Castles in the Air

  With a grin, Raymond reached for his tool belt—and it wasn’t there. Only his jewelled dagger, a present from Henry, remained around his waist. Inside the great hall, in the company of other knights, he’d felt foolish strapping on a tool belt. Out here, with the serfs shouting questions at him, he felt foolish carrying a ceremonial dagger.

  Ah, well. It took a good sham castle-builder to put things to rights.

  “My lord.” In an excess of passion, Papiol pulled at his greasy brown hair. “These men are imbeciles. All Englishmen are imbeciles. They pretend they do not understand me, no matter how loud I shout.”

  “It’s all right,” Raymond soothed in French. “I’ll speak to them.”

  “And look what they did.” Papiol pointed a shaking finger at the trench. “They dug an immense hole in the middle of the winter. Of what use is this immense hole in the middle of the winter? Any fool knows castles are constructed in the summer. In the summer, I tell you.”

  Raymond’s smile and his sense of superiority disappeared. “They seem to have done a good job preparing the foundation.”

  “Preparing the foundation?” Papiol was screaming again. “What foundation? ’Tis nothing but dirt!”

  “But the foundation—”

  “Must be dug in the summer.” Papiol recollected to whom he spoke and explained in impassioned courtesy. “My lord, in summer we dig, we strike bedrock, we put up some of the wall, winter comes, we wait, summer comes, we put up the rest of the wall.”

  Incredulous, Raymond asked, “Two years for one wall?”

  Papiol spread his hands in a fatalistic gesture. “It is the way.”

  “Well, the way should be changed. We’ll finish digging the foundation now, and by the end of the summer we’ll have the wall up.”

  Again Papiol forgot to whom he spoke. “But we cannot dig. The dirt is frozen solid.”

  Raymond paid no heed. “We’ll have the wall up by spring. Tosti!”

  Tosti leaped to attention.

  In English, Raymond commanded, “The castle builder says he wants you to take those pickaxes and dig the hole deeper.”

  The men glanced doubtfully at Papiol. “The real castle-builder?” Tosti asked.

  Raymond ignored Tosti’s distrust. “We’ll feed you well every day you come to work. At Christmastide, we’ll have a feast for your families, too.”

  “Every day?” Tosti asked, agog.

  “Every day,” Raymond said. “We’ll do the upper end of the wall now, and finish the lower end and the gatehouse in summer.”

  “Hey, th’ twelve days will be a joyful time this year,” Tosti yelled, and the men cheered. Shouldering their axes, they slithered into the trench. Only Tosti remained above ground, and he gazed down the river. “There’s snow abrewin’ in those clouds. Do we get fed if we can’t work?”

  Raymond had a vision of men struggling through snowdrifts to fill their bellies. “Stay home if the snow is too deep. The elves will not do the work while you’re gone.”

  Tosti chuckled and headed down to join his friends. “Nay, I suppose they won’t. Never been that lucky before.”

  Raymond threw his arm around the real master castle-builder and led him toward the castle. “The men want to keep digging,” he confided.

  “Idiots!” Papiol railed. “I am the king’s master castle-builder. I have learned my craft through hard work, years of study, years of working with every trade. This is impossible, I tell you.”

  “Has it ever been tried?” Raymond asked.

  “Never!”

  “Then we don’t know it’s impossible, do we?” Cheerful, Raymond swung to greet Layamon. “What is it?”

  Layamon’s demeanor sobered him. “M’lord, riders approach th’ castle.”

  “Riders?” Raymond was startled. “More guests?”

  “Don’t know, m’lord. Would ye like me t’raise th’ drawbridge?”

  “Allow me a look,” Raymond said, bounding toward the ladder that led to the curtain wall. The party of riders was far off, racing toward the castle to beat the storm, and as Raymond leaned through the crenellations he said, “Quite a lot of company we’ve been having.”

  Layamon agreed. “Aye, m’lord, I’ve never seen th’ like. Lord Felix and Lord Hugh just yesterday, the castle builder last evening, and now more folk arrivin’.”

  “Is it not Hugh’s habit to visit at Christmastide?”

  “Not his habit, m’lord, although he’s been here once or twice. Nor is it Lord Felix’s habit t’ travel in th’ winter.” Layamon’s lips curled scornfully. “Might muss his hair.”

