by Jacobs Delle
The Peregrine removed his hands from her body. He dropped a mocking bow and turned away.
And disappeared into the fog.
With a jerk, Philippe sat up and looked around him. The pallet where he had lain down was still beneath him, and he was still in the solar of his friend Geoffrey, his knights sleeping nearby. But his body said he had been somewhere else.
The heated ache in his shaft was more than a dream, for it stood hard and erect from the long fingers that had curled about it.
Nay, no fingers enclosed his shaft. He had dreamed. Yet he could feel them still, as real as any that had ever touched him.
Hugh rose up on one elbow, cocking his head in curiosity.
Philippe frowned back. “It is too hot,” he said.
He rose from his pallet and went out the solar door, down the steps, and across the bailey. He dashed up the stone steps to the parapet, and the guard stopped his pacing to watch.
“Too hot,” he said again. “It’s cooler here.”
“Aye,” said the guard. “’Tis a fine summer night. Too soon it will be cold winter.”
Philippe nodded and turned to walk along the wall. It was at least cool enough to dampen his ardor. He had been without a woman for a very long time, but he had made his vow and he meant to keep it. And, God’s holy face, he was not about to let a wench seduce him in his own dreams.
“Leonie, wake up. Are you ill?”
“Nay.”
“You’re dreaming of him, aren’t you?”
“Nay.” Leonie sat up. She was not in the bailey. She was in her own bed, beside Claire. For once, she was where she ought to be. It was a dream.
“Aye, you are. You think me so innocent that I do not know? Where do you think he is, Leonie?”
“In the solar with his knights?” Aye, he must be there, for that was where such visitors always spent their nights.
It had all been a dream, then. She could not have walked through the solar, for it was full of knights. She would have never entered the bailey barefoot and clad only in a thin chemise. No mist could form near the ground while a breeze stirred the air. And never was there a time when no man kept watch from the parapets, night and day.
She had dreamed it all. Yet her body still tingled with need and excitement.
“Not in the solar,” said Claire with a secret sort of smile. “He is still walking the parapet, long after the others sleep. You can see him from the window. Go look.”
“Nay.”
Claire tugged her hand, and Leonie followed. Out on the sentry walk, lit by the bright full moon, the Peregrine stood, arms folded, looking directly where she stood. He would know it was she by her shape in the shadows. No other was so long and thin as she.
He turned and walked away.
He would never forgive her for what she had done to him this night.
Leonie lingered at the narrow window, watching nothing, only feeling what little breeze penetrated into the chamber. The dream was not real, but it spoke the truth. She could never have him, nor should she want him, for he would never approve of her. She could never please him. He would never love her.
But yet, the dream was wrong. No one could deprive her of her dreams, and in her dreams, he could be the man she wanted him to be. And she would never tell anyone. She would do the king’s bidding when he chose a husband for her, and never would anyone know it was the Peregrine who had taken her heart captive.
CHAPTER FIVE
LEONIE STOOD NEAR the lancet window in the solar as the king’s knights prepared to leave. The Peregrine stood in the bailey, taking his last leave of her uncle. They talked and clasped shoulders. Then the Peregrine glanced up at the lancet window in the ladies’ chamber, but he could not have known she watched from the solar, hiding in shadows instead.
She did her uncle no honor to not go down to see him off. The thought of it brought a flush of shame for the spiteful way she had humiliated him. Shame for the passion of her dreams, to feel such things for a man who thought so little of her.
What man could want a woman such as she? The Peregrine she dreamed about was right in that regard. She sighed. She was a grown woman now, but she’d behaved foolishly. There was naught to be done about what had happened, for it was like water in the beck flowing past the castle, and long gone. The only thing to do was to go on about her life.
If she did not have enough of the Fae blood to make her one of that kind, why couldn’t she at least have enough human blood to make her a real woman?
That afternoon she watched from the village as another entourage rode in. Fulk of Durham and his knights and servants, in their liveries of red, black, and white. With a sigh, Leonie slipped away quietly through the back side of the village and returned to the castle by the sally port, then rushed across the upper bailey and up the steps to the ladies’ chamber. She barely heard Ealga’s nattering as she changed into more suitable garments.
But not the green kirtle. It belonged to that other time, the time of her great embarrassment.
Her lips stretched thin over her teeth. Haps what she really needed was a husband who would occupy her so completely she would have no time for silly, disturbing dreams.
As she entered the hall through the back passage, she saw the tall knight in red and black who had been so attentive to her only a few weeks before. Fulk had the dark coloring of Frankish blood and sported a closely trimmed beard and narrow mustache that added sharpness to his dark eyes and wide cheekbones. He was handsome. She’d always thought that.
When he spotted her, his pleasant smile warmed. “Ah, my lovely Lady Leonie,” he said, and approached to take her hand and lift it to his lips. Instinctively her hand became stiff, but she corrected her response. If the man was to be her destiny, she’d best try to get off to a good start.
“Lord Fulk,” she replied with a modest nod. From now on, she would make modesty the cornerstone of her demeanor.
“I have your uncle’s permission to walk with you in the garden. Shall we go?”
