The Dumont Bride (4 page)

“Was he in his bath when you left?” Emalie demanded. At Alyce’s nod, she added, “And was he alone?”

“Aye, milady. Fitzhugh knows Lyssa and her tricks. He ordered her out before the lord undressed.”

Was he leaving the door open so the maid could return to him? Was he taking his pleasure with the servants in her keep even before it was his? ’Twas a fine way for the new lord of Greystone to begin.

“I will take the ointment to him.” Emalie decided to look into this herself. If her new husband was going to make shaming her a regular occurrence, she would know it now.

“But, milady, I told him I would bring it. Mayhap you should wait until this evening to meet him, as the queen suggested?” Alyce frowned at Emalie’s attempts to take the pottery jar from her grasp. Emalie stopped trying and held her hand out for Alyce to relinquish the jar. With a sigh, her maid finally did. Emalie picked up one more bottle, gathered her skirts and left her workroom, heading to the lord’s chamber. Alyce’s huffing and puffing followed close behind. Stopping in front of the room, Emalie leaned closer and peeked in.

“Go quietly, milady.”

Now it was her turn to frown. “What do you mean, Alyce?”

“Poor lad, looked nigh to fainting from exhaustion, he did.”

“Poor lad? That poor lad is
le Comte de Langier,
” Emalie whispered in her best French accent, “one of Poitou’s finest, fair of face, and warrior extraordinaire, according to the queen.”

“He looked like a man worn down by life to me,” Alyce answered with a snort. “Step lightly and do not disturb him if he rests.”

Emalie gaped openly at her maid. Alyce’s softness toward this man was frightening to her. If Alyce backed him, who would stand by her side? Deciding it was time to meet this poor lad, Emalie pushed the door open a bit more and stepped into the room. The humid air swirled around her as she approached the hearth and tub. The man in the tub did not move as she walked closer.

His head lay turned to one side and he snored lightly. She smiled as she thought of how innocent her father had appeared in sleep. Now, as she looked at Dumont, no frowns marred his strong brow and face. His hair looked to be a dark brown, but the wetness made it difficult to tell. Her gaze moved down his face and neck to his shoulders and chest. The rest of him was covered by a length of linen.

She could see some of his bones lying just below his skin. He was either very thin or had been ill and lost much of his body’s weight. Was this what Alyce meant? Her trained eye noticed several lesions on his arms and chest, some unhealed sores of long standing. She suspected that he suffered with many more on places she could not see. This was truly a puzzle.

Debating whether or not to let him know of her presence, Emalie decided to let him sleep on. She placed the jar of ointment on the floor next to the tub where he would find it. Then she quietly opened the bottle she carried and poured a small amount into the bathwater. Reaching down, she swirled the water with her fingertips to mix the healing potion into his bath. Careful not to touch him, she stepped back and walked toward the door.

Once in the hall, she pulled the door closed and then adjusted it as Alyce had left it. Tonight. Tonight she would have her answers when she and the count met officially.

Strangely, as she left the chamber, only one question filled her thoughts. She wondered what he would look and sound like once awake. Too wrapped up in her own thoughts, she hadn’t seen his eyes open and his gaze follow her steps.

An angel from heaven? Had he finally died and this angel was there to escort him to his judgment?

As he opened his eyes, he saw her standing over him, her gowns and long, honey-brown hair flowing around her. The flames in the hearth outlined her womanly form before him. Her face glowed with the golden fire tones and not even the frown she wore could mar the smooth inclines of her nose, the gentle arching of her brows or the fullness of her mouth. He saw her hand reach out to the water and he closed his eyes and waited, nay hungered, for her healing touch.

When it did not come, he fought with his last ounce of strength to open his eyes. She was gone. Then he saw her moving toward the door, silently gliding away from him. His strength, sapped by both his own ex
haustion and the heat of the water surrounding him, deserted him completely and all he could do was close his eyes once more and surrender. And his dreams were filled with visions of his caring angel.

