by Allegra Gray
“But alone...unchaperoned...”
The elder Lyndon was no fool. “There are many women residing at the castle, as well as soldiers to protect her. I would see no harm come to her. Think of it as placing her in my keeping, as a showing of good faith.” He’d make certain she wasn’t too closely chaperoned.
The older man fell silent, his eyes narrowed.
His dark-haired temptress of a daughter squared her shoulders. “We’ll do it.”
“Celia!” Her father pulled her in close. “’Tis a devil’s bargain he drives, certes.” He spoke in low tones.
She swallowed. Nicolas saw the flicker of nervousness in her eyes, but just as quickly, it was gone. “Mayhap. But you are a merchant, and you have run out of goods to trade.”
“I would not use you so.”
She gave him a small, rueful smile. “A daughter is a good to be traded. If not like this, then in marriage. At least in this, I can say I bought you your life. There is worth in that, indeed.”
“But, Celia, are you sure?” her father asked, more hesitant than his bold daughter.
Nicolas watched them carefully. Celia had voiced the offer before he’d had the chance, but he’d left no opening for negotiation in his tone when he stated the terms. They’d have no choice but to accept. The only real question was what would happen afterward…whether she could also be persuaded to act on the frisson of attraction between them. The mere fact that he couldn’t take the answer to that for granted—she was far less predictable than the serving maids back at the castle—drove him to seal the deal. All he had to do was raise his brows, as though he, too, were waiting for an answer.
“Oui, Papa. ‘Twill only be a short time. You’ll be free. I can’t let them put you back into that dreadful place.”
Nicolas carefully kept his face neutral. He hadn’t actually planned to throw Lyndon into the dungeon again, but if that fear was pushing Celia toward her decision, he wasn’t going to relieve her of the misimpression.
The elder Lyndon looked at the count. “My animals are gone. How do you expect me to return with a cartload of goods?”
Merde. He’d forgotten about that. “I shall lend a sturdy mule to get you home. If you need more than that to return, you will have to arrange to borrow a beast from your neighbors.” He was being more than accommodating. Loaning a mule to a man charged with treason? His men would no doubt whisper, but they wouldn’t openly question him. And for a chance at the merchant’s dark-haired daughter, he was willing to be accommodating.
Robert Lyndon nodded. “My daughter is correct. We have little else with which to bargain. I would like to leave as early as possible on the morrow.”
Nicolas smiled. “That can be arranged.”
That gave him the time between now and when Lyndon returned—at least five days by his reckoning—to claim the merchant’s temptress of a daughter.
Celia said goodbye to her father before the sun was fully up the following morning. They’d spent the night in separate chambers, a decision by the guards to prevent any conspiring. In the wee hours before dawn, a guard returned with her father, then waited at the door as they made their farewells, making little effort to conceal his lingering suspicion.
“I’ll be fine, Papa. Look, they’ve put me up in a chamber nearly as large as our home! I’ll not be mistreated. The count promised.” It was true. Her chamber was almost the size of the tiny home in Gruyère. As for not being mistreated, well, she prayed that too would hold true.
Her father still looked worried. “I’ll hurry. But it may take several days to gather another cartload and borrow an additional mule. Savoy lent a hardy beast, but an empty cart is light. I’ll need two for the return trip.”
“Are there enough stores at home for another cartload?”
“I pray there are. Your brothers’ cows produced well, and ‘twas a good year for the vineyard. We’ll have enough, though our own stores may be light this winter. If needs must, our neighbors will remember the generosity we’ve shown them in better years.”
Celia nodded. She would gladly go hungry this winter as long as they were safe.
“You’ll behave, won’t you, daughter?”
She assured him she would.
He lowered his voice so the nearby guard could not hear. “Do nothing to draw attention to yourself...no talk of your desire to remain unwed, or to become a merchant. Do nothing to make them think you are unorthodox, for though his lordship has been merciful, you must not cast any further doubt in our direction. Be grateful and obedient, as you ought.”
