A Merry Medieval Christmas Box Set

by Laurel O'Donnell

  She risked a glance at the battle-scarred warrior standing beside her. He stared into the flickering flames, looking like a burnished Norse god, the frond clutched in his massive fist like Thor’s hammer.

  Her heart pulsed in her ears. What was his deepest wish?

  He tossed the frond. “I wish for Victorine’s happiness.”

  “Me too,” Adrian echoed.

  When Dervenn turned his dark gaze on her she knew the kissing bough episode had been no passing fancy.

  ~~~

  Dervenn cursed himself for a lovesick fool. He’d betrayed his emotions, something he never did, and Victorine was astute. She knew now he craved her.

  He hoped Adrian didn’t suspect, but thought it unlikely. The lad’s demeanor toward him seemed not to have changed as the evening wore on and they enjoyed the wassailing and mummery.

  The youth went off in search of the traditional food and drink, returning with ginger snaps and tankards of spiced ale. “Now we can toast the Three Kings at midnight when their feast begins,” he declared with a broad grin. He nudged Victorine with his elbow almost causing her to spill the ale. “Spiced ale—get it? And ginger. The Magi brought spices to the stable. The Three Kings.”

  He stared at them, evidently expecting some congratulatory remark for his revelations.

  Victorine was apparently having none of it. “Everyone knows the origin of the traditions,” she said with more than a hint of derision.

  Dervenn almost felt sorry for the crestfallen youth, but Adrian recovered quickly. “I’ll get us fruitcake. Hope I find the fève in my piece.”

  Victorine watched her suitor hurry away. “You’re making him nervous,” she said.

  Adrian had proven to be a courageous warrior and an expert swordsman at Hastings, but that didn’t mean he knew how to take care of a wife. Dervenn resisted the notion to share his opinion that the youth was too immature for her. “It wasn’t my intention.”

  They stood in strained silence for long minutes. Victorine nibbled a ginger snap and sipped the ale, wrinkling her nose endearingly at the spicy taste.

  Adrian returned bearing three portions of fruitcake. “Choose,” he told Victorine.

  She took the middle piece.

  He wagged his head from side to side, evidently trying to decide which one to select for himself. Dervenn lost patience and grabbed one of the two remaining pieces. The way the evening had progressed it was more than likely he would find the fève and be obliged to play the role of villain for the rest of the night. It seemed to be his lot in life.

  SAYING GOODNIGHT

  Dervenn lurked a respectable instance from the chamber door where Adrian was bidding goodnight to Victorine. Even in the shadowy hallway, the youth’s face glowed like a beacon. He’d gleefully run himself ragged playing the part of the villain after finding the fève in his fruitcake.

  Actually, he’d acted the fool more than the villain, to the vast amusement of all at the assembly—except Victorine. Her deepening pout made it clear she didn’t appreciate being left alone with Dervenn.

  Still obviously excited and pleased with himself, the young man made no effort to whisper. “I very much enjoyed your company this evening, my lady.”

  To her credit, she didn’t reply, though the set of her jaw indicated her annoyance. The lad was lucky to escape a tongue-lashing. Dervenn fervently hoped he wouldn’t attempt to kiss her. She might punch his nose.

  The notion of another man kissing Victorine didn’t sit well. He strode out of the shadows. “Be done with your goodnights, sir.”

  Adrian bowed. “I hope to see you again, but on the morrow I ride for my new estate in Sussex.” He glanced nervously at Dervenn. “If all is well there, mayhap when I return I can take Lady Victorine to see it.”

  His spirits rose. He’d be rid of Adrian sooner than he thought and there was no way on God’s green earth he was going to give permission for such an excursion. However, a flicker of interest in her eyes held him back.

  “How far is Sussex?” she asked.

  “Not far. I believe it’s thirty miles or so to my estate.”

  She looked at Dervenn appealingly, and he had no choice. “We’ll see.”

  To his consternation she smiled at the lad and offered her hand. “Until your return, then, Sir Adrian.”

  He clenched his fists when the young knight brushed a kiss on her knuckles and bade her goodnight.

  Blushing, she shot Dervenn a defiant glance and disappeared through the door of the chamber before he could say another word.

