Unicorn Bride

Chapter 2

Montsalvat—January 1243

Montsalvat—January 1243“The timing is terrible,” Dagobert shared his opinion in a low tone that drew the attention of the others. As usual, his quiet words brought the raging argument to a halt.

When the small room fell silent, he met Eustache’s quizzical gaze, then some slight motion of Iolande’s drew his attention to her. His mother pursed her lips to suppress some biting comment and he saw that she had not yet had her say, in her own eyes at least.

Smothering a smile of mingled amusement and affection, he studied the third and last figure in the room. The older man stood by the door and was conspicuously uncomfortable. Ignoring the other two, Dagobert smiled genuinely and gestured to the chair opposite him.

“I would apologize for the rudeness of my house,” he said, beckoning to the older man.

A flush rose over his mother’s features at her realization that she had slighted a guest in her anger.

Appearing no more at ease than a moment past, the warrior cleared his throat. He glanced at Iolande and Eustache, then stepped forward and perched on the offered seat.

Guibert, he had called himself.

“You must understand that this is an issue of much concern here,” Dagobert added by way of explanation, watching the man relax slowly. He must have been tired by the climb. “We are not usually so remiss in our treatment of guests.”

Guibert nodded, apparently reassured, but when he might have spoken, words spilled forth from Iolande instead.

“Neither are we remiss in fulfilling our pledges.” She spoke sharply to her son. “And the honoring of this one is long overdue.”

“We can afford no distraction at this late date,” Eustache said, leaning his fists on the table and bending toward Dagobert to make his point. “Even as we argue this issue, the forces of the crown are advancing upon us.”

“The blood is of utmost importance! Surely even an addle-pated warrior can see the truth in this,” Iolande insisted.

Dagobert held up one hand at the sight of the argument erupting before his eyes once again. His mother fell silent, her expression mutinous.

“I must confess that I am most confused,” Guibert admitted into the terse silence that followed.

Indeed, they had done precious little to make the matter clear to him. Eustache and Iolande had simply argued between themselves, ignoring the fact that Guibert’s agreement to any scheme was key.

Iolande looked to be embarrassed for having lost control of her tongue before a guest. Finally. For his part, Eustache had folded his arms across his chest in annoyance, the stubborn set of his lips telling Dagobert that he would not utter a sound until addressed. If the two did manage to remain silent for a few moments, perhaps this matter could be resolved, after all.

“As indeed you must be, sir,” Dagobert said. “At issue is my marriage to your foster daughter.”

Guibert nodded that he had understood that much at least.

Dagobert indicated Eustache. “From my companion knight’s description, my mother has no doubt that she is the maiden who was betrothed to me at her birth.”

“She strongly resembles the woman who entrusted her care to me,” Guibert confirmed. “Though she did not tell me her name.”

Dagobert nodded. “And the woman...?” he began, a question in his tone, but the older man shook his head sadly.

“Dead long past,” Guibert said flatly. His mouth pulled into a grimace as if some grisly sight were before his eyes once again. “She gave me the babe, but had not the time to utter a single word before she was struck down.”

Iolande expelled a shaky breath and Dagobert knew that she had been hoping for better tidings. But truly, the fact that there had been no word from Arpais in twenty years hinted that she no longer drew breath. He could not blame his mother for hoping, though.

“There is no question that Eustache speaks the truth,” he said, addressing his concerns to her in an effort to divert her. “’Tis an unholy time to make this match.”

Iolande blinked several times in rapid succession, amazing her son that her usually tightly controlled emotions were so openly displayed. She took a deep breath before fixing her gaze on him once more.

“You know that as matters stand, the line would die with you,” she whispered. Dagobert watched as tears rose again in her blue eyes. “Should Eustache be right...” Iolande valiantly tried to continue, but fell silent with a choke.

Dagobert frowned down at his folded hands. Should they be attacked, the king would ensure that Dagobert was amongst those who lay dead when all was said and done. It would be the most effective way to eliminate the threat posed by his lineage. A chill passed over his heart and he appreciated his mother’s concern.

He would not assume defeat to be inevitable, though.

“’Twould not have been your father’s desire to see his line end thus,” Iolande said, her voice uneven. Even in her distress, she would remind him of his duty. “And you know that ’twas this match he wanted for you.”

this Not knowing what to say, Dagobert watched her hurry from the room. An awkward silence settled over the three men. The candle flame sputtered in the tallow, drawing Dagobert’s gaze, and he wondered how he could in good conscience bring a bride into this battle.