T
he knock on the chamber door roused Christian from his brief rest. Still exhausted from many days of hard riding and traveling, he slid down from the raised bed, tugged on a robe and stumbled to the door. Although the door was ajar, the visitor did not presume to enter the room.

“Milord?” a man asked. “Are you within?”

Christian reached the door and pulled it open wider until the full bulk of the captain of the guard was revealed to him.

“Forgive me for disturbing your rest, milord. Her Grace asks that you join her in the solar as soon as you are ready.”

“I will be there anon, Sir Walter.” Christian looked back around the chamber he’d been assigned and spotted clothing laid out and ready for him. The servants were efficient and quiet, for no movements within his room had disturbed his sleep.

“Should I send an escort to guide you there?” Christian watched the large man shift from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable with this messenger duty.

“No need. I am certain that I can find my way there.”

After a few mumbled words, Walter backed away, bowing as he left. After pushing the door closed a bit, Christian dressed quickly. Recognizing that his haste was partly nervousness and partly anticipation, he slowed his actions and straightened his clothing as best he could. Tightening the belt around his waist, he grimaced at his loss of girth. He was thinner now than when he had first earned his spurs at ten-and-six. Soon, after fussing with his appearance more than most women would have, he was ready for his meeting with Queen Eleanor and as ready to meet his fate as he could be.

Retracing his steps the way he and the steward had come, Christian found himself standing within the great hall. More of the servants’ efficient work was on display there—clean, well-set tables, fresh rushes on the floor, an orderly pattern to those working to prepare the room and the meal. Excitement filled the very air surrounding him and he knew from the covert glances and whispered words, and from the feeling deep in his gut, that he was the center of what was to come.

Looking around the perimeter of the room, he sought the location of the solar. A young woman approached him, curtsying before him.

“Milord? Are you in need of help?” Her eyes met his but once before she lowered her glance to the floor.

“Oui,”
he answered. Her gaze met his and then she dropped her head once more. Damn, but he needed to remember to speak in their tongue. He expected the English nobles to speak in French, but the servants and villeins would converse only in their harsh guttural language. “Yes,” he repeated, “show me to the solar.”

She curtsied once more and took a few backward steps before turning and walking in front of him. Her hips swayed in the suggestive motion that proclaimed her an available wench as she made her way through the great hall. From the peeking glances and smiles she offered over her shoulder, he understood the invitation she gave. Smiling grimly, he shook his head at the irony of this situation. On another day, his body would have reacted by this point, stirring his interest and firing his desires. On another day, in another lifetime, he would have accepted her welcoming actions and met her later for a pleasant rendezvous. However, his current physical condition and the unknown fate that stood before him kept him from responding.

Soon they approached a door set back in a stone alcove. From the two heavily armed guards next to the doorway, he knew the queen was within. The servant turned to him once more and curtsied. This time she blatantly met his gaze and smiled seductively, making her offer clear to even a blind man. Not willing to completely refuse the girl, he asked her name. ’Twould be better to have it if needed later than have to stumble through descriptions to locate her.

“Lyssa, milord. Call on me if you have need,” she answered in a quiet whisper. From the snickers of the guards, she obviously had helped many of the men in the keep with their needs.

“Return to your duties anon. I will summon you if I have need.” Christian waved her off and turned to the door. He knocked and waited for an invitation to enter. Hearing her voice through the door, he took a deep breath, turned the knob and prepared to face the queen.

Christian was not deceived by the old woman before
him. Although in her eighth decade of life and with an appearance that matched her age, Eleanor was not someone to underestimate. For more than half a century, she had moved through their world much in the same manner as a man and gathered power and riches, even husbands, to herself as she did. This woman had done the unthinkable and accompanied her first husband on a holy crusade. He moved toward her and stopped, kneeling before her.

“Your Grace,” he said, taking and kissing her hand. He waited for her signal to rise and, when given, he looked into her face and smiled. “You look well.”

