Castles in the Air

by Christina Dodd

“In noble castles, this isn’t done.”

  That seemed to be Isabel’s final word on the subject, but Geoffroi turned to his son. “You’ll cure her of this lunacy, of course.”

  Raymond said, “ ’Tis a woman’s decision.”

  “A woman’s decision?” Geoffroi seemed honestly scandalized. “When a fire from within could destroy a castle’s ability to repulse attackers?”

  Raymond swallowed his trepidation. “Not all can remain as it was during your youth.”

  “I see what it is. You’re soft on the woman.” Geoffroi bent his lips into a dictatorial smile. “Let me give you some advice. It never pays to be soft on a woman.”

  Raymond looked at his mother. She formed the other half of the iron tongs that pinched him, gripped him, threw him in the fires of hell, for money or prestige. “I’ll remember that.”

  Unconvinced of his son’s sincerity, Geoffroi leaned into the attack. “If you were a real man, you’d settle this matter right now.”

  The battle cry of manipulative fathers caught Raymond unprepared. He rose to his feet, primed to satisfy the masculine challenge even if he had to crush Juliana’s pride to rubble. Only a small, eager voice saved him.

  “Lord Raymond,” squeaked Ella, “may we sit in your lap?”

  He looked down at the two skinny, smiling children. Ella was blissfully unaware of the fire raging in him, and even Margery underestimated the danger. She watched him with grave eyes, waiting to see if he would accept the invitation to join her inner circle, not realizing she’d picked a moment of raging male ego to extend the invitation.

  Juliana knew. “I yield!” she proclaimed. “The kitchen shall be as my lord commands. Only don’t…” She clasped her hands in supplication. “My lord Raymond, I beg you, don’t…”

  He understood her plea. Don’t hurt the children, she wanted to say, but she didn’t want to suggest such violence within their hearing and destroy that newly forged trust between Raymond and the girls. With a smile that showed all his teeth, he reseated himself and patted his knees. “Sit,” he invited. When the girls had settled themselves, and he’d wrapped an arm around each one of them, he said to Geoffroi, “You see? A simple matter, easily settled. Lady Juliana will do as I command—and I command the kitchen remain where it is.” He ignored the huffs of indignation emanating from his father and asked Juliana, “If that is what you desire?”

  Confused and overwhelmingly thankful, Juliana agreed, “Oh…aye.”

  For all that it was almost justified, her gratitude and the accompanying distrust it betrayed irked him.

  Tucking her short cloak tighter around her shoulders, Isabel stepped into the breach. “Raymond, you know we only want the best for you. Now that we’re here, we’ll begin negotiations on your wedding contract and perhaps plan the day you can say your vows. ’Twill be a lengthy process, of course.”

  “The wedding date is set,” Raymond said, the muscles of his neck straining as he tried to muffle his frustration.

  His mother picked at her needlework. “For next spring, I presume?”

  “Much might happen by spring,” he answered.

  “Aye.” Geoffroi sheathed his toothpick with the flourish most men reserved for a sword. “Much.”

  The air hung heavy, and the unpremeditated words flew from Raymond’s mouth. “We wed on the morning of Twelfth Night.”

  “Twelfth Night?” Ella cried.

  “Only a fortnight away!” Margery said approvingly.

  “What a Christmas this will be.” Ella’s eyes shone, and the two girls giggled together.

  Juliana said not a word, but the hand bar thumped and the shuttle flew. Perhaps she hadn’t heard—he could only pray that was the truth.

  “Mon petit”—his mother drawled, and he hated it when she assumed that superior tone—“you were always so impetuous. Surely your bride doesn’t wish to marry so soon.”

  Juliana didn’t lift her head from the cream-colored wool stretched before her, but a hectic color rose up her neck and burned in her cheeks. “According to the king’s command, we should have been wed a year ago last spring. So whenever we wed, ’twill be late.”

  Some of the tightness in Raymond’s chest eased. Regardless of what she would say later, for tonight she supported him.

  “Ah.” His mother nodded, understanding. “So many girls long for the moment when they may unite with a great family and raise themselves to a higher station. Raymond has come to you, and your dreams are fulfilled.”

