Faerie (22 page)

“Don’t worry tonight, lass. ’Tis time to prepare yourself for your wedding. The Peregrine says he wishes you to wear your pretty green kirtle and have your hair done in long curls like you did at your uncle’s feast at Brodin.”

She sniffed. Now he wanted her hair in ringlets? “There’s no time for that. There’s too much to do if we are to have a table for our supper and a hall to bed down for the night.”

“Nay, lass, the wedding’s to be this day. You won’t be safe from Fulk until you are wed.”

“As if a wedding would stop him. Haps I’ll just send an arrow to nail his randy shaft to his hide.”

“’Twould not be a ladylike thing to do, lass.”

“Indeed not. But then, have you men not already decided I am no lady?”

“Now, lass, you mustn’t blame the man for worrying about your safety. You don’t have much time, so go and dress. I’ll be waiting here to take you to the church porch.”

Leonie exhaled a long, hard sigh, and with a hurried motion at Ealga, walked to the solar.

Despite all their work, the smells of old sweat, smoke, and rotten food still permeated everything, even the walls. The Peregrine was right, they ought to burn it down. But she was not ready to give it up just yet.

A pail of clear water sat on a stool, and Leonie lavished the cool water over her face and body. It felt like the greatest luxury on earth. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she was going to wash her hair, an even greater pleasure, now that Ealga was here to help her.

In the packed goods, Ealga found a fresh chemise. She dressed Leonie in the green kirtle and a pale blue cotehardie, with a chain of gold and amber for her neck. Then she sat on a wobbly stool as Ealga unraveled the thick braid. Patiently, Ealga combed strands of Leonie’s hair into long ropes of curls, then framed it all with two long, narrow braids crossing and loosely binding the curls like lacings around leggings. On her head, she set a fine, gauzy white veil, held down by a gold circlet.

She stood. ’Twas the best that could be done on such short notice. The Peregrine would have to take her as she was. In a manner of speaking only, since she didn’t expect him to take her at all.

Leonie stifled a shudder. She was not sure which she minded more, that he might take her or might not. Confusion pounded like a rock banging around against her skull. He was evil. He was kind. She looked at him one time and felt only fear and revulsion. She looked again and felt trust, longing. Passion. And no matter what she believed, it changed nothing.

She walked through the doorway of the solar into the hall where the fearsome giant Black Earl of Northumbria awaited. Yet of a truth, she felt no fear of him. ’Twas only Philippe le Peregrine who made her heart tremble.

Reaching the earl, she dipped a very formal curtsy, and the man, completely cleaned and combed since she had last set eyes upon him, responded with a bow worthy of the court of the King of France. Even cleaned up, she could not call him handsome, but she could not help but think there was goodness in the man who was deemed by one and all to have a heart as black as the moonless night.

A sudden surge of longing for her family hit her, and she looked back over her shoulder as if she thought they might be there. But she was beginning a different life now. Many a woman, when she married, was lost to her kin for the rest of her life. But she would always know their love, no matter if she saw them again or not.

She took a deep breath as the hall door opened and they stepped out into the cooling air of late afternoon, still tinged with smoke from the burning refuse, yet fresher than the rotten air in the hall.

“There is no straw in the hall yet for sleeping tonight,” she said.

“The sky is still clear,” the earl replied. “Sir Hugh and his men have been sleeping outdoors, and ’twas good enough for the ladies last night at the outpost.”

“But what about the supper?”

“You worry too much, lass.”

She sighed as he patted her hand. Men always thought they knew best. Well, if these men who put themselves in such authority said she was not to worry, then let them find their supper where they might.

They walked down the steep path, across the lower bailey, and out through the barbican’s thick wooden gate. The sounds of villagers grew as they collected about, their curious gazes on the passage of their new lady on the arm of the more familiar Earl of Northumbria. ’Twas an old church that sat at the foot of the castle, with walls cruck-built from the crotches of huge trees, a thatched roof reaching almost to the ground, and daubed walls almost bare of whitewash. Her uncle’s church had been rebuilt in stone several years ago, but the one before it had been much like this.

