Aided by Janelle, Chrestien stumbled up the stone stairs to her bower. Janelle was as silent as the grave until Chrestien was nestled into her bed sheets. Then she squawked at the top of her lungs—saying who knows what, because Chrestien was not listening.
Her thoughts were centered on the Wolf.
She still hated him of course and it made her feel delightfully wicked to know she’d been the cause of his distress and his departure—she knew it in her bones, even if Michel had not admitted as much. Still, she loathed that he had found her so disgusting to look upon that he would need to leave Lontaine to avoid seeing her altogether.
The wine made her feel warm and tingly, and she thought about his lips. They were much too full for a man. His dark hair, with its silver flecks, wild and unkempt, made him look so very dangerous—as did everything else about him. His face was unmistakably handsome... so masculine—not like Michel with his pale and youthful looks. Nay, there was naught about the Wolf that was effeminate, she mused.
Her lids closed sleepily as she pictured his well-defined face—a powerful jaw shaded with the growth of his whiskers... and his deep-set, blue eyes. And there back in the tent… his powerful form—those rock solid muscles in his thighs. Aye, she hated him for certain, she decided and drifted into sleep, grateful for the comfort of her nice, soft bed.
* * *
Weston awoke before Montagneaux’s bells sounded Prime.
De Montagneaux sent a greeting party of six fully armed knights to escort him into Montagneaux’s gates. They were no match for Weston’s fifteen, but then Weston had not come to do battle, so he’d followed the six as was requested.
Inside, de Montagneaux greeted him with some measure of reserve, and only after Weston stated the purpose for his unexpected visit did he relax, laying every luxury at his feet—including the honor of being bathed by his ladywife, whom Weston now awaited.
The servants had led him to a private chamber in which a very ornate wooden tub graced the center. While he waited, he studied the entwined nude figures that lined the rim of the tub. But as he studied them, he thought he saw the likeness of the vixen’s face carved into the delicate woodwork. He shook the ludicrous thought from his mind and gave his attention to the room, which was to be his until he departed Montagneaux.
The massive wooden bed occupying the left corner of the room bore a feather mattress that was inches thick. A very large, over-embellished, oaken hearth covered the wall he faced and an assortment of trunks lined the right wall. The only door was at his back—a position he did not feel comfortable with—so he raised himself onto his haunches and turned about to face the door, just as it opened to reveal a young woman.
At first, he mistrusted his eyes.
Then he cursed himself for the vision.
He could not have forgotten that face so soon and was angry with himself for allowing the vixen to supplant herself in his thoughts so much that he would see her apparition in his dreams... in his thoughts... in the carving on his tub, and now in the woman who had come to bathe him. The vision spoke in greeting, and in doing so, he was assured he was not seeing ghosts. And instead of being angry with himself, he was angry with her—how the hell had she followed him all the way to Montagneaux?
He watched as the she approached the tub in her rich finery, her head covered with a couvrechef of white linen—no doubt to hide her short, ugly crop of hair.
“I see you have discovered your way here,” he said angrily, though the woman managed to smile sweetly nonetheless. Unfortunately, that did nothing to temper his anger, for after the way she had behaved, her docile demeanor did naught but make him mistrust her further. If he turned his back on her, would he find a knife in it?
Adelaine was appalled by the man’s rudeness.
She’d come as soon as she was informed of her duty to bathe this guest of Aleth’s—this emissary of Henry’s. She had already resolved to put aside her enmity, but she was more than confused by his rancorous manner. And yet if her husband liked him, she reasoned, she must try to overlook his surliness. In silence, she lifted up a rag along with the rancid-smelling soap at the foot of the tub, and carefully bathed the Wolf’s back. He allowed it, but sat stiffly before her, eyeing her malevolently.
What, by God, had she done to deserve such a vicious gaze?
