Hearts of Fire

by Anita Mills

  “I am Richard of Rivaux,” he admitted when he found his voice. “How are you called, Demoiselle?” he asked finally.

  “I am Gilliane de Lacey, my lord.”

  “Sister to Geoffrey?”

  “Aye.”

  She dared to raise her head above the hem of his mantle, where a piece of boiled onion still clung to the streaked and spotted cloth. “I … I will make you another cloak with mine own hands, my lord. You find us in disarray, unable to offer you the hospitality your rank commands, but—”

  “Geoffrey is dead then?” It seemed impossible that the boy he’d remembered could have been murdered. “Sweet Jesu, but why did you not tell me earlier? Why did you not tell me in the kitchen?”

  “I knew not who you were!” she snapped with asperity, remembering her earlier humiliation—and then she recalled whom she addressed. “ ’Twas but yesterday that he died. I pray you will forgive me, but I—” The cold and the day’s horrors were taking a toll on her nose, forcing her to sniff deeply since she had no rag. “Well, I can scarce believe him g-gone.”

  Her voice broke, effectively rendering even the last vestiges of his anger impotent, and he felt a surge of sympathy for her. Reaching a gentler hand to lift her by her elbow, he pulled her up to stand before him. “The sorrow is mine also, Demoiselle. Indeed, I’d not tarry but for the storm.”

  “Oh, nay—you must not think me inhospitable, my lord,” she hastened to reassure him. “If you would share what there is, you are most welcome to stay until the weather clears. ’Tis just that—”

  “I’d leave you gold to pay.”

  “Nay, I’d not take it. Geoff would not wish it.”

  Richard eyed her curiously now, much struck by her stubborn pride. And then he noted the already purpling bruise that darkened her cheek. “I am heartily sorry for this, Demoiselle.”

  “Aye.” She felt suddenly shy and self-conscious before this man she’d only heard about from Geoffrey, this son of Guy of Rivaux. “The fault was mine also, my lord.” And as she looked once again at his ruined mantle, she hung her head and murmured, “Alas, I regret that there will be no stew to sup.”

  4

  The Beaumaule man worked patiently to start the fire in the brazier that was supposed to heat the lord’s bedchamber, while Richard gazed down through the gap between the shutters of the small window in Beaumaule’s single square tower. Still helmeted and in his full mail, he watched the smoke from the kitchen ovens waft horizontally against the pelting sleet and disappear eventually into the overall grayness of the air, and he wished he’d stayed in the warmth of the kitchen. It would be a while—if indeed ever—before the small chamber he’d been offered warmed. As it was, it was still so cold that he could see his breath before him in the room.

  When he turned back, the fellow who’d toiled with the fire had managed to blow and coax the hot coals from the scullery into a small flame that licked valiantly at the broken tinder sticks. The bark on the logs above them sizzled and popped. As he looked around the sparsely furnished chamber that had belonged to Geoffrey de Lacey, he could not help contrasting it to that of his parents at Rivaux or even to his own chamber at Celesin. A pang of homesickness assailed him as he remembered the warmth and the luxury of what he’d left.

  But he could not stay at Rivaux—he was too much his parents’ son. He shared the tempers of the fiery Cat and Guy of Rivaux. Was it any wonder that he could not sit idly by, living the life of a rich young lord waiting for his father to die? The familiar guilt washed over him, the guilt of a man who was son to a strong and powerful sire. For twenty-three years he’d heard again and again how ’twas Guy of Rivaux who’d brought the infamous Belesme to justice, how he’d fought in Wales, how he’d wed Roger de Brione’s daughter to become one of the richest, most powerful men in all of Normandy. Aye, and therein lay the strife between them—Guy would extend his power over his only son, bending him to his own will or breaking him.

