual and were certainly not the concern of the head of the household. He was sure there were many such coming and going at Bresse and he would know nothing of them unless they committed some offense that required his adjudication. Charles d’Auriac would not recognize Olivier. “Be watchful, then.”

  “How long should I remain with the sieur’s household?”

  “Until you have discovered something worth telling,” Guy said, going to the window, looking out over the plain. “I would know most importantly what he intends regarding the Lady Magdalen, Olivier. But I trust you to judge what else I need to know.”

  “I will send messages in the usual way?”

  Guy nodded. “There are always minstrels, pilgrims, troubadours who can carry news. It has worked well enough in the past.”

  He saw Olivier to the door and smiled invitingly at Magdalen, who had a rather martial light in her eyes. “I do beg your pardon for keeping you without,” he said. “But my business with Olivier was of a private nature.”

  “I assumed it to be so, my lord,” she responded a little stiffly, coming into the room. “What was it you wished to discuss with me?”

  “Oh, come now, pippin!” He took her in his arms, pushing up her chin with his thumb. “Cannot you guess?”

  “I did not mean to be foolish in the orchard,” she said, as usual all sense of grievance leaving her under his smiling regard, the caressing tone.

  “I was unpardonably ill humored,” he said, moving his thumb to her mouth. “And you were merely exuberant.”

  “Oh.” She moistened his stroking thumb with the darting tip of her tongue. “And I thought I was being willful and childish and sadly vexing.”

  He laughed warmly. “I thought you were, too, but I have since changed my mind. I missed you this morning when I awoke.”

  “I did not wish to disturb your sleep. You sat late in the night.”

  He nodded. “There was much to be done … What is it, love?” A strange expression had crossed her face, a look of puzzlement, of astonishment.

  “I do not know,” she said slowly, looking down at herself, her hand moving to her belly. The strange little flutter came again from deep within her, a flutter like a bird’s wings. She raised her head, her eyes strangely bright. “It is the child,” she said in hushed wonder. “The child is quickening, Guy.”

  Gently, with the same wonder, he placed his hand on her belly beside her own. “You cannot feel it yet,” she said. He shook his head, smiling.

  “Soon you will,” she asserted. “Our child grows apace, my love.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Brother Felix should be returning soon, Father Abbot.”

  “And with news to put our poor son’s soul at ease, I trust.” The abbot resumed his measured pacing along the paved terrace above the abbey vegetable garden. “His strength returns, it seems, by the minute.” He gestured to the figure in the plain wool robe of a lay brother, laboring in the vegetable garden below, swinging his hoe with easy, rhythmic movements.

  “He is a man of the sword, young and strong,” the monk responded. “Such bodies heal well even from such fearsome wounds as our brother suffered.”

  “If God so wills, Brother Armand, if God so wills,” the abbot gently reminded. “I doubt youth and strength would have pre
vailed without the timely assistance of the charcoal burner and your healing skills.”

  Brother Armand put aside the compliment, as was expected of him. “What skills I have, Father, are God-given.”

  “Of course … of course,” placidly agreed the abbot. “But whatever their genesis, our son has cause to be grateful to them.” He turned toward the great gray stone building of the abbey behind them. The last wintry rays of the afternoon sun caught the delicate flat arcading on the square, unbuttressed towers standing at its four corners.

  It was a sight that never failed to uplift the Father Abbot, and he let his eyes rest upon it for a minute before gathering his cloak about him. “I must talk with Brother Gareth about the pilgrims arrived from Canterbury. Our almoner had some doubts as to whether the guest hall would accommodate them all in seemly fashion.” He smiled, a knowing smile for one who lived apart from the world. “Brother Gareth is always perturbed by the presence of women pilgrims. I believe he fears some improper journeyings between the dorters if he is not very vigilant. I must reassure him that the power of prayer is sufficient to safeguard the spiritual health of our cloisters.”

  The abbot moved away with deliberate steps, his robes fluttering in the February wind, rising sharply now with the setting of the feeble sun.

  Brother Armand remained where he was, watching the gardener at work, his eye assessing the movement of the body, noting where there was residual stiffness, noting that the young man still stopped frequently to draw breath, resting on his hoe. It had been seven months since the charcoal burner had dragged the hurdle with its unconscious burden to the postern gate of the abbey, seeking the monks’ skills for a man so close to death it seemed impossible that he would remain in this world.

  There had been nothing to identify the man. His body had been stripped by whoever had attacked him, and he wore only a shirt and hose, not even his boots left to him. Brother Armand had noticed immediately the hard muscle and sinew beneath the body’s broken surface, the calluses on his hands and the stronger muscular swell in his right arm, all signs of a man who lived by the sword. His shirt, torn and bloody though it was, was of the finest linen, cuffs and neck embroidered with delicate stitching. It seemed reasonable to conclude that the wounded man was of knightly birth and had been set upon by outlaws.