Come to Me

by Tessa Fairfax

  All the same, it behooved Grégoire to watch. And listen.

  But this night, he had an additional matter to attend to. Earlier, he had passed a few moments in conversation with Lady Aislinn’s father and his men, but had allowed Albert to take over the discussion so that he might concentrate on her, alone.

  He replaced his goblet upon the table. “My compliments on the wine,” he said to his fashionably refined betrothed at his elbow. Following the traditions of her folk, she had served him and the other diners from a ceremonial ewer. Now she sat beside him. “Where does it come from?”

  At the lady’s far side, her sister, Bridget, was leaning forward to capture anything spoken. She dutifully repeated his question in English to her.

  He stifled a curse. Even such a simple question was too much for the girl? Still, she was passing fair, and looking at her put him in mind of how long it had been since he’d lain with a woman. A long time.

  The gossamer veil she wore, held in place by a finely wrought bronze circlet, cascaded softly over her raven hair. One sleek tendril had escaped over her shoulder to curl upon the white skin above her breast—delicate flesh exposed by the low neckline of her gown.

  The familiar hunger surged through him, howling his need to wed soon. He could avail himself of willing maidservants and villagers, but the possibility of peppering the landscape with his by-blows kept him from acting. Although, he had given it some serious thought, hadn’t he, in the monks’ orchard that morn? He felt a smile beginning to spread on his face.

  Involuntarily, his gaze locked with Bridget’s. He beat down the unwelcome interest that sparked to life in his gut. Quickly and ruthlessly, he quashed any thought along those lines. He couldn’t afford to wander there. It spelled only disaster.

  At least, Aislinn seemed invested in interaction with him and appeared pleased with every word he uttered to her. If he could but keep the girl smiling through the meal and get through the evening without losing his patience altogether, he would consider this courtship a project well begun.

  After his praise of the wine, Aislinn’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and the corners of her lips curled upward. Before she had a chance to reply, Bridget answered the question. “It comes from Aquitaine, my lord. The estates of Comte Verlin.”

  “Ah,” he said, shoving aside how those warm honey eyes of hers seemed to melt all over him. He must remember she awarded him no special beneficence. Women who wanted to be nuns were kind and attentive to everyone, were they not? “That explains it. I know the count and his vineyards. I’m thankful you spare me your English wine.”

  Bridget’s eyebrows dipped into a scowl just before she leaned into her sister and whispered. Aislinn’s expression brightened yet more, and she cast Grégoire a smile and a gracious nod.

  Though Aislinn said nothing, Bridget addressed him in a merry tone. A falsely merry tone with sarcasm underneath. “That you would ever believe us capable of blundering so badly, my lord. Why, we wouldn’t think of serving you English wine.”

  He allowed himself a smile and returned in equally congenial tones, “You served me mead in the bailey. Is that not English wine?”

  She pursed her lips as if restraining her own smile. “And you drank it down without reservation, I noticed. We applaud your heroic fortitude, but no one makes mead better than the English.”

  “Mayhap ’tis so. I don’t care for it.”

  She disregarded his persistence. “Every newcomer says that. They soon feel differently.”

  “Not I. Red wine is my quaff.” To drive his statement home, he grabbed up the goblet of wine and finished off what remained therein. Yet, he felt her watching him, watching his throat as he swallowed, and, blast the woman, her close regard injected his flesh with an insidious warmth very like the slow flame of the wine spreading through his limbs.

  It dawned that Aislinn had been observing their interaction with curiosity. Breaking the silence that stretched, she turned to Bridget and nudged her, uttering a word or two. A brief exchange ensued. Aislinn then bestowed him a radiant smile.

  Bridget leaned forward to say across her, “My sister shall be delighted to sing for you this eve, lord.”

  Aislinn nodded vigorously.

  Grégoire frowned. Had Bridget fabricated what he’d been saying? Perhaps telling her sister he’d been flattering her and asking her to sing? And he’d been worried about the father fabricating words.

