Tendresse
“What have we here?”
Peri came close to dropping the hateful chamberpot on the stone floor of the narrow corridor, her heart racing as sweat broke out on every part of her body. She dared not turn around because she recognized the voice, though it had been almost a year since she had first set eyes on Geoffrey Plantagenet at Comte Fulk’s castle. At last he had come to Westminster.
Her mind raced with a thousand thoughts on what to do with the offending pot. She thanked the saints it contained only liquid, for once. Slowly, she turned. The contents sloshed alarmingly as she attempted a curtsey. “Milord Geoffrey,” she rasped, feeling her face redden at the sight of his tight hose.
Geoffrey stepped back, eyeing her burden with a smirk. “They would choose the Angevin for such an odious task.”
He had remembered her.
She fluttered her eyelashes. “You remember me, milord.”
“Of course,” Geoffrey boomed, picking his teeth with his little finger. “How to forget? You were one of the prettiest things ever to visit my father’s castle. It was my suggestion you come here as Maud’s lady-in-waiting. I wanted friendly faces around me in this Norman court when I am obliged to be here on visits such as these.”
Indignation pecked at her. It was thanks to Geoffrey she carried excrement around Westminster Palace. But then the full impact of his words dawned on her. Not only had he noticed her, he had wanted her near him. He held a tendresse for her.
She was tempted to fling the chamber pot to the floor, rush to embrace him and confess her undying love, but at that moment Lady Ermintrude rounded the corner. Peri had to be gone before the dragon saw her or some penalty was sure to ensue. She bowed her head. “I beg leave to complete my task, milord. But be aware that I noticed you at your father’s castle, too.”
He laughed loudly, drawing Ermintrude’s eye. “Of course you did. I’m Geoffrey the Handsome.”
She hurried away, his laughter and her own heartbeat echoing in her ears.
Two days later, Geoffrey accosted her in the same isolated corridor. It was puzzling that he would be in this part of the palace where usually only lowly noblewomen were to be found. He came close, reaching beneath her veil to twirl his fingers in her hair. She pulled away. “Milord Geoffrey. It’s not seemly. We are not married.”
Geoffrey snorted. “Nor will we ever be, my sweet. I’m shackled to the haughty Maud, but that does not prevent us having fun.”
“F-fun?” she stammered. Fermentine did not know the meaning of the word and she had no brother. How did one have fun with a boy?
She gasped as he tightened his grip on her hair and brushed the knuckles of his other hand over a nipple. Warmth flooded her and she feared her knees might buckle.
“Isn’t that fun?” he teased.
Her heart raced. He played a dangerous game. She had craved his attention, but this was foolhardy. She stepped away from him, fear pulsing in her throat.
Anger clouded his eyes. “Does my touch offend you?”
Tears welled. “Non, milord, but you are betrothed to a queen.”
Geoffrey cackled so loudly she was sure someone would come running. “Maud is an old woman. There won’t be any fun with her.”
Peri’s wild imaginings of happiness with Geoffrey had been filled with smiles, kisses on the hand, sharing the heady perfume of a rose, walking by a lovely lake, whispering secrets. Fondling her breasts in a public place had played no part in her dreams.
Voices intruded. Geoffrey gave a courtly bow and kissed her hand. “I shall find you again, my little Angevin.”
With that he was gone.
He dogged her for several days, oozing charm, growing bolder. She dreaded the sight of the jaunty cap that he never seemed to take off. It was a relief that he usually crossed her path when she was carrying the loathsome chamber pot. Then he waved her on with a smirk on his face. “À bientôt, sweeting.”
There were too many opportunities during the day when she was not fulfilling her duties as chambermaid and bientôt came all too soon. There seemed to be no escape.
She shivered when he drew his finger along her lip. “I will be leaving on the morrow. Will you give me some token to take back to Anjou? Something to remember you by.”
She racked her brain. “I have no token, milord.”
To her consternation, he grabbed her hips, molding his body to hers. The slight bulge always evident in his tight leggings pushed against her most private place. “I can think of the perfect token,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear.
