Stunned speechless, Lela turned around and, silently, walked away.
Katya’s door was closed and the ladies-in-waiting were, uncharacteristically, nowhere to be seen so she sat in her bed and listened to a lonely robin singing out from the top of a nearby tree, looking for a companion. She hummed the tune of the Song of Roland, abruptly remembering that it was John’s favorite. Some wedding day.
She poured herself some morning mead and sat, sipping it, wondering how John’s wound was coming along. Phoebe wouldn’t be able to tell her, of course. She knew that without asking. The Master would only brusquely mutter something about everything being fine. At least he would be resting, rather than going into battle. He would keep the rest of the Guard well practiced. They would probably be ascending the walls just now for archery practice. Her mind ranged back over the walls of Brionde and she felt a pang for them. She even missed that damned dolphin on the Brionde standard, flying above the Keep. She marveled for a moment at how the walls of Brionde had come to mean home for her far more than the villa of her childhood. When had that happened?
She heard a stirring and then the light clink of Katya’s door opening a space.
“Lela?”
Finally! She summoned up a smile. “Good morning! And how did you three sleep last night? I didn’t see you at all during the feast.”
Katya’s dark blue eyes anxiously peered around the door at her out of her cloud of white hair.
All at once feeling like a little girl again, Lela cried out, “Come here you! Let’s do something about that hair.” And she got out of bed to fetch a comb from a nearby table.
But Katya hadn’t moved.
Lela stopped, looking at her. “What’s wrong?”
Katya was wearing her perplexed frown this morning. As if she didn’t know what to say. Finally, unwillingly, she came to the bed and sat on it. She folded her hands in her lap.
Lela watched all this with growing amusement. To think that her Viking was worried about being forgotten. Katya looked like a little girl herself now. What on earth? Well, Lela allowed, it was a wedding day. People had all kinds of odd ideas on wedding days.
She got the comb and returned to the bed, climbing in behind her friend. She began a hesitant pull on some tangles at the bottom. Goodness, they were a mess.
“What were you three up to last night? Not entertaining Guardsmen, I hope?”
Katya turned and looked at her. Her lips were pursed as if she were about to do battle.
Okay, this wasn’t good, Lela thought. Best just let it out, get it out of the way, then get to the hair.
Katya’s hands were turning in her lap. Her brawny arms showing their muscles as they twisted.
“Just tell me.”
Katya sighed. “Lela, I know that many things have changed. That you are no longer the girl I knew back in our days in Avignon...”
Well, Lela thought. Whatever it is must be a matter of some import. She forced herself to wait, calmly. She was getting used to that she suddenly realized.
Katya saw something in her eyes, started, then blurted out, “Why are you sending me away?”
What?
Lela blinked at her stupidly.
“Lela, I understand that you are married now, or will be shortly, that many things are changing. That you have two chateaus to manage, but I...”
Lela was still finding her tongue. What in the Heavens?
Katya’s voice broke, her eyes tearing up. “What have I done? Please tell me how I have made you so unhappy.”
All at once, she found it. “What are you saying?”
Her friend persisted. “I just want to know. Please.”
“Where are you getting this from?”
Katya’s eyes widened. She darted a glance at her room. Lela’s eyes followed hers then returned to see that Katya’s had taken on a note of defiance.
Okay, this had to stop.
She put her hand on Katya’s holding them still. As her friend tried to protest, she raised the other one to Katya’s lips silencing her as she wrapped her body as tightly as she could around her friend.
“You are not going anywhere.”
“But...!”
“Not without me!” she let the imperial tone creep in.
That ended it. Katya started crying. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Truly?” her brawny Viking whimpered.
“Truly.”
And then it had all come out. Phoebe had arrived with the news that they had taken pains with Katya’s room in Brionde. She was bearing written instructions that neither could read, but that Phoebe had said the Franciscan at Brionde had. It had come from the Count of Anjou along with the new standard that now flew above the chateau and orders for the Guard.
Lela clucked at that but held her tongue. She wanted to hear this. All of it.
Katya was ordered to Brionde. Her duties would be explained later.
