Claire Delacroix (34 page)

“Aye, while we sit at the board, while your mistress holds court for her suitors. The pattern is most clear.”

“When
precisely
does it grow?”

“When that knight sings for her. She must mean to snare him with her wiles. Or perhaps you cast a spell to make him truly wed her.”

“Or perhaps he is the one responsible for the witchery.”

Rodney laughed long and hard at that; his tanned flesh still crinkled at the corners of his eyes when he finally fell silent and regarded Célie. She was startled to find her old heart skipping a beat. There had always been a vital air about Rodney, and though he spoke roughly, she had never seen him act with cruelty.

“A man of war?” he scoffed. “A crusader and knight? It appears you have drunk more of the ale than even I thought.” He leaned closer, dropping his voice to tease her. “Was this your first pitcher or your second?”

Célie recoiled, both from her new awareness of this vexing man and his accusation. “Vile creature! Even if ’twas my seventh, a man of decency would not comment upon it.”

“Ah, the truth is no friend of women, that much is certain.” Rodney drank with satisfaction, then slanted a knowing glance her way. “But there is a love spell being cast within this hall, and only a soul slow of wit could miss the truth of that.”

“I would not have expected you to give credence to a love spell.”

“I give credence to what I see and what I hear. What I see is a vine growing at an unholy rate, and what I hear is everybody in this household rutting themselves blind each night.” He leaned closer and dropped his voice. “’Tis not natural, Célie. ’Tis not right.”

He arched a brow and a startlingly new awareness sizzled between them. A considering light dawned in his eye, and Célie knew that he had noted the change as well.

What was in this ale? Célie put her cup down on the board and pushed it away.

Rodney shook his head and stood up. “I believe you understand precisely what I mean.” He drained his cup and set it down heavily on the board, bracing his hands there to hold Célie’s gaze. To her astonishment, she could not look away and she felt the oddest quiver dance over her flesh.

Rodney’s voice was softer when he spoke. “If, indeed, you are responsible, Célie, I suggest you halt this madness. My lord is intent on seeing this not only solved but the perpetrator held responsible.” He touched her cheek with a rough fingertip, the gesture so fleeting that she might have missed it if she had not been so aware of him. As it was, she tingled. “I would not have you pay too high a price for a prank.”

And then he was gone, striding through the kitchens as if he had forgotten her existence. Célie took a deep breath, stunned by her impression that Rodney was behaving protectively toward her.

Surely she was mistaken?

She looked around herself, noticing only now how the cook exchanged amorous glances with one of the scullery maids. A squire pinched a maid’s buttocks and they flirted together, disappearing into one of the rooms for dry inventory. A man-at-arms embraced a maid opposite, oblivious to the others in the hall.

Célie, feeling suddenly old and undesirable, left the kitchens, noting with every step that couples cavorted with each other. Kisses and smiles and coy glances seemed to be around every corner, and she even interrupted the lord himself kissing his lady wife.

She trudged out into the silvery light of the morning, cursing the fog that seemed to have enveloped Airdfinnan for good, and accepted aid to climb the walls. The warm glow of the ale seemed to abandon her in the chill of the fog. Célie was not the only one come to see the thorny vine, but she did not know whether she was the only one who shivered at the sight of it.

For she knew as soon as she looked upon it that Rodney was right. ’Twas the product of a spell or some other witchery, for there was an unnatural air about it. Indeed, it seemed to glow with a silvery light.

Célie shivered and turned away, surprised when she bumped directly into another. The man caught her elbows and she inhaled deeply of his scent, tingled, then looked up to find Rodney’s assessing gaze upon her.

“Is it yours?” he asked so quietly that no others could hear.

“Nay. I know naught of it.” Célie glanced over her shoulder, shivered, and found herself easing closer to Rodney. “God in heaven, but there is something unholy about it.” She glanced up at him and smiled, savoring the way his eyes widened in surprise. “How else could its presence have prompted the two of us to agree?”

He laughed then, a hearty laugh that made him look younger and more vital. “Perhaps you would sit with me for the midday meal,” he said with more gallantry than Célie had guessed he possessed.

“Would the presence of a woman not spoil your appetite?” she teased, for Rodney’s distrust of women was well known.

He smiled. “Perhaps not on this day.”

Célie snorted, then took his elbow. “Then I should take advantage of your moment of weakness. Goodness knows but even such powerful sorcery as this cannot have an enduring power over you.”

Rodney laughed aloud once more, making Célie feel young and witty and alluring for the first time in many years. Indeed, why should all the others have pleasure and not she?

She peeked at Rodney and decided she had misjudged him for all these years. He was not an unattractive man and, indeed, this rough gallantry warmed her heart.

Perhaps this night would prove an interesting one.

* * *

Bayard was in a more foul mood than ever he had been.

For the first time in all his days, what he desired did not come readily to his hand. It infuriated him that his good fortune should abandon him at this critical juncture, and indeed, he did not know how to proceed. He was impatient with his progress in his suit of Esmeraude, but naught he did seemed to persuade the lady of his merit.

’Twas not as if the other competitors were worthy of her consideration. Though he appreciated that ’twas a great decision to choose a spouse, he thought that Esmeraude embraced the task with too much enthusiasm. The best choice among her suitors was obvious.

But she was barely speaking to him.

Bayard sat in the hall of Airdfinnan after yet another sleepless night and scowled at his cup of ale. He should have taken the simplest course and declared the truth when his cousin challenged Esmeraude’s chastity. He should have claimed her as his own by the most ancient claim of a man to a woman and compelled her to wed him. They could have been halfway to the king’s port by now.

But unpredictable Esmeraude might not have felt compelled to wed him even after such a revelation. Bayard would have looked like a knave and might have lost any chance of winning her at all.

