by Louisa Trent
Later, when some brawny servants delivered an exotic-looking chest to the chamber, Aeschine was too awed by it magnificence to touch it. She stood there, all-agawk, until Ellen bristled, “Will you open your gift any time soon, milady? Or do you merely intend to stare a hole in its lid?"
Taking the maid's less than subtle hint, Aeschine pulled up on the leather handle located at the top of the chest.
“Gowns,” she muttered, gazing into the chest's interior. “And under-things. I had hoped for sheep."
“Ingrate.” Ellen snorted.
Aeschine gingerly lifted a bright saffron gown. The crisp cloth crinkled in her hand like rustling leaves, and the slight sheen of the weave would catch even a hummingbird's attention. Taffeta, she decided, and the most gorgeous creation she had ever seen.
Her teeth nibbled her bottom lip. “What need I for fancy garb when I tend my sheep? I need good, sturdy wool for shepherding!"
Ellen bellied Aeschine out of the way and sifted through the trunk, herself. “No sturdy wool here. All these gowns be fit for a queen."
“Aye. Queen of sluts!” Aeschine retorted, holding up a daring green gown.
“That suits you, milady. Lord Sage must have handpicked the fabric."
“The bodice is cut too low. I shall fall out!"
Ellen clucked her tongue over another, a silvery gown of near transparent gauze. “Sure I am that this one be meant for the bedchamber."
“I think that is the general idea for all of them.” Aeschine ran a hand reverently over the sleeve. “The fabric is so shear, a spider might have spun it. ‘Tis wicked. I shall never wear it. But I must don something!” she fretted. “There is much to be done at this keep and I cannot work with this linen wrapped ‘round me. There must be one suitable gown inside this trunk!"
She proceeded to fling one creation after another onto the bed. Orange damask followed a bright green silk; another gown was multi-colored, like a peacock's feathers. Soon, she had made a pile as high as a hillock on the bed.
“Flamboyant decadence, the lot of them,” Aeschine said, contemptuously. “And a waste of good coin. Not even a plain shift amongst them!"
She selected the dullest shift and gown from the pile. One-by-one, she carefully replaced the rest inside the chest and closed the lid.
“Ellen—after I am garbed, we will go downstairs. There is nothing like a bout of stiff cleaning to get a woman's mind off her problems. After scrubbing filth for a while, we will both be too exhausted to get two thoughts together."
Ellen placed her hand over her belly. “There is something you should know: I am to report back your doings to the warlord when he returns. Will is to do the same. We are to be your watchdogs. If you try to make your escape we are to notify the guards. I refused, of course. You just see if I do not convince that Will to turn a blind eye to your comings and goings too!"
“My thanks, Ellen, for I am desperate for a little freedom. Cooped up in a cage, no matter how fine, is unbearable to me"
“Take care! The lord of this keep is not the sort who would tolerate disobedience. Though, to be fair, you could have done worse in a lover."
Aeschine agreed, and still she craved more. She understood Sage's pain, his need for retribution. To avoid that retribution, all she need do is explain that she had been a novice, cloistered in a convent at the time of his wife's murder. Her story would be easy to check. But she had already told him she knew naught about that horrible invasion, and she expected to be taken at her word. What kind of life could they hope to have if no trust existed between them?
And there was something else too: If he wished to cast blame for that invasion, he had indeed chosen the right person. True, she had no first-hand knowledge of that brutal attack on a slumbering keep, but she must bear the responsibility for it just the same ... and she did. Any punishment the warlord decided to mete out would be borne by her, and by her alone. So her father had taught her years ago, and so she would accept now. Although she had not ordered those killings, they were her crimes just the same.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sage cast weary eyes toward Hugh d'Aubrienne.
They had finished a sumptuous meal hours before, talked for hours after that, yet his host seemed reluctant to end their evening. Why?
Sage drained his goblet of ale, then yawned. “This day has proved long and fruitful.” He placed the empty drinking vessel on the wide paddled arm of his chair. “I rise early in the morn, so regrettably, I bid you good eve.” He stood.