  “Mother.”

  Wrath exploded from Raymond, but Juliana waved him to silence. “It is my assessment that I am raising Raymond’s station, since he comes quite without coin or land.”

  Raymond winced. A good parry, he acknowledged, but she hadn’t pierced the thick armor that surrounded his parents. Only his pride had been wounded. In a battle between his parents and Juliana, he suspected, his pride might be fatally overcome.

  “You want both an honored family name and title and riches?” Isabel tittered. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all. His honored name and title are of no use to me. His only use is as a warrior, and for that he might as well be an itinerant knight.”

  Geoffroi smiled patronizingly. “My child, perhaps you don’t understand. Raymond is the king’s cousin.”

  “The king has many cousins,” Juliana retorted, repeating what Raymond had told her.

  “He’s the king’s favorite cousin. They ride together. They hunt together. Henry asks his advice on state matters and personal matters.” Geoffroi walked to his son, threw his arm around him, and hugged him with the enthusiasm he displayed only for his most useful treasures. “Raymond is one of the most influential men of the court.”

  Geoffroi’s patronizing tone visibly shook Juliana’s composure. She sought Raymond’s eyes, asked for the truth without words. Sheepish, he shrugged and spread out his hands, palms up.

  “The king’s dearest cousin?” Juliana said slowly, and Raymond’s parents began reciting the greatest doings in the kingdom in a light, chatty tone that made them all the more corporeal.

  “He’s Queen Eleanor’s cousin, too.” Isabel lifted one eyebrow. “Didn’t you know?”

  She’d been ordering a great lord to build her wall? Numbed by embarrassment, Juliana shook her head.

  “Eleanor of Aquitaine is a great woman, a powerful woman, a true statesman.” Isabel clasped her hands to her slight bosom.

  “Making a damn fuss about Henry’s newest mistress, though,” Geoffroi said. “Henry’s gotten Eleanor with child again. What else could she desire?”

  Raymond interposed, “War—if Henry doesn’t show her some respect.”

  “War?” Geoffroi chuckled. “War? How could a woman hope to win against Henry, lord of half of France and all England?”

  “She has sons.”

  “They’re young,” Geoffroi argued.

  “They will grow.” Raymond throttled the worst of his animosity. “The young king is twelve. He’s vain and argumentative, and he hates his father. Richard is nine, and promises to be as great a warrior as Henry. He’s Eleanor’s favorite, and he hates his father. There’s Geoffrey, who is eight. He’s too intelligent to accept Henry’s constant neglect, so he hates his father. If this child Eleanor carries is another boy, and Henry continues to treat their mother with such disrespect, he’s planted the seeds for years of rebellion.”

  “The princes aren’t ripe for rebellion,” Geoffroi complained.

  “Yet.” The resentment, held by so tight a rein for so long, burst from Raymond. “Yet. Trust me, Father, I know how a lad feels about a derelict father. Henry’s sons have the Angevin temperament, years of disregard to avenge, and their mother’s resources with which to wage war. ’Tis a dangerous combination.”

  Geoffroi proved himself to be a diplomat of consummate skills—he changed the subject. “The nonsense with that sheriff’s son wouldn’t have occurred if Raymond had been at Henry’s side.”

&nbs
p; Obviously shaken by the evidence of intimacies between royalty and her betrothed, Juliana stammered, “Do you mean the exile of the archbishop of Canterbury?”

  “Some call him Thomas à Becket,” Geoffroi said disdainfully. “He’s just a commoner Henry raised to chancellor, then to archbishop, and an ungrateful commoner, too.”

  “I don’t know about that, Father.” Raymond’s countenance tightened, and the resemblance between father and son became acute. “I thought Thomas a consummate statesman with a mind exceeding any in our age.”

  Geoffroi’s handsome, aging face stiffened. “Both you and Henry have a dreadful tendency to weigh men on their merits rather than their titles. Don’t you yet realize the nobility are naturally superior beings? God wills it so.”

  Raymond leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “The only time you express such pious opinions is when you’re affirming your own preeminence.”

