The Devil's Bargain Read online

  Celia swallowed.

  “Now.” She looked matter-of-factly at Celia. “Are you a virgin?”

  She could feel herself flushing. “Of course.”

  “Are you determined to remain so?”

  She didn’t have an answer for that. Until now, she’d never given it much thought.

  Alisoun cocked her head and paused for a moment. When Celia still didn’t respond, she said, “Marie, will you please close the door.”

  Marie got up to do as she was told, then sat back down on the bed with the other women.

  “You’re old enough to have married. Are you betrothed?”

  Celia shook her head.

  “Even if he were attracted to you, you realize that marriage to him is hardly a possibility.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Alisoun looked satisfied. “Good. Better you don’t harbor any foolish dreams. Do you find him attractive?”

  Celia gulped. “He is very handsome,” she admitted. “When I’ve spoken with him he seemed both powerful and reasonable and...I was drawn to him. But then I remember the horrible things I’ve seen in his dungeons, and I can’t believe the same man who seems so reasonable could be responsible for all that suffering. I don’t know what to think, really.”

  “I doubt the dungeons at Chillon are any worse than any other castle. Traitors and criminals do have to be punished.”

  “It’s different when it’s your father down there,” Celia said quietly.

  There was a moment of silence. “Yes, I imagine that’s true,” Alisoun said. Marie nodded in agreement.

  “He hadn’t even done anything wrong!”

  “But the count did let him go. Nearly as soon as you came to speak for your pa, his lordship listened,” Alisoun replied sagely.

  “Maybe,” she muttered, knowing the two women were not as convinced of her father’s innocence as she was.

  “Anyhow,” Alisoun advised, “if Savoy has no amorous intentions toward you, you have nothing to worry about. If he—”

  “He kissed me,” Celia blurted, deciding to trust Alisoun. “Last night, after dinner.” This last came out in a whisper. Her cheeks burned.

  Marie nearly jumped from the bed, giddy with delight, but her mother placed a calming hand on her shoulder.

  “I suspected as much. As Marie pointed out, you were seen leaving together after the evening meal last night, and ‘twas unlikely the two of you intended to discuss matters of state. Just a kiss?”

  Celia lowered her eyes. “Oui. But it was quite a kiss.”

  Marie brought her hand to her mouth to cover her giggle.

  Her mother nodded. “Well, let’s just hope that means he’s after more than a quick liaison.”

  Celia drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them with her arms.

  Alisoun laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’m not saying any of this to make you feel badly, only so that I can be sure you have a clear understanding of the situation. You are, after all, only a merchant’s daughter—and not, it seems, a particularly wealthy or influential one.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ve sparked the interest of a potent lord. As you can hardly refuse him, the wisest course might be to try to win him over—to make him want to keep you as mistress.”

  “Mama!” Marie’s eyes grew huge.

  Celia could only gape. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, especially after Alisoun had warned that marriage was out of the question. Perhaps an admonishment about steering clear of her betters and keeping her virtue. Instead, Alisoun seemed to be advocating the opposite.

  Finally she found her tongue. “I can’t possibly stay here, mistress or not. I’m a merchant.”

  It was the other two women’s turn to gape. “You mean you need to help your father, dear?” Alisoun asked.

  “For now, yes. But someday I will take his place.” She hoped. Not that her father had ever agreed to such a notion.

  Both women looked distressed by her declaration. Finally Alisoun simply returned to what she’d been saying before.

  “I’m well aware that the church priests would not approve of my telling you this, but being the mistress of a powerful man is not the worst thing for a woman in your position. And his lordship...he’s a man of great means. The House of Savoy is one of the most influential noble houses in all the kingdoms of the continent. You can’t hope to marry a man like that, but to be his mistress, well, that’s something. It wouldn’t have the respectability of marriage, but it would offer you his protection. You’d likely have gifts and fine clothing, and if the count shows that he favors you, then all the servants and soldiers here would have to respect you as well.”

  Marie was hanging on her mother’s words with fascination, her mouth half-open. Celia could hardly blame her.

  A mistress. A fallen woman. Though she’d harbored a few fantasies since meeting the attractive count, Celia couldn’t believe Alisoun was actually recommending this course of action. And yet, it didn’t sound so horrible when she described it. What would it be like to lie with a man? The Count of Savoy. If she’d had to pick a man, she couldn’t have found one more handsome, or intelligent. How would he touch her? Would she enjoy it? She rather thought she would. Was she wicked for wondering about such things? The village priest gave sermons against lust at least once a month. Having never before experienced the sensation, she hadn’t paid much attention. She supposed if he knew the current direction of her thoughts—that she was actually contemplating lying with a man she could never hope to marry—she’d be saying the rosary until she was blue in the face. Mayhap longer.

  A mistress. Even if everyone in the castle accepted her, she would not be respectable company. Smothering a hysterical laugh, she realized that no one thought of her as respectable company now, either—especially with a father fresh from the dungeons.

  She threw up her hands. “I don’t know what to do.” Then a reassuring thought occurred to her. “My father will return soon. Perhaps I can simply avoid his lordship until then.”

