Manor Arnelaine
October 1176
Eglantine had been certain Theobald’s funeral would be the worst of it, but she was wrong.
When she first awoke to the grey slant of rain, she had feared that she would not provide the example expected by the villeins of this small manor or—worse—that she would fail to mask her own feelings before her children.
Eglantine had managed both, though only barely, and she lay the credit before her brother’s wife, Brigid. That sweet woman was so heavy with child, so sympathetic to Eglantine’s loss, so obviously missing Guillaume, that it had been easy to be strong in her presence.
To be strong was Eglantine’s gift, after all.
Eglantine’s mother arrived from the manor of Crevy-sur-Seine with Brigid, though nursing a cold. That woman’s illness seemed to prompt her to keep her usually shrewd observations to herself.
’Twas a blessing.
For the first time in her life, Eglantine was glad that her brother had been called to the royal court, for she could not have faced him this day. She knew well enough that Theobald had betrayed Guillaume’s trust, a trust Guillaume had bestowed to ensure his sole sister’s comfort. Eglantine chided herself silently, for she was glad to be spared Guillaume’s discovery of how poorly Arnelaine had fared beneath Theobald’s hand.
If only for the moment. The storm would undoubtedly come, but she was glad she would not have to face it this day.
’Twas not until all the mourners were departed that the true challenge assailed her. Louis, Arnelaine’s châtelain, stepped out of the shadows of the silent hall. Without a word, he summoned Eglantine, something in his manner making her heart stop, then race anew.
She understood in that moment that matters were even worse than she imagined. How badly had Theobald managed Arnelaine? Eglantine was not certain she wanted to know.
’Twas unlike her to be a coward, though, so she followed Louis to the chamber where the manor’s books were kept, acting as though naught was amiss.
’Twas strange to be ushered to the lord’s place at the table. She ran her hands across the smooth wood, painfully aware that she sat in the place of her spouse—in his chair, at his table, with his papers arrayed before her—while Louis reviewed matters he should have only discussed with a man.
’Twas then that Eglantine realized she would never hear Theobald de Mayneris roar for more wine again.
Her unexpected grief surprised her with its intensity. She blinked back tears, unwilling to admit that she would miss in any way the man who had so carelessly cast her heart aside.
Though she had once loved Theobald, his behavior had made it clear that he had not loved her. Wed once for duty and once for what she believed was love, Eglantine had learned that marriage held no promise for her. At least—at twenty-eight summers of age and twice widowed—she would not have to embark on that fool’s journey again.
Encouraged by such small mercies, Eglantine listened to the châtelain and realized she had missed much of what had been said. “I beg your pardon, Louis. I did not heed your inventory of the estate.”
The older man glanced up, his gaze sharp. His lips tightened slightly more than was his wont. “There is no inventory, my lady.”
Eglantine straightened at this odd news, knowing that Louis had always kept impeccable records. “How can that be?”
The châtelain looked discomfited. “Because the estate was not held by your spouse upon his demise.”
Eglantine frowned. “Louis, Theobald was invested with the estate at my brother’s behest. Has Guillaume retrieved the manor, as is his right, due to some disagreement?”
Louis shook his head. “Nay, Lord Guillaume has done naught.”
What had Theobald done?
“This is a poor jest, Louis.” Eglantine spoke firmly. “We both know that a vassal has no right to relieve himself of a holding held in trust for his overlord.”
“’Tis no jest, my lady.” Louis’ tone was equally firm. “There is no inventory because there are no books, and there are no books because there is no seal.”
“What nonsense is this?”
“The books of the manor are no longer in my possession.” Louis held Eglantine’s astonished gaze as his voice dropped. “My lord Theobald may not have had the right, but he had the seal of this manor in his hand. I regret to inform you, my lady, that he wagered it and he lost.”
Eglantine blinked, her composure slipping a fraction. “But that cannot be.”