  Interesting. He glanced back and forth between the siblings. Bridget, no longer looking at him, was giving her meal an inordinate level of concentration, using her bread and knife to scoop up chunks of meat, which she ate with gusto.

  Aislinn, though, stared benignly at him, waiting. A moment passed before he recalled he was required to morsel out her food for her, selecting choice bits from the platters before them. This was a droll custom in vogue in finer halls. That they practiced such pretense here in the wilds bordering Cumbria made him bite back a snort of derision. But he performed his duty, and it seemed to make the girl happy.

  That is, it seemed to make her happy at first. He had just delivered a slice of peppered pork to her trencher when a small sound she made drew his notice. A pout on her face further expressed some displeasure. Bridget, looking over, quickly assessed her sister’s trencher. “Nothing too spicy, lord. No pepper, no mustard, as little garlic and coriander as possible. Her throat, you see.”

  He nearly freed the curse clamoring on his tongue. “Pray, what is permissible?”

  Bridget scanned the platters marching in a staggered parade down the center of the table. “No heavy meat. The grouse with the mustard sauce scraped off is suitable. And the salmon fillet if it is fresh and not salted.” Bridget smiled broadly at him. “Any leafy vegetable, plain or in a mild butter sauce, is acceptable, as well. And only water to drink.”

  “God’s teeth, the girl will never bear me sons if she adheres to such a diet.”

  He’d been unable to contain the volume of his voice, and everyone turned his way.

  Aislinn’s eyes widened as round as saucers.

  “What is amiss, my lord?” Oelwine queried.

  Bridget leaned over the table to address her father. “Do not concern yourself, Father. A minor misunderstanding in the language is all.”

  She cast Grégoire a scolding glower, at which he scowled right back. Everyone knew red meat and spicy foods in copious measure produced male offspring. He wouldn’t stand for this.

  However, what was he to do? He wasn’t about to force food down the wench’s gullet. Not just yet, leastwise. Thus, how was he to determine which of the many dishes was or was not too seasoned for her tender throat?

  An arrangement was soon arrived at whereby Aislinn would point to an item she desired, and Grégoire would convey it to her trencher. This worked out well for a period of time, until she began refusing his offerings.

  “Aislinn prepares to sing,” was Bridget’s explanation.

  Praying for patience, he stuffed a hunk of bread into his mouth to keep the growl in his throat.

  How had he ever thought wooing a maiden would be simple? He must have been delusional.

  And to demand assistance from the woman whose kiss he even now could not get out of his mind…

  He must have landed in Fairie, where up was down and right was left.

  And desire pointed in all the wrong directions.

  Chapter Nine

  The hall grew silent listening to Aislinn’s haunting song. Karlan accompanied her on his psaltery, and never had the two sounded better, Bridget thought. Candles were guttering over their holders, Father Usrich was snoring, and the earl reclined contentedly in his lord’s chair, stretching out his long legs.

  On her own little pedestal seat a few feet over, Bridget stiffened when the muscular knight’s sprawl brought him closer to her. He leaned an elbow upon the near arm of his chair and patted the seat that Aislinn had vacated.

  She glanced over. He was waiting expectantly for her to take her sister’s
spot.

  With a quick roll of her eyes, she shifted from her armless little seat with the thin cushion into Aislinn’s much nicer, armed chair. The lady’s chair. How nice to have a firm, high back to lean against!

  Uneasy, she looked around. No one had taken note of her movement.

  “This goes well, do you not agree?” the earl asked in tones low enough not to risk disturbing the entertainment.

  Askance, she asked, “Aislinn’s song, you mean?”

  He smirked at her attempt to deflect. “You interpreting betwixt us.”

  She shrugged a shoulder for answer and intensified her observation of the entertainers.

  “How is it you speak my language fluently when none other seems to have grasped it so well?”