It occurred to her that though he would be clean, he would soon stink of lye, and that was an odor more foul than the man’s temper was sour. But it was no more than he deserved. Smiling to herself, she resolved that as soon as Janelle arrived from Lontaine, she would have her sweet rose-scented soap—luckily, too late to waste any of it on such a surly beast as this. She was quite pleased that Aleth had agreed to let her bring Janelle and Aubert to his household—her home, as he had told her oft enough by now. She missed Janelle as much as she missed Chrestien, and because Chrestien would have no need for Janelle at the abbey, she would not feel guilty about taking them from Lontaine. In fact, Aleth had sent his men to Lontaine to collect them early this morn, and it was then they had come upon the camp of Henry’s Wolf.
Of course, Aleth was rightfully suspicious that the Wolf and fifteen well-armed knights had ridden onto Montagneaux’s parklands. That was one thing she loved about her husband. He treated her with respect, confiding in her openly. He had been honest with Adelaine in that he was fearful of Henry. He had even confessed that he’d not gone to battle because he had known in his heart that Henry would win. And yet despite that, he had loved her father so well that he had sent fifty of his own men to ride without banners alongside her father against Henry of England. But that they could not tell Henry's Wolf.
But Adelaine knew Aleth was not a craven man—had seen the proof of it herself. Though he would take no chances where his lands were concerned, Aleth hoped to gain some favor with Henry by treating his favored knight with high regard. Hence, she was sent to bathe this rude creature.
“It seems the cat has got your tongue!”
Adelaine blinked at him.
“At least tell me your name so I may greet the devil’s wife.”
Adelaine had had enough. She stood, arms akimbo, staring down at the man. “Now you hear me well, sir,” she retorted, waving the wet rag dangerously close to his face. “I will listen to you abuse me, but never will I allow you to speak ill of my lord husband! One more remark and I shall—”
All of a sudden, he surged from the tub and seized her, tossing her into the tub backside first. A rush of water cascaded down Adelaine’s head as she emerged from the stinking water. Tears sprung to her eyes as she watched Weston’s nude form stalk from the chamber and into the hall—completely unashamed to be seen in his nakedness.
His voice reverberated throughout the hall, sending a chill down Adelaine’s spine. He roared Aleth’s name again and again. Soon, her husband was in the room.
Aleth gasped at the sight of her in the tub and his look turned thunderous. “What the hell is going on here, FitzStephen?”
Chapter Eight
Weston was too angry to notice Aleth’s murderous glare. “You dare send this wench to bathe me!”
“You dare question my wife’s position in my home?”
Weston’s surprise was apparent in his tone. “Your wife?”
“Aye, FitzStephen, you’ve seen fit to toss my wife into your bathwater! I told ye ’twas she I’d send to bathe you!”
Weston stared dumbly at the girl in the tub. She remained in her awkward repose until Aleth swept in and lifted her into his arms. Looking far less like a warrior and more like a nursemaid, he crooned softly into her wet head as he carried her to a stool. Gently, he removed the sopping couvrechef from her head, letting her wet mane drop to her waist. Once her hair was revealed, Weston could only stare stupidly at the shivering, wet girl seated upon the stool before him.
In retrospect, there was no way the little harridan he had left at Lontaine would have weathered this so meekly, he realized.
Aleth was in the process of drying his wi
fe’s trembling form when Weston spoke again. Noting the length of her hair, he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that she was not the same woman, but she was the spitting image of the vixen he had left at Lontaine. He stumbled for an excuse. “Pardon, my lady… I have only just come from Lontaine—”
Aleth's wife bounded from the stool. “You have seen my sister, Chrestien? But nay! She was to go to Caen when she left here!”
Her husband's expression shifted from surprise to anger. “What say ye, wife? Do ye tell me that scrawny cousin of yours was in truth your sister?”
The lady started to sob at the angry glare her husband gave her. “Please, my dear husband, accept my apology. Did I know you would be so kind, I’d never have agreed to such a ruse.”
