Wild Wind (2 page)

“Don’t trouble yourself, Berte,” Alex soothed. “He traveled all the way from Aquitaine for this. He wouldn’t miss it.”

“Aye, but did you see how much he drank last night? He might still be abed.”

“Not if Alyce has anything to say about it,” Alex said. “She wouldn’t let him sleep through his nephew’s initiation into knighthood.”

The music ceased. The audience quieted as the king rose to his feet.

“Find him,” Berte ordered her husband in an agitated whisper.

Landric darted like a fat squirrel through the crowd as King William stepped forward to address his vassals. Having expected long-winded and tiresome preliminaries, Alex was relieved when, after a brief word of greeting, William gestured for the first candidate and his sponsors to ascend the platform.

Everyone watched in silence as the young man’s male relatives outfitted him in his newly forged mail and presented him with his sword. Then the king delivered the colée—the ritual open-handed slap that transformed its recipient from callow youth to chevalier. Unfortunately for the chevalier in question, the colée knocked him off his feet, and he landed with a clank of armaments on his back. Crimson-faced, he allowed the king to pull him up.

When the second youth was summoned onto the dais, Berte began to mutter anxiously under her breath. “Charles is next. If his eldest uncle isn’t up there with him, what will people think?”

Alex and Luke exchanged a look. Berte hadn’t changed much in the years they’d been gone.

During the second lad’s initiation, Berte frantically searched the onlookers, finally gasping in relief. “There he is! He and Alyce and their two boys. Landric’s found them.” She returned her husband’s wave. “Who is that with them? By the saint’s bones. Is that Nicolette de St. Clair?”

Alex whipped around, tracing his sister’s line of sight to a small group near the front of the crowd, by the platform. Landric pointed proudly toward Christien while Christien’s wife, the lady Alyce, spoke into Lady Nicolette’s ear. The two women had met when Nicolette came to Périgeaux nine years ago. He recalled that they’d become fast friends, but they couldn’t have seen much of each other in recent years, what with Alyce living in Aquitaine and Nicolette up here in Normandy.

Whatever Alyce was saying made Nicolette smile—that cryptic half-smile that had always intrigued him so. Her air of mystery had enchanted him, drawing him to her like a bee to a tightly closed blossom full of promise—a promise never fulfilled.

The flesh around Berte’s eyes tightened. “What is she doing here? Did Alyce ask her? I certainly didn’t.”

“Why not?” Alex asked. “After all, she’s married to our cousin.”

“Milo?” Berte plucked at her wimple. “He’s the reason I didn’t ask her—or them, rather. Hardly anyone invites them anywhere anymore, considering what’s become of him.”

“What do you mean?” Alex asked.

“You don’t know?”

“I’ve heard naught of him since I left Périgeaux nine years ago.”

“You never thought to write to him? You two were such good chums.”

“I was trained to wield a sword, not scratch away with a quill like some soft-bellied monk.”

“You could pay some clerk to do it.”

“Berte,” he ground out impatiently. “What did you mean? What’s ‘become of’ Milo?”

His sister glanced around with feigned nonchalance and lowered her voice. “I’ll tell you later—best not to air such matters here. Suffice it to say he declines what few invitations still come their way, and it’s just as well. I hear he hasn’t set foot outside Peverell Castle in two or three years. She’s never seen, either, since it would hardly do for her to go larking about on her own. From what I hear, she spends all her time writing those long, tiresome poems about ancient battles and tragic lovers—a shameful occupation for a girl of her breeding.”

“Then what do you suppose she’s doing here today?”

“I can’t begin to imagine. And I must say I’m surprised to find her showing up here unescorted. Not like her to ignore propriety—not like her at all.” Returning her attention to the dais, Berte gasped and shoved Alex toward the stage. “It’s Charles’s turn! Go! You, too, Luke. Go! Go!”

Banishing thoughts of Nicolette from his mind, Alex mounted the platform, along with Luke, Christien, Landric, and young Charles.

First, Lord Landric, as his son’s primary sponsor, endowed him with a hauberk and gaiters of fine chain mail, which Alex and his brothers helped him to don over his gold-embroidered red tunic. The boy was flushed and sweating by the time Alex pulled the hauberk’s mesh coif over his head. It took a strong young constitution to tolerate a full suit of mail in midsummer. At Berte’s insistence, every one of the double-woven iron rings had been silvered, causing them to gleam like white fire in the bright sun. Alex turned from the sight, blinking...