“Nonetheless, ’tis.”
“But there must be an error, Louis. Theobald would not have been so foolish.” Even as the words crossed her lips, Eglantine knew very well he could have been.
’Twas why her heart hammered so.
Louis said naught more so Eglantine leaned forward to argue on her dead spouse’s behalf.
“Theobald would not have left Esmeraude with naught! Our daughter was his pride and joy, her future his sole concern!” ’Twas as though she would convince herself. “Esmeraude’s dowry must be bought and all our bellies must be filled. There is my dowry held in trust, which is mine alone! Theobald would not be so remiss in his responsibilities as this!”
The châtelain rubbed his chin as he surveyed her, the gleam of sympathy in his eye telling Eglantine more than she wanted to know. ’Twas clear Theobald would have done as much.
Because he had.
Eglantine dropped back into her chair and fought against her rising anger. She had not needed more proof that Theobald was irresponsible.
But she had it, nonetheless. Her fingers drummed in a rare expression of frustration, the regular rhythm the only sound in the chamber.
When Louis finally spoke, his words did little to reassure her. “He would not have been so rash when he was sober, certainly.”
’Twas true enough and not a welcome reminder.
Eglantine pushed away from the table, rising to stare blindly out the narrow window. She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. The rain beat coldly against the stone, a trickle of it running into the chamber, the weather reflecting her glum mood.
The seal was gone.
Her brother Guillaume would have to pay the debts left by his vassal and brother by marriage, or lose this part of his holding. Eglantine knew that Guillaume would never suffer the loss of so much as a blade of grass of the family holding. Crevy-sur-Seine was his pride and joy, a close second only to his blushing bride.
Eglantine ached at the price her own folly would bring to her family. Why, oh why, had she been so smitten with Theobald? And why had she begged her brother to grant Theobald some small holding so that they might make a match?
Oh, she had cost her family dearly, there was no mistake of that. And for what? A man who drank and gambled and cost her all.
And left her penniless to raise his child.
Eglantine heaved a sigh and turned back to the patient châtelain who had served her family all his life. “All of it, Louis?”
The older man shook his head, no more happy with the truth than she. “Every denier, child, every last cursed denier.” For the first time in her recollection, Louis’ words were heated. “Do not imagine that I did not try to stop him.”
Eglantine summoned her composure, though ’twas more of a challenge than usual to act as expected. But she still was the daughter of Crevy, the lady of Arnelaine, the one to whom all would turn for answers, at least in the short term.
“I am certain that you did, Louis. Your loyalty to Crevy and my family is beyond expectation.”
The châtelain bowed slightly. “I thank you, my lady.”
“I shall ensure that Guillaume understands your efforts in this. ’Twas not your error and I shall do my best to see that you do not pay for Theobald’s folly.”
“Again, I thank you. You have always been most gracious.” Louis met her gaze steadily and his voice dropped lower, as though he feared he might step too far. “I would dare to suggest, my lady, that ’twas not your error either.”
Eglantine was not so certain of that. She took her seat again, choosing not to reprimand Louis for his familiarity. “But I shall bear the price of it, you may be certain.” She tried to appear assured and wondered whether Louis was fooled.
“If I may be so bold as to ask, my lady, what will you do?”
There was no point in artifice, Eglantine realized, for this man knew her circumstance even better than she. Eglantine trusted the older man, for he had served her family all of his life.
She let her mask of confidence slip. “I do not know, Louis. Esmeraude will need a dowry, and...” Her voice faded, for she could not even think of the betrothal of her elder daughter, Jacqueline, without becoming angry.
No coin meant no ability to fight that marriage contract with Reynaud de Charmonte.
Eglantine frowned at the desk, deliberately speaking of her step-daughter instead. “And I cannot turn away Alienor, even though she is not my own blood.” She would be hard-pressed to salvage this situation and she could not imagine where to begin.
Neither apparently could the châtelain, for he said naught.