  Not that he himself was not equally stubborn. From the first day he’d been fostered with Robert of Gloucester, that long-ago day when he’d arrived as an eight-year-old boy at Robert’s castle at Bristol, he’d been determined to make his own way, to gain royal favor on his own, to create his own wealth and power in England. So he had turned eagerly to the earl, the most powerful tenant-in-chief in the realm, learning the art of war while earning Gloucester’s affection and approval. And to that end, he had been rather successful, for had he not enlisted the earl’s aid in gaining his father’s reluctant approval of Cicely of Lincoln for wife? Had he not forced the betrothal to the heiress? And if he were successful on Gloucester’s behalf at Winchester, would he not have the new king’s ear and his favor? King Robert— aye he liked the sound of it even. Nay, someday the bards would sing of Richard of Rivaux even as they sang of Guy now.

  “My lord—” Gilliane de Lacey cleared the last step and stopped. “Oh. I did not think that you would still be armed . . . that is, I thought you’d be . . .” Her voice trailed off uncertainly as she noted the helm and mail.

  He turned and saw her. “You thought to find me undressed, Demoiselle?” His eyes raked her, remembering what he’d seen in the kitchen, and he felt a surge of desire for her. To stall, to keep her there, he favored her with a smile. “And I thought you’d mislike me since—”

  “Not once I discovered you were not Brevise.” She held out the folded garments she carried. “I thought mayhap you needed a clean tunic, and Geoffrey had some warm woolen ones. But,” she added quickly, suddenly afraid that she should have sent Alwina in her stead, “I can see they will not fit. I had not noted it earlier, but you are bigger than he was.”

  “By several stone.”

  Nonplussed by the presence of such a great lord, she stared at the rush mat on the floor, mumbling lamely, “If you will give over your cloak, I will see if I can remove the soil—when you are warmed, of course. You may send it down with Algar.”

  “I thought ’twas your promise to make me another.”

  Her eyes widened warily for a moment as she wondered if he ridiculed her, and then she contemplated the task. “Well, and I will, my lord, but ’twill take weeks to obtain the cloth even. Alas, we have naught so fine here.”

  “ ’Tis of no matter—I can get another in London.”

  “Oh, no! That is, ’twas I who ruined it, after all,” she admitted honestly. “And ’tis the least I can attempt for amends.” Moving closer now to study the ruined garment, she noted the richness of it and shook her head. “But I cannot obtain the vair, my lord—’twill have to be rabbit.”

  She was so solemn, this girl who faced him offering her humble substitute for what she’d damaged. He took in the plainness of her bright blue woolen gown, its simple lines devoid of the gaudy embroidery and trim that one expected of a girl of noble birth, and he felt an unexpected surge of sympathy for her. As a de Lacey, she deserved better and probably had no hope of getting it. Glancing down at the jeweled embroidery that outlined the black hawk of Rivaux across the front of his tunic and then back to her face, he matched her soberness. “Nay—spend your gold on yourself.”

  She’d followed his gaze from her gown to his chest and she mistook his meaning. For a moment her temper flared and her eyes flashed. “I assure your lordship that you need not be ashamed of my work! I am thought to sew a fine hand! And . . . and even if you do not want it, ’tis my honor that makes me replace the cloak! Until then, you may wear Geoffrey’s! I am not so poor that I . . . that I—”

  “Lady Gilliane, I did not accuse you of poverty,” he interrupted. “You mistake the matter. I fostered with your brother in Gloucester’s household. Indeed, if there is aught that you need—”

  “Beaumaule supplies our needs,” she snapped, and then collecting herself, realized how she must sound. “Your pardon, my lord—’tis my accursed tongue.”

  “I would that you learned to curb it better ere you are beaten for it.” He moved closer, and for a mom
ent she feared he meant to strike her, but then his expression softened somewhat as a faint smile played on his lips. “Nay—I’d cry peace with you.”

  There was something in his dark, flecked eyes that made her uneasy—as though she had more to fear from the warmth than from the coldness there. “Nay, but you cannot understand,” she whispered hollowly. Clasping her hands together before her, she turned to the window. For a time, she stared, not seeing the ice-glazed grass or the rough cobblestones in the courtyard. “Nay, you cannot understand, Richard of Rivaux.” Her voice low with suppressed emotion, she added bitterly, “You cannot know what it is to lose all you have come to love. My brother lies dead in the chapel, his wounds so terrible that even his death mask cries out for vengeance, dead by the hand of William of Brevise, killed by greed over this small, hilly piece of land, simply because it stands in the midst of Brevise’s estates.” Her shoulders shook slightly before she managed to compose herself. “And Geoffrey’s heir is but a minor, a boy of but eleven years, a boy lacking in both the temperament and the ability of fight for what is his. Jesu, but I would that I were a man!” she finished forcefully.