“Oui, Papa.” She knew her father’s words were meant only to protect her.
“Whatever else you do, Celia, stay clear of the dungeon-keeper. Nothing good could come of dealing with him.”
“Oui, Papa. I know.”
“Certes. But how much did you learn? Daughter, heed this—the man is overly fond of blades. He keeps a collection, some from as far away as the Saracen lands, and he likes nothing better than to devise new ways of using them on the prisoners of Chillon.”
Her face must have reflected her horror, for her father quickly reassured her.
“He did no harm to me. I’m sorry even to speak of such things to a maid, much less my own daughter, but Celia, you will be alone in a strange castle. You must know whom you cannot trust.”
She nodded solemnly.
“For all that, I believe you safe, else I would not go.”
“I believe so as well, Papa.” She briefly considered asking him again about the lad who’d spoken to him at the inn that night before the ill-fated battle, then decided against it. She would not dishonor her father by doubting him. She said only, “God grant you safe travel, Papa.”
Finally, with one last squeeze and promises on both their parts to take care, he was gone. And she was alone.
The very stillness of the air prickled over her skin. She’d never been alone before—not really. She might never be alone again, either, for when she returned home, her father was certain to insist she marry. Now that they’d both seen the very real dangers of life on the road, he would never listen to her again if she spoke of her desire to follow in his trade.
Well, if this was to be her one adventure, she would make the most of it.
But was she allowed to leave her chamber?
No one had spelled out the rules of her captivity, if that was even the right term for it. Nor was anyone guarding her chamber, now that her father was gone.
She examined her surroundings. Though not grand by the castle’s standards, the chamber was far nicer than anything she was used to. It held a large, wood-framed bed and a mattress so soft it could only have been stuffed with feathers. The coverlet was a deep golden shade with embroidery, and two thick quilts lay underneath that. Still, a deep chill invaded the room. The thick walls lacked tapestries to hold warmth, and a small rug covered only part of the floor. One wall had been partially plastered over, but apparently the craftsman’s work had been cut short, for the others were bare stone. The fireplace was well-stocked, but even a lively fire barely cut the chill of such a large chamber. She shivered to think what it must be like in winter.
A bureau, a trunk, a small stool, and a washstand rounded out the furnishings of the room. She ran her finger along the edge of the stool. No rough edges to splinter her fingers. The wood of the bureau was a different finish, as was the washstand. Likely extras from more lavish chambers. Such luxury—to have so many belongings one could furnish unused rooms.
She shouldn’t be here. This was the sort of chamber reserved for guests far above her station. But where else was she to go?
Never in her life had she not had chores to attend. Her cloak, virtually the only belonging she had with her, was already airing on a hook in the corner. The floors had been recently swept and the furniture dusted. The washstand had not been stocked with a pitcher or rags, unfortunately. Nor had she the faintest idea where to find such supplies.
A sudden wave of exhaustion washed ove
r her. The tumult of recent days had taken its toll.
There would be plenty of time to explore later. For now, she was going to crawl back under the covers of the most luxurious bed she’d ever slept in, and shut out the rest of this cold, confusing world.
“They say you traded yourself for him.”
Celia blinked, staring owlishly at the maid who’d appeared at the foot of her bed. The large, fancy bed in the stone-walled chamber…everything came back to her at once. She was a prisoner. Except she had her own chamber, and apparently a maid. Never in her life had she had such extravagance.
The maid moved to the hearth to tend the fire, but she cast a backward glance at Celia, her long plaits of flaxen hair swinging around. This servant girl wore nicer garments than her own.
Suddenly uncomfortably, Celia jumped from the bed, hurrying after her. “Here. Let me help with that.”
“Non, mistress. I’ve nearly done.”
“Um. Merci,” Celia said uncertainly. This had to have been the strangest imprisonment in history. The count had promised not to harm her, but she hadn’t expected him to cosset her.