“I am glad you like the sheep."
Sage took a step toward the portal. “I do. My thanks again for your help in selecting them."
Finally, his host rose. “I hope the small runts will please your friend."
Sage's smiled at the prospect of pleasing Aeschine. She would surely love the lambs. Her tone always softened when she spoke of the babies...
D'Aubrienne said something about Rufus.
Sage's attention snapped back. “Pardon? What of the King?"
Hugh d'Aubrienne's eyes shifted beneath their bushy white brows. “I only related that the King is far from these glens and you are here. I would do all that I might to keep the powerful new warlord happy."
Of late, he had felt far from powerful. Strange, but a part of him seemed missing. There was a numbness too, which originated in his chest and spread to his limbs, resulting in a slowing of movement, a certain disorganization of thought, a pronounced inability to attend to the most simple of tasks...
He missed Aeschine. More, not less, with every day that he stayed away. Touring his holdings, making the acquaintance of the few remaining villagers, meeting the neighboring nobility—he had used these excuses to absent himself from his keep. He had hoped that with distance, the fire in his loins would cool.
He hoped in vain. Yearning fueled the flames, and they leapt stronger and brighter than ever. Even now, as his host droned on and on about borderland politics, concentrating primarily on Scottish resistance to English dominance, Sage's mind wandered to Aeschine. Her beauty. Her intelligence. Her quick wit. Their conversations. Their arguments...
Her optimistic vision of the future.
She might have given into self-pity after her capture. She had not. Instead, she was cheerful and good-natured, willing to meet any challenge. How many ladies would have entered his hellish fortress, with not even a garment to their names, and not let it defeat them?
Naught defeated Aeschine. How he missed her high spiritedness! He was near crazed to get back to her. And his impatience had nothing to do with duty or responsibility.
His host's mouth moved. What was he saying?
Sage concentrated, trying to decipher the words.
“Will those three pups never cease? The lands were divided up, and Rufus has England. What is there to debate?” His host lowered his voice. “But I tell you this: a nobleman's arrow will find William Rufus's back if he does not ease up on his tithing. There is talk amongst the nobility of a rebellion. Rufus might yet find his arse ousted from the throne of Westminster, and not by one of his brothers, either."
“So too have I heard,” Sage replied and quickly looked for a change of subject. A discussion of palace politics was hardly prudent when his cousin's head might soon adorn a pike outside Rufus’ courtyard. “Did you mention there are peasant men willing to come back with me to Cheviot Hills?"
“Have your pick. All are good laborers. There are some recently widows too. Though none of the peasant women are sluts, all are willing to lie with a man for a few trinkets.” D'Aubrienne jabbed him in the side. “Dip your wick in one or two. Or three if you are of a mind to..."
Sage kept his tone polite but firm. “I must decline your hospitality."
“I have heard of your celibacy.” His host grumbled, “In my opinion, too much morality is bad for a man's health. Abstinence dilutes the blood, and brings on fevers and impotency."
“Actually, I am celibate no more. My leman even now awaits my return, so widows in my
bed are out of the question."
“Why? Even wed—most especially I would say when wed—a man needs variety.” D'Aubrienne gave Sage a searching look. “Unless ... does this leman mean something to you?"
Sage stumbled over his tongue to make a speedy denial. “N-ay. She is my prisoner. We have made a bargain..."
“You have met my daughter,” his host interjected. “Yseult is a beauty, is she not?"
Uneasy at this new subject, Sage looked around for another way out. “She is."
“You have no lawful children. Most men have want of a son..."
“In that, I am the same as most men."
“Then I have a proposal to make you. As it happens, I am in need of financial assistance to make improvements on this humble lodge, and you are a widower in need of a lawful son. Why not link our future prosperity through marriage...?"
“I have no plans to remarry."
