Hi everyone, particularly to those of you who are here after reading Hymne a l'Amour! It's been a long break, but I'm back and with a new story, this time set in Medieval France. I've been thinking about this story for a long, long time, and started writing it in my teens but finally have returned to it.
The title is inspired by The Airborne Toxic Event's song. My Erik in this story is definitely more based on the AWL Phantom but as you will see I have certainly mashed some Leroux in here too. Be prepared for him to get a little dark and twisted, which is just how I like him. Also be prepared for me googling Medieval France's geography and its dukedoms a lot... :/
I can't wait to hear what you think and if you want more. Some parts are almost fully written and other parts need a lot more work, but reviews inspire and maintain me. I will certainly not be updating as regularly as Hymne a l'Amour but I hope to be able to stand the wait! Enjoy.
When she awoke, it was to the smell of fresh pear; the scent had filled the room, along with the morning sunlight. Christine rubbed the sleep from her eyes and rose heavily from her bed, pulling back the drapes she found a tray with the ripe fruit, bread and cheese awaiting her atop the cabinet.
Not hungry just yet, she moved to her basin to wash her face and hands. Above the basin, a wooden, lacquered Jesus peered down at her. His limbs were stretched tightly over the cross, and as she looked upon Him, as she did every morning, she found she could never make out his expression; was it bemusement or merely boredom? Regardless, she kneeled down before Him and spoke the same words she did every day; "Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you; blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Angel, please, bless my father, and Madame Valerius. Bless this land, I beseech you, and bestow your kindness and mercy upon its subjects. Amen."
She crossed herself and rose from her knees, before calling Madame Valerius to her. The older woman appeared, as chatty as ever, and presented her with one of her favourite gowns from her wardrobe – Christine rarely had any interest in what she wore each day, but it seemed to give the older woman joy to choose for her, so Christine supplicated herself to Valerius' whims and put on the well-loved white and pink fabric.
"Pretty as a picture, my Lady," Valerius told her as she styled Christine's mahogany hair into braids. Christine disinterestedly nibbled on a piece of pear, occasionally chided by Valerius as the juice dripped from her hand onto the dress, but Christine's mind was elsewhere as she pondered over the conversation with her father that she had the day before. Nevertheless, she allowed herself to be led over to the basin as Valerius washed her hands free of the sweet nectar. If the old woman was in a particularly loquacious mood, Christine would pick up her bible and begin reading, safe in the knowledge that it would instantly silence her faithful maid. Thankfully, after she had finished Christine's hair, Valerius left the girl alone and Christine listened aptly to the silence.
When she was sure she was completely alone, she moved to the south wall of the room and pulled back the tapestry that hung in front of the large, heavy, wooden-framed mirror to peer at her reflection. Her short burst of pride in her appearance quickly turned to shame at her vanity. A heavy, sickly feeling filled her stomach and she let the tapestry drop as if it had burnt her.
"Forgive me," she whispered softly to the empty room and quickly left it.
Days in the castle could be dreary and particularly lonely, at least they seemed that way to Christine. Even though it was filled with people, etiquette commanded she could not speak to those outside her small circle of household staff, and she rarely went outside her apartment rooms, which consisted of her bedroom, a sitting room and a 'study', although just what she was supposed to study was a mystery to her. The number of books she was allowed was very limited, and what she did have were mainly religious. She would often stare out of the window, the pages of a prayer book which she had already read back to front at least a dozen times were frozen and inanimate as she pondered the land before her. She longed to know more about the people who lived in the small shacks to the east, or what animals were housed in the large barn which stood on the bend of the river just before it began to curve back toward Wellebou. She wanted to walk among these people and find out how they lived, learn what could not be found in books, at least not the ones she had access to, and feel like she was making some difference in her world, instead of wasting away her hours in this torment of luxury. She knew she shouldn't be ungrateful for her comforts when there were so many in poorer circumstances, but at the same time she keenly felt how much freedom those outside the castle had opposed to her, and jealousy welled up in her, dark and hot like oil.