And saw her again, gazing directly at him from the front of the audience, as doe-eyed and motionless as before. She quickly looked away.

“Alex,” Luke hissed as he buckled the lad’s swordbelt around his waist. “The sword.”

Quickly Alex crossed to the table and retrieved the broadsword he’d commissioned for Charles, the honor of giving it having been granted to him in light of his own renowned swordsmanship. The blade, of brilliant Poitou steel, shimmered in the sunlight. In the knob of the pearl-encrusted hilt could be seen a bit of dried blood of St. Romaine encased in transparent crystal. Alex handed the weapon to his nephew, who kissed the holy relic before sheathing it.

Alex watched Christien present his jeweled helmet and Luke his shield and lance, all too aware of Lady Nicolette’s gaze upon him. His skin prickled beneath his clothes; his body felt oddly large and unwieldy.

He’d thought he would never see her again, nor had he wanted to. He’d never expected her to be here. According to Berte, no one had.

He wondered about Milo. Despite everything that had transpired that last, eventful summer in Périgeaux, Alex harbored no ill will toward his cousin. What happened wasn’t his fault, not really. And he and Milo had always been, as Berte pointed out, the best of chums, the ten-year difference in their ages inconsequential—especially once Alex reached adolescence and could tag along with Milo and his mates as they hunted and caroused. Life was carefree and exhilarating and golden, and Milo was at the center of it all. Educated for Holy Orders as befitted a second son, but lacking the temperament for a religious vocation, Milo dedicated his considerable intellect to the pursuit of pleasure. Intensely charismatic, he possessed the striking de Périgeaux looks—the height, the raven hair—combined with a quick wit and amiable disposition that earned him many friends.

Trumpets blared. Shaking off his memories, Alex joined the other sponsors as they stepped aside for the king. William approached the youth, who bowed his head. Fully armored and equipped, young Charles looked every bit the soldier awaiting battle. The last Alex had seen him, before leaving for England, he’d been a small boy. Now, at sixteen, he was taller than his father, although Alex and Luke still towered over him.

The colée was swift and hard, but Charles remained standing, although he stumbled back a step or two. Cheers rose from the onlookers.

William embraced the novice knight. “Go in strength and courage, Sir Charles. Be of generous spirit and stout heart, and honor God and your sovereign with your faithful service.”

“Heartfelt thanks, my liege,” Charles recited, his voice on the edge of cracking. “May the lord God hear this oath of fealty, and may I serve and love both you and Him until my soul embraces the fountainhead of peace.”

More cheers arose from the crowd. Alex clapped his nephew on the back. “Well done.”

It took the remainder of the morning for all of the candidates to receive the colée. Then came the war horses, four-and-twenty destriers beautifully groomed and harnessed, which the armored knights mounted simultaneously from running leaps—a feat that drew an elated roar from the crowd. The lads tilted at quintains and engaged in mock duels through the early afternoon, by which time Alex’s old hip injury was throbbing like a drum. Generally it only troubled him on wet, chilly days. All this standing still must have aggravated it.

Almost worse was the grousing of his empty stomach. His gaze strayed frequently to the river’s edge, where banquet tables had been arranged beneath a pink and purple striped canopy. Savory aromas drifted toward him on the warm breeze, making his mouth water—yet still the games persisted. Only after two of the young knights had fainted dead away from the heat was it announced that the celebratory feast would now be served.

“I’VE ASKED LADY
Nicolette to join us,” Alyce announced to her husband and his siblings as they seated themselves at one of the long trestle tables beneath the canopy.

Pink-stained sunlight filtered through the striped cloth above their heads, suffusing Nicolette with a rosy glow; she might almost have been blushing. She should blush, Alex thought, at the prospect of facing him again.

“Lady Nicolette,” Alyce said, “you’ve met my sons, Victor and Regnaud” —the well-trained boys bowed— “and I trust you know my sister by marriage, the baroness Berte de Bec, and her husband, Lord Landric.”

Cordial greetings were exchanged.

“Do you remember my husband’s brothers?” Alyce asked. “Luke and Alexandre. You met them in Périgeaux that summer you came—”

“I remember,” Nicolette said, in a voice so soft Alex could barely hear her, her hands tightly clasped. Stiffly she inclined her head toward the two men in turn. “Sir Luke...Sir Alexandre.”