Curse Theobald! At least matters could not be worse. Whatever she did could only improve the situation.
They two shared a moment’s silence, then Louis offered a piece of parchment with a slight clearing of his throat. “This missive came from Charmonte this morn. ’Tis addressed to you.”
“Charmonte?” Eglantine recoiled. “Already?”
“I am afraid so, my lady.” Louis grimaced slightly, his manner echoing Eglantine’s thoughts. “Sadly, the betrothal agreement for your daughter Jacqueline is not missing from the former Lord d’Arnelaine’s papers.”
“That would have been rather against my current run of fortune.”
They exchanged a quick wry smile as Eglantine reached across the desk. There was no point in avoiding the truth, though she distrusted that word came so quickly.
Reynaud de Charmonte was an old comrade of Robert de Leyrossire, Eglantine’s first spouse. On the birth of Eglantine and Robert’s daughter, a betrothal agreement with Reynaud had been negotiated. The arrangement had been too painfully familiar to her own circumstance for Eglantine to find acceptable.
Robert, three decades older than Eglantine, had not been interested in her view.
Eglantine turned the missive in her hands, remembering all too well how miserable she had been in that match. She hated that she would be compelled to condemn her beloved daughter to the same unhappiness she had known.
But what choice did she have?
Eglantine now had no coin of her own.
Eglantine could not ask Guillaume to buy out the arrangement, especially not now that ’twas clear Theobald had served him so poorly.
Eglantine had no champion of her own with Theobald dead, not that he had been much of one while he still drew breath. Even her step-son by Robert had shown that he had no compassion for women. That, after all, was why Robert’s daughter Alienor had come to Eglantine, seeking shelter when her own blood cast her out.
Eglantine heaved a sigh and placed Reynaud’s missive on the desk, delaying the inevitable.
“Grant me some consolation, Louis. Tell me that the holder of Arnelaine’s seal is a compassionate man, one who will grant me the opportunity to set matters to rights.”
“The tale, my lady, is not mine to tell.” Sympathy gleamed in Louis’s eyes and he conjured another document from his ledger. ’Twas tucked into the end paper and written upon fine vellum. Eglantine’s heart skipped a beat when she spied her name scrawled across it in Theobald’s familiar hand.
“Your lord left you naught but a letter, my lady.” Louis handed it to her, then stood and bowed. “I hope it will explain matters more satisfactorily than I ever could.”
Naught but a letter, its seal unbroken. Eglantine was not certain she wanted to open it either. ’Twas no less than Theobald’s last words to her.
She did not trust him not to cast yet another shadow on her circumstance.
Ever-tactful Louis left her alone, closing the door behind himself. Eglantine crossed to the narrow window again, taking a deep breath of the cool breeze as she turned the letter in her hands.
She could smell Arnelaine’s fields, the rich scent of the soil turned with manure before the winter. That mingled with the smell of the fires in the village nestled against the château walls and the sound of the river splashing in the wheel of the mill. The bell rang out from the chapel, a mournfully slow clang, reminding her all too well that the lord of the manor had passed from this earth and been laid to his rest this day.
But Theobald had not been lord of Arnelaine of late, though she had not known of it.
He had deceived her.
Eglantine tore open her spouse’s letter, surprised at the heat of her anger. Theobald had betrayed not only her, but her daughter, her step-daughter and the child they two had brought to light.
Eglantine had believed they at least had shared an honest rapport, but clearly even that had been a lie.
The cur’s letter was dated four months past.
My dearest Eglantine—
’Tis oft said that a man may not savor the view after a night of drinking and that is true enough of me on this morn. I have been foolish, not for the first time and probably not for the last, but I fear that this foolishness cannot be repaired.
Months past I took a wager, thinking it an easy one to win. ’Twas to ensure Esmeraude’s future that I took this gamble, for I worry overmuch about our child’s choices. I would have her wed a king, a prince, a lord of lords, and knew ‘twas my responsibility to ensure she had the dowry to win the most deserving man to her side.