“I see no reason why we cannot come to terms on this, Sage. I need finances, you need an heir, and there is Yseult in need of a husband in her bed."
Sage gazed into the shiny surface of his drained goblet and saw Aeschine's face there. He turned his eyes to the hearth, and in the jumping flames, saw her face there too. Everywhere he looked, he saw his captive's face. He must do something about his unwholesome obsession with his enemy's affianced. D'Aubrienne's suggestion might be the solution.
In his head, Sage ticked off the reasons for making the alliance: Most importantly, his longing for a family, a son to carry on his blood after his death. His host was of proud lineage, and his daughter was attractive in the way he liked attractiveness. Bedding her would not cause him distaste. “Is she virgin?"
“I am a strict father!"
Virginity, questionable—
“I have little time for bed sport. She must breed with ease."
“Start tonight. When you leave, take her with you. If she breeds within a year, then the vows will be spoke. If not, return her to me."
“Such a generous offer. ‘Tis difficult to refuse, but I am afraid I must."
“I throw in Kendle to sweeten the arrangement. My son will be of great assistance to you. The peasants do respect his tidy hand with the whip."
“I am sure whippings will not be necessary,” Sage replied, diplomatically, but inwardly cringing. “Would your daughter fare well at my keep? The motte-and-bailey is not as hospitable as is this abode."
“Yseult never complains."
D'Aubrienne rushed Sage to the portal. “When Yseult comes to your chamber, you will see for yourself what a demure and modest lady is my daughter."
* * * *
Sage stood pensively before the hearth in his bedchamber, gazing into the flames but not really seeing the fire because his thoughts resided on Aeschine. His manhood ached because of those thoughts. While brooding over his testy loins, the demure and modest Yseult d'Aubrienne made her appearance.
“I am the most beauteous lady in the realm, am I not?” she demanded, sweeping to the middle of the stone floor, her rich velvet skirts lifting to show off a pair of well-turned ankles to the best advantage.
Modest and demure, eh?
He thought not. He also thought the query was not rhetorical in nature. The lady expected an answer.
While massaging his suddenly throbbing temples, he tried to produce an appropriate response to the decidedly improper question.
“I have not yet met all the ladies in the realm.” He had never been very good at flirtation, and that deficiency was not lost on the lady.
Yseult sent him a withering look.
“Well ... I suppose—not having met all the ladies in the realm—I would have to say that beauty is as beauty does,” he hastily amended, hoping to appease his host's daughter.
As Yseult's mouth continued to droop at the corners, this led him to believe that he had not sufficiently placated the lady.
He stood in stony silence after that, not knowing what other addendum to make.
“I understand we leave for your keep on the morrow?” the lady said, picking up the fallen thread of conversation while squandering a hot smile on him as she patted her loose, raven-black hair.
Yseult did not wear a rail. As a hair covering was a sign of a lady's modesty, this made sense. A coif had hidden Aeschine's lovely pale hair when they had first met. He had asked her to remove it and she said...
“You are well hung, milord,"
Nay, Aeschine had not said that! The supposedly virginal Yseult said that, which to his way of thinking left her state of innocence rather suspect. Just as well. A screaming virgin would make his already aching head explode.
With a raucous laugh, and a bold leer at his crotch, the lady made quick work of her girdle, dropping it, jewels and all, to the rushes. Her gown, shift, boots and stockings followed.
Yseult was lush where a woman should be lush, tapered where a woman should be tapered, he was uncomfortably erect, and there, within two paces, was the big wide bed. Weary from his cares, lonely too, and horny as a Billy goat, he wished to retire in that big wide bed.
Alone. And dream of Aeschine.
“Shall we fuck, milord?” Yseult inquired and dove for the mattress.
Wincing at the lady's sad lack of romance—but relieved by her fortunate lack of intuition—Sage stripped off.
Duty called and her open thighs eagerly beckoned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
One full moon came and went, another grew round in the night sky and Sage had still not returned.
Aeschine passed the lonely nights pacing the floor in the solar, alternately pining for her lover and pledging to never speak to him again.