Lela waited. Her friend went silent. Her hands began twisting again. Lela put out her own to stop them.
“You are not going anywhere,” she repeated. “Not without me.”
Then, getting out of bed, she walked to the door and flung it open, to find two very wide-eyed girls in the form of Phoebe and Coletta staring at her. Listening.
Without preamble, she asked Phoebe, “When did the Guard leave Brionde? And how many?”
Phoebe blinked in confusion at that. Taking a deep breath, Lela asked again.
Phoebe answered, her chin trembling. “Over a Sunday ago. All of it.”
That was not possible. To begin with John wouldn’t let more than half of the Guard leave at any one time. Not after the sack.
She chuffed and started to ask a third time, thinking that a girl may just not know. Even if it was Phoebe. Of course, Phoebe was pregnant, after all. She may not have been paying attention. That was easily understood. So she tried a question that was closer to Phoebe’s heart.
“How is Louis handling the defense of the chateau? Well, I hope.”
Phoebe blinked at that, too.
How much ale did these three have last night, Lela wondered and took another deep breath to repeat herself.
Phoebe cut in. “Louis?” She shook her head. “Louis went with the Master to Poitiers.”
Lela scoffed at that.
Phoebe cut in faster. “To Poitiers, yes. The original orders...” she pointed to a pipe roll, slightly undone on a table, continuing, “...said Chartres. But then a rider came a day later changing the destination to Poitiers. The Master got the new orders just as they were leaving.”
“The Master.”
“Yes.” Phoebe was looking at Coletta in alarm.
Lela suddenly realized how cold, how imperial her tone had grown. She ignored that. “The Master went to Poitiers.”
Phoebe gulped. “He was ordered to. With the entire Guard.” She pointed at the scroll again. “It came with the new standard that now flies above the Keep. The old Brionde standard has been put away.”
“New standard.”
“Yes.”
Lela was incredulous. “What does it look like, this new standard?”
Phoebe pointed at the ceiling, to the towers above their heads. “That one. A large key and lion of gold on a field of dark blue bordered by coral.”
Lela wandered over to the scroll, her mind swimming. Idly, she picked it up, wishing that she could read it. No noble did, believing that reading was for lesser mortals, a sign of someone who worked for a living, such as the clerks of the church. She had tried a little when she was very young, but her father had put an end to that. It was one of those early signs that, she had realized later, he had laid noble plans for her even when she was no more than a baby.
What was Marcel up to? Well, she snorted, hearing the late morning bustle of her ladies-in-waiting in her night chamber, she’d get to the bottom of this soon enough. “m’Lady?” Cherelle was calling. “m’Lady?”
Time to prepare for a wedding. She sighed.
Time.
&nb
sp; As they brushed her hair, very slowly, weaving strands of lavender in it. Very slowly. She kept thinking of time. She was missing something.
Whenever she found her eyes pausing on Ninon’s, she saw the maid blush. Which irritated her. Dior was excitedly shushing everyone. They all paused, waiting. Faintly, in the distance, they could hear Gregorian plainsong, which some called chant. The monks must have been hired by somebody. Lela didn’t even remember approving that request. There had been so many. Ah, well. It was for the glory of the chateau anyway. The monks were clearly marching up through the village, about to enter the Gate. She irritably jerked a shoulder, so they went back to brushing her hair.
The thought of a coming argument with Marcel annoyed her. Some wedding day this was turning out to be. Though she had to admit, remembering the Walrus, it was preferable to being raped. She decided to focus on her complaints about the confusion that he was sowing. He was careless about such things, expecting others to pick up after him. She knew that. Thinking it over, she realized that because he had no experience running a chateau, he truly didn’t understand that haphazard decisions by m’Lord or m’Lady had the startling effect of uprooting the lives of their people. Change was broached with difficulty at the best of times, deemed intolerable at the worst. It was best to be cautious when contemplating orders and specific when giving them. She had learned that from John. Marcel probably just didn’t understand that. Add to that all the distractions of preparing for war and...