She dipped a perfect curtsy as a reply, and he took her arm. A glance to the side revealed Aunt Beatrice’s sweet round face and her chubby hands folded almost as if in prayer. But Uncle Geoffrey had a worried wrinkle to his brow.
Well, she would let destiny take her where it chose to go. It seemed she had spent most of her young life fighting it, all to no good purpose.
Outside the oak doors of the hall, she let him lead her into her aunt’s little walled herb garden. In the shade of the wall she saw Claire and one of her aunt’s ladies, busy at their mending and embroidery. She felt a certain comfort in knowing they were there.
“I have heard you sometimes take to gardening, Lady Leonie. Like your Aunt Beatrice.”
“Aye, Lord Fulk,” she said.
He moved his hand from her arm to take her hand. A shudder rippled through her. But she succeeded in not jerking her hand away.
“At Drogie Castle we have a much finer garden. A lady would find it very pleasurable. She need not dirty her hands, for there are four gardeners to do her bidding.”
Leonie attempted a smile. It would not do to tell him half the pleasure of gardening was in the feel of the soil on her hands, even for her aunt, who in all other ways was the most ladylike of ladies. “Gardens are a great pleasure, I find,” she replied.
“Of course, a lady must manage her household. But at Drogie, a lady would have all the servants she needs to do such things. There would be no need to fret over vats of dye or the garden vegetables. Or the baking of bread. A proper lady supervises her household. She should not have to do the work of peasants.”
She clamped her teeth shut. All the things she and her aunt had so often enjoyed together. And she knew her aunt had been raised properly. Her mouth started to open, and she promptly shut it again before words could tumble out.
He is Lord Fulk, vassal to the Bishop of Durham, a pious knight who has been on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. He is called the Warrior of God. He is handsome and rich
. He would make an excellent husband.
“Of course, Drogie is not my only holding. I have twenty-six manors and castles, all over England.”
And I am heiress to twelve. I suspect you are thinking of that.
Time to change the subject. “Have you been to Bosewood, Lord Fulk?”
“Your father’s castle? Of course, many times. It is much dilapidated, I am sorry to say. I was your father’s very good friend, you know. He would have approved of our marriage, and said so many times.”
A huge lump formed suddenly in her throat, almost causing her to cough. “Marriage? I know nothing of that. Surely the king would tell me if he had plans for me.”
Fulk slid on a smooth smile, and his voice grew sweet and gentle. “But it would be a good match, I’m sure you realize. We are remarkably well suited. I have come to speak my intent to you before I approach the king, but I am certain the king will agree with us.”
What was he up to? Something felt wrong. Aye, a man might speak to a lady first, but he had not asked, and merely informed her. Her fists were growing tighter and tighter.
“I have not agreed to anything, Lord Fulk. It is not my place. King William will decide my husband.”
She watched the movement of his head, ever so smoothly rising then leaning left, then nodding deeply as his smile became even broader, as if he meant to bestow his great benevolence on her.
“You could choose no better than I, dear lady. Who else? Not the odious Alan Niger of Richmond, who has taken his own dead brother’s mistress as his own. Aye, I know the handsome Philippe le Peregrine has only recently been to visit, but all know he will not marry. He is, I am sorry to tell you, more than a little like his licentious king in his preferences.”
Leonie’s nose wrinkled. That she didn’t believe.
“You shall not marry outside England, for the king will never allow it. Who else could it be? Nay, dear lady, we shall wed, and our lands merge in most effective ways. We shall have heirs more powerful even than the Count of Richmond. Imagine such for your sons! Your father regretted always that he had no sons, but you may give him the progeny he dreamed of.”
Leonie promised herself she would not dislike this man merely because he kept invoking her father’s will. “I do not even remember my father, as I have not seen him since I was a baby.”
“It is your duty to honor him with the marriage he wished.”
I would honor Uncle Geoffrey. But not the man who sired me and cared nothing more for me.
“Of course you shall marry me,” Fulk continued. “Surely you see the perfect sense in it. You have only to say it.”
She sensed a snare closing in on her. “It is not for me to say, Lord Fulk,” she repeated. “I shall marry as the king commands.”
“And he will so command, my dear lady. So you will then agree, I am sure.”
“I shall do as the king commands, but I cannot say what that should be.”
“Then we are in agreement,” he said, almost mumbling into the kiss he planted on her hand. “And now I shall go to the king in confidence.”
More than ever, she wished she could jerk her hand away, and even to slap him with it, but she had sworn not to misbehave again. “You misunderstand me, Lord Fulk. I did not say that. I cannot. It would be appalling to presume upon the will of my king. That I will not do.”
The Warrior of God propped one hand on the pommel of his sword, causing it to swing backward. She drew in a sharp breath, watching that hand where it rested against the chased silver snake that ran from the cross guard, winding around the grip to terminate in a ruby-eyed head at the pommel. But he released the sword and instead took her hand on his arm to lead her back to the hall.
“Fear not, dear lady. He will hear our plea and be pleased.” Fulk merely continued the smile, which she began to see as oily. Leonie could feel her heart beating rapidly, as if she ran from a wild dog. What would she do if he told Uncle Geoffrey she had consented to be his wife? What had he told her uncle before she had arrived?
