Forever His(27)

“Nay.” Royce shook his head, finishing a long draught of ale. “No one in the village has seen a caravan, or a single blessed nun, or one red hair of Tourelle or any man answering such a description. They say no strangers have passed this way for a fortnight. And though it was difficult to tell how many travelers there have been upon the roads, I doubt that anyone with a lesser mount than a destrier could have ridden them. The snows are too deep.”

Gaston frowned. “So Lady Christiane came here alone, through the worst winter storm we have seen in years, on roads that no palfrey could have managed? Without being seen by anyone? It is impossible. She could not have made her way into the castle without assistance.”

“Indeed, milord, she could not. But that is yet another mystery—there was no trace of her entering the castle at all.”

Gaston raised an eyebrow. “I am in no mood this night for jests, Saint-Michel.”

“It is true.” The young captain sighed heavily. “Once the guests had arrived, the drawbridge was raised, with our men posted along the ramparts, and the King’s guards as well. All had been told to watch for Tourelle’s party, but they saw not a soul venturing near the curtain walls. And within the castle grounds ...” He paused, running a hand through his thick, damp hair, clearly disturbed that he could make no sense of this puzzle. “I checked for myself, and there were no footprints. The fresh snow was unmarked. Even beneath the window of the bedchamber where you slept ... I do not know how she came to be there, unless she flew.”

Gaston felt an unearthly chill chase up his back as he remembered her strange comment at supper: My father flies ...

He shoved the idea aside just as quickly. He would not let the treacherous girl and her insane lies play havoc with his logic. “She must have known of our secret sally port,” he declared flatly.

“Nay, I thought of that as well. The lock had not been disturbed. She did not slip inside that way.” Royce shook his head, frowning. As the one responsible for securing the castle, he seemed deeply unsettled at being unable to find out how an intruder had gotten all the way to his lord’s bedchamber. “I am sorry, milord. I cannot explain it.”

Gaston could not explain it, either, but there had to be some logical answer. She was not an angel who could wing her way past raised drawbridges and armed guards. He tried to think, to remember the moment he had first noticed her in his room. Had she come through the door? The window?

All he could remember was falling asleep alone ... and awakening to find her nestled beside him.

Christiane’s voice again drifted through his thoughts. He remembered vividly the claim she had made while trying to explain herself: When I stepped into this room to go to bed, the year was 1993.

Madness. Lies. He shook his head to clear it. “I must have an answer, Royce. If she has found some secret way to slip inside, we can wager that Tourelle knows it as well.”

“But, milord, even if she could have gotten inside—past the drawbridge, the guards, and through the bailey without leaving a mark in the fresh snow—how did she manage the portcullis? She could not lift a gate made of solid oak and iron.” Royce pushed himself away from the table and stood, then paced to the hearth and back again. “Even a child could not fit through the small openings in it. Certainly no woman with such ample—” He suddenly broke off and froze, his gaze dropping to his boots, color rising in his face. “I ... uh ... meant—”

“Nay, do not apologize,” Gaston said lightly. “My men would have to be blind not to notice the lady’s generous ... attributes. It bothers me not, Royce. She may be my wife, but she means naught to me.” He dismissed the odd tightening in his gut as a reaction to too much drink and poor food, not a jealous response to another man noticing Christiane.

Royce nodded, but still seemed uncomfortable. He quickly returned to the hearth, stoking the flames as he continued his musings. “If she could not have slipped inside last night, that means she must already have been inside when the celebrations for the eve of the new year began. Mayhap she disguised herself, entered with some of the guests, and secreted herself somewhere until all had gone to bed.”

“Mayhap,” Gaston agreed, though he did not quite believe that, either. When one played host to the King, one did not let unknown persons wander in through the gates. The guards had stopped and identified each guest and his retainers before allowing them entrance. Such a tall, striking beauty would not have slipped past unnoticed.

But it was the only explanation.

Gaston rubbed one hand over his eyes. “The fact that we can find no trace of the lady’s arrival only underscores what I have said from the beginning: she is cunning, skillful, and not to be trusted.”