Angel of Fire Page 3

  Chrestien sighed. She would dearly love to throw something else at the cad, only there was naught within her grasp.

  How she would miss him. That sweet, lovable oaf.

  To many, their arguing might seem undignified, but she and Aubert were of like temperaments and it seemed he thrived on their wordplay as much as she did. He was the only one who had ever dared to assert himself with her—not even her father had done so. In every sense, Aubert was like a brother to her—a prankish brother, and she adored him beyond measure.

  Once she was cloistered, she realized, she would never see him again. Saddened by the thought, she busied herself with the task of saddling Lightning. And though she’d forbidden herself to cry, a tear stole down her cheek, spurred by the image of her father as he had ridden from the gates of Lontaine to join the Duke. Sweet Jesu, but he and his men had been fearsome to look upon.

  Unlike her sorry band of misfits.

  He had worn his finest armor that day, and had looked so like she imagined the legendary warrior Arthur of Britain might appear. Jongleurs yet sang of his fierce bravery, and she wondered, briefly, if there would ever be ballads sung to Tinchebrai’s dead.

  Henry of England had advised her father against his support of the Duke, warning him that it would be an act of treason, but her father had not seen it as such. The dowry lands Gilbert de Lontaine had once held of Chrestien’s lady mother had been forfeited to Baron Grey upon her death. Perhaps if he had not relinquished his English estates to her grandsire, then he might have felt differently, but as it was, he held land of Normandy’s Duke alone—had sworn fealty to Curthose. And so it was that he had ridden out upon his destrier, clad full in armor to meet his duty... never to return.

  The only comfort Chrestien could take was that she knew the Duke had valued her father, and he had died for something he believed in. Alas, it seemed, he was one of few loyal to the Duke, though she could not fathom why Aleth would not defend his liege. Whatever the reason, her father had known about it and had obviously accepted it—so then could she.

  Composed now, despite the grim turn of her thoughts, she turned to the task of readying Adelaine’s mount as well. As soon as Aubert returned with her sullen sister, they would be ready to ride. Chrestien suddenly felt as though there was a war waging within her belly. Despite her show of bravado, she wasn’t at all certain she could pull this off.

  What then, if not? What if Aleth did not believe her? What if he already had plans to wed? And what if he chose to take back his lands without bothering to marry dear Adelaine?

  She couldn’t think on any of that right now. As far as she knew, he was an honorable man. There was a task to be done. And now that the path was set, there was no turning back.

  Nearly thirty minutes later, with Adelaine at his heels, Aubert stepped into the bailey and stopped to admire the changeling standing before him. He chuckled inwardly at the sight Chrestien presented.

  She wore men’s braies tucked into thick brown leather boots, and a hauberk that fell nearly to her shins—on her father it had fallen about the knees. But if her disguise made him smile, he frowned as his gaze fell upon her hair. It now fell scant inches below her shoulders—worn to a length like that of a peasant boy’s. Her perfect face was blackened with soot from the hearth to make her creamy skin seem more weathered, and she carried her grandfather’s heavy jewel-hilted broadsword in her scabbard. Finally, Gilbert’s spare shield, which was an elongated oval shape and bore his chosen device—a golden, winged lion, poised for flight—she carried in her hand.

  He marveled that she would even be able to stand upright in her father’s coat of mail as heavy as it was. It had taken Aubert years to acquire the dexterity to carry his coat with ease. Yet, here stood Gilbert’s daughter, bearing its entire weight proudly upon her small body. She stood barely to his chest in height and he could look down on the pate of her head, but aye, she did look like a man at this moment—or rather a boy-man, for she was whisker-less, with skin as smooth as a baby’s arse. The heavy mail hauberk, worn over an ill-fitting undertunic, flattened her breasts effortlessly. And her heavy boots, stuffed with cloth, hid the delicate curve of her limbs. To give herself the appearance of one who has labored, she had soiled her hands with grime, blackening her skin with it until it was nearly a part of her flesh. Then, she had applied grease to the unruly curls that fell upon her nape.

  “Jesu!” Adelaine exclaimed. “I would not believe it did I not see it with mine own two eyes!”

