The Devil's Bargain

by Allegra Gray

Instead, he’d obviously used every moment he’d been out of her company to ensure that his forces were even more vast, and more prepared. Every helm gleamed, every wagon appeared in good repair...and the number of men who’d shown up to fight was astounding.

  Suddenly another thought occurred to her. “You say the men assembled in the village? Is the fever gone, then?” She’d not seen Helena for some time, though she doubted the woman would have returned to the village, fever or no.

  “The witch fever? Gone for weeks. On’y a few deaths. It’ll be worse come summer. Always is.”

  She nodded absently and the man wandered off to examine a cart that the young vassals were loading with an assortment of spare weapons.

  How had she not realized all that was going on around her? She’d been so busy falling in love with Nicolas of Savoy, the man responsible for an entire region of people, that she’d failed to realize the enormous reality of his position. When he spoke of war, he meant war.

  Seeing the soldiers, the armor, the count’s many war machines, Celia could well believe Nicolas’s campaign would be successful. But men would still die. They would die of wounds gone untreated in the field. They would die of fever, of infection, and of plague. They would die of cold, if the current streak of pleasant weather failed to hold. They would die of starvation, should the siege last too long.

  She must pray for a swift victory.

  Women and children ran to give their husbands or fathers one last kiss and wish them Godspeed. As Celia watched one teary embrace, she unconsciously looked around for Nicolas, wondering if he would pause long enough in the preparation to bid her a special farewell. They’d said their goodbyes the night before, of course, in the privacy of his chambers, but it hadn’t seemed as real then.

  It wasn’t until she’d woken up this morning and seen the siege towers as proof, that realization struck deep. Now she wished she’d had the courage to say more. Instead she’d forced herself to smile, when she’d wanted to weep. She reminded herself that it was not wise to get too close, that he’d blatantly warned her not to fall too much in love, but the reminder did little to change her feelings.

  This morning, at least, Nicolas did not disappoint. When there was a momentary lull in the demands on his time and judgment, he looked around briefly, spotted Celia, and strode quickly over to her.

  “This is it, darling. We’ll ride out within the half-hour.” He smelled of iron and leather, and intense male heat. A giant lump rose in her throat and she blinked furiously to prevent the tears that threatened.

  “Be safe.” It was utterly inadequate, but words had left her the moment she’d seen him coming her direction.

  “Always. We may be gone some weeks. Try not to worry about when we’ll return. It’s slow travel with such heavy equipment and so many men, and there’s no telling how much resistance the Genevans will put up.”

  She could tell that even though he’d come to her, his mind was already on the battle ahead. This was not to be their time for heartfelt goodbyes. “I will miss you, Nicolas.”

  “And I you,” he replied. “‘Twill be more incentive to be quick and effective in our efforts so that I may soon return home to your welcoming arms.”

  It was almost what a husband might say to his wife. Not sweet words of love, but Celia supposed, under the circumstances, they were better than nothing.

  A horn sounded, signaling to those still straggling to gather their weapons and, if riding, mount up.

  Celia laid her hand briefly on his arm, gazing up at him and hoping he would see in her eyes the words of love she could not bring herself to say. He’d already made clear such words were not welcome.

  “You’d best go,” was all she managed.

  He gazed back for a moment, then nodded quickly, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and strode away.

  She watched as he mounted up. The chestnut stallion tossed its head, seemingly pleased to bear him. Cheers went up from all those remaining behind as the procession began moving. Many of the men sang battle songs, and the youngest soldiers beamed with pride at being included in the campaign. Banners waved wildly and the men shook their weapons proudly in the air as the Count of Savoy led his men out the gate without a backward glance.

  Celia alone remained silent, unseen tears streaking down her cheeks.

  She followed the others to the gate, watching as the men on horseback rode quickly out of sight and the large siege towers and supply wagons rolled slowly behind, leaving the still-damp road with deep ruts. Finally, the machines, too, were gone, and there was nothing to do but return to the castle.

  Celia did her best to swallow her choking, bitter tears. Despite her best efforts, Nicolas had not spoken the words of love she’d so yearned to hear. He was a lord and a warrior first. She’d accepted that. But she’d prayed fervently that he would find a way to love her as well. He did, in a way. She was certain of it. He must—there was no other way to describe what happened between him. But even if it were true, Celia thought miserably, she knew now he would never admit it. The harsh and overwhelming realities of his rule left no room for niceties like love.

  Celia followed the depleted crowd back to the castle, lingering at the edge of the courtyard as everyone passed by, returning to their normal duties. Speculation as to how long the men would be gone was already circulating, but she had no heart to engage in such conversation. Marie gave her a soft pat on the shoulder as she passed by, but did not stop, perhaps sensing her need to be alone. The others all simply filed back into the courtyards and castle without a glance at her, making Celia wonder if she’d gone invisible.

  She did not have long to wonder, though, for Bernice, the dungeon-keeper’s wife, was one of the last to pass by. As she did, she spat in Celia’s direction without breaking stride.

  The spittle landed with a splat on the ground near Celia’s feet. Shock, as much as anger, flooded her. She knew the insult was intentional, for she could not imagine Bernice, who prided herself on her high station, ever spitting—especially in broad daylight—to simply clear her oral passages.

