Once Upon a Knight Page 38

  Of course, Aleth was rightfully suspicious that the Wolf and fifteen well-armed knights had ridden onto Montagneaux’s parklands. That was one thing she loved about her husband. He treated her with respect, confiding in her openly. He had been honest with Adelaine in that he was fearful of Henry. He had even confessed that he’d not gone to battle because he had known in his heart that Henry would win. And yet despite that, he had loved her father so well that he had sent fifty of his own men to ride without banners alongside her father against Henry of England. But that they could not tell Henry's Wolf.

  But Adelaine knew Aleth was not a craven man—had seen the proof of it herself. Though he would take no chances where his lands were concerned, Aleth hoped to gain some favor with Henry by treating his favored knight with high regard. Hence, she was sent to bathe this rude creature.

  “It seems the cat has got your tongue!”

  Adelaine blinked at him.

  “At least tell me your name so I may greet the devil’s wife.”

  Adelaine had had enough. She stood, arms akimbo, staring down at the man. “Now you hear me well, sir,” she retorted, waving the wet rag dangerously close to his face. “I will listen to you abuse me, but never will I allow you to speak ill of my lord husband! One more remark and I shall—”

  All of a sudden, he surged from the tub and seized her, tossing her into the tub backside first. A rush of water cascaded down Adelaine’s head as she emerged from the stinking water. Tears sprung to her eyes as she watched Weston’s nude form stalk from the chamber and into the hall—completely unashamed to be seen in his nakedness.

  His voice reverberated throughout the hall, sending a chill down Adelaine’s spine. He roared Aleth’s name again and again. Soon, her husband was in the room.

  Aleth gasped at the sight of her in the tub and his look turned thunderous. “What the hell is going on here, FitzStephen?”

  Chapter Eight

  Weston was too angry to notice Aleth’s murderous glare. “You dare send this wench to bathe me!”

  “You dare question my wife’s position in my home?”

  Weston’s surprise was apparent in his tone. “Your wife?”

  “Aye, FitzStephen, you’ve seen fit to toss my wife into your bathwater! I told ye ’twas she I’d send to bathe you!”

  Weston stared dumbly at the girl in the tub. She remained in her awkward repose until Aleth swept in and lifted her into his arms. Looking far less like a warrior and more like a nursemaid, he crooned softly into her wet head as he carried her to a stool. Gently, he removed the sopping couvrechef from her head, letting her wet mane drop to her waist. Once her hair was revealed, Weston could only stare stupidly at the shivering, wet girl seated upon the stool before him.

  In retrospect, there was no way the little harridan he had left at Lontaine would have weathered this so meekly, he realized.

  Aleth was in the process of drying his wife’s trembling form when Weston spoke again. Noting the length of her hair, he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that she was not the same woman, but she was the spitting image of the vixen he had left at Lontaine. He stumbled for an excuse. “Pardon, my lady… I have only just come from Lontaine—”

  Aleth's wife bounded from the stool. “You have seen my sister, Chrestien? But nay! She was to go to Caen when she left here!”

  Her husband's expression shifted from surprise to anger. “What say ye, wife? Do ye tell me that scrawny cousin of yours was in truth your sister?”

  The lady started to sob at the angry glare her husband gave her. “Please, my dear husband, accept my apology. Did I know you would be so kind, I’d never have agreed to such a ruse.”

  Her explanation seemed to appease Aleth, for his look quickly softened. He drew her into his arms and she dried her eyes, then added, “Please forgive me, Aleth… my father never truly behested you and I marry as I have led you to believe. I know he favored you, but it was Chrestien who decided I should come to you—”

  “Enough.” Aleth said. “I owe your sister a great debt.” She hugged him fiercely and he returned her affection. “In truth, if I am angry over aught ’tis simply because Gilbert never revealed he had twin daughters. I believed there was trust between us, but it appears not.” He swallowed and said, “When I was a boy… your father risked much to protect me when no others were inclined to as Montagneaux and all its lands were usurped by men who were loyal to England.”