When her maids were busy with practical errands, she would meander through her three rooms or while away the hours in silence at her loom. If she was lucky, occasionally she would have a visit from one of the wives of her father's advisors who came to call upon her and pass on their respects. Some just wanted to be nosey, which she did not mind as she too was very inquisitive. Whenever she had the opportunity, she would converse with them happily, finding out all she could about their situation and what was happening outside the castle walls. Others wanted things; for this she knew well how to behave. When they began to talk, she would listen sweetly, a vacant look appearing on her face as they asked for her to intercede with her father about a matter - usually relating to property – and as Christine's eyes glazed over, the lady's face would fall, and they would leave thinking Christine was no more than a simpleton. She felt bad to do it. They often never returned.
Every day at noon, her father would visit for a short time. It was a brief but warm meeting; mostly he would tell her of his troubles, unburdening his mind, and Christine, the good daughter, nodded sympathetically. She had long learnt the power of remaining quiet in the company of powerful men, retaining all they told her, and what's more, she had even learnt how to press it to her advantage.
She watched him knowingly that day as he paced back and forth over the flagstones. "Duke Philippe is certain of it. At least ten ships, his scouts say. We must hope the weather remains poor so we have time to sure up defences. I shall assign Count Delamere to the task."
"Delamere?" she repeated, abruptly stopping her needlework. She knew of the man; he had enjoyed some celebrity recently after success at a large battle, but he was still young, only a few years older than her, and worryingly untested. "Hm."
Her father looked at her sharply. "What?"
"Didn't he sacrifice the supply line at the battle of Morlaix?"
"Yes," her father said, a frown beginning to form. "But... How did you know about that?"
She smiled sweetly, "You told me, Father. I thought it strange at the time as I remember how definitively you once told me that cutting off an army's supply line is like cutting of a man's head…"
"Yes…" He paused, chewing his lip, "He is only twenty, but he is keen to learn."
"I'm sure he will do a fine job," she said placatingly, "After all, a garrison is not the same as a brigade."
"Hm…" she could tell she had planted a seed of doubt in her father's mind. He pulled at his beard thoughtfully – a clear sign that he was undecided - before distracting himself by coming to peer over her shoulder; "Now, what are you working on here?"
He politely listened to her as she discussed the different stitches she was using before he excused himself. Christine offered to escort him to his council meeting, eager to hear any further useful gossip on their way. It was not the first time her father had come to her with political worries, nor would it be the last, although Christine could not deny her frustration at having to package her thoughts and feelings in a way that was palatable to him. After all, he was 'Gustave the Wise, Duke of Normandy', why would he knowingly take advice from a woman? Particularly one so young? It was true her father was a good leader on the battlefield. Many times, he and his knights had defended the city from both the north and from the south and, despite it all, her father remained victorious. Somewhere, in the pit of her stomach, worry gnawed at her as to how long his luck would last…
As she peered into the Council Chamber, she saw it was filled with her father's barons, knights, some of the wealthier merchants, and finally, Sir Erik. She sloped back the moment she saw his hooded figure. She did not know why, but he was the only one of her father's advisors who unsettled her greatly. She knew little of him, only that her father thought of him very highly and trusted his advice more than most, which in turn made him disliked by most of the other men at court. Perhaps it was because she had never seen his face; Sir Erik wore a mask, the result of a facial defect so terrible that it was death to look upon it, one maid had whispered to her when he first arrived, and it was likely this terrible rumour that was the reason for her flinching away from him whenever he was near. She was so terrified that he might look at her directly and she would expire on the spot that she avoided being in the same room as him if she could help it. She had never even had the courage to utter a word to him, nor did he seem to find her worthy of speaking a single syllable to. Like most of the men at her father's council table, no doubt he regarded her with disappointment that she was not a son, and any interest in her focused on future marriage prospects that might be to their advantage.
After the day had been wasted away, Christine returned to her rooms. Her maids fussed about her, unwinding her hair from its caul and brushing any dirt away that had gathered on the hem of her dress. She fidgeted and itched as time carried on; it was one of the few times of day she was desperate to be alone. When she had extricated herself from their needling fingers so she could retire to bed, she breathed a sigh of relief.
