Angel of Fire

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  The muscles in the back of his neck ached from too many hours of high tension, and he rubbed them now, closing his eyes. Disheartened, he lay his head back upon the wooden chair to focus on a vision of her in his mind. She oft came to him in his thoughts now—an angel bathed in heavenly light... with sultry dark eyes that penetrated him to the depths of his soul.

  Who could have guessed he would come to love her so much... only to lose her.

  But nay, he could not lose her! If it took the rest of his days, he would find her and bring her home. Leaning forward in the chair, he rested his elbows in his lap and buried his face in trembling hands.

  Could she truly have left him?

  He refused to believe her dead. He would feel it in his bones if she were.

  His men—your men killed my father! And I can never forgive you for that! Get off me,” she had demanded. “I hate you!”

  It was unseemly for a knight to cry, but silent scalding tears flowed from his eyes, and he had to will himself to remain composed.

  This was, by far, the worst Christ's Mass he had ever spent—worse than any he had known as a bastard in his father's home.

  And by God... never had he been driven to tears before now—never! And though he only allowed himself that brief private display, he stayed in that bent position for what seemed an eternity, with fingers tightly pressed against his weary eyes to keep them from betraying his emotions.

  I can never forgive you for that! I hate you!

  A guttural moan escaped him as he raised his head and irately cast the tankard to the wooden floor. He was drunk and his head was reeling, and he was angry with himself for giving in to the wine when Chrestien needed him.

  She was out there somewhere.

  He refused to believe she was dead. Refused.

  And he should be out there, still searching—not weeping in his cups! Damn it all to hell!

  Agitated, he ran tired hands over his thick growth of whiskers and his voice was a hoarse whisper. “Where have you gone, my love?”

  A sudden gust of wind puffed at his face, and he caught his breath like a babe surprised by his mother’s blow of breath.

  He lifted his head from his hands and what he saw at that moment, framed by the arched entrance of the stone staircase that led to the tower rooms... was his wife.

  For a moment he did not believe it.

  A handful of torches lit the room, but none were braced upon the stairwell walls. And yet he clearly saw the figure standing there, with golden tresses that glowed like the light of a dying flame.

  Chrestien.

  But not Chrestien.

  She looked straight at him, beckoning him without words and then she turned and made her way up the winding steps, just as she had the day of their argument.

  Weston closed his eyes, shaking his head, and when he again opened them again, she was gone. All that remained was a dark blur where the door should have been.

  Though he knew it was merely a vision conjured from his drunken stupor, he dared to hope.

  Calling to her, he stumbled from the seat, nearly tripping over the edge of the dais in his haste to reach her. She was not on the stairwell when he started his ascent and he shouted her name, letting the anguished cry echo before him. “Chrestien!”

  Her name reverberated throughout the keep, returning to him unanswered, and he flew up the stairs and through the antechamber, throwing open the door to her bower.

  She was not there.

  Aubert rushed in behind him, having heard his sister’s name, but the chamber was empty save for the two of them. Another rush of cold wind slipped by him, giving him an unmistakable chill.

  Somehow, he knew he must follow it. Blindly shoving past Aubert, he followed the winter chill, bolting for the narrow stairway once more. He made the climb to the donjon tower, taking the steps two at a time in his recklessness.

  The door to the tower chamber was wide open, but the room proved to be empty. There was barely anything in it—never had been. After all, he had not been able to ensconce her grandfather here. He hadn’t had the heart to do so. But the shutters were open to the night wind.

  Thick cobwebs filled every corner of the room. Unlike the rest of the keep, it was filthy from years left unattended, though oddly enough there was a spot on the floor that seemed to be swept clean, as though by someone's hand.

  For a moment, he saw a flash of someone, a glimmer of memory he did not possess. And then it dissipated.

  Once again Aubert came in behind him, his expression full of confusion. “My lord! Have ye gone utterly mad?”