  “I did not know,” Lady Adelaine said, peering up at him. “Papa never said.”

  Aleth nodded solemnly. “Aye… when my father was murdered, it was Gilbert who sheltered me until I was of an age to defend my estates.”

  Weston felt as though he were intruding upon the moment, but he remained quiet, hoping to discover what sort of man would swear fealty to Curthose and yet play him false by withholding support when he needed it most. If he had believed Curthose to be the rightful heir, what had made him side with Henry in the final hour?

  Aleth brushed the damp hair from her face and gazed at her lovingly. “In truth, it was for Gilbert I originally agreed to our betrothal, but I have no regrets. And now it all seems so clear—all those times your father refused to allow me to travel the distance to Lontaine. Always he came to Montagneaux instead... it seems he did not trust even me with his lovely daughters.”

  “Oh, but Aleth! He did trust you!” the lady argued. “I believe Papa was so afraid for Chrestien that he kept it even from you. Even so, there were times I believe he wanted you to know the truth.”

  Aleth knitted his brows in puzzlement, and his wife giggled softly. “Do you recall the time he invited you to Lontaine ten years past?” He nodded and she giggled again. “Well, at supper you shared a trencher with both Chrestien and with me... but you did not realize. It seems we were much too young to gain your notice, but you suspected naught and when I excused myself and Chrestien returned in my place, I watched from behind the screen while Chrestien stuffed herself silly... and all you could say about her overindulgence was that she’d eaten enough for two. Oh, how Papa had laughed! Remember?”

  Aleth was smiling now. “Aye,” he said gruffly, “If I recall aright, he spilled his wine upon the ermine of my mantle.”

  “He did!” his wife affirmed, her voice far more gentle than her sister's. “You jumped from the table and ran toward me, of all places! Oh, you should have seen me run.” She laughed. “Poor Janelle thought I’d lost my head.”

  Gently, Aleth plucked a honey lock of wet hair from his wife's face and placed a chaste kiss upon her forehead.

  She smiled, and to Weston, it was a smile that was purely ethereal. Of a sudden, he longed to know if her sister could produce such a treasure.

  In an almost musical tone, the lady giggled and said, “My lord husband, did you not wonder why I refused to allow my cousin to undress you at the bedding?”

  Aleth furrowed his brow, then let out a yelp of laughter. He hugged his wife abruptly and then turned to Weston, apologetically, because he’d clearly forgotten Weston was standing in the room. “Please, join us to sup, FitzStephen. My ladywife has planned a most sumptuous feast in your honor.” He tilted a meaningful look at Weston. “Although please be certain to don something a little less revealing.” You would have my serving maids spilling their trays at the sight of that monstrosity!”

  As though only recalling Weston’s nudity, his wife's eyes widened suddenly, and then instantly red-faced, she made apologies and flew from the chamber without looking at him again.

  “The lady Adelaine is quite a gentle soul,” Aleth provided.

  Weston nodded, but he couldn’t help but recall how her sister had ogled him in his tent, and it only served to highlight the disparity in these two sisters.

  The two men shared a look and a laugh, and Aleth whacked Weston on the back. “‘Tis amusing, is it not? That she would bathe you without chagrin. And yet at any other time she would swoon with mortification to see your one-eyed monster?”

  “Indeed.” Weston said
. “Though of course, ’tis the way it should be.”

  He couldn't help but consider whether he would allow the girl’s termagant sister to bathe the male guests in his home, and the thought of it soured his belly—although the very notion of wedding the little harridan both startled him and appealed to him at once.

  To banish the turn of his thoughts he said, “You should be thankful you didn’t wed the sister. They share the same look, but they indubitably do not share the same disposition.”

  De Montagneaux laughed again before leaving Weston to dress, but once introduced his thoughts refused to be banished.

  Curse the little shrew!

