Medieval Mistletoe - One Magical Christmas Season

by Laurel O'Donnell

  With that said, he simply took her arm and pulled her close to him as he prepared to lead her into his hall. Avice gasped in surprise. How could he claim to be cold when he most definitely was not? Again his warmth reached out to her, this time sending little tendrils of sensation seeping into places within her that she hadn’t known existed until this very moment. It made her tremble even though she wasn’t that cold.

  He bent his head, once again bringing his mouth close to her ear. “Don’t pretend you’re not as frozen as I am. I can feel you shivering,” he said, his breath taunting her ear.

  That made her shiver all over again. Startled by her reaction to him, she looked up. He was so close that her lips brushed his cheek as she lifted her head. His beard was rough against her mouth. The skin on his unshaven cheek prickled.

  Her pulse lifted. Without realizing she was doing it, she let her free hand come to rest atop his in the sling. On its own, her body softened against him. He sighed. His hand relaxed beneath her fingers until her fingers twined between his all on their own. That tingling grew.

  His hand tightened on hers. As it did, his arm moved, reaching toward her out of the sling. She was pressed close enough to him that she felt more than heard him catch his breath as he jerked, then stood completely still. He remained so for the space of two breaths, his eyes closed and his jaw tight. When his eyes again opened, the friendly man who greeted her was gone, replaced by an arrogant nobleman. This new Jocelyn’s expression was flat, his gaze dull and empty.

  Here was the lord she hadn’t wanted to confront. She saw it in his face. No matter his pretense of welcome, he despised her. He wouldn’t care how his actions might destroy her life.

  Well, if he didn’t want her, she most surely didn’t want him. Avice let her hand slip off his and brought her arm back to her side. As she did so, he stepped back from her.

  “I won’t argue with you.” Jocelyn’s tone as flat as his gaze. “Come within and take your ease or do not. It is your choice.”

  With that, he turned his back on her, rounded the corner of the screen and disappeared into Freyne’s hall.

  Her choice! Avice glared at the edge of the screen where he’d disappeared. None of this was her choice, not her presence here, not the wedding date, not the betrothal, not the postponement, not even the husband she was to marry.

  She retreated to the hall door. Pushing it wide, she stood in the opening. A gust of frigid wind swept past her, icy droplets battering at the wooden panel behind her, then pattering onto the tile floor beneath her feet. Like little knives, the tiny crystals tore through Avice’s anger, then ripped away her pretense of embarrassment. At last, she was forced to stare upon the truth she hadn’t wanted to see from the moment she’d learned that her wedding had been delayed, perhaps forever.

  It was her destiny to marry Freyne’s lord and she didn’t want to relinquish it. Leaning her head against the thick brass-bound door, tears pricked at her eyes. Who would she be if she didn’t become Jocelyn’s wife and lady of this place?

  “My lady?”

  Avice turned with a start. A thickset elderly man with fleshy features stood just inside the screen. He wore a short green tunic made of thick wool, chausses of the same fabric and wooden-soled boots. A leather capuchin covered his shoulders, its hood pushed back behind his head, while slung over one shoulder was a leather pack.

  He offered a brief bow. “Pardon. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Thomas, Steward of Freyne.”

  Avice nodded to acknowledge his apology and introduction, while studying him in some surprise. No steward she’d ever met would deign to dress like a common laborer, as this one presently was. As a rule, those who managed the estates of noblemen tended toward silken pomposity and chains of gold.

  “Lord Freyne requests I inform you that he has retired for a time,” the steward said, offering a smile to soften the blow he knew very well his words would inflict.

  His news teased a fiery breath from Avice. So much for Jocelyn’s invitation to sit with him next to the fire while they waited on her sire. Just as she suspected, her betrothed had every intention of barring her from Freyne. Her father would fail and she would leave Freyne in disgrace. She sighed. At least she’d spend Christmas at Lavendon.

  Then the steward’s expression clouded. He shot a glance back toward the hall behind him before coming to stand next to her. “You should take no insult from this, my lady,” he said, his voice lowered so his words stayed between the two of them. “I’m sure that Lord Freyne would prefer to visit with you. This happens every time that wound of his begins to ache. He retreats until he once again regains his control. I think he doesn’t care for folk knowing how deeply the pain cuts him.”

