Chapter Eighteen
Sitting beside her husband to eat her evening meal was much more difficult than Madelaine ever imagined.
Fortunately, the count ignored her to speak to the man on his other side.
Lucien was at his spot on the dais, reading tonelessly from the Bible.
As was expected of them, the knights ate their meals silently, listening to Lucien.
Christien was across the great hall, dozens of men between them, but she took comfort in his presence. Even though they couldn’t speak publicly, or even acknowledge each other, knowing he was present was enough.
Several times she caught Lucien looking at her with narrowed eyes, hatred written across his face. She lifted her cup with shaking hands, nearly sloshing the wine over the rim, and trained her eyes on her food.
The hushed hall suddenly became more quiet as everyone stopped eating. Madelaine raised her head to see one of the count’s soldiers had entered and was weaving his way toward Christien. Christien tilted his head to hear better what the man whispered in his ear.
His gaze found hers, his brows drawn. She glanced at Lucien who was watching the exchange intently. Her heart beat harder and her stomach churned, the rich food making her nauseous.
Christien stood and with a slight hand movement, his men stood, as well.
No one left the hall until Lucien was finished.
If he was in a particularly fine mood, he would be kind and dismiss them almost immediately.
If in a foul mood, which was most often the case, he made them stay for hours as he read from the Bible.
For someone to leave the table in the middle of the meal was unheard of and a breach of etiquette.
Christien made his way to her husband, his gaze touching on hers only briefly. She refused to look away, was barely able to breathe.
“Excuse me, my lord.” Christien executed a short bow beside the count’s chair.
“Yes?” her husband said in a bored voice.
“Urgent news has come from Paris,” Christien said, still not looking at her. “I’m afraid I must leave with all due haste. On behalf of King Philip, myself and my men, I thank you for your hospitality.”
Nay! Please, nay. Not yet. She wasn’t ready for him to leave.
For the first time Count Flandres looked intrigued. “Paris, you say?”
Christien’s expression was grim, his mouth drawn into a tight line.
Madelaine had heard the rumors. In the past weeks there had been urgent, whispered conversations among the knights in the castle.
Her husband had been locked away for hours at a time in conference with various soldiers and with Lucien.
The Knights Templar were quickly falling out of favor with her cousin, King Philip.
The look on Christien’s face did not bode well and a shiver of fear raced up her spine.
“I must leave at once, my lord.”
The count’s shrewd gaze studied Christien, but Christien’s implacable expression gave nothing away.
Madelaine’s fear rose. Christien was being called away and her only chance of safety with it, but that wasn’t all.
He was traveling to Paris, where things were not stable, especially for a Knight Templar.
Philip’s coffers were running bare if the rumors were true, and he had set his eye on the Templar’s treasures as an easy way to fill them.
Slowly she stood. All eyes were drawn to her for she had never been so bold as to speak publicly before. “We wish you Godspeed, Sir Knight, and beg you to bring us news as soon as possible. Of course you are always welcome at Castle Flandres and we hope God will allow our paths to cross again.”
She steadfastly refused to look at her husband, judging by the absolute silence in the hall he was most displeased with her impudence.
Christien finally turned to her with polite indifference, nearly breaking her heart. This was the way it must be, but she wanted one last acknowledgment of what they meant to each other.
“I thank you for your well wishes, my lady, and wish as well that God keep you safe.” He turned and motioned to his men who filed out behind him.
Madelaine sank down onto the bench in the count’s garden and stared up at the ever-darkening dusk.
In the weeks since Christien left, she’d been living in a state of heightened fear, constantly looking over her shoulder for Lucien, always on guard, always afraid to be alone.
But tonight she needed privacy to control the tears that wouldn’t go away and to gather her wits about her.
News from Paris wasn’t good. Jacques deMolay, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, had been seized and thrown in a dungeon because he would not reveal the location of the Templar’s treasure.
With growing anxiety Madelaine waited for word from Christien but heard nothing. A ball of dread settled in her stomach, a premonition of doom surrounded her. Was Christien in the dungeon with his leader?
