by Allegra Gray
The fire in his eyes was matched by the ferocity with which he took her mouth. There was no hesitation as he claimed, consumed, absorbed every inch of her. He hauled her roughly against the length of him and deepened the kiss, parting her lips with his tongue. Celia’s knees grew weak, but it hardly mattered, she was held so securely in his arms.
His tongue demanded a response and she gave it willingly. Passion stormed around them and Celia felt her control slipping. She had no desire to fight it, instead giving over to the eddy and swirl of sensation that threatened to swallow her whole.
The very castle walls fell away, leaving her in a fantasy world that consisted only of Nicolas and the things he could do to her with his mouth. She knew now that she would give herself to him. There was no point in denying it. In fact, she was nearly at the point of begging him to that effect when she heard rhythmic, precise footsteps echoing down the stairs.
They sprang apart just as Hans swept into view, boots clicking a sinister beat on the stone. Heat suffused Celia’s cheeks as she took several steps away from Nicolas. She kept her face down, or ‘twould be obvious to the suspicious dungeon-keeper that he’d just interrupted more than a chance encounter in the hall.
“My lord, you wished to see me?” His unctuous voice echoed eerily off the walls of the hall. He glanced at Celia and pressed his lips together, but if he guessed what they’d just been doing, he made no comment.
“Oui, Hans.” Celia watched as the Nicolas’s entire demeanor changed from that of desperate lover to businesslike, noble lord. “I wished to know your decision for resolving the matter of overcrowding in the dungeons.”
The look on the dungeon-keeper’s face reminded Celia of a cat contemplating a large bowl of cream, and she wondered exactly what he had in mind for those unfortunate souls. She hovered near the wall, uncertain if she’d been dismissed or not. She wanted desperately to leave—at a run. But she couldn’t let the dungeon-keeper see her fear. Intuition told her that would be unwise.
Her ragged breath slowed to an even beat as disappointment flooded her—who knew when she would next have Nicolas to herself?
Finally he remembered her. He turned back, an unreadable gleam in his eye. “Good day, Mistress Lyndon. I trust we will talk more later.” He turned again and strode off with Hans to determine what doom awaited the men holed up in the bowels of the castle.
Celia peered once more through the gloom as she approached the stone stairs to the dungeon, trying to ignore the stench of human filth. The conversation she’d overhead between the count and Hans had triggered her memory, and her feet had set off in the direction of the dungeon before her mind knew their purpose.
You don’t have to do this. Your father is gone, said a voice in her head. But another voice, quiet yet insistent, replied, Yes, you do. Seek her out. It just doesn’t seem right, and no one but you cares.
If she was the only one who cared, what possible good could come of this? Both voices remained silent in response to this query, but by then Celia had reached the bottom of the stairs. Never one for turning back on something started, Celia’s eyes sought out the young woman prisoner she remembered from the last time she’d visited her father in the dungeon. Her father had always claimed she was curious to a fault. He was probably right, Celia thought, for why else would she seek out an accused witch?
The woman had been lingering at the edge of Celia’s thoughts for days. At first she had been too uncertain of her own status within the castle walls to risk another trip to the dungeon, especially with the frightening dungeon-keeper lurking in those depths. With Hans safely occupied with his master, she’d be safe enough. Luck seemed with her—the guard this morning was a complacent man who waved her past with hardly a glance.
She descended into the gloom, peering intently until she spotted the young woman curled into a corner of matted straw. She glanced up as Celia came to the bottom, then went back to idly fingering a hole in one of her tattered shawls. No, not a hole, Celia realized…she was fingering something through the hole.
A Jewess, they say, her father had told her. Or a witch. Rumor is, she’s causing the little ones to catch fever. Squinting in the dim light, Celia caught sight of a tiny sleeve poking out from beneath the woman’s shawl. A baby’s gown. She worried it with her fingers sadly, lovingly.
Celia caught her breath. She knew that look, that touch—even though it had been absent in her own life for a long time now. That was a mother’s touch. Though her father would almost certainly disapprove of her getting involved, Celia couldn’t stop herself. She had to know...were the rumors true? And if, as she suspected, they were not, was there some way she could help the woman?
Not knowing what to call her, Celia simply waited until the woman looked up again, then stretched out a hand and beckoned.
The woman glanced around her as if to verify that she was indeed the one Celia beckoned to. She slowly rose, gathering her shabby shawl about her, and came to stand silently before Celia.
“What is your name?”
The woman’s dark eyes were unreadable. She would have been beautiful, Celia realized, with her dark eyes and hair, had she not been so painfully thin and unkempt.
“Helena.” There was a hint of something foreign, exotic, in the woman’s voice. She offered no further information.
The two women stared at one another for a moment.
“My father was here, a few days ago. He was released, but he told me of you.”
“The merchant.”
“Oui, that is him. It was a mistake, him being here.”
Something flickered in Helena’s dark eyes
“I thought, perhaps, there had been other mistakes.”
Helena put a questioning hand to her heart.
“Are you a witch?” Celia asked bluntly.
“No.”