Shame washed over her. She wanted Geoffrey’s courtly love, not a groping in shadowed hallways.
She shoved him away and fled.
* * *
Ermintrude patted Philippa de Grosmont’s head. “Well done, child. You were right to bring this news to me.”
Philippa preened. “I knew you would be concerned. After all, she is an Angevin, and it’s plain she has set her sights on Geoffrey the Handsome.” She lowered her voice, cupping her hand to her mouth. “They were acquainted with each other in Anjou.”
Ermintrude watched the girl swish away down the corridor, saying a silent prayer of thanks for jealousy and meanness of spirit. Invariably, over the years, the combination had prompted ladies-in-waiting to tattle on each other. Once Peridotte de Pontrouge was removed, Philippa would take her place in Geoffrey’s attentions. He pursued any young girl who crossed his path. But wasn’t that the way of youth? She sighed, remembering a certain young man when she was five and ten—
She pressed her palms to her reddening cheeks. It would not do to have people see her face anything but fashionably pale. She must get her errant thoughts back to the present.
Here was a chance to get rid of the Angevin girl and solve a potential problem to Maud’s succession. Ermintrude had expected the chit to request she be relieved of her duties as lady-in-waiting once she’d been given the odious chamber pot task. The girl evidently had more grit than Ermintrude had anticipated. Packing her off to her parents with her tail between her legs was not an option.
But Maud would be glad of a chance to be rid of any Angevin, including her betrothed, were it in within her power. She despised Geoffrey Plantagenet, but would not tolerate other women enjoying his affection.
Ermintrude hastened to her mistress’s solar as quickly as her arthritic limbs allowed. Maud lounged on a chaise, listening to a lute player, the back of her hand resting on her forehead. When she looked up, Ermintrude bent to whisper in her ear, trying to ignore the spasm that surged up her spine. “A minor matter, Empresse.”
Maud sighed deeply, dismissing the lute player with a wave of her hand. He ceased playing and tiptoed from the chamber. “What is it, Ermintrude? I have a headache.”
“One of your ladies-in-waiting has become a problem.”
Maud closed her eyes again. “Get rid of her, then. Why bring this to me?”
Ermintrude’s heart fluttered in anticipation. “The girl is an Angevin.”
“Send her back to Anjou.”
“I cannot. Her misdemeanor involves your betrothed.”
Maud sat up abruptly. “Adultery? The Angevin swine has betrayed me already? Then we shall have a hanging.”
Ermintrude hesitated. She did not want the girl’s blood on her hands. “Non, Highness. But he is taken with her. Public punishment would only embarrass you. I had hoped there might be a more discreet way. A betrothal, perhaps, to some noble family far away from Westminster.”
Maud frowned. “Far from Westminster?”
Ermintrude stoically accepted the necessity to explain every detail to her mistress. “Perhaps a powerful Norman family, whose loyalty needs to be assured with a betrothal to an Angevin.”
Maud’s eyes widened and the corners of her mouth edged up into a sly smile. “Aha! I have it. We shall betroth her to that angry young pup, Montbryce.”
Ermintrude clutched gnarled hands to her breast, breathing a sigh of relief. “What a g
ood idea, Your Highness. Merci.”
* * *
Peri stepped back from the malodorous sluice where the slopboys disposed of the palace’s waste into the River Thames. She had been fortunate to befriend a lad who insisted she not be the one to clean the chamber pot once it was emptied. If the stench clung to her after she left the place, at least it was not because any of the offensive material had splashed onto her.
To Peri’s relief, Lady Francine Beaujoie turned out to be the person with whom she shared a chamber. They helped each other dress and disrobe. Peri fretted that Alys and Francine’s maid were nowhere to be found. When they asked Ermintrude, they were told in no uncertain terms that junior ladies-in-waiting were not entitled to maidservants.
Francine proved to be a stalwart friend, sharing potpourri filched from the laundry. Peri fashioned a sachet from muslin with a ribbon for her neck. Tucked into the cleavage of her breasts, the hidden sachet of aromatic herbs and spices provided Peri with a reassurance she did not stink like a privy.