Her explanation seemed to appease Aleth, for his look quickly softened. He drew her into his arms and she dried her eyes, then added, “Please forgive me, Aleth… my father never truly behested you and I marry as I have led you to believe. I know he favored you, but it was Chrestien who decided I should come to you—”
“Enough.” Aleth said. “I owe your sister a great debt.” She hugged him fiercely and he returned her affection. “In truth, if I am angry over aught ’tis simply because Gilbert never revealed he had twin daughters. I believed there was trust between us, but it appears not.” He swallowed and said, “When I was a boy… your father risked much to protect me when no others were inclined to as Montagneaux and all its lands were usurped by men who were loyal to England.”
“I did not know,” Lady Adelaine said, peering up at him. “Papa never said.”
Aleth nodded solemnly. “Aye… when my father was murdered, it was Gilbert who sheltered me until I was of an age to defend my estates.”
Weston felt as though he were intruding upon the moment, but he remained quiet, hoping to discover what sort of man would swear fealty to Curthose and yet play him false by withholding support when he needed it most. If he had believed Curthose to be the rightful heir, what had made him side with Henry in the final hour?
Aleth brushed the damp hair from her face and gazed at her lovingly. “In truth, it was for Gilbert I originally agreed to our betrothal, but I have no regrets. And now it all seems so clear—all those times your father refused to allow me to travel the distance to Lontaine. Always he came to Montagneaux instead... it seems he did not trust even me with his lovely daughters.”
“Oh, but Aleth! He did trust you!” the lady argued. “I believe Papa was so afraid for Chrestien that he kept it even from you. Even so, there were times I believe he wanted you to know the truth.”
Aleth knitted his brows in puzzlement, and his wife giggled softly. “Do you recall the time he invited you to Lontaine ten years past?” He nodded and she giggled again. “Well, at supper you shared a trencher with both Chrestien and with me... but you did not realize. It seems we were much too young to gain your notice, but you suspected naught and when I excused myself and Chrestien returned in my place, I watched from behind the screen while Chrestien stuffed herself silly... and all you could say about her overindulgence was that she’d eaten enough for two. Oh, how Papa had laughed! Remember?”
Aleth was smiling now. “Aye,” he said gruffly, “If I recall aright, he spilled his wine upon the ermine of my mantle.”
“He did!” his wife affirmed, her voice far more gentle than her sister's. “You jumped from the table and ran toward me, of all places! Oh, you should have seen me run.” She laughed. “Poor Janelle thought I’d lost my head.”
Gently, Aleth plucked a honey lock of wet hair from his wife's face and placed a chaste kiss upon her forehead.
She smiled, and to Weston, it was a smile that was purely ethereal. Of a sudden, he longed to know if her sister could produce such a treasure.
In an almost musical tone, the lady giggled and said, “My lord husband, did you not wonder why I refused to allow my cousin to undress you at the bedding?”
Aleth furrowed his brow, then let out a yelp of laughter. He hugged his wife abruptly and then turned to Weston, apologetically, because he’d clearly forgotten Weston was standing in the room. “Please, join us to sup, FitzStephen. My ladywife has planned a most sumptuous feast in your honor.” He tilted a meaningful look at Weston. “Although please be certain to don something a little less revealing.” You would have my serving maids spilling their trays at the sight of that monstrosity!”
As though only recalling Weston’s nudity, his wife's eyes widened suddenly, and then instantly red-faced, she made apologies and flew from the chamber without looking at him again.
“The lady Adelaine is quite a gentle soul,” Aleth provided.
Weston nodded, but he couldn’t help but recall how her sister had ogled him in his tent, and it only served to highlight the disparity in these two sisters.
The two men shared a look and a laugh, and Aleth whacked Weston on the back. “‘Tis amusing, is it not? That she would bathe you without chagrin. And yet at any other time she would swoon with mortification to see your one-eyed monster?”
“Indeed.” Weston said. “Though of course, ’tis the way it should be.”
He couldn't help but consider whether he would allow the girl’s termagant sister to bathe the male guests in his home, and the thought of it soured his belly—although the very notion of wedding the little harridan both startled him and appealed to him at once.