  The look of spite the woman had flung her direction had not gone unnoticed, either. Luckily, no one else had seen. The temptation to run after the woman and plant a fist in her bony face was nearly overwhelming. Instead Celia forced her seething mind to calm. It took her a good long while of standing there, taking deep breaths, but she refused to lower herself that way.

  Things did not improve from there.

  Celia discovered quickly that, with the nobles and soldiers gone, the seneschal was the highest-ranking person left at Chillon. The dungeon-keeper and his wife next. She liked the seneschal well enough, but he was a mild-mannered man—the sort who dared not interfere with someone like Hans.

  Well, at least that explained why Bernice had grown so bold in her insults.

  The best part of the days that followed came when the spicekeeper approached her at the evening meal, the day after the men’s departure. His lordship had told him, he said, of her interest in the spices. If it so pleased her, he would allow her to study under him. She leapt at the opportunity—pleased not only by the chance to learn about the intriguing spices and how they were acquired, but by the fact that Nicolas had set this up for her. He’d wanted to ensure she was happy while he was gone.

  She spent a good many hours learning the names of the spices, how to identity them by sight, scent, and texture, how to spell their names, the relative value of each, and much more. Other times she joined the knights’ wives in their spinning and needlework, and at night she returned to the chamber with Marie and Alisoun. Though the nights were no longer as frigid as they had been in winter, none of the three women seemed anxious to break up the arrangement. Celia, for certain, was thankful not to be alone.

  On Sunday, she went to mass in the castle’s small chapel, named after St. George, intending to pray for the safe return of Nicolas and his soldiers. Her efforts were thwarted when the elderly priest took the opportunity to deliver a blistering
sermon against the evils of harlotry.

  The priest’s eyes bored into her the entire time, making her forget the reason she’d originally come. All women, it seemed, were unworthy creatures sent to tempt good men into lust and idolatry. And when the priest got to the part about “renounce your evil ways, for only through chastity and humility may you hope to be forgiven,” Celia saw Bernice turn to give her a look of pure serpent’s venom.

  Well, she thought irreverently, Bernice probably was chaste. Who would want to sleep with her? It was a good thing the priest couldn’t read her thoughts. God could, but since he hadn’t struck her down immediately, perhaps He was more tolerant than the priest seemed to think.

  As soon as the service was over, Celia escaped into the fresh air of the lower courtyard, thinking that it was ironic the priest had chosen that topic on a day when most of the men were gone and the opportunities for harlotry were considerably fewer than normal.

  Of course he probably wouldn’t have delivered such a sermon with the count actually in attendance, and thereby risk offending him, but apparently the priest had no qualms at all about offending Celia when Nicolas wasn’t there to stand up for her.

  She sighed, then tried to put the incident out of her mind as she left the chapel.

  But she didn’t even make it past the first courtyard before Bernice brushed by, acidly observing, “It is church doctrine, you know, that those not in good standing with the church should not take communion.”

  Celia refused to cower. She had taken communion. What did the woman know about her good standing?

  “I’m sure that those who find themselves in that situation will take that into consideration,” she said as lightly as she could manage.

  “Harrumph,” was Bernice’s only response as she went on her way. Celia let out a long, pent-up breath of frustration. The woman was full of evil barbs, but she’d caused no real harm. Celia tried to remind herself of that, though she secretly wondered whether, given the opportunity, Bernice wouldn’t jump at the chance to do her actual damage.

  She did have friends here. The knights’ wives accepted her, and several were quite open in their acceptance. The spicekeeper wasn’t a friend, exactly, but when he’d seen what an avid student she was, he’d warmed immediately. And of course, there was Marie and her mother. With Nicolas gone, though, the winds had shifted within the castle walls. Those who had silenced their resentment were growing more vocal. Perhaps she’d be best served not to wander too often without the company of those she knew to be friends.

  Perhaps mass had soured her impression, but the whole day had a foreboding, unwelcoming feel. She needed some fresh air, but even the weather was not cooperating. The air was frigid and the lake appeared gray and cold, the wind whipping the usual surface ripples into whitecaps. Dark clouds covered the sky, mirroring Celia’s mood. She resigned herself to the bleak prospect of another day spent indoors.

  At least she had that option. She wondered how Nicolas and his men were faring. There’d been no news back yet, though by now they would have reached Geneva. Her chest tightened with longing. How long until she saw her strong warrior again? Did he know, or care, how miserable she was here without him?

  As Celia passed through the middle courtyard, she spotted Helena sitting against a wall. Celia’s first thought was that the woman had been wise not to attend mass that morning, though on second thought, she found it odd that a “repented sinner” would risk being further ostracized by not attending. The thought made her glance closely at the woman, and Celia noted that although she’d been freed from the dungeon, Helena’s face was paler than ever and her rags more worn.

  Celia reversed her decision to go inside and crouched next to Helena instead.

  “You look as though your day is even worse than mine.”

  “Indeed, Mistress Lyndon, I know I owe you great thanks for gaining my release from that horrible man and his dungeons. But in truth I have not had an easy time since then. No one will employ a heretic, repented or not. My cottage was burned, and the people of Ville Neuve throw stones at me or cross to the other side of the path when they see me approach.”