Even a bride his father had sworn he would take.

“’Tis a risk we need not take,” Eustache muttered, but Dagobert was unconvinced.

He sighed, frowning in dissatisfaction at the role he had drawn in life. It was not the first time he had wished that he had been born a man devoid of responsibilities, but the die had been cast and he would not shirk what needed to be done.

Eustache always spoke of success, but Iolande was right. Should Dagobert fail, he left no heir and he had no brethren to take up the cause. He had no right to discard the future of the bloodline for the sake of his own convenience. He would keep this pledge of his father’s. The woman had been sworn to him and she, too, must follow her destiny wherever their paths might lead.

His decision made, he gave Guibert de Perpignan an encouraging smile and leaned forward to explain the situation in full to the older knight.

The bright January sunlight did naught to soften the foreboding facade of the fortress Montsalvat looming overhead. Alienor shivered at the sight of the stone castle crouching atop the steep mountain like some great venomous toad.

The structure was short and squat, or perhaps that was just an illusion created by the contrast of the sharp incline of the mountainside. It seemed mysterious with its brooding walls, its darkness highlighted by the light dusting of snow. As her horse climbed the steeply winding path and grew ever nearer, she refused to look up again. Her first impression of the château that would become her home had not dispelled her trepidation about her pending marriage.

“Trust me,” Guibert had insisted when she had balked at the news that she would not meet her bridegroom before the nuptials. She had done so, trusting in the man who had so often put her needs before his own.

But now, before the forbidding facade of Montsalvat, she could not help but question the haste with which her marriage had been planned, as well as the secrecy and mystery surrounding her bridegroom. There were tales in the town, tales aplenty about Montsalvat and its enigmatic lord.

Her gaze fell on her foster father’s back as he rode before her, still straight and proud despite his advancing years. How could she doubt this man who had given her so much and whose judgment was always good? She knew that Guibert had been hard-pressed to afford her tutors: indeed, she knew that on more than one occasion he had unsheathed his blade as a mercenary against his own desires to see her raised as he saw fit. She had been schooled as a southern lady, tutored and taught in music, languages and mathematics. Guibert had insisted that her mysterious origins gave her the opportunity to claim a finer destiny than his had been.

And now she was to wed the Count of Pereille himself, the most powerful man in the province, the ultimate vindication for all of Guibert’s sacrifices, and all she could think about was the fact that she was deeply afraid. She had heard too many rumors in the village, provocatively half-heard morsels of tales of magic, of legends come to life, of strange doings beneath the fullness of the moon.

Alienor glanced up at the foreboding edifice looming ever closer. Why would anyone build such a château? And why here, virtually in the middle of nowhere? Why was the stone not the pleasing dove gray from the local quarries? Why not build an elegant tower, a spire, an attractive curtain wall instead of presenting this dark menacing face to the arriving traveler? What secrets did Montsalvat so jealously guard within its walls?

Did she truly wish to know?

Hours later, Alienor toyed with the seed pearls sewn to her crimson kirtle and surveyed her reflection in the sheet of polished silver hanging opposite, unable to believe that she would be wed before the day was through, unwilling to accept that she was already ensconced in the building that would be her home.

She had already discovered one secret about the château—its crusty exterior belied the wealth and opulence of the furnishings within, though that revelation did little to ease her trepidation. This tiny antechamber near the gates had been offered for her use, as it was undoubtedly offered to countless other guests, but even its decor easily overwhelmed anything she had known before. Intricate tapestries hung on each of the four walls, a fire raged on the hearth beneath an elegantly arched and ornately carved stone fireplace. A bed draped in brocades and scattered with embroidered pillows dominated the far wall, a comfortable chair and table were placed invitingly before the hearth.

The mirror amazed Alienor in and of itself, as wide as she, it was, and nearly as tall, and shockingly expensive to acquire, without a doubt. She could not even imagine how it had been carried up that winding mountainous track and arrived intact. She had never seen a wonder like it. She touched it carefully as if her fingertip alone would shatter it, marveling at the smoothness of its surface. As she touched the glass, she marveled again that she should be the one the count would take to wife.

sheGuibert’s ominous assurance rang again in her ears. “The count wills it” was all she had been able to coax from him and Alienor shivered anew in recollection.

