Chapter 5

La Ferté-Macé

France, 1384

Fortunately for Jean and Marguerite, the weather had been good the past several days; the roads were dry, and they made decent time. The trip from their home to the castle La Ferté-Macé had only taken a few hours Marguerite had eschewed a carriage and instead road on horseback next to her husband.

Jean was melancholy for most of the trip, hardly speaking to his wife. She had tried to engage him in conversation, asking him an almost never-ending litany of questions. Jean gave short, curt, and basic answers, choosing not to elaborate or get drawn into any lengthy discussion. After a while, Marguerite gave up and rode the rest of the way in silence.

The couple meandered through the French countryside until it crested a hill and the castle came into view. It was not the largest nor the most prestigious castle they had seen, barely more than a hilltop motte and bailey. However, the gate was sturdy, and the main keep seemed well-built with thick walls. As they entered through the open gate, a stableboy took their horses’ leads and secured their bags.

“My lord Crespin and his lady are in the Great Hall with their guests,” the stableboy explained. “I will see to your horses and have your bags taken to your chambers. Lord Crespin has given over the tower room for you and your lady, my lord.”

The merry sound of music playing inside the keep was quite clear.

“Have the festivities already begun?” asked Marguerite.

“Aye, my lady. Lord Crespin has opened the hall, and there are many guests already present.”

Jean shrugged and responded, “Then we shall join your master and his guests at once.” He took Marguerite’s arm and led her through the heavy oak doors into the Great Hall. The large, open room was filled with people, all milling about and talking in clusters. Tables and benches occupied the far side of the room, laid out in rows, but the center of the hall, where most of the attendees assembled, was without furnishings.

A wooden staircase rose upon the opposite wall, leading to a projecting balcony where a group of minstrels sat playing their instruments, filling the room with happy music fit for a celebration. As they passed into the room, a man who recognized Jean bowed low in greeting. “Welcome, my lord. Our master has been anxiously awaiting your arrival. May I announce you?”

Jean bowed politely in response and replied, “Of course. Please, do so.”

The man smiled, then raised a massive spear from the rack next to the door and hammered its butt onto the stone floor with a resounding boom. “My lords and ladies, the honorable Jean de Carrouges. Esquire, and his wife, the lady Marguerite!” he shouted, as many heads turned to look at the new arrivals.

An odd hush seemed to descend on the room as Jean and Marguerite stepped forward. All eyes seemed to be on them. Marguerite trembled nervously, unaccustomed to being the focus of so much attention. Jean held onto her arm and guided her forward confidently, proud to be married to the most beautiful woman there.

A man separated himself from the crowd and approached Jean and his wife. Jean immediately recognized his host and smiled, extending his hand in a warm greeting.

“Jean!” The man said, nearly shouting, “Welcome to my home!” He embraced Jean, then turned to his wife exuberantly. “And you must be Marguerite! Your beauty is renowned throughout all of France.” He took Marguerite’s hand and kissed it affectionately. “I am Jean Crespin; I am enchanted to meet you, my dear.”

Marguerite blushed slightly and smiled back at her host, replying, “Thank you, my lord, I am pleased to be here. And where is Lady Crespin?”

“She is in the nursery with our son,” he explained. “She will join us once he has had his fill of milk.”

Jean observed that many people were staring at him and whispering among themselves. Something unusual was going on. He noticed that they were also looking toward the far end of the room. Jean followed their stares and felt a sharp stab in his chest when he saw at whom they were staring.

“Le Gris is here?” Jean asked suddenly. Crespin nodded nervously, confirming Jeans’ question.

“Yes,” he answered. “He arrived this morning. I had no idea he was coming, I assure you.”

Marguerite stiffened and looked around, trying to spot the man. “Where is he?” she asked.

It was as if the people in the room realized that the two men felt no love for each other and were afraid that violence could erupt at any moment. Slowly, the center of the hall thinned out as the crowds parted, leaving a gap between Jean and his rival.