  Chrestien grinned, flashing a pearly white smile—she had bitten him once with those perfect teeth—once when they were both no more than six and he had stolen her tart.

  “Shall I do, then?” she asked, standing tall and smiling at Adelaine. Then, she turned to Aubert, squaring her dainty shoulders, as she awaited the verdict.

  Both Aubert and Adelaine stared at her, blinking.

  “Well?” Chrestien prompted, when no one spoke up.

  Aubert was one summer younger than she was but he seemed far older than his years. His golden hair and well-chiseled features resembled those of their father’s so much that she had oft suspected him to be her father’s bastard. Alas, her father had never admitted as much, so out of respect Chrestien had never pressed. And yet, he was a brother to her in every sense of the word.

  “You’ll do,” he assured with a tender smile.

  Adelaine giggled, covering her mouth. She scrunched her nose prettily. “God’s truth—I would be most insulted if they thought you my twin now,” she said with mock severity, but the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

  Chrestien deepened her voice. “’Tis good to know, my lovely cousin,” she replied.

  Aubert shook his head. “Please don’t do that, Chrestien.”

  She peered at Aubert, deepening her voice again. “Do what?”

  “Talk that way.”

  Chrestien placed a hand upon her hip, challenging him. “How then?”

  “By the grace of God, not as though you have swallowed a frog.”

  “Frog indeed!” She eyed her sister pointedly. “On a more serious note, do not make the mistake of calling me by my given name. From hence forth, I am Christopher.”

  “I shall have to practice!” Adelaine said.

  Chrestien frowned. “Please do—oft! If they discover our ruse, neither of us will much like the repercussions.” As absent-minded as Adelaine was, Chrestien vowed to watch over every word her sister uttered, for neither was Adelaine a very convincing liar. She sighed heavily for if ever there was an honest soul, it would have to be her sweet sister and she felt more than a little guilty about making her play a part in this deceit.

  It was for her own good.

  Aubert helped Adelaine settle upon her chestnut mare, then turned to Chrestien and watched, dumbfounded, as she tried to leap upon Lightning’s back. She missed her target entirely and slid down the agitated horse only to land in a shiny metallic heap upon the ground.

  He could barely stifle his laughter when she arose from the dust, brushed herself off and started to climb upon the poor animal yet again. It was just like her to think she would be capable of mounting a horse the size of her gelding clad in fifty pounds of armor. The blessed girl seemed to think herself invincible.

  It was time to go to her rescue, he knew, for she would never ask for help.

  “Allow me to assist you, minx,” he said with a chuckle. He stooped to make a riser of his linked hands. Although even as he proffered the aid, he had to admit that he was loath to end the comedy.

  Chrestien’s expression turned somber and she whispered for his ears alone, “’Twould be wise, I think, if I were never to mount before others, lest they think me a weakling.”

  Aubert agreed, clenching his jaw painfully to keep from laughing. And yet to his way of thinking there was naught about Chrestien de Lontaine that was weak or timid. God help any man who dared get in her way.

  Her father had spoiled her, of a certain, but she did not spoil herself. T
hat distinction was quite important to note. He knew Gilbert would have been proud to see the way she took charge of Adelaine’s and her futures. In truth, she’d turned a hopeless situation into a passable plan: First, she had sent word to de Montagneaux, explaining that Lord Gilbert de Lontaine, God rest his soul, had favored a betrothal between Lord Aleth and his only daughter, Adelaine. Furthermore, in the event of Gilbert’s untimely death, any proposed marriage contract was to be negotiated through Gilbert’s nephew, Christopher and that Christopher awaited Aleth’s decision on the matter at Lontaine. Did he wish to wed the lady Adelaine, or nay? As a final touch, the letter was predated to the eighteenth of May, in the year of Our Lord 1106—the date of Gilbert’s departure from Lontaine. The parchment was rolled and sealed.

  The reply had come speedily. Aye, Aleth did wish to wed the lady Adelaine, and Christopher was to bring her to Montagneaux with all due haste. It had been concluded as simply as that. As for herself, having no wish to wed, Chrestien planned to seek the convent once Adelaine was wed. Aubert loathed the very thought.

