Chapter 10 #3
“And so, you were smitten by the sight of Isabella de Marnis?” the count said, pouring them each another measure of wine. They were alone in the hall, the fire burning brightly on the hearth beside them, a pair of hounds stretched out at their feet.
“Hardly that,” Amaury said, knowing this could be one explanation for his hasty nuptials.
“As you know, Montvieux is destroyed. I was met upon my arrival by Denis de Marnis, who presented an offer from his father: should I wed Lady Isabella and she should bring forth a son, then the Lord de Marnis would return the seal of Montvieux to me.”
“And make you a daughter-holding of Marnis, no doubt.”
“I can do naught without the seal, sir, and Montvieux should be mine by right.”
“There is that.” The count sipped of his wine, choosing his words. “She is aged for a maiden.”
“Not so aged as that,” Amaury said with impatience. Why did everyone wish to note the shortcomings of his lady wife? “I accepted the offer with few expectations, but I find that I like her well.”
The count smiled. “This is the view of a man who never expected to choose his own bride.”
“I expected my father to have arranged such details, in truth, and that I should return home to find his plan made.”
The count nodded. “He spoke to me of you and Thalia, though we had arranged no match as yet.” He inhaled sharply and averted his gaze. “There was no opportunity to do as much.” He fixed Amaury with a glance. “Where have you been all these months?”
Amaury was confused. “Which months, sir? I have been on crusade in Palestine…”
“These months,” the count interrupted. “Since Christmas last.”
“On the homeward journey, sir. We halted at the abodes of two of our comrades…”
“But you were in Beaune in early December. That is not more than a week’s ride away.”
“Beaune?” Amaury and his comrades had passed through that town a fortnight ago, not the previous December. “Why would you believe I was in Beaune? We attended Christmas mass in Beograd.”
The count regarded him with astonishment.
“But I stopped at Montvieux on my journey home from Paris in December. Your father was gracious as ever, though he was concerned about the ambitions of the Lord de Marnis. We talked long into the night. And he had a box of confections that he opened in my presence. He had received it just days before, with a message from you. It had been sent from Beaune.” The count shook his head even as Amaury frowned.
“I tell you bluntly that he expected you home by Christmas. He was most merry about your pending return.”
“But I never sent him word of my return,” Amaury protested. “And I was only in Beaune a few weeks ago.”
“Then you did not send him the confections.”
Amaury shook his head.
“How curious.”
“What was I believed to have sent?” Amaury asked. “What did the message say?”
“Let me think for a moment. Lucien let me read it. The missive was short. You – or whoever had sent the package – wished him well and said you had many tales to tell him. It said you had tried these confections in Beaune and thought of him, so sent them in advance of your return.” The count shrugged and eyed Amaury. “But you say they were not from you.”
Again, Amaury shook his head. “I cannot explain this. Were they of an especial kind?”
“The box was divided in two. On one side was candied elecampane. Your father was delighted and he told me of his fondness for it.”
“My mother used to make it, from the herb in her own garden.”
“He told me this, as well, and that he had not eaten any since her demise. He had not eaten any of this either, thinking he should wait until your return to share it. I encouraged him to enjoy it while he awaited you, thinking this had been your intention.”
“You said there were two compartments.”
“Aye, the other sweet was one neither of us recognized. It looked to be a root sliced thin, then candied in the same way as the elecampane stem. We speculated that it was some delicacy you had learned to appreciate in the east, though both of us chose the elecampane that night. It was excellent.”
What a curious incident. “I shall have to ask Roland what he recalls of it.”
“Likely very little,” the count said with a shake of his head. “Your father decided to keep the news of your imminent return a secret, as he wished all others at Montvieux to be surprised when you appeared. He thought it would make a more joyous homecoming for you.”
“And so it would have done,” Amaury said, his throat tight with another assault of grief.
The count poured him more wine. “But that is not why you came to my gates. Tell me of this matter with Marnis and of your plan for Montvieux.”
“I came seeking the villagers,” Amaury said. “For I thought they would follow the miller and might be here.”
The count nodded approval. “They did, and they are welcome. They are also free to leave as they will.”
“I would have them return to Montvieux and aid me to rebuild both keep and village. I would return the holding to its former glory and ensure a better future.”
“You have the coin for such an endeavor?”
“I have sufficient to begin. My comrade is seeking masons on his journey to Paris for me.”
The count’s silvery brows rose. “You would rebuild in stone?”
“I will not see Montvieux burn again.”
The count sipped his wine. “Montvieux has been a prize sought by others, pursued for the strategic importance of its site, its rich fields and its overall prosperity. If you rebuild it thus, it will be more of a target than ever.”
“Which is why I need to also build its defenses,” Amaury said, leaning closer in his enthusiasm. “I have learned much of the art of war, sir. I would train any warriors loaned to Montvieux, and welcome others who would come and remain.”
The count rubbed his chin, his gaze thoughtful. “I would give much to learn of these arts myself.”
“And Sant-André has long been allied with Montvieux.” Amaury offered his hand.
“It is a shame you wed so hastily, for our alliance might have been sealed very amiably.” The count shook his head.
“But what is done is done. In memory of my good friend, Lucien, you have my pledge to provide whatsoever I can to aid in your goals.” He shook Amaury’s hand heartily.
“You are his son in every measure and I wish you the greatest of success.”
“I thank you, sir!”
“In fact,” the count mused. “I would indulge myself and see with my own eyes what has become of Montvieux since my last visit.” He nodded. “And I would pay my respects to your father, as well – that is, if you would suffer my companionship on your return.”
“I would welcome it, sir, most heartily.” Amaury shook the hand of his father’s good friend. “And I thank you again, with all my heart.”
“Perhaps I might meet this wife of yours,” the count mused, his eyes twinkling. “My wife would doubtless appreciate my view of the situation.”
“I should be delighted to have you as our guest at Montvieux for so long as you would linger, sir, though you may find the accommodations simple, if not austere.”
“Bah! It will recall me to my younger days, and doubtless encourage me to appreciate home yet more.” He sobered then, his voice falling low. “Will you have need of an army to secure your legacy?”
“I do not know,” Amaury was compelled to admit. “Isabella remained at Marnis, but I fear greatly for her welfare.”
The count’s gaze darkened. “Then we shall muster an army, in anticipation of the worst.” With that, he raised his cup to Amaury. “To the rise of Montvieux and the return of its eldest son. May Dame Fortune smile upon you from this day forth, Amaury.”
“Amen, sir!”