Angel of Fire

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  On the battlefield, Aubert had turned away from Gilbert only long enough to vanquish one attacker. And then he had returned to Gilbert to see him crumple to the ground, blood spilling from a wound at the back of his neck. Lying mortally wounded, Gilbert had forced but four words from his bloody lips.

  “We are betrayed!” he’d said. “Flee!”

  The look in his father’s eyes, that terrible plea, had launched Aubert from his knees. Looking back on it now, he realized that it was Gilbert’s way of protecting him from a like fate—a father’s dying gesture of love to a son never acknowledged. It touched him deeply. And yet there was something about Gilbert’s final words that haunted him now.

  Betrayed, he had said.

  But how?

  Adelaine stirred, bringing Aubert’s thoughts to the present.

  As much as they looked alike, two more disparate people had never existed. Adelaine rarely raised her voice or disobeyed Gilbert, while Chrestien was spirited and quick-witted. Adelaine was skilled with the needle and knew much of the simples. Chrestien was not. Moreover, while Adelaine was well acquainted with books of learning, Chrestien was interested only in horses and gaming—forever begging her father to take her on the hunts.

  Gilbert had even gifted Chrestien with her own gelding—Lightning, which she was never to ride in the company of guests. She cherished that horse.

  As for her prankish nature, it seemed Chrestien was ever making Adelaine a part of her whimsy. But Gilbert, rather than being angry with his wayward daughter, had seemed ever entertained by her antics. He did, of course, give the pretense of being sore with her on occasion, but his scoldings had lacked substance, and it would not be overlong before Chrestien was into something new.

  Because of her mischievous nature, it had surprised one and all the summer past when Chrestien had announced her wish to be pledged to the church. Had it been Adelaine to make such a disclosure, it would not have been so appalling, for she was the one more suited to the life of a convent. But Chrestien? Lord aid the abbess of La Trinite!

  The twins’ mother had died in childbirth and Gilbert had never remarried. The love he’d born his lady wife was too great. It was a love so pure and so very rare in these times when a marital union was little more than a political game. Instead, Gilbert had poured his soul into raising Elizabeth’s daughters. And although Gilbert would never own the truth of it, Aubert knew his father couldn’t bear the thought of being without at least one of his lovely daughters to pamper. Thus, Gilbert had agreed never to force the issue of marriage. His only stipulation was that Chrestien go to the abbey upon his death and not before.

  At any rate, Adelaine was the eldest, if only by mere minutes; therefore, she was Gilbert’s heiress and obliged to wed according to her father’s wishes—except that Gilbert had not lived long enough to make his choice of husband known.

  At eighteen, the twins were a stunning pair. They were overage to be married, but there wasn’t a man in Christendom who wouldn’t leap at the opportunity to have them still.

  And God’s teeth, were it to be known that there were two? All of Normandy would be at Lontaine’s gates with the ram, ready to do battle for the privilege of wedding one. Of that, Aubert was certain.

  Adelaine stirred under Chrestien’s gentle ministrations, lifting her lids to reveal amber eyes, softly flecked with green. The eyes, Aubert mused, were the only physical way to tell them apart. Both were possessed of lovely eyes. But Chrestien’s were the color of smoke, deep and dark and rimmed with green, while Adelaine’s were like a cup of golden broth.

  Adelaine moaned and Chrestien placed her arms about her sister’s neck in response. They held each other tightly, and Aubert felt as though he were intruding on the moment.

  “Oh, Chrestien,” she sobbed. “How are we to go on without Papa?” Tears streamed down her wan cheeks. Chrestien lovingly wiped them away.

  Aubert averted his gaze.

  Chrestien’s voice was calm and soothing, despite the turmoil he knew she must be feeling. “I know not how our hearts shall fare,” she admitted, honestly. “But we will be fine... as long as we go on with our plan. You must go to Aleth,” she said when Adelaine seemed momentarily confused.