To banish the turn of his thoughts he said, “You should be thankful you didn’t wed the sister. They share the same look, but they indubitably do not share the same disposition.”
De Montagneaux laughed again before leaving Weston to dress, but once introduced his thoughts refused to be banished.
Curse the little shrew!
* * *
The Lady Adelaine's feast was sumptuous, indeed.
Aleth had not spared the sparrow for the elegant spread. It had been overlong since Weston had sampled such a culinary delight, regardless that he’d spent so much time at Henry’s court. Usually, by the time the food was offered to the lower tables, the choicest meats were gone. And even the wine, though a tad gritty, was of far better quality than that at court. Throughout the meal, Weston watched as Aleth tossed love glances at the Lady Adelaine—glances to which she would shyly duck her head.
What difference there was between these two sisters, he contemplated. And there was something else about the identical faces that was not the same as well—though he could not quite place the difference as yet.
Adelaine’s hair was the same golden color, albeit much longer. But it was the meekness of the woman that seemed to change her entire appearance. That he did not feel drawn to this one as he had to the other confused him beyond measure.
For the thousandth time he thought of the girl lying within the tub at Lontaine, the creamy flesh of her bosom jutting up above the soapy water, and the image again tightened his loins and sent a surge of hot, demanding need pulsing through him.
When was the last time he had craved a body so?
When was the last time he had yearned to stare into a comely face?
“My lord, now that you know.... what will you do regarding my sister?”
Lady Adelaine’s sweet voice brought Weston away from his lusty thoughts.
“Lady Chrestien?” The name rolled from his tongue, and he savored the sound of it. “I have not decided.” He lifted a portion of mutton to his lips, considering the possibilities. Certainly Henry would find use for her? But the thought of simply handing her over to the King's will left a sour taste in his mouth. And yet, she was not his problem to worry over. Whatever Henry decided it would be his duty to see it done.
Lady Adelaine's voice was hesitant. “My sister would be—we would be—quite grateful did you escort her to the abbey at La Trinite.”
Weston blinked. “Abbey?” he asked incredulously. “That woman does not belong in an abbey!” It was a waste of a good woman—not to mention that her disposition was entirely unsuited for Holy Church. That he would have no part
of, for there was no penance he could undertake that would save him from the wrath of God himself. But he no sooner said the words when he regretted them. Everyone within the hall was attending now, and he could see tears forming in Lady Adelaine’s eyes.
“But, my lord,” she wailed. “It was my father’s wish that my sister enter the convent upon his death—Chrestien's as well!” she added. “It was her destination when she departed Montagneaux!”
Weston's gut turned even as he proposed the notion. “’Tis likely Henry would welcome her as his ward,” he assured her. “She would be well provided for until he can find her a fitting husband.” He set down his fork, his appetite gone.
“Oh, but nay! My dear Papa—rest his soul.” Lady Adelaine crossed herself before continuing. “He knew my sister would not make a good and obedient wife, my lord. Were she to fall into the hands of a cruel man...” Lady Adelaine ceased speaking and lowered her head to wipe away tears. “I cannot think of it,” she declared.
Weston had no doubt she spoke the truth. He’d seen women as meek as the Lady Adelaine herself beaten for far less than he’d already witnessed in her hellcat of a sister.
Aleth’s elder brother Rolfe inquired as he fingered the healing gash on his cheek, “Which abbey did you say? I am certain something could be arranged.”
Lady Adelaine smiled gratefully at him. “La Trinite... in Caen, la place de la Reine Mathilde.”
Weston was not about to be engaged in a heated discussion concerning her sister’s welfare—particularly when he had witnessed firsthand how ill fitting the role of ladywife was to a such a paragon of hellfire. The subject soured his belly and Rolfe earned his ire for merely offering his aid—why that should be, confused him. The harridan was not his concern. “I shall tell you what I’d do, Lady Adelaine. I will send word to Henry of your father’s behest. Despite what has been told to Curthose’s liegemen, Henry is a fair man. Does he agree to honor the request, then I myself will escort your sister to Caen. Agreed?”
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