One Enchanted Evening

  So, he’d risen well before he’d cared to, carried on with ingesting a disgusting breakfast—truly, he had to find a cook who could actually create things that tasted more like food and less like cesspit sludge—before he had retreated to the lists where he felt most comfortable.

  The garrison was coming to heel, thanks in part to Everard of Chevington’s willingness to take on the more amenable half of the lads and school them in swordplay whilst Montgomery took on the other half and schooled them in manners. Everard might have been a less-than-desirable companion when one wanted someone trustworthy to take a turn on watch, but he had been trained in swordplay by Rhys de Piaget and had learned his lessons well. Montgomery had been more than happy to use him to intimidate a few of the garrison lads.

  The men he’d taken under his wing had been lacking not only in sword skill but in decent comportment. He didn’t hold out hope that they would learn either in the near future, but he would either wear himself out—or them down—trying. It would have helped if his two male cousins could have been counted on to do aught but laze about the edge of the training field and comment loudly about the indignities they were suffering because of Montgomery’s arrival. Montgomery had given them the day to spew their venom and hopefully empty their bellies of it. He had no intention of listening to the like on the morrow.

  The only bright spot in the unrelenting gloom had been his steward, Fitzpiers, who had kept meticulous records and managed, obviously unbeknownst to Lord Denys, to lay by a bit of gold for a time of need. There was also a decent bit of income from rents and more arable land belonging to the keep than Montgomery had imagined. He had asked for the names of his people so he might become acquainted with them, a request his steward had agreed to with surprise, as if he couldn’t imagine why Montgomery would want such a thing. Obviously, there was much work to be done in winning hearts and minds.

  He had then emerged from his solar to face things he was far less comfortable with, namely Gunnild in the throes of her preparations. He had been very tempted, after an exceptionally tedious half hour of listening to her blather on about why she was better suited to managing the keep than he was, to simply tie her up and send her off to her son’s hall, but he hadn’t. It would take tact and a good deal of diplomatic maneuvering to resettle her without angering her beyond all reason. If her eldest son, Arnulf, required the same, so be it. He wasn’t above convincing her that Wideton Hall was where she would want to pass the glorious autumn years of her life and convincing Arnulf that she would be a suitable adornment to that hall.

  In truth, he had no choice. He knew he wasn’t off the mark to imagine that if the opportunity presented itself, Gunnild would stab him in the back.

  He had deigned to bathe before supper, then presented himself in the hall for inspection by the neighbors. Gunnild had ignored him, talked over him, and finally gone so far as to try to fight him for the lord’s chair as they sat for supper. He had stared her down until she had relented, though she’d made him suffer for it for the rest of the evening by cutting off his conversation every chance she had. He had been polite and gracious, because his mother would have frowned at him if he’d been rude, but he had begun to seriously question his ability to carry on with those manners for any length of time.

  In the end, he’d left the guests in the care of his cousin and departed for safer ground on the pretense of needing air. He had wandered out of the great hall, trudged through the muck still lingering in the courtyard, then walked under the comforting presence of not one but three portcullis gates with their silver spikes glinting above his head. He wasn’t quite sure what they would protect given the deplorable state of his walls, but at least the gates would intimidate anyone who decided to assault him that way.

  All of which had left him standing where he was, awash in an otherworldly glow, looking at a woman whose beauty—and wings—left him uncomfortably speechless.

  By the saints, was she a faery?

  He could hardly believe he was seriously considering the like, but he realized quite suddenly that he was. He also realized with equal abruptness than he was no longer holding on to the first creature who had appeared from the netherworld. He looked to his right and saw her struggling to get out of the cesspit. He reached down and pulled her out, more gingerly than he was proud of. He considered how to aid her—perhaps from a distance—but before he could attempt it, something from the cesspit dropped from her hair into her mouth, which was opened in astonishment.

  She began to retch.

  He was tempted to join her.

  Fortunately, he was distracted by the woman in front of him who turned herself about several times before her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell senseless into his outstretched arms. He struggled to manage not only her weight but the unusual burden of her wings, then found himself distracted by the other gel who had stopped retching long enough to start gasping. She looked at him, then looked at his castle.

  And then she began to scream.

  Montgomery reached out for her only to have her jerk away before he could touch her. She turned and fled—right into what was left of an outer stone gate. The sound of her head against it was a sickening crunch. Montgomery watched helplessly as she stumbled backward, then twisted and fell against his outstretched arm. She closed her eyes and descended into senselessness, as well.

  He was, for the second time that evening, speechless. He was holding two women, two insensible women, who had simply appeared out of nowhere. Sporting, of course, wings.

  Just what in the hell was he supposed to do now?

  He was tempted to speculate wildly on things he hadn’t considered in years, but didn’t dare until he had the peace for it. He couldn’t stand there all night simply holding the two in his arms, but he knew with equal certainty that he would be a fool to take them inside the keep. His household would take one look at them and either flee in terror or attack him in a frenzy for bringing demons into their midst. He didn’t suppose he dared hope his guardsmen had been too lazy to man the walls and would therefore have not seen things they couldn’t easily explain. He looked up to make certain of that.