“The count wills it”The ringing of the bells in the chapel brought her head up with a snap, her heart skipped, and she summoned a smile of encouragement for the sad bride reflected in the silvery expanse. She rose to her feet to check her appearance one last time before donning her veil.

The red velvet kirtle was laced snugly to her forearms. The cuffs and high neck were trimmed with pearls carefully removed from an old garment and sewn upon this one. The fullness of the skirt cascaded over Alienor’s knees and ankles. The pearl-encrusted hem stopped just above the floor, revealing a glimpse of the gold brocade trim on her chemise, which swept the ground.

The toes of her red kid slippers were barely visible and she spun around, checking that the narrowness of the band of brocade was not visible. Her nimble fingers were clever at making less look like more: the sliver of heavily embroidered gold hinted at an entire chemise of the fine cloth, when in fact she had only had the coin to buy a narrow piece. Alienor was not ashamed of her own circumstances, but in the open opulence of this château, she was curiously reluctant to appear less affluent than her intended.

She had only met her groom’s mother so far, and that lady’s intimidating manner might have sent a more timid soul scurrying homeward through the heavy gates. Iolande de Goteberg was both beautiful and icily pale, so perfectly composed that Alienor found her presence unsettling. Her fair brows, clear blue eyes and pallid complexion were such as Alienor had never seen before in this land of dark-haired, dark-eyed people.

Both horses had paused of their own volition within the gates when Alienor and Guibert had first seen Iolande, her tall figure draped in pastel mauve velvet, the cold winter sunlight illuminating her fairness as she stood in the courtyard, one long hand trailing over the ears of a huge gray wolfhound at her side.

It was a deliberate pose, Alienor was certain, but an effective one nonetheless. After all, no one could climb that road unobserved. She turned to the mirror once again for reassurance, seeing no evidence of the regal bearing of her mother-in-law in her own posture. Though Iolande’s words had been carefully chosen, her welcome had not been warm and Alienor wondered yet again what future awaited her here.

She had plaited her dark hair earlier this morning, winding its length into an elegant arrangement of braids despite its unruly nature, more of the seed pearls gleaming from their perches within the ebony tresses. With a sigh of dissatisfaction, she carefully placed the linen circle of her fillet on her head, draping her sheer white wimple around her neck with practiced hands and tucking the ends into the fillet. A whisper of golden veiling slipped over the entirety, covering her hair and the fillet and flowing down to her shoulders in a sheer cloud, her face a lonely oval in the midst of all the concealing cloth.

Married to a man she had yet even to see. Alienor met her own gaze in the mirror, wondering what her husband looked like, panicking briefly at the thought that he might not find her pleasing. She scanned her reflection with a discriminating eye, noting the creamy skin of her face, the full rosy lips, the tawny eyes with their uncommonly thick lashes that tipped up at the outer corners, that a scandalous hint of some Eastern blood in her ancestry. That same Eastern influence seemed indicated in the honeyed hue of her complexion, the heavy thickness of her dark hair, though those tresses were defiantly wavy instead of ramrod straight.

Though slender as a reed, she was tall for a woman. Alienor hoped against hope that her husband was not a small man, then chided herself, for his height should be the least of her concerns. She also hoped that he would find her an attractive mate. She had always been a misfit in this province of people who so closely resembled one another and who had learned to regard foreigners as undesirable. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin and compact bodies had confronted her at every turn, even her subtle physical differences drawing attention amongst such startling similarity.

Alienor clasped her hands together, recalling the taunting comments she had endured for so long, the teasing when she had been a long-legged adolescent towering over most of the other women and not a few of the men in her town. She clenched her fingers tightly and prayed to the powers that be that her husband be anything but a short man who thought her an abomination of nature.

Then she hoped he might be kind to her.

She started at the sound of a light tap on the door and turned away from the mirror, her heart leaping as she struggled to pull on her gloves despite the trembling of her hands. When she opened the door, the admiration in her foster father’s eyes coaxed her smile.

Guibert’s mail gleamed from the enthusiastic polish it had received. His tabard had been carefully mended by Alienor’s quick fingers and newly trimmed in crimson silk cording. Even his silver mane had been brushed to some measure of order.

He beamed at Alienor with pride, and as he offered her his elbow, her heart swelled with love for this man who had so gallantly seen to her upbringing. Guibert pressed her hand with affection when she slipped it through his arm and her tears rose unbidden, the older man gruffly tolerating the kiss she planted on his cheek.