  He would pursue a conversation now? Hoping to quiet him, she leaned and whispered, “Abbot Giles. He came from Rouen, as you mayhap know. When he was installed as abbot, I took to conversing with him daily—” She checked herself. Alas, she’d broached the very topic she’d been hoping to avoid with him, her visiting the abbey. “Well, I am good with tongues,” she finished. Then she scolded herself inwardly for putting it in such a way as to recall their scandalous kiss.

  “Indeed,” was his flat reply. She felt his eyes scouring her. After a moment, he continued. “So, Giles approves of your visits to his abbey.”

  “I would not visit without his consent.”

  There was a length of silence, then he asked, “How is it such a woman as you is bound for the cloister?”

  She darted a look his way. Over each of his shoulders peered a fanged beast hewn into the back of the chair, grim sentinels poised to lunge upon whosoever offended their master.

  “Such a woman as what?” she asked archly.

  “One who visits men alone in the wee hours of morn, and kisses strangers the way you do.”

  Heat sprang to her face. “You kissed me!”

  “And you kissed me back.”

  “I did not!” She balled her fists in her lap. How dare he bring this up—his brash forwardness and her disconcerting receptiveness? Her heart beat so forcefully she could feel it in her cheeks.

  “You did, and heaven help good Brother Lefrid should you award him such attentions.”

  “Brother Lefrid?” She gaped at him in outrage. What a beastly man! Her brow tingled, and her palms were drenched with moisture. She glanced about to ensure no one heeded their conversation. It appeared those not enraptured by Aislinn’s singing were engrossed in devouring Cook’s delectations and had no interest in trying to follow the rapid exchange in Norman between the new lord and his interpreter.

  “You are utterly mistaken about me, lord. Utterly. Or you jest to wound me. As are the brothers, I am devoted to contemplation of spiritual matters. Concerns of the flesh do not interest me.”

  His lips twisted. “Your kiss this morn belies you.” He set his gaze upon the crucifix at her breast and nodded toward it. “This is a good cover. None would question your interest in an abbey and the monks therein. However, I know men are men, regardless of their costumes.”

  She grasped the holy symbol protectively. “’Tis sacrilege to speak so!”

  How odious he was! No different from Samson with his taunting and leering. Samson had called her lumbering and stupid. Of course, with maturity had come wisdom, and she now understood that she hadn’t been lumbering, just…studious, and early to develop the plumper parts of a woman’s body. He’d been the stupid one, never able to grasp reading and writing, and hating her for being so good at it.

  FitzHenri’s gaze lingered where her hand clutched the cross. “I shall speak with Abbot Giles,” he said. “You are forbidden henceforth from venturing there.”

  Her jaw sagged. “But you can’t—” The glower he fired directly into her eyes curtailed her argument. “But I… But— Brother Lefrid is expecting me back.”

  “Brother Lefrid will have to take his vows more seriously in future. You will not go to him.”

  She could not credit what he was saying. She glared at him. “You would deny a dying man his final smiles? What kind of—”

  “Lady, if his smile is due to your services, yea, I will deny him. ’Tis not safe for you to go there, and I won’t have a member of my family” —his eyes traveled insolently over her—“purveying her charms.”

  “Purvey— What?” A nervous, angry protest bubbled up in her as comprehension dawned. “My charms?” Too easily, he made her feel like the awkward, precociously curvy, self-conscious girl she had once been. She had outgrown all of that, but she still couldn’t bear having her body or femaleness the focus of any discussion or male perusal. “My lord, you must be sotted. You cannot think that any man would pay to lie with me. Or that I would agree to such disgusting indignity.”

  “Whether coin is exchanged or no, you will visit the abbey no longer.”

  “But I cannot break my promise!”

  Her plea fell on deaf ears. His lordship sat forward and renewed his interest in the meat heaped upon his trencher, pulling apart the tender grouse remaining there. He inspected the bits of fowl, even bending down to sniff the aroma. Then he abandoned the meat and cleaned his fingers on a clout. His apparent distaste for her favorite dish irked her as much as did the man himself.

  “Is the fowl not to your liking, my lord? This is Cook’s most prized preparation.”