She was glad of it when a grim-faced Lady Ermintrude stepped in front of her as she was regaining the royal bedchamber. She clutched the chamber pot to her belly, thinking back through the events of the day, wondering what transgression she had committed. Had the dragon sensed she daydreamed of Geoffrey, already on his way back to Anjou?
She missed him, missed his handsome face. He had behaved wrongly, impetuously, but it was because he craved her, nay perhaps even loved her. She grieved for him—doomed to wed Maud when he loved Peri. She knew the isolation of being a foreigner in this hostile Norman court. She felt his pain, his loneliness, his resentment at being made to do something he did not want to do.
She lowered her gaze as Ermintrude glowered at her. “Bonjour, milady Ermintrude.”
The dragon wrinkled her nose. “You stink of the slop yard. King Henry has commanded your presence in the Throne Room. A tub has been sent to your chamber. You have one hour to bathe and dress in clean garments.”
To Peri’s further astonishment, the harridan grabbed the pot, shooed her away, and disappeared into the royal chamber.
Peri trembled, rooted to the spot. Why would King Henry summon the likes of her? Not for any good reason. Monarchs did not suddenly summon ladies-in-waiting, or anyone for that matter, unless they had done something dire.
Approaching voices jolted her from her reverie. One hour. She forced her feet to move in the direction of the chamber she shared with Francine. A bath. Something she had longed for. At least she would go to her fate clean and smelling sweetly.
Summoned
A s the palace guard prepared to push open the doors to the Throne Room, Peri adjusted the ribbon of the hidden sachet, smoothed her skirts, and tightened her grip on the crucifix in her palm, a parting gift from her mother.
She inhaled deeply as she stepped over the threshold, dismayed to see her royal mistress seated at the king’s right hand. Ermintrude stood nearby, looking smug. It was the first time Peri had seen Maud, except from a distance. An image of the contents of the chamber pots she removed thrice daily danced behind her eyes.
A pang of pity for Geoffrey pierced her heart.
Since her arrival at Westminster, she had caught nary a glimpse of Henry. She stared at the old man seated on the throne he had occupied for more than a quarter of a century. She feared a strong breeze might carry him away. He was robed in what appeared to be a richly embroidered shroud, as if expecting death at any moment.
This was the powerful ruler of England and Normandie, until recently arch enemy of Angevins. He was not known for his brutality, unlike his conquering father, but he was crafty, rooting out opposition and making alliances with those who would help him protect his realm. She was a pawn in that game. He held her fate in his grasp. What move did he contemplate as he beheld her quaking before him?
Ermintrude slithered down from her place on high to shove Peri forward. “Kneel, girl.”
She feared that if she curtseyed she would fall over and be unable to rise again. Henry saved her. “There is no need. Approach, child.”
She walked towards him, her head bent low, not understanding how she still remained upright when her legs had churned to butter. Inches from the throne, she stopped.
“You are Peridotte de Pontrouge in Anjou, daughter of Robert de Pontrouge?”
Henry’s voice was strangely kind, and seemed to hold no threat.
“Oui,” she replied in a voice she did not recognise.
Ermintrude poked her hard in the back.
Sweat trickled between her breasts, releasing the perfume of the potpourri.
“Oui, my liege.”
Henry’s nose twitched. His gaze came to rest on her breasts for a brief moment before he turned his attention to a stout man standing nearby. “Chancellor, read the document.”
Document? A warrant for her arrest? The deed of judgement detailing the place and time of her execution?
A high pitched voice interrupted her thoughts. She dragged her eyes to the richly attired Chancellor. Surely such a voice could not emanate from a man as round as a barrel, bejeweled with more rings than he had fingers? She narrowed her eyes, trying to make sense of his words.
“...Ellesmere...morrow...”
She gasped. She was to die on the morrow. But where was Ellesmere?
“...betrothed...marriage...”
The pompous Chancellor seemed suddenly to turn on his head. The chamber was spinning. Nothing was as it should be.
I love Geoffrey and he loves me. I cannot wed another.