The maid just nodded and moved to straighten the bed linens. “Did you?”
Celia gaped at her blankly. “Did I what?”
“Trade yourself for him.”
Oh. Of course. She’d been too distracted by the realization that someone else was doing her chores to pay attention to the maid’s words. “Well, of course I did. I could hardly send my father back to the dungeons—have you seen them—when all I have to do is wait here until he returns.”
The girl looked shocked at Celia’s frank admission, then she hastily turned her eyes away. “I…suppose not. His lordship told me to see to you, so I will, but Mother won’t approve of my being too friendly.”
“I beg your pardon? She wouldn’t approve? Because I’m being held? Because of my father? I don’t understand.” Ignoring the maid’s gesture of protestation, Celia helped her straighten the bed.
“I do understand, I think. But Mother has very strict morals.”
Celia was befuddled. Her obvious bewilderment must have shown, for the maid also began to look confused.
“Didn’t you—I mean, they’re saying you gave yourself to his lordship”—here she looked meaningfully at the bed—“in return for your father’s freedom. They’re saying you’re a fallen woman.”
Celia’s mouth fell open in shock. “Who says that?”
“Everyone, more or less. Well, Bernice, mostly. I’m sure she started it. She or her husband.”
“Bernice?”
If she’d been tossed on stage with a troop of players in mid-act, Celia could not have been more lost.
“The dungeon-keeper’s wife. Nasty, both of them. Bernice, she thinks herself practically noble. Lords it over the rest of us, ‘specially when his lordship’s away. Brown veil, sort of pinched-looking face. Best stay clear of her.” As if realizing she was being friendly again, the maid started to turn away.
“Wait. What is your name?” This was the first girl close to her own age that had spoken to her in days. “And this Bernice. Why would she say such a thing? And how can you believe her?”
“Marie. My name’s Marie.” The maid looked uncomfortable. “The others all took it as fact. His lordship is a fine and powerful man. That much is easy to understand. If you gave yourself—”
“I didn’t. I mean, I traded my freedom, yes. My father was never meant to be in that dungeon. But I did not promise….that. At least, I don’t think I did.” But she would have, if he had asked. A merchant’s daughter understood the rules of trade, and she’d had precious little to bargain with. A woman of her station could hardly afford the lofty ideals of the nobility. Her own virtue was worth far less than her father’s life. Not to mention, Nicolas of Savoy was hardly repulsive.
Celia pressed both hands against her burning face. She shouldn’t think such things. Handsome or not, the man was her captor. The fact remained, he hadn’t asked her for the favors the rest of the castle dwellers presumed. But—a startling thought occurred to her—what if he’d assumed that was understood?
Marie watched her curiously.
What did this maid know of the choice that had been set before her? Who was she to judge?
Celia shook her head. Once again, she was being judged without proof—though even she could see why the others might jump to the conclusion they had. She’d hoped to win Marie over. But if the castle servants’ gossip traveled with the quick and brutal speed she suspected, there was little point. She’d be fighting a powerful current.
She walked over to the chamber’s one tiny window. Clouds had blotted out the early morning sun and gray rain had begun to fall, making her a prisoner—she wryly noted the first term that came to mind—of the indoors, at any rate.
Softly, Marie came up beside her, her hazel eyes wide with compassion. “I believe you. Bernice is not a good woman. Her husband believes his authority over the dungeons is absolute. He hates for anyone, even the count, to interfere. He and Bernice are not above making up lies for revenge. But you should know the rest of the chateau will likely believe them,” she said.
A tentative truce.
“Thank you.” Celia reached up a hand to brush her heavy hair from her face. Her hand caught in a snarl. Pretty much the same state as the rest of her life. At least this was something she could fix. She needed a wash, and maybe she could borrow a comb. Surely the count wouldn’t begrudge her that.
“Marie? May I call you that? I know I’ve already been a trouble to you, but do you have a moment more to spare?”
