Once Upon an Autumn Eve (9 page)

“Splendid,” said Liaze. “Follow me.” And she heeled her grey in the flanks, and in spite of her half-hearted promise to Rémy, toward a distant woodland orchard they rode.

There was a stag at one of the trees, and away it flew, and laughing in the chase they pursued, Liaze’s nimble mare swift through the forest, Luc’s black stallion faster in the open.

They did not bring down a stag that day, yet they were well pleased when they called a halt to the chase.

Chatting and laughing, slowly they rode back toward the manor, the day growing quite warm with the mounting sun, the fog having been burned off long past.

As they came in sight of the mansion, “I know just what we need do,” said Liaze, and she led Luc toward the willows.

They rode in among the drooping yellow branches, brushing them aside with their hands. “I seem to recall such,” said Luc as he frowned at the dangles, “though the memory is hazy.”

They came at last to a small open glade there in the center of the grove. And across the sward, among great, flat white stones, lay the broad pool. Here they dismounted and turned loose their horses—stallion and mare—among the sweet grasses of the small, tree-sheltered meadow.

They walked to one of the stones at the edge of the pool, the spring-fed water lucid and welling, and a rill flowed out from one end to dance and sing over a stony bed on its journey to a faraway sea. And Luc looked about and smiled in recognition and said, “Somewhere in this place in the moonlight is where I first saw my Water Nymph.”

Liaze laughed and said, “Let me show you where,” and she sat down and pulled off her boots and stockings, then unlaced her leather jacket and flung it aside, along with her silken shirt.

Luc’s breath was taken away with the sight of her, yet he stood looking at her high breasts and slim waist, his gaze frank and admiring.

And she got to her feet and stripped out of her leather breeks and the waist-to-ankle silk garment beneath.

And Luc unfastened his long-knife and sword belt and scabbard, and he sat down to pull off his own boots.

Now completely unclothed, Liaze stepped to the edge of the pool, her form belling out from her trim waist over slender hips and then down into long, sleek legs. She stood there a moment, her back to him, and then, with a joyous cry, she dived into the crystal-clear water. She stroked down and across the pellucid mere, with its white bottom of flat stones and sand, the chill water bright with sunlight. To the other end she stroked and up the vertical face of the large rock at the verge. She surfaced and shook water from her eyes, then placed her hands on the low, flat top of the monolith and, with a kick, levered herself up onto the brink of the slab, and twisted about to sit. Laughing, she called out, “Luc!” but he was nowhere to be seen. She stood and peered about the glade.
Where—?

In that moment, blowing, Luc surfaced in the water at her feet. And he looked up at her and again his breath was taken away. And then with a lift and a turn, he was on the stone as well.

Liaze reached down and took his hand, and he rose to his feet, and she led him to the mossy bank along the edge of the dancing rill. “And here is where I first found you,” she said, and she pulled him down beside her.

And embracing one another, face to face they lay, and she held him close and kissed him deeply. His manhood was hard and pressing against her, and she could feel the beat of his pulse.

“Luc,” she said, her voice husky, her eyes lidded with desire.

“My lady, I have no experience whatsoever with—”

“You have never?”

“Never.”

“Here, then,” she said, and she rolled astraddle him and reached down and guided him in.

“Oh!” he said, and, “Oh!” just as did Liaze.

In the meadow that warm afternoon, with sunlight shining down, a stallion and a mare cropped the sweet, sweet grass.

11

T
hey lay side by side in Luc’s bed, and by the flame of a single candle they looked upon one another. Twenty-one more days had passed, and often they had made love, and every night they slept in each other’s arms. Gently, Liaze had guided him, and Luc had learned quickly, and their passion had grown with each passing day.

Liaze reached up and brushed back a stray lock of Luc’s dark hair, and then tenderly cupped his cheek in her hand. “What are you thinking,
chéri?
”

Luc took her hand away from his cheek and held it in both of his and said, “I believe my errantry has ended but a few days after it began, for here I have found the only thing worthy of quests.”

“And what might that be, Luc?”

“True love, my lady, true love.”

“And for this you would give up errantry?”

“I ask: what is errantry,
ma chérie?
And I answer: nought but a roaming search for adventure.”

