A Lady Under Siege

33

Mabel was crossing the yard, escorted by a guardsman as usual to collect the supper, when she chanced upon Lord Thomas, who was tutoring three young pages in the martial techniques of the broadsword. He greeted her warmly as she was led by, and she asked if she might have a few moments of his time, to speak to him on a matter of great import. Thomas handed his sword to her startled guardsman, and bade him take charge of the lesson, while he led Mabel to a quiet room in the armoury, where weapons of all sorts were stacked against the walls. “Now my dear, what so heavily weighs upon your mind?” he asked her.

“Master, I must warn you, in confidence,” Mabel told him solemnly, “that despite her warm and gracious behaviour toward you these last days, m’Lady still harbours ill will toward you.”

Thomas smiled upon her. “I thank you for being so forthcoming,” he replied. “But you may spare me the details, for I already know them.”

“How’s that, sire?” she asked, greatly surprised.

“You procured for her a small knife, and the lady has hidden it in some convenient nook at her bedside. She intends to make an offer to me of her body, that I might use her as I wish, and then stab me as I lie with her upon the bed. Is that how the play is written? A bit of theatre requiring her to act two parts, lover and killer, while I play a single role: the willing dupe. The only wrinkle in the plot that remains unknown to me is whether she’ll let me have my way with her first, so as to stab me as I lie defenceless, cloudy-headed and impoverished of strength after the act, or will she strike earlier than that, and thus maintain her honour?”

“You’re a wizard, Sire,” cried Mabel in astonishment.

“If I be a wizard, it’s only for good, I hope. But tell me, why do you abandon loyalty to your Lady, and turn traitor at this hour?”

“I’m no traitor, Sir,” Mabel protested. “It’s for the Lady’s good. Forgive me for speaking so directly, but the way I see it, if you were to succeed in joining with her, and if through this union you were to plant a seed inside her, then she might come to forget her other sorrows, for when the child is born, she’ll be won over to it through maternal love. And as it grows, and takes on some of your own good looks, she’ll likewise be won over to you.”

“So it’s your sincere wish that I join with her, and possess her?”

“It would be for the best, Sire.”

“Your reasoning pretends an altruistic spirit, but wizardry apart, plain old gossip informs me you have ambitions for your own future.”

Mabel blushed, but answered him assertively. “I want my freedom, Sir,” she declared. “My life back home is over, and there is one who desires me here.”

“Gwynn the poultryman, if I’m not mistaken.”

She nodded.

“Good luck to you,” Thomas wished her. “His first wife gave him three boys, and birthing the third is what killed her, so he’s predisposed to gratitude toward womankind for that sacrifice. You’ll benefit from it, and he’ll be patient and tender in his treatment of you, not wanting to lose another. You speak of wanting freedom. Well I do warn you, trading the certitudes of service to your Lady for an independent life as wife of a freeman is no guaranteed improvement, especially when those three untamed young boys of his show every sign of growing up to be even bigger rascals than their old man. However, if you do succeed in domesticating father and sons, you’ll have performed a great service to the community, and in expectation of that outcome I hereby promise that you shall have your freedom soon. Gwynn shall have his wife.”

MABEL RETURNED TO HER Lady’s chambers with the supper and found Sylvanne looking out dreamily from the window.

“Ah, there you are. What kept you?”

“I was waylaid, Ma’am.”

“Hmm. Look how early in the day the moon has chosen to show herself in the sky. Look how full and round she is.”

Mabel came to the window and saw that it was true, the moon hung round and swollen in the east while the autumn sun had yet to set over fields and forest. Below them, a peasant’s fat cow had wandered into the bulrushes of the moat, the wooden bell around its neck making a lovely, earthy chime. To Mabel the serenity of the moment was marred only by the breeze that blew in through the unshuttered window. It was cool, and hinted of winter coming.

“This night feels right,” Sylvanne said. “This is the very night we must strike, Mabel. Have them fetch hot water, for first I must bathe, then be anointed in something fragrant, then adorn myself as finely as that ancient Jewess who slew a general. Tonight I’ll coax Thomas from his daughter’s bedside, and induce him to return here with me.”

“Good for you, Madame!”

“I must tell you something first, though. I’ve had a change of heart, a change of strategy. Rather than having you absent yourself, I want you here, in your bed. You be discreet, and make as to be asleep when we arrive,” she instructed. “You’ll hear us, and, peeking out from your anteroom, you’ll ascertain the precise moment when he lies with me, and begins to lose himself in his attentions to me. Creep close, without a sound—raise the knife, bring it down!”

Sylvanne could not fail to notice the look of horror on Mabel’s face. “Please Mabel, I need you,” she pleaded. “You’re stronger than I am. I don’t trust myself to do it alone. I’ll hold him tight, and you thrust the knife.”

“Oh no, Ma’am,” Mabel stammered. “Not me. You.”

“You told me you’d do anything for me.”

“But not that. Not murder. The man has been so kind to us and all—what if he howls in pain, or begs for mercy?”

“The same man murdered my husband. He deserves his head on a pike above the barbican gate,” Sylvanne stated. But the words came out flat, neutral, and to Mabel’s ears lacked conviction.

“Oh Madame. Is that truly how you feel?”

“It’s not a question of how I feel, it’s a question of justice. What matters is justice be done,” Sylvanne said, her voice quavering.

