Hellion

by Bertrice Small

  She forced herself to respond to his ardent embraces. There was so much more she wanted to know, but she dared not press him further.

  In the morning, when Isabelle went to the mews, she asked Alain, “Why did you not tell Vivienne d’ Bretagne that your master was Hugh Fauconier of Langston Keep, a companion to King Henry? Had you spoken up, we might all be home, and none of this would have happened.”

  “You were not there, lady,” Alain said. “I was. The moment she laid eyes upon him, she was in love. Was I to tell a sorceress that she could not have the man she desired? That he was a married man with a child? She would have killed me, and then who would have taken care of him in those early days?”

  “But could not you or one of the Langston men have fled this place, and returned home to tell me what had happened? We waited for months for word. Then I went up to court to ask the king’s help, only to find myself a victim of his salacious seduction!” Isabelle paced nervously back and forth in the mews, which was their only place of privacy. “Well, it matters not now.”

  “What will you do, lady, if you cannot restore his memory?” Lind asked her. Lind might be a quiet fellow, but he always came directly to the point.

  “I do not know,” Isabelle told them, and turning abruptly, left the mews. What would she do? She loved Hugh, and she wanted their simple old life at Langston restored to them. Yet would she ever be happy again with her good Hugh, having known Guy? Guy who, despite his deception, was dark and complicated, and showered her with a passion such as she had never known. But deep in her heart she knew what had to be done.

  Vivienne’s serving woman came to Isabelle and said that her mistress wished to see her. “Go and fetch me an egg and a small pitcher of apple cider vinegar,” she told the servant. “I can find my way to your mistress’s quarters. It is the south tower, is it not?”

  “Yes, lady,” the woman said.

  She found the mistress of La Citadelle lying in her lover’s arms, clad only in her long skirts. Hugh absently played with Vivienne’s breasts, his eyes flicking to acknowledge Belle’s entry, but he said nothing. “I have sent your woman for what I shall need,” Belle said.

  “I hope this works,” Vivienne d’ Bretagne said petulantly. Then, “What is this magic spell you have cast over my brother?”

  Isabelle laughed mockingly. “There is no spell, unless you believe that love is magical, lady. If my lord Guy is content with me, would you seek to deny his happiness?”

  “I sense you are a threat to me,” Vivienne said honestly.

  Isabelle almost shivered, but she did not. “I am no danger to those I love, lady,” she replied evenly. Then she smiled. “Can we not be friends, lady?”

  “I have no friends,” Vivienne d’ Bretagne said.

  “Ahh,” Belle answered, “here is your woman with the vinegar.”

  Water was brought, and a fine gold basin. Using a soap fragrant with lilies, Isabelle washed Vivienne d’ Bretagne’s hair. It was very dirty, and Isabelle was not in the least surprised that the hair had lost its sheen.

  “What!” Vivienne cried. “You are washing it again?”

  “The first time was for the dirt, lady. The second is to restore its shine,” Isabelle said, cracking the egg the serving woman had brought her. She mixed it with a bit of the soap and scrubbed it into the woman’s head vigorously.

  “I smell egg!” Vivienne said, and her serving woman giggled.

  “Indeed you do, lady. It’s in your hair right now, but if you will be patient,” Belle replied sweetly, “I will soon have it washed out. Egg is very good for the hair.”

  “Your old mother’s remedy, I have not a doubt,” Vivienne replied sarcastically. “I do not care if my brother declares you his wife, if this does not work, I will see that you suffer!”

  “Pour the vinegar into the large pitcher of warm water,” Belle said calmly to the serving woman. “Mix it with your hand. That’s good.” She rinsed Vivienne’s hair first with clear water, then the vinegar, and then with clear water again. “I am done,” she told the servant. “Towel your mistress’s hair dry with vigor to stimulate it, and then brush it put till all the water is gone. Then rub it with a length of silk. The shine should be restored.” Then, without another word, Isabelle departed Vivienne d’ Bretagne’s chambers, a small smile upon her lips.

  “I did not say she could go!” Vivienne said waspishly.

