A servant filled his cup with wine, placed a trencher of food before him and stepped away quickly, another sign of his putrid condition. Christian did not care—the food before him was the first like it in over two months and he would not be driven off by their sensitive noses. Startled by a young boy’s sudden appearance at his side, he sat dumbfounded until the boy lifted the laver of water closer to him.
Table manners were not required in the dungeon and he’d grown out of practice with even the simplest. After a hesitation, he dipped his hands into the scented water and took the drying cloth from the page. Humiliated even more by the filth he left behind in the bowl and on the towel, Christian turned his attention back to the food in front of him. Before a morsel passed his lips, he looked once more at his clothes for a way to wrap some of this food and take it back to Geoff. A chunk of bread and cheese would go quite far in their present situation, especially if he ate now and then did not need to share in what he took back with him.
Desperation filled him and his hands shook as he reached for the bread. Tearing off a piece, he lifted it to his mouth. Closing his eyes he savored the crisp crust and soft, chewy inside of the loaf. Too long, much too long since food of this quality had passed his lips.
“I have only seen such reverence for a piece of bread when it is consecrated in Communion. What do you think, Ely?” Richard’s mocking continued from his place at the center of the table.
The Bishop of Ely, Richard’s embattled chancellor, murmured words Christian could not and did not want to hear in response and the others laughed out their agreement. Refusing to look into their jeering faces, he swallowed the bread and reached for his cup. The bread sat as a lump in his throat and would not move. Only a mouthful of the wine helped it pass.
The pain in his gut was not only from his long hunger, but also from the realization that just a few short months ago, he would have gleefully participated in this game. And he would not have felt a moment of shame or compunction in taking part in shaming someone less in the royal favor. Many lessons had been brought home to him during his imprisonment and none of them had been easy to learn.
His hands shook less as he reached for another piece of bread. He chewed slowly, both to enjoy the taste and feel of the food and to keep his stomach from clenching while eating too fast. He fought a battle within himself not to grab and shovel the food into his mouth as he wanted and needed to do. Knowing that acting as the disgusting prisoner he now was would simply give those around him more to mock, he held himself under an iron band of willpower and forced his hand to take but one piece at a time. He would show them the dignity of the Dumonts of Langier.
A few minutes later, Richard signaled the end of the meal and, with a wave of his hand, dismissed their company from the table. Panicking, since he’d been unable to hide and save any of it for Geoffrey, Christian searched his shirt for a pocket or someplace that would hold a hidden cache of bread and cheese.
“Guillaume? Since the count was so lately called to table, make certain that his plate is delivered to his cell.”
The man standing at Richard’s elbow nodded and stepped toward him. Lifting the trencher from the table, the servant piled the small loaves of bread and cheese on top.
“And Guillaume? Make certain that it is delivered there immediately and as it is.”
Richard mocked even in his generosity. Christian would get on his knees and kiss Richard’s hands and feet if that was what it took to get this food to Geoffrey. The servant covered the food with a large linen napkin and carried it from the room. In another moment, he was alone with the king. Now he would discover the reason for this summons, and he knew that generosity had nothing to do with it.
Richard stood and walked to the end of the table where he still sat. Christian started to rise, but Richard motioned with his hand for him to stay seated. He did so. Feeling a growing sense of dread, he reached for his cup of wine and drank it down in several mouthfuls. He sat in shocked silence as Richard lifted a pitcher and refilled his drink and then sat down on a bench next to the one where he sat.
“Your father is dead and your lands and fortune are in my control,” Richard began. “Only you and your brother remain, and it will take only a lack of action on my part to see to the end of the Dumont family forever.”
Christian could do nothing but nod in agreement at the king’s words. He knew how precarious his and Geoff’s situation was; this was simply a reminder from Richard about who held the power.
“I find that I am in need of a service that you are suited to provide.”
“A service, sire?” Christian fought to stifle even the smallest of hopes at Richard’s words.
“Aye, my mother has asked that I send you to her in England so that you may prove yourself free of the taint of your father’s sins.”
“England? Is there no way for me to prove my loyalty to you here or at Chateau d’Azure?” Christian ached to return to his family’s lands, to the place of his birth.
“Do not worry, your lands have been cared for during your imprisonment, unlike some others.” The reference to John’s raping of Richard’s English estates was not lost on him.
“What must I do in England?” Christian wanted to get this out into the open—discover why Richard seemed willing to let him live and what task he faced.
“My mother asks only that I send you and, in her own inimitable fashion, has declined to give me an explanation.” Richard chuckled as he spoke. “I learned long ago that my mother explains herself to no man unless she chooses to. My father complained of this fault of hers many, many times.”
Richard stood, walked down from the dais and crossed to a door on one side of the hall. He motioned someone inside, and a priest carrying a thick pile of parchments followed him back to the table. The cleric spread out the documents into several small piles. Once he was done his organizing, he sat with his hands folded before him and waited on Richard. Christian waited as well.