But all he said, once they returned to the hall, was how pleased he was with her, and that he could hope for a happy future for them. Leonie took her first chance to escape, wishing she could run and hide in the woods for the rest of her life.
How could she bow to such a fate? She had tried, so very hard, to be like other women. But never had she felt so unhuman as she did now. Yet what else could she do? Was there no man in England like her uncle, a decent and fair man, yet a suitable enough husband for her in the king’s eyes?
If only she could find the way to the Summer Land and the Faeriekind, and leave behind this world where she would never fit.
Uncle Geoffrey did nothing to encourage Fulk and his entourage to stay the night, unlike the king’s knights who had come the day before. But they stayed anyway. Leonie could not sleep, knowing the Warrior of God slept in the adjacent solar with his most trusted companions.
When in the darkest of night she heard subtle rustling and fumbling at the door, she was grateful for the heavy bolt thrown across it to bar access. Claire sat up at the sounds, her pretty blue eyes rounded with fear in the darkness of the chamber. Leonie quietly walked to the corner of the room where her bow and quiver leaned against the wall, strung the bow, and gathered the arrows in her hand, prepared to shoot them all if she must.
Claire took one arrow and held it like a dagger.
The noises ceased. After a few moments, Claire returned to the bed, but Leonie stayed near the far wall, waiting.
When the sun rose, the knights of the Warrior of God rode out, much as the Peregrine and his knights had done the morning before. All Leonie could think was that she wished she had not been so arrogant with Philippe le Peregrine. Even if he wouldn’t choose to marry her.
As she had every day since Sigge had cut his foot, Leonie went to the modest blacksmith’s quarters within the castle’s lower bailey. And every day, right in front of both Sigge’s parents, she had swiftly traced her thumb over the wound as if merely touching it.
Days before, Harald’s wife had returned Leonie’s veil, carefully soaked and cleaned of the last trace of blood, presenting it to her meekly, as if she had personally caused great harm to the lady’s fine possession, and this day Leonie wore that same veil with pride. Leonie was as fond of Gerdrund and Harald as she was of Sigge.
“I can walk now, Leonie,” Sigge said, his squeaky voice rising as if he pleaded.
His mother turned a beseeching look on Leonie.
“Nay,” Leonie replied. “I said your foot is healing the way it should. I did not say it has healed. Perhaps tomorrow.”
Sigge stuck out his lower lip and slumped into a wretched heap where he sat by the empty hearth. Only dire threats from his father kept him within the house, but that was where he needed to stay a bit longer.
Leonie kept herself busy in the castle, making up a new batch of green dye in various shades to color wool for embroidery. Green had become the castle’s favorite color, not merely because it was Leonie’s preferred color, but also because it was her best dye. She knew full well that if she could just find a way to make her scarlet more brilliant or her blue more like the bright summer sky, those colors would soon become the new favorites. As it was, the only way she could get the bright colors she wanted was to trade her green wool to peddlers.
Several days of rain that heralded the beginning of September also kept her within the castle, embroidering fanciful beasts along the neckline of a new kirtle for Claire. But as busy as she kept herself, the mystery that lay in the forest lingered in her mind.
Lingered. And made a shiver rumble down her spine. Twice she set out when the sun broke through the clouds, but both times she stopped at the forest’s edge and turned away, thinking there was surely something else she needed to do instead.
At last she gave in to Sigge’s pleas, for the wound was completely healed. And she needed a companion in the forest. If she did not return to the forest soon, fear would take over and she would lo
se her favorite place in all the world.
And soon she would be married. Who knew if her new husband would allow her the pleasure of walking among the trees, or of gathering leaves and moss for dying the wool? If Rufus chose Fulk, she suspected he would forbid even her experiments with dyes as being beneath her dignity.
Ha. She was a Faerie halfling—not a lady. She had no dignity.
Sigge danced about like a young puppy, circling and hopping as they crossed the meadow below the castle. As they came within the boundaries of the trees, he found a long, straight stick and began swinging it about, swishing, swiping, and jabbing into the air. “I’m a brave knight, Leonie!” he shouted, parrying his invisible opponent. “I’m the Peregrine, and I’m fighting the King of Scotland!”
Leonie found a pained smile. Why did it have to be Philippe the boy idolized? But she knew. All the boys wanted to grow up to be the legendary Peregrine.
“I wish I had a real sword,” Sigge said. “One just like the Peregrine’s with that big red stone on the pommel. And the falcon etched on the blade.” He swung his play sword in wide arcs that would have cut through the brush if the sword had been real.
“You’re too young for a sword. You’d probably cut off your other foot.”
“Would not!” He shouted a battle cry and jabbed at an imaginary enemy.
“Don’t you want to be a blacksmith like your father?”
The lad hung his head. Leonie knew how much he loved his father.
“Mayhap your father would let you become a monk so you could study, and learn to read and write. You are always so interested in everything.”
“I don’t want to be a monk. They never have any fun. And they have to shave their heads funny. And besides, my father wouldn’t ever have any grandchildren and he wouldn’t like that.”