“But you are a man, and men crave excitement.”

“And I suppose women don’t?” asked Luc.

Liaze laughed. “Oh yes, we crave excitement, but perhaps of a different sort. Women don’t usually run about and bash at Dragons, as do the heroes of the old sagas.”

Now Luc laughed and looked into Liaze’s eyes, dark in the candlelight. “Methinks those who tell such tales have never come upon a Dragon.”

Liaze sat up in surprise, the sheet falling from her breasts and down to her thighs. “And you have?”

“Mmm, what?” said Luc, his gaze now elsewhere.

Liaze laughed a throaty laugh, and she reached out and took his face in her hands and tilted his gaze up and away from her bosom, and he grinned mischievously. Liaze said, “I asked, Sieur Knight, have you seen a Dragon?”

“Um, yes, nigh a year ago.”

“Tell me, then.”

Luc said, “Well, it was as I was training upon Nightshade that there came a skreigh from above, and when I looked up, there it was, high in the sky, its vast wings rowing the air. A dark ruddy color were its scales, with splashes of obsidian glittering here and there, and it was enormous; that I could tell, even though it was far aloft, for—and here is the unbelievable part—I swear it had a rider, a man, astride at the base of the Drake’s neck, there where the nape meets the shoulders, just ahead of its widespread wings. It was a Dragon, all right, yet, because it had a rider, I think I might have dreamt it, even though I thought I was awake.”

Liaze laughed. “It was no dream, my love. What you saw was the Drake Raseri and the rider was the Elf Rondalo.”

“Raseri? Rondalo?” said Luc. “But the tales say that they are mortal enemies.”

“Once, perhaps, but no more, for Camille laid the enmity to rest.”

“You must tell me how she did so,” said Luc.

“I will,” said Liaze, “after.”

“After?” asked Luc.

Liaze smiled. “Yes, after.”

“Oh,” said Luc, then he grinned, too, and added, “indeed after,” and he took her in his arms.

 

A fortnight later, “I tell you, Zacharie,” said Rémy, “this Luc is a marvel, he is. I’ve never seen a finer hand with a rapier, and I’ve seen more than a few. Over these past fourteen days he’s taught my warband and your houseguard a thing or three with a blade . . . cudgels, too.”

“War axes and hammers as well,” added the steward.

They watched the men drill under Luc’s tutelage—shields and bucklers, now. After a while, Rémy said, “Be a good thing if the princess marries him.”

Zacharie nodded and said, “She’s heels over head in love, you know.”

“How can you tell?” asked Rémy, feigning seriousness, and Zacharie looked at the armsmaster askance, and then they both broke out in laughter.

“What is so joyous?” said Liaze, smiling, as she walked up from behind, Tutrice Martine at her side.

“Er, nothing, my lady,” said Rémy, giving the princess a slight bow.

Martine looked through disapproving eyes at Zacharie and said, “Is this one of your vile men’s stories?”

“You could call it that,” said Zacharie.

“You don’t want to hear this, Princess,” said the matron, and she raised her hands as if to cover Liaze’s ears.

Liaze shook her head and lifted an eyebrow at her former tutrice, and Martine let her hands fall back to her sides and huffed and turned away.

They stood and watched as Luc—shirtless, his amulet swinging with his moves—demonstrated the various ways of the shield bash, as well as how the edge of the shield could become a terrible weapon true. And he showed how a small, round buckler could be thrown, to sail far and bring down a foe at range, especially one that is fleeing.

“This man of yours,” said Rémy without thinking, “he’s a wonder, and that’s a fact.”

“He is at that,” said Liaze.

“Oh, my lady, forgive me,” said Rémy. “It’s just . . . well . . . you know. Not that I’m saying he’s
your
man. Instead, what I mean—”

“I know what you mean, Armsmaster,” said Liaze, smiling, “and all of it is true. Luc’s asked me to marry him, and I will, as soon as my sire and dam come here on their annual rade, for a king must be notified, and I would rather it were him than any other. After that, the banns must be posted and a hierophant found, and then Autumnwood Manor will see a wedding.”

Martine, who had been gazing through slitted eyes at the agile chevalier, spun around to face the princess. “But he is a common knight,” objected the tutrice, “and you know nothing of him. You deserve better: a
duc
. . . or a
comte,
at least.”