  “Red meat is my preference. You like it, though. Here, take mine.” He made to slide his silver trencher her way.

  Horrified, she put up a hand. “How do you know I like it?”

  “You devoured your portion earlier with great relish.”

  “Oh.” Bridget glanced away, mortified. Ladies’ appetites were expected to be dainty, not hearty.

  Ah, well. She’d never counted herself a real lady. Why start now?

  At her rejection of his offer, he moved on to more of the roasted beef. She’d sacrificed Oelwine’s best steer for this meal, hoping for leftovers to amend meals in the hall for several days, but the blasted man was making quick work of devouring it all on his own.

  Moments later, his fist pounded upon the table. This startled her, but she soon realized Aislinn’s song had come to an end and this was how the brute applauded. His Norman soldiers did likewise, splashing the contents of their goblets and making wooden bowls knock together. The English clapped hands or stamped feet, as she was accustomed to.

  Aislinn, wholly in her element to receive such ovation, smiled and curtsied deeply. She gleamed like starshine in the candlelight.

  FitzHenri rose, a serious, appreciative look upon his face. What man wouldn’t be proud to call Aislinn his bride? It wasn’t by error that her family had so readily handed the role of heiress to the second daughter once the first had decided on another life. Aislinn’s beauty had astounded everyone since her swaddling days.

  “Another, my lady,” he roared in passable English, at which the denizens of the hall cheered in concurrence.

  Her sister and Karlan conferred briefly, squabbling a bit as was their wont, then commenced a new song. The hall quieted once more.

  When the earl resumed his place beside her, Bridget instinctively took a deep breath. Sweet St. Hilda, how his nearness drove her pulse racing and her wits scattering. Why, when he was a man like all the others she’d been avoiding much of her life?

  She needed to find a way to escape this torture. To get her sister’s betrothal settled, so she might move forward to her life of purity and prayer.

  But how?

  Suddenly she brightened. Men loved to believe that a beautiful girl like Aislinn admired them. It shouldn’t be too hard to move this project along more quickly, and get FitzHenri out of her life for good.

  She just had to embellish his suit a bit, ’twas all.

  Chapter Ten

  Bam, bam, bam!

  A thunderous pounding sliced through the black void. It stabbed painfully at Grégoire’s skull, rousing him from the recesses of a dreamless sleep. He lay prostrate, heavy, l
ike a warrior felled from behind, and the low region at the back of his head ached, rendering his neck and shoulders wooden.

  The blows drove his face deeper into the mattress, as if a mob were raining stones upon him.

  At length, a voice registered in accompaniment to the relentless barrage. “My Lord Earl, awaken, I beg you!”

  He opened a bleary eye. Darkness surrounded him, as inky as his favorite horse’s coat, and the air clung chill and damp to his naked back. With a glance to the tiny cruciform aperture high on the balcony door, he saw no glimmer of light heralding morn. He closed his eye.

  “Is the stronghold under assault?” he rasped through his parched voice box, and gathered the fortitude to rise. It felt as though someone had stuffed his mouth with dry sackcloth, which scratched his tongue and left the taste of sour milk.

  Christ, but he hurt all over. The merrymaking had gone on well into the night, blast these English and their traditions. They drank endless rivers of fermented honey in gilded horns of unknowable volume. Their high-raftered hall blocked out the daylight so one knew not whether the sun or the moon rode the sky. They numbed the ears with their orations and oaths and speechifying—

  “Tidings, lord,” the voice returned, this time without the wretched thudding upon the door. A female voice. Both his eyes opened. Lady Bridget was at his door?

  “Nay, we are not under assault,” she told him through the door. “But I—”

  “Then why disturb my slumber at this unholy hour?”

  “I must get to the abbey, and I need your assistance.”

  As much as the oldest daughter of his seneschal intrigued him, as much as the woman roused his body and entertained his mind, at this particular moment his belly was roiling and his eyeballs burned. “Return at a more reasonable time,” he managed. “Such as daybreak.”