Chapter Seven
ARISTIDE
CHAPTER SEVEN
As a Templar Knight, dressing as a peacock to wine, dine, and entertain the enemy never ranked as a tactical stratagem. Standing before the long mirror in the chamber he shared with Dionysia, Aristide assessed his attire, adjusted his doublet, tugged on the hem of his shirtsleeve, and draped a dark blue velvet cloak about his shoulders.
In the first sennight of February, Renard suggested Aristide and Dionysia invite the notables of Rochester society to a feast, to initiate talks regarding the fiefs of the land. Given the previous earl’s penchant for violence and lawlessness, the property owners had become accustomed to handling their own affairs, as they saw fit, but that clashed with Aristide’s authority and duty to the Crown.
“Are you ready, my lord?” Dion peeked around the edge of the screen. “Oh, great one. You are beauteous.”
“As are you.” Bedecked in a gown of matching blue velvet, with her crimson locks plaited to perfection, and adorned with a gold circlet from which a single diamond dangled at her forehead, she smiled, and his heart raced. “Is everything prepared, as I requested?”
“Aye.” His bride nodded. “Refreshments begin, at once, followed by the meal, in three courses.” She counted on her fingers. “We have ale, mead in three varieties, and Adam’s ale for those who choose to keep their wits about them. We dine on dried fruits, cheese, fresh bread, roasted pork and beef cutlets, pykes in brasey, a potage of roysons, buttered wortes, sprouts, chyches in garlic and olive oil, and a mushroom pasty. Finally, for dessert, we have sambocade cheesecake, caudell, gyngerbrede, and an apple muse.”
“Ah, fair Dion, you are my most valuable weapon in this eventide’s game.” As he praised his bride, he tried not to notice the mesmerizing, low neckline of her bodice, which provided an ample display of her wares. “Shall we assume our stations to receive our guests?”
“Indeed.” She favored him with a giggle, as she angled her head and cast a stare that declared more than her agreement with his query.
Or was it wishful thinking?
For the past fortnight, she had enacted some rather startling habits, all of which tested the limits of his self-control, his patience, and his breeches. Owing to his promised deferral, he fought the urges raging inside him and discovered the blissful benefits of self-pleasure, which saved his sanity, as opposed to destroying it. Because, if the grand master’s warnings were true, Aristide would have devolved into sheer lunacy for his regular indulgences, and he had become quite proficient in his handiwork that he might spare his gentle wife.
“My lord, are you listening?” Dionysia blinked. “What occupies you?”
“What—oh, I just remembered I needed to ride into town and secure the services of a builder to repair the roof in the garrison.” When she leaned against him and pressed her bosom to his arm, his thighs erupted. “Is that a new style you are wearing, as you are altogether beguiling, my lady.”
“Do you like it?” Hers was the face of innocence, as they navigated the corridor, and how she spoke to him in her silent ways. “Isolde taught me to make adjustments to my gowns, in keeping with the latest fashions. A countess cannot wear just anything, great one.” She snapped her fingers. “That reminds me, I sewed some new night rails, and I wonder if you might consent to give me your opinion of my skills.”
She was going to kill him, if he did not take her, soon.
“I should be delighted, fair Dion.” Somehow, he mustered a smile, as they descended the stairs, and managed not to throw her over his shoulder, convey her to the bed in which they did naught but kiss, caress, and sleep, and claim her. But knowledge of her ordeal stayed him. “Now, shine for me, my countess.”
In the entry, Arucard, Isolde, Renard, and Lavina lingered.
“My dear child, you are a vision.” Renard patted Dion’s cheek. “But you are no longer my child, Lady Rochester.” He chuckled. “And soon to make me a grandfather, I pray.”
If only Aristide were so lucky.
“Papa, you embarrass me.” A lovely blush colored her ivory flesh, and Aristide thought he might go mad, after all. “Ah, but our first visitors arrive, thus I am saved.”
The event commenced according to plan, with drinks served to loosen tongues and arrest restraint in the bawdy crowd that included Ludewicus Jubert. With his bride at his side, Aristide made the rounds, as did Arucard and Renard. Indeed, that was the method of attack as prescribed by Aristide’s father-in-law, who had become a staunch ally.
But thither were those bent on mischief and rebellion, and when servants carried in platters and trenchers heaped with the first course, a particular landowner pounded his fist on the table.
“Wherefore has the King decided to send his messenger to Rochester, now?” The boothaler waved his hands, as if to rouse support and provoke his fellow countrymen. “We have been without official governance these two years, surviving on our own will, meting our own justice, and it has worked, has it not?”
A roar of concurrence echoed in the great hall, and Aristide fought the desire to respond. Instead, he twined his fingers in Dion’s and squeezed a reassurance.
