Weston’s brows knit, recalling Aleth’s expression when his men had shown him the shield they’d discovered. It was unfortunate that Roland had come into the hall when he had. So blinded by rage had Aleth been at the time that he’d not even allowed the man to utter his defenses.
Afterward, Aleth had seemed strangely removed from it all, but had proffered no explanation for his rashness, save to say that he’d always known there were doubts. That statement in itself had offered little in the way of enlightenment, but it was only with Chrestien’s accounting that some light was shed on the matter. It seemed to Weston that the captain must have blamed Aleth for his daughter’s death. But to Weston’s way of thought, the blaming alone was no crime, and there would be more to the tale, or Aleth would not have given him le coup de grace so easily.
Even more puzzling, was that Aleth did not seem the type to judge so quickly and unjustly. And to not allow a man his defense was indeed unjust. What more had passed between them to seal the man’s fate? That was a question to ponder further. And somehow, he knew that whoever was responsible for the maid’s disappearance, was also responsible for Chrestien’s ambush. If, in fact, le Blanc was responsible, then they had nothing more to worry over... and yet, his gut niggled him nonetheless.
Chrestien rose from the bed. Going to the window, she unlatched the shutters. In her nightgown, she stood watching the sunrise from the open window. The morning still held the night’s cold bite in its mist.
As he lay in the bed, his arms linked behind his head, considering all that he had learned, he thought he’d never seen a more fetching sight as his wife. Her hair was set afire by the sun’s soft glow, and with her white linen chainse blowing gently in the morning breeze she looked like an angel from his dreams.
The ache in his groin assured him he was not dreaming and he rose from the bed to retrieve his temptress of a wife. Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her back to the bed.
Chrestien opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a long hard kiss. His lips crushed hers with the fervor of his need. When her arms came about his neck of their own accord, he demanded, “Tell me you love me, Chrestien... that you want only me.”
“I want only you,” she swore. He growled in satisfaction and bent to kiss her mouth in that slow rhythmic manner that foretold of other pleasures to come...
Chapter Fifteen
“Why did you not tell me?” Chrestien asked.
Clearly Janelle knew what it was she was asking about, for she relented at once. “It was your father’s wish. He feared you would believe he had dishonored your mother’s memory... and I was but a lowly maid.”
Chrestien went to the dressing table, picking up a silver comb. She raked it carefully through her tangled, damp hair. “My hair has grown,” she said absently, uncertain what next to say. But she dared to ask, “You loved Papa... did you not?”
“Aye,” Janelle replied without hesitation, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Please do not judge me for it, Chrestien. I loved him dearly.”
Chrestien reached out, entreating Janelle into her arms. “You were as a mother to me always. My only regret is that Adelaine did not know as well. It would have been wonderful to have shared this with her.”
Janelle mopped her soft brown eyes with pudgy fingertips and took Chrestien’s hand in her own. “Your heart is good and true, Chrestien.”
Tears welled in Chrestien’s eyes. “Not so good and true as my sister’s. I shall miss her gentleness in my life,” she confessed. “She was my other half, Janelle. She was what I could never be. Whatever I lacked, she possessed.”
Janelle gazed at her with loving eyes. “That may be so, child. But all is not lost, for God has given ye another to love. Though it may not be quite the same, you must now place your heart in your husband’s hands.”
Chrestien nodded, for better or worse, she had already done so.
Janelle tilted her a worried look. “Go and ready yourself,” she said. “And be strong now, my child. A messenger has come to herald King Henry’s approach.”
* * *
Why would King Henry bother with Lontaine?
Even as she asked herself the question, Chrestien recalled who her husband was—the king’s favored Silver Wolf. Somehow, she no longer saw him as the much feared, ruthless warrior. But he was, nevertheless.
Recalling the day she’d met him, she confessed had to own that she had not had these same thoughts. His eyes had been violent blue flames—dark, smoldering blue and a shudder passed through her as she thought of him in that manner—another thing to dislike King Henry for—for turning her husband into a bloody butcher.
In but a short time, she would be obliged to make the odious man welcome in her father’s home. How ironic it was that the very person who had caused her father’s death was now to be entertained and wooed in her father’s beloved hall! Even more odious yet was the fact that Weston would give his suzerain the best chamber Lontaine had to offer for his king's use—her father’s chamber—for that was the way of things. “Oh Papa,” she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
More than ever before, she needed her sister now, but that was never again to be. There was no way Weston could possibly comprehend how this would make her feel, but she sought him anyway, hoping to make him understand.
* * *
“The walls are, indeed, well kept,” Weston agreed.
Aubert seemed proud to accept the praise for his father and continued to crow over Gilbert’s resourcefulness. “Gilbert was quite particular, as I’ve said. The castle is modest but well protected.” He pointed into the horizon, sweeping his hand to denote all of the parklands. “If you will note, there are no trees within a furlong of the curtain wall... and the keep also rises to a height so as to make it easy to utilize the tower arrow slits safely—’twill not endanger our men below in armed battle. Nor will we lose countless arrows to trees that shield the enemy.”