  At last, they were ready to ride.

  Chrestien shifted uneasily in her saddle, knowing full well that once they set out, she might never see the inside of these bailey walls again.

  Those who were not coming with them had gathered to see them away, and now she felt a terrible pang of sorrow at the thought that she might never see these familiar folk again. Janelle, Aubert’s mother, had chased her about the keep with a hair comb more times than she could recall. The falconer’s son, now grown, had shown her how to tend the aviary. And the stable master had greeted her each morning before her daily rides, often with a knowing wink, for he’d known her father had not truly given his permission. Their eyes now followed her, glistening with unshed tears. A few dabbed at the corners of their eyes and swiped their cheeks.

  A thousand nervous fingers pricked Chrestien’s flesh as she gave the gatekeeper a wave of her hand. She couldn’t quite find her voice to give the order. He lowered the drawbridge at once, and as it fell, her anxiety rose, until her palms were moist and the silver helm she held threatened to slip from her grasp. Shoring up her nerves, she placed the conical helm upon her head and adjusted the nose guard.

  For better or worse, it was time to go.

  She waited as Aubert hauled himself onto his own mount, then led the way through the gate and onto the wooden bridge spanning the dry moat that encircled Lontaine’s masonry walls.

  She didn’t dare turn as a procession of hooves cantered behind her, echoing noisily as each man crossed the bridge. And then, only once all had passed, she turned and motioned for the gates to be closed again, knowing that the guard would not reopen them until Aubert returned... alone... to hold the keep for Aleth since Gilbert had not had any legitimate sons to inherit. Gilbert had always feared his name would end with his daughters, and now it would certainly come to pass.

  For just a moment, Chrestien stared up at the donjon tower, soaring high above the walls, wishing she were a man. Her entire history had been writ here… and today marked the end of life as she knew it. If all went as planned, never again would she walk through these gates, never would she roam those halls.

  Lamenting it would change nothing.

  Straightening in the saddle, she peered once more at the gatekeeper and gave him a last wave, tears pricking her eyes. And then without another backward glance, she turned and led the troop away from the Norman castle.

  * * *

  The morning proceeded without incident.

  After three hours, the cavalcade had covered much more territory than Chrestien had deemed possible. But she was anxious to have the journey done.

  “How much longer?” she asked Aubert.

  Shielding his eyes, he inspected the horizon. “’Tis difficult to say. Montagneaux is not more than twenty miles as the crow flies, but—”

  “We are not crows, Aubert.”

  Aubert gave her a harried glance—the same one he had given her much of the day. “As I was saying, minx… alone I could have made it to Montagneaux in less than a day, But—”

  “But,” she reminded him, “you are not alone.” She leaned closer to add, “You must cease brooding at once, because your uncertainty is plaguing Adelaine. These circumstances cannot be undone,” she advised him.

  The two of them shared a knowing look and Chrestien knew he was as rueful about the situation as she was. But there was nothing to be done for it. Her father had not asked to die and neither did they have another choice. Aubert's constant naysaying since leaving Lontaine had filled Adelaine’s head with doubts and neither was Chrestien immune to them as well.

  Aubert sighed, though he nodded. Resigned, he said, “We will not see our destination until the morrow, I think.”

  Alas, Chrestien had dared to hope they might sleep in a bed tonight, but she realized the caravan of villein had slowed them considerably. Most of these men had never ridden a horse before today—and especially not in armor. Their horses were old to boot. Big Adam sat upon a nag so arthritic that Chrestien swore she heard the animal's bones creak. And yet, despite the grim mood and their discomfort, they rode on without protest, even as the sun baked down upon their heads.

  Chrestien’s own helm became a veritable oven and yet, neither did she complain. If her villein could suffer in silence, so too could she.

  Thankfully, dusk seemed to fall before it was due, bringing with it a welcome respite from the heat. But with nightfall would come the cold, and she worried about her people. Summer had waned like the innocence of youth and fall had brought with it a foreboding cold that prickled the bones.