  “Nonetheless, chérie, she has,” Hugh murmured. “She is a most independent creature, isn’t she? I can see why your brother enjoys her. She reminds me of someone, but of course, I cannot remember.” He laughed. “It doesn’t matter though, Vivi, does it?”

  “I sense she is a danger to us,” Vivienne persisted.

  “Are you fearful she is a sorceress like yourself, and perhaps with stronger magic than you possess?” he teased her.

  “She speaks of love, and her face lights up,” Vivienne d’ Bretagne said. “There is no such thing as love, Hugh. There is lust, and passion, and hate, but love? It does not exist!”

  “Of course it exists, Vivi,” Hugh said. “Love is the sun to hate’s moon, chérie. You feel it for me, else I should not still be in your good graces, and would have gone the way of all of your previous lovers.” He bent to kiss her damp shoulder. “I think the problem is that you are jealous Guy has found a small measure of happiness that is not connected with you. I know how deeply you care for your brother.”

  “If she should harm him …” Vivienne warned.

  Hugh laughed. “Vivienne, when will you realize that Guy is far stronger than you have ever been, or will ever be? Because this family of yours is a matriarchy, you naturally assume you are the stronger, but my pet, you are not.” He kissed her pouting mouth. “Now cease your fretting over the girl, Belle.”

  * * *

  The winter progressed slowly. The sea rumbled noisily beneath the castle, sending fingers of icy green water into the caves below. They had days that were cold, cloudless, and blazingly sunny, but more often than not the days were gray, dank, and mist-filled. On the good days, Isabelle would go with her falconers into the fields above the sea and exercise the birds, who chafed from too many days of confinement in their mews. Isabelle loved watching Couper soar on the whorls of the wind.

  “If we had wings, we could fly home to Langston,” she said to her falconers one bright day. In her enthusiasm she had forgotten that Hugh was with them. Alain and Lind looked nervously at her.

  “Where is Langston?” Hugh asked her.

  “It is a place in England we once knew, Lind, Alain, and I,” she said, knowing he would ask no more, for he really wasn’t interested. “My lord Guy says that you lost the memory of your past before you came to La Citadelle. Is it true that you remember nothing? Not a wife, or family? Naught?”

  For a moment he looked at her curiously, and Isabelle’s heart leapt in her chest, but then he said, “Sometimes I see images in my head, but they come and go so quickly that I cannot retain anything. You must not tell Vivi that, however. It will frighten her.”

  “What kind of images?” Belle gently pressed him.

  “Mostly it is of the falcons, which is why Vivienne keeps them for me,” he said slowly, “but sometimes I see a stone tower, and a river. At other times I see the phantoms of people, but I cannot see their faces.” He smiled gently, for the first time looking like the Hugh of old. Her Hugh. “I cannot, Belle, have been a man of any importance, else someone would have come after me. Ahhh, look at your merlin! How she soars, the pretty little devil!”

  Afterward, Isabelle said to her falconers, “Do not tell me that he cannot be coaxed into regaining his memory, for I believe he can! We must help him, and I must learn what it is she feeds him to prevent his recovery.”

  “I’ve made friends with one of the young serving women in her chamber, a maid named Jeanne,” Lind said. “Jeanne says that each morning before lord Hugh is allowed from his bed, he is brought a small silver cup with what Jeanne says is a strengthening
potion so that Lord Hugh will not lose his virility, for Lady Vivienne is insatiable in her appetite for passion,” the falconer finished with a deep blush.

  “That must be it!” Isabelle cried. “Lind, Jeanne must find out what is in that cup. Tell her you want it so you will be potent with her. There is no other way I can learn what we must know.”

  “Even if you discover what is in the cup,” the practical Alain reminded her, “how can you prevent her from feeding it to him?”

  “I do not know,” Belle said, “but I will find a way! Have we not come a great way already, my lads? We cannot fail now!”

  “I will see what I can do,” Lind said, “but remember, lady, I must move slowly with the maid lest I arouse her suspicions. I will have to begin to court her in earnest so she will tell me her mistress’s secrets.” He sighed. “You will not tell Agneatha when we get home, lady, will you? She will not like it at all.”

