A Certain Madness

Kasey

kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Adhemar thinks on his latest course of action.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them at all.

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What sort of madness has seized me in unyielding grasp? To ask for Christiana Devereaux in certainly a sign of some exotic illness, for the girl brings nothing to me save some barren lands and her own slender form. My family does not profit from her; indeed she is but one step above middle class peasant.

I watch her as we ride for my home to meet my family. She speaks mostly only when spoken to and on the rare occasion when words fall voluntarily from her lips, her eyes are lowered. That display of womanly obedience is an irritant to me after the bold women that travel to watch the Tournament. I find I want to see her velvet brown gaze, see whatever emotion she is attempting to hide.

And she is hiding something I am certain.

But what? What could this tiny slip of a girl have to hide from me? I have my suspicions. Jocelyn was not the only one overly familiar with peasants. I know from my sources that Christiana spent much time in the company of one man. All it takes is a single stolen moment to pluck the desirable fruit of womanhood. Did he do so? Did she lay her slender form down upon stable straw and let him have the gift of her virtue? Perhaps I am of evil mind, but I do not trust the ability of a maiden to keep herself from an eager swain when she is in the throes of passion's call. Too many women have come willing to me with only token protest for me to believe that the peasant man did not take her.

A tic takes my left eye, as often happens when I am vexed, and I turn my gaze from her. Blast all, why did I look to her? Why did I choose her? I should be searching Court for a suitable woman to wife, yet here I am scraping at a past best forgotten and wallowing in it. My vow to move on is dust beneath my mount's hooves. I pick at the remembrance of that final joust, a wound that bleeds anew when the scab is torn away, and I wallow in that humiliation.

Christiana's presence rips that scab clear. I do bleed and feel phantom twinges of blistering pain from flesh wounds that have only just healed.

I cannot deny her beauty. In all truth, she rivals Jocelyn for title of fairest. As for her wifely qualifications, I have been assured she can do the job. Old Hugh was chortling in his ale over his cleverness in having Jocelyn's family hire and train her at their expense. The cheap fool seems to think I would be impressed by his common maneuvering. And it is common. I am certain he will soon hint that I should replenish his family coffers. He is mistaken in thinking I will do so. Christiana is his no longer. I have paid for her. A strip of land I have always hated but is near his home was price enough. That land is already worth far more than the paltry bit he gave with Christiana. Let him sell it if he needs money.

I snort at that. Christiana glances at me, quickly lowering her gaze from mine. Anger rises within me, anger that she will not look directly at me. I swallow it, clenching my teeth until the urge to grab her chin and force it up passes. She will see courtesy from me I vow, despite my suspicions. Then, I give her a bland smile. "Do you require rest, Christiana?"

"No, my Lord," is her quick reply, her head shaking in negative. "I am content to travel as long as you are."

Some things I cannot help. Rolling my eyes is one of them, but of course the girl sees none of it as her eyes are firmly trained on the path ahead. "And if I am content to ride straight through, will you remain content?"

She pauses before answering, her mouth opening and gaze rising about bush height. She is likely thinking on the days it will take before we come to my home and the hardship such a journey would be in the end. "All day?"

"And night."

Her head turns ever so slightly my way and she nods. "I shall be content."

A laugh, which I disguise as a grunt, escapes me. The little liar! I long to break her of being so agreeable. "You would not be content. No woman would be content, and neither would many men, to race at such speed without pause. Do not lie to me because you think I want blind obedience from you."

There is the question though, and one I need to examine more fully in the privacy of my tent. What do I want from her? A silent woman is a good thing, but at times a woman need not remain so. Do I want her to speak out? Do I want her silent? I am unsure of which I desire most from her. Do I want to hear a woman's uneducated opinions on matters she has no business poking her delicate nose into?

"I do not mean to displease, my Lord."

"Well, you do displease."

"I beg forgiveness for doing so."

She is biting her lip, teeth dragging along it. Her knuckles are white she is clenching the reigns so hard. A reaction. An honest reaction and not that wimpy show of acquiescence. Something akin to satisfaction rolls through me, cooling my anger, releasing the knots in my shoulders. I can get to her. She will try to hide it, but I can break her down. Eventually. "Forgiven." I will be Master over her.

"Thank you, my Lord."

We ride in relative silence for awhile. In gradual degrees, a perverse desire takes hold of me. I desire to hear my christened name issued by her husky voice. I am curious as to how it will sound. Not Adhemar, but my name, the one my mother insisted upon and my father hated. She has yet to use it since I collected her from Thatcher's rag-tag band, and the phrase 'my Lord' is fast becoming tiresome. "My name, Christiana. Tell me my name. I would hear it from you."

She looks away, then back, beautiful eyes touching upon mine for a brief second, "Etienne," before taking flight. Her lips are curved. Does she feel she has won some small skirmish by that request of my name from her?

Perhaps she has won at that. I am tone deaf by nature, blind to the music that most love. I cannot hear the flowing, lilting cadences that most find so pleasing. It comes to my ears as a jumbled din, a noise that has no purpose save to annoy. I have no pleasure in that wretched noise, but my name from her throat has the sound of an angel choir to my ears, sweet and pure, a music that I can finally hear. A shiver trickles along my spine, from a breeze of course, a reaction of cold air to sweat soaked linen....

The leaves are still. There is no breeze.

We ride on.