“Forgive me for insufficient intensity of feeling, Ma’am,” Mabel pleaded. “To kill a man needs passion stronger than I possess. If you feel it, you must do it.”

Sylvanne shuddered deeply. “You’re right, of course you’re right. It’s up to me, isn’t it?” She was lost in thought a moment, then looked directly into Mabel’s eyes. “I owe you an apology—I’m so frightened of failure that I tried to pass my own solemn duty into your blameless hands!”

“There, there, Madame,” Mabel said soothingly. “Are you starting to have feelings for the Master and his young daughter? I shouldn’t be surprised if you are.”

“Don’t talk of feelings, please,” Sylvanne pleaded. “I’m bound by duty, and without fulfilling it what am I? I need to remember my duty. I need to trust myself. I need to believe that in the moment I will find the strength.”

“That’s more like it, Madame,” Mabel said encouragingly. “You lure him to your bed, and lie with him upon it, and then, when he weakens after gaining his, his, when he takes rest afterward, he’ll be sure to lie undefended. He’ll be at your mercy, he will! That’s the time to strike. That’s the plan we hatched. Let’s stick to that.”

“That’s the plan you hatched,” Sylvanne responded. “But it’s not you who must make a sacrifice.” When she tried to picture how it would play out, to imagine the moment, her mind was overwhelmed by complexities of emotion. “Could I really be with him like that, arousing passion in him, persuading him to satisfy himself upon me, and not find myself susceptible to being…” She groped for the right word.

“Swept along, Madame?”

A new thought came to Sylvanne, and she eyed Mabel suspiciously. “It’s funny, that you, an old virgin, are suddenly so full of advice about my comportment in bed,” she said. “Not for the first time you express your preference that I let him have me before I strike. Why is that, Mabel? I’m frightened of the entire scenario, yet you fear only half—you’re keen that I take him to bed, yet less enthused to see him dead. Perhaps I should worry about you, that you might call out and alert him, for as you’ve said yourself, the man’s been so kind to us.”

“Oh no, ma’am. I wouldn’t. I would never alert him.”

“I wonder if you already have.”

AFTER HER BATH SYLVANNE arranged her hair up high upon her head, so as to show her lovely neck to its full effect. She anointed herself with perfume from a bottle that had belonged to Thomas’ wife, a scent that pleased her greatly, with hints of leather and rose petal. She chose a kirtle of red velvet with white linen cuffs, and above its revealingly low bodice she arrayed a silver necklace of sapphires that had been an extravagant wedding present from Gerald. When Mabel told her she looked stunning, she knew it wasn’t sycophancy but the unadorned truth. Appraising herself in the looking glass she found that beauty gave her courage. She thought, in my raiment at least I have equalled that Biblical heroine Judith. Now if only I might equal her in action. But then doubts troubled her mind, for she knew the two circumstances were not identical. She thought, fair Judith had as motivation the rescue of an entire besieged city at risk of slaughter, while I, by comparison, seek merely to kill a widowed man who struggles to preserve his daughter. She did her best to drive from her mind such unhelpful small treasons, and focus on two simple thoughts. Tonight is to be the night. Do your duty.

SOON AFTER DARK THE summons came as usual, and she was escorted to Daphne’s bedroom. She arrived fully prepared to enliven the evening, to play sultry temptress and spark the heart of Lord Thomas, but on entering the room, she saw that the mood was sombre, and muted, with the candles dimmed. Daphne slept in the bed, and Thomas brooded in a chair close to her.

“She relapses, I fear. How faintly she breathes,” he said pensively. “Her skin succumbs to that sickly pallor I so dread.”

“You study her in her sleep too intently to be objective,” Sylvanne suggested. “Most of this afternoon she chattered to me freely, in high spirits. She even took a stroll along the parapet.”

“I’m not sure it was wise to expose her to that icy breeze.”

“She dressed snugly and enjoyed herself. You do worry so,” she consoled him. She came to him, stood close to him, and lay her hand on his shoulder. He turned his head, and rubbed his cheek against the back of her hand for comfort. The door creaked, and she pulled her hand away. Mabel entered, carrying sheets and feather bedding.

“Mabel has kindly offered to sleep here tonight, to give you recess from your constant surveillance of the child, and let you enjoy your own bed for a change,” Sylvanne told him.

“Very kind, but I’m not sure I should.”

“Oh, please do. Please. For me.”

He looked at her closely for the first time since she had entered. By candlelight she did indeed look beautiful, almost irresistibly beguiling. A glance at Mabel told him all he needed to know about what was in store for him this evening. Life is a paradox, he thought to himself—what I truly long for at this moment is company, that is, companionship. A shoulder to cry on, as Meghan expressed so recently, in my dreams. Instead, this stunning creature who may or may not despise me offers her body, without knowing that it will be fully mine for the simple price of disarming her in time. Well, she’s too beautiful not to take advantage of what she’s put on offer, and I’ll enjoy it doubly, knowing as I do that Meghan will be present in her, and will take pleasure in it too. Perhaps I’ll speak to Meghan in the lovemaking, and remind her that it’s for her, and for the kindness and companionship she has shown across centuries. As for Sylvanne, well, it needs doing, that’s the main part of it—the playacting needs to end, and then perhaps we may start all over again, this time without pretence and guile.