  Lind and Agneatha? She hadn’t realized it, but of course! “No, I will not tell Agneatha, and neither of you will tell of my little adventures, either, will you?” She smiled at them.

  “We’ve all done what we had to do,” Alain said bluntly.

  There were small signs of spring; a bit of greening here, a violet by a sunny wall there. One afternoon three swans flew over the castle as Belle walked upon its heights. The soft whirring of wings made her look up suddenly, and there they were. She shared her sighting with the others at the evening meal.

  “Swans in the marshes, a certain sign of spring,” Hugh said.

  “How would you know a thing like that?” Vivienne asked him.

  He shook his head, confused for a moment. “I do not know,” he finally replied in his harsh voice, “I just do.”

  Belle laughed. “I think I mentioned something like that to Hugh yesterday, and now here today the swans are back.” She worried that if Vivienne believed Hugh’s memory were returning, she might grow desperate and give him some new and stronger potion.

  “How do you know so much about swans?” Vivienne demanded.

  “Remember, I grew up in the country,” Belle said. “You live in the country. Certainly you know about swans, too.”

  “Swans do not interest me except as food,” Vivienne replied.

  Guy chortled. “Vivi, you are being quite cruel, and silly,” he told her. “Swans are beautiful creatures.”

  “Who make excellent eating,” his sister rejoined stubbornly.

  “I once had two swans for pets,” Belle said. “Everyone was amazed for they are dreadfully mean birds, but they were quite gentle with me.”

  “You do have magic about you!” Vivienne cried. “I knew it! Guy, you must send her away! Surely you see that now!”

  Her brother took Vivienne’s hand in his. It was such a petite hand that it was almost lost in his big paw. Yet in features they were alike enough to be twins.

  “Vivi,” Guy said softly, “if my precious Belle does indeed have magic about her, how much better than if she were just a simple girl. You are beginning to become tiresome in your jealousy, petite soeur, and I am losing my patience with you.” His violet eyes darkened as he looked into her face.

  For a brief moment Isabelle felt sorry for Vivienne d’ Bretagne. Somehow, Guy’s displeasure was much greater with his sister than with anyone else, and it was obvious she felt that displeasure.

  “You are right, Guy,” she said low. “I forget our goal.”

  The meal continued with small talk, and Belle was relieved that the conversation had been turned from Hugh’s memory. Once she caught him looking at her questioningly, but when she met his gaze, he turned away from her, leaning over to murmur something into his fair mistress’s little ear. When Vivienne laughed, Belle felt a stab of jealousy, but her face remained smooth and did not betray her.

  Spring came on full now, the fruit trees and flowering bushes bursting into glorious bloom. The fields about the castle grew green and lush, tended by La Citadelle’s serfs. On the hillsides, fat cattle grazed, while in other, greener meadows, white sheep dotted the landscape.

  Midsummer’s Eve was upon them. The serfs were freed from their labor for the day, as was the custom at Langston, and that night fires blazed from the walls of the castle and the hillsides in the long, lingering twilight. The air was soft with summer, and above La Citadelle the stars echoed the bright firelight.

  Guy had ordered that their apartments be newly decorated for the occasion. Their huge bed was hung with cloth-of-gold hangings upon which had been embroidered silver crescent moons and glittering, deep blue stars. The always fresh lavender-scented snowy sheets had been exchanged for sheets made from midnight-blue silk. Although it was warm enough to forgo a fire, the hearth was filled with lighted, scented candles in all sizes and shapes. There were also candles on every flat surface in the room. On the table next to the bed had been placed a silver tray, and on it were pale gold quartz goblets set in silver filigree, several crystal decanters, and half a dozen different-colored marble jars. The shutters were back on all the windows, allowing the bright moonlight to join the candlelight, and a gentle breeze wafted the intoxicating scent of flowers into the chamber.

