by J. P. Ashman
Amis turned to look at Flavell, the light of the day filtering through blue and green stained glass, followed by ruby-red, painting her dress crimson as she glided along beside him.
‘You’ve come a long way, mademoiselle,’ he said, eyes searching hers.
‘As have you, Amis de Valmont; with me, besides me, guiding and guarding me all the way and seeing me right.’
Amis smiled. ‘As my family has yours for generations.’
Flavell nodded. Another bell tolled, closer than the first, which continued, creating a distant cacophony of bells that worked not together, creating no melody nor tune.
‘The White Chapel’s bell?’ Amis asked. Flavell chewed her enticing lips and shrugged.
‘No, messire,’ Cateline said over her shoulder, her frown and fear plain to see. ‘The first were town bells. The last from the chateau’s gatehouse, I’d say.’
Flavell’s eyes widened. ‘Could be your man! Back to whisk you off your feet.’
Cateline’s breath caught as she walked, her frown lost to the excitement and wonder of possibility and hope. She turned back to check their path and turned a corner. She looked back to Flavell once more. ‘You believe it could be, mademoiselle?’ She stopped, despite herself, to take in Flavell and Amis fully, hands clasped before her, worrying at a white, wooden disk that hung from her neck.
‘Let’s go see, shall we?’
‘Mademoiselle—’
‘Not now, de Valmont. My love can wait a little longer. This girl has been kind to me, after all that has happened. It’s the least I can do, and will make the day so much more to me to see her reunited with her own love.’ Amis made to speak but Flavell put a finger to his lips and silenced him. He squirmed at the touch, but said no more as the finger fell away. ‘If her love has returned…’ she removed herself from Amis and crossed to Cateline, taking her hands, ‘…I insist they attend the wedding, as my guests.’
Cateline balked, disbelief slackening her jaw. ‘And if you’re late, mademoiselle… because of me?’
Flavell laughed. ‘It shall be fashionably, my dear, as a bride should be.’ She pulled Cateline by the arm, suddenly and sharply. Pulled her and ran, laughing, back the way they had come. Back passed a stunned Amis and on towards the yard, where they could move to the outer bailey and the returning scouts.
Amis followed, his curses reaching both the girls as they ran, skirts held high, revealing pale calves Flavell knew would have a certain chevalier colouring red, rather than yellow. She laughed all the more at that.
***
‘How’s your nerves, Sieur?’
Croal looked across the White Chapel to Giles Bratby, who’d agreed to wear the traditional white of a Sirretan wedding. Croal smiled at the large Earl, whose greying hair complemented his white tunic and hose. Only his brown ankle boots and green and gold-plated belt stood out, but Croal could forgive that of the man. He smiled at Giles, though it was strained.
‘Nerves that bad, eh?’
Croal swallowed and glanced about the white walls and white ceiling before answering. ‘Is it normal to feel thus, messire?’
Giles laughed. ‘But of course! The benefit you have, though, is that you’ve met the lady.’ Giles laughed again, his baritone rumble filling the household chapel. ‘It’s rare to already love the lass as you do, or seem to.’
‘I do,’ Croal promised.
Giles was already nodding. ‘I can see that, messire. We all can.’
There was quiet for a time, with the shifting of the white priest the only thing to break the silence of the candle-filled, windowless space.
‘I had thought it would be different, messire: my wedding day.’
Giles offered a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m sure you did, lad.’ Giles looked about the chapel, festooned with carvings of Croal’s family members long since passed. It lacked the late Eudes de Geelan. The man hadn’t even had a pyre yet, as was the Sirretan way. ‘I expect you thought you’d be surrounded by family, approving and loving.’