  “How horrible!”

  “They hide their children from me, for many still believe I am a witch. I had a child, Mistress Lyndon. He was born of a midwinter, a tiny thing, and never made it past his eighth month, bless his tiny soul. I could never hurt a babe.”

  “I believe you. I do. Too many people thrive on malicious gossip. You must pay them no attention.”

  “I wish Savoy had just put me to death instead of giving me a choice. I lost my child, and my husband not long before that. I do not want to live. But I could not choose my own death. To do so is a very grave sin.”

  Guilt washed over her. She’d never considered that Helena’s refusal to defend herself might have had a purpose. “I’m sorry.”

  Helena shook her head. “You did an honorable thing.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I do not fault you. Perhaps my life yet holds some unseen purpose. But how am I to support myself? Had I funds to travel, I would leave and risk the hazards of the open road, but I do not. You, Mistress Lyndon, are the only one who even speaks civilly to me.”

  “You can consider me a friend,” Celia offered, her own misery superseded by that of her companion. “If you cannot find work in the village, have you tried here?”

  She nodded. “Were it not for the charity of Chillon’s servants, I would surely have starved or frozen by now. The seneschal does not wish to take me on permanently...I believe he fears retribution from those who despise me. In truth, I came today only in hopes of begging scraps from the kitchens. I could not serve here, having been once imprisoned.”

  As if on cue, Hans emerged from a shadowed doorway and sauntered into the yard. When he saw the two women by the wall, his eyes lit with a malicious gleam.

  “Oh, no,” Celia murmured. It was too late to do anything to avoid him.

  “He is an evil, evil man,” Helena muttered darkly. She did not move from her position, but Celia could see her hands shaking as Hans drew closer.

  The dungeon-keeper glowered. Celia and Helena stood slowly, not so much out of respect as to give him less of a height advantage as he hovered over them. A bead of perspiration shone above his lip in spite of the chilly gray weather. Celia cringed inwardly but kept her face calm, unwilling to show this man that she was afraid of him.

  “If I were you,” he told Celia, “I would choose your friends more carefully.” He tossed a scornful glance at Helena.

  “She has repented and received forgiveness. Does that not make us equal in the eyes of the Lord?”

  From the corner of her eye, Celia saw Helena give a tiny warning shake of her head, but Celia had already taken about as many insults as she was willing to ignore that morning. She simply could not let another pass.

  “Equal? Only fools speak so. You’d best remember your place, wench,” Hans softly snarled. “Savoy may have turned soft for you, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t see the truth.” His slippery voice sent shivers down her spine.

  “Your father is a traitor who endangered the chateau, and you are no better than a common whore. If ‘twere up to me, you and he, as well as your little friend, here, would be counting your days in my domain. But for Savoy, I would make it so. Your father is free now and I can do nothing about that, but I promise you will not get away so easily.” He stalked off.

  The moment he was out of sight, Helena bid her a hasty goodbye, leaving Celia alone to wonder what she had ever done to the awful dungeon-keeper.

  And what did he mean by “I promise you will not get away?” Get away from what? She’d never done anything, hadn’t been accused of any crimes. He couldn’t throw her down there without cause, could he?

  She looked back at Helena. Of course he could. If he didn’t have an actual cause, the man was not above inventing one. The castle-dwellers were under his thumb, and the villagers were superstitious enou
gh to believe any lies he fed them.

  She would have to be very careful.

  Chapter 17

  The days dragged on, and Nicolas did not return. Messengers relayed the news that although the initial attack had gone well, the Genevans had spent the winter in similar manner as the men of Chillon—preparing. As a result, progress on both sides was now at a stalemate.

  Celia, too, found she had plenty of time to think about preparing. The more she learned about the spice trade and compared it to the life she knew with her father, the more she understood that she needed more than just vague dreams. Nicolas and her father’s concerns—especially for her safety—were not unfounded. If she wanted to help grow her family’s business, she would need equipment, trustworthy contacts in the foreign cities, even a traveling partner as her father grew older. She could afford none of these things, nor did she want to ask for such large favors. As it was, she did little to earn her keep at the castle. She’d thought to use the time with Nicolas gone to start tackling these problems.

  But Hans’ threat and Bernice’s treatment had her worried. She’d done nothing against them, except perhaps to thwart Hans’ plans toward her father and Helena, yet they seemed bent on making her life a misery.

  Worse, she was beginning to doubt her wisdom in staying behind to wait for the man she loved. He’d said he would look forward to her welcoming arms, and she knew he’d been relieved when she had not gone home with her father. But he hadn’t made her any promises about what life would hold after his return. She sometimes had the feeling of a discarded plaything. She feared that Nicolas would return and, like a child rediscovering a lost toy, be joyful at first, only to realize shortly thereafter that he had, indeed, outgrown her.

  The fears plagued her until finally she sought out Alisoun. The head chambermaid was mending a chemise, her daughter nowhere in sight. Celia was just as glad, for though she counted Marie a dear friend, it was words of wisdom and experience she wished for now.