“Here is the deed for your properties in Poitou and an accounting of your wealth. And this,” Richard said, lifting another scroll and holding it before Christian, “is my decree reestablishing the title of Count of Langier and bequeathing it to you and your heirs. All here, all ready to be signed by me, if you agree to perform any service which my mother requests of you once you arrive in England.”
Christian could not make the words come from his mouth. Everything within him that desired, nay craved, a restoration of his name, his wealth, his properties, his honor, fought to scream the words of agreement. But a small part of his being held back.
“And the task which I must carry out?”
Richard’s hand slammed down on the table and parchments flew in all directions. The priest simply blinked several times as though familiar with these outbursts from the king.
“I offer you all you hold dear and you dare to question my orders to you? I could throw you in that dungeon and no one would ever hear the name of Dumont again. Is that what you wish? To die the son of a traitor? The sons of a traitor?”
Christian swallowed deeply, trying to lessen the terror that gripped him as the king reminded him quite clearly of the results if he refused to perform this unnamed service for the king. Rising, he bowed his head to Richard.
“Nay, sire.”
“Then give the word and I will set all of this in motion—your estates back in your control, your name cleared of any taint of treason and your brother freed from his prison.”
Christian hesitated for only a moment longer before giving the king what he wanted. He’d only dreamed that this would happen. He’d prayed continuously for a way out of this terrible turn of events facing him and Geoff and now the king presented him with exactly that. He must not lose this opportunity to regain his very honor.
“I am your man, sire.” Christian knelt down before Richard and offered his hands in homage to the king.
Richard took Christian’s hands in his and then lay one hand on Christian’s head. “Then you are n
ow once again the Count of Langier and my liegeman. The estates and wealth of the family Dumont are now restored to you, but will be held in trust by the Crown’s chancellor until your service is completed.”
Christian raised his head to look at Richard. His but not his? Richard was not finished yet.
“You have one week until you must leave for England—use it well. You may take your brother back to Chateau d’Azure and then be at my disposal here on Tuesday next.”
Christian rose and stepped back from the king. He was saved! His brother would live! And his honor would once more be restored. And all in exchange for some task for Queen Eleanor.
Some task for the queen. Another wave of foreboding passed through him. What if the price was too high? What if he could not complete this mystery task? Nay, he could not fail…he could not afford to fail…the family Dumont, all past and future bearers of the title of Langier and most of all his brother, were depending on him.
Richard then leaned over the documents and scrawled his signature on the many sheets. Christian added his own, as directed by the priest. After giving more instructions to the priest and nodding to Christian, the king walked down the steps and through the hall. Just as he reached the doorway, he turned back.
“Langier.” Richard used his newly restored title to address him now. “Report to me when you discover my brother’s involvement in all of this. I smell his foul odor even from across the Channel and in spite of his claims of innocence.”
Christian nodded to Richard, agreeing to this additional term.
“Directly to me and to no one else.”
The king left without hearing his response, leaving him in astonished confusion.
Chapter Three
Sunlight streamed into the large room through the glass windows her father had commissioned years before, to please her mother. Emalie shifted on the cushion beneath her, trying in vain to get comfortable. Leaning back and away from the loom, she looked at the others in the room. Every one of them was more than content to sit and weave or embroider or sew until the light was no longer useful. Not her, though. She had not spent this much time in the solar in the few years since her mother’s death.
Unable to remain still, and eager to feel the summer breezes flow over her face, Emalie gathered her skirts and stood, easing the bench away from the wooden frame so she could step back. The room grew quiet as her actions were noticed.
“Milady? Is there something you require?” her maid asked, putting down the embroidery frame and rising to attend her.
“Nay, Alyce. You may continue here. I am just anxious for a breath of air. I shall return anon.”
She expected that none of her household would question her leaving, but she was unprepared for Lady Helene’s challenging frown. The lady was one of the queen’s retinue and had spent most of the past week trailing behind her and reporting, Emalie knew, directly back to Eleanor. Every move she made and every person she spoke with was the subject of scrutiny. And it grated on her that, after months of being in charge of her father’s estate, she was now relegated to the role of hostess only.
Eleanor had banished John and his minions after the near-debacle the day she had arrived, and placed her own people in key positions both in the keep and throughout the demesne. Emalie now spent her days in the solar sewing and weaving, or in the chapel praying. Eleanor’s feelings on the power and importance of prayer in a young woman’s life were made clear on her second day at Greystone. A new priest arrived and proceeded to offer the Mass that morning and on every one since then and Eleanor insisted on Emalie’s attendance.
A new captain of the guards worked in tandem with her own captain, a new cook fought to wrest control of the kitchens from her own and even some of her personal servants had been replaced. Eleanor was nothing if not thorough in her attempts to get to the truth. Where John had been devious and dangerous, Eleanor was simply persistent and irresistible.