Still, the days slipped away with relentless speed. The king would undoubtedly be wondering what had happened to Bayard. Perhaps he and his men jested that Bayard had met his match in this almost certainly biddable peasant maid.

Ha. Bayard had another cup of ale to assuage his pride. Esmeraude was far from the demure simpleton they had all expected her to be, and therein lay the problem. She was far more interesting and far more desirable than anticipated.

Aye, Bayard wanted to win her.

And he wanted to win her more desperately than he had wanted a victory in a long time. He could make a reasoned argument for his enthusiasm. Esmeraude was an uncommon woman. Passionate and playful abed, she was also responsible in fulfilling her sister’s obligations. She was quick of wit and charming. She was sensible and skilled with children. She was not deferential by any accounting, but he found her spirit far more appealing than he had just a fortnight before.

Indeed, a meek bride would never have quickened his pulse as Esmeraude so readily could. Though Bayard suspected the choice of his bride was made by his grandmother’s capriciousness alone, Esmeraude would make a fine lady wife and a gracious mistress of Montvieux. That was why he desired to win her hand, and cared naught for the cost. Though he would never love any woman, ’twould have been most convenient if Esmeraude had loved him so desperately that she could not refuse him.

’Twas annoying beyond all to realize that that must not be the case. The one woman he had to seduce refused to be seduced. Surely his legendary charm had not disappeared at this critical juncture?

But there was no escaping the fact that Esmeraude kissed her other suitors with a most inappropriate ardor and did not kiss him, at least not any longer. Indeed, she ignored Bayard mightily, not sparing him so much as a smile.

Bayard downed his ale, not liking this a whit.

’Twas no consolation that all in this hall seemed smitten with another. Indeed, a man could barely sleep for the sound of others coupling with fearsome enthusiasm. Bayard knew for a fact that Andrew had had his first experience abed here, and understood enough of Michael’s smile each morn to not ask for details. He alone seemed to sleep by himself each night.

’Twas a novel sensation and not a welcome one. Bayard glared at the portal to the solar and hoped that Esmeraude too lay chaste in her bed each night. She was passionate, though, and his innards clenched at the prospect of another pleasing her while he achieved naught at all.

And the worst of it was this cursed tale he had begun. What had persuaded him that ’twould be a fitting song to court his lady? The truth was that he had thought little of the matter, beyond the fact that the tale was long and that Esmeraude loved tales. He had not expected Esmeraude to seek hints to his own inclinations in the lovers’ every action and truly their choices granted him little credit.

This pair cheated and lied and were adulterous, they cared only for their own comfort and indulgence. Knowing Esmeraude’s passion for the allure of love, Bayard could not imagine that the revelation that Tristran and Iseut died apart and wed to others would gain him much favor.

But he could not halt the tale, lest he risk offending his host’s daughter and thus irritating his host. Bayard drained his cup of ale in frustration and pushed to his feet, impatient for action. In the bailey, he called to his squires, intending to rouse them both for some swordplay. The practice would be good for all of them.

But none heeded his call.

“Andrew!” Bayard shouted in frustration. “Michael!”

He spun, seeking some glimpse of the boys and found only his brother watching him carefully.

“Is it not intriguing,” Amaury said softly, “that Esmeraude avoids you as determinedly as you avoid me?”

“I do not avoid you.” Bayard cast a glance around the bailey for the errant squires, not wishing to have this discussion now. Doubtless they had learned more about the charms of scullery maids than he would have preferred they know so soon.

“Aye, you do and I would know why.” Amaury had a steady gaze that Bayard recalled well enough, even before his younger brother stepped closer. “As your closest kin here and one you have not seen of late, I would have thought we might have become reacquainted. It has been a long five years, Bayard.”

“Yet the distance between us is no less now than ’twas when I was in Palestine.” Bayard offered a thin smile to his brother. “Make no mistake, I have fond memories of our boyhood together, but too much has been said that cannot be ignored.”

“Not between you and I.”

“Nay, but the fact that our father and I argued so vehemently, and the fact that you still ride by his side, means that matters can never be as they were between the two of us.”

“Surely we can still be cordial.”

“We have been cordial. That does not change the truth that we compete for the same demoiselle’s hand.” Bayard frowned. “Where are those cursed boys?”

He did not anticipate Amaury’s soft query.

“Do you not miss us, Bayard?”

Bayard looked back at his brother, then wondered how much he should confess. Guilt coiled in his gut, for he had been fond of his brother and still was. But he had no doubt that whatever he said would be reported to his father by this more dutiful son.

And he had said all he desired to say to his father.

“Aye, I miss what was,” Bayard admitted. “But ’tis gone. Harsh words are never forgotten, even when glossed with cordiality. There is naught that any of us can say to return matters to the way they were, and indeed, a part of me could not desire as much. I have seen much and ridden far, and could never regret the experiences of these past five years.”

Amaury smiled. “You were always the intrepid one. I would have you tell me of those adventures.”

“To what purpose?” Bayard shrugged. “They too are over and done and their details unimportant. ’Twould be just another fantastical tale, spun for your entertainment. What is of import is that those years have wrought of me the man I am now. You have but to look upon me and see all you need to know. That is the legacy of those adventures.”

Bayard turned and pointedly looked for the boys. He felt Amaury consider him for a long moment and hoped his brother would tire of this futile exercise.

But Amaury spoke quietly. “I see a man who speaks as if he were older than the years I know him to have seen. You are both more temperate and more resolute than once you were.”

Bayard smiled slightly at this assessment, for his affection for Amaury had not faded. He cuffed his brother’s shoulder. “And you have grown to manhood without me to wrestle,” he said gruffly. “I wager you are tougher to conquer in these days.”