  Pain? In her mind’s eye, Avice saw again Jocelyn’s expression after he’d opened his eyes. Although it hardly seemed possible, she wondered if she’d turned the hollowness of a man struggling with what pained him into scorn.

  “My thanks for that,” she said to acknowledge the kindness the steward intended with his explanation. “Thomas, would you send someone to my lord sire to tell him that I’ll await him here by the door and not in the hall. He was caught in the gatehouse when the storm broke.”

  Avice savored her words as she spoke them. Her message was the closest thing to a blow she dared aim at her sire. She was certain it would bring her father running up the hill despite the sleet, ready to drag her into the hall against her will. He would try and fail, then they could blessedly return home.

  “I won’t send another but will go myself. I fear I am the only one left within these walls who can carry your words, and as it happens I’m on my way out to the gate this very moment,” the clerk replied with a crooked smile.

  “Where do you go that you must travel in a storm?” Avice asked in surprise, reassessing his clothing as the garments of one who intended a journey on foot.

  “I’ve been dismissed by my lord for the season, sent to celebrate the holiday with the brothers at the priory,” the lift of the steward’s hand suggested he meant St. Peter’s, which lay several miles from here.

  “What? The whole holiday?” Avice cried, truly shocked.

  The twelve days of Christmastide were a time when everyone, no matter their rank, set aside their labors to enjoy a precious holiday together. Although a few of Lavendon’s servants left the hall to visit family for a day or two, no one was ever gone for longer than that, else they would miss out on all the fun. Aye, gifts were exchanged between noble and common to reconfirm the bond that connected them; for the most part, the days were filled with music and dancing that paid no regard to rank. There were even games in which one servant became the lord for a day with the power to command his betters to serve in his stead.

  “Why would Lord Freyne send you away when you’re needed to see to his servants?” she pressed when in truth it wasn’t any of her concern.

  Thomas drew a sharp breath, his jaw working as if he were chewing on his next words. He once again glanced toward the hall, as if worrying he might be overheard. “He sends us all away save for a few men to guard his gate. At my lord’s request the village alewife and her family will tend the hall and fire while we’re gone.” The look on the steward’s suggested that he didn’t approve of this arrangement, nay, not at all.

  Then he sighed. “I fear you won’t find much of a welcome at Freyne this day, my lady.”

  Avice stared at the man, her thoughts churning. So, Lady Elyssa had spoken true. There would not even be the meanest of servants to bear Jocelyn company over the whole of Christmastide.

  “This is strange, indeed,” she murmured, then offered him a small smile. “Well then, I will wish you safe travels and good Christmas.”

  “Good Christmas to you as well.” He nodded, then exited, pulling up his hood to protect his head from the sleet as he shifted his pack onto his back.

  Leaning against the doorframe, Avice watched as he crossed the courtyard. Concern for Jocelyn stirred uneasily within her, warring w
ith her hurt and anger. Once the steward disappeared from her view, she turned to look at the edge of the screen.

  Had she and Jocelyn wed last spring as planned, this would have been her first Christmas at Freyne. That thought tore away her resistance to entering the hall. With the next breath, the urge to see what she’d lost grew so great that it drove her to the edge of the screen. She clung to the wooden panel, her heart fluttering nervously in her chest, warning her to go no farther. Why shouldn’t she enter? After all, she wasn’t trespassing. Jocelyn had invited her to enjoy his fire. Nor did she have to worry about confronting him and being asked to leave. He’d retreated to his bedchamber.

  It was the knowledge that he was no longer in the chamber that propelled her around the edge of the screen. She stopped a few feet into the room. It smelled strange. She drew a second, testing breath. It was the scent of smoke that was missing. That startled her until she realized the wood of the rebuilt hall had yet to be fully seasoned by a fire that was never allowed to die, save on the warmest of summer days.