  Adelaine’s eyes widened with horror. “Nay! It will never work!” she declared. The pitch of her voice climbed higher when Chrestien countered with a nod.

  “It will,” Chrestien said firmly.

  “Dear lord, Chrestien! I would be the ridicule of all Christendom were I to arrange for mine own marriage! I think you are truly daft!”

  “You agreed,” Chrestien argued, reminding her.

  “Simply to quiet you! I never truly believed this would come to pass!”

  Chrestien’s countenance remained calm. To show apprehension in response to Adelaine’s concerns would do naught but undermine the only practicable solution available to them, Aubert knew. As ludicrous as it might seem, there was nowhere else for the girls to go. And it was simply a matter of time before Henry sent his emissaries to secure Lontaine. They didn’t have much time. Even now, he was certain they were taking stock of their winnings, like victors at quek counting their coins.

  “Nay!” Adelaine protested again. “Christian,” she pleaded. “Aleth would think me unchaste and unfit to be so bold.”

  “She speaks the truth,” Aubert interjected, uncertain if Chrestien would take offense to his siding with Adelaine in this matter.

  “Aye,” Chrestien conceded. “But this is why I have decided to go to Aleth in your behalf… as your custodian.”

  “Dear God! Nay, Chrestien! You cannot.”

  “I can and I will, Adelaine! Aleth knows naught of me. I would simply tell him I am your cousin. And I will make him believe it was Papa’s wish that you two wed. Whether he agrees to it will be for him to decide, and if he does not, I'll take you with me to La Trinite.”

  Adelaine screwed her face, and Chrestien seized the opportunity to sway her sister. “For once Papa would be glad of our little games. Aleth knows not that Papa has two daughters—twins to boot.”

  When neither Adelaine nor Aubert gave any sign of concession, she proceeded to give the details of how the deception would be accomplished. “First, I will cut my hair.”

  Aubert grunted at the thought of Chrestien’s lost locks. Her hair had been her father’s delight—such a beautiful shade of gold, with streaks of sunlight coursing through waves that fell well below her waist. It was as silky and beautiful as any Aubert had ever beheld—aside from Adelaine’s, of course.

  Chrestien eyed him with narrowed eyes, warning him without words to say nothing more. “I have no choice if I am to fool Aleth into believing I am my father’s nephew. It will not matter anyway as I will leave for the abbey as soon as I see Adelaine duly wedded. I warrant the sisters there do not care one whit about the length of my hair, nor does God.”

  Adelaine sighed and Aubert nodded in resignation. “What would ye have us do?” he relented.

  “To begin with, how many of my father’s men remain?”

  The way to Aleth’s was not long, but it was a perilous journey, with brigands lying in wait to ambush the unwary soul. Until Henry cracked his iron whip, these lands were now lawless.

  “None... save myself,” Aubert confirmed to Chrestien’s dismay.

  “Very well… then I will dress the villein in armor,” she said resolutely, “and myself as well.... we will feign a small troop.”

  She was determined not to fail.

  If they failed, some louse would no doubt abscond with Adelaine in hopes of possessing her inheritance, and Chrestien would never forgive herself. In fact, she did not doubt there were fortune seekers on their way to Lontaine this very moment.

  “I do not believe you could be mistaken for a man,” Aubert warned.

  Adelaine sighed heavily, the sound of defeat. “You’d be astounded, Aubert, at what my sister can do.”

  * * *

  Any lackey could carry out this mission.

&nb
sp; The task given was such a simple one—too simple in fact. Mayhap that was what irritated Weston FitzStephen most—that Henry would waste his time with such a minor duty, when there were far more important holdings to be secured.

  The afternoon breeze was cool, but in the confines of his armor, he was afire. The metal of his helm drew the warmth of the sun and the extreme heat registered acutely upon his senses. He needed a break from the stifling headpiece.

  Reining in his destrier, and causing a stir from his troops, he loosened the nose guard, pulling the helm from his head, baring the mailed coif beneath.