Celia sighed. “They say you caused the fever in the village.”
For the first time, Celia heard a spark of emotion in the woman’s response. “They say that because I am a foreigner. They say it because I do not attend the same church services as they do. They believe that God is punishing them for allowing me to remain in their midst.”
Now it was Celia who did not know what to say.
Helena’s eyes darkened. “Perhaps you too fear those of the Jewish faith.”
Celia shook her head quickly. Truthfully, she’d never thought about it.
“We serve the same God, just not in the same ways.”
Celia nodded, uncertain now. She’d heard of other religions, but had never met someone who practiced one. “But the children, you did not make them sick?”
“Of course not! The villagers are foolish and intolerant, but I would never harm their children. Children are a gift to be treasured.” The woman bit her lip and looked away. “I should know,” she said softly. “I’ve lost one myself.”
Celia knew nothing the woman told her could be construed as proof, neither of her guilt nor of her innocence. Yet…”I believe you.”
Helena met her eyes again and gave a sad smile. “But what can you do?” she asked even more quietly. “We are both strangers to Chillon. You were able to help your father, but who will want to hear about me?”
“I don’t know,” Celia replied honestly. “But to do nothing…it seems unjust.”
“Justice, pah! I have been here long enough not to count on that. The keeper takes too much pleasure in interrogating his prisoners, particularly those of the female persuasion. He will be in no hurry to see me released.”
A vision of the cruel man sweeping through the dungeon, his black tunic billowing behind him and his gold chain stretching from shoulder to shoulder, flashed through Celia’s mind. She shuddered. “He is the reason I must do whatever I can to aid you. I’ve heard him speaking to Savoy. There is not enough food to keep all the prisoners through the winter, yet I doubt he’ll simply let them go. If you are innocent as you say, we must do something.”
The woman shook her head sadly. “You are
a kind maid, to offer your help, but I will not hold my breath waiting for those in power to act so benevolently. Thank you, at least, for coming to speak to me. It has been long since I’ve had a conversation that did not end with someone spitting on me.”
Celia’s heart swelled with pity and frustration, but Helena turned and resignedly trudged back to her corner, sat down in the straw, and leaned her head against the stone wall as though exhausted.
Realizing her own worries paled in comparison to those of this grieving mother, Celia made herself a silent promise as she left. She would find a way to help.
“Everyone to the upper courtyard! His lordship to make an announcement! To the courtyard!”
Celia dropped the mending needle she’d borrowed from Marie and hurried to follow the others, who were streaming from every part of the castle in the direction of the uppermost courtyard. Outside the sun was finally shining, though it was still bitterly cold. The courtyard was a mess of melted snow, dirt, and loose cobblestones, but no one seemed to notice. Instead they all stared intently at a large window on the upper floor, waiting for the count to appear.
The breath of the audience rose in clouds of steam as they all waited, stamping their feet to keep warm. Many people murmured on either side of her, speculating as to the nature of the forthcoming announcement.
“We’ll be going to war, we will.”
“Nay, ‘tis too cold. He’ll wait for better travel.”
“’Tis the attackers I want to know about. Has aught been decided? Will the hangings resume? The dungeon guards are as tight-lipped as church women. Won’t tell me a thing.”
“They just don’t like you, Pierre. They talk plenty to me.”
“Bah.” The man spat. “You boast. You know no more than I.”
“His lordship’ll put those scoundrels to death, though, mark my word. He’s not one to ignore an attack, even a failed one. I ‘magine they’ll all be hung. Pity they were interrupted last time.”
“Nah, hangin’s too easy. His lordship was after learnin’ their secrets. It’ll be the rack for them,” his companion replied darkly.
The other man grunted in assent, but Celia shivered, wondering uncomfortably if either man had ever even seen the torture instrument of which they spoke. She hadn’t either, but she’d seen enough to doubt they would favor it quite so much if they had.
“Shh!” a third man interrupted, before they could continue devising unpleasant deaths for the attackers. “He’s coming!”
The crowd grew silent as the window creaked open. The count leaned out to address the crowd gathered in the courtyard. The area all around the edges of the window was painted a bright blue, as though to convey the message “I am speaking to you from the heavens.” While a part of her scorned such affectations, another part reluctantly admired the tactical effectiveness of the blue paint. Standing on the rough stones and looking up at him, she did indeed feel small and unimportant. Could the great lord above her be the same man she’d kissed only hours ago?
“Ladies and gentlemen, a moment of your time.” His strong voice rang out across the enclosure. “I know you are all anxious to discover the fate of the men who recently attacked our home. We have learned that they were paid by the Count of Geneva, our long-time enemy. We will retaliate in Geneva, once the weather and roads are suitable for travel. As for the prisoners—though they were unable to cause us serious harm, we cannot release men who might provide valuable information to the Genevans. Nor can we house them indefinitely. They will be put to immediate death by hanging. Let that be a lesson to any who would threaten the peace at Chillon.”