  Puffing out his chest, Geoffroi answered, “I am the heir of one of the greatest families in Normandy and Maine. Your mother is the heir of one of the greatest families in Angoulême and Poitou. Our lands stretch for roods through hill and briar, through field and meadow. Do you imagine for a moment we are not superior to almost every living creature on this earth?”

  Tongue in cheek, Raymond said, “Except the king, of course.”

  “Through us you are related to both the king and the queen.” Geoffroi clasped his hands behind his back and paced to a place just outside the firelight. “I would not say we are superior to the king, of course, or to the queen, but our house has survived since time immemorial, while theirs is a young dynasty.”

  Dumbfounded by this flight of arrogance in his already unbearable father, Raymond could only stare.

  In an inspired gesture, Isabel waved her needle. “You are the fruit of our loins, the most perfect product of a perfect union.” She looked at Juliana, then dropped her head in sorrow. “Do you wonder that we wish only the best for you?”

  A silence followed the extravagant claims. A silence broken by Ella’s delighted exclamation. “That’s why the king gave Raymond to Mama. He wanted only the best for him.”

  Margery nodded solemnly to Ella. “Aye, that’s true. Can we call you Papa now?”

  Ella, not to be outdone, flung her arms around Raymond’s neck and placed a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek. “Can we?”

  Raymond looked at Ella, a sparkling-eyed, mischievous sprite who welcomed him wholeheartedly. He looked at Margery, who understood too well what his parents meant but who abetted him with all the fervor at her youthful disposal. Disarmed by the homage so sincerely paid, he said, “I would be honored to be called Papa by you.”

  “We’re your parents,” Isabel objected. “We’re the ones who love you.”

  “As the devil loves holy water.” Raymond boosted the girls to their feet. “To sleep with you. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

  Margery curtsied. “Aye, Papa.”

  Ella followed her lead. “God keep you ’til the morn, Papa.”

  Isabel cried, “You listen to those two cozening little—”

  Geoffroi laid a ponderous hand on her shoulder, and Isabel snapped her mouth shut.

  Dagna led the girls away. She would bed them down in a far corner and protect them from the impending battle, Raymond knew, and he blessed the hunchbacked woman with all his heart.

  “You still have those witches with you, I see.” Isabel’s acid burned all the more for being earlier diverted.

  “You recognize them, then, Mother?” Raymond asked. “Part of your majestic family?”

  “How childish, mon petit.” The acid bubbled, and Isabel etched his soul with a threat. “If you insist on wedding”—she gestured at Juliana—“that, I’ll strip you of the title of Avraché.”

  Raymond stood and held out his hand to Juliana. Braced for her rejection, he breathed easier when she came to him without hesitation, and he said, “You are asking me to defy the king’s command.”

  Geoffroi dismissed that with a wave. “The king will change his command for enough coin.”

  “I can’t believe you haven’t tried that method already,” Raymond protested incredulously.

  With a regal toss of her head, Isabel said, “Henry has this piddling determination to see you wed. But if you asked him to free you…”

  “Is that what you came here for? To convince me to abandon the freedom I have here and come back into slavery with you?” Raymond laughed harshly and shook his head. “You mock my intelligence, dear mother.”

  Geoffroi’s lips curled back from his teeth. “If you marry into this uncivilized English family, you’ll not be welcome on any of our lands. Not mine, nor your mother’s.”

  Blind with rage and pain, Raymond turned his back and tugged Juliana toward the master bed. With only a slight hesitation, she followed him.

  Breathing hard, Isabel delivered the final blow. “If you marry this harridan, I will give the lands of Avraché to the Church.”

  Pain vibrated from Raymond’s heart, down his arm to where he and Juliana were linked. It leaped from his nerves to Juliana’s and burrowed itself under her skin. He missed the step onto the dais. She caught him as he stumbled, and beneath her hand she felt his painful, indrawn breath. He faced his parents and declared, “Do as you will. I wed Lady Juliana on the morning of Twelfth Night before the church door.”

  “Raymond,” Isabel wailed, disbelieving. “Raymond!”

  Ignoring his mother, he called, “Valeska! I want a tub of snow. Juliana, pull the screen around the bed and shut them all out.”