’Tis the irony of such matters that my deeds may well have precisely the opposite effect. ’Tis the way of the wine to make me feel that Dame Fortune rides beside me, and more than once these past months, I have tried to set all to rights. Instead I have only made matters worse—last night, I lost the manor of Arnelaine itself.
I know ’tis not mine to lose, I know I had no right, but with the seal in my purse and the dice falling my way, I dared overmuch. ’Twas my intent to see this corrected, though I know now that I hoped overmuch. After these past months of such efforts, there is naught left to my hand, naught with which I might wager, no honor left in my name which might compel others at least to courtesy.
This morn, I am faced with a dark realization. It is not unlikely that I shall fail in my quest to retrieve Arnelaine. This is no blight upon the man to whom I have lost your brother’s holding, for this man of honor has granted me not only the opportunity to redress my error, but the secrecy in which to do it. ’Tis by his generosity that we have been allowed to continue at Arnelaine as though naught was amiss and to him I owe much.
Yet still, I write this confession to you, my own wife, the one soul destined to wring something from naught. If I succeed in correcting what I have done, then I shall burn this missive and you will never know the truth of my sorry secret. If you are reading these words, then ’tis because I have failed.
And you, you who loved me for what I pretended to be, will surely be dismayed. Though truly, Eglantine, if there is any who can make the most of little, ’tis you.
What I have to grant to you is little indeed. Here is my sole possession, the title to a distant holding, one which I have never seen. This Kinbeath was bestowed upon my father years ago. Truth be told, if any believed it had any value, I would have wagered it and likely you would not even hold it in your hand.
Kinbeath lies in distant Scotland, though its tale is perhaps worth the journey. ’Tis the way of the Celts to make a pagan wedding ceremony called a handfast. A couple pledge to live as one for a year and a day, and if all goes well, they swear at the end to keep all their days and nights together. ’Twas said by my father that this Kinbeath is believed a fortunate place to make such a vow, that locally all clamor to make their vows there.
Perhaps you and I should have made our pledges each to the other in Kinbeath. Perhaps then I would not be writing this missive, perhaps then I would not have failed so badly. Perhaps then you would regard me with other than disappointment in your eyes.
Perhaps then I might have been the man you once believed me to be.
But we did not and I am not. And instead of a fine fat dowry for Esmeraude, I leave you only the deed to a property held to be worthless, at least upon these shores.
Forgive me, Eglantine, if you can find it within your heart to do so. ’Twas not my intent to fail.
Eglantine ran her fingertip over Theobald’s signature, the enclosed title falling to the floor unheeded. She traced the swirls of ink as tears obscured her vision, her heart aching with the memory of all the hopes she had once had.
She had been such a fool.
Unwitnessed, she buried her face in her hands and wept as never she permitted herself to do. Eglantine was alone but for her responsibilities and one worthless title, and felt more like a young girl than a woman widowed once again.
* * *
When thunder rumbled in the distance and the sky darkened, Eglantine straightened. She wiped her tears and found her composure once again.
She opened Reynaud’s letter, every word feeding her dawning conviction to make a change in her circumstance.
My lady Eglantine—
Be advised that I shall arrive at Arnelaine in a fortnight’s time. It is my understanding that your spouse has recently passed from this earth, and accordingly, arrangements have been made with the Abbess of Courbelle for your acceptance there as a novitiate. You are however welcome to linger at Arnelaine, as my guest, until the nuptials between Jacqueline and I are celebrated two months hence. I shall, with your certain agreement, be delighted to arrange for Esmeraude’s marriage when she comes of age.
Please ensure that all is made ready for my arrival and that the keys to Arnelaine are entrusted to Jacqueline.