“Wise man,” Weston agreed, although if the fortress were his own, he would have built a double curtain wall, much like the one Aleth employed. The outer would be shorter, sitting well below the inner wall, which he would build to a goodly thirty feet or more, thereby giving him double the protection against intruders.
“Of course, the moat is dry now, but only because ’twas emptied for cleaning just before...” He eyed Weston circumspectly and then added, “Well, before Tinchebrai. Gilbert left it so for lack of time and rain to refill it.”
“Did he not worry about those who would take advantage during his absence?”
“Immensely,” Aubert admitted. “But there was no help for it. Curthose demanded he raise and make use of all his levies and it took some time to round up those who would openly defend the duke against Henry. As you know, not even Aleth would do so openly. Still, Gilbert was not taken lightly as an adversary and there were not many in these parts ready to oppose him—particularly with de Montagneaux as his ally. At any rate, this stronghold does not have the highest reputation.”
Weston eyed him curiously. “What do you mean?”
Aubert shrugged. “Some have said 'tis haunted.”
Weston had heard and dismissed the story. That anyone would credit the tale was beyond his comprehension. “Surely Gilbert did not encourage such a fantasy?”
Aubert grinned. “Why not? It served him well enough for others to believe it. If he could keep away unwanted suitors for his daughter.” Aubert tilted him a curious look. ‘So you know the tale?” He peered up at the brooding turret above them.
“I heard his young wife died in that tower.”
Aubert nodded. “In truth, that chamber has not been occupied since her death, but only because the memories were too painful for Gilbert. ’Tis as simple as that. But some have said they have seen her spirit wandering the donjon halls. Gilbert never dissuaded the rumors. But whether it was simply to keep people out of the tower, or to keep the superstitious away from Lontaine, I cannot say.”
Weston knew Henry would wan
t a full report and he intended to explore the tower as soon as they left off inspecting the walls. Lontaine was a small keep, but its condition was pristine. Henry would be pleased. Someone in Henry’s good favor would be quite pleased with the grant of this estate.
The tower itself was one of the tallest structures he’d ever beheld outside the royal holdings. If there was time before Henry’s arrival, perhaps he would have the tower chamber prepared so that Henry could enjoy the view of Lontaine’s parklands from his chamber. If not, he’d place the King in the lord’s chamber, as was fitting.
* * *
Chrestien found Weston in the bailey with Aubert, newly arrived from a ride.
Sensing her distress, Aubert eyed her circumspectly and fled, and that only managed to nettle her all the more.
Certainly, she hadn’t intended to give Weston ultimatums, but the simple fact that he would not see reason—nor would he even consider her concerns—lit her temper afire.
“Nay!” she insisted. “You will not ensconce your King in that tower!”
His jaw was set taut, unrelenting. “On the contrary, I will! Why should you care when no one has used that chamber save spiders and rats?”
Chrestien couldn’t seem to make him understand. That room was empty for a reason. Her mother had taken her last breath in there. Adelaine had kept it sacred. If anyone ever entered that room it was done reverently. But to place the very man responsible for her father’s death seemed the utmost disrespect to both her parents.
She crossed her arms, unaccustomed to being told what to do in her own home. “Well, I will not allow it!”
A dark challenging brow lifted to frame incredulous blue eyes. “You will not allow it?”
Chrestien merely glared at him. He advanced a pace and she set her arms at her sides, feeling suddenly ill at ease.
“You have no choice in the matter,” he said. “Lontaine is no longer yours to command,” he said evenly. “It belongs to England and to Henry and very soon to someone of Henry’s choosing.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. Lord, but it was enough that she had lost her father and then her sister. Now she would lose her home as well—the very place she had taken her first breath and her mother had taken her last. She had resigned herself to this loss but only when she’d thought her father’s holdings would go to Adelaine and to Aleth. She could scarce bare the thought of strangers sleeping in her mother’s bower. Not even her father had dared to occupy that room after her death and Chrestien knew full well it was also why he hadn’t abandoned Lontaine for its sister keep, despite that the other was larger and far more modern. The memories here were too precious to abandon.
Weston's head fell back, as though he were trying to compose his temper. “Very well,” he relented. “If not in the tower, where would you have Henry sleep?”
The choices were all unbearable! She thought about it and no good answer came to her. She didn’t think about what she was about to say and probably wouldn’t have if her heart didn’t feel near to breaking. “Let him sleep with you!” she announced and turned to flee into the hall before she could disgrace herself with tears.
He followed her into the hall and Chrestien fled up the stairs.
To her dismay, he followed behind her as she made her way up the winding steps. Chrestien ran faster. Halfway up he overtook her and swept her into his arms, carrying her down. “Release me!” she demanded, mortified by her tears.
He said nothing and without a word, he carried her to his chamber—her father’s chamber—kicking open the door and tossing her backside first upon the bed.
“This is where you sleep now,” he charged. “You belong with me, Chrestien. Never forget it! When you retire for the eve, ’tis here you will come. When I bid you go to your room... ’tis here you will come. As for Henry, I will give him the honor due him as my sovereign—and as yours! Do you understand?”