“My lady,” Luke responded with a small bow.

“My lady.” Alex forced a polite smile, but she turned away too quickly to see it.

“And this,” Alyce said, “is Luke’s lady wife, Faithe of Hauekleah, and their children...” She hesitated, clearly struggling to recall their names.

“That little devil” —Faithe nodded toward her son, picking bits of spiced bread out of his trencher and stuffing them into his mouth, something Alex was tempted to do himself— “is Robert.” Faithe introduced Hlynn, propped up next to her with unfocused eyes and her thumb in her mouth, and the infant Edlyn, nursing at her mother’s breast. Faithe had drawn her mantle over the babe, a gesture of modesty lost on Berte, who looked away in disgust.

Nicolette did not appear shocked. Indeed, she smiled with seemingly genuine delight at the sight of the children and insisted on sitting between Hlynn and Robert—which placed her almost directly across the table from Alex. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to engage her in strained conversation.

She leaned close to Hlynn. “Tired?”

The child nodded, her eyes half-closed.

“Me, too. ‘Twas a long ceremony—especially for a wee little girl like you.”

“I’m a big girl,” Hlynn said groggily without removing the thumb.

Nicolette smiled. “My apologies, Lady Hlynn. Are you as hungry as your brother?”

Hlynn shook her head. Her mother said, “I brought some bread and fed it to the children a while ago. Luke warned me it might be a long and trying morning.”

“I wish someone had warned me,” Nicolette said. Did Alex just imagine it, or did she glance uneasily in his direction? Returning her attention to Hlynn, she whispered conspiratorially, “I would have tucked some bread into my sleeve if I’d known.”

Hlynn giggled drowsily, again without extracting her thumb.

The obvious joy Nicolette took in Hlynn came as a surprise to Alex. He wouldn’t have thought her the nurturing sort, yet she displayed a warmth and ease with the little girl that couldn’t have been feigned. Seeing her like this reminded Alex that there were two Nicolettes, or used to be—the cool, formal public Nicolette, well-trained in decorum by her mother, and, hidden beneath that facade, the spirited young woman he’d once lost his heart to. Unfortunately, her more decorous—and calculating—side, incapable of real human affection, seemed to be dominant.

Robert paused in his methodical decimation of his trencher. “Will we eat soon?”

“That one’s always hungry,” Faithe explained, “regardless of when he last ate.”

“Alas, we must all strive for patience,” Nicolette counseled the boy. “King William hosts grand and wonderful banquets—often twenty courses or more—”

“Twenty?” Robert said excitedly.

“But there are some matters of ceremony to attend to first.” She nodded toward the high table, at which the king and queen sat with the four-and-twenty newly dubbed knights. The king’s banquet master made a show of presenting an ornate salt dish to the royal couple and their guests.

Robert sighed. “Now can we eat?”

“Patience,” Nicolette murmured as the banquet master summoned the pantler, who unwrapped a saffron-hued loaf from its portpayne of fringed cloth, sliced its upper crust, and presented it to the king. Next came the laverers, who made the rounds from table to table with their basins of herb-scented water, embroidered towels looped over their arms.

Hlynn, clearly struggling to keep her eyes open, swayed slightly on her bench. She tried to lean on her mother, but the nursing baby was in the way. “Wait until Edlyn’s gotten all the milk she wants,” Faithe instructed the sleepy child, “and then you may put your head in my lap.”

“She’s overdue for her nap,” Luke explained to the company at large.

“I’ve got a perfectly good lap that’s going to waste,” Nicolette told Hlynn, adding, to Faithe, “If your mama doesn’t mind.”

Faithe hesitated fractionally, then smiled. “Not at all. Hlynn, would you like to...”

But Hlynn was already curling up contentedly on her new friend’s lap, thumb firmly in place. Robert, meanwhile, rested his weight on Nicolette as he nibbled his trencher into nothingness.

“Do children always take to you so readily?” Faithe asked her.

“I like them. I think they sense that.” Nicolette’s smile struck Alex as sad.

“A pity you never had any children of your own,” Berte said.

The smile vanished. “Aye, well...we were not so blessed.”

“Not yet,” Berte said. “But you’re not too old to quit trying—not quite. How old are you—thirty? A bit older, perhaps?”