Yes, that was it. A simple conversation would clear this up instantly. She would order John and half the Guard back to Brionde, leaving Louis in charge of the battlefield component. Phoebe’s reassurances that she and Maryl had gotten the headman to stack the walls with pickets and arm the village and the fields with hoes and pitchforks mattered not. Nor that Nicole and the kitchen staff had built fires on top of the walls boiling oil all day and night in preparation for any attack. The chateau needed the Guard. She would see to that. And the Brionde standard would fly above the chateau once more. And that nonsense about Katya would simply be ignored.
All too soon, she was clothed in her new linen shift. Then the new wedding dress was carefully unpacked and lifted down over it. Seeing Cherelle’s and the seamstress’ anxiety, she was careful to make all the right noises about how beautiful the cut was, how soft the fabric was and other things that she wasn’t really thinking about, but had learned to pay attention to nevertheless. The matching slippers fit well, so comfortable! The ladies-in-waiting dresses were a delightful match at a softer shade. Etc. etc. etc. And they were off.
All too soon, they were nearing the chapel. The villagers had raggedly knelt as one outside as she had passed. Well, kind of. A sweet little girl insisted on a hug as she walked by. Lela, tears springing to her eyes, knelt and held her, to the mothers’ acute embarrassment and fervent apologies. When Lela suddenly felt too weak to stand back up, Katya, in pride of place just behind her, helped her to her feet with one flip of a brawny arm. Lela even had a moment to notice that the ladies-in-waiting must have given up on her friend’s hair.
Inside, at the last pew in the rear, she spotted Phoebe and Coletta, tears streaming down their cheeks, standing next to the headman and his wife. The gathered nobles all stood in the pews ahead, by rank of course, looks of profound respect – which some of them even felt she was sure – decorating their faces, their outfits a sea of browns, reds and blues. The monks were chanting from the makeshift choir loft, bordered by thick garlands of cedar. She made a note to compliment the headman and his wife for how artfully they had used the space seeing the swatches of fabric with new eyes, swimming with tears now. At the far end of her cedar and gold gauntlet, Marcel was waiting at the altar, looking resplendent in a tightly fitting tunic of dark blue that matched her own dress. Saint Genevieve! There was not a single blush in those bold eyes of his. He fucks her maid a few hours earlier then stares at his lady as if she were the most ravishing woman under the Heavens. And Ninon was not a few King’s Feet behind her. This was going to be some marriage, she thought.
A priest had been hired to perform the ceremony. A representative of the King, in the light blue fleur-de-lis livery of the Court, was on hand to witness that this union had royal sanction and, most importantly, expectation. Reaching Marcel, they knelt as one before the priest. After a few words of welcome, he began to intone in Latin. She let her head swim. She kept thinking of time. She was missing something. What was she missing?
Then John kept intruding in her thoughts. She had to keep blinking him away. She was honestly worried about his wound. As the priest laid the host on her tongue during the Mass, she resolved not to lose her temper with Marcel about that asinine decision. Sending a wounded warrior – even if it was John – into battle. She would bite her lip. As the priest raised the goblet of shining silver in thanks and praise, she reminded herself that it truly wasn’t Marcel’s fault. That he just didn’t understand. Yet. Besides, within a few days, and before any battle could begin, she swore while sipping the holy wine, John would be back home, safe in Brionde. He would be grumpy. She didn’t give a damn. The priest was intoning again, his hands on their heads. He was nodding to Marcel who lifted them to their feet. The priest was asking Marcel, who responded by turning to Lela and promising his undying devotion and fidelity to her. She struggled not to smile. And then, she saw his eye twinkling right back at her. Well, well! Old Marcel! Then, it was her turn. She followed along, promising her undying service to her Lord and Master. And it was done. She felt his lips on hers, but pulled back when feeling his questing tongue. Not after you just fucked my maid, you rogue, she thought.
Instead, she turned to the gathering and lifting her hands, thanked them all for coming to their wedding. To her annoyed surprise, Marcel cut her off, thanking them in more florid terms and inviting everyone to the coming feast.