That’s when Marguerite saw him for the first time. He was much taller and better looking than she had expected. She had formed a mental image of a monster or demon, having heard her husband disparage the man for years. Yet, the man she saw across the room appeared noble, distinguished, and handsome.

Crespin was speaking, but she was so preoccupied with seeing Jacques le Gris that she only heard the last part of what he said, “There won’t be any trouble, will there?”

“That depends on him,” Jean replied.

Marguerite pulled on Jean’s arm as she saw her husband’s hated rival approaching. Jacques le Gris swept across the room and stopped directly in front of Jean. The two men faced off and stared at each other, while Marguerite held her breath. Everyone watched, unsure if the two men would come to blows. The story of their mutual hatred was apparently well known.

Several uncomfortable moments passed, as the two men stood face-to-face, like a pair of rams preparing to lunge forward. Then, most unexpectedly, Jacques smiled and extended his right hand, greeting his former friend, “De Carrouges.”

Jean grinned back, shook the larger man’s hand, and replied, “Le Gris.” Suddenly, it was as if years of ice had shattered and fallen away. The two men shook hands vigorously, then pulled each other into a bear hug, laughing jovially. Whatever anger they had felt before that day seemed to evaporate.

“Jacques,” Jean said as he turned to indicate his wife with a sweep of his hand, “May I introduce Marguerite, my wife.”

Shocked that her husband appeared to be so cheerful, Marguerite stepped closer and extended her hand. Jacques stared at her in a way that left her feeling exposed, then raised her hand and gently kissed it.

“I am enchanted, my lady,” Jacques said as he held onto her hand longer than was appropriate.

Before she could reply, Jean scolded her, “Marguerite, that is no way to greet my dear friend Jacques le Gris. Give him a kiss!”

Marguerite’s head snapped to her husband. Her face betrayed her emotions. She wondered how her husband could ask her to kiss the man who had caused him so much hardship and grief over the years? Jean nodded slightly. She knew her role and did as she was instructed, turning back to face Le Gris. Marguerite offered her cheek, but her husband interjected, “A proper kiss, woman!”

Blushing profusely, Marguerite faced Le Gris, who by now was suppressing a laugh. Being so much taller than her, he had to lean down quite a bit. Marguerite lifted up, onto her toes. She could smell him long before his lips touched hers. His was a strong and manly scent. She felt a slight shudder pass through her body when their lips finally brushed each other.

For a moment, Marguerite lost her focus, forgetting where she was and what she was doing. She froze, reveling in the soft feel of his lips and the warmth of his body, until Jacques stepped back, breaking contact. She opened her eyes only to see Le Gris wink at her.

For the next few hours, Jean and Marguerite were the stars of the party. Everyone wanted to meet the beautiful young wife of the heir to the Carrouge’s name. As this was the first time for Marguerite to be in a social setting, it was the first time for many of the people to make her acquaintance.

It seemed the Crespin family was tightly tied to the Carrouges line, with an alliance going back to the Viking days. Many of the attendees at the festivities were related to one or the other families. Apart from Jacques le Gris, no one else from the court at Argentan was present.

When the feast began, Jean escorted Marguerite to their seats next to Squire Crespin and his wife, Eleanore, who had finally made her own belated appearance. Eleanore was a large woman, who looked as if she might have stepped out of the pages of the old Norse sagas. She was as tall as Marguerite’s husband, and nearly as broad, with large breasts, wide hips, and long blonde hair, braided into a pony-tail that reached the backs of her thighs.

To Marguerite’s initial discomfort, she found Jacques le Gris seated to her right, squeezing her between her husband and him. Jean spent most of his conversation with Crespin, discussing the war with England and reminiscing over battles they had fought together. Marguerite ate in silence until she could stand it no longer.

Taking a sip of her wine, Marguerite turned toward Jacques and asked, “So, where is your wife, my lord? I don’t believe I’ve seen her with you.”

“Unfortunately, she was not well enough to make the trip here from our estate at Aunou-le Faucon,” Jacques explained. When he mentioned the name of the fertile lands that had once belonged to her father, she bristled.