Chrestien’s chin lifted in defiance and she leapt to her feet, standing upon the bed, furious over his treatment. He could not simply lift her and throw her as though she were a pile of manure on a spade! This was her home!
Her hand went to her hips. “Aye, my lord, I ken perfectly well! And shall you bid me to go to my room when your king is in residence? Surely you will, for you’ve shown me that I am no more to you than so much chattel—that you can do with me as you will—including shame me to your suzerain.” Tears ran down her cheeks and she swiped them angrily away. “Is that not so? Surely it is, my lord. Surely, I mean naught to you!”
When he didn’t respond, she shouted. “I don’t want to be your wife!”
He suddenly lunged at her, finding only air where her feet were supposed to be. In her attempt to avoid him, she fell to the floor, taking most of the impact on her backside. But he pounced again, shocking the air from her lungs as he landed atop her.
When she recovered her senses, Weston was hovering scant inches from her face. She bucked, trying to dislodge him and found herself trapped.
“You are my wife and I will never let you go!” he swore.
Chrestien waited to hear him say that he loved her.
That he needed her.
That he wanted her.
Tears sprang to her eyes. “You cannot allow your king to sleep in my mother’s chamber,” she said desperately. “Nor for that matter my father’s!”
His gaze softened. “’Twould be an insult not to allow it, Chrestien… but if you truly do not wish him to use the tower chamber, I will relinquish this one to him. He will sleep here and I’ll not hear another word of it. He is our King.”
“Your king—not mine—I will not cater to his every wish. His men—your men killed my father! And I can never forgive you for that! Get off me,” she demanded.
The anger in his eyes faded completely and he looked suddenly defeated, but still he said nothing of love. Chrestien’s heart wrenched. When he released her at last, she fled from the chamber, up the stone steps, but she didn’t stop at her bower. Instead, she continued to the tower chamber and threw open the door.
The chamber was dark and Chrestien unlatched the shutters to allow light to enter, revealing the utter emptiness of the room. The furniture remained, but the bed was bare. It had been so long since even Adelaine had used it that dust at least a half-inch thick had gathered upon the floor and cobwebs covered the high nooks. Wiping a place at her feet with her skirts, she sat and contemplated her situation.
Aye, she blamed Henry of England for her father’s death. Very likely, she always would, but there were too many men at Tinchebrai for her to believe Weston had been the one to thrust that sword into her father’s breast. In truth, her father had chosen to defend the Duke and his death was a consequence of his actions—the same consequence Weston risked every time he raised his own sword.
But forsooth, she had not even given her father a proper burial and it pained her that he might have found himself strewn in some common grave, buried with a thousand other faceless men. Where was his body? Where were his bones? He deserved better than to be cast into a hole like a leper into a pit.
Her eyes blurred, and she swiped at the wetness streaming down her cheek.
But she realized Weston was right. He could make no other choice—just as her father could not have made another choice. Just as she had not made another choice when she and Adelaine had faced an uncertain future.
And now Adelaine was gone.
That was her consequence.
Though, thankfully, Adelaine had not suffered.
Her eyes stung again with tears. It was too much to bear, but she didn’t mean any of what she had said to her husband.
Once Henry took his leave, she would make it up to him—she would show him how false her words were, that she did truly love him. She wasn’t quite certain when she had realized that fact, only that she did. “Oh, Adelaine,” she whispered brokenly. “What am I to do without you?”
The light from the window illuminated the majority of the room, but where the shutters caug
ht the rays of sun a shadow was cast upon the wooden floor. Her fingers drew circles in the dust and to her surprise, she discovered a silver chain. Pulling it from the filth, she found a crimson amulet adorned with an ivory rose, and a smile turned her lips.
It was Adelaine’s… a message from her dear sister. Indeed, she thought mayhap the tower chamber was haunted after all.
Dropping the amulet so that it remained undisturbed, she rose from the floor, brushed the dust from her skirts and went to find Janelle and Eauda. Between them they would set the place to rights and Weston’s king would want for naught.
Chapter Sixteen
From the ramparts, the king’s armor winked under the bright afternoon sun. His royal banner soared from silver-tipped lances, their metallic points glittering fiercely. Helms and shields trimmed in gold joined the dance of sun-fires and when the cavalcade neared enough, the sound of metal could be heard as a song to a warrior’s ear.
But although his army was stunning in all its grandeur, no plainer man in dress could be known than the Conqueror's youngest son. For all the riches he had available to him, Henry preferred the plainest garb. While the material of his garments could certainly be described as rich or fine, he chose not to adorn them in a gaudy way. So when a man of large stature, with black hair cut straight across his forehead in the Norman fashion, dismounted and came to Weston’s side, onlookers might never have guessed he was the king himself. But as he spoke in greeting, his regal bearing was evident in his words, carefully weighed and articulated with grace. Half out of fear, half out of respect, the villein quit the bailey and went about their chores.
It was clear by the smile on Henry’s face, and that on Weston’s, that there was great affection between the two men. Henry swatted Weston’s back. “It has been overlong, my friend.”
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