  ~~~

  A lone candle flickered on the mantle of the cold hearth. Marie lay asleep in the big bed. Jumelle dozed in a chair. Victorine pressed her back against the wooden door and inhaled deeply, trying to sort the emotions swirling in her heart.

  Her maid stirred. “My lady! I fell asleep.”

  She stepped into the chamber and a yawning Jumelle began unfastening the laces of the red gown. “Tell me all about your evening.”

  The girl had been her faithful servant for years, but Victorine had never been allowed to socialize with young men. She was grateful for a confidante, especially one with common sense. She embarked on a litany of the night’s events as Jumelle helped her undress.

  “But what of your knight?” her maid asked, fastening the ties of a nightgown.

  Ready for bed, but not ready to sleep, she sat down in the still warm armchair. Jumelle knelt at her feet. “Adrian is handsome, dashing some might say.”

  Jumelle grinned.

  “He has promised to show me his newly acquired estate, which must mean he really likes me.”

  Jumelle frowned. “Yet you seem hesitant.”

  “Well, he left me alone with Sir Dervenn for part of the evening.”

  Jumelle chuckled.

  She deemed it better to ignore the maid’s sly smile. “I can’t fault him for it. The winner of the fève is expected to play the fool and entertain, and he certainly did that in full measure.”

  “He won the fève?”

  “Yes and I suppose there is nothing wrong with having a good sense of humor.”

  “But?”

  Her hands felt clammy. “It’s obvious he’s well liked.”

  “But?”

  She was suddenly tired to the point of exhaustion. “He likes fishing,” she murmured.

  Jumelle laughed out loud. “Fishing?”

  She got up abruptly. “I hear it’s a worthy pastime. Anyway, Sir Dervenn kept me company and that’s that. He’s my guardian after all.”

  Jumelle used the arm of the chair to push herself up from the planked floor. “I doubt he objected to being alone with you.”

  As Victorine climbed between the linens, she pushed away the annoying truth that she’d enjoyed Dervenn’s company more than Adrian’s. She didn’t want to admit that the disfigured knight’s smoldering glances caused peculiar flutterings in private places, whereas Adrian—well, he was nice.

  “I’m not sure what you’re inferring, impertinent girl. De Roure’s a Breton after all. Now get to bed.”

  WINTER OF DISCONTENT

  As the Feast of the Annunciation and the beginning of a new year approached, Dervenn couldn’t recall ever looking forward as much to the end of winter. It had been a season of tormented discontent.

  He had grown weary of Victorine’s constant badgering as to the reasons for her suitor’s prolonged absence when Adrian de Caulmont failed to return from Sussex by the end of January.

  The youth sent a brief missive informing her that the estate was in a poor state of repair and necessitated more of his attention than he had foreseen.

  Victorine’s sullen pout betrayed her disappointment the letter was devoid of any expression of endearment.

  By February’s end he feared he might go mad. He had no explanation to offer and truly didn’t care why Adrian hadn’t reappeared, though it would be an easy matter to send heralds to inquire. “Mayhap he drowned while fishing,” he quipped, wishing he had the cou
rage to tell her he loved her more with every passing day.

  But he dreaded she might yet reject him.

  He’d found an unexpected ally in Jumelle, who confided her belief that Victorine didn’t have a high opinion of Adrian.

  He wasn’t surprised and suspected she pined for the young knight simply because he seemed to have abandoned her. He felt her pain. She’d suffered enough abandonment.

  He hoped for William’s return for the celebrations of the spring equinox, but it was rumored the king had gone to Normandie. He’d waited overlong for his promised reward. Other knights who’d sacrificed less than he were already establishing themselves on newly granted properties. Some had even been given earldoms.