  Only to find Everard of Chevington was standing not ten paces from him, watching him with absolutely no expression on his face.

  “How long have you been standing there gawking?” Montgomery demanded, hoping bluster would take the man’s mind off things he shouldn’t be contemplating having seen.

  “I heard a shriek and came to make sure no one had you backed up against the cesspit with his sword to your throat,” Everard said slowly. “I had no idea you were overwhelming not one but two wenches with your considerable charms.” He frowned. “What are those things attached to their backs?”

  “Wings,” Montgomery said without hesitation, then he launched into the best lie he could invent on short notice. “These gels are players. Pretending to be faeries.”

  “Players,” Everard repeated skeptically. “Where are their companions? Their servants? Their guardsmen?”

  “The lassies were on their way to enteratain the king,” Montgomery continued, wishing he were a better liar. He sounded daft even to himself. “Their servants saw something that frightened them and they fled, taking all the gear along with them. The women couldn’t help a shriek or two whilst relating their sad tale.”

  Everard frowned. “That little one looks a little bedraggled. Did she have a swim in the cesspit?”

  “An unfortunate one,” Montgomery said. “She’ll need aid, lest she catch her death from the ague. She’ll need a bath at the very least.”

  “You can’t mean to bring them inside,” Everard said in disbelief.

  “What else am I to do?” Montgomery asked shortly. “Leave them out here?”

  “I would,” Everard muttered.

  Montgomery imagined Everard would, but he would make a different choice himself, though he supposed it wouldn’t go well for him if he carried either of the women into his hall in their current condition. Ques
tions would be raised, superstitions stoked into a raging fire, and he would be trying to protect the gels against his entire household with nothing more than his three guards, his squire, and possibly Everard—though with the way Everard was studying the white-garbed faery, he wasn’t at all sure the man would be standing with him.

  “You take the maid,” Montgomery began.

  “Are you daft?” Everard said, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll take the lovely one, or none at all.” He paused. “I’d like a closer look at her, truth be told.”

  “You’ll have it later,” Montgomery said, though he had no intention of allowing the like. “Help me now by putting your cloak over this fair-haired lass so I can carry her inside. But do it carefully,” he added. He didn’t want to say as much, but he wasn’t entirely certain that her wings, if that’s what they were, wouldn’t pain her if they were mishandled.

  “I want something dear in return for this,” Everard said, draping his cloak over the woman on Montgomery’s left. “I want something very dear.”

  “Name it later,” Montgomery said. He suddenly found himself very reluctant to hand over the dark-haired girl, but he knew he had no choice. He couldn’t carry two of them at once. He would simply have to trust that Everard wouldn’t do much damage to the dark-haired lass before he could return. He lifted the blonde up, then paused just the same. “That one’s hardly responsible for her smell, you know.”

  Everard only scowled at him and kept the lass at arm’s length.

  Montgomery supposed he could ask for nothing else. He took a deep breath, then walked swiftly across the drawbridge and under the gates. He entered the hall to find the occupants too far into their cups to notice him, thankfully, and walked quickly to the stairs that led up to the upper passageway. The stairway was difficult to negotiate with a woman in his arms—especially considering her wings—but he managed it. He gained the upper passageway, hastened to his bedchamber, and found Phillip standing outside the doorway. Phillip was watching him with very wide eyes.

  “Don’t ask,” Montgomery warned.

  “I didn’t intend to, my lord,” Phillip said, swallowing convulsively. He opened the door, then stepped aside.

  Montgomery strode across the chamber and laid the woman down on his bed. He supposed he should have done something to make her more comfortable, but he honestly had no idea what that something would have been. He didn’t even dare pull Everard’s cloak off her, lest he touch something he shouldn’t—such as her wings—and offend her faerylike sensibilities. He could hardly believe he was entertaining the thought of her actually being such a creature with any seriousness at all, but perhaps there were truly things in the world that were beyond mortal ken—

  He rubbed his hands over his face. By the saints, he wanted nothing to do with this. He had affairs of his own to see to, affairs that would require all his attention. He had no use for a pair of helpless lassies who were from . . . well, he had no idea where they were truly from, but he couldn’t deny that something akin to magic had been involved with their arrival.

  The saints preserve him from it.

  “I’ve another one to fetch,” he said, turning suddenly to Phillip. “Guard this one, please.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Montgomery left his bedchamber, avoided an encounter with a rather inebriated Gunnild of Sedgwick on his way through the hall, and escaped into the courtyard unscathed. He walked swiftly through the gates, fully prepared to again see that very odd shimmer at the end of the bridge, but he did not.

  He also didn’t see any sign of either Everard or that poor, fragrant faery.

  He cursed himself succinctly, then turned and ran back along the bridge. There was no sign of either of the two in the cesspit, so perhaps Everard had found sense and brought the gel inside the keep. Montgomery could only hope the man hadn’t dumped her in the well to have done with her.