  Guy and Belle had finished bathing. Gently, he dried her pale skin, smoothing foliatum, an erotic ointment made from spikenard, over her. The ointment was pale pink in color and had an exotic scent that was quite heady. It would be absorbed through her skin, making it highly sensitive to any sort of touch for hours to come. She had grown quite used to his ministrations, and had actually learned to enjoy them. How could she not, even now when she knew there was no real enchantment? Such delicious treatment was simply impossible to resist, and Isabelle refused to feel sinful about it. After all, he would hardly be pleased with a weeping, guilt-ridden woman. He would have replaced her in an instant with a more willing partner, and then how could she have helped Hugh?

  Guy now held a cup to her lips. “Drink it,” he commanded her.

  She sipped the bitter liquid, curious, for she had never before tasted this particular mixture. “What is it?” she asked him as she drained the cup off.

  “A special little elixir I have mixed especially for you on this occasion,” he told her. “It is red wine combined with wormwood, which you will find a strong aphrodisiac.”

  “I need no aphrodisiac to be aroused by you, my lord Guy,” she told him, knowing it would please him.

  “I know that,” he replied, smiling, “but tonight Hugh is to join us in our love revels. I would have you eager to receive his lusty attentions, my adorable Belle. You cannot be shy, my pet.”

  “Hugh is joining us?” Certainly she had not heard him aright. Was the wine already muddling her wits?

  “Aye, he is,” Guy answered her, drawing her into his embrace and fondling her breasts lovingly. “How I love these little fruits,” he murmured, bending swiftly to kiss each berry nipple.

  “Why is Hugh joining us?” Isabelle pulled away from her lover. Had Guy d’ Bretagne grown tired of her at last, and willing to share her with other men? Was the next step to be her banishment from his side to the guardroom, where she would serve as the new whore? Her lovely face betrayed her concern to him almost immediately.

  He drew her back firmly into his embrace. “Do not be fearful, my fair Belle. Do you not know by now that I truly love you and would do nothing to harm you? Tonight, however, is a magical night, and we need that magic badly. You have noted the new bed hangings, I know, but do you not see the flowering branches, the branches heavy with fruit, and the sheaves of wheat that have been set about our chamber?”

  Belle looked about her. Indeed there were branches of flowers, and fruit set in great containers about the room, and sheaves of wheat stacked near them, and beneath the bed itself! She looked questioningly to him, and he smiled, the smile lighting up his handsome face, extending from his mouth to his magnificent violet eyes.

  “Tonight, my perfect love, you will conceive a child for the d’ Bretagnes; a daughter who will be La Citadelle�
��s next mistress. To ensure your fruitfulness,” he continued, “these symbols of fertility have been placed within our chamber.” He caressed her shining hair gently.

  “But you have told me that you cannot produce a child, my lord Guy,” she said nervously. What had Hugh to do with this?

  “I have told you the truth. Neither Vivienne nor I are capable of having children, but certainly you and Hugh are. My sister and I have decided that you and Hugh, now being a part of the d’ Bretagne family, will together conceive the next generation for us.”

  “Ohh, my lord, do not ask such a thing of me,” Isabelle protested. The thought of a child of hers and Hugh’s belonging to the d’ Bretagnes was absolutely horrific.

  He misinterpreted her disquiet. “Do not fear, my precious one,” he reassured her. “I shall not leave you alone with my sister’s rude lover. I will be with you the entire time. You will lie safe in my arms, and taste my kisses upon your sweet lips each time he mounts you and fills you with his seed. Then he shall cradle you as I enjoy you to the fullest. If you did not know the secret of the d’ Bretagnes, you would believe me if I told you the child was of my issue; and indeed, my passion will ensure that you conceive this night, Belle.”

  “Am I some prized mare to be put to the stud of your choice?” Isabelle demanded furiously. True, she thought, any child conceived would be lawfully born, since Hugh was her true husband, but neither Guy d’ Bretagne nor his sister was aware of that. What if they had chosen some other man to perform this service? The thought was too terrible, and she shuddered with distaste.

  Again he misunderstood, and, believing her disinclination stemmed from her love for him, said in his beautiful voice, “My darling, I know it is an idea that will take a moment or two for you to digest and comprehend; but surely you can understand. You know our history, Belle. We cannot allow our family to die out. We will not allow it. Now, the moon is almost in the perfect position for us to begin. Let me call Hugh to join us.”