Chateau of Passion

by Monica Bentley

  That thought was folly. No, it was downright dangerous. To be thinking of his old friend at this time, when facing off against such a clearly well-prepared opponent was sheer lunacy. They were just coming out of their first circling, exchanging positions, the Count gearing up for his own clearing parry/lunge.

  Tristen started to yawn. Inwardly. Clearly, the Count wasn’t all that well prepared after all. Or he was prepared just enough to make a good showing during the first breath of the duel. Since everything that had happened so far was before the second breath that Tristen began to take just now.

  His gaze wandering into the crowd, a furlong away just over the Count’s shoulder, he could see the mountainous breasts of the Viking and, just beyond them, to the soft green eyes of Twig. Those sweet lips just below them were forming the name, “Remi.”

  Right at the moment he felt a white hot burning stab him through his shoulder just nicking his heart. He could feel it. The nick. He could feel the pumping blood, jetting out into his chest, deep inside him. He was falling backward. Or was he dancing? With her. Or was it that the Count, his eyes stretching wide with amazed delight was making the beginner’s mistake of closing the distance too quickly? Come what may, Tristen was on his back, feeling the grit of some gravel on the tile floor dig into his hip, his shoulder muscles tightening around the Count’s rapier point, holding it too tightly to be withdrawn, his own point straight up welcoming all the weight of the Count’s eagerness to plunge straight down onto it with the youth’s whole heart.

  The Count’s body landed with a heavy thud on Tristen, driving out his breath. He found himself blinking, wondering. Trying to remember. Looking over to his right, he saw the Commander’s scowl and that brought him to his senses. Wounded or not, he must stand or honor demanded the duel be declared a draw with a new champion selected to fight once Tristen had healed. Easier to stand. He rolled onto his hip, shoving the Count’s body off of him, his shoulder muscles letting the youth’s rapier point go, as Tristen slowly climbed to his feet.

  The Commander was speaking, his voice gruffly echoing throughout the Hall. The old words. About satisfaction of honor found in this encounter. Dazed, Tristen nodded.

  It was finally dawning on him why he had let his focus wander.

  Her eyes. Phoebe’s soft green eyes.

  There was no anger in them.

  *****

  “Remi, why did you let him stick you like that?” Those same light green eyes, adorable in their softness were now addressing him.

  He realized that he was lying in a bed of some sort. A quick scan of the walls showed him that he was in the newer section of the Palais. No mold here.

  “Katya says that you are an amazing duelist,” Phoebe said. “You could have been hurt. What were you thinking?”

  His bewildered eyes were now taking in the reality that Phoebe was growing plump, pleasantly plump. Her softest hand, so clean, so well manicured, was cupping his cheek. He must be dreaming. Yes, it must be for she, like the Viking standing against the wall in her usual dark blue gown, was holding a baby in her arms. Below Phoebe’s baby, however, below her arms, was clearly another one well on its way.

  Phoebe followed his eyes down. She blushed, mumbling, “Louis is...well...”

  The Viking was laughing. “Endowed by nature for the most important things.”

  Phoebe was blushing harder, murmuring, “Katya!” She turned back to him, whispering, “This is little Lela.”

  “Who’s Remi?”

  The harsh voice cut into the room. Tristen was so dazed that he was really having a difficult time catching up. Yet something about the Commander’s voice always seemed to cut through the fiercest din of battle.

  “Oh!” Phoebe cried out, standing, pulling little Lela in close.

  “Who are you?!” the Viking was now sizing up du Guesclin. Appreciatively. Right? That couldn’t be. Tristen’s dazed eyes needed to close out the bright sunlight coming through the windows. He preferred his room, stinking chamberpot, heavy dark mold on the walls, and a mere whisper of sunlight throughout the day. It was quieter.

  “Remi!”

  She was shaking him.

  “I want you to say hello to Lela.” There was a very strong, direct meaning in her gaze that he couldn’t quite make out. He looked down and saw his own eyes looking right back up at him. The hair, as dark as his own. He started to cry.