At the church steps stood the Peregrine, broad-shouldered and massive in blue surplice trimmed in gold, embroidered with the emblem of Evraneaux, the black falcon in flight. His yellow hair, tossed in the air by the breeze, caught the golden light of the late-afternoon sun. Her heart leaped up into her throat and stuck there, fluttering like an injured sparrow in a trap. She didn’t realize she was clenching the arm of the man who led her until he once again patted her hand.

“’Twill all be well,” he said. “The lad will not harm you, or he’ll answer to me. I give you my word, you can always come to me, and I will keep you safe.”

She hardened herself from jaw through spine all the way to her toes. “I’m not afraid of him,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Um-hum,” said the earl. He led her up to the church steps.

Behind the Peregrine stood his men. Close by, her maids and ladies, and the villagers beyond them in a circle. And nearby, the priest, who stood beside an elderly bearded Saxon man she had seen in the bailey with Philippe.

She took the last step and stood face-to-face with the man who was to be her husband. Her heart raced even faster with the battle between it and her mind. Her heart could not win.

Their gazes locked, his brown eyes intense. She saw in them his resolve to honor his king’s command.

“Do you come willingly, Leonie of Bosewood?” asked Philippe.

She nodded, though every part of her was as rigid as an old oak. She would not tremble. She would not be afraid. “Aye.”

He nodded his own consent in return. “Robert de Mowbray, Earl of Northumbria, do you stand in the king’s stead to give away the bride?”

“’Tis my duty and my pleasure,” the earl responded.

Leonie frowned, confused. Had the man accepted the Peregrine, then? Trusted him? She had thought at least they stood at odds over their loyalties to Rufus. And it had not been many hours ago the man had offered to spirit her away to Scotland. If not to kill outright the man he now encouraged her to marry.

“Then call everyone to the chapel steps,” Philippe said to the elderly man she had seen before. “Let us have all to witness this marriage. Have you a priest here?”

“Aye, lord,” said another man, a Norman, but as filthy a Norman as she had ever seen. Not one of Philippe’s men.

The throng began to buzz with noise. Leonie let back her veil and heard a common gasp as her mother’s name echoed through the crowd, then her own.

So. She was home. At last. Her true family, she knew, were those who had cared for her, sheltered her through childhood, defended and protected her from her wild father’s wrath. She
would always honor them as her family. But something about this place had always drawn her.

It was her destiny.

Ealga stepped before Philippe, her face twisted in a knot of worry as she gave him a servant’s curtsy.

He nodded, waiting.

“All is ready, lord,” she said.

Leonie frowned. What was ready? Of course she was ready. What had he expected, that she would come to him adorned head to toe in gold coins?

“Then let us be on with it,” he answered. “Lady, are you willing?”

“As I have said,” she replied.

For a bare moment, her hand hovered as she hesitated. But there was no purpose in waiting. Let her strange mind think what it would. She gave her hand into his.

There were the words of the priest, Father Ivo, asking for the bride to be given away, and the low rumble of the Earl of Northumbria’s voice as he stepped forward, said his words, then backed away.

Leonie had seen many weddings in her lifetime. Nothing was new, yet all of it was, for this time it was her life that was to be changed. She knelt, as did Philippe, the man who was both strange and familiar, each facing the other, hands held up, his encompassing hers, interlocked as if in prayer. The warmth of his palms shocked her. The priest wrapped his shawl around their hands.

The words she had heard so many times echoed in her head with the ringing of her ears as her heart pounded. So familiar, yet so strange, as this day had been.

“I, Philippe of Evraneaux, take Leonie of Bosewood.”

She had not heard him called that, although she knew who he was. He had always been the Peregrine to her, the wandering falcon, the man who kept himself so aloof, the man who did
not want her and now must have her. It was all so strange, like a faraway echo in the hills.