  There was no insult intended, Weston knew.

  “Mayhap I have,” he confessed, raking a hand over his face. His jaw tightened with the admission and he swallowed convulsively. “I thought I saw her,” he said. “But I am drunk with longing.”

  Aubert’s eyes fell to the stone floor where a spot of red caught his attention. He went to it, lifting the tiny crimson amulet. As he turned it in his fingers, inspecting the painted rose in its middle, a memory was sparked. “The roses,” he whispered suddenly.

  Weston peered at him, confused.

  “Aye,” he said, “the tiny roses... they were scattered upon the ground the day she disappeared.”

  There was something in his eyes that gave Weston hope. With quivering hands he held the silver amulet out to Weston, offering it to him. “This was Adelaine’s... she oft came here to read—but the rose in this pendant... seeing it now brings to mind something I’ve been a dolt to overlook. At Montagneaux, Adelaine made mention of a tiny red rose... one that was brought home from the crusade by Rolfe—Aleth’s brother. He has her, Weston, for ’twas said that these tiny roses were not of a common variety and, remember, we saw the shattered pot not far from where we found her horse.”

  “Are you certain, Aubert?”

  “More certain with every passing second,” he said. “Before she left Montagneaux she made certain Aleth sent word to his brother... to bring the blood-red rose to plant beside the white. That was her wish for Adelaine.”

  A sudden blast of wind rushed by them both, slamming the wooden shutters in its wake and leaving the room in darkness. A chill swept down Weston’s spine.

  In the cold, utter darkness, Weston felt the truth. “Gather my men,” he said. “We ride for Poitiers tonight.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wrapping her arms around herself to ward away the chill, Chrestien tiptoed to peer out the high window. She heard voices—an odd thing for this nearly deserted keep. Curious, she clasped the stone sill and raised herself to peer below. Straining, she was able to catch a glimpse of people below before losing the strength to keep herself aloft.

  Jesu! What she wouldn’t give for a stool or something she could place below the windowsill in order to better see the happenings below.

  However, what did it truly matter? These were all his lackeys and none would help her anyway. Stamping away the bit of hope she'd felt, she dropped to the stone floor, and she retrieved the stitchery from beneath the bed, removing the needle. She might as well use it now before it grew dark again.

  Grimacing, she inspected her hands, frowning at the many tiny puncture marks. And then sighing, she discarded the needlepoint and lay back upon the cool floor and began to sing mournfully... a verse Janelle had taught her. It was an old piece often sung by the bards in Normandy. The tale was said to have come from Norway, and it told of a beautiful and gentle woman, with hair the color of midnight, eyes the color of the sea. She was the fair Genevieve of noble birth, cruelly cast aside by her family... merely for the fact that she at birth was bestowed with the gift of prophecy.

  Surprised by the sound of her singing, Rolfe climbed the tower steps.

  Opening the door slightly, he found her lying upon the cold, hard floor and he made a mental note to bring her a mat to cover the cold stone. He had no wish for her to take the ague. As it was, she was growing thinner by the day. But at least this moment she was singing. Did he dar
e hope he was winning her over?

  “Your song is lovely, Chrestien. Why don’t you move to the bed, where you’ll be warmer.”

  Startled, she bolted to her feet, like an animal startled. “I am fine! Who is here?” she asked, tilting him a questioning look. “I heard voices below.”

  He shook his head. “No one of consequence, I assure you.”

  Her hopes plummeted, despite that she’d not meant to raise them.

  Knowing he would keep his distance, she was no longer overly alarmed by his presence. He’d not attempted to touch her again since that first night, and strangely, it seemed he was wooing her, for he’d resorted to bringing her gifts.

  Entering the chamber fully, he proffered a closed hand, keeping the other behind his back. Chrestien merely stared. “What is it?” she asked more sharply than she’d intended.

  “Look see for yourself,” he urged, ignoring her suspicious tone.

