The Dumont Bride. Terri Brisbin
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and stared as they rode on to the steps leading to the keep itself. Finally, and not a moment too soon to his way of thinking, the group reached its destination and drew to a halt. Christian dismounted in one motion and nodded as a boy came forward to take his mount. Any hesitation on his part about the boy’s ability to handle a horse so much bigger than he was disappeared as he observed the skill and caring with which the boy led the horse away to the stables.
Brushing off the dust of the morning’s travel, Christian waited for someone from within to greet them. He did not wait long before the doors at the top of the steps opened and a huge man approached them. Nodding at them, he paused until the royal messenger stepped forward and announced himself as such. After conversing in hushed tones, the messenger climbed the steps and entered the building. Then the man addressed the rest of the group, in heavily accented English.
“I am Walter, lately captain of the guards here at Greystone. I bid you welcome in the name of the Countess of Harbridge and in the name of Eleanor, Queen of England, who is also in residence here. Come this way, so that you may refresh yourselves from your journey.”
The big soldier stepped aside and motioned for the group to follow him. Only the promise of some decent wine and shelter from the gray English weather enticed Christian to enter in haste. At least if Eleanor were here, some tasty food and drink were probabilities as well. The queen did not suffer herself to travel without the comforts to which she was accustomed.
Entering the great hall, Christian inspected the room and its inhabitants. The people were all busy, cleaning the floors, replacing the rushes, rehanging huge tapestries on the wall behind the raised dais. All he saw reinforced his notion of the prosperity of the estate and the good handling of its resources. A short, thin man separated himself from a small group talking among themselves and approached their burly escort.
“Sir Walter, please allow me to escort our guests to table.”
The captain’s relieved expression told Christian more than words could of his discomfort at this task. Nodding brusquely, he stepped aside and waved them on to follow this newcomer.
“I am Fitzhugh, the steward. Allow me to see you settled with food and drink to refresh yourselves. Right this way.” The steward led them up the steps to the large table and guided them to seats. Fitzhugh called out to servants and, within a few moments, platters of bread and cheeses and cold meats were placed before them. Pitchers of ale and wine along with goblets were placed on the table. Serving women circled them, offering more food and drink, until there was a full trencher and cup before each man.
Christian lifted the cup to his lips and drank deeply of the wine. As the drink washed away the dust in his mouth, Christian was overcome with a wave of homesickness for his own demesne and his own vintage of wine. Chateau d’Azure was known far and wide for its excellent quality of grapes and the wine they produced. He craved a bottle of his own even as he swallowed once and again of this local brew.
“Milord, is something wrong with the wine?”
Christian was pleased in one way that Fitzhugh had been so observant—it spoke well of his abilities. However, he knew that his own foul mood and the tension spiraling even tighter within his gut were not the steward’s problems.
“The wine is acceptable,” he answered, drinking down the last mouthful in his cup and placing it back on the table. “I fear that I am simply weary from our journey.”
“Since neither the queen nor the countess will be able to greet you at this time, I have been instructed to show you to your rooms so that you can refresh yourselves before meeting them at supper this eve. Once you finish eating, of course.” Fitzhugh smiled as he spoke. He was much younger than Christian had first thought.
Christian wanted to argue about not seeing Eleanor immediately, but his bone-deep fatigue got the better of him. After tearing off some bread, he chewed it slowly as he cut a wedge of cheese. He continued methodically eating everything before him and did not pause until all the others at table had finished. He recognized this as a sad remnant of his recent brush with starvation, however, even knowing this did not stop Christian from eating as much as he could at each meal. Only his willpower and the thought of the possible humiliation at being discovered kept him from taking food from the table and hiding it within his tunic and in his pockets.
When all the others had stopped eating and emptied their goblets, Christian brushed the crumbs from his hands and dried his mouth. Rising and following the steward through the hall to a staircase, he looked around and took in as much about his surroundings as he could. A tickle of unease moved down his spine and he searched for the source. He felt as though he was being watched, not as a welcomed visitor but as a potential enemy. No one met his gaze and all appeared too busy to be studying him with the intensity that he felt.
At the back of the great hall, they were separated and Fitzhugh motioned that he should follow. Soon they alone climbed up three flights of steps and arrived on the top floor of the keep. The steward startled him by leading him to another stairway and up to an even higher floor in one of the corner towers of the keep. His confusion turned to amazement as Fitzhugh opened the door to what could only be the lord’s chamber.
“There must be some mistake?” he started. “These are the lord’s chambers and obviously meant for someone else.”
“No, milord. The queen was quite clear in her instructions. She instructed that you should have these rooms.”
Fitzhugh allowed him to proceed into the room where he was greeted by a small army of servants awaiting his arrival. The room was sumptuously furnished with tapestries on the walls and several thick rugs spread around the room. In spite of it being summer, a fire burned brightly in the hearth, taking the chill from the room. A large metal tub, larger than most he had seen or been in, sat before the fire, its contents releasing wafts of steam into the room.
A young maid rushed forward and placed a cup in his hands. Another busied herself opening his meager baggage, which had been delivered in advance of his arrival. An older, stouter woman stood waiting next to the tub. Fitzhugh cleared his throat and all of the servants stopped their activities and looked to him for direction.
“Let us give the count some measure of privacy for his bath. You can finish your work later.” And with a wave of his hand and a flurry of movement to the door, Fitzhugh and the servants were gone. Except for one.
Christian drank the wine without tasting it, for the appeal of the bath held his attention. He walked across the large room and sat on a chair to remove his leather bindings and shoes.
“Would you prefer me to leave, milord, or give you some assistance in your bath?” The voice did not match the woman, for it was softer and lighter than he expected for one of her large size. In a way, it held a resemblance to his own mother’s voice with its melodic soft tones.
“Your name?”
“Alyce, milord,” she answered, dipping into a slight curtsy and bowing her head.
“You would help me by setting out all I need within reach of the tub and then you may go.”
Christian could not bear the thought of someone, even a servant, witnessing what months of imprisonment had wrought on his body. His gaunt appearance was one thing he could not hide, but the sores and scabs were his own private hell.
“Very well, milord.” Alyce moved with an efficiency that once more surprised him and in a few moments had arranged the bowl of soap, the linens and extra buckets of hot and cold water exactly as he had requested. She walked toward him and stopped with her arms outstretched. “If you will give me your clothes, I will have them washed for you, milord.”
Christian thought to refuse but changed his mind. His baggage was light, for he had brought few clothes with him. Cleaning these would be necessary. He nodded and turned his back to strip out of them. When he glanced in her direction, Alyce was standing near him, but her gaze was trained on the door across the room.
Feeling some comfort in her impersonal manner, he quickly removed his belt, tunic and undershirt. He rolled his stockings down and peeled them off his sweaty feet.