Occasionally she would glimpse Jean Paul, the man Christien left behind to protect her, but he kept to the shadows, never drawing the attention of others and she was too afraid to approach him to ask for news.
She curled her fingers into the velvet of her gown and leaned forward, finally letting loose the tears that had been pushing against the back of her eyes ever since she left the midwife’s lodgings.
She was with child. After all these years, she was carrying the count’s babe.
She knuckled the tears from her eyes. Damn Christien!
If he hadn’t been so chivalrous this might have been his babe growing inside her womb.
Yet wasn’t it his chivalry that had drawn her to him in the first place?
And while heartwarming though the thought was, carrying his child would bring a host of other problems Madelaine didn’t think she was up to confronting.
She leaned against the stone wall and closed her eyes, alone and miserable and lost. She remembered the last time she sat here crying because she was not with child.
Christien had come to her and held her, so concerned, so…
kind. It had been their first kiss, and a memory she would cherish until she was old and stooped.
She must have dozed because when she opened her eyes it was fully dark and fear shot through her. Quickly she looked around. How long had she been here?
She stood quickly, her hands shaking, her stomach turning with nausea.
She hurried down the path, nearly running, her fear prodding her forward. She’d been so good at avoiding Lucien by never being alone.
A scuff of a boot on the path in front of her had her skidding to a halt. She peered through the darkness to see who it was, praying it was one of the serving wenches or even Jean Paul.
In all of Madelaine’s young years God had yet to answer her prayers and this night was no exception. Lucien stepped into the path. His back was to her and almost immediately another person joined him. A woman.
Breath held, Madelaine slid into the shadows of the castle wall.
“You sent the messenger?” Lucien asked.
“Aye.” The woman stepped into the light.
She knew her. The blacksmith’s widow. A lazy woman who warmed the beds of various men, who earned her meals through her talents in the bedchamber, and who was whispered to be very talented indeed. So talented she’d caught the attention of the count and had been warming his bed for many months.
Hers was the voice from the incident in the garden so long ago. She was the woman the count had tupped while Madelaine and Christien hid in the shadows.
“The count doesn’t know?” Lucien asked.
“Nay,” the woman said. She had long, blond hair that was more white than wheat and pale skin. ’Twas no wonder most of the men went in search of her for she was beautiful, but Madelaine heard her price was high and she wouldn’t give herself to just any man.
“How long before we hear a response?” the woman asked. Madelaine searched her memory for a name.
Lucien shrugged. “’Tis hard to tell in these times. Philip is occupied with deMolay and the Templars. My hope is he sees that the missive comes from his cousin the countess and reads it right away.”
Madelaine gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover the sound but ’twas too late. Lucien and the woman spun around.
“Who’s there?” the woman demanded.
Giselle. Her name was Giselle.
Lucien took a step forward, searching the shadows.
Madelaine turned and fled, picking up her skirts and running as she’d never run before, her only thought to get out of the bailey and outside the walls of the castle.
If she reached the forest beyond, she’d be able to hide.
Hiding inside the castle wasn’t an option.
Lucien would use the full force of his authority to tear down the walls looking for her and she needed to get to her cousin.
“Stop her!” Lucien yelled.
She ran faster, dodging the hands reaching out to her and slipping out of a few men’s grasps.
Men on the battlements rushed to their stations, shouting to each other.
A soldier raced along the battlement to the gatehouse, an axe in his hand glinting in the firelight of the torches.
If he cut through the rope holding the portcullis before she reached it, she was as good as dead.
The soldier made it to the gatehouse and she lost sight of him.
Not knowing where it came from, she put on another burst of speed.
Behind her soldiers were yelling. Inside the gatehouse the soldier with the axe was hacking away at the rope.
Madelaine reached the main entrance just as the portcullis broke free of the thick rope. She dove through the entrance. The wind of the falling portcullis whispered across her legs before the metal teeth bit into the wood of the drawbridge. Mon Dieu, that had been too close.