  “Oh, Remi! It’s okay.” Her voice was sweeter than...anything...except...someone’s sobs.

  “What in God’s Teeth is wrong with the lad?!”

  He was flailing, trying to get out of bed. The ladies were crying out, pulling back, the babies sheltered to their bosoms. The Commander was shouting, “Keep your arse down, lad!” Finally, he put a boot to Tristen’s chest, shoving him back into bed.

  “Go back to sleep, damn ye! You’ve done enough damage for the day.”

  Hearing the witch chuckle, Tristen relented and knew no more.

  *****

  He awoke to the sight of a flickering candle, and Twig’s anxious eyes upon him.

  “Remi,” she cooed and came to him. Crawling right into his bed, making him yelp, softly, as she nudged his left side with her knee.

  “Baby!” she chuffed. “One would think that you weren’t half the warrior that Katya makes out.”

  He didn’t know how to respond to that. Instead, he let it lie.

  “What do you think of little Lela?” That body of hers – once so boney thin as to make him think it would crack in two during a windstorm, then later so luscious as to make him hard at the thought, now so pleasantly round as to make him homesick – was making his head spin as it came to rest all along him.

  “What?” he mumbled, averting her gaze, a gaze all too direct, he thought.

  “Don’t you pretend with me, Remi. I know you saw your eyes when you looked at her, just as I do, everyday.”

  He swallowed. Was there any way out of this conversation he wondered?

  “Even Katya did.”

  He gulped.

  “The morning you met Emma, when you talked with her at the base of the new tower. You know, the square one? Why did they build it square when the others are round?” She shook her head. “Everybody makes such a load of feathers about the Palais de la Cité,” she clucked. “It’s nothing compared to home.”

  He shook his own head, trying to clear out the whirling.

  “She recognized Lela’s eyes in yours.” She chuckled. “La, did I hear a pipe roll of commentary from her when I arrived!”

  An image of his duel with Louis, their paired rapiers pulled back into mutual strikes, flashed into his mind.

  She clucked again. “Oh, don’t worry about Louis.”

  Surprised that she had guessed his mind, he scanned her eyes, so lovely in their softness. Feeling his own tear up.

  “Oh, Remi!” she cooed again, reaching up a hand to cup his cheek. “Don’t worry. It would never cross his mind that Lela was not his. Katya’s right. Louis is like all men and thinks that children are ornaments on the Yule Tree, never wondering how many villagers it takes to bring one up properly.”

  He swallowed again. Feeling so embarrassed by his tears.

  She paused.

  “We are not going to tell him, right, Remi?” A slight hardness crept into her tone.

  He eagerly nodded.

  She smiled again, like the sun breaking out in the midst of an April rain, and settled back down next to him. She was almost purring, like a kitten. He found himself swirling. It was the kitchen, late at night, at Chateau Brionde, so many years ago. The fireplace stank of wet ashes. The faded smell of yeast from the day’s bread lurking in the corners, making his stomach twist with hunger. Twig’s snotty tears were smudging his shoulder as she wept for her mother, her scabbed knees were digging uncomfortably into his thigh.

  He passed out.

  He awoke.

  She was there. Humming softly, caressing her distended belly, the baby bump more pronounced as she ran h
er hand gently over the gown again and again. It was velvet, he noticed and wondered at that. Wondered at her rise in fortunes. She looked up at him with a dazzling smile. “Louis is so good to me, Remi. I love him.”

  Not knowing what else to do, Tristen nodded.

  He tried speaking. His voice was so rusty. He tried clearing it, then wound up choking instead.

  “Do you want some water?” Her voice was softer, sweeter than ever he had remembered.

  He nodded again.

  But she was already sitting up, not waiting for his answer. Turning to the stool that doubled as a washstand, she poured out a healthy glass of splashing relief into a tankard.

  Then she was turning back. She smelled of lavender, he thought, feeling her soft hand reach behind his head, helping him to take a draught. It felt so good. He started crying again. God’s Tears! What was wrong with him?!

  “Oh, baby. It’s been so hard on you, hasn’t it? She never told you, did she?”

