Chateau of Longing

by Monica Bentley

  Lela blinked at that. She wanted to ask further but decided to dissolve in Katya’s laughter, which was so hearty she swore they were shaking the horse. Besides, she could see the Anjou standard atop the towers.

  *****

  The following days passed in a dream. Katya’s eyes, completely dry, took on a stony look of pride when the chateau’s blacksmith cut off her slave neck ring. Yet she burst into tears when she saw the bed. She stood there, running her hands gently over the sheets again, and again, and again. After the ladies-in-waiting had filled her tub, Lela insisted on washing her, very slowly, Katya’s tears mixing with the suds in the water. They slept together in her bed that first night. And stayed together all day. Lela wouldn’t let her friend out of her eyesight, afraid the gods would snatch her away. She gave Katya her falcon and held her as her friend cried upon learning the bird’s name.

  Of Lela’s story, particularly the last moon and its following days, Katya said nothing, listening very closely. Her eyes would spark from time to time. With some hidden meaning, just as long ago, but Lela didn’t ask, knowing her friend would tell her in time.

  After some hemming and hawing about it, and after a poignant dream from which Katya shook her awake, asking, “Who is this John?” Lela told her. Told her everything. Katya had held her, let her cry, let her sob, silently wiping away each tear with the sigh, “A lady’s lot, Lela. A lady’s lot in life.”

  Of Marcel, she had surprisingly little to say more than, “I am very grateful to him, Lela. I will respect him.”

  Which was good because, for some reason, Lela was starting to feel a little trepidation about how well they would get along. Particularly after the rider arrived.

  He had a short message...

  Prepare to be my wife.

  * 9 *

  Having been to a few marriages of state in her time at Brionde, she wasn’t too surprised by the bustle. It was as if the ladies-in-waiting had been unleashed at last. All this rushing around, a seamstress taking her measurements, as if she didn’t already have them. Taking all of their measurements, as if she didn’t already have them. Lela let them have their fun. Why not?

  She wasn’t.

  Amidst all their endless banter about how they would do her hair and theirs on the day, even Katya’s – if they could tie her down long enough – Lela let her mind drift. It was her second marriage. She had no illusions. Cherelle even attempted a jocular hint of the wedding bed, but Lela had silenced such levity with one harsh glance. It was a marriage of state, even if it was to Marcel. Yes, all too soon, in a few days, she would know at last the feeling of his cock deep within her. She would be able to run her hands over that gorgeous chest of his. She would be giving him the Parisian Kiss, she suddenly realized at some point and made a mental note to take a long walk with Katya discussing it.

  It was at that point that she realized how truly emotionless she was about the event. She was going about her own marriage as if she were planning a state dinner to entertain the King and Queen. She had to ponder that.

  It was a marriage of two counties, she knew, Anjou and Brionde. Brionde was the larger. Would her people demand precedence? She decided they would follow her tone. And John’s.

  John.

  She thrust troublesome thoughts of him aside and focused instead on living arrangements. This last moon and more in Anjou made her long for her own people in Brionde. Clearly, she would need to spend time there more regularly. And yet, she paused in her thoughtful walk this morning, kneeling to cup the freshly scrubbed cheeks and kiss the brow of a chateau urchin, she had her ties here, too. So, a split arrangement? Three moons here, three moons there? That seemed best.

  And, of course, there was the living in Paris with little Marcel as a hostage settlement to be dealt with. She wasn’t certain how that would work out. However, reminding herself that it was common in wartime, she resolved to ask other nobles what arrangements the King found amenable. Clearly, they had to go home from time to time, too. Besides, it would only be a number of years. She hoped. Time enough to demonstrate Brionde-Anjou’s loyalty to the crown.

  Receiving a peck on the cheek in return, Lela rose to her feet, spotting Katya’s anxious look of concern. She smiled back then continued her morning tour. Since Marcel’s imperious note, meant to be jocular she was sure – it had better be, she glowered, remembering how the Walrus used to order her around – Katya had withdrawn a bit. She asked her, of course. Katya had only hugged her with the sigh, “It’s a lot to take in, Lela.” But in these few days as the chateau became swept up in preparations, she noticed her friend growing more distant.

  She paused for a moment in the archway of the chateau’s chapel to admire the handiwork. Even at this early hour of the day, it was clear that several glasses had been turned what with the work going on here. The chapel was being decked in boughs of fragrant cedar and as much gold fabric as could be found. The headman himself was fussily inspecting the boughs, rejecting many. Clearly, only the best would do. His wife was directing several tradesmen on ladders in the hanging of the fabric, much to their amused exasperation. The headman looked up with a harassed grimace then, seeing who it was, he dropped into a hasty bow, saying loudly, “m’Lady!” All work stopped. They bowed, even those on ladders managing to do so. She nodded in return, thinking that was going to have to cease. In the future. For now, some sort of sign of appreciation was clearly needed. She walked over to the pile of acceptable boughs and, under his nervous gaze – so much more deference than her own pompous headman – touched a few with a smile. She felt everyone relax. She took a step back to survey the gold swatches and said, “Such careful attention to detail. You bring great honor to the chateau. And to m’Lord.”