Croal nodded, head down whilst he fumbled with his already buckled, looped and tied white belt. He went on to smooth down the tiniest of ruffles in his velvet coat, brushing the material this way and that, grey then white, grey then white; rough then smooth. He felt sick. Sick with love in the best way possible and sick with anger and regret at the death of his uncle and the internment of his aunt and cousins. He thought of his father, his dead uncle’s younger brother. Had he failed his father, who’d died so his older brother, Eudes, could live? It’d been a cold day, snow blessing the ground, covering everything in a virgin snow. Much like the white of the chapel where he awaited his bride, Flavell de Steedon. His love. Croal’s stomach twisted, fluttered, and his heart sang. So many emotions, from memories of his father dragging Eudes from the frozen pond, only to fall back under himself, to the eyes that now graced his mind’s eye; beautiful, depth-less greens, leading to a soul he wished to bind to his own. As he wrestled with the memories new and old, good and bad, Croal was snapped from his reverie by the faint ringing of a distant bell, from the town if he had to guess. He frowned.
‘That’s a gods-awful bell?’ Giles said, hand on the sword he’d been allowed to carry since aiding Croal on the night of Eudes’ death; on the night Flavell had been saved. Giles squinted, as if it’d help him hear the distant clanging.
‘I owe Amis de Valmont, you know,’ Croal said. It’d spilled from his mouth with little intention.
‘You do,’ Giles agreed, relaxing at Croal’s inaction to the bell’s toll. ‘He got to your lovely lady in time to save her… well…’
‘In time to save her sanity is how I would put it, messire.’ They locked eyes.
‘Aye, lad. That’d be the right way to put it.’
Another bell, closer. Both men frowned and the white priest turned, head cocked.
‘The outer bailey?’ the priest asked, although his eyes were on a wall, rather than a person.
‘I would agree.’ Croal walked to the arched doorway and pulled it open further, spreading the dark gap that had been there and further breaking the white of the cube they stood in. He looked out onto dark stone slabs and colourful tapestries either side of the corridor.
‘Messire?’ one of his two chevaliers said. They moved as if to listen to the bells more clearly, hands on swords, tense for what it might mean.
‘Go and see what is amiss. For the bells to toll like so…’
The man who’d spoken nodded before rushing away, maille rustling and plate scraping.
‘It could be an army approaching,’ the other man said, face set like the stone he stood against.
Croal shrugged. ‘I cannot know. But of all the days, it best not be today, or they will receive my wrath tenfold. By White I swear it!’
The chevalier broke his stern expression and revealed a grin before nodding. ‘And mine, messire. And mine.’
Croal gripped the man’s steel vambrace in thanks. He smiled, nodded once and turned back into the chapel.
‘You can postpone, Sieur,’ the priest said. ‘Pray for what is to come instead, should it be what we fear—’
‘I do not fear it,’ Croal lied. He licked his drying lips and turned to Giles. ‘What would you do, messire?’
Giles’ eyes widened, greying eyebrows lifting and brow creasing with the action. He filled his cheeks before letting out a long breath. ‘You’re asking your late uncle’s rival? His enemy?’
‘The enemy of my enemy—’
‘Alright, lad.’ Giles held up his large hands to stop Croal. ‘Don’t finish that line. He was your uncle, after all.’
Croal managed a smile. ‘I was talking of the Orismarans as our mutual enemy, messire, not my uncle.’
Giles grinned. ‘Ah, yes, of course.’
Both men allowed true mirth to show through. The priest scowled and moved about the chapel, laying petals from white lilies on the few pews that were there.’
‘The choir will be here soon,’ the priest said, kil
ling the mirth and drawing both sets of eyes to him. ‘And the equerry to record the marriage contract—’
‘Marriage will do, priest,’ Croal said. ‘This is a binding of love, not papers.’
Giles didn’t even attempt to hide his smirk as the priest blustered and scoffed. ‘Well, that may well be, Sieur, but procedures must be followed and events documented. Now, if you would…’
Someone screamed. The sound came from a way off, but it was clear that whomever released the sound was terrified, or dying. Likely both if the latter.
The door swung in fully, revealing Croal’s remaining man. ‘Stay here, messires, and lock the door.’
‘I’ll do no such thing.’ Croal fired the words and drew his sword in one. Giles followed suit.
The priest rushed down the chapel’s short isle. ‘You’ll put those blades back—’
‘Not now, priest.’ Croal turned on the man, free hand forward, index finger pointed to accentuate his point.