  He was choking again.

  “Tempeste. Your witch. She has a serious obsession with you, you know. That’s why she made you rape me.”

  He was dreaming.

  “She told me. She talked to me through a pool down by the river.”

  He was gasping.

  “I think you’re going to have to kill her,” she was smiling, her lips drawn into a most unlike-Phoebe snarl. “I would,” she was continuing, brightly. “Or at least I’d ask Louis to.”

  He passed out again.

  But not before hearing her soft whisper. “Remi, things are coming to a head with the Duke of Normandy. m’Lady needs help.”

  * 9 *

  Tempeste woke humming the words from a virelai she had heard many times watching the Palais de la Cité through her portal. It was court composer de Mauchaut’s Douce Dame Jolie...

  Sweet lovely lady

  Your sweetness

  Masters my heart so harshly...

  She abruptly realized that she was thinking of Enchanteur’s curse, the one that had imprisoned her in the Tower ever since the day he had fled. Informing her with a coolly written note.

  I have failed you. I can see that now. Until you find a man freely willing to give up all in life in order to join you in this tower, you will remain here.

  And so she had. All these years. She could leave the Tower but only to wander around the surrounding garden. Where the clearing ended and the forest began marked her prison bars.

  Suddenly, a breath-taking awareness dawned on her. Could the boy be that man? Could Aluin be the one who sets her free? She had to sit up at that. She was panting. The chance to find Tristen! The chance to leave these hated walls. To hold him in her arms. To see the wider world. To fuck him endlessly again. To finally experience the delights of the Palais in person. To suck his...

  When did she grow so bored with fucking?

  That was an odd thought.

  She just wanted to hold him. To be held by him. To hear his voice. To see his eyes. To brush away his tears. To be one with him for...ever.

  This would not stand. She threw off her covers and slid to the edge of the bed. What happened to giving up all thoughts of Trist–....of the knight? He was not good for her. That much was obvious. Aluin may be a bit of a simple-minded twit, but at least he was stable. He was...he was...he was...here. Every day.

  The ballad continued teasing her thoughts.

  As my illness

  Will not be healed

  Without you, my sweet foe...

  Yes, Aluin was her prisoner. Somewhere along the line, he had become obsessed with her. She felt almost ashamed of that. But what was she to do? Well, maybe she could give him the Tower. Yes, she thought excitedly, jumping to her feet. Her hand reached automatically down to gather up her night robe, pulling it on, her hands now rushing through her hair, which felt a bit grimy. She grumbled about that, happily. It would not stand to let Tristen see her like this. Saint Genevieve! Was she positively gurgling, now? Bubbling over with happiness? Her mind began racing. She saw herself harnessing the Tower’s pony.... No, a bath, first! A long bath, she thought, pacing the length of her bed. With lots of rose cream afterward, her fingers lingered on her chin, wondering what the state of her skin was. Not wanting to look over at her mirror. Oh, that’s right, she had given it to the boy anyway. The boy! Yes, Aluin clearly adored her so much, he should pack her belongings for her trip. How many days horseback to Paris, to the Palais? She chortled, with wonder, who knew?! Well, she was about to find out! At the Palais, surely she could find someone who knew something of du Guesclin’s band of condottiere! Her thoughts bubbled on at the realization that Tristen might look a bit older now. Would he have a few strands of gray yet? Adding dignity to his illustrious career? No, she almost giggled at herself. He was too young for that!

  Her nose banged into something with a harsh pain. She yelped, shaking her head and rearing back. Peering in front of her. There was nothing there to hit. Just air. The empty space of her room. She cautiously reached out her hand until she felt an obstruction. A flat surface. Transparent. With a slight elasticity to it, one part of her mind murmured. The other part of her mind did not want to think what this portended. She gave the barrier – for that was what she was already starting to admit it to be – a poke. It shimmered.

