Chapter 3 #2
This night, though, would not be easy for Lady Melissande. Berthe loved her lady dearly and did not wish to see her unhappy in any way. What could she do to assist? If naught else, she could ensure that her lady looked her best. Indeed, Lady Melissande’s beauty might melt the coldest heart.
And Berthe could bolster her lady’s confidence. Aye, Tulley always had good wine and plenty of it. Berthe took a pitcher of it and some spices from the open bowl. Such was the affluence of Tulley that a few sticks of cinnamon would not be missed, and her lady was both guest and bride.
Even Tulley’s chatelain could not take issue with her choice.
Melissande unlocked the door to the chamber she had been assigned to find Berthe in the corridor.
It was the same chamber she had been granted before at Tulley and familiar for that.
Berthe lit a brazier and began to mull wine.
There were lanterns lit and the chamber soon was both warm and filled with welcoming light.
Melissande went to the window and folded her arms across her chest, staring at the distant tower of Annossy, its pennant waving from the summit.
Her heart was so cold that it might have been wrought of lead.
She would wed the son of Jerome before the sun set.
It was outrageous.
Worse, there was naught she could do about it. Tulley was adamant and she knew that pressing him further would only vex him. She could do without Tulley being annoyed with her, given that he had pledged her to Jerome’s son when he was pleased.
Berthe began to chatter, as was her wont.
“My lady, you look to have had a shock of the worst order. And you are too cold.” The maid pressed Melissande’s hands between hers for a moment, then tutted under her breath.
“Come over here and sit yourself down by the fire. I have stirred up the blaze in the brazier and it will warm you through to your toes.”
“I fear it will not,” Melissande said, though she did as she was bidden.
Berthe urged a stoneware mug into her hands.
It was warm. Melissande glanced down to its ruddy contents, the smell of cinnamon teasing her nostrils.
“A cup of spiced wine is what you need, my lady, for that will warm you through and through. It encourages the blood to race and heats you from the very core.” She stood back and sighed. “You will need sustenance, I fear.”
Melissande sipped the soothing brew and eyed her maid. “What have you heard?”
“Is it true that you are to wed Jerome’s son?”
Melissande nodded and watched Berthe’s expression change to echo her own mood.
“Irksome man! How is it that Lord de Tulley can forget your pledge to Arnaud de Privas? How can he command you to wed?”
“He can and he has,” Melissande said grimly.
“At least Lord Quinn is not old. Or lamed.”
“It is the character of my husband that concerns me more than his appearance.”
“Aye,” Berthe agreed, then her eyes widened. “And that is fine, is it not? He is a warrior, to be sure, and Annossy will be blessed by his presence.”
“Will it?”
“Of course, my lady!” Berthe’s eyes sparkled with mischief, which surprised Melissande. “All of the women in the kitchen declare they would be glad to bed Quinn de Sayerne in your stead.”
“Do they?” Melissande admitted he had an appeal, in a rough way.
“Aye, Dame Fortune has smiled upon you, my lady, for that rogue Tulley—pardon any disrespect, my lady, but he is one who sees to his own interests first—could have seen you wed to the first man who came along, and not waited for a fine specimen such as he.”
“You have seen him then?” Melissande indulged in a sip of wine so seldom that this heady brew of Berthe’s was having a strong effect upon her.
“Aye! He passed me twice, and once he stood directly before me. He is tall and broad, my lady, a man who can swing a sword and one who will defend both you and Annossy.”
“You cannot know that, Berthe.”
“Tulley has sponsored him for twenty years,” Berthe replied.
“Because of his honorable nature, Tulley ensured that he trained for his spurs, and suggested that he ride to Palestine on crusade, and sent a messenger to find him and summon him back when Jerome died. He is Tulley’s man, to be certain, my lady, and that cannot be a bad alliance for you.
” Berthe added a little more wine to the cup.
“What did you think when first you saw him, my lady? You must have been aware that he is a man.”
“I feared he had lice,” Melissande admitted and Berthe laughed before she covered her mouth with one hand.
“You did not, my lady.”
“I did.”
“And what did you think next?” the maid asked, her eyes sparkling.
Melissande dropped her gaze. She had thought Quinn alluring. He was disheveled, poorly garbed, and less than clean, but did have the most wonderfully warm gaze—when he wasn’t angry, of course.