  The Lady Adelaine's feast was sumptuous, indeed.

  Aleth had not spared the sparrow for the elegant spread. It had been overlong since Weston had sampled such a culinary delight, regardless that he’d spent so much time at Henry’s court. Usually, by the time the food was offered to the lower tables, the choicest meats were gone. And even the wine, though a tad gritty, was of far better quality than that at court. Throughout the meal, Weston watched as Aleth tossed love glances at the Lady Adelaine—glances to which she would shyly duck her head.

  What difference there was between these two sisters, he contemplated. And there was something else about the identical faces that was not the same as well—though he could not quite place the difference as yet.

  Adelaine’s hair was the same golden color, albeit much longer. But it was the meekness of the woman that seemed to change her entire appearance. That he did not feel drawn to this one as he had to the other confused him beyond measure.

  For the thousandth time he thought of the girl lying within the tub at Lontaine, the creamy flesh of her bosom jutting up above the soapy water, and the image again tightened his loins and sent a surge of hot, demanding need pulsing through him.

  When was the last time he had craved a body so?

  When was the last time he had yearned to stare into a comely face?

  “My lord, now that you know.... what will you do regarding my sister?”

  Lady Adelaine’s sweet voice brought Weston away from his lusty thoughts.

  “Lady Chrestien?” The name rolled from his tongue, and he savored the sound of it. “I have not decided.” He lifted a portion of mutton to his lips, considering the possibilities. Certainly Henry would find use for her? But the thought of simply handing her over to the King's will left a sour taste in his mouth. And yet, she was not his problem to worry over. Whatever Henry decided it would be his duty to see it done.

  Lady Adelaine's voice was hesitant. “My sister would be—we would be—quite grateful did you escort her to the abbey at La Trinite.”

  Weston blinked. “Abbey?” he asked incredulously. “That woman does not belong in an abbey!” It was a waste of a good woman—not to mention that her disposition was entirely unsuited for Holy Church. That he would have no part of, for there was no penance he could undertake that would save him from the wrath of God himself. But he no sooner said the words when he regretted them. Everyone within the hall was attending now, and he could see tears forming in Lady Adelaine’s eyes.

  “But, my lord,” she wailed. “It was my father’s wish that my sister enter the convent upon his death—Chrestien's as well!” she added. “It was her destination when she departed Montagneaux!”

  Weston's gut turned even as he proposed the notion. “’Tis likely Henry would welcome her as his ward,” he assured her. “She would be well provided for until he can find her a fitting husband.” He set down his fork, his appetite gone.

  “Oh, but nay! My dear Papa—rest his soul.” Lady Adelaine crossed herself before continuing. “He knew my sister would not make a good and obedient wife, my lord. Were she to fall into the hands of a cruel man...” Lady Adelaine ceased speaking and lowered her head to wipe away tears. “I cannot think of it,” she declared.

  Weston had no doubt she spoke the truth. He’d seen women as meek as the Lady Adelaine herself beaten for far less than he’d already witnessed in her hellcat of a sister.

  Aleth’s elder brother Rolfe inquired as he fingered the healing gash on his cheek, “Which abbey did you say? I am certain something could be arranged.”

  Lady Adelaine smiled gratefully at him. “La Trinite... in Caen, la place de la Reine Mathilde.”

  Weston was not about to be engaged in a heated discussion concerning her sister’s welfare—particularly when he had witnessed firsthand how ill fitting the role of ladywife was to a such a paragon of hellfire. The subject soured his belly and Rolfe earned his ire for merely offering his aid—why that should be, confused him. The harridan was not his concern. “I shall tell you what I’d do, Lady Adelaine. I will send word to Henry of your father’s behest. Despite what has been told to Curthose’s liegemen, Henry is a fair man. Does he agree to honor the request, then I myself will escort your sister to Caen. Agreed?”