  “Perhaps,” Marie agreed dubiously.

  Alisoun’s expression said she shared her daughter’s doubt, but she didn’t press the matter. “It’s all right, dear. Just think about it for a while. These last couple days have been extraordinarily trying, and you’re bound to feel jumbled up,” Alisoun said. “But I suggest you don’t wait too long to make up your mind. Nicolas of Savoy is not a man to tarry once he’s made up his own.” She clucked her tongue. “Speaking of tarrying, Marie, we’d best get on with our chores.”

  After the two women departed, Celia leaned her head against the cold stone of the wall. Last night she’d thought she would be able to satisfy her curiosity with a kiss, but instead the kiss had inflamed that curiosity and longing. If she actually lay with him, would her desire be sated, or further inflamed?

  Her father would return in a few days, maybe a week—no more, Celia reminded herself. If the count had her, and she left soon after, she’d be no better than a whore. The one thing she’d been advised against. Surely her attraction to him wasn’t so great that she would give in to temptation so quickly. Though Celia had resolved not to worry what the castle dwellers thought of her, she did care very much what her papa and her brothers thought.

  All she had to do was put off the decision—and stay out of the count’s sight, lest he make the decision for her—until her father came back. Surely she could manage that for a few days. Then she could go back home and try to forget that she’d ever shared passionate kisses with the most powerful man in the entire region.

  Chapter 6

  The snows came early that year, and they came hard. Only two nights after Celia said goodbye to her father, bitter winds blew in from the north, freezing the edges of the deep lake and sending the castle occupants scurrying for their warmest things.

  Celia was sleeping peacefully when a loud bang startled her awake. The wind had blown open a shutter on the small window, and in the time it took for her to leap
out of bed and run to close it, a gust of icy air rushed in and scattered the banked fire. Snowflakes swirled madly outside, many of them finding their ways into the castle’s crooks and crevices. She struggled against the wind to pull the shutter back in place and latch it, then looked in dismay at the scattered ashes of the fire. The room was frigid; the thick stone walls and open spaces of the chateau were poor retainers of heat.

  She wanted badly to crawl back under the bedcovers and soak in whatever vestiges of warmth remained, but she’d be frozen by morning if she did.

  Her cloak hung on a hook near the door, freshly returned from the laundry by Marie. Though it was still slightly damp, she pulled it over her. Grabbing the fire pan, she made her way to the lower great hall, where a fire still burned in the large hearth. Many of the lesser servants and vassals slept in the hall, lying on benches or simply on the mats of woven rushes that served as carpeting. Tonight they were all clustered closely about the hearth, and Celia envied them. The dogs that usually slept near the fire discontentedly prowled the edges of the servants’ grouping, squeezing their way in wherever there was a space between bodies.

  For a moment she was tempted to join them, but the thought of the count learning that she’d slept in the hall like a scullery wench, after he’d given her the honor of a private chamber—and he would hear of it, given the tenacity of the castle gossips—was enough to stop her.

  She raked several hot coals into the pan, enough to rekindle the fire in her own room, then went to find Marie. The servants’ quarters could not possibly be any warmer than hers, and she intended to ask Marie to come share the big bed in her room. Two bodies would be warmer than one. Surely that would be acceptable. She wondered what the count did on nights like this...was there someone to share his bed?

  An instant surge of jealously filled her. Idiot. Hadn’t she just been trying to convince herself to stay away from the man?

  Celia did not even get as far as Marie’s chamber before she saw the girl come shivering toward her, the stubby candle she held before her flickering wildly in the drafty corridor.

  The girls made their way back to Celia’s chamber and relit the fire. They attempted to drag the bed closer, but the large wooden frame was far too heavy to move. No sooner had they snuggled under the covers than the door creaked open again and Alisoun’s face appeared.

  “Are you girls all right? I was worried, knowing how cold this part of the chateau can get. On a night like this ‘tis no privilege to have one’s own bed.”

  “In truth, it is not. Would you like to join us as well?”

  “Might I?”

  “Please do. ‘Twill be even warmer with three,” Celia said, scooting over to make room. The large bed seemed only a trifle crowded with three grown women sharing it, and she was grateful for any extra heat. They pulled the coverings completely over their heads, not willing to bare an inch of skin to the freezing air, and went back to sleep.

  When he awoke the following morning, threw open the draperies, and gazed out his window, Nicolas swore eloquently.

  There was at least two feet of snow on the ground, and the darkly ominous clouds shrouding the mountains promised more, soon. Chillon hardly ever received so much snow at once, and never in early November.

  The snow would delay the work on the fortifications. He hated delays. Worse, it would bring his plans for a counterattack on the Count of Geneva to a careening halt.

  Even though this most recent attack hadn’t posed a serious threat to the castle, Nicolas’s instinct told him the Genevans were using the hired attackers to gain valuable information about his defenses, then biding their time until they could launch a full-scale siege.

  He wanted to get to them first. His policy was to always retaliate swiftly and surely, never letting the enemy rest or his own men grow complacent. He did not set out to create enemies, but the wealth and power of the Savoy holdings created them naturally.