The strange voice had fallen silent. A beefy face loomed over her. She was lying on the floor. “I must have fainted,” she babbled as she was carried forth from the Throne Room by two burly guards. “What did the lord Chancellor say?”
* * *
Cool air wafted over Peri’s face. Someone called her name. She peeled open one eye. Francine was fanning her with a rolled up parchment, smiling broadly. “You’re awake. Thank goodness.”
Peri inhaled deeply. “What happened?”
Francine laughed, offering Peri a hand to help her sit up. “You fainted in the Throne Room. Caused quite a stir, apparently. The battle-axe is beside herself.”
Peri stayed Francine’s hand, still waving the parchment. “I am recovered now.”
Francine giggled, thrusting the parchment at Peri. “This is yours.”
Peri furrowed her brow. “What is it?”
Francine clasped her hands together, gazing at the ceiling. “No wonder you fainted—overcome with happiness, you lucky girl. I wish I was marrying an earl’s son. It’s your betrothal agreement.”
Peri stared at her friend, her innards doing a strange dance. “Betrothal, but I—”
Francine eyed her curiously. “What?”
“Rien.”
It would be dangerous now to speak of her love for Geoffrey. She supposed Francine suspected, but probably thought it a passing fancy. All young ladies-in-waiting were in love with Geoffrey. Only she knew of his love for her.
Francine swirled away. “Imagine. One day you’ll be a Comtesse. What did you do to deserve such a catch?”
Peri’s head ached. Who was this man Francine prattled about? “I remember mention of Ellesmere.”
Francine clutched a pillow to her breast. “Ellesmere, in the Welsh Marches.”
Dieu! They were packing her off to Wales.
She must have looked stricken because Francine took her hand. “Ellesmere is a prosperous earldom, the English seat of the Montbryce family.”
Peri gasped. “Montbryce?”
The name was well-known to Angevins, uttered with fear and loathing. Montbryces were Norman heroes, famous for their military exploits on behalf of their homeland. Her belly churned. “I’m going to be sick.”
Francine patted her hand, obviously misunderstanding. “Worry not about packing your belongings. It’s taken care of.”
Peri followed the sweep of Francine’s arm. Her trunks were lined up along
the wall. She looked back at her smiling friend.
Francine pointed to the parchment. “Read it.”
Peri blinked. She had forgotten the document in her hand. Dazed, she unfurled it and stared at the symbols on the page. Three words danced before her eyes. Gallien de Montbryce.
Francine sighed. “All is in readiness. You depart on the morrow. I wish I could come with you.”
Peri wished Francine was going in her stead.
* * *
Gallien glared at his father. “Absolutely not.”
Sitting in the lord’s chair in the gallery, Baudoin gripped his knees. “You have no choice.”
Gallien folded his arms across his chest, his legs braced. “I will not submit to this decree. I concede I must marry again, but my bride will not be an Angevin. How can you support this outrage?”
Baudoin shrugged his shoulders. “I have no choice in the matter either. I won’t jeopardize this family by disobeying a royal edict.”
A river of ice flooded Gallien’s veins. “You will throw me to the wolves once again.”
Silence followed. Gallien regretted his outburst. He avoided looking at his father, who had been as devastated as he at the outcome of his first marriage.
They had all been blinded by Felicité’s fair face and noble upbringing. Her father had been indignant at their allegations, refusing to believe his daughter capable of such behavior. He had threatened retaliation for her death, only withdrawing when her dowry lands were returned to him.
Gallien gritted his teeth, remembering the aroma of Felicité’s perfume and how it had intoxicated him. Lavender.
What a simpering fool he had been, lusting for her even as she cuckolded him.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Je m’excuse, Papa. Forgive me.”
Baudoin indicated the other chair by the hearth. “Sit here by me.”
Gallien sat slowly then cradled his head in his hands, studying his feet. “Who is this girl? Why did they say nothing of the matter while Maud was here?”
Baudoin steepled his hands. “The decree is from Henry, not his daughter.”
Infidelity (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 9) Page 5
