Lela felt a kinship of an entirely new sort springing up between them. She knew precisely how Marcel felt. Doomed to marry someone not of his choosing, but determined to make the best of it. For her part, she had planned to revive her “head ache” excuse if needed. She wondered what Marcel would do, then decided she didn’t want to know.
She took his arm in hers, to his smile of delight. “We are two peas in a pod, are we not?”
His smile deepened as he nodded.
“Yes, I will visit. I want to see your Anjou.”
*****
She returned with her Guardsmen to the Harp, with plans laid for Marcel to fetch her at sunrise. She didn’t cluck at the early hour. Indeed, smiling grimly, she thought it prudent. It was agreed that they would use Marcel’s Guard. It should be sufficient. Of Coletta, she had yet to decide.
Of the coming visit, she felt a great elation, a coming relief. She also felt the harbinger of a coming storm. She knew that John would not approve. Of what, exactly, she wasn’t sure. Just that he wouldn’t. Deciding that she couldn’t take a lecture about Chateau Anjou’s lack of defenses, she forewent a visit to the wounded, with a pang of guilt and, instead, sat in the inn’s common room. Coletta took one look at her face and ordered her an ale.
That made Lela growl inside.
Being spied on by ladies-in-waiting she could deal with, particularly when it did not matter what they gossiped about since she was only a guest and not a resident. All at once, however, she was suddenly fed up with being gabbed about by her own staff. That decided it. She would leave Coletta behind. Even better, since the tart was probably fucking John into submission, she would put the girl in charge of seeing the Guard home.
Sipping her ale, feeling its frothiness go straight to her head, she felt her mood darken, then decided to cast it off, focusing instead on Marcel. His eyes. His smile. His warm, sweet voice. His attentions. So different from the Walrus! So different from...
She shifted direction. A minstrel was playing for coin, his wispy beard curled up to his chin. Wondering how he did that, she settled in to listening as he strummed his lute, his melodious voice reminding her much of Marcel’s. She thought of teasing him about his missed chance to be a minstrel, then lightly set it aside as the minstrel began his tune. It was a heartfelt one, a tragic air, of a lady in a castle fair whose courageous knight left to fight in the Holy Land. It had a haunting refrain that made her tear up, as the verses played out, one after another...
Will you look to see me there
On the walls of our castle fair
All the locks of my long hair, streaming...
As he wound up his ballad, Lela felt foolish. But, seeing his cap on the table next to him, waiting for coins, she threw him one anyway. Wiping the traces of tears from the corners of her eyes, she spotted Coletta near one of her Guard, openly weeping, so she felt better.
She wondered how much longer she could delay.
She needed to see him. It was her duty to hand out assignments. Besides the wine and ale were relaxing her. She thought she might handle this difficult meeting better now. Without further ado, then, she went up the stairs and paused, her hand raised to knock on his door when she suddenly realized that she couldn’t. Coletta was already calling to her, racing up the stairs to announce her.
What a bother.
She took a step back and made room for the girl.
It did make sense, she thought. It would give John a chance to dress, or neaten up, or arrange their story between the two of them. She wondered how long she would have to wait, and began to turn to the railing to survey the crowd below as Coletta knocked on the door, then poked a head inside. Lela snorted. Clearly, her lady-in-waiting was no stranger to this room.
But Coletta was already calling her. John’s three companions of the Guard already coming out of the room, wearing their bandages with pride, nodding bows to her.
She nodded at each in return then took a step toward the doorway. Then caught herself. It abruptly dawned on her that she didn’t know what she was going to say. The words were caught in her throat.
And there he was! Out of bed. Damn him! It was just like him to be instantly ready for her unannounced meeting.
Without thinking, she put out both hands and placed them on his chest pushing him back. Just like in her fantasy where she gives him the Parisian Kiss. Unlike her fantasy, however, he didn’t yield. Looking up, she saw him frown and, bending to her ear, he asked, “m’Lady, what is the matter with your room?”