Cheers and applause erupted from the people in the courtyard, some of the men shaking their fists in their enthusiasm to see the prisoners punished. Celia reluctantly put her hands together to join them, not wanting to stand out. After all, men were put to death for far lesser crimes than laying siege to a castle. But she couldn’t help but think how close her father had come to sharing the prisoners’ fate. Thank heaven.
“Should ‘ave been the rack,” the man closest to Celia muttered.
“The hangings will commence two weeks hence, once we have sufficient time to interrogate the leaders of the attack to the complete extent of their knowledge.” The count’s dire tone was full of suggestion.
“Tha’s more like it,” the man near Celia said. “That’ll mean the rack for sure.” His companion “harrumphed” in agreement. She refrained from rolling her eyes.
Savoy made one more announcement—a feast was to be held three days hence in the lower great hall—then disappeared from the window.
Celia stamped her foot in frustration, then winced, the thin leather of her boot having offered little protection from the rough cobblestones. He had said nothing about the fate of the other prisoners, including the young Jewish woman accused of somehow causing the epidemic fever.
Celia hoped to approach Nicolas to plead Helena’s case, but after their interlude in the corridor that morning, he’d been unavailable all day. He did not even show for the evening meal. Celia felt oddly disappointed, and not only on behalf of the unfortunate Jewish woman.
His absence did, however, allow her to sit somewhere other than the head table, and that was a relief—even if the conversation was stilted and filled with furtive, speculative glances.
Never in her life had she been a coward, but now Celia longed—at least when she wasn’t actually in the count’s arms—for the familiar face of her father and for the safety of home.
When the meal ended, she was not at all anxious to return to her chambers, where she would be very much alone until Marie or Alisoun turned in for the night.
A group of women took up spinning by the light of the hearth, and Celia absentmindedly picked up a spindle and some carded wool, hoping as she joined them that the monotony of the work would help her think things through.
If the mountain roads did not clear soon—and with the winter still young, it was unlikely they would—then she was going to spend far longer at Chillon than she’d originally planned.
She and Nicolas had both admitted their desire. The only thing left to do was act on it.
But what would become of her when that happened?
She had a feeling she would never tire of Nicolas of Savoy—each time they met, she saw a new facet of him, one that intrigued and enthralled her further. But would he feel the same of her? For how long would her tales of cheese enchant him? And what would she do when her father finally did return?
Aside from that little quandary, there was the matter of the imprisoned Helena. Celia had not forgotten her cause. She needed to find a way to get Nicolas alone. Neither matter was something she cared to pursue in front of an audience.
Celia tossed and turned in bed that night, thinking things over, until Marie, who had the center of the bed, finally muttered irritably, “Must you roll about so much?!”
She stilled, though her mind continued to race.
Chapter 8
Celia awoke the following morning feeling considerably more settled in her intentions. As the count and his men practiced at arms in the uppermost courtyards, she snuck into his outer chamber, where they’d played at draughts. She was breaking decorum—but then, pretty much everything she’d done since leaving home had been a break with decorum.
She paced the room while she waited, examining the fine tapestries she’d only briefly glanced at before. Nicolas’s disturbing—no, that wasn’t the right word—his compelling presence had made it difficult to concentrate on anything but him. She wondered if other people experienced the same feeling around him.
Finally, she heard the clangs and creaks that signaled the men were putting up their weapons, done for the morning. She hastily straightened her skirt as she listened for footsteps, hoping Nicolas would return to his chambers before doing anything else.
He did not disappoint. Her breath caught as he entered the room, his hair damp with perspiration and his face glowing from exertion. His lightweig
ht tunic showed his form to advantage, and she couldn’t help but remember how it had felt to be pressed against him. Coils of heat unfurled in her center, but Nicolas’s double-take upon seeing her jolted her from those fantasies.
“You! Is something amiss?”
“No, my lord. That is, nothing that cannot be helped.” She spoke seriously, stilling the urge to reach out and touch him. “Was I wrong to come here?”
He shook his head. “I never know what to expect where you are concerned. It is a surprise, but a pleasant one.” He came forward, running a hand over her hair, and pressed a kiss to her lips.
She returned the kiss—but as though he could sense there was more on her mind, he pulled back. “What? Something worries you.”
She fidgeted. “I worry over a young woman by the name of Helena.”
He frowned. “I know not of whom you speak.”
“The one they call a witch. She was imprisoned for causing the fever in the village.”
“Ah.”
Celia waited for more, but he did not continue. “Is there some proof against her? What did she do? She lost a child of her own.”
“I have no idea.”
He didn’t sound all that interested, either. She tried not to let her temper flare. “Have you no compassion?”
“Compassion does not keep my castle safe.” The look on his face said he was indulging her by allowing this conversation, but found her foolishly naïve.
“Perhaps, but harming innocents will make people unhappy and fearful, and an unhappy peasantry is more likely to look the other way, or even help, when outsiders come to invade.”
He arched a brow. “An interesting argument. Except that in this particular instance, the only person made unhappy by the imprisonment of this woman appears to be you.”
She gritted her teeth, unable to think of a timely retort. He was right. The villagers were perfectly happy to see Helena rot in the dungeons, and would probably be even happier to see her burn.