  This was the trapping spell, she suddenly realized, SnaraVal. Or something like it. The larger, more ornate version whose name she didn’t know was her daily curse. Enchanteur had used it to trap her on the Tower grounds. Yet that one, taking considerably more power – lasting years without any need for his proximity to make it endure – was absolutely translucent. It was permeable, for game, even Aluin, could come and go on the grounds. Only she could not. As much as she hated the spell, she had ruminated for years on its artistry. SnaraVal was smaller, weaker, with its faint shimmer, and needed the warlock present to work. He had used it for hunting on Feast Days, when he had had a fancy for venison instead of the more mundane domesticated meat and poultry available in the stables. SnaraVal was his gentle way of trapping a deer, then immobilizing its heart with a second spell, FriosethNa, to tenderly kill it. The beast never knew what hit it. It was very important to Enchanteur not to harm an animal, even when harvesting it. She used to snort with contempt at his tenderness. When using the spells combination herself, she laughed that he would never have lasted on a farm. Now, a third part of her mind asked whether she hadn’t lately come around to his point of view.

  Because she herself was now his prey? She wondered at that. Shaking her head with irritation at the distraction, she resumed her exploration. Another part of her mind was already pondering what she would say to him, now that he had clearly returned, even as yet one more reflected on why. Would he be proud of her? She suddenly felt ashamed of her instruction of Aluin. She should have tried harder. Less self-indulgent fucking and more developing of the boy’s mind. Less allowing him his own self-indulgences and more useful adversity.

  Her inner discussion went on, getting into full swing, and all the time she was tracing the contours of the SnaraVal barrier, noting its end points, right down to the floor. Fully a third of her room. The third that contained the bed, her nightstand and chamberpot. The fireplace with its accoutrement, the table and chairs, the window and archway, even her dresses hung around the walls – all were firmly outside this new, truncated prison.

  Everything was neatly placed, but she couldn’t get to them. Even the dead butterflies...

  The dead butterflies? Yes, all had been cleaned up. Yet time had shifted. She was aware of that now. How long? How did she know that? Oh, she chided herself. The leaves were just starting to fade on the trees she could see in the distance outside the window. It was cooler. The first hints of autumn. Yet Aluin’s dancing flowers performance had taken place at the height of summer. When butterflies were abundant. How long had she slept? Several Sundays?!

  Her mind was starting to grow seriously alarmed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a whirl. Turning herself
to face it, she watched it very slowly, and slightly clumsily, resolve into the muscular physique of the boy, now hued midnight blue. Right down to his locks of hair.

  Choking down her frustration, she forced her voice into somewhat calm tones only to have him speak first.

  “Ah, I see that you have discovered the new decorations to your Eyrie.”

  A jet of anger spiked at that, even as she remembered that she had vowed to rename Tristen’s room to help her forget about him. Nevertheless, she thought, wait until Aluin had spent a few days under Enchanteur’s instruction, she chuffed, the boy would come weeping back to her for help.

  Instead, she simply growled, “Where is he?”

  “Who?” The dark blue face shimmered itself, she could see now – with – stars! Tiny stars that glowed, flickering in and out on his skin. All over his body. His smile, however, beamed a bright white light. A miniature sun. Yet a mocking one.

  “Aluin?! Stop – !” and she got no further.

  “Malefique.” His voice deepened. No longer did she hear the honeyed, musical notes of his customary timbre. The analytical part of her mind screamed that the boy had had a harsh screech to his voice when first arriving. When did it become honeyed? Had she taught him that? Her technique to disarm her sexual prey with her voice? When?

  More importantly, she gulped, how long had Aluin been charming her with it? She thrust those scary thoughts aside and tried to focus. His new, darker voice, with its counter-pointing hints of danger, made it difficult to think.

  She tried a little charming of her own, letting a warm smile enter her tones. “Enchanteur, Aluin. Where is my master? When did he arri–?”

  “Malefique.”

  She corrected herself. Why not? Enchanteur had taught her that choosing one’s own name was an unmistakable sign of maturity. Although, she scoffed inwardly, choosing the name ‘evil’ only showed how silly the twit was growing.

  “Malefique,” she cooed back to him. “Where is my master? I wish to welcome him.”