Medieval Wolfe Boxed Set: A De Wolfe Connected World Collection of Victorian and Medieval Tales

by Alexa Aston

  Was this Heaven?

  Aline’s hands and feet weren’t numb as they had been for weeks. They didn’t sting as they had when she’d claimed a few minutes next to a wind-tossed fire. She’d almost forgotten what being warm felt like.

  Wearing an unfamiliar, coarsely woven linen shirt that reached her knees, she rested on a fairly comfortable straw mattress between covers piled with fur pelts. And she was clean, blissfully clean…her hair was smooth once more and smelled of the same soap as the sheets. She took a deep breath and let it out.

  No. She wasn’t in Heaven, but in a bed that took up most of a small wooden hut heated by a glowing brazier and furnished with two stools, a table with a chess set, and a small trunk with a leather satchel on it. As she sat up, a young, lean man on the stool nearest the bed jumped to his feet.

  “Bien! You’re awake at last! I’ll fetch the master.” He grabbed his cloak and hastened out before she could speak.

  The master. Who might that be? Where was she? How long had she been sleeping?

  Aline’s head spun. She tried to gather her wits as she inched her way to the edge of the bed. She stood, but her legs failed to support her. Her right elbow and knee slammed into the ground. Regretting her decision to leave the snug bed, she lay there, dizzy, her elbow and knee throbbing. She couldn’t get up, and her throat was too dry to call for aid. At least she hadn’t hit her head on the bed’s wood platform. Cold seeped into her once more.

  Who would respond if she did call out…the young man? Whose shelter was this…had her brave, or foolish plan, of visiting the French camp every day finally gotten someone’s attention? What had happened to her family? Had the siege ended? Her head pounded with the questions.

  “Mademoiselle,” a rich, deep voice said softly.

  She opened her eyes. A burst of alarm faded at the sight of tall man with flowing dark blond hair. He crouched before her, his hand extended. Her mind flashed to a gauntlet held out the same way. Had she dreamed about a long-haired man in a blowing cloak trying to help her? Was the concerned look on his face part of the dream, or the last thing she remembered as she lay defenseless in dead grass?

  Though he was imposing, with well-muscled arms and broad shoulders filling out the long-sleeved tunic beneath his cloak, she felt oddly calm, which she hadn’t since what she’d come to think of as her imprisonment. Yes, she’d been outside, free to do as she pleased rather than confined to four walls of a dank cell. Given their extremely limited resources, lack of shelter in harsh weather and no means of escape, a prison nonetheless.

  Aline let him lead her back into the bed. Slowly, for her maltreated, weak body wouldn’t move any faster. His hands were strong, yet gentle. She appreciated the stranger’s care and the unexpected comfort of his touch. She should be afraid, left at the mercy of this man, one of the enemy. She wasn’t.

  He drew the covers over her. “My name is Apollo de Norville.”

  Her throat was dry and scratchy. She could speak Norman, as could most English nobles, though the hated language symbolized everything that had gone wrong with her life. “In English, if you please.”

  “Of course. I am Sir Apollo de Norville, one of King Philip Augustus’s messengers. I arrived from Paris two days ago.” His heavily accented words sounded intriguing and soothing rather than annoyingly guttural as she found the sounds of most Normans.

  Why was his voice the first thing, except for the wine, she liked about her foe’s country? And why wasn’t she afraid of what this towering man who had her alone and in his bed might do to her? Perhaps her ordeal had left her numb inside. Perhaps she’d lived in fear for so long, she had none left.

  Wavy hair several shades darker gold than her own fell past his chin and framed piercing golden brown eyes. A thick gold chain draped his chest. Her rescuer was most handsome and, so far, seemed like a kind man. In general, and especially for a Norman. Unless he’d brought her from the frying pan into the fire.

  He handed her a wood cup.

  It couldn’t be poison, for why would he rescue her just to kill her? Watered wine. She took a few sips. Much better. “Did you take me from the cold? If so, thank you. I assume we’re in King Philip’s camp.” Her voice was lower than usual. “Why did you help me?”