The priest’s face being the reddest thing in the chapel at that point, he merely huffed and went about scattering more petals. He hesitated when a second scream reached them, closer this time. His fearful eyes searched Croal’s, but Croal turned to look down the corridor, along with Giles and the chevalier.
‘I need to go for Flavell.’ Croal made to move, but the armed and capable men now either side of him clamped hands on his arms.
‘Not now, messire,’ the chevalier said.
‘The lad’s right, Croal. Let me go in your—’
‘I should go,’ Croal’s man said, eyeing Giles with distrust. ‘And you should disarm, Messire Bratby.’
‘Flavell is my responsibility,’ Croal said, ignoring the latter. ‘She is my betrothed and my love, gentlemen.’ His heart skipped, stomach churned all the more, breaths quickening and chest heaving beneath white linen and velvet; he was suddenly and acutely aware of his lack of armour, lack of padding even.
‘We all go,’ Giles said, releasing his grip on Croal’s arm.
Croal looked to Giles, who stared back before taking a step towards the door. The only thing that stopped him was the maid who ran around the far corner and into the corridor, the red she was covered in a stark contrast to the chapel from which the three warriors watching her stood, and the white two of them wore. Croal knew, from her blood-soaked clothes and spattered, terrified face, that their fine clothes wouldn’t remain white for much longer.
‘’Morl’s fucking arse,’ Giles breathed, the curse matched by two more, albeit them of white and light and not a long since dead knight.
Croal’s heart stuttered, his stomach lurched. ‘That’s Cateline, the maid assigned to Flavell.’
Cateline continued on towards them, tears mixing with the blood on her cheeks. The three men beckoned for her to hurry. The chevalier took two steps into the corridor, towards Cateline, the only thing stopping him being the thing that came into view next. The thing that chased the poor girl.
With bile rising to burn his throat, Croal was pulled back from the doorway by Giles. Before he could protest, before he could see what the approaching horror did to Cateline and his loyal man, the dark scene was blocked by the shutting and barring of white.
A guttural scream… no… two screams, ripped through the hearts and souls of those inside the chamber of purity.
Strong arms held Croal firm as those of the priest slammed a second locking bolt across the portal. All Croal could do was picture his love, his wife to be, torn to pieces like those beyond the door. Heart thudding as if to break free, or break at the possibilities of what was to come, or what was already there and happening, he released the tears and a throat grating scream of anger.
‘Flavell!’ he screamed, after the first incoherent roar. ‘Flavell!’ His struggles to break free of the man holding him failed, and that man pulled him in closer, nose and mouth pressing against the top of his head. Croal sagged. He hung from the big man who held him as would a father, as would have his father.
‘Flavell,’ he said this time, rather than shouted or screamed, the fight in him falling away at the thought of what lay beyond that door, likely devouring Cateline and his loyal chevalier. ‘My love…’
Chapter 39 – Besieged
‘Is he finally ready for me?’ Correia said to the knock at the door. She’d been tapping the back of her head against the stone wall behind her, fed up of sitting and drinking and eating alone; fed up of sleeping and pacing the chamber with nought but arrow slits for poor light, now that morning had come. It’d been a long, largely sleepless night, but what could she do? She couldn’t very well demand an immediate audience with Croal de Geelan. No. As much as she’d wanted to do that, as much as she was dying to go in search of Fal, she knew she had to be careful. She risked more than Fal alone if she wasn’t. Correia had heard a commotion build outside over the past… however long. Time had slipped from her. She was used to waiting, used to being asked to wait, but this was different. A whole night? Something was wrong. Her heart skipped in a sickly way when the door opened and she saw the chevalier who’d guided her and her pathfinders into the town, the chateau and then her into the keep itself. His face was a mask; a mask attempting to hide a panic she knew a man such as he was unused to feeling.
‘What is it, Jehan?’ Correia dared, when he failed to answer her previous question. The opening of the thick, iron studded door had brought with it sounds. Shit. They weren’t good sounds.
‘Messire Seneschal is… indisposed—’
‘Gods above, man, spit it out!’
Jehan straightened, but his steel encased fingers continued to worry at the hilt of his sheathed sword. ‘We’re to be besieged.’