  “Aubery will be taken under wardship until he is able to rule Beaumaule,” he murmured, coming up behind her.

  A harsh, derisive laugh escaped her. “And who names his guardian? Stephen of Blois? My brother’s murderer is Stephen’s man! Nay, willy or nilly, William of Brevise will have Beaumaule, my lord, and my last brother will perish in his care.” Her back still to him, she supported herself against the wooden window casing. “Once we were eight—three daughters and five sons born to two wives of my father. Hugh was the eldest—he died of a fever when I was yet small. Humphrey fell fighting for his king in Wales, and Esmond drowned crossing a flooded ford—I think ’twas that that killed my father—but no matter,” she digressed with a sigh. “My sister Ela died birthing her lord’s babe when she was but fourteen, and Alys lives in Provence with a husband who values her not. So now there are but Aubery and myself left to care about Beaumaule. Truly we have offended God, my lord, but I know not how.”

  “Nay.” The rush of desire he’d felt earlier faded as he tried to discover some words of comfort. “God does not punish men like Geoffrey, Lady Gilliane,” he said quietly.

  “Then why? Why must my brother fall and a man like Brevise live?” Her voice rose and broke.

  “I know not. My sisters and I all live, and I cannot say we are any more pious than another—less, more like.” A helpless silence descended between them, hanging like a curtain wefted of the warm, smoky air that now emanated from the brazier, spreading through the chilly chamber before wending upward to the small chimney hole. Out of the corner of his eye Richard could see that the Beaumaule man had departed. Walking to stretch his hands toward the fire, he motioned to her, speaking finally. “Come warm yourself, Demoiselle, and speak with me whilst I divest myself.” Unclasping his soiled cloak at last, he flung it into a pile in the corner.

  “I thought great lords had body servants for that.”

  She mastered her sniffles, ashamed suddenly that he must think her weak. Trying to show him a calm that she did not feel, she wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand and turned around, managing a small, twisted smile. “You must think me a poor chatelaine, my lord, when I can but weep and complain. If you would sit before the fire, I would take your helm.”

  But he’d already loosened the helmet, working it upward with an effort until it came off to reveal the mailed coif beneath. She hastened to take it from him, setting it down on a table nearby. Always fascinated with the trappings of war, she turned to watch him work the hooks at his neck.

  “I could aid you—I have watched Geoffrey divested of his armor,” she offered, despite the awkwardness that had sprung between them with her tears.

  “Aye, and my fingers are so cold they are clumsy.”

  “Sit you down then, that I may reach you.” Even as she spoke, she moved closer, and he dropped his tall frame to one of the two crude benches drawn before the fire. Looking at the broadness of his shoulders, she could see he was a big man, one whose size was not much augmented by the heavy garments he wore. Leaning over his shoulder, she deftly unhooked the seven hooks that fitted the metal coif to his neck. He reached to push it back from his head until it came loose, revealing the padded leather cap that cushioned blows. With a quick upward motion from his hands, that too gave way, exposing thick, glossy black hair beneath. He leaned back, craning his neck to look at her, and her breath caught in her chest with the realization of his extraordinary handsomeness. Stunned, she could only stare—she’d not expected such wealth and looks in the same man. He was possessed of the most arresting face she’d ever seen. Despite the deep lines imprinted by his coif along the edges of his face and by the nasal over his cheeks, he was truly beautiful. Of all Geoffrey had ever said of Richard of Rivaux, he’d failed to tell that. The eyes that met hers now, no longer shadowed by the helmet nasal, were a rich brown, warmed strangely by faint flecks of gold that deepened as they radiated from the pupils until they disappeared in an almost black ring at the edge of the irises.