Emalie ignored both Lady Helene’s glare and her attempts to follow her out of the room. With a nod to her maid, Emalie walked quickly from the solar, down a corridor to the stairway that led to the highest floor in the corner tower. Not slowing for a moment, she pushed against the door and was soon on the walkway that surrounded the keep. The wind, wild and warming in June’s strengthening sun, tore through her hair and against her clothes. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes and let the power of the breeze calm her ragged nerves.
Leaning against the crenellated stone wall, Emalie fought back the tears that had threatened for weeks. Her life was now completely out of her control. Oh, she knew that as a woman she had little control to begin with, but her father had encouraged her to believe she was in charge. And now, rightly or wrongly, she longed for the days when only the Montgomeries had ruled Greystone, the days when her parents had lived and loved, the days when she had dreamed of a husband to love and protect her.
Well, her dreams were shattered now and her life was no longer her own thanks to the insatiable hunger of John Lackland and his cronies. Although she had managed to circumvent his latest ploy, she knew it was just a matter of time before her property fell to him as so many others had. In spite of Richard’s return from captivity, John still moved to claim England as his own fiefdom and she knew that Greystone was an attractive target for his greed.
His attraction to her, however, had been a surprise. ’Twas at times such as these that she truly missed her mother’s guidance and presence. She knew the ways of men and women. One could not be raised in the close company of a castle and village and not witness the physical realities. She may have been a foolish optimist, but she was not stupid.
She knew also that Eleanor was looking for a husband for her. It would be the only way to keep John at bay and keep William from making another attempt to “persuade” her into a union with him. Tears filled her eyes as bits of a conversation drifted back from her memory. Turning away from the wind, Emalie pushed her long, streaming hair out of her face and tucked it back once more into the mesh coif meant to contain it.
Wishing that the past would return would not make it so. Wishing for a future of her choice would not make it so. Her only choice was to face whatever would come her way and to face it with the dignity and honor that her parents had instilled in her from her childhood.
Gathering her skirts, Emalie prepared to return to the solar. Her few minutes alone outside, enjoying the freedom of the wind high above the keep, had accomplished exactly what she had hoped for and she would enter the women’s enclave with a renewed sense of calm and control. Although not ready to face her fate, she was ready to face Lady Helene’s displeasure at her escape.
The door opened as she grasped the handle and the force threw her off balance and against the wall. She was just catching the breath that was squeezed from her when the perpetrator stood before her.
“Milady!” Sir Walter, the captain of the troop of soldiers who guarded Greystone, grabbed her and pulled her toward him. “I beg your pardon, lady, I saw you not behind the door.”
Emalie rubbed her injured elbow as the man she still trusted with her life aided her in standing once more. “I am fine, Sir Walter. Truly. Were you looking for me or just making your rounds?”
A red flush crept up the big man’s neck and face, making his ruddy appearance even more red. He reached up and ran a beefy hand through his thick russet hair before stammering out a reply.
“Her Grace requests your presence below, lady.” He would not meet her gaze.
“’Tis I who must beg your pardon, Sir Walter,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “You should be in charge here and not relegated to delivering messages. Your service has been too valued here at Greystone for you to be treated in this manner.”
Emalie was embarrassed that she could not promise to restore her loyal captain to his place of honor and responsibility within the hierarchy of Greystone. Until the matter of her marriage was settled by the queen, Emalie had no say in the decisions about the running of her own est
ate. She sighed and turned away from her man. And she would have even less power once the matter of her marriage was settled. Now it was her turn not to meet his gaze.
“Will you accompany me or do you have other duties?”
“I would be honored to give you escort to the solar.” He held out his arm and she placed hers on top. Turning, he held the door open wider and guided her to the stairs. They were silent until they stood just outside the solar and still far enough from the queen’s guards not to be heard.
“Remember, lady, I promised your father that your safety would be my duty. I will always be here for you should the need arise.” His voice became gruff and her own throat clogged with unshed tears at his loyalty.
“I will remember that above all else, Sir Walter.”
“Lady, we all know—” he began.
“Then let us not speak of it any further,” she interrupted. She would not, could not, speak of what had happened.
The queen’s guard turned to open the door to the solar and Walter bowed to her and stepped away. Into the lion’s den, she walked, without the one protector she trusted. The one who had been sent away the night that…
Taking a deep breath and pulling her pride around her once more, Emalie walked in to face the queen. Surprised to find Eleanor alone, Emalie closed the door behind and approached her godmother.
“If my memory serves me well, you will find him quite fair of face and his build is that of a practiced warrior. His family has held Chateau d’Azure in Poitou for generations,” Eleanor began. The queen stood by the window, staring out and not looking at her as she spoke. Her words were confusing to Emalie. The queen spoke of someone unknown to her, but the tone loosed tiny shivers of foreboding that crept down Emalie’s spine.
The Dumont Bride Page 2