  It was the first time she had used the title for Marcel. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  For now, though, she was all smiles. The headman, and particularly his wife, returned her smiles and, after giving each other a relieved glance, went back to work.

  Lela walked on, followed a few steps behind by a silent Katya.

  As they made their way to the kitchen, she wondered who had decided on using the gold – clearly referring to the key of the Anjou standard – and wondered if they were going to work in the field of blue. Then, she remembered the bolts of cloth the seamstress had shown her. She had approved them with barely a thought, only the consideration that the shade wasn’t too dark for her chestnut brown locks. Marcel’s hair was darker. It would be fine. She heard a pan being thrown just now, followed by a furious invective. Rounding the corner of the archway, she saw a mess of some stew on the floor and the kitchen mistress about to burst into tears. She hastened over to her, glancing at the hundreds of meat pies already piled up on the shelves, the many pots of bouillabaisse already stewed just waiting to be reheated on the day, jars of stripped shrimp next to them so that they wouldn’t be stewed tough in the reheating. Beyond the mistress and her clearly exhausted assistants, all smeared with flour and anxiety, she could see what must be hundreds of sweet pastries. Saint Genevieve, the barrels of flour they must be going through!

  For now, however, she took the mistress in her arms. Who was heaving out a bitter tear-stained litany of “I told her! Get the butter out early or it won’t be soft! And look at us now!” A kitchen scamp looking not unlike Twig back home was openly sobbing. Lela cooed that “all will be well” and shhhhed the mistress. Which made her sob harder. Clearly, they needed a break.

  “I want you all to take the next glass and wander outside. It’s a beautiful autumn morning. Have some mead.”

  The mistress began to protest, but Lela shushed her. “The chateau will not fall, I assure you. That’s an order, mistress.” And, after a floury peck on the woman’s worried brow, and a light touch of the scamp’s cheek, she moved on. Lela had briefly considered sending for her own kitchen mistress and staff to help with the wagon loads of foodstuff that would surely be prepared but, knowing the folly of two nightingales in one bush – or two lioness
es in one den, she had smiled – she had let it go. Best to let Brionde strut its stuff when she returned someday.

  On the day before the ceremony, with still no Marcel having arrived, the Brionde party did. It was a very small party, just Coletta and a very pregnant Phoebe, attended by one Guardsman she didn’t recognize who quickly rode on after saluting her. At the moment, there were so many other guests also arriving there was time for little more than a warm hug, a kiss on the cheek and introduction to Katya who took them under wing. And that was the last that she saw of any of the trio until the next morning. She didn’t mind. She was just starting to grasp this day that her stature in the world had shot up a few notches. She gathered that, not only from the odd, slightly stilted reactions of the Brionde party, but also and more clearly from the neighboring nobles. She knew several of them from entertaining at Chateau Brionde with the Walrus in the past. Had endured several of their petty slights to the point of growing deaf to them.

  This afternoon, however, and throughout the evening, when all dined in the Great Hall she was mildly astonished and greatly amused to find them deferring to her. Marcel must be quite the courtier at Court, she guessed, finishing a glass, and let it go at that. It was proving nice to have a husband who was actually useful for once. She also noticed, pouring another one, that her beloved Guardsmen had not diminished in reputation. Beloved? She realized that she was getting tipsy from the flowing wine. And the sultry notes of a minstrel that she particularly liked, delighted that someone had thought to hire him. His ballads of love lost only to be found again filled the corners of the Hall and, she had to admit, made for a politic statement of what Brionde-Anjou would come to mean in the world. Or would Marcel insist on Anjou-Brionde she wondered, taking another sip. Probably. Men. Who cares?

  As the wine flowed further and her noble neighbors’ conversation descended into gossip, she found that her prior reputation for dignified silence was proving quite useful. However, whereas before she had used her silence as a shield from their slights, now they clearly saw her silence, from the many small nods bowed to her, as gracious. As her due.

  In any case, their gossip was diverting and she always adored hearing about her beloved – yes, beloved, she abruptly decided – Guardsmen. The Count of Rennes was telling of their feats with the rapier and how the King’s army was awash in rumors of the many challenges they had gallantly – a nod to her – undertaken and won with more heavily armed and armored knights. Some one else, probably Nantes had scoffed at that. But Rennes was insisting that his man had seen one just the last Sunday. It was all the talk in the camp. The Master – another nod to her – of Brionde had defeated the Lord Constable’s favorite in just one pass. Slipped under the favorite’s first stroke, stepped up under his arm and pricked him in the joints between the plates. A killing stroke some had claimed or would have been had he followed through, Rennes was insisting now. To the gasps of astonishment of the ladies.