  Mayhap if he had something to offer Victorine, other than his scarred face and Breton blood, she might look upon him more favorably.

  ~~~

  With a pouting Jumelle in tow, Victorine scoured Westminster, searching for Dervenn. She found him in the stables brushing his horse. On the point of brandishing the long-awaited parchment under his nose, she was momentarily distracted by what looked like personal belongings and a makeshift pallet in the corner of the stall. She knew he’d sacrificed his chamber for his charges, but it had never occurred to her he’d been relegated to the stables. “Surely you don’t sleep here?”

  He carried on his task. “I prefer it. Haritz is good company.”

  With a firm grip on Jumelle’s hand she studied the huge gelding. “I don’t really like horses,” she admitted.

  He chuckled. “I can tell. He senses it too. See how he’s giving you the eye?”

  She averted her gaze. “It’s a strange name.”

  “It’s Basque. I named him for the indestructible oak tree.”

  He’d chosen well. The beast’s long legs did indeed look like sturdy oak limbs. A strong horse for a strong man.

  He ceased brushing and turned to her. “Did you need something?”

  Annoyed she’d been distracted from her errand, she shoved the parchment at him. “He has sent for me.”

  The words didn’t emerge with the triumphant tone she had planned, but she attributed her nervousness to the intimidating horse. After all, a perverse urge to let Dervenn know Adrian hadn’t forgotten her had driven her to find him. His scowl at the news as he took the missive was somewhat satisfying.

  She watched him scan the message.

  “He has invited me to his estate, as you see.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “And you hope I will give permission?”

  There was pain in his fiery gaze, but she soldiered on. “Yes.”

  Jumelle snorted.

  Victorine glared at her maid. Telling the girl in confidence that in truth she had no desire to travel to Adrian’s estate had evidently been a mistake. Her servant made no secret of her opinion Dervenn was the man she should marry.

  However, as she’d pointed out, he was a Breton, and horribly scarred. In addition he was landless. She had to think about the future, and it was flattering that a handsome young man, a hero of Hastings, had invited her to his estate.

  It was of no consequence that Adrian didn’t fire her blood, whereas Dervenn evoked all kinds of emotions, including anger. Adrian was safer and in time she would come to love him.

  She just wished he’d shown as much enthusiasm for her as he did for fishing.

  Dervenn arched a brow. “I see he has invited you to go fishing with him.”

  Jumelle laughed out loud, earning another glare.

  Victorine had grown up not far from the sea coast. She was aware fishermen used nets to catch fish for eating during Lent and on other fast days set by the Church. Most of Adrian’s missive consisted of explaining how he used a pole and line to “fish for fun.” It was beyond her comprehension.

  Still, it might be amusing. “Yes. Do you grant permission?”

  Insanely, she hoped he would refuse.

  “A fine pastime for the spring equinox,” he replied, though there was no humor in his deep voice. “I will accompany you. Be ready to leave on the morrow.”

  COCK FEATHERS

  Adrian’s estate lay half a day’s ride south from Westminster through a mostly flat landscape. He’d also invited his three chums, Baptiste, Constant and Georges, which saved Dervenn the trouble and expense of hiring and paying mercenaries to escort him and Victorine and the maid.

  His ward chatted amiably with the three young men, though her startled expression upon learning they were to be part of the get-together betrayed her dismay.

  When the dilapidated manor house came into view, he wondered what improvements the young knight had spent nearly three months working on.

  Victorine didn’t hide her disappointment as they rode into the overgrown courtyard. He’d come to admire that about her. Neither parental neglect nor grief had succeeded in crushing her spirit. She wasn’t afraid to express her opinions. Many men might not appreciate that in a woman, but Dervenn found it a refreshing challenge. He almost looked forward to the fishing expedition. She wouldn’t hesitate to let Adrian know how she felt about his pastime, but at least she was brave enough to try it.

  Their grinning host emerged from the house to greet them, shaking hands with his cronies. “Don’t worry, my friends, it looks better inside.”

  Had he even noticed Victorine scowling atop her horse? Dervenn dismounted quickly, put his hands on her waist and lifted her down. She gripped his shoulders as their eyes met. He controlled the overwhelming urge to hold her against his needy body as he set her feet on the moss-covered cobblestones.

  She said nothing, nor did she smile, but a hint of something in her gaze—longing, exasperation, resignation—provided both amusement and hope.

  Adrian hurried over. “Welcome to my humble abode, Lady Victorine.”

  She gathered her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. “I’m anxious to see what you’ve achieved inside the house,” she remarked.

  Dervenn took note of the sarcasm in her voice, but it was evident Adrian hadn’t noticed. Still smiling, he gestured to the door. “Please, come in.”