But she wasn't tired. Waiting a few moments to make sure they would not return, she stood up and made her way once again over to the large mirror mounted on the wall. She could always tell when he was there. Waiting. She pulled the tapestry back and looked upon the mirror. She waited too. It was quite a long time and as the silence grew louder, she felt her nerves increase. She looked at her reflection again, a small pang of shame hitting her once more at the way she'd admired herself earlier. Perhaps that was why…? She held her breath and she began pacing back and forth, silently cursing herself at her own narcissism. Time ticked on unendingly it seemed. Just when she was about to give up and cover the mirror back up again, his voice surrounded her.
"So…Delamere will defend the city?"
Her arm stopped its movement towards the brocade and she took several steps back. She stared into the glass, itching to see something move which was not herself. His voice was deep, warm and all-encompassing, like slipping into a perfectly hot bath.
"He is not well experienced," she replied diplomatically. "But he did well in the battle of Morlaix-"
"The man is an idiot. His victory was a fluke."
She couldn't hide her smile at his frankness. Neither could she disagree with the sentiment. "I tried to suggest the same to my father…" she said, a little helplessly. "What more can I do?"
"More than you know, my Lady."
"Guide me?" she asked. Her voice was eager and her body willing.
"What do you know of Delamere?" He asked her.
Christine thought for a moment, struggling to remember what she had heard from others. Most of it had been complimentary; Delamere had been proclaimed as a great hero. He was young, handsome, or so the ladies all said, and he had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat at the battle of Morlaix. They had spoken once at a festivity a few months ago; he had seemed arrogant to her, despite his few years and he had said…Christine softly gasped as she remembered their conversation, and in turn information that might be exploited; "What if I were to suggest to him that my father is considering sending him to fight against the Turks?" She asked him, her hands became tense balls as nerves got the better of her. What if he should think her suggestion ridiculous?
"What would that accomplish?" his tone was unreadable.
"I have heard Delamere say it was his father's dying wish for him to defend the Kingdom of Jerusalem," she pressed on eagerly. "He would consider it the greatest honour. Perhaps he could be convinced to leave for the east before my father offers him the opportunity to lead the defences?"
"Indeed?" she could tell his interest was now piqued. "And just where did you hear this?"
"Men talk a lot. They think it all washes over my head."
"They underestimate you."
She ducked her head to hide her satisfaction. "Perhaps…Angel?"
"Yes, my child?"
Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment; every time he spoke to her it was as if her soul was glowing. "Why...why wasn't I born a man? If I were, I could defend my country. Instead, I can only serve you and God in lesser ways…I do not doubt His plan but-"
"No, none of that. You are what you were meant to be. He made you perfect." Heat filled her cheeks and she immediately was ashamed that she should take so much delight in her Angel's praise. "I agree - the defence of the city is too heavy a burden to be placed on untested shoulders. Guide the Count to the correct decision. I'm sure he will be pleased by your suggestion."
"I will, Angel." She ducked her head in submission to the unseen presence.
"You have been continuing your studies?" The voice asked her.
"Of course, Angel."
The voice hummed in satisfaction. It reverberated through her. "Good. Read a little before you go to bed," He commanded, and then a little more gently, "if you are not too tired." She nodded, and moved to the mirror to place the tapestry back over the glass.
"Goodbye, Angel."
"Goodbye, my Lady."
She shivered as the curtain fell before her and her reflection vanished. She turned and stared out into the room; the bed, the fireplace, the cabinet, the oak wardrobe, the soft rugs and tapestries…and yet it seemed coldly empty to her. She sighed and moved back towards her bed and fished out a book from beneath the mattress. Her fingers brushed absentmindedly over the leather cover. It was a strange Angel indeed who commanded her to study strategy books rather than her bible, but she could not deny how much she enjoyed to learn, nor how much pleasure it gave her to please him. She sank beneath the blankets of her bed and happily did as she was bid, and when her eyes tired too much, she placed the book back in its hiding place and soon fell into a deep slumber. The next morning she would not remember how she tossed and turned upon the mattress, half awake, half asleep, watched over by golden eyes staring out at her from the darkness; dreaming of those eyes, endlessly repeating, repeating, repeating upon celestial, golden wings. No, she would not remember in the morning. And when she awoke, it was to the smell of fresh pear.