  Apparently Jocelyn liked his hall darkened. Not even the good-sized blaze that crackled and hissed on its raised stone hearth at the room’s center could chase the shadows from the corners. Huh, if she were lady here, she wouldn’t tolerate such dimness. A hall needed burning torches ensconced on the walls, as well as the shutters thrown wide on the windows. How else could the servants do their work, and how else could their lady make sure the servants were at their tasks?

  Despite the shadows, Avice could make out the bare outline of a pair of doors at the other end of the hall from where she stood. One of them surely led to the lord’s bedchamber, while the other must be the solar, the private chamber belonging to the lady of the keep. It was in that chamber that the mistress of Freyne could meet with servants and tend to the business of the estate.

  With her heart still knocking in her chest, Avice took a few more steps into the hall. Something shifted in the shadows near the leftward door. She froze. A man stood there in the dimness.

  Her heart rose to pound in her throat. The steward was wrong. Jocelyn wasn’t in his chamber, he was standing outside its door watching her. She could feel his eyes on her. She lifted her chin and waited for his shouted demand that she leave his home.

  There was no call. Instead, the shadows again stirred as the door behind Jocelyn opened then closed. Avice freed a quiet breath that was a tangle of surprise and relief. Why had he been watching her, if not to confront her?

  Since there was no need to retreat now that she’d been discovered and hadn’t been sent away, she turned a slow circle and truly surveyed the room. Aye, the wood was new, the walls bare of so much as a crumb of plaster or a single embroidered hanging to soften their blankness. Nor were there any of the trappings usual to every hall Avice had ever seen.

  Even in royal castles, this was the chamber where all the servants, from highest to lowest, took their nightly rest. Here, too, were all the meals served. Thus, among the items that Avice expected to see but didn’t were the stacks of straw-stuffed pallets that served as beds for the servants and the coffers in which the table linens and serving ware were stored. There should have been tables, disassembled into stacks of wooden planks and triangular braces, leaning against the walls. Where were the bundles of rushes used to refit the torches and spread on the floor to sop up the mess made by the missing ratting dogs and the vermin they were expected to control? Indeed, if Avice hadn’t seen with her own eyes that Jocelyn was in residence, she would have assumed that the hall was vacant.

  Only the high table was where it should be. Arranged between the far side of the hearth and the back wall where the doors were, the short table was bare of any covering, revealing that it was nothing more than three boards set on braces. Two large chairs were pushed tight against it. The larger one was no doubt the seat belonging to Freyne’s lord, while Avice guessed the smaller one had been used by Lady Elyssa during her stay.

  She again scanned the empty room. Of all that was amiss with this hall, the one thing that truly set her teeth on edge was the complete lack of holly. There wasn’t so much as a single glossy green leaf or red berry to be seen anywhere. At Lavendon, the onset of Advent found them collecting holly branches and harvesting the fir boughs to use as table and wall decorations. The cheery contrast of red and green and the spicy fragrance of drying fir were such a part of the season that she couldn’t imagine how anyone would know it was Christmas without them.

  She released a slow breath at that thought. Her gaze shifted back to the dim outline of the door Jocelyn had used. All the things Lady Elyssa had said, as well as her father’s lectures, tallied with the concern carefully shared by Freyne’s steward. Aye, Jocelyn was living here, but he wasn’t really living at all.

  Footsteps echoed behind the screen. Avice whirled. Lina swept into the hall looking like a queen, dressed as she was in a cloak bejeweled with frozen droplets. Tagging along behind her was the child Milly. The orphan looked miserable with her hair wind-knotted around her face and her cheeks blazing red.

  “My lady,” Lina called as she saw Avice, then hurried to join her. “This is the strangest place. There are only four soldiers in the gatehouse and not a single stablehand in the stables to care for your horse. Thank the Lord that one of the soldiers agreed to see to her. Nor is there so much as a scullery lad in the kitchen. And no cooking fire! With naught but cold dead ashes in the hearth, I’ll be fortunate to have the coals ready in time for the morning meal,” she complained as Milly sniffled and drifted closer to the fire, her hands held out to catch the warmth. “Aye, and given that there’s no one in the kitchen to aid me, I fear you must be prepared to eat cold and simple this night,” Lina finished.