“I suppose. His lordship did tell me to see to you.” She dropped her gaze. “I thought—that is, since he made the request personally…”
“Oh.” Why did it give her an absurd tickle of pleasure to know the count had personally sent someone to see to her needs? It only fed the impression the others had. She couldn’t help it, though. She wasn’t about to forget the enigmatic ruler, and it was nice to know he hadn’t forgotten her, either.
“I must collect the soiled linens from the other bedchambers, but there’s no terrible hurry in that. What do you need?”
Celia felt heat suffuse her face as she explained her specific need. “I know how I must look, and smell. Overripe. We’ve been traveling and I haven’t been able to—well, I’m sure you can see for yourself.”
The maid looked sympathetic but a bit distressed at Celia’s request. “The lake’s too cold for bathing this time of year, and bath day isn’t ‘til Saturday.”
“No, no. I don’t mean to put you to that much work. I just hoped…maybe a small pitcher and a rag?” Celia realized that with the work required to have indoor baths—carrying water, heating it, filling tubs, disposing of it afterwards—they were done rarely, and with everyone participating to get the most use possible from the water.
Marie glanced at the washstand, registering the lack of supplies. “If I help you, will you tell me what really happened with your father? And how you came to be the one staying behind?”
Avid curiosity was etched in the maid’s features. Celia sensed victory. “Every last detail,” she promised.
Marie gave her a satisfied smile. “For once I shall be the first to know a bit of gossip. For that privilege I will happily give you my time. I could talk Cook out of a bucket of hot water, if that would suffice. Enough to scrub off the worst of it.”
“Oh, lovely. Merci.” She had no idea what her future held from one hour to the next, but she’d feel better facing it if everyone she encountered didn’t wrinkle their nose.
“Let me go talk to Cook. You wait...” the girl glanced around. “No, you’d best follow me, mistress. This chamber’s hardly ever used, so it won’t have what we need.”
“Am I allowed to leave?” Celia still wasn’t certain of her status in the castle. The whole situation was beyond comprehension.
Marie looked surprised. “Of course, mistress.”
“Please, call
me Celia.”
The girl just smiled and went down the corridor, Celia traipsing behind. They passed several chambers whose doors stood open. In one, a pair of artisans was laboriously adding a magnificent carved wood ceiling. The chamber was obviously meant for someone of importance. She wished she could stay and watch, but the servant girl swept past with hardly a glance, so Celia followed.
She was anxious to rid herself of the grime that had accumulated during her travels, but there was also a little part of her that wished the nobleman to see her in better form. But would that exacerbate the rumors being whispered about? She frowned. Her status here was shaky at best. Eventually, her behavior would speak for itself. In the mean time, people might call her a whore, but they wouldn’t be able to call her a dirty one. Presenting herself as best she could before the lord of the castle was more than a matter of pride. It was a matter of strategy.
“Come with me.” Marie led her down a set of long, narrow stairs and a corridor with many plain doors.
“Here.” They entered a small, sparsely furnished bedroom with a narrow pallet, a small chest, and a wooden stool. “This is my chamber. I’ll go talk to Cook about the water. You get ready.” She disappeared.
This room was tiny and far less impressive, Celia noted, but she was still awed that a mere servant at the castle had a room to herself. Surely most had to share.
Marie returned moments later, straining under the weight of a steaming, full bucket. Celia rushed to help her.
“There now,” Marie said, setting it down. “I’ll empty it into a tub. Why don’t you get undressed?”
The tub she dragged in was really the bottom half of an old cask. After Marie added the hot water and a pitcher of cold, Celia stepped in. The cask was too narrow to sit comfortably, but she could kneel and sluice the water over herself. There was a rough bar of lye soap and a coarse drying sheet, no different than anything Celia used at home. The hot water felt wonderful on her skin, though the chilly air made her hurry through the job. Marie even helped her wash her hair and comb it out.