  “As soon as I heard about the people stuck in between, I had to investigate.” He sat on the stool the lad had vacated. “Saving someone struck me as the right thing to do. You were the first person I saw, so I carried you to my hut. And yes, we’re in Philip Augustus’s camp opposite Château Gaillard.”

  Despite sincere gratitude at being free of wintry air and the siege, she’d gone from being trapped in a vast castle to being trapped outside to rest under the enemy’s roof. How could she relax when there were so many unknowns? Where were her mother and siblings? And what of those left in the ravine….

  “I lack authority to house and help everyone,” he continued. “And I mean help. As soon as you’re well, you’re free to go.”

  That was a huge relief. At least she wasn’t a prisoner, taken for ransom or worse. “My thanks again, Sir Apollo.” His name felt strange on her tongue. Not a bad strange. Exotic, like rare spices from China. “I’ll do my best to recuperate quickly and trouble you no more.”

  But where would she go, with what coin, alone in the land of her enemies?

  As a girl, when she’d learned about the Normans who’d invaded and conquered England over a century ago, she hadn’t wanted to believe anything good about them. Bad enough her parents gave her a Norman name to show their fealty to Henry II, William the Conqueror’s great-grandson, and that English nobles mostly spoke Norman at court. Exhibiting fluency in their tongue when she had to join her father for his assignment would make it seem as though she wanted to fit in and planned to stay. As if she actually lived in Normandy.

  “What is your name?” Sir Apollo asked.

  If she lied, surely the truth would come out. Would he change his mind about setting her free when he learned who she was? He might think to ransom her to make her father relinquish the new castle built so rapidly by King Richard I…now the last Plantagenet holding in Normandy. Sir Apollo would soon learn her life was meaningless to her father.

  A bitter wave of sadness washed over her. Her head spun afresh. She couldn’t make important decisions right now. She snuggled under the furs.

  The young man returned with a tray bearing a wooden bowl of steaming broth and a hunk of bread.

  Bread. Just one of many things she’d taken for granted and hadn’t enjoyed in months.

  “Merci. You may go, Antoine,” Sir Apollo said, regardless of the obviously curious look on Antoine’s face. He took the tray, and set it on the table next to the chessboard, then pulled the stool closer.

  Aline’s mouth watered as she accepted the spoon, but her hand shook so much she couldn’t fill it without spilling.

  His golden eyes shone with concern that gratified her forlorn heart. How good it felt to be fussed over instead of ignored and forgotten. To believe someone cared. That she mattered, even for just a moment. Or was he fattening her for the slaughter? She shouldn’t trust any stranger too quickly. Look at how she’d been betrayed by someone she had trusted. Her own father.

  “May I?” he asked.

  She liked the way he smelled, of soap and a trace of herbs. Like the sheets and her hair. She pictured him sleeping in this bed, shirtless, covers down to his waist.

  What had led her thoughts down that path? She’d never imagined a man in any stage of undress. Her ordeal clearly had strange effects on her.

  When she nodded, he took the spoon, filled it with broth and held it toward her. She sipped and swallowed, too hungry to care about her state of dishabille while alone in a strange man’s bed, as that man, her enemy, fed her. Decorum, her mother’s watchword drilled into her for years, meant little to her now. Only survival mattered. Preferably survival in well-appointed surroundings with a full stomach and without fear of impending death.

  Th
e broth was rich and well-salted, much tastier and more filling than the so-called stew they’d made in the ravine out of rainwater or melted snow, roots and grasses. It warmed her to her toes. She couldn’t get too contented. After enjoying this brief reprieve, she had to regain her strength and figure out solutions to all of her troubles.

  “Mmm.” The moan escaped her. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  Sir Apollo laughed. A pleasing sound that made her want to inspire his mirth again. His smile quickly changed to a frown. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make light of your hunger. I can’t imagine what going without sufficient food would be like, much less for so long. The worst I’ve experienced is getting stuck in a harsh snowstorm overnight with only dried meat and melted snow for sustenance. We’ve been here so long we now bake bread, but at first only had double-baked bread, hard and crisp to avoid mold. The kind we learned to make while on crusade.”

