Chapter Eight

Grégoire took a swallow of wine, forcing down his frustration along with it. By the rood, conversing with his betrothed was a trial. Even with Lady Bridget interpreting, comprehending her statements and questions and responding appropriately took inordinate amounts of time.

For a moment, he let the sounds of more companionable conversation weave round him. From his own knights and Oelwine’s family, down to the lowliest Norman man-at-arms and Shyleburgh’s servants, the folk in the hall were all savoring his welcome feast. A good thing, that. Discontent among the serfs and soldiery was a blister to deal with.

As for himself, he liked having the thane’s extended family at table with him. Though he had Oelwine’s allegiance through right of conquest, he needed the Englishman’s personal devotion, as well. Offering the seneschal a place of honor at his banquet went a long way in that direction. If there was one thing he’d learned managing his father’s estate and fighting for the king so many years, it was that leadership proved all the more effective with the admiration of one’s followers.

A quick survey of his dining companions reminded him of another reason he preferred having the resident family close at hand—he could keep a close eye on Oelwine, Oswald, and their former vassals—now his—and an open ear to what they discussed. Only a fool would assume all was well at such a transition of power, and Grégoire was no fool.

Political sedition was not known to exist in Oelwine’s household. The former thane had fought with King William’s supporters in York against Black Hand and other rebels. But the fact remained that Black Hand—Samson of Reggeland—had once pledged his troth here at Shyleburgh, and his family lands, which William had handily wrested from him, were nearby. He very well might have followers hidden within the household.

The seneschal claimed not so, because Black Hand terrorized the countryside—his own people—in order to survive on the run after the Normans had burned Reggeland to the ground. He and his band of followers stole livestock and foodstuffs, and slaughtered anyone who stood in their way. He had gained the enmity of his fellow Englishmen, who had suffered three years of poverty and hardship in the wake of William’s brutal suppression of resistance, and were eager to accept peace and a new way of life.

All the same, it behooved Grégoire to watch. And listen.

But this night, he had an additional matter to attend to. Earlier, he had passed a few moments in conversation with Lady Aislinn’s father and his men, but had allowed Albert to take over the discussion so that he might concentrate on her, alone.

He replaced his goblet upon the table. “My compliments on the wine,” he said to his fashionably refined betrothed at his elbow. Following the traditions of her folk, she had served him and the other diners from a ceremonial ewer. Now she sat beside him. “Where does it come from?”

At the lady’s far side, her sister, Bridget, was leaning forward to capture anything spoken. She dutifully repeated his question in English to her.

He stifled a curse. Even such a simple question was too much for the girl? Still, she was passing fair, and looking at her put him in mind of how long it had been since he’d lain with a woman. A long time.

The gossamer veil she wore, held in place by a finely wrought bronze circlet, cascaded softly over her raven hair. One sleek tendril had escaped over her shoulder to curl upon the white skin above her breast—delicate flesh exposed by the low neckline of her gown.

The familiar hunger surged through him, howling his need to wed soon. He could avail himself of willing maidservants and villagers, but the possibility of peppering the landscape with his by-blows kept him from acting. Although, he had given it some serious thought, hadn’t he, in the monks’ orchard that morn? He felt a smile beginning to spread on his face.

Involuntarily, his gaze locked with Bridget’s. He beat down the unwelcome interest that sparked to life in his gut. Quickly and ruthlessly, he quashed any thought along those lines. He couldn’t afford to wander there. It spelled only disaster.

At least, Aislinn seemed invested in interaction with him and appeared pleased with every word he uttered to her. If he could but keep the girl smiling through the meal and get through the evening without losing his patience altogether, he would consider this courtship a project well begun.

After his praise of the wine, Aislinn’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and the corners of her lips curled upward. Before she had a chance to reply, Bridget answered the question. “It comes from Aquitaine, my lord. The estates of Comte Verlin.”

“Ah,” he said, shoving aside how those warm honey eyes of hers seemed to melt all over him. He must remember she awarded him no special beneficence. Women who wanted to be nuns were kind and attentive to everyone, were they not? “That explains it. I know the count and his vineyards. I’m thankful you spare me your English wine.”