“You must tell me, my lady, are his eyes truly golden? They seemed to be lit with fire when I saw him.”
Melissande felt a jolt that Berthe’s question should so closely echo her own thoughts, but the girl continued. “Aye, they are gold, and most uncommon for that.”
“Are they the shade of honey or of a deeper hue, like that of amber?” Berthe asked. “There is great dissent in the kitchens over this and I—for the sake of accuracy, of course—would like to be the one to set the matter straight.” The maid paused, her expression expectant, and regarded Melissande.
Melissande cleared her throat. It was easy to recall the precise shade of Quinn’s eyes, and the way they changed when his temper flared. Although she was not one to encourage talk among servants, it seemed that the gossip mill was at work already on this matter.
“It depends upon his mood,” she admitted, hoping against hope that her cheeks were warm because of Berthe’s brew.
“His mood,” Berthe breathed. “How so, my lady?”
“When he is angered, they flash like gold in sunlight, but when he is...intent, they darken like wildflower honey.” Melissande was certain her own cheeks were on fire.
Berthe’s eyes were round. “Intent?”
“Aye,” Melissande agreed and took another sip of wine. “Intent.”
“Intent.” Berthe clasped her hands together, sighed, then spun across the room.
“I was thinking, my lady, that you might wish to wear something special, seeing as it is your wedding, and also that you would wish to look your best.” She cast a quick smile over her shoulder.
“I am so glad I thought to bring your new kirtle made of the samite we purchased from that trader from the East. That green shade is most alluring, for it makes your eyes shine like emeralds and your hair look like spun gold.” Berthe stroked the kirtle as Melissande watched.
“With the gold embroidery upon it and your red slippers, it is fitting enough for a royal bride. I have borrowed some red ribbons and pearls from Heloise’s maid, that I might dress your hair.
” She smiled. “My lady, you will look beautiful.”
Beautiful. For a match she did not wish to make.
Melissande frowned. She hoped that her finery was not destroyed by the brute in his consummation of their match.
Would she have time to disrobe? Or would her kirtle be torn in Quinn’s desire to claim his marital due?
Although Melissande did not intend to lose Annossy, still she dreaded the inevitable.
Too late, she wished she knew more of these delicate matters.
She eyed Berthe but knew she could not possibly ask her maid.
She held out her cup to Berthe, knowing that boldness would come from wine. It had already made great strides in settling her fears.
“I am still chilled,” she lied, and Berthe’s expression turned sympathetic.
“Oh, my lady, I have ensured there would be plenty,” the maid said and hastened to fill the cup again.
By the time Melissande descended the stairs to the hall in all her finery, she was warm through and through.
Two cups of Berthe’s spiced wine brew had almost dismissed every bit of her trepidation.
Indeed, she felt a little unsteady on her feet.
She stumbled on the bottom step but a strong hand caught her elbow.
Melissande glanced up to thank her benefactor, but fell silent when she met Quinn’s steady gaze.
At least, she thought it was Quinn. He had shaved and she saw the strong outline of his features for the first time. His hair was trimmed, his garments fine. His eyes alone remained the same. Melissande swallowed and found she could not look away.
How could she have questioned whether the man was handsome? In this moment, he looked every measure the noble knight.
A smile slowly curved his lips and Melissande knew for certain that she had drunk too much wine. Why else would it be so difficult to catch her breath?
Why else did she want to reach up and touch him with a fingertip?
“My lady, you are a vision,” he said. “That hue suits you most well.” His voice was low, his complement for her ears alone. That they exchanged a confidence, even over such an inconsequential matter, seemed intimate beyond belief.
It reminded Melissande of precisely how intimate matters would be between them before the night was through. At that thought, her knees weakened, but Quinn’s grip on her elbow was resolute.
“I thank you,” she said. “You, also, have managed to look reputable.”
There was an understatement. Quinn’s hair was combed to order and she could see that it was thick. The torchlight in the hall picked out coppery tones within it and it shone with good health. His shaved jaw was squared and determined, his nose straight and aquiline.
And still there were the attributes she had noted before. The green brocade tabard, though simple in pattern and cut, emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. The wool chausses of darker hue merely accentuated the lean strength of his legs.
“One glimpse and I feel I am to wed a queen,” he confessed, still smiling slightly. She sensed that he invited her to match his mood, but Melissande could not.