Nothing. Of course.
She sighed and turned to it. Damn the man! In bed every single day, every turned glass, since the attack and the one moment she visits him...
She entered her room and sat on her bed. He knelt before her. It was a stiff movement and she could see a tremor to his lips, instantly suppressed, as he landed on his knee. Another wound not spoken of? His hip, perhaps? His dark brown breeches, form-fitting as always showed no additional lumpiness to suggest a bandage.
She would never know. She sighed.
How in the world could she ever fantasize about fucking John? Best to stick with her own kind. The lesser mortals. Like Marcel. She had to smile at that.
John was looking at her.
“The Count of Anjou?”
Just like John to know where she had been the last hours. If not informed directly, then to find out.
“He wishes to marry you.”
The gruff statement was so blunt, it was like a slap in the face.
“What?!”
“He is trading on your childhood friendship to marry you, thus making good on his foolish promise to the King to supply more knights and archers than he is able.”
Her mouth dropped open. Of all the ridiculous...!
“For the coming battle, m’Lady. Edward III has landed in Aquitaine. He is making good his claim of descent from Philip the Fair, through his mother, Isabella the She-Wolf. His son Edward the Black Prince is leading their army north now. The King is gathering his forces, will probably meet them south of here.” John’s savage warrior grin appeared in his beard. “My guess is the Old Crossroads, near Poitiers village, where Charles the Hammer slaughtered the Musselmen centuries ago. In a moon. Maybe sooner.”
She waited. He may be completely wrong about Marcel’s intentions, but John was rarely ever wrong about war.
He shifted his weight, a grimace of pain flickering across his cheek.
She made as if to lift him to sit with her, but his grim lines deepened. She knew that look and relented.
“It will be hard going. They will have their longbows, just as at Crecy ten years ago. The King finally understands the danger, thanks to du Guesclin.”
She suppressed a smile at the mention of John’s old fighting companion, who had sacked her castle and received a debilitating wound from his friend in the process.
“However the Lord Constable refuses to listen. As do the Dukes. There will be a slaughter. The King is aware of this, thus he presses hard all those owing him feudal dues to make good. The Count of Anjou must provide twenty mounted knights and thirty archers. He does not have them. Thus, to keep Anjou and...” John’s eye glinted, “...add Brionde to his...”
“No.”
He looked down. A muscle in his cheek twitched.
“Marcel would never trade on my friendship in that manner. For any reason.”
He kept his gaze down. The muscle kept twitching.
“You will return to Brionde with the Guard and heal of your wounds. Take Coletta with you.”
His mouth opened, then shut. His eyes remained down.
“The Summons being delayed...”
His face shot up, his eyes on hers, wide. His mouth set to say something.
That she did not want to hear. “...I shall accept Marcel’s timely offer of a visit to Anjou, to visit his chateau and prepare it for his own coming marriage to whomever the King orders him to marry.”
He still wanted to say something. Again she cut him off
.
“I am aware of his feudal obligation and Anjou’s current inability to meet it. He has informed me of both.”
John blinked at that.
She let her tone harden. “Knowing the man, however, I have no doubt that the Count shall meet his feudal obligation to His Majesty, for this battle or any other.”
John looked down, thoughtful.
She waited.
Several heartbeats passed. She suddenly felt drunk. Too much wine, too much ale, too much tragic poetry sung of loves lost in war.
She heard his words. “Shall I prepare the Guard for Poitiers?”
She chuffed. Still on the marriage gambit!
“m’Lady, have you received word from the King of his own expectations from Brionde?”
This gave her pause. She bit a lip. She hadn’t considered that. If she were truly the Countess in the eyes of Court, she would have. The Walrus had received a number of such declarations, bitching about every one, until he finally stopped answering. If there were a battle, then...unless there wasn’t a battle. But Marcel had also mentioned a coming battle... Her head swimming, she tried to make sense of it all. A dull ache began to throb in her temples. She reached up to rub them...