Neither of them said a word as they stepped out into the corridor, the moment too fraught with emotion for them to trust their tongues. Alienor could hear her heart beat as Guibert steadily paced off the seemingly endless hall, its length lined with curious onlookers who murmured to one another as they passed. So many lived within these walls—would she ever grow accustomed to it? She blocked her ears to their whispered comments, focusing her attention on the brightly colored light fanning out of the chapel doors at the far end of the hall, matching her pace to Guibert’s.

Guibert paused in the chapel doorway an eternity later and Alienor took a shaky breath, forcing a tight smile when her foster father squeezed her hand. Rather than look at the assembled crowd, she lifted her gaze to the stained-glass window that filled the wall behind the altar.

It was a remarkable and fine piece of work, larger than any she had seen before. It was rich in detail and she studied the strangely entwined images of grapevines ripe with fruit as she walked ever closer to her destiny. The battle scenes between a unicorn and a lion seemed an unusual choice for a place of worship. There was no crucifix, she noted with relief, refusing to so much as glance toward the spot where she knew her bridegroom must stand.

When Guibert paused, Alienor eyed the priest in customary black before her for the barest instant before she dropped her eyes to the floor. Why was he amused? She could not think of any explanation for the impish glimmer in the cleric’s eyes.

His red hair and blue eyes hinted that he was a Celt. Were they not said to be merry? Perhaps he thought all marriages to be cause for laughter.

Perhaps he did not know the details of this one.

Squaring her shoulders as he welcomed the guests, Alienor risked a quick glance to her right.

The spot where her husband-to-be should have stood was empty.

She stood alone before the altar.

Astonished, Alienor looked up at the priest. She distrusted the mischievous twinkle in his eye even more in that moment. Indeed, he almost chuckled aloud at her reaction. Then he lifted his hand to beckon to someone at the side portal. Alienor followed his gesture, her mouth dropping open in shock when a shabbily dressed man appeared, coaxing a single-horned goat toward her.

A goat.

She blinked but it was indisputably a goat. A garland of flowers and ribbons was draped around the goat’s neck, the man tugging him forward by a scarlet cord while the beast chewed nonchalantly on a blossom it had apparently pulled from its ornament.

Did they mean to sacrifice it here? Surely not!

“’Tis a goat!” Alienor blurted, and the goatherd glanced up sharply, the warm glimmer of humor in his slate eyes sending a tingle right to her toes.

’Twas hardly his place to look at her so boldly, she told herself indignantly, even as she felt the heat rise over her cheeks. As if he had had a similar thought, the man dropped his gaze, a secretive smile playing over his lips.

“Why a goat?” she demanded of the priest.

“A unicorn, child, a unicorn,” the priest corrected her softly, admonishment in his tone. “You surely understand that he can only remain in the chapel for the ceremony itself,” he added in an undertone, and Alienor raised her gaze to his. He smiled. “After you are wedded, he will leave the chapel.”

The goat was to witness her nuptials? Why? What madness was this?

“But why?”

The priest tut-tutted under his breath at her question and she heard whispers from those gathered to witness the ceremony. Her cheeks burned with the conviction that she was the victim of a cruel jest, the worst teasing ever, but the priest leaned closer. “We cannot have dung in the house of the Lord,” he murmured.

Alienor shook her head impatiently, keenly aware of the goatherd’s amusement with the situation. “Nay, I would ask why must he be here at all?” she demanded and the priest regarded her in surprise in his turn.

“’Tis his nuptials, lass,” he hissed back. “Surely you know that your groom is a goat by day?”

Alienor opened her mouth and closed it again. She stared down at the beast beside her, but it merely returned her regard from alien yellow eyes. The goatherd who had led the creature handed her the end of the silken leash with a bow that seemed mocking, his gray eyes twinkling with some barely suppressed amusement.

“This is a cruel jest,” she whispered fiercely.

“Guibert gave his word,” the goatherd replied, his tone filled with unexpected steel.

With the cord dangling from her fingertips, Alienor glanced over her shoulder to find the assembled group watching her without undue interest, as though nothing untoward was occurring and this wedding was proceeding as customarily as any other.

Incredulous, she sought Guibert, but he was studying his toe with great interest. She glanced back to the beast at her side, wishing now that she had not prayed so fervently that her betrothed be anything other than a short man.

“A goat,” she whispered.