  Gladly she did as he commanded, shutting out the sight of that wicked woman, that walking plague of a man. “How did you ever grow and flourish?” she mumbled.

  “Lord Peter of Burke, who fostered me, must take the credit or the blame.” He tried to smile. “Until I was knighted and of some function to my parents, they paid me no heed, for either good or ill.” Perching one hip on the bed, he cast a mournful gaze about the room as if he were a man who had lost something he could never find. Like a man who had lost his title and his lands.

  She crossed to his side in a rush and covered his hands with her own. “Will they really do it?”

  His expression was grim. “Do you jest?”

  Of course they would do it. One day in their company convinced her. She wanted to offer her own lands as recompense, but Raymond wasn’t a child to be appeased with one toy when another had been removed. He was a man, and although he’d never talked about Avraché, she knew how her lands sustained her: with their seasons, their fertility, their everlasting beauty. They lived in her soul, and she didn’t know if she could survive without them.

  Raymond shrugged with a creditable imitation of detachment. “I have never had two coins in my pocket at the same time. What difference if I have neither cross nor pile now?”

  Raymond needed her—for her lands, for her wealth—but he needed her. Her prosperity kept this handsome courtier shackled by her side, and she wondered at the tiny, embarrassing thrill of possession her selfishness engendered.

  She sat beside Raymond. “Are you really the king’s dearest adviser?”

  Embarrassed, but honest, he answered, “Henry’s so bloody-minded, you understand. I’ll tell him when he’s a fool.”

  “You call the king a fool?” Pride, previously undiscovered, enveloped her.

  Her Raymond did that.

  Her Raymond. She jerked in dismay.

  Only yesterday she’d believed herself to be the mistress of what Raymond called destiny. Only last night, she’d discovered the true identity of the man perched on her bed. She’d been furious, then horrified. Had she been surprised? Not really. At some point, she’d acknowledged Raymond’s nobility, and the discovery had only reaffirmed her instincts. She’d been hurt. She’d been humiliated. She hadn’t been surprised.

  So when had she started thinking of him as “her Raymond”?

  “Aye, I called him a fool, and quite vigorously, too.” His
lopsided grimace might have been a smile. “Perhaps marrying me isn’t a good idea.”

  “I never thought it was,” she snapped.

  His laughter pealed out. Catching her chin in his fingers, he praised, “Excellent, lady! You vanquished that little bully this morning, and with one blow bought yourself a measure of freedom.”

  Remembering Sir Joseph, she said, “I would it were so easy.”

  “Even a long journey begins with one step.”

  “Do you think I was…brave?”

  “Brave? To strike a man who’d trained, however inadequately, as a knight?” The very darkness around them complemented him, drawing his face in shadows and lines, and his voice rasped with the sincerity of his praise. “Brave is not nearly strong enough a word to describe you today. Savor your victory, and I will finish the business with Felix for you.”

  Juliana turned to see Valeska directing two sturdy lads to place the mounded tub against the head of the bed. “Ah, Valeska, many thanks. This will cure what ails me,” Raymond said. The serving boys looked questioningly at their mistress, who shrugged in mystification.

  Seemingly at ease with this madness of snow inside the already chilly castle, Valeska threw back the furs and laid a hot stone, wrapped in a cloth, at the foot of the bed. She covered it and nodded at Juliana. “That’ll keep your legs warm, my lady.” To Raymond, she said, “Your parents have commandeered the best places by the fire. Geoffroi told your little Lord Felix to stop moaning and holding his nose. Said any man who’s been thrashed by a woman should have the decency to be embarrassed about it.”

  She grinned at Juliana, and Raymond visibly relaxed while kicking off his shoes. Untying the tapes that held his hose, he shook them down his legs and removed them. “You should call my father by his title, Valeska,” Raymond said. “He’ll knock you arsey-versey for disrespect.”

  “I don’t respect him.” Valeska picked up the hose.

  “You can ill stand to lose more teeth, for my father is no respecter of age.” Raymond removed his cloak and doublet, and Valeska took those, too.

  His chainse was linen, worn thin with time, and hugging his chest like a lover’s touch. When he turned, the outlines of some dreadful beating shone clearly though the thin material.