Which also passed in a swirl. Having been through this before, she well knew how much work was involved. Just as the Walrus had done, Marcel busied himself quaffing toast after toast after toast. All too soon he was drunk. Lela focused on receiving everyone’s congratulations, one at a time, beginning with Rennes and the Lady of, then Nantes and the Lady of, then Le Mans and...right on down through the ranks. Scrupulous care in taking a moment with each. Laughing at the men’s jokes, a light touch and smile for the ladies. Always taking small sips. For she knew that she would be drunk by the end of the day anyway. There were simply too many toasts to drink. The warmest, longest hugs for Katya. For Phoebe and, why not, for Coletta. Who looked downright astonished. She even teared up. Tears that Lela believed.
Course after course of roasted pig, pheasant, quail, venison, beef. Bouillabaisse, tapenade, pissaladiere in a taste of Provence. For their largely Breton guests, however, there were oysters, monkfish, eel and, of course, blue lobsters served with galettes and crepes. Bottle after bottle of wine, red, white, pink, yellow. Outside the Hall for the villagers were tables and tables of meat pies with ales, ciders and mead. She had insisted on it.
Time. It swam. It blurred. It became hazy.
She felt Marcel’s hand on her knee. Pulling up her dress. She stood to the raucous cries of the nearby tables. Why not? Let them think what they will.
She raised her hands for a long moment while looking out over the entire Hall. Much like last night. She waited for them to quiet.
She looked at him, an eyebrow raised. Took a step backward, almost stumbled, but Katya caught her. She paused, a roguish smile on her face, one finger out in front of her beckoning him.
“Come warrior!”
To loud cries and shouts erupting all over the Halls. “Bring a boy! Bring a boy! Bring a boy!”
Rising, Marcel played to the crowd. He stumbled toward her, was caught by the King’s representative who gave him a smarmy smile and pushed him onward to her. The crowd was standing now, shouting, banging their goblets. “Bring a boy! Bring a boy!”
Katya was at her side, guiding her out through an archway to a special
fucking chamber that had been set up. It was the new fad, straight from Paris, though they had a name far more polite. She had agreed to it because, well, it was her feudal duty. The bed, newly constructed by the carpenter, was of a dark mahogany, his best wood, she knew from Katya’s bed. The sheets were a lovely emerald green, the new color – universally agreed – of fertility. Why not? Spring, summer, new born lambs. Saint Genevieve she was drunk.
Not too drunk, however.
Katya pulled her aside as Marcel stumbled in, holding a bottle that someone had thrust into his hands. He fell onto the bed, the bottle sprawling into a corner. Almost instantly, he was snoring. Some wedding day, Lela laughed. Katya was trying to say something to her. Trying to get her attention. The roars of “Bring a boy!” from the next room were too loud. She reached for the door and Katya shut it for her.
“Lela, listen to me.”
She was about to ask whether it couldn’t wait. Then, hearing a very loud snort from Marcel as he turned over, she decided, why not? She let Katya lead her through the chamber to another doorway and outside into the hall.
She shook her head, trying to clear the fumes from her mind. Prepared herself to repeat her assurance that Katya was going nowhere without her. Then, confused about what she was supposed to remember, she stood there blinking until it finally hit her. Don’t get mad at Marcel. It wasn’t his fault. She snorted at that, chortling. Get mad? How? She was too tipsy.
“Lela, listen to me.”
“I am listening,” she heard the slurred words come out of her mouth. Then, looking around, spotting a bench, she turned toward it. Katya helped her sit, holding her hands, sitting next to her.
“There is something that I want to tell you.”
“Oh, Katya,” she slurred again. “Don’t worry. You’re not going...”
“No, please! Listen!”
Katya was shaking her. She tried to focus. What was wrong?
“I did not know whether I should, whether I could. It has been ten years.”
Lela nodded. Yes, ten years. Ten years of no Katya and now she was finally here again. She tried to find the words to express how much her Viking meant to her. As a friend. As a tough woman who let no man dominate her. As a slave who had survived captures, rapes, more captures, being sold...
Chateau of Longing Page 12