  Talk of such commonplace things at such a moment seemed unfit, yet she wasn’t ready to discuss anything serious or think about what she could do for the rest. “I don’t want to dwell on my good fortune. Especially knowing my friends are still outside.”

  “Of course. Our physician believes you should be well within a day or two,” Sir Apollo said.

  “More good news.” Still more things to thank him for.

  The thought of strange hands undressing, washing and examining her while she was helpless and unaware made her cringe. But better all of that than leaving her unattended to and filthy in the rags her clothes had become.

  She sighed. She wouldn’t recall her past, but think only of the future. And how she appreciated and enjoyed being warm and hearing Sir Apollo’s soothing voice. She could listen to him talk for hours. He was most pleasant to look upon, too, likely because she hadn’t seen a healthy, well-fed man in fine clothing in weeks. Or many men who smiled.

  “I keep wanting to offer you thanks.” Being beholden to anyone didn’t sit well with her. “I don’t know how I can repay you for aiding me. For bringing me here and for the food. I’m feeling much better already. But I must know, what of the others?”

  His smile faded as he shook his head. “I’m sorry. The siege still stands. The trapped people are called useless mouths to feed.”

  The soup threatened to come back up. Tears filled her eyes and her jaw dropped. “That’s horrifying.”

  “I also have good news. King Philip just returned to Normandy from Paris. He wasn’t aware that your people weren’t allowed to pass, and like me, was appalled to find so many starving in the cold. He’s sending bread to feed them. Then he will let them go.”

  More tears threatened to spill, but tears of relief. They’d all go free, and, she hoped, find homes out of harm’s way. She couldn’t wait to leave France. Forever.

  “I’m so happy to hear that.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m tired. Perhaps I should wait to eat solid food.”

  “Very well.” He carried the tray to the entrance and set it down, then turned to face her. “Let me know when you feel ready for bread or meat.”

  Their gazes met. Whatever sparked in his sparked something heartfelt in her. As did his courtly care. Perhaps her father’s abandonment and weeks of misery left her overly receptive to any kindness.

  “Thank you again.” Would she ever truly feel good, or had she been changed forever? When you couldn’t trust your own father, who could you trust? When you’d been left outside in winter to forage, could you put that behind you? She’d never forget.

  While she and the others endured seemingly endless night after night in the cold without even a blanket to shield them from the hard, frigid ground, her father hadn’t deigned to acknowledge much less respond to any attempt she’d made to contact him. Weeks ago she’d given her cloak to an older woman who’d worked in the kitchen, though she regretted the gesture whenever she tried to sleep. Daily she’d made a pilgrimage to the French camp to seek aid, daily she’d been ignored or turned away. At least they hadn’t shot at her again.

  “I hope I’ll be well enough to travel with the others,” she said.

  With his stealthy, measured pace as he approached, he reminded her of a lion she’d seen at the new menagerie at the Tower of London. “I’ll make it so.”

  His tone incited something in her, deep and hot. Desire. She hadn’t felt interest in any man since arriving in Normandy, why now with this one she barely knew and would soon leave? Because he’d saved her life, was in fact her hero, as she’d heard tell of in bard’s tales and the Greek myths after which he’d been named. Because he was the handsomest man who’d ever been so near her. Maybe because she’d never before been in any man’s bed, and lying amidst his linens with her feet bare and him beside her sent her thoughts down sensuous paths rarely traveled. Or maybe because she was tired and completely vulnerable.

  His gaze was just so intense, his bearing so confident and sure. As if he had the power to banish all doubts and make all well. His deeds and attention made her feel intimately connected to him. She shouldn’t like it, but she did.

