So Near Yet So Far
For a brief moment during the bizarre first meeting of the betrothed couple, Blythe’s hopes rose—she was going back to England—until Heinrich magnanimously permitted Matilda to travel with her ladies-in-waiting.
Even that concession proved unreliable. Six were sent packing, but Blythe was among the four deemed sufficient by Heinrich and personally chosen by the princess to accompany her to Utrecht. Blythe respected the elderly Lady Dorothea. Anthea de Drummois and Philippa Teale were the same age as Blythe, but they were fast friends who’d made it clear from the outset they believed anyone who hailed from Northumbria must be of peasant stock.
She should have felt honored but, when the princess was summoned to board her carriage in the convoy, three days traveling across Friesland loomed like an endless torment.
Sir Montague bade Matilda farewell, anger contorting his already wrinkled features. Heinrich’s mandate had rendered it impossible for the proud man to fulfill the mission entrusted to him by King Henry. Jaw clenched, he growled an apology for having failed to see the princess safely delivered to the betrothal ceremony.
Surprisingly, tears welled in Matilda’s eyes as she watched the elderly gentleman leave her apartment.
When Blythe emerged from the Palais in Matilda's wake a short time later, her spirits lifted. The ducal escort stood to attention on the steps, her Knight-in-Black in the front rank. She thought he smiled and nodded, but surely he hadn’t remembered her.
Bishop Otbert introduced Matilda to the Saxon duke who would lead the escort. Blythe paid little attention, hoping the Black Knight would also be presented. She held her breath when he stepped forward.
“Count Dieter von Wolfenberg, Your Majesty,” the duke declared in terrible Norman French.
Dieter, his name was Dieter—but he was a count, a rank far above Blythe’s lowly station as the daughter of an English knight.
Such musings were foolish, but her heart lurched when the duke massacred her language once again with a question. “May we know the names of your ladies, Your Majesty?”
When Matilda gave leave, Lady Dorothea took it upon herself to present each of the Englishwomen in turn to the duke and the count.
Bowing, the Saxons brushed a respectful kiss on the knuckles of each lady.
Blythe bobbed a curtsey when her name was the last to be called, thrown off balance by the wave of heat flooding her body when the Black Knight’s lips touched her skin.
“Lady Blythe FitzRam,” he whispered in perfect Norman French, smiling the same enigmatic smile. “I trust you will not find the journey too tedious.”
She couldn’t drag her eyes away from his intense blue gaze. “Thank you, Count Dieter,” she murmured.
Lady Dorothea’s loud cough and tight-lipped glare jolted her back to reality. She anticipated a scolding later. Not only had she actually spoken to the Saxon count, she’d used his given name.
Elated there would be at least one friendly face among the throngs of haughty foreigners, she didn’t care if the others censured her behavior. She hurriedly assisted Matilda into the carriage and took her place by her mistress’ side.
Lady Dorothea told them Utrecht was one hundred and fifty miles away. It wasn’t a great distance, but the large convoy of carriages, wagons and soldiers moved at a snail’s pace. Heinrich called a halt in every village and hamlet in order to receive the homage of local dignitaries, but not once did he allow them even a glimpse of his future bride.
Matilda wept or slept for almost the entire first day, then sulked on the second. It was easy to lose patience, but Blythe recognized the fear and uncertainty in the little girl’s eyes and took pity.
She dozed as the miles crawled by, taking consolation in knowing Count Dieter rode beside the cramped carriage.
The convoy stopped when it was necessary to see to personal needs, and for meals. Each time, the Saxon count extended a firm hand to assist the princess and her ladies from the carriage. Throwing caution to the winds, Blythe returned his teasing smile, taking solace in the strength of his warm skin.
When they camped at night, the count quickly organized the erection of the royal pavilion in such a short time, even Matilda seemed impressed.
Heinrich did not invite the princess to his pavilion for the evening meal, nor did he make any effort to speak to her throughout the journey. Lying awake after her mistress had gone to sleep, Blythe was amused by the notion she and Dieter von Wolfenberg had more of a relationship than Heinrich and his future bride.
Longing for the journey to be over, she nevertheless lamented the looming loss of the Saxon count’s presence. The knowledge he slept in a pavilion a few feet away was comforting.
She fell asleep thinking comforting wasn’t quite the right word. Exhilarating was more like it.
* * *
Dieter was powerless to resist flirting with Lady Blythe FitzRam. Certain the duke had noticed his preoccupation, he chided himself that he was too old for such youthful nonsense, but the lady’s smile made the journey less onerous.
He struggled to keep the disgust off his face every evening when he and Lothair were summoned to dine with King Heinrich, who clearly wasn’t interested in becoming acquainted with his bride-to-be. He mentioned only once his intention for her to be crowned in Mainz after his own coronation as emperor.
He droned on about plans to subdue the troublesome Saxon nobles who were fomenting rebellion against his rule. He was clearly oblivious to the fact Dieter and Lothair were Saxons and that they were involved in the simmering revolts. Indeed, Lothair had helped finance many of them.
There was no opportunity later to discuss Heinrich’s haughty behavior—too many ears to overhear—but Dieter had a feeling his duke would eventually request he travel south to aid the rebellion. He was eager to do his duty.
He hoped to stay with the cavalcade when it moved on to Mainz, but eventually he’d have to leave. The prospect saddened him. Lady Blythe and the princess she served had been sentenced to a life among foreigners who, thus far, had shown them little warmth. His body heated, interest stirring in his loins when he thought of warming Blythe FitzRam.
It was ridiculous. Not only was she too young, there was little chance of their meeting again in the future. It was rumored Matilda had forbidden her ladies to wed, a travesty in his opinion. Blythe was a woman born to bring a man pleasure. But he’d sworn off marriage, so the whole fantasy was moot. Nevertheless, he lay awake long after the camp fell quiet, pondering ways to contrive a meeting alone with the Englishwoman who lay asleep in a pavilion a few feet from his own.