“That is easy for you to claim, Louvel.” Another guest pointed for emphasis. “You have five strong sons to support your cause. What of the rest of us? I have but two daughters and a wife in failing health, thus I am at the mercy of the whims of fate when some footpad decides to pilfer my cattle.”
Another bellow of agreement traversed the gathering.
“What does our benevolent Lord Rochester want, in exchange for his favor?” A bloated, bearded gentleman stood. “How much does justice cost, my lord ?”
“His Majesty compensates me.” Aristide checked his tone, as he could not afford to take offense. “Hither I have journeyed to do naught more than enforce the laws of England. Indeed, in this region, I am England.”
“And if you decide you prefer to live in my house, as opposed to Custaeton?” A short, bald burgage owner scowled. “I suppose you will simply force me out of my home?”
“Nay.” Aristide shook his head. “I am given Custaeton, a title, and a beauteous bride. Believe me, I am content.”
“It is solicitous of you to marry Lady Dionysia, given she is damaged.” A rush of whispers grew to a fevered crescendo, and Louvel glared at Jubert. “We did not approve of that crime, and Peneus deserved to be punished.”
At his side, Dionysia gasped, dug her fingernails into Aristide’s palm, and whispered, “Nay.”
“Will you not let it go?” Jubert waved a fist. “I disciplined the boy.”
“And yet he torments us.”
“Should have put him down, as you would a lame horse.”
“That family is naught but trouble.”
“The last earl did naught for us.”
The discussion threatened to spiral out of control, but before Aristide could intervene, Lord Goncourt struck the table.
“Gentleman, if I may have your attention and forbearance.” Renard commanded the hall. “If anyone has a right to be angry it is I, but what happened to my daughter is done. His Majesty made amends, she is given the protection of a powerful husband, and the matter is settled. Would you throw away the opportunity for equal treatment and defense, based on the actions of the previous Lord Rochester?”
“The truth is we have no choice, given the King sends four hundred professional soldiers to occupy the garrison.” Louvel scratched his chin. “My sons are no match for His Majesty’s troops.”
“In that I cannot argue.” Aristide focused on the task, even as Dion shielded her face, and in silence he cursed. “But I was not sent hither to persecute or tyrannize you. I am charged with the safeguard of your lands, mediation, when necessary, and enforcement of the Sovereign edicts of England, and naught more.”
“No new taxes?” Louvel asked and arched a brow.
“No new taxes.” Then Aristide held his breath and waited.
Again, the throng discussed the situation, and while they were distracted, he assessed his bride, as she slumped over the armrest. Under cover of the table linens, he caressed her thigh through her heavy skirt, and she cast a feeble smile that did not fool him for an instant.
Gone were her shimmer, her coy charm, and her confidence.
“Lord Rochester, we welcome you.” Louvel raised his tankard of ale. “To his lordship.”
A rousing cheer rocked the great hall, and Dion signaled the small army of servants, who conveyed the various selections. As was the custom, the lord and lady of the manor were served first, and he noted his wife ate naught. When the final array of sweetmeats brought the guests to their feet in applause and tributes, she accepted the accolades with a nod and declined to sample her most favorite treat.
“My lord, the musicians will begin, shortly, and it is our responsibility to initiate the dance.” He hoped that would lighten her mood, as she came alert. “May I be excused?”
“Of course, fair Dion.” He stood and held her chair. “But do not dally, as I will partner no one but you.”
“Worry not, great one, as I will not be gone long.” She descended the dais, and he admired the sway of her hips.
The mood in the room improved, and laughter filled the air until the first notes brought the revelers to order. Glancing left and then right, Aristide searched for Dionysia but could not find her, so he strolled to the middle of the designated dancing area.
The majordomo clapped twice. “Lord and Lady Rochester.”
Given the announcement, Aristide could not hug the shadows, so he stepped into the clearing, only to find his wife, wearing a wimple and a veil.
~
The next eventide, Dionysia ran through the buttery to collect some heavy cream for the char de crabb, which was another of Aristide’s favored dishes. In the spicery, she grabbed the anise and carried the items to the kitchen, whither Isolde stirred a pot of peas.
“That is everything.” Dionysia wiped her hands on her apron. “Can you finish the rest, as I would prepare myself for my husband’s arrival.”
“Go.” Isolde shooed Dionysia. “I can manage without you.”
“Oh, what if I make a fool of myself?” As she had last night, during their dance. Wherefore had she let Jubert frighten her? “And what if Aristide does not want me?”
“Thither is no chance of that.” Isolde directed a scullery and then peered over her shoulder. “Are you still hither?”
“All right, I am going.” Nervous, she wrung her fingers as she navigated the screened passage and crossed the great hall. On the stairs, she skipped, two at a time, and sprinted when she reached the corridor.