“Ah, Christian. It is as though I were looking into your dear mother’s eyes. I miss her. I miss the wise counsel and the humor that saw me through many low spots in my life.”

His mother was a safe subject since her passing was unrelated to his father’s treachery. And she had spent many years as the confidante of the queen.

“And I know that she valued the time she served you, Your Grace.”

Eleanor dropped her hand and sat down once more in the chair behind her. ’Twas then he noticed the other woman in the room. Assuming it was one of the queen’s attendants, he continued his conversation with Eleanor.

“The king has called on me to serve you in some way, Your Grace. He did not disclose the details to me, only said that I was to carry out your wishes. Can you enlighten me about these duties?”

A soft snicker pulled his attention from the queen to her attendant once more. Passing his gaze over her from head to toe, he glared at her discourtesy. He was, after all, now restored to his name, his estates, his
honor, and as a count he deserved a certain level of respect from even those who served the queen.

“Richard and I,” Eleanor began, “wish to protect this demesne since it belonged to a dear and loyal friend of our family. His untimely death has left it in a precarious situation and a temptation to those who would steal all it has to offer. Richard wishes that you serve as its protector and as the husband of the Countess of Harbridge.”

He shook his head and blinked at her pronouncement. Protector and husband? Husband?

“But Your Grace, I am betrothed to—”

She cut off his words with a wave of her hand. “Necessarily ended months ago. You are free, in the eyes of the Church, to wed as Richard desires. And you have pledged your loyalty to him?”

He had agreed and signed his deal with the devil. And here was the cost of it. This seemed too good to be true. What hardship was there in marrying an heiress and taking control of her estate? It was his destiny as a nobleman and eldest son to do just that. Although he had thought to marry the daughter of the neighboring count, this prosperous land would be a fine replacement for that one. And there was still Geoffrey. He could marry that French heiress and add it to their family’s properties.

“I have pledged to Richard, as you know.”

“Then you will wed the countess in the morning.”

“Will I meet her prior to the wedding? Do we not have to go through a betrothal ceremony?” This was happening too quickly. And where was the countess? Did she know of these arrangements? Ah,
certainement.
The preparations in the hall bespoke of ceremonies and celebrations.

“The betrothal was carried out before you left Anjou. Your signature is on the necessary papers.” Eleanor pointed to a table nearby and the parchments on it. He could see both his signature and the one scrawled by the king. He smiled and nodded. Check and mate. He was now firmly entrenched in whatever games the Plantagenets were playing. “However, so that no question can arise, the agreements will be read tonight before all.”

“And the banns?” No one could wed without the announcement of the impending nuptials being made for three consecutive Sundays.

“Waived,” Eleanor said, “by Ely.”

Deeper and deeper he could feel himself being pulled into this. And the icy tremors moving up his spine told him that there was more, much more, to this than he was being told. Why was the countess unmarried? If of marriageable age, her father should have made arrangements long ago. An untimely death? Obviously, a lack of forethought and planning, as well, if his daughter was unmarried and his property unprotected.

“’Twould seem that you have taken care of all that needs arranging, Your Grace. You have my thanks.” He bowed slightly to her. “And the countess? How does she stand on this matter?”

“She will behave as an honorable woman does—she will make her vows to you and then carry out the duties of a wife and, God willing, a mother. Believe you me, she understands her place in this completely. You will be formally presented to each other at dinner. If you are ready, you may escort me there now.”

He heard the way she accented the word “honorable” in her description of his betrothed. Mayhap be
cause his own honor had been lately restored, he was simply sensitive to it. Or was this some information about the countess? But then honor was the basis for all relationships—marriage as well as fealty and even war. Without his honor, a nobleman had nothing. Knowing this introspection would come to nothing, he looked at Eleanor.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he answered, hearing the command instead of the request. Holding out his arm to Eleanor, he then walked with her out of the solar. She hesitated for a moment at the doorway.