Now the turn was hers. She knew by the jostling at her elbow, for her mind had been playing tricks on her again.

She spoke her name and his, and added her vows. “As long as we both shall live.” It was that last that frightened her so much. Was it marriage that had destroyed her parents? Would it do the same for her?

“So be it,” said the priest. “Amen.”

They stood, arms interlocked, and stepped out from under the church porch into the slanting rays of a bright sunset.

The solemn crowd exploded in cheers.

Pipes began to wail. Surprised, Leonie turned about, and the villagers leaped into a frenzied dance that became a long caroling line, singing a strange song in tune with the pipes and following alongside the newlyweds as they began their procession back up the hill. She had seen such a thing before, yet not quite like this.

Nor did they go uphill at all, but instead to a village green that was thick with lush grass and decked with tables of all sorts, laden with food, roasted fowl and pork, something that looked like a greyish gruel, and even a dark, round bread. And ale. Great wooden kegs of it.

“It’s your bride ale,” Philippe said. “The gift of the village, for Herzeloyde’s daughter.”

D
ESPITE THE WARRING
inside her, Leonie couldn’t resist smiling back at the delicious way Philippe’s mouth crinkled at its corners. He smiled so seldom, always the darkly solemn knight with terrible dark secrets behind his calm face.

“Why?” she asked, still surveying the feast and dancing.

He shrugged. “Who knows? The common folk are not usually generous with any conquering Norman. And they didn’t respect your father, so de Mowbray tells me. But the name Herzeloyde brings awe to their faces. I don’t know why.”

Leonie didn’t know either. No one had ever been willing to talk about her mother. De Mowbray had told her little more than she had learned from Ealga.

“But come,” Philippe said, leading her by the hand. “Let me introduce to you the villagers. This is Cyne, their elder, and once a powerful thane, so de Mowbray tells me.”

Cyne bowed very low, showing to Leonie the balding top of a head of greying long hair. “’Tis my greatest pleasure, lady. Once I held a babe with a froth of hair so pale, ’twas like a crown of snow. Though your hair has grown long, I know you still by your look. ’Tis one a man can never forget.”

Her heart had no doubts, and her smile warmed. He was kind. A man of honor. “I am at a loss, Cyne. I remember so little. Yet I know by the feel of it I have come home. I thank you for your kind welcome.”

“Naught is too much for the daughter of Herzeloyde, though we have little, and the fare is poor.”

Philippe shook his head at the old man. “Good food doesn’t need elegance to please. We’re very hungry. We’ve eaten little save boar meat and the rough fare of de Mowbray’s outpost, and he does not have a cook worth praising.”

“’Tis true, I vow,” de Mowbray said, sadly shaking his head. “’Tis said the man boils rocks for stew.”

Leonie snickered. She had not minded. “I’m as hungry now as I was then. It is a fine feast.”

The whine of Celtic bagpipes began, and when the bags were filled, burst into a lively tune. A drum picked up the beat as villagers jumped up from their tables and joined hands to dance in a wide circle about their Norman lord and his bride. Other than the circling with joined hands, it was not like any dance Leonie remembered. Their brown kirtles and tunics, dun-colored leggings, with their dull plaids of brown and blue, were nothing like the vivid flashes of color she’d known in her uncle’s hall. Yet the dancers kicked and swayed as if their lives were every bit as vibrant and rich, turning to each other, dancing in twos, then fours, and back to their ever-circling line. Voices both deep and high sang in northern words she could not recognize, to a tune she had never heard.

“Is this the way they treat all weddings?” she asked Cyne.

“Aye, lady. The song speaks of Adam and Eve on their wedding night, and all the things they shared with each other, save the apples on the tree, for they dinna dare. And for a sennight, they dinna think of apples, only each other. But then they saw the apples again, and Eve couldna resist the gift of an apple to her sweetheart. And that is how Adam came to fall from God’s grace.”