  “I think straw might serve me right now,” Avice replied, her stomach reminding her that she hadn’t had more than a nibble since dawn.

  Then she shook her head. “There’s no doubting this is a strange place, indeed, so strange that I think it might be best if you don’t do anything in the kitchen until my sire has met with Lord Freyne.” She looked over Lina’s shoulder toward the screen, expecting her father to enter at any instant. “Where is my lord sire?”

  “He and his have left,” Lina replied, brushing at her cloak and shivering. The melting droplets that clung to it had begun to soak through the fabric.

  “What?” Avice cried. The word rang hollowly in the empty hall.

  “What do you mean, they’ve left?” she added in a lower voice, shooting a look over her shoulder toward Jocelyn’s door.

  Lina sent her a rueful smile. “I mean your lord sire and his men turned their horses and started home the instant the workmen came down to help me and Little Milly empty the cart.”

  Once again, Avice’s heart set to fluttering in her chest. “How could he do this to me?” she breathed in disbelief, staring at Lina. “What if Lord Jocelyn is so angry about my presence here that he demands I leave? How am I to make my way home?”

  “I asked the same thing of our lord,” Lina replied. “He seemed to think your betrothed would do no such thing, not with the storm upon us. Your lord sire did send you a message. He says that you are to treat this hall as if you were already its lady. Any expense you incur in doing so will be borne by him as a gift to Lord Freyne. He left you a purse.”

  Lina held out a leather drawstring pouch. It was so full that Avice could see the outlines of the outermost coins pressing against the skin. When Avice didn’t reach out to take the pouch, the cook caught her lady’s hand and curled Avice’s fingers around it.

  “He said if this is not enough, you should purchase what you need in his name,” she added.

  Stricken, Avice clutched the pouch to her chest, her eyes filling. It was done. If Jocelyn refused to marry her after she spent this time with him at Freyne—in a hall that lacked any supervising servants save one wee child and a cook whose duties kept her outside the chamber proper for most of her day—no one would ever believe that she was maiden still.
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br />   “Good Christmas to me,” Avice said sarcastically, blinking away the pain, “but pity poor Lord Jocelyn. I’m very much his surprise gift, although I doubt it’s the sort of surprise he’s likely to appreciate. I’m also fairly certain that I’m not the gift he wants.” She tried to smile, but the movement of her mouth was more grimace than grin.

  “That, my lady,” Lina said with a cocky lift of her brows, “remains to be seen. Now, command me and Little Milly into the village to meet with the alewife. The soldiers say she was to bring Lord Freyne’s meal this evening. Give me an hour and I’ll have hired folk enough to meet my needs in the kitchen for the night and perhaps find someone who’ll come early on the morrow to awaken the fire so the hall will be tolerable.”

  Then, she paused and tsked. “Poor sweet babe,” she crooned, taking Avice’s chin in her hand just as she’d done when her lady had been but a toddler. “You’ve always feared the worst when it so seldom happens. You’ll see. All will be well. Once I’m back from the village, I’ll make a posset for your and your dear betrothed. That will make you feel better and keep your gullet from eating a hole through to your spine until I can offer you something more substantial.”

  Then the glint of mischief woke in Lina’s gaze. “What say you? Should I ease your worries by adding some Mistletoe to that drink? Perhaps it will work the way Alfred said, driving Lord Freyne to passion. Then, on the morrow, we’ll drive him to the church door and make him say his vows.”

  Even though Avice knew Lina was but jesting, she surprised herself by considering the possibility. The poison had made her father love her mother. Could it also make Jocelyn forget that he no longer wished to marry her? Avice made a face. It felt unsavory and underhanded plotting to use a love potion to trap a man into a marriage he didn’t want.

  “Well, that would be no more mad a scheme than a father leaving his unwed daughter in another man’s house to try to guarantee a marriage,” Avice retorted with a harsh laugh. “Nay, I’m happy with a simple egg posset to help settle my stomach else I’ll choke all night on what my father has done to me this day.”