Bridget’s eyebrows dipped into a scowl just before she leaned into her sister and whispered. Aislinn’s expression brightened yet more, and she cast Grégoire a smile and a gracious nod.

Though Aislinn said nothing, Bridget addressed him in a merry tone. A falsely merry tone with sarcasm underneath. “That you would ever believe us capable of blundering so badly, my lord. Why, we wouldn’t think of serving you English wine.”

He allowed himself a smile and returned in equally congenial tones, “You served me mead in the bailey. Is that not English wine?”

She pursed her lips as if restraining her own smile. “And you drank it down without reservation, I noticed. We applaud your heroic fortitude, but no one makes mead better than the English.”

“Mayhap ’tis so. I don’t care for it.”

She disregarded his persistence. “Every newcomer says that. They soon feel differently.”

“Not I. Red wine is my quaff.” To drive his statement home, he grabbed up the goblet of wine and finished off what remained therein. Yet, he felt her watching him, watching his throat as he swallowed, and, blast the woman, her close regard injected his flesh with an insidious warmth very like the slow flame of the wine spreading through his limbs.

It dawned that Aislinn had been observing their interaction with curiosity. Breaking the silence that stretched, she turned to Bridget and nudged her, uttering a word or two. A brief exchange ensued. Aislinn then bestowed him a radiant smile.

Bridget leaned forward to say across her, “My sister shall be delighted to sing for you this eve, lord.”

Aislinn nodded vigorously.

Grégoire frowned. Had Bridget fabricated what he’d been saying? Perhaps telling her sister he’d been flattering her and asking her to sing? And he’d been worried about the father fabricating words.

Interesting. He glanced back and forth between the siblings. Bridget, no longer looking at him, was giving her meal an inordinate level of concentration, using her bread and knife to scoop up chunks of meat, which she ate with gusto.

Aislinn, though, stared benignly at him, waiting. A moment passed before he recalled he was required to morsel out her food for her, selecting choice bits from the platters before them. This was a droll custom in vogue in finer halls. That they practiced such pretense here in the wilds bordering Cumbria made him bite back a snort of derision. But he performed his duty, and it seemed to make the girl happy.

That is, it seemed to make her happy at first. He had just delivered a slice of peppered pork to her trencher when a small sound she made drew his notice. A pout on her face further expressed some displeasure. Bridget, looking over, quickly assessed her sister’s trencher. “Nothing too spicy, lord. No pepper, no mustard, as little garlic and coriander as possible. Her throat, you see.”

He nearly freed the curse clamoring on his tongue. “Pray, what is permissible?”

Bridget scanned the platters marching in a staggered parade down the center of the table. “No heavy meat. The grouse with the mustard sauce scraped off is suitable. And the salmon fillet if it is fresh and not salted.” Bridget smiled broadly at him. “Any leafy vegetable, plain or in a mild butter sauce, is acceptable, as well. And only water to drink.”

“God’s teeth, the girl will never bear me sons if she adheres to such a diet.”

He’d been unable to contain the volume of his voice, and everyone turned his way.

Aislinn’s eyes widened as round as saucers.

“What is amiss, my lord?” Oelwine queried.

Bridget leaned over the table to address her father. “Do not concern yourself, Father. A minor misunderstanding in the language is all.”

She cast Grégoire a scolding glower, at which he scowled right back. Everyone knew red meat and spicy foods in copious measure produced male offspring. He wouldn’t stand for this.

However, what was he to do? He wasn’t about to force food down the wench’s gullet. Not just yet, leastwise. Thus, how was he to determine which of the many dishes was or was not too seasoned for her tender throat?

An arrangement was soon arrived at whereby Aislinn would point to an item she desired, and Grégoire would convey it to her trencher. This worked out well for a period of time, until she began refusing his offerings.

“Aislinn prepares to sing,” was Bridget’s explanation.

Praying for patience, he stuffed a hunk of bread into his mouth to keep the growl in his throat.

How had he ever thought wooing a maiden would be simple? He must have been delusional.

And to demand assistance from the woman whose kiss he even now could not get out of his mind…

He must have landed in Fairie, where up was down and right was left.

And desire pointed in all the wrong directions.