There was a silence, or rather there would be if it weren’t for distant bells. Alarm bells, from the town she reckoned. Correia licked her lips, eyes straying from Jehan, albeit briefly. ‘By whom?’
‘Orismarans.’
‘An army?’
He nodded, jaw bunching, hand wringing his hilt, his frustration and want to act apparent.
Correia nodded and came away from the wall. Her own hands moved to her own swords, either side of her. She paced once more, eyes flicking left and right, brain working, spinning. How have they reached The Marches? Is Lejeune lost? It can’t be… Jehan said nothing, let her pace. She stopped, looked at him. ‘How is Croal indisposed? What of the marquis, what of Eudes de Geelan? Are you to ride out and meet them? Why a bloody siege?’ She fired the questions at him.
He swallowed hard. ‘I wasn’t to say, but it seems ridiculous not to now.’
‘What does?’ Correia sighed, exasperated. ‘Tell me!’
‘Eudes de Geelan is dead.’
Correia rocked back but composed herself. ‘By whose hand?’
‘The seneschal’s hand—’
‘His nephew? His bloody nephew killed him? How? When?’
‘Madame, it is not my place—’
The sword-tip pricked Jehan’s throat before he’d had chance to half-draw his own, and he was quick, a tourney winner, Correia knew. He ground his teeth and snarled, but made no move to counter the threat; she knew that he knew he’d be gushing red on the floor before he could act. A good fighter knew another good fighter, and Jehan was very good. Correia knew that and she knew he knew that, so she knew how good he knew her to be. The swift thought process she’d just ran through near on addled her. I know he knows she knows, so say all of us. An old ditty, from her childhood with Edward.
Correia sighed and Jehan made no move to counter as she lowered and re-sheathed her sword.
‘Eudes was attempting to bed Croal’s betrothed, forcibly.’
‘And who might she be?’
He frowned, as if her name was unimportant.
‘Humour me.’ Correia paced once more.
‘Mademoiselle Flavell de Steedon, daughter to Guiscard, the Sieur de Steedon.’
It was Correia’s turn to frown. She looked to him. ‘Never heard of her, or her father.’
Jehan shrugged. Maille rustled. Plate scraped. ‘Nor had I. Nor,’ he said, ‘had Croal, or his uncle, until Flavell arrived for Eudes’ festivities, a single chevalier in tow. She stole Croal’s heart though, and he hers. I know him, madame. We fed from the same wet nurse. He’s in love. The fairy tale kind.’
She held his gaze. ‘Even so. Betrothed? That doesn’t happen within families such as his without proper arrangement.’
Jehan nodded. ‘Eudes’ doing, as far as I know, but that’s rumour. I’m not privy to all the details…
‘Madame, I think we’d be better addressing the army—’
‘And how is Croal indisposed?’ Her glare forced Jehan’s hand. He knew when he was beat and answered the latest question.
‘He and his betrothed are to be married.’ He left a pause, but Correia said nothing. ‘Now.’
‘Now?’ She blurted the word, hands on hips. After a nod from Jehan, she moved towards him, towards the door. He stepped aside and followed when she passed through. Bells continued to ring and a girl ran past, crying. Correia and Jehan ignored her.
‘Where are we going, madame? I’m needed in the yard.’
‘To the White Chapel.’
Jehan’s eyes widened as he kept pace with Correia’s stride. ‘But—’
‘Nothing. But nothing, Jehan. You’re to accompany me there whilst I slap some sense into the Queen’s bloody Seneschal…’ She trailed off as someone screamed, outside. The sound came in through an arrow slit. All she saw was blue sky. Blue sky and… black: smoke. Correia stopped and held her hand up. Jehan might as well have been an Altolnan Pathfinder, not a Sirretan chevalier for all the protest he gave at the order to halt. He drew his sword, Correia doing the same to both of hers.
‘They can’t be through the town and in the chateau already? They were miles off…’
Steel met steel somewhere outside, in the yard, the ring of it clear. It was distant, likely in the outer rather than inner bailey, which gave them time, but it was in the chateau and that was surprising and worrying indeed.
Correia snarled. ‘An advanced party set to disrupt? Maybe they’re attempting to open gates or set fires.’