  Once the men were too exhausted to ride any longer and night began to lower, Aubert found a suitable spot to make camp for the night.

  Chrestien settled Adelaine into their small tent, then saw to the needs of the rest, before joining Aubert and Adelaine to share one last meal together.

  By the light of a single taper, the three sat together in contemplative silence—Adelaine with such a glum expression on her face that Chrestien yearned to comfort her, but she thought better of it. If she showed the least bit of weakness in regards to this situation, she knew Adelaine would worry and once Adelaine began to fret, all would be undone. It was one thing to turn Aubert’s foul mood and another to persuade her sister’s good humor.

  “What think you of Aleth?” Adelaine asked suddenly, turning her golden eyes on Aubert.

  “I think him most appealing,” Chrestien interjected, before Aubert could speak. “Don’t you?” She was certain Adelaine could find naught amiss with the man, but she wanted to hear it from her sister’s own lips. Chrestien warned Aubert with her eyes to guard his words.

  “Aye.” Adelaine said. “He is. Though I would rather not have to wed a man I did not know.”

  “He will treat you well,” Aubert assured. “You have no cause for concern, Adelaine.” But he set down his napkin and made an excuse to leave, looking more sullen than Chrestien had ever seen him.

  Once he was gone, Adelaine removed her bliaut to sleep in her chainse. She pulled the garment over her head as she worried some more. “I hope he will be pleased with me as well.”

  “You must cease fretting,” Chrestien admonished, though, in truth, her thoughts had settled upon little else since they had set this plan in motion. She hoped the same—with all her heart—and did not like it one bit that she could not remember very much about the man her father considered his friend.

  She tried to imagine her sister married and sighed at the picture presented in her head—long flowing gowns and a veil of lace, satin ribbons in her golden hair—all things that Chrestien had never dared to consider for herself.

  It still bothered her somewhat that Aleth had not stood with Curthose beside her father—despite that her father had accepted it—and despite that Aleth had apparently given him a handful of knights to fortify his troops. Something about all that niggled at Chrestien’s belly and filled her head with thoughts she’d
rather not contemplate.

  But they had no other choice. That was the sad truth.

  Adelaine folded her apparel into a neat pile next to the only pallet in the tent and laid down next to Chrestien.

  Making certain her helm and sword were within reach, Chrestien blew out the candle and settled herself into the darkness, fully dressed.

  Outside the tent, Chrestien heard Aubert’s voice as he spoke to one of the men and then established himself outside their tent.

  “Chrestien,” Adelaine whispered. “Do you truly think we will fool Aleth?”

  Despite the shadows, Chrestien could not look at her sister lest Adelaine discern the worry in her face. “Aye,” she said without hesitation.

  “What if he discovers the ruse?”

  Chrestien shrugged. “He may simply think it amusing… or he may be angered... who can truly know. He seemed amiable enough.”

  “Do you think I should tell him once you are gone?”

  “If you please, though you should wait until I am well away.”

  In the silence that fell between them, Chrestien felt the weight of her sister’s concern and she thought to distract her. “Tell me… why does our Viking ancestry fascinate you so?”

  Adelaine sighed. “Papa was proud of our bloodline—but of course, he would be the first to own that sometimes our forefathers took the path of violence much too oft. Aleth’s blood hails to the Northmen as well—do you think he is a violent man?”

  “Was father a violent man?” Chrestien returned, knowing the answer already.

  “No,” Adelaine replied thoughtfully.

  Outside, the sounds of men stirring stopped entirely as everyone settled for the night.

  Chrestien felt a pang in her heart. “Mayhap you will enlighten me someday about our ancestry—now that Papa is gone.” she suggested with a lump in her throat. “We can write letters, you and I. ’Tis like as not the nuns will compel me to my studies.”

  Never would she admit she had been studying already. Nor that she oft stole a peek at the journal Adelaine kept, though she did wish to tell Adelaine how very moving her prose was. It was amazing that her sister could spend long hours composing such beautiful verses. From her manuscripts she had learned everything from the poetry of the Norse to the application of simples. When the villagers grew ill, it was Adelaine they sought and when their cows produced no milk, they came to her gentle sister as well.