  He found her lying on the floor in front of the fire in the kitchens, apparently senseless and obviously the recipient of a recent bucket. Montgomery caught his cook’s arm before he upended another bucket of water on her.

  “Do not.”

  The cook looked no less disgusted than Everard had, but he at least refrained from commenting. Montgomery looked about him but saw no sign of his companion in the night’s events. He supposed Everard had retreated happily to where he might strip off his clothes and have a wash. Montgomery wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t do the same thing before the night was through.

  He lifted the maid up in his arms, giving up the thought of not touching her sodden clothing. He was filled with less disgust than pity, but he also had no desire to wear more of his cesspit’s filth than necessary.

  He was favored with lewd suggestions and other unpleasantness on his way through the great hall, but he ignored it and continued on his way. It was only as he reached his bedchamber that he realized he hadn’t covered the gel’s wings. The saints be praised the revelers below had been too far gone to realize that.

  Or so he hoped.

  “Another one?” Phillip squeaked.

  “To my surprise,” Montgomery said shortly. “I imagine I’ll remain here in the passageway to guard these two since they aren’t able to lock the door. I don’t dare leave them to trouble they might not want.”

  “I understand, my lord.”

  Montgomery imagined Phillip did. Artane was not without its own share of odd happenings. He smiled briefly at his squire. “Find Sir Ranulf and send him to me, then bolt yourself into my solar so I’ll know you’re safe. We’ll resume our duties in the morning.”

  Phillip nodded, wide-eyed, then turned and trotted off down the passageway. Montgomery watched him go, looked up and down the short passageway to make certain he hadn’t been observed by anyone else, then let himself into his bedchamber and shut the door behind him with his foot.

  Well, the first thing to do was to see to the most pressing issue and that was ridding the poor wench in his arms of her clothing. Montgomery wasn’t completely untried in the matters of removing women’s gowns, but he had to admit, as he laid her on the floor in front of his fire and looked at her garb, that what he saw gave him pause.

  Her wings were crumpled and ripped in a place or two, and he wondered with no small bit of alarm if that pained her.

  He rolled her over gently, then realized to his great surprise that her wings were simply fastened to her gown with small round bits of bone. He was tempted to linger over that discovery, but the stench of her clothing was truly difficult to bear. He would see to that first, then turn his mind to the other riddle. He was quite grateful that his cook had done her the favor of ridding her hair of most of the filth. Her gown, however, had not fared so well.

  He left her wings alone and worked on the laces that held the back of her gown together. They were easily undone and in short order he had her gown removed. He steadfastly ignored the fact that her wings were fixed not to her skin but to the cloth and that she wore the most alarming undergarments he’d ever seen in his life.

  He supposed ’twas fortunate for them all that he had a strong stomach for things of an otherworldly nature.

  He studiously ignored looking at her lithe form, then lifted her into his arms and carried her to his bed. He laid her down, took off her slippers, then covered her quickly with an extra blanket to preserve what modesty she had remaining her. He then happily went about the more pedestrian business of washing her gown as best he could in the basin of water standing on a table beneath the window. He tossed the water out the window, hung her gown over a chair near the fire, then paced in front of that fire for far longer than he should have before he could even think about turning around to look at the two women in his bed.

  He considered the very sensible thought that he should go downstairs, find a wall sturdy enough for his purposes, and bang his head against it repeatedly until good sense returned.

  The alternative was to believe what his eyes told him.

  He turned away and
looked for someplace to sit. He rubbed his hands over his face, then wondered what in the hell he was going to do now. He didn’t want to believe in the fables he’d given credence to in his youth. He was almost a score and eight, far too old to be beguiled by tales told by his mother to entertain small children.

  He couldn’t deny, however, that he had seen things earlier that evening that had been nothing less than magical. If he’d been a more gullible lad, he might have believed what all signs pointed to.

  He had the Queen of Faery and her handmaid in his bed.

  He rose and began to pace, only because he thought better when he was moving. If the women were faeries, then why had the maid’s wings not been attached to her flesh? Was she merely a servant who had not earned any privileges, or were there rites of passage in her world that he knew nothing of? He had no idea, but he certainly wasn’t going to examine the queen to see if the answer lay on her back.

  He found himself longing for nothing more taxing than a morning spent in his solar, listening to his very capable steward scratching on his parchment, tallying up numbers that continued to march across the page thanks to that steward’s diligence.

  He stopped at the foot of his bed and looked down. The queen, if that’s what she truly was, was still an angel of perfection. Her maid, if that’s who she was, continued to be lovely in a way that he couldn’t lay his finger on. She seemed almost familiar, if such a thing were possible. And he continued to be just as baffled as he had been not half an hour ago.

  Where had these gels come from, if not Faery?

  He took a deep breath, then walked around to the side of the bed and looked down at the maid. He leaned over to make certain she was still breathing, then reached out to touch the bump on her head.

  She hit him so hard he staggered back. He realized only then that she was still unconscious and her arm had fallen off the bed. It had to have been a reflexive reaction to the pain. He picked up her hand, settled her again, then smoothed the hair back from her face. She was very lovely, true, but there was something about her—