  Lady Adelaine’s golden-brown eyes were radiant with the light of kindness, and she smiled brilliantly. “Oh, thank you! I would be ever so grateful to you, my lord!

  Once again Weston wondered whether Chrestien was capable of such a wondrous smile. Moreover, he wondered whether he could be the one to bring it about, and then quickly dismissed the notion. The girl’s destiny did not mingle with his own—nor did he desire it if the truth be known. She would be more trouble than she was worth, he assured himself.

  Aye, but he would petition Henry on Lady Adelaine’s behalf. However, he would also be certain Henry knew that Chrestien was not cut from holy cloth. It was only fair that Henry should know what he would bestow upon the Holy Church. There was dissension enough between Church and Crown, with Henry having inherited Rufus’ many quarrels. Once all the facts were presented, Henry would make the right decision... and Weston would abide by it. It was as simple as that.

  Autumn was coming to a close.

  The forest was a backdrop of gold and russet against the amber meadow. The meadow itself was nearly devoid of wild blooms and the birds screeched their secret alarm of winter’s advance from their perches in the molting trees.

  Chrestien plucked a wildflower from a lone patch of late bloomers and placed it in her hair, turning her attention to her faithful horse, caressing his nose with great affection. Adelaine, Janelle and Aubert were gone now. Lightning was all she had left, and she spent every afternoon riding him through the changing meadow.

  How many times had they ridden together through the years? Countless times. The gelding had become a faithful companion and she loved him dearly. The gelding she would take with her to Caen and she refused to part with him no matter what the Abbess said!

  She wiped a tear that sprang to her eye at the thought of her sister. It was not that she was unhappy—not really. Michel and the others had been kind, attentive, chivalrous, and quite entertaining. Every one, in his own way, had helped to make this very trying time a bit more endurable.

  The Wolf’s captain was witty and gallant—much as she imagined her father would have been at his age. He looked after her as though he were her mother, in truth, making certain she was never alone in the company of his men. Even now, she could see a pack of his men lurking atop a distant knoll, trying to be inconspicuous. She was grateful to Michel for taking such great care with her. In a way, it filled the void her father had left.

  Grateful for the moment of peace they had allowed her, she knew it was time to get back. Mounting her horse, she led him in the direction of Lontaine, and the magnificent gelding galloped knowingly toward the gates. It was only now that she bemoaned her shorn hair for she could almost feel the wind rippling through her long tresses—almost.

  The four men Michel had assigned to guard her stood entranced as Chrestien approached them. When Lightning came to a halt before them, all four men rushed to her side—like bees to a spring blossom. The sight of them clamoring to help made her smile.

  William was the first at her side. “May I help you dismount, m’lady?” he offered. His hands flew out
with unrepressed eagerness.

  James, who was a head taller than William and more muscular, successfully elbowed his way to Chrestien, pushing William by the wayside, and stood smiling, the look of victory painted upon his youthful face. His blond hair ruffled in the wind.

  Chrestien giggled inwardly as she noted the bright flush that crept to his face when she sat her mount, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him she had no plans to dismount as yet. The other two, John and Ned, hung behind the more boisterous two. Nevertheless, they vied in their own way for Chrestien’s attention, although it seemed a smile was enough to appease them, while William and James nearly came to blows every time Chrestien set eyes upon either.

  Michel appeared, seemingly from nowhere, as though he sensed the rivalry between his men. “You’ve been away overlong this morning, m’lady. I was given to worrying.” He eyed his pack of young dogs, silently commanding them to give her breathing room and bringing his mount next to hers, he leaned in to whisper, “I see that ye have your hands full with my lovesick puppies.”

  “’Tis not a burden, if ’tis what you mean,” she assured, as she watched the four men mount their geldings to give their captain a private moment with her. Chrestien had not seen Michel send them away, but he clearly had for, like puppets, they all fled at once.

  “I thought, mayhap, ye would join me for a short ride,” Michel suggested.

  “’It would be a joy, my lord.”