  Layamon’s unspoken skepticism bolstered Raymond’s unease, and he remembered Hugh’s odd behavior just this morning. What was he doing, trying to convince Raymond not to marry Juliana? Just the night before, Raymond had thought Hugh was, if not happy about the union, at least resigned. What worm had eaten at the man’s mind and cocked it askew?

  “How do you suppose,” Raymond wondered, “rumors of my construction came to the attention of Hugh and Felix?”

  Layamon pulled his ear. “’Tis almost a miracle, m’lord. In th’ summer in these parts, news passes from castle t’ castle wi’ th’ freemen who drive their wares t’ market an’ back, an’ th’ minstrels wander from one place t’ another, composing songs an’ singin’ them fer a loaf. But in winter—” He shook his head. “’Specially this winter.”

  “Especially this winter?”

  “It started so early wi’ such a snowstorm—ye remember, m’lord. Still an’ all, Lord Hugh could have come, but Lord Felix, too? Did they start th’ journey together? Did they meet on th’ road?”

  “You’re a suspicious man,” Raymond said, and met Layamon’s gaze.

  Layamon nodded. “Aye, m’lord, there’s some that’d say so.”

  Raymond laid his hand on Layamon’s shoulder. “You’re a fine commander. My lady Juliana chose wisely.”

  “Thank ye, m’lord. Should I be suspicious about this batch, do ye think?”

  A rich band of horsemen, Raymond observed as they rode closer. Their banners flapped in the freshening breeze, and the women who rode in the middle drew up their hoods against the sudden flurry of snow. “That’s no fighting troupe. I don’t recognize…” Raymond squinted through the lowering clouds and frowned. “It can’t be…ah, nay.” He dropped his head into his hand. “My saints have surely deserted me today.”

  “Should I raise th’ drawbridge, m’lord?”

  When Raymond raised his head, he saw an eager Layamon. “No such luck,” Raymond replied. “Those are my parents.”

  “The cream wool is fine, my lady. The finest I’ve ever seen.” Valeska patted the balls of yarn stacked in the basket. “’Twill make a beautiful cloth.”

  “Aye.” Juliana’s hand flew and her right foot tapped on the treadle of the loom. “It will.”

  “Your arm must be weary, my lady. Let me work on it a bit,” Valeska said.

  Smiling, Juliana shook her head.

  “What will you make with it?” Dagna asked curiously.

  “I don’t know.” From Juliana’s left hand to right and back again, the shuttle travelled between the even threads of the warp. Quickly the threads of the warp crossed, catching fast the thread the shuttle left behind. “’Tis too light a color for everyday use. I should have dyed it.”

  Valeska winked at Dagna. “Why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know.” Juliana thumped the hand bar furiously, making enough noise to cover the sound of the old women’s amused speculations. She did know, of course. So did everyone else. She was appalled by the state of Raymond’s wardrobe. The king’s cousin should be dressed in more than a ragged cloak, a cheap chainse, and worn hose. She provided a suit of clothes for every man, woman, and child on her land. Why shouldn’t she provide one for Raymond?

  She glanced sideways at the old women’s smirking faces.

  No reason, but everyone insisted on treating it as an event. Surreptitiously, she touched the fine clo
th. This was beautiful, and she was being unusually stern about the quality, but a sleeveless cream-colored surcoat would accent Raymond’s dark beauty. She imagined it worn over a long-sleeved and high-necked green tunic.

  It would be fine.

  That she had woven a cloth of just that green color last winter and put it away for some special garment was a fortunate coincidence. Even now, Fayette cut the green, smiling slyly all the while. The hand bar thumped, the treadle thudded, and she shut hand bar thumped, the treadle thudded, and she shut her ears to the sounds of the great hall. Bringing the shuttle back and forth again, she slammed the hand bar hard.

  It resulted in a tight weave, she told herself with a righteous sniff.

  A hand touched her neck. She looked up with an annoyed exclamation—and leaped backward from the florid face that peered at her.

  “Juliana?” Felix bobbed up and down, filling her vision, touching her.

  Her skin crawled as his fingers crept along her collarbone like some repulsive new insect, and she brushed him away. “Don’t!”