During the days, work occupied her worried mind. Ellen and she rid the hall of fleas and other sundry pests—the chores done under Will's ever-watchful eye.
“My shadow will not leave me alone,” Aeschine muttered to Ellen one warm afternoon.
“Oh, he is not so bad,” her maid simpered. “At times, a brawny giant comes in handy. Only this yester-morn, the behemoth helped me with some heavy chores."
“But the man does not blink,” Aeschine complained. “If I do not a have a few moments to myself, I shall scream!"
“Save your voice.” Ellen grinned. “Watch this."
The maid bent to lift a pail of slops.
Will came rushing over. “You are not to lift that! ‘Tis much too heavy for a woman in your condition!” He carried off the dirty bucket of water and came back with a clean one. “Next time, ask for my help."
Ellen whimpered a pitiful ‘thanks’ and set to rubbing the small of her back while making pathetic little mewing sounds.
Aeschine, busy cleaning soot from the hearth, stopped to watch the drama unfold. “Are you well, Ellen?” she asked, going along with the ruse. “Is there ought I might do?"
“Oh, milady. I have had this twinge all morn...” Here, another mewish whimper.
“Lady Aeschine, I think Ellen should lie down,” Will said, worriedly. “The little mother looks dreadful pale."
Ellen looked around Will's substantial bulk at her and winked.
Aeschine returned the squint. “Er ... very well. Ellen, your duties here are finished. Go to your mat in the servant's quarters for the remainder of the day."
“Ach! I do not need the rest."
“Nonsense! Of course you do.” Aeschine turned and faced the giant watchdog. “Will, please escort Ellen to her quarters at once."
“I am not going anywhere!” her maid protested. “I be fine. Stop your jabberin’ at me. If I fall over, just haul me back up again onto me feet."
Will wrapped an arm around Ellen's rapidly disappearing waistline. “You go if I have to carry you. The little fellow in your belly is taxing your strength."
Halfway to the portal, the vassal remembered his duty to the absent warlord. He called behind him to Aeschine. “I am not supposed to leave you alone, milady, but the vexing woman does need to rest..."
“I am fine alone, Will. Take Ellen to bed."
“This man is not getting anywhere near me bed...” squawked her maid.
Even at profile, Aeschine could see that Will blushed to the roots of his red hair.
Aha! So, that was the way of it.
“Ellen,” Aeschine said sternly. “Go! That is an order. And Will, see to it that she is well-settled before you return."
Torn between watchdogging the warlord's whore and taking care of Ellen, Will's mouth twisted with indecision.
“I return shortly,” he finally said, making up his mind.
Shrugging, as though the break of surveillance meant naught to her, Aeschine turned back to bundle moldy straw for burning.
When the couple disappeared around the corner, she gave the straw the heave-to and raced for the courtyard.
* * * *
Sage galloped through the gates of his keep, entourage in tow.
After delivering the miniature sheep to a holding pen, and installing Yseult and Kendle in their separate chambers, he took the stairs to the tower two at a time. Scattering straw as he flew down the long corridor, he pushed open the oak portal at the end expecting to find Aeschine involved in some harmless meditative pursuit and instead found that the solar was empty. Where was his leman?
Frustration in full flower, he tramped back down the stairs to find Will.
His leman's guard knelt on hands and knees in front of a blackened hearth, a bucket beside him.
Sage walked up to him. Hauling back his booted foot, he kicked the wooden pail.
Splinters flying, sudsy water splashing and sloshing onto the ashes, the smell of damp soot sent to his flaring nostrils, Sage roared, “What the devil do you think you are doing?"
“I was scrubbing the hearth,” the vassal replied.
“A scullery maid scrubs. That is her responsibility. A vassal guards. That is his responsibility. Is my point clear to you, Will?"
“Clear as the snout on me own face. But you see, milord, what with Ellen big with babe and all, I thought I might guard and scrub at the same time."