  If only he weren’t Norman. Or as she’d heard Philip now styled his people, French. The enemy, no matter what they were called in any language. Yet she couldn’t summon anger at or hatred for him. He hadn’t been involved in the siege, and had gone far out of his way to assist her. In fact, she wanted to know more about him. Where did he live? Was he married? Did he have children?

  He seemed sincere, but….

  “Why do you care about the English, your enemy? Until you saved me, I was one of those ‘poor people,’ those ‘useless mouths.’ I feel guilty being the only one who is inside and comfortable.” She could no longer meet his all-seeing gaze. “And I feel worse because guilt isn’t enough to make me return and join them.”

  That was for the best. She could do more for them if she were stronger.

  “It’s not your fault. You don’t owe them anything.”

  “I feel like I do. I was one of them.” And my father is responsible for locking them out. She couldn’t bring herself to say the horrible truth.

  “How would your continued suffering benefit the others?” Annoyingly, he echoed her thoughts again.

  “We were a group. It doesn’t seem fair that I’m resting and they’re not.”

  “Nothing is fair in war.” He paused. “How did you survive?”

  Her throat tightened. “Many of us didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve never been so miserable for so long. We foraged…for grasses, roots and any small game we could snare. And collected rain and snow to drink.” Such a bleak, chilled, hopeless existence. She shuddered.

  When King John summoned her father to Château Gaillard, she’d thought nothing could be worse than living in Normandy, a foreign land far from her happy home. Being a victim of siege was worse. And being trapped outside, worse still.

  How she’d loved every minute and enjoyed every benefit of her former life as a coddled earl’s daughter. How she resented her father’s command of the fortress. She’d had had no choice but to go with her family. As an unwed woman, she had no means of her own if her father refused to support her.

  Without his aid now, how would she procure enough coin for herself, much less her family and the others? Women like her didn’t work, they wed for financial, political or other gain. Would she find someone willing to hire her to run their manor, to use the only skills she had? Questions, questions and more questions wore her out. She sank back onto the bolster with a sigh.

  “You still haven’t told me your name,” he said in a low and sultry voice, as if they’d met at a court dance rather than under such dire and uncertain circumstances.

  If only that were true. She could make it seem true, if only for a moment. Since arriving in France, she’d learned to retreat into her imagination on occasion to alleviate melancholy. The respites brought her to a friendly, happy place instead of worrying about where she lived, the siege, or the future.


  Her mind flashed to what meeting Sir Apollo at a dance would’ve been like. He’d see her across the crowded room. At first, she’d wonder if he looked at her or another woman, perhaps her closest friend, Matilda, known far and wide for her beauty. But he’d weave his way through couples and groups until he reached her.

  She wore her favorite gown, died yellow with birch leaves. He looked regal in a long tunic of dark red.

  “Would you like to dance with me, Lady Aline?” His heated, tender gaze and the way he said her name melted her as fast as the last snow clinging to the hills near her home in spring.

  “I—” She was a fairly good dancer, but he was so handsome, the twinkle in his eye so charming, her tongue wouldn’t form an acceptance. Smiling, she extended her hand to meet his. “I’d be honored.”

  He took it in his much larger, warmer one. As he led her to the other couples at the center of the high-ceilinged room, heat traveled up her arm, then down her body straight to her woman’s center. Startled yet intrigued, she almost pulled her hand free.

  A jaunty tune conveniently ended. A slower one began as she moved to his right side. Their gazes locked as they smoothly completed the steps as if they’d often danced together. His intense regard as the song continued made her feel special. As if no one else was at the gathering and the musicians played for them alone. Did he feel the same? She didn’t want the dance to end, but of course it did. He bowed, and she curtsied.

  As she rose, he leaned forward. Her heart skipped a beat. He was going to kiss her, and she wanted to—

  “Mademoiselle? What are you smiling about?”

  She jumped. Why were her thoughts so wayward? “Forgive me, my mind drifted.” She braced her arms against the mattress. “I’m very tired, but I’d love to see if I can get out of this bed. Will you help me stand?”

  Why was she asking for more of his assistance, encouraging him to touch her? She should just wait until she could stand on her own.