What she had not told Isolde was that Aristide spoke nary a word that morrow. And whereas he always sought a place at Dionysia’s side at the noon meal, he visited her not that day. In fact, she had not spent a moment in his company since he departed their bedchamber, without so much as a fare thee well.
Had she done something wrong?
It was with that query dancing in her brain that she entered the master’s chamber to find her husband in attendance, in their solar.
“Hither you hide, when yours is the face I searched for, at every turn.” Anticipating a quick-witted remark, she frowned when he remained silent. “My lord, are you vexed with me?”
For a moment, he just stared at her, and she shuffled her feet. “Should I be vexed with you?”
“I am not sure.” Her mind raced. “Have I done something to offend you?”
“You have.” Yet he explained not.
“But the feast was a success, was it not?” Sifting through recent events, she seized upon any hint of discord. “And the landowners support you.”
“You are correct.” He offered a curt nod.
“Then I do not understand.” His shirts were mended, his clothes were neatly arranged, and his breeches were clean. Custaeton Hall shimmered in the sunlight, a crew repaired the garrison roof, the undercroft was stocked with ample supplies, and new tapestries and furnishings arrived that morrow. What had she missed? “Wherefore are you angry with me?”
“You deliberately disobeyed me.” He folded his arms, and her heart sank.
“When?” Again, she inventoried her list of chores and found no fault with her duties. “What have I overlooked? Prithee, tell me, and I shall rectify the deficiency, posthaste, as I live to please you.”
“Is that so?” Moving swift and sure, he charged, and she retreated, but he snatched the veil from her wimple. “Wherefore do you hide from me, when I forbade you to do so?”
“But that was in London.” Indeed, she put on her usual costume with nary a second thought. “We are in Rochester, whither everyone knows of my shame, and last night, everyone stared at me after Louvel reminded them of my disgrace. Am I to suffer their ridicule? Would you have me mocked?”
“No one ridiculed you, and no one gives a damn about the scar insofar as you are concerned.” Never had she seen Aristide so angry, not even when Peneus challenged her husband. “Did you not hear the townspeople? They mock Jubert, not you. They find fault with him, not you.”
“But I am imperfect.” The memories flooded her consciousness, and she swayed. “Louvel called me damaged. I am damaged, my lord.”
“Nay, you are not.” Grabbing her by the shoulders, he shook her hard. “You are my wife, and I care not about the scar. Do you not comprehend the value you possess? Do you not see that thither is more to you than the stain upon your cheek, just as thither is more to me than false claims against my honor?”
“That is easy for you to say, when you do not bear the ignominy as a physical manifestation for all to witness.” With a sniff, she removed the headdress and smoothed a wayward lock. “But I did not don my garb to incite your ire, my lord. I did it that I might summon the courage to mingle in support of your cause, when all I wanted to do was hide beneath the blankets.”
“Do you honestly believe I would allow that?” He studied the crumpled square of silk in his clutch and then yanked the wimple from her grasp. With a growl, he stormed into their bedchamber, and she followed on his heels. When he disappeared into the closet, she hugged herself—until he emerged with a pile of her belongings. “Thither will be no more wimples or veils in this house as long as I am alive.”
With that, he flung the items into the hearth, and the blaze flared, consuming the delicate material.
“Nay, Aristide. Nay .” She tugged on his arm and almost sent them tumbling to the floor, but she could not deter him. “What have you done? Wherefore would you do this to me?”
“You bring that bastard into our home, into our sanctuary, when you conceal yourself, and that is why I forbid such behavior.” Fury poured forth, as he loomed over her. “You grant him power when you shield yourself, and that is what people see. Open your eyes, Dion, because the veil is Peneus deriding you. He is controlling you, and as your husband I will not tolerate it, for your sake if for naught else.”
“How could you be so cruel?” As she mourned her accessories reduced to ashes, she collapsed to the rug. “You have your shield made of iron. Wherefore could I not have mine?”
It was in that worst possible moment Isolde walked into the solar, with two servants in tow, to deliver the savory meal Dionysia had planned as a precursor to a night of seduction. In the aftermath of the hideous argument with Aristide, she wrestled with newfound humiliation.
“Oh, dear.” Isolde halted the staff with a wave. “Forgive the intrusion.”
“What is this?” He glanced at the trays filled with covered dishes and then gaped at Dionysia. “We were to dine in private?”
“We were to share so many things this night.” Standing, she dusted off her skirt, glimpsed her reflection in the long mirror, saw naught but the horror and degradation of what Peneus did to her, and hated the person she spied. Just as she feared, Aristide rejected her. Without so much as a by your leave, she fled the chamber.