“Martine, he is anything but common, though I do admit there is a mystery concerning his birth and parentage.”

“I say send him on his way, for he could be a bastard child,” said Martine, fairly spewing in ire.

Rémy looked at Martine and said, “And he could just as well be a king.”

“Hmph!”
huffed the matron, turning to Liaze. “For all we know, he could be your half brother.”

Liaze turned a cold eye toward Martine. “Are you accusing my sire, King Valeray, of infidelity? Or my mother, Queen Saissa? Take care, for their bond is strong and well known, as is the lineage of their offspring.”

Martine blenched. “No, no, Princess. I’m accusing no one of anything. It’s just that we know nought of this upstart chevalier’s parentage.”

“And I say it matters not,” said Liaze.

Unbelieving, Martine blew out air in angry puffs. “Princess, I—”

“And when might this wedding occur?” interrupted Zacharie.

Liaze glanced at the red and gold leaves gracing the nearby woods. “In autumn,” she said and laughed and then sobered. “Seriously, Zacharie, within a year. Until then he is my consort, my lover.”

“Your consort! Your lover!” cried Martine, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “Princess, when you were a child I thought I taught you better, in spite of your willful ways.”

Before the Princess could respond, “Martine,” said Zacharie, “you have said quite enough.”

In that moment, with his shirt slung over a shoulder, Luc walked from the practice field toward the four, and Tutrice Martine spun on her heel and stormed away.

A slight sheen of perspiration on his face and chest and abdomen, and down the lean muscles of his arm, Luc stepped to Liaze, and she took him by his free hand and smiled up into his eyes. Then she turned and said to her steward, “Zacharie, I think it’s time we had held a dance. Refreshments as well, if you please. Invite everyone to the grand ballroom, and rotate the guards in and out. Would you arrange for such?”

A great grin split Zacharie’s features. “Gladly, my lady. ’Tis a grand party we’ll have.”

 

That afternoon Luc moved into the royal wing, his quarters adjoining Liaze’s rooms. And the entire staff breathed a sigh of relief, for their princess was pledged to a man they all approved of—all but Martine, that is, for she yet referred to him as a lowborn, upstart, common hedge knight.

Zacharie dispatched falcons to the siblings’ manors, bearing the news that Liaze was betrothed. Liaze sent her own falcon winging unto her sire and dam, and the message it bore told what she knew of Luc and of the woodcutter—the former armsmaster—who had taken him in, and she asked if they knew of a child abandoned in a like manner in a forest some three or four twilight borders sunwise of her own demesne.

 

That eve, Liaze presented Luc with a pair of silver spurs, saying, “A knight of my realm should never be without the badges of his office.”

Luc looked at her with tears in his eyes. “Ah, but père Léon would be so proud. Thank you, my love.”

“Put them on,” urged Liaze. “I would see you in them.”

Luc kicked off his shoes and slipped into his boots, and in moments and with great exaggeration, he strutted about the chamber, spurs agleam. Liaze laughed with joy and told him just how splendid he looked. Then Luc sobered and changed back into his shoes and held out his arm. “Shall we?”

After a sumptuous dinner, Liaze led Luc toward the grand ballroom, Liaze dressed in a satin gown, somewhere in that indeterminate range between a gentle yellow and a soft green, with pettiskirts and stockings and shoes to match. This night she also wore her golden circlet, the one with the yellow diamond.

Luc, on the other hand, wore a waistcoat ’neath a doublet, and shirt with belled sleeves, and tights and long stockings and black-buckled shoes. Deep violet was the prime color of his clothes, with pipings and insets of pale blue.

As they neared the vast chamber, they could hear music and laughter and gaiety, and they entered a ballroom full of people waiting their turn to dance the minuet: the women in silks and satins, their long, flowing gowns of white, lavender, yellow, peach, of pale red and of deep jade, of umber and rust and puce, and of blue. The men were arrayed in silken tights and knee hose and buckled shoes, with doublets and waistcoats and silken shirts and ruffles galore, their colors in darker shades than those of the women, but running throughout the same range. Liaze was the only woman wearing a gown of a hue between yellow and green, and Luc the only man in violet.