“Unicorn,” the priest reminded her sternly. “Do not be so foolish as to insult his family again.”

At his words, Alienor stifled an urge to laugh. Insult his family? And what of Guibert, her sole family? What of her dignity? Surely she was not alone in thinking the situation bizarre. This was a joke, a prank, a test of her good humor, a frivolity to allay her nervousness. It simply had to be, for she could think of no other plausible explanation. To wed a goat was beyond belief.

Perhaps her intended was a prankster who enjoyed teasing others and she would do well to learn to play along with his games.

Perhaps it was a test of how biddable a wife she meant to be.

Alienor decided to do as was obviously anticipated.

’Twas the solemnity with which they all waited for the creature to nod its agreement to the vows that first triggered Alienor’s suspicions that the jest went too far. The priest seemed to sense her doubts for he hastened through the rest and slid a gold band onto her finger.

A second, larger ring had been threaded onto a length of red cord from which already hung a signet ring. The priest handed her the makeshift necklace with complete solemnity. Alienor slipped it over the beast’s neck.

Surely this was no more than a dream.

Surely she would awaken shortly to dress for her wedding in truth.

But the numerous hands pressing hers and the myriad kisses of congratulations forced upon her cheeks were more than real. The slim cord in her fingers was tangible beyond belief. The smell of the single-horned billy goat was unassailable evidence that it did in fact stand at her side, chewing. Having extended their felicitations, the assembly filed out of the chapel, laughing and joking in anticipation of the feast Lady Iolande would spread to celebrate her son’s nuptials.

The beast sniffed the velvet of her kirtle, then opened its mouth to take a nibble. Alienor slapped its nose. Her uncertainty made the blow harder than she had intended and the creature sneezed as it backed away, fixing her with an accusing glare.

“You wed me to this beast in truth!” she said to the priest, the horror of it all finally sinking in. “’Twas no jest.”

The priest shook his head, apparently surprised that she was displeased. “There is no jest in wedding the Count de Pereille,” he answered, his russet brows drawing together in a frown. “Surely you knew his circumstance?”

“No!” Alienor responded. “No one told me of this detail, for it is not one I would easily have forgotten.”

The cleric laughed behind his hand, his eyes twinkling as he nodded in agreement. His good humor did little to ease Alienor’s frustration. “Aye, ’tis an affliction that would stick in one’s thoughts.”

“’Tis no doubt amusing for you,” she replied. “Was it so unreasonable for me to expect to be wed to a man?”

“Oho,” the priest replied with a chuckle, waving aside her concerns. “’Tis this form that worries you,” he said, as if everything were clear to him now. “The Count is cursed and condemned to the shape of a unicorn by day,” he confided, patting her on the hand. He spared her a wink. “But by night you will find him man enough to suit you.”

“What nonsense is this?” Alienor demanded, her ire well and truly roused. Did this man expect her to believe that her husband was a shape-shifter, like some ancient pagan god? “I will not accept tales of magical spells as explanation for this foolishness.” She fixed the cleric with a determined glance. “I demand an annulment.”

The priest studied her, tapping one finger against his chin as he considered her request. “You must understand,” he finally said, “that path would not be regarded with approval by my lady and patron. Indeed, you place me in a tenuous position by your very request.”

“No less than you have placed me!”

“Indeed.” The priest considered Alienor, all trace of humor gone now from his eyes. “An annulment can only be granted if the match has not been consummated.” He shrugged. “In all fairness, I must give the Count an opportunity.” He nodded as though pleased with his decision, then met Alienor’s gaze. “Should you wish the same in the morning, I shall grant your request.” With his very unsatisfactory conclusion, he turned to follow the guests to the hall and the feast.

“You cannot expect me to couple with a goat!”

The priest paused halfway down the aisle, glancing over his shoulder with that impish grin. “Unicorn.” He mouthed the correction, shaking one finger at her before striding out of the chapel.

Alienor bit her lip to hold back her tears of frustration, overwhelmed by her situation. How could Guibert do such a thing to her? Had he known the fullness of the wager he made? Wed to a beast! Could there truly be any worse fate than this?

“I will tend Dagobert,” came a low voice from her side, and Alienor jumped, having thought herself alone in the chapel. She was surprised to find the goatherd yet standing beside her, sympathy in his gray eyes.

“Should you wish to retire for a few moments,” he added, and Alienor nodded, grateful for his understanding. He had a deep and soothing voice, and a reassuring manner. It was a relief that someone else could appreciate that her situation was beyond normal, even if he was only a goatherd.