Reynaud had not signed his missive beyond a lazy R, but he had marked it heavily with red wax, imprinted so deeply with Arnelaine’s seal that she could not have doubted the image. A second seal bore the arms of Charmonte, his home estate.
His letter motivated her as naught else might have done. Indeed, Eglantine’s lips drew to a tight line at the sight of that seal.
So this was who had taken Theobald’s wager! No wonder Theobald had been so evasive in naming the other man, for Eglantine had made no secret of her objections to Jacqueline’s match.
Clearly, Reynaud de Charmonte did not approve of Eglantine’s objections to his marriage to her daughter and made to ensure that she had no right of protest.
And a convent for her! Eglantine would join no convent! How dare Reynaud make such an arrangement?
’Twas as though Eglantine was only so much baggage, and baggage that must be removed. His deed confirmed the worst of her fears and changed all of her assumptions. Although another lord might have allowed Guillaume to retain Arnelaine by the payment of Theobald’s debts, Reynaud would not let the matter end so simply.
First he would ensure he had Jacqueline.
But a man who treated Eglantine in such manner would not make Jacqueline a fitting spouse. When he tired of his bride, would he dispose of her with such indifference as well? Eglantine guessed as much. As for Esmeraude, well, Eglantine heartily doubted that Reynaud’s choice of spouse would better suit when the time to wed came.
She must ensure he did not win his way, for the sake of her daughters. Perhaps then, Guillaume might regain his holding, as well.
But what could she do?
Family loyalty prompted Eglantine to turn to her brother. But she had asked Guillaume repeatedly about Jacqueline’s betrothal and repeatedly, he had quoted the law to her, albeit with apologies. ’Twas the way of a man of honor to uphold the law and Eglantine knew that her brother would not be swayed to her side.
Men! Eglantine paced the chamber, hating the fact that her fate was yet again not her own.
There had been a time when she might have thought her friend Burke de Montvieux would champion her cause, but those days were gone. He was in love with his wife, and enamored of his young son, and Eglantine knew she had no right to intrude on that happy scene. Burke had persuaded her once of the merit of love—though that course had won her naught but trouble, Eglantine was tempted to find such love for her daughters.
What if even one of them might win the hand of a man like Burke?
’Twas a possibility that halted Eglantine’s pacing. Aye, she would not stand aside and let her daughters be compelled to repeat her own fate. They would not marry old men, they would not be trapped in households hostile to them, they would not be so much chattel in men’s lives!
They would have the love of which Burke so eloquently spoke.
Eglantine would ensure it. She crumpled Reynaud’s missive as though she would destroy his plans with that one gesture, then flung the parchment across the room. She would not bow to this man’s will!
And she was not compelled to do so—because Theobald had unwittingly granted her the means to make a difference.
’Twould not be an easy task, but the alternative was sufficiently unattractive to make her reckless. Eglantine picked up the deed to faraway Kinbeath, a smile playing across her lips as her decision was made.
She would take her daughters to Scotland, a place so distant that she could barely imagine it. Louis would go with them, Eglantine was certain, for there was no future for him beneath Reynaud’s hand.
Aye, she would take any of the household willing to travel with them, Reynaud’s wishes be damned!
Once established at Kinbeath, Eglantine would launch her own Bride Quest, not unlike that of the brothers Fitzgavin. She straightened at the sheer good sense of the thought. Aye, she would summon men to her court, she would persuade them to undertake tests of valor, she would coax them to win the hearts of their ladies fair!
Three particular ladies fair did come to mind. Eglantine would ensure these men competed, the best of them winning the hearts of her daughters three. ’Twould be just like an old chanson, just like the Bride Quest tale which already was recounted in the halls hereabouts and in which Burke had participated.
Perhaps Theobald’s legacy would bring more than he had hoped. Eglantine lifted her chin and strode from the chamber, her footstep light with her surety of the future. Perhaps she truly could wring something from naught.
For the sake of her daughters and their happiness, Eglantine certainly intended to try.