  ~~~

  After Jumelle had helped her struggle into a more suitable gown in the cupboard Adrian referred to as the guest chamber, Victorine proceeded to the dingy dining room, full of misgivings. The house and grounds were a shambles, but Adrian hadn’t taken kindly to her suggestion he would be further ahead to tear the place down and begin again.

  The men were already seated at the table and came to their feet when she entered. Adrian seemed to have recovered from his pout. Baptiste, Constant and Georges had changed clothing and looked refreshed. Stern-faced as usual, Dervenn wore the tunic he’d travelled in, though he’d removed his gambeson.

  She was surprised to be seated next to her guardian, while Adrian sat between two of his friends. Perhaps he thought it more appropriate.

  She relaxed somewhat when it occurred to her she actually preferred to sit with Dervenn.

  Even before the food—fish, naturally—was served by an ancient retainer who she feared might collapse in a heap at any moment, Adrian began his treatise on fishing.

  He prattled on about hooks and rods and lines, talking with his mouth full. Dervenn shifted in his seat several times. Sensing the tension emanating from him, she risked a sideways glance. He gaped at their host as if he didn’t quite believe the bad manners.

  It was astounding that Adrian was clearly oblivious to the bored expressions on the faces of every one of his guests as they picked at the mediocre meal. Any woman who married him would have her work cut out for her; it would be akin to marrying a child.

  Undeterred, he launched into a description of what he called a fly. “I wrap dark red wool round a hook and tie on two feathers,” he explained.

  Evidently trying to appear interested, Baptiste asked, “What kind of feathers?”

  Adrian didn’t blink. “The ones that grow ‘neath the wattles of a cock.”

  Dervenn laughed out loud, no doubt envisioning their host pl
ucking feathers from an indignant rooster. She tried without success to control the laughter bubbling up her throat.

  Adrian frowned but then laughed with everyone else, though it was plain he didn’t understand the humor. “Aye,” he went on, “they are wax colored.”

  More guffaws.

  Tears rolled down Baptiste’s cheeks.

  Constant hiccuped.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier just to use a real fly?” Georges asked.

  When everyone paused for breath, Adrian continued. “The fly is fixed to the line and lowered; the fish is attracted by the color and rises to eat the pretty thing that will give him a rare treat.”

  Victorine sobered, suddenly feeling very sorry for the poor fish.

  “But the fellow’s jaws are pierced by the hook, and he doesn’t get to enjoy the feast when he is hauled out of the water.”

  Utter silence greeted his gleeful pronouncement.

  Victorine pushed away her trencher of half eaten trout, resolved never to eat fish of any kind again. There must be other acceptable things to consume during Lent and other fasting days.

  She sensed Dervenn’s dark eyes on her and knew without looking his face bore the enigmatic smile she’d come to love.

  His solid presence was like a lifeline in a swollen river full of unsuspecting fish.

  POLES APART

  Victorine slept surprisingly well in the cramped chamber, but feigned feeling out of sorts when everyone broke their fast the following morning. “I fear I won’t be able to join in the fishing expedition, Adrian,” she lamented, distracted by a sliver of straw from the stables in Dervenn’s hair.

  Her suitor’s shoulders sagged. He gazed at her in disbelief. “But I was looking forward to teaching you,” he murmured.

  Like most of the men in William’s army, Dervenn had shaved his head during the invasion, but his golden hair had grown to caress his shoulders and cover part of the scar on his brow. Removing the straw would allow her to feel its texture—silky, she’d warrant. Did hair grow on his chest as it did on her brothers’ torsos?

  “Men have been fishing since Biblical times,” Adrian intoned solemnly, jolting her from her reverie. “The book of Job talks about drawing out a Leviathan with a fish hook.”