“Dagobert?” she echoed as she handed him the slim cord. The man smiled and the sight sent her heart lurching about her chest. She was definitely not susceptible to the charming smile of a servant.

“You did not listen to the ceremony,” he chided her.

Alienor smiled in turn, feeling a blush heat her cheeks. “I confess I was preoccupied,” she admitted. “Dagobert,” she said as she studied the creature, trying without success to fit the name to the beast.

“Dagobert V de Pereille,” the man supplied.

Alienor’s smile broadened at the juxtaposition of name and beast. “’Tis a lengthy name for such a humble creature,” she commented, folding her arms across her chest.

The man chuckled, reaching down to scratch the creature’s ears with something like affection. His hands were tanned and Alienor found herself noticing the lean strength of them and the gentleness with which he rubbed Dagobert’s ear.

“A unicorn, nobly born, is not a humble creature,” he said, correcting her. His warm glance made her realize that the chapel was abandoned except for the three of them. Dagobert eyed Alienor’s kirtle again before reaching for the red velvet once more. Alienor stepped backward, away from both man and beast.

“Do not touch me,” she ordered the beast with a warning finger.

The goatherd’s deep chuckle reminded her that he had overheard the priest’s words and made it impossible for her to meet his gaze.

“’Tis said the unicorn comes only to a woman pure and true,” he said in his quiet and confident way.

Alienor felt her color deepen yet again. To discuss the intimacies of her wedding night with strangers was too much for her characteristic modesty.

She started when the stable hand brushed one fingertip gently across her chin, tipping up her face with the simple gesture. The tremor that tripped along her veins at the touch of his fingertip startled her with its intensity. She felt suddenly too aware of the warmth in his eyes, and she found herself snared, powerless to move or avert her gaze.

“Fear not the night, lovely lady,” he murmured.

Alienor watched, spellbound, as his lips curved into that reassuring smile again. Somehow his words eased her fears, and his quiet confidence restored her own resolve to finish what she had begun. By morning, she would be able to ask for that annulment.

“I thank you for your compassion.” She smiled back at him, and he blinked as if disconcerted, his gaze dropping to her lips and back to her eyes again.

“Tis good to see the bride smile,” he said with approval.

His words reminded Alienor of who and where she was, of how inappropriate it was for her to be studying the outline of this goatherd’s lips. She felt herself flush scarlet, and managed to mumble an inarticulate excuse before she turned and fairly fled the chapel.

She felt the weight of his gaze long after she had left him and her new spouse behind.

If Alienor had regained some of her composure by the time she reached the hall, dinner quickly undermined it again. As soon as she reached the head table, Iolande handed her a chalice brimming with mulled wine. Her new mother-in-law’s hands were icily cold when their fingers brushed. The pewter chalice was clearly of some ceremonial value, its decoration too ornate for an oft-used piece. The design echoed the branching grapevines laden with fruit that Alienor had noted in the stained glass of the chapel.

“To the fruit of the union,” Iolande said as Alienor lifted the cup to her lips.

She stifled her annoyance that yet another mention had been made of the impending intimacy of her wedding night.

“Blessed be the fruit!” the company intoned.

Iolande arched an eyebrow at her in expectation.

“Blessed be the fruit,” Alienor repeated, wondering at the words.

Iolande’s smile did not quite reach her eyes. Sensing someone behind her, Alienor turned slightly, startled to find the goatherd watching her as he led Dagobert to the table.

It seemed the beast had the place of honor.

Iolande bent and offered the chalice to the creature, making the same enigmatic blessing as it lapped at the wine with its startlingly blue tongue. Alienor barely stifled a grimace and looked away. She was surprised to see the goatherd’s gray eyes twinkling, as if at some hidden joke.

“Blessed be the fruit,” that man repeated along with the company, his gaze fixed upon her. Alienor flushed anew, the words sounding curiously intimate when they fell from that man’s lips.

She could not think of a single clever word to say, so she took her seat at the board. A quick glance to her right confirmed that Dagobert was indeed still ruminating. A glance at the company revealed that they all considered the situation to be acceptable. Alienor sighed and lifted her gaze to study the stonework in the ceiling.

She had only to endure this travesty until morning.

The meal was served and the scent of the first offered platter made her raise her hand.