“Join me anon in the hall, my dear,” she said in a soft voice to the woman who remained standing at the queen’s chair. They did not wait for a response, for one did not refuse the queen.

He was arrogant. He was arrogant and pompous and rude. He had not even asked who she was as she stood by the queen’s side. Emalie stomped around the chair and plopped down onto its cushioned seat.

What had she missed? Arrogant, pompous, rude and…ah! Overbearing and Angevin. No, he was not from Anjou, but from the queen’s own province of Aquitaine. She lifted the cup left behind by Eleanor and swallowed the few mouthfuls of wine left in it. Letting out the breath she held, she admitted the word that she withheld.

Husband. He was her husband. Even now before the nuptial ceremony, she was bound to him by church and law by the betrothal papers on the table. Richard, as king and as holder of her wardship, had given her person and her lands into the control of this arrogant, pompous, rude, overbearing
Comte de Langier.
And what had Eleanor told her? They would have to both make some accommodations in their marriage.

Her unasked question had been answered and that surprised her. He was fair of face as the queen had said. His hair was a lighter brown than she thought when she’d seen him in his bath, and his eyes were the green of spring grasses. And his voice…well, that poured over her like melted treacle, rich and warm. In fact, she had focused on the sound of his voice rather than the obnoxious things he was saying when he spoke to Eleanor.

Christian Dumont had faced some physical trials of late though. His clothing was too big for the form he had now. He had lost weight recently and gained the sores she’d seen on him in his bath. Had he been held prisoner with Richard on the Continent? Was she, was Greystone and the title of Harbridge, his reward for loyal service to the king? If he came as the Count of Langier, what were his lands in Aquitaine like? And who was his family?

Emalie shook her head and realized with a start that she had been sitting here contemplating her betrothed husband and his circumstances for far too long. She stood and made certain that her hair was firmly secured underneath her coif. She would go to him as the Countess Harbridge, as her father’s daughter, not the maid he thought she was.

As she pulled the door open once more, another memory came to her. Christian Dumont, Count of Langier and soon of Harbridge, had been afraid of the news that Eleanor gave him. Fear had been her first impression as he entered the room and greeted the queen. He looked like a man facing death. Even when given the news of his betrothal, the fear did not leave him.

He was a puzzle, one that she would have plenty of time to solve. She knew only that Richard had sent him
at Eleanor’s request to prevent the destruction of her estates and her people. If he did that, she would be forever grateful. She could be content in a marriage if he took care of her people.

Christian Dumont was also a prig. Emalie seethed in humiliation and anger at his latest actions. Her introduction by the queen was met with bold laughter from him. If she were fair, she would admit that his laughter made her stomach quiver in a way she’d not felt before. Right now, she did not feel like being fair.

Dinner had been accomplished with some speed and then the betrothal agreement, with its long recitation of properties and titles, tributes and fees, knights and villeins, had been announced in a droning voice by one of Eleanor’s clerks. Emalie had learned that the count was possessed of a rather large amount of property outside Poitiers as well as a few minor estates and manors in Anjou and Normandy. His titles were older than hers, but she was richer than he. Her dower property was established and would be passed to any daughter if she outlived him and would be repossessed by him if she predeceased him.

It had gone on and on and then came the moment when she had turned over her chatelaine’s keys to him as a symbol of his new position as head of the household and her new lord. Langier had thanked her in heavily accented English and then attached the keys to his own belt. Even the increased murmurings of her people had not alerted him to the insult he gave her. Instead of returning them to her and, in so doing, confirming her position within their household, he kept them—a clear sign of mistrust, with all of Greystone watching.

Emalie felt the heat rise in her cheeks and the sting of tears in her eyes. Did he know her truth or did he simply think her not capable of carrying out the duties she relished? Did he suspect her of mishandling the estate? She bowed and took her seat once more, fighting the urge to scream at him or to cry out in front of everyone. Not certain which would be worse, she simply fixed her gaze on the table in front of her and fought to control herself.