  Well, parlor tricks of Brionde’s Guardsmen, famed or not – another nod to her – might be diverting while waiting for the English to arrive, Nantes was fuming, but a stick is no good on the battlefield when met by a sturdy broadsword. The Count of Lorient weighed in with an observation that the true weapon of the battlefield was that ghastly English longbow which all but made the nearby tables erupt in protest. Look at Crecy ten years ago, he protested, to jeers and sneers. Their arrows went right through our plate mail, bringing down many a proud knight and his war charger.

  As their argument raged, Lela sat in a stupor. She was feeling a bit confused about how her Guardsmen had gotten to Chartres. She certainly hadn’t ordered them there. Had a summons arrived but not yet reached her? In any case, she decided that Rennes had it wrong. It must be Louis who had fought the Lord Constable’s favorite. She made a note to tell Phoebe about it. Then she paused, trying to figure out how many days ride it was from Brionde to Chartres. She asked Lorient if the King was still there.

  The Count of Le Mans answered for him. “They have moved further south, m’Lady. The smart coin says that they will do battle in the next day or two at the gathering of forests near a small village on the River Clain called...”

  “Poitiers,” she finished for him.

  His eyes widened in surprised delight, his chubby look lingering on her breasts for just an instant as he responded. “You have the advantage of me, m’Lady. Or your spies do.”

  She protested to everyone’s great amusement. The Countess of Rennes then asked how Lela knew that because she had been told it would be at Chartres. Lela paused for a moment, wondering what to say about John.

  Lorient stepped into the gap. “We are seeing the extent of reach of Anjou-Brionde.”

  Without thinking, she corrected him. “Brionde-Anjou.”

  She saw eyes flickering back and forth, covert glances, nods. It irritated her.

  “No, it’s simply to be expected. They are gathering for battle at the Old Crossroads, where Charles Martel defeated the Umayyads...”

  “In 732,” Rennes finished for her – with a nod. “Charles the Hammer! Ending the Moslem invasion of Francia!” His eyes glinted. “I did not realize that Marcel was so well versed in warfare. I thought his interests lay in...other directions.”

  A few quiet smiles broke out among the men. That really annoyed her.

  She was about to angrily retort when she heard the cry “m’Lady! m’Lady! A request of the bride.”

  The Great Hall went silent. She stood. She looked out at all those faces, almost three hundred strong, reflected in the flickering torches. Many were well-scrubbed, yet strewn with meat juices that caught the light. A great number were clearly jovial, a few awfully drunk, weaving back and forth, goblets in hand. A few were sullen for some reason or another. Almost all, however, were plainly quite happy. Expectant. A marriage was coming on the morrow. War might be imminent. Yet, life was going on. A child was expected. A dynasty – with all its promise of a settled peace – beckoned. Yes, they were happy. Some nobles might be rude to her at her own table, but her guests were happy. Why make them pay for some fat hog’s ill-bred manners?

  In the corner, the minstrel tuned his lute, a look of eager expectation in his eyes.

  Ill-bred manners, she thought, remembering from the Walrus days how Rennes went on and on about his blood connection to the Great Charlemagne.

  She cocked an eye at the minstrel. “Do you know the Song of Roland?”

  Stunned, he nodded. Murmurs began among the tables. Roland was an old favorite, the epic poem of a hero who, in refusing to abandon his duty to his king, died bravely on the battlefield. Hardly considered the song for a happy wedding she guessed from the growing whispers.

  She cut them off. “My guests, I thank you for coming to celebrate the marriage of Brionde-Anjou’s happiness. You bring honor and pride to this chateau and all its inhabitants. Yet, we do so on the eve of war. Rather than hide from that fact, let us embrace it. Minstrel, the Song of Roland, I say. Let us celebrate our warriors and their loyal service to the Crown. May they be as faithful in duty these next days as Roland proved in his.”

  She sat. There was silence.

  A goblet banged out on the table. “Roland!”

  Someone else across the Hall answered by banging his goblet down, “Roland and Poitiers!”

  More calls rang out. “Roland! Roland! Give us the Song of Roland! Poitiers!”

  The minstrel paused in his tuning, his hands up in supplication. His perplexed eyes asked for help. “Not all of it?”

  “No,” she responded with an impish grin – and a nod toward Rennes for it was also a song of Charlemagne’s only defeat. “Just the best parts.”

  *****

  Marcel had arrived in the night. Or so it appeared. She learned of it when she entered his night chamber to give it one last check before his expected arrival later that morning. Only to find him in bed, snoring. With Ninon, her auburn tresses cast all around her on the pillow.