“m’Lady.”
...and blew up.
“Dammit, John! I cannot marry you! Do you understand that?! God’s tears, I wish I could!”
His eyes looked up at her, spread wide in astonishment.
Up at her. She must be standing. The drink was making her tongue thick. She didn’t care. She needed to get this out.
“Saint Genevieve! I have prayed. I have wept! I have dreamed...” she cried, hearing her voice harsh, looking down at him, seeing the look of...who knew what on his face. Hurt? It couldn’t be. She gentled her tone.
“Were this Avignon and I still the daughter of a wealthy farmer, I...yes!” She saw her hands spread wide, heard them coming down to slap her hips hard, her voice growing strident once more.
“But, it’s not! I am the Countess of Brionde, one of the titled nobles of Francia, feudally obligated by oath and honor to His Majesty. Whereas you...”
She paused, searching for words. Then, the flash image of Coletta listening in at the door abruptly made her see red.
Despite herself, she snarled, “You are not even a knight!”
The room went silent. She found herself panting, her chest heaving.
He was looking down.
Not knowing what else to do, she turned away. And then she did something that made her blush for years afterward. She said, “That is all.”
She heard his gruff “As you wish, m’Lady.”
And he was gone.
*****
The cock crowed a few moments later. Or so it seemed. Her head pounding, she barely registered the bottle of ale she kicked over getting out of bed at Coletta’s urging. Or the basin of cold water she threw her face in. Or the stumbling trip downstairs, the Guardsmen carrying her parcels of clothing, Coletta’s tears as Marcel, smoothly handing her into a carriage, took possession of her.
Or the carriage’s riding away.
“Hard night?” Marcel asked after a few King’s Miles had passed.
She glared at him.
He smiled. “You haven’t changed one bit, Lela.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. So, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.
* 6 *
Anjou was prettier than she had expected. Or maybe she was just used to Breton beauty. It was far closer to Brionde than she had anticipated, only six days ride away. The chateau was just as Marcel had described.
The ladies-in-waiting, as well. The staff was not much better. Or maybe it was just her mood.
The first thing she did was turn out all the sheets, forcing them to boil, rewash and press everything. And again. And again. Until all the lice, ticks, mites and every other would-be companion to her nightly slumber or the Count’s was removed. She ordered a daily replacement of the thrushes on the floor – sometimes two or three times a day – whenever she found that a cat, dog, rat, mouse or any other vermin had shat on it, anywhere in the chateau, until the entire staff grew as watchful as any predator for such behavior. She insisted on fresh flowers cut daily from the garden to be placed in all the rooms. At the clucking over such extravagance, she smoothly ordered an expansion of the chateau garden. She ordered the seeding of several flowering plants – geranium, columbine, indigo, goldenrod – to increase birdsong near the chateau windows in years to come. She insisted on alternating between freshly baked rolls served with sweet preserves or oats and whatever fresh fruit was available each morning. She insisted on fresh cuts of meat or fish served with green vegetables each night. Indeed, she went over the entire menu with a quavering kitchen mistress to include several Provencal favorites for the Count.
She also introduced the entire chateau staff to the Brionde Way. There was resistance, at first, until she threatened to set them down at the nearest village and bring her own ladies-in-waiting, servants and other staff over from Brionde. There was no resistance to the Morning and Evening Brushes after that.
Marcel was thrilled. She didn’t see him all that often the first several days of her stay in Anjou. He was always away on errands to neighboring chateaus. She would have complained, but she didn’t really want to talk with him, anyway. Not after what John had said. She didn’t want to think about John, for that matter, either. In any case, she was happy to see Marcel gone. Happy to have the free run of the chateau, the village beyond the gate, and the fields beyond.