  Warily, Chrestien obeyed. She placed her hand beneath his, taking care not to touch him, whereupon he dropped a cross into her palm. “It was my mother’s,” he said.

  When Chrestien looked puzzled, he explained. “I wish ye to have it.”

  “Nay! I cannot accept it!” She thrust it back at him, but he refused to take it.

  Bringing his other hand from its hiding place behind his back, he revealed a small basket filled with foodstuffs. And, dear God, as much as she would have liked to decline it, the odors of fine white bread and cheese accosted her nostrils and she knew she would not.

  He smiled, but to Chrestien, the sight of it was hideous. “That pleases ye—good!”

  It would do little good to deny it, she realized. And it would do naught but anger him, besides—in which case he might take the basket away and she was famished.

  The bouts of nausea had subsided, but Rolfe had not realized this and he had not brought her much food in the past few days. “Aye,” she answered quickly, taking the basket and seating herself upon the bed with it.

  “It does my heart good to see ye happy, Chrestien.”

  Happy?

  Chrestien peered up at him incredulously, but said naught. She stuffed another piece of cheese into her mouth and tried not to choke as she swallowed.

  He watched with a smile as she delved again into the basket of treats.

  Happy? Chrestien thought miserably. Nay, but she would not shout the denial this instant, not when he held her life—and death—in his hands. Not while she had a basket of food in her lap that tasted far better than anything she had ever eaten in all her life.

  Rolfe watched her.

  She had dropped the silver cross at her side, forgotten, much more taken with the food. Eying the cross, Rolfe reached for it, fingering it gently. “It was my mother’s,” he said again. “A gift from... my father.”

  His words bore a measure of pain and his face contorted like that of a young boy's fighting tears.

  Chrestien swallowed a bite of bread and peered up at him.

  Encouraged by her attention, he continued. “She prized this one gift he gave her above all else—she was mad, ye know.”

  “Mad?”

  “Aye. She died when I was but a youth,” he revealed.

  “How… terrible… for you… and for Aleth,” she sympathized.

  Rolfe's brows collided violently. “She was not Aleth’s mother!”

  Damn his infernal temper. She lifted up the basket as though to shield herself and, regretting his harsh tone at once, he amended, “I realize ye could not have known.”

  She continued to eat, listening without acknowledging him, and seeing that she had retreated behind her protective silence once again, he sought to bring her back to him. This was the very first discussion they’d ever had.

  Taking the cross and chain, he placed it about her neck, where the relic rested against the swell of her bosom, bringing his attention to her faded blue gown. He had only brought her two coarse wool gowns as of yet, but he would remedy that soon.

  She stared at the cross with a look of horror, frozen on the bed.

  “I shall have to purchase cloth for ye anon,” he said. “I have a girl skilled with the needle, but she’s never attempted anything so fine as to be worthy of a lady.” Noting that Chrestien seemed little interested, he attempted to engage her in conversation. “I see ye are better. Are ye not?”

  Still she didn’t respond. She was staring at the cross as though it burned her flesh where it lay but she was afraid to remove it lest it anger him.

  “There is a bit of sweet cake at the bottom... honey, too.”

  At that, she nodded, and finally looking away from the cross, she reached for the treat inside the basket, eyeing him warily through thick black lashes.

  “Is there anything ye need, Chrestien?”

  “Nothing,” Chrestien lied, her heart pounding madly.

  She shrugged her shoulders, the gesture belying the anger that was building yet again. She needed to go home. She needed Weston, the father of her child. She needed Janelle and Aubert, too!

  “Nothing,” he repeated. “Nothing at all?”

  Shrugging again, Chrestien let her mind wander aimlessly and her eyes focused upon the window. “Mayhap a chair... if you would,” she dared. “So I can sew by the window,” she added hastily, when she saw that his gaze had strayed to the open window.

  Knowing she could not very well escape from such a great height, Rolfe agreed. “Consider it done.”