  “God’s blood, but your stare disconcerts me, Demoiselle,” he muttered, looking away.

  Startled to her senses, she colored as the blood diffused hotly through her cheeks and her pulse pounded in her temples. She stepped around to face him and waited for him to raise his arms, which he did without prompting. She hesitated, embarrassed by her own foolishness and self-conscious at the thought of undressing her first stranger, but then she reminded herself that true chatelaines even bathed their guests. Pretending she’d done it dozens of times, she grasped the edge of his embroidered surcoat and pulled it upward. It caught briefly under his chin and then came over his head, ruffling the black hair. He reached up to smooth the thick, straight fringe back from his face, while she folded the richly embroidered garment before her and laid it aside.

  The flickering yellows and reds of the popping fire reflected in the gleaming steel links of his mail shirt. Unlike Geoffrey’s, it was new and unmended. But then, she supposed that if one were heir to Rivaux, Harlowe, and numerous lesser possessions, one could buy anything, even the best armor. In all of her nineteen years, she could not remember ever being in the presence of any as rich or powerful as he.

  “Start at the neck,” he advised, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his mailed thighs.

  She considered leaning over to reach him and realized that his head would be thrust into her breasts. “Nay. You will have to sit up, else I cannot do it,” she murmured, her face flaming anew at the thought.

  At that moment, he looked forward, directly into the rounded mounds beneath her simple gown, and desire coursed through him, warming his blood, reminding him how long it had been since he’d had a woman. As her hands touched him again, he looked up at her through a veil of dark lashes half-lowered to conceal his thoughts. She was taller and fairer skinned than his mother and sisters, and her hair, which must have been glorious before it was cut, now hung at her neck, brushing at her shoulders like a peasant boy’s. It was bright like polished copper, a rich hue that brought out the deep, clear blue of her eyes. And while he would not go so far as to think her a true beauty, there was something infinitely pleasing about her. Again his thoughts strayed to how she’d looked when the wrapped tunic had parted. And then, reminding himself that she was more than a castle wench, he straightened his back. “Oh, aye,” he managed through suddenly dry lips. Silently, his rational mind shamed him for the thoughts that had sprung unbidden to quicken his blood, and he forced himself to remember Geoffrey. Only a true lecher would seek to lie with a girl whose brother had just died.

  Her fingers were cold, nearly as cold as his own, where they brushed against the plane of his cheek, seeking the fastenings of the mail shirt, but they heated his blood where they touched him. There was a hesitation, a tentativeness that made him wonder if he were the first man she’d ever undressed. “A
rt betrothed?” he asked curiously, revealing he’d been thinking of her.

  “Nay.”

  “ ’Tis a pity you are not.”

  Her fingers stilled and her body stiffened in front of him. While she had often reflected in much the same vein, going so far as to dream of a strong, handsome husband sometimes, she had no wish for this stranger’s pity in the matter. “My brother let me refuse a match, my lord—he did not wish to marry me where I would not.”

  “Art dowered?”

  “Nay.” She unhooked one of the fastenings before adding defensively, “The crops were poor these three years past, and there was no money. King Henry took much of our land when he said my sister Ela was wed without his consent.”

  “And yet your sisters wed, Demoiselle,” he persisted. “How is it that the younger girls were given husbands first? I’d think ’twas the eldest who should have whatever dowry there is.”

  To him, it was perhaps pleasant discourse, or mayhap but idle curiosity, but he’d touched on something painful to her. Keeping her voice even and toneless, she unworked another hook as she answered, “Mayhap they were comelier than I—or mayhap my brother liked his comfort and was not inclined that I should wed.”

  “There is nothing uncomely about you.”

  His words, spoken low, sent a rush of warmth through her whole body, threatening her already shaky composure. “My lord of Rivaux, I have no wish to speak of this,” she retorted, hiding her pleasure that he found her appearance pleasing. “If you would have me divest you, you will not ask of my marriage or lack of it.”

  “Your pardon, Demoiselle. I did not mean to pain you,” he apologized hastily. “ ’Twas but curiosity that prompted me to ask.”