  It was not oft their leader succumbed to his own discomfort and there was no other apparent reason for the respite. Two days they’d ridden from Tinchebrai, stopping only when exhaustion demanded. Doubtless, it confused them now to see him halt when they had scant few daylight hours left to ride.

  The indentations the conical helm left in Weston’s flesh were conspicuous against his swarthy face. His thick jaw set in a tight line, giving evidence to his displeasure.

  One thing was certain. Beyond the obvious political gains Tinchebrai had garnered them rich, fertile lands. And seeing it clearly now, he understood exactly why Henry was loathe to lose it—verdant hills and fields for miles.

  The scent of wild rosemary teased his senses, but his discomfort was too great for the tantalizing scent to rouse any hunger.

  Only Michel Steorling, his captain, came forward, curious. “What is it?”

  Weston turned to consider his long-time friend and read the concern in his face. “I felt confined is all.”

  He indicated the conical headpiece and Michel returned a knowing nod, a wry smile curving his lips. “You don’t much relish this duty, I take it?”

  “Nay,” he admitted, and he bent to retrieve a skin of water from his saddlebags. He drank from it deeply, then offered the skin to Michel.

  Michel declined, lifting a brow. “I have mine own, thank you, auld wolf.”

  Weston raised a dark brow. “Ever you mock me—bah! Did I know you would taunt me incessantly about my chosen device... I’d have taken another.”

  “Nay... it serves you well, my friend. I warrant ’tis the reason you’ve been sent here. These Normans will spy your banner and their gates will fly open faster than a whore spreads her legs for gold.”

  Weston scowled at him. “If my device brought us here, then in truth, I should have taken another.”

  Michel chuckled, his teasing turning to Tinchebrai. “Nay, but God’s teeth, you reduced the number of our enemies in just the time it took to recognize that gaudy banner of yours. Henry was wise to time your arrival. At the very moment when the tide may have turned, their will was vanquished by the Silver Wolf's timely arrival. Fresh reinforcements alone would have dismayed them, but I watched men throw down their arms once they spied your banner.”

  Both men turned their gazes to the pennant their shared squire Guy held so proudly. The stark black background offset the snarling silver-threaded wolf in its middle. The animal’s dauntless, blood-red eyes glared back at them like a devil from the dark. The breeze held the banner outstretched, playing with its folds, contorting the wolf’s head, and giving the impression that the animal snapped its powerful jaws in warning.

  Somehow, that image, along with Michel’s account of the battle, irritated Weston all the more, and he returned the helm to his head without a word, spurring his destrier forward.

  His troops fell in procession behind him—their immediate destination... Lontaine.

  Chapter Two

  Time was running short, Chrestien realized. As dangerous an enterprise as this may yet be, remaining at Lontaine was more dangerous by far. The garrison was inadequate to sustain them in the event of an attack. The most they could hope for was to wait out a siege, for the walls, at least were strong and well kept. Still, she was not fool enough to risk her sister’s life for such an uncertain end. Nay, taking her to Aleth was the right thing to do and she had set to the task with a singleness of purpose.

  Aubert gathered as many villein as Lontaine could spare and on the day of departure, Chrestien disbursed among them what armor could be salvaged from her father’s armory—not much of value.

  To some she gave battered shields, but not swords. To Big Adam she gave a dented helm, but then retrieved it, rolling the silver head gear in her hands as she inspected it carefully. She wasn’t certain it would fit over Big Adam’s head. Deciding it would not, she handed him the much-coveted broadsword instead. The helm she gave to Little Theo, the smallest man among them. And because Little Theo was so small, she took pity on him and gave him a sword as well. Four others were lucky enough to receive broadswords, but to the rest she gave daggers. It was a pittance, she knew. But when one had naught else, a dagger was much indeed. Every good piece of armor had gone to Rouen with her father, and save for Aubert, none of it had returned. Like the pheasants, and their pantry, the armory had been picked clean. Once she was finished, there were nineteen cobbled soldiers standing before her—each of them proud to defend his mistresses. She was proud of them as well, for they were brave and true.