  He was too odorous, too greasy, too close. He was her worst nightmare, recurring to bring her down. But another hand, a supporting hand, touched her, and Valeska snapped, “What do you want with my mistress, little lord?”

  The disrespect of it broke Juliana’s obsessed stare, and as Felix reared back to slap the old woman, she snagged his wrist. “You’re too free with those blows, Felix,” she told him.

  As Felix sputtered in shock, she tightened her grasp. Then the enormity of her challenge struck her, her fingers trembled, and she dropped them to her lap. Folding one hand over the other, she pressed her palms together. The strength of her own grip comforted her, gave her courage.

  “She’s disrespectful,” he said.

  “She’s my personal maid.” It wasn’t an answer, nor the truth.

  His eyebrows waggled, his nose twitched. “She’s a witch.”

  “Who told you that?” Juliana asked sharply.

  Felix shrugged, and his gaze shifted away from her. “Why did someone have to tell me? Why do you always treat me like a Looby Lumpkin? I have my own thoughts. Everyone always treats me like a Looby Lumpkin. I can see she’s a witch.” Waving his hands, he said, “She’s…she’s ugly.”

  “So are you,” Valeska retorted.

  Felix reached out again, but something stopped him. Valeska knew she had won, for she showed her three teeth in a grin.

  Juliana didn’t trust the old dame to keep her mouth shut, and besides, Dagna had taken her place at Juliana’s other shoulder. Juliana gave Valeska a push. “Go now and assist Fayette with her sewing.”

  “Isn’t she competent to cut your precious cloth?” Valeska teased.

  “So she is,” Juliana answered. “But you know Raymond’s measurements.”

  Valeska touched the cream cloth on the loom. “Who will cut this?”

  “I will.” Juliana pushed her again. “Go.”

  Valeska walked away, cackling in her best witch imitation, and Felix made the sign to ward off the evil eye. “She really is a witch,” he said in awe. He demanded of Juliana, “Is she a witch?”

  Dagna’s hostility rang in her melodious voice as her hand tightened on Juliana’s back. “There are some in the castle who believe so.”

  “Aye.” Felix edged around until he could watch Valeska. “Aye.”

  He fumbled with his cloak, smoothed his well-combed hair, while Juliana watched and meditated on the futility of it. Felix draped himself in the best materials, cut only in the most fashionable styles. He groomed himself meticulously, and constantly checked himself in the polished metal mirror that hung from a thong about his waist. Yet he was nothing but a bully rooster, a man to watch lest he do accidental harm.

  Only the shabbiest clothing graced Raymond’s figure, and he cared not whether he kept his hair trimmed. He shaved infrequently, and yet…and yet, that dark shadow on his chin made her wonder how it would feel on her skin. The too long locks swept rakishly across his shoulders, glistening like exotic silk. His clothing—well. Juliana glanced across the room at Valeska and Fayette. His clothing would soon do honor to a prince.

  “I’ve had some thoughts on your marriage.”

  She jerked her attention to Felix. “What?”

  “I’ve had some thoughts on your marriage,” he repeated.

  “You’ve had some thoughts?” she questioned. “Amazing.”

  “Aye.” He bobbed in agreement. “I knew you’d want to hear them.”

  “I’d like to hear any thought of yours.” Again Juliana emphasized her amazement; again Felix remained oblivious.

  “This Lord Raymond is a bit odd.” He leaned close to her to whisper, and the odor of him struck her. “There are rumors circulating about him.”

  “Rumors?” She leaned as far back as she could without tumbling off the bench. “Rumors don’t interest me.”

  Oblivious to her discouragement, he blithely told her, “He was captured by the Saracens.”

  “Aye, while on Crusade, fighting to free Jerusalem from the Infidels. Have you never been moved to take up the cross?”

  “Nay.” He licked his palm and smoothed his eyebrows. “Nay.”

  “You wouldn’t want to get rumpled.”

  “Exactly.” He nodded.

  Juliana blew a stream of air up her face to cool it. How could she mock a man who had no modesty, no sense of fallibility?

  Still obtuse, Felix prattled, “They say Lord Raymond was enslaved for years.”