“I thank you, but I will take no meat.” Her refusal, though quietly uttered, seemed to draw the attention of everyone at the head table. Iolande inhaled sharply, muttering something unintelligible under her breath, and Alienor’s heart sank to her toes. She was not among friends and she should have realized as much. Truly she had erred, but the dangerous declaration had left her lips before she thought. Even Guibert looked grim.

She had been blessed with the tolerance of her neighbors for years and now forgot herself at the board of a count undoubtedly pledged to the king’s will. That king was pledged to exterminate the Cathars, who were known to spurn the consumption of meat. To spurn meat was to be Cathar; to be Cathar, an enemy of the crown. How could she have been so foolish? The response of the others at the head table left no doubt in Alienor’s thoughts that her religion had been suspected and was not appreciated. Could anything else possibly go wrong this day?

Dare she hope that she might be discarded as an unsuitable bride?

Iolande’s glare suggested that was a slim possibility. Of course, it could not have been so simple as that.

The entire party was silent, as if awaiting Alienor’s explanation.

“I have little taste for venison after the day’s ride,” she said.

Iolande sniffed with what could have been either relief or disapproval. Alienor watched the other woman carefully, uncertain of her thoughts. The resolve in the older woman’s eyes when she turned to Alienor made Alienor’s heart sink to her toes.

“I would assure you, my daughter, that we have a fine cook and I would not wish to insult his abilities,” Iolande said, a thread of steel underlying her words.

,“I truly meant no insult,” Alienor responded, “but the day has been long and I have little taste for food.”

“Understandable, indeed,” Iolande replied. “But you must eat something, my child. Come, the meat is good.”

“Venison, my lady?” the servant at her elbow encouraged once more, pushing a steaming bowl of stew toward Alienor’s trencher, and she could not bear the smell of the roasted meat. She tried to hide her revulsion but in averting her gaze, she met the hostile speculation in the gaze of the knight seated to her left.

Eustache was his name and by his expression, Alienor suspected he would see her slaughtered by his own blade, before the entire company, if her religious beliefs were confirmed. She would be in this household on the morrow, alone with her new relations and the politics of their hearth. Alienor meant to survive, regardless of the price.

She glanced down at the chunks of meat in the stew, bracing herself for what she must do.

“I thank you for your thoughtfulness,” she said to the servant. She helped herself to three small morsels of meat, the dark gravy slipping over her fingertips.

“If I may suggest, my lady...” That knight gestured politely to a large and particularly succulent piece of meat, the open challenge in his narrowed eyes leaving Alienor no other option.

“You are indeed too kind, sir,” she managed to reply. She took the piece of meat and granted the servant a polite smile, indicating that she wished no more. Then she turned to confront the four pieces of meat reposing on her crust of bread as if they were the hounds of hell themselves.

“The meat is very fine,” the knight prompted, his eyes knowing, and Alienor hated him in that moment with every fiber of her being.

She had never denied her faith, but she knew she must do it now to ensure her safety in this household, a household allied with the king who had decreed that to be Cathar was to die. Alienor stared at the meat and wished she could rely upon herself to swallow it without making a spectacle.

The entire company, that knight included, watched her, as if they shared her concern.

Alienor chose a small piece and put it into her mouth, willing herself to chew in a normal manner. It was impossible to ignore the older knight’s and Iolande’s watchful scrutiny. When she swallowed without incident, she was so relieved that she granted the knight a cheerful smile.

“’Tis indeed wondrously well prepared,” she agreed, taking another piece. She was pleased to see some measure of surprise settle in his expression. Her stomach rolled threateningly and she knew that she could not eat a third piece of meat so easily, but the knight seemed reassured by her consumption of the stew so far.

Evidently thinking himself unobserved, Eustache flicked a meaningful glance across the room and Alienor followed the gesture. She was confused when Dagobert’s goatherd, leaning against the far wall, nodded in acknowledgment or perhaps understanding. Alienor wondered why the knight would seek to communicate with the servant. She glanced at the knight from beneath her lashes, only to find him consuming his meal as if nothing untoward had happened.

Did she see meaning where there was none?

In that moment, there was a gentle nudge against her knee. A peek beneath the table revealed the large dog who had accompanied Iolande in the courtyard, or one much like him, his tail thumping against the floor when Alienor rubbed his nose. He licked the gravy from her fingertips with enthusiasm and Alienor knew how she would make the remainder of her meat disappear.