  Though a light attack might be staged in winter, Nicolas had been planning a thorough siege that would convince the Genevans never to interfere with Chillon again. To do that, he needed catapults, ladders, grappling hooks, tunneling equipment, and an abundance of bows and arrows—not to mention adequate food supplies and tents for the men. Most of this was already available from previous campaigns and the armory was fast at work preparing the rest, but they would be unable to travel with such heavy equipment on snow-blanketed roads.

  Nicolas cursed again. The Genevans had timed their attack perfectly. He knew they couldn’t have predicted the snows any more than he could have, but Fortune had worked in their favor. If they’d used their own knights, or hired more professional soldiers, they could have done considerable damage to Chillon, and now he, the immensely powerful Count of Savoy, was not even able to return the attack because a few lousy feet of snow had foiled his plans. It was humbling, this reminder that Nature bowed to no man.

  He growled as he turned from the window. A servant appeared at the door, and he directed the man to see that additional foodstuffs, firewood, and livestock were brought within the walls of the castle before the storm struck anew. There wasn’t much else he could do other than wait out the weather and be prepared when a long thaw came.

  In the meantime, though, there was a very lovely girl residing in the chateau. It appeared he would have time to devote to more pleasurable pursuits. He remembered the feel of her petal-soft lips crushed to his.

  From their first stormy encounter he’d known she would be passionate. But she’d far surpassed his hopes. Only a few kisses and they’d both nearly forgotten themselves. He’d responded to her with far more ardor than he’d anticipated. He recalled her flushed face, drugged eyes, and rosy lips when they’d broken their embrace. She wanted him, too, though she might not understand it yet. He’d lost himself in the sweet fire of her mouth, his control slipping dangerously. If she hadn’t pulled back, he might have taken her then and there.

  In the awkward moments after that kiss, he’d tried to reassure her. The promise not to let it happen again had slipped from his mouth almost without thought. Years of training in the French courts had ingrained in him the superfluous language of courtly love—lovers who shied away when they wished to draw nearer. Promises that were meant to be broken.

  Perhaps his pretty hostage could be convinced his promise was not one she wished to hold him to. He hoped so, for it was one he had no intention of keeping.

  Nicolas decided he didn’t mind the weather quite so much.

  Celia’s plan to avoid Nicolas of Savoy until her father returned was working depressingly well.

  While the snow fell, she wandered the castle, spending many hours hovering near the hearth in the lower great hall, where a roaring fire was always burning. Many of the servants did the same, stopping by in between chores or bringing stools close by when the chore was something portable. Out of boredom the first afternoon, Celia offered to help Marie with her chores.

  Marie looked scandalized. “His lordship says you’re his guest. It don’t matter the circumstances, or what anyone else says. You’re a guest, and guests don’t do the housework,” she said firmly.

  “Do they sew?”

  Marie thought about that. “Yes, I suppose they do.” She let Celia borrow a needle and thread.

  Celia took them to the circle of castle dwellers gathered around the hearth. She mended the hem of her cloak. With no sign of the storm letting up, she started stitching the only decorative pattern she knew—a pattern of tiny leaves around the edge of the hood.

  She learned the names of a few of the vassals, and learned more of others from the idle chatter around the hearth. She learned that Alisoun and Marie were well-respected by the other servants. Each night, they returned to her chamber, bringing hot stones and extra coverings for the bed they all now shared.

  Her only truly unpleasant moment came near the end of the second straight day of snowfall. She was hovering near the fire again when a woman rudely bumped past her, shoving Celia out of th
e circle of warmth as she muttered something about “common doxies” just loudly enough for those nearby to hear.

  Bernice. Celia recognized the pinch-faced, brown-veiled woman from the weaving group. The one who’d spread rumors about her trading her favors for her father’s freedom. The one largely responsible for the chilly reception she’d received from everyone but the Marie and her mother. And, of course, the count himself.

  Celia longed to grab the woman by her drably covered throat and squeeze, but she forced herself—barely—to remember her father’s lectures about taking the higher ground. She simply moved to an opening on the other side of the fire, saying as she did, “My, but this weather is growing tiresome. It’s a miracle we all aren’t sniping at one another from being so cooped up.”

  One of the kitchen boys nodded vigorously as he made extra room for her. Celia was gratified to see similar expressions on the faces of the others nearby.

  Bernice looked put out. She warmed her thin hands quickly near the flames, then cast a disparaging glance around. She heaved a great sigh and moved off, saying “The miracle is that this castle hasn’t yet gone to the dogs, what with some of the laggards calling themselves servants here.”

  Celia couldn’t be sure, but she could’ve sworn a gnarled old man next to her muttered “An’ good riddance,” at Bernice’s retreating back.

  None of them dared challenge her openly, of course, with her husband being one of the count’s men.

  The unpleasantness over, Celia was left to ruminate on the topic that had been looming ever larger in her mind—Nicolas of Savoy.

  The snow meant her stay at Chillon would likely be much longer than she’d originally planned. Even if her father had made it safely home before the storm, he would be unable to travel now until a thaw. The steep, rugged paths down the mountain from their home would be impassable, especially with a fully laden cart.