  Clenching the hand bar, Juliana stilled her irritation. She didn’t approve of such gossip. Didn’t really want to hear it. But she hungered to hear about Raymond, hungered for any scrap of his past, and so she said, “Years?”

  “At least a year. And they say he mucked out the stables.” Ever the busybody, Felix relished the gossip. He laughed in little snorts, and when he could contain himself, he delivered the wildest part of the tale. “They say he fought so fiercely, the Saracens soldered an iron collar around his neck.”

  Juliana forgot her troubles, her apprehensions, all the parts of herself. Instead she concentrated on Felix and his loathsome gossip, for something stirred in her. It wasn’t true, of course. It couldn’t be true, that a knight as proud and powerful as Raymond would be chained.

  She looked at Dagna, but Dagna watched Felix without expression. Dagna wouldn’t interfere with his recitation, but neither would she affirm it.

  Low and gleeful, Felix said, “He went mad. Your Lord Raymond went mad. They say he still goes mad if he’s gainsaid. You know you made me hit you. I only hit you because you made me. What will your Lord Raymond do when you refuse him? He’ll go mad. He’ll foam at the mouth like a dog in midsummer, and you’ll have no place to run.” Felix grasped her upper arm with fingers that squeezed too tightly. “He’s a berserker, I tell you.”

  Hand on pounding heart, she stared at him in frozen fascination. “Why are you telling me this?”

  He sighed. “Because I want to be friends again. I’m warning you because I’m your friend. Let bygones be bygones.”

  “Is that all you think it takes? Just the words to heal the scar?”

  “Nay,” he assured her, ever eager to show his magnanimity. “I want to do more than just give you warning. I want to offer you sanctuary.”

  He leaned back, his hands tucked across his belly, the picture of a satisfied burgher, and she wondered if it were he who’d gone mad.

  “Aye, Juliana, I offer you sanctuary. I’ll rescue you and wed you myself.” He swept her with his smug glance. “Surely you’d prefer me over a madman.”

  Quietly, but definitely, she replied, “Nay.”

  Undeterred, he swept on. “Surely you’d prefer a man who wants a mere duo of heirs from you.” He held wide his arms. “Look at me! I’ll spend most of my time in bed with my own pastry. That’s Anne. Remember Anne?”

  She nodded numbly.

  “All you’ll have to do is supervise the cooking and the clea
ning, take care of the laundry and the, er”—he gestured at the loom—“the weaving.”

  “What an inducement,” she whispered.

  “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

  He sat his loathsome body down beside her. His hip touched hers, his arm wrapped around her waist—and she realized he no longer intimidated her. She’d never again cringe from his pompous threats, nor duck when he swung at her. He meant nothing. This ridiculous little man meant nothing. He offered marriage, and rather than run from him screaming, a grim mirth bubbled within her.

  He said, “We could go to my castle.”

  Mouth skewed with distaste, she asked, “Do you believe this berserker, as you call him, would allow us to travel through the countryside with nary an attack?”

  Unease touched his face. “We’d have to kill him.”

  “Kill the king’s cousin?” His stupidity ground away at her, releasing irritation and some other emotion. She couldn’t put a name to it, but her fists clenched. “Someone would hang for that. Who do you suppose it would be?”

  “Well, not me,” he said huffily.

  He was so stupid. She couldn’t help it. She laughed.

  Unamused, Felix said, “You try to be so rational. You try to be a man.”

  “Nay, Felix,” she corrected. “I don’t lack for ambition.”

  Dagna chuckled, but Felix’s face remained blank.

  “You want someone like me,” he said. “Not someone like Raymond who watches you and lusts after you day and night. He’s an animal, they say, with ravenous appetites. They say—”

  Unease touched Juliana. This donkey who called himself a man had less intelligence than her loom; so how could he be presenting such cogent reasons to end her betrothal? Unerringly he touched on her fears and her wishes, and Juliana cried out, “Who told you these things?”

  He glanced around as if assassins lurked behind every oak column. “Just…a trustworthy person. He’s always been my friend. And yours, too.” His brown eyes squinted into hers. “He has your best interests at heart.”

  Hugh, she thought. Hugh had said these things. Her disappointment brought a bite to her tone. “Do you believe everything you hear?”