Besides, Marcel had presented her with a welcoming gift of a peregrine falcon. He remembered how much she had liked hawking in their childhood, he had said. Lela loved her falcon. It was perfect in all ways: a peregrine was the bird suitable for a countess or a count, a female peregrine was almost a third larger than the typical male, and hers had an unusually bright chest of snowy white at the neck, with the typical lower brown bands muted into a light tan. The snowy feathers reminded her of the white blonde tresses of her childhood friend and their many days spent hawking together. Lela named her new friend Katya.
She took Katya out every afternoon. She had some long conversations with the chateau falconer, learning how Katya had been imprinted around people. She was happy to learn that Katya had been carefully weaned, taught to equate the falconer with hunting, rather than with food as chateau dogs are. Lela impressed upon him how carefully she wanted Katya treated. She insisted on a quiet mews, demanded the Dutch Hood for Katya to wear while resting, because it was the better fit and made for a happier bird. Also, she went over the jesses, Katya’s anklets that kept her tied to her perch in the mews, to ensure that they were worn soft enough to be comfortable for the bird, but not so worn that they would snap free if Katya got scared and stormed about. Then, too, Lela went over the shorter field jesses, making the same check.
Together, she and the falconer went over Katya’s diet, ensuring that the falcon got enough roughage in the form of mouse skins with her meals to better keep her healthy. And the amount fed her each morning, to ensure that Katya would want to exercise each day and not get lazy. Lela even impressed the falconer by insisting on seeing some of Katya’s pellets, to check their constitution.
All in all, Lela felt good about it. At Brionde, she had used an old, almost retired Harris hawk, just as she had when young. They were so durable and so forgiving, particularly when older, it was hard to make a mistake with them. Peregrine falcons, she could see from Katya’s fierceness, were far more demanding. Nevertheless, she quickly learned to love the shrill, piercing shrieks of Katya as they moved up the chateau wall’s stairs to the top. At first, she had been afraid of hurting Katya but, over time, as the bird calmly adjusted its footing on the thick leather gauntlet Lela wore on her left hand, its black eyes slowly beating shut then opening, she realized that Katya was just a talkative bird. Apparently, she had a lot to say. About the weather, the sun, her new owner, whether there were any nearby sparrows to c
hew on or mice in the field to scoop up.
Lela cooed right back.
Before long, she had settled into a nice routine at the chateau. Orders of the day given over her morning mead while the ladies-in-waiting brushed out her hair. A short repast of rolls and preserves or oats and fruit with a small, dry white wine. A walking tour of the castle to ensure that the kitchen, the laundry, the housekeeping were all proceeding as smoothly as possible. More orders given when it was apparent that they were not. A short ride on a roan Arabian mare called Zara that she had appropriated from the stables without asking which took her out to the fields to check on how the late summer’s hoeing and first fields’ harvesting was coming along. Followed by a slow walking return, Zara’s reins in one hand, through the village greeting everyone, the headman’s obsequious gasps attending her every step of the way. Preparations, decisions made for the evening meal in the chateau’s hall, including the choice of entertainment. Hawking with Katya in the late afternoon. Then bathing, brushing, changing for the evening meal. Presiding over the meal, making conversation with its inevitable guests, enduring their inevitable gossip, complimenting the kitchen mistress’ efforts. Smiling, complimenting the minstrel or musician or poet or players of the evening. Then, more brushing of her hair, changing into her night clothes and, shutting out all thoughts of him as she closed her eyes, sleep.
In short, an industrious effort of keeping herself too busy to think while running a chateau which was, mercifully, absent its lord and master.
And it worked. In the day, she could turn her mind off. However, during the night...
Marcel reached for her. She couldn’t help it, her stomach began quivering for him, an odd shaking that she had never known before. It wasn’t her belly. It was below her belly. She needed him. She felt it, this odd warm liquid feeling in her womb, in her pussy. Even in the midst of it all, she was aware that she was dreaming. The colors were too rich. The feel of the satin sheets rubbing her thighs felt too soft, too warm, too delicious. It didn’t matter. She was loving this.
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