  Apparently intending to get her the chair right away, he rose then, clasping Chrestien’s hand as he did. Raising it to his lips, he kissed it gently, frowning when she tore it from his grasp. “I shall return before long… with the chair,” he promised, and Chrestien nodded her head, not really caring one way or the other.

  He left her and somewhere outside her thoughts, a door closed softly. She was only vaguely aware that she was alone once more.

  Falling back upon the bed, she was suddenly very, very tired, and her eyes closed of their own accord.

  Why didn’t Weston come for her?

  Wearily, she drifted to sleep… where sweet dreams of her husband awaited her.

  * * *

  A cold December day brought a flurry of activity to the courtyard below. Christ's Mass come and gone? It seemed that those who had come—for whatever reason—were leaving now and she stared at them from the tower window, her heart racing painfully, trying to decide whether or not to call out. If they had come here to this meager place, they must be friends, not foes, although the fact that Rolfe would have any friends appalled her.

  Mayhap they were simply passing through, begging bed and breakfast from the lord of this keep? In such case, she might have some chance to convince them to call for help.

  It might be her only chance.

  Hoping someone would overhear her and come looking, she had taken to singing in the tower, but no one ever came. And now, it seemed they were leaving, taking with them her last hope for rescue.

  But if she shouted down to them and they did not hear her, Rolfe would punish her. He would take her chair. Leave her without food. Perhaps beat her. And now there was the babe to think about. In the end, she decided she could not risk it and when they rode out from the bailey, she watched them with tears frozen in her eyes.

  Later, when she asked Rolfe about his guests, he told her they were his men at arms returning to Montagneaux to keep the Christ’s vigil with their families. Apparently, his brother had sent men with news and an invitation for Rolfe to join them.

  At least she knew that the Christ vigil was still to come and she dared to hope that one of the men might have learned of her plight and that he would tell Aleth.

  But then another thought came to her and she despaired: What if Aleth already knew and did not care? What if he had put on his best face for Adelaine and he was as treacherous as his brother? She had not liked him overmuch when she'd first met him, but reasoned it was because he had dismissed her so quickly. Still, he had been kind to Adelaine and she
knew sincerity when she spied it. Nay, he had loved her sister truly. She prayed someone would tell him about his brother.

  Several coffers filled with new clothing were strewn about—most of which she’d not even inspected for she lacked interest. Who would she dress for? Rolfe? Not even for his funeral! She couldn’t abide the thought.

  To warm the room, he had placed beautiful ornate tapestries upon the walls: one depicting the betrayal of Christ by Judas; another, the halo-enshrined Virgin Mary holding her blessed son. A third tapestry, depicting a scene of battle, was strewn upon the floor to prevent the cold from seeping through the cold stone. It seemed every day he brought something new in an attempt to please her.

  Alas, the days passed more quickly now, but the nights were long and she passed them in cold misery. At first her dreams of Weston had been pleasant and left her longing sorely for his gentle touch. But of late, they did naught but leave her confused and frightened.

  Most of the dreams she could not recall in detail, but one in particular haunted her days as well as her nights. Deep in slumber, her body would respond to her lover’s touch. Weston’s arms were so strong and safe. Then she would look into his face and would find Rolfe holding her instead. Screaming, she would run until she could run no longer, and in her panic she would trip into a pit. Only it was no pit—instead, she found herself in a common grave along with Adelaine, her father, and her unborn child. Anguished screams echoed within her ears and she tried to shut them out. Awaking, she covered her ears and cried uncontrollably, and would see again Adelaine’s bloodied face as it appeared when Chrestien had found her amid the crumpled autumn leaves, bloodless and still.

  Again, tonight, she had the dream.

  A hoarse whisper from across the room startled her and she focused to find Rolfe sitting upon the chair by the window, staring at her through the darkness. She cringed at the discovery, for though he never touched her, his gaze made her feel ravaged nonetheless.