  Aubert stood behind her, studying their little troop with arms crossed.

  “At close range, they may not make a body tremble,” she admitted in a whisper. “But from a distance... I dare to hope.”

  Aubert withheld his opinion, and instead honed in on the hauberk Chrestien had confiscated from the pile of metal the armorer was preparing to melt down, chastising her for it. “At the very least I wish you had a new hauberk,” he lamented. “The newer design is heavier, more solidly built. ’Twould have kept you safer.”

  “Aye,” Chrestien agreed, annoyed by his negativity. “But I’ve no mind to be skewered anyway, so never ye mind.”

  Aubert gave her a reproachful look. “Neither does the field mouse until he is trapped within the hawk’s talons.”

  Chrestien narrowed her eyes at him. “Dearest lord! You are exactly like Adelaine with those accursed parables and I cannot even begin to understand what you mean! Are you comparing me to a mouse?” she asked, incensed.

  Aubert gave her a rueful smile. “I meant only that none of us can know when danger lurks, Chrestien, until ’tis too late, and more oft than not, it means death for those unprepared.”

  Chrestien rolled her eyes. “Mayhap you should speak plainly and leave off with the riddles. At any rate, you tell me naught I do not already know. What would you have me do? Wait the time it would take for the armorer to refashion this metal sherte? Nay! By then it would be too late, and Adelaine would find herself skewered by the talons of some English buzzard. I will not see it done! This must work, and because it must, it will,” she said resolutely.

  Aubert conceded with a shrug, realizing the futility of the argument. Chrestien would never concede.

  “Go find Adelaine for me,” Chrestien charged him, clearly nettled. “You fret like an auld woman, and it harries my nerves!”

  Aubert took a step back. “Auld woman? You dare to call me one when you are the queen of upset?”

  Her patience at an end, Chrestien started to throw her helm at him, but stopped when she spied the horror in Aubert's expression.

  “Nay!” he shrieked. “That is the last good helm! Ye would dent the bloody thing. And then, for certain, instead of a seasoned knight you will look like a battered quintain.”

  “Fie on you, Aubert! I know you do not agree with this decision, but we have no choice.”

  “You mistake me, Chrestien. I do not disagree,” he argued. “I simply do not believe it will work and it disheartens me to see you lower yourself. There is a difference.”

  “It will work, naysayer! Leave me now, before I lose my temper.”

  “Ere ye lose it?” Aubert muttered. “God’s teeth, but ye never had hold of it to begin with. I warrant, you could learn a thing or two from Adelaine, if ye had a mind to.”

  Chrestien hurled the silver helm, sending it flying in Aubert’s direction, and as
she intended, it landed away from him. She pointed at the helm. “If, in fact, I never had hold of my temper, you would have found that betwixt your teeth twenty minutes ago.” And, she assured, “I would not have missed.”

  Aubert walked over and bent to pick up the helm, smoothing his hand over the top of it, where it had dented. “Look what you’ve gone and done. Aside from mine, it was the only piece of armor that was remotely passable. I shall give you mine,” he said.

  “Nay, you will not. Yours is yours. What good will you be to me dressed inadequately?”

  “What good for me to be dressed adequately if my mistresses are both dead?”

  Aubert inspected the inside of the helm, pressing in vain against the dented metal.

  “Why should I look any different than the rest of my men?” Chrestien asked, but then frowned as she watched him worry and nipped at her bottom lip. “Can it be mended?”

  He gave her a sullen look. “Not before we leave. Ye shall simply have a crooked helm,” he informed her baldly. Then smiled and added, “To match your crooked head.”

  “Oh!” Chrestien exclaimed. “Go! Now! Find Adelaine and leave me be at last, or I swear you will be the end of my sanity.”

  He looked much as though he wanted to say more, but left her at last, although once his back faced her, his shoulders shook suspiciously.