by Anita Mills
5
God aid your sweet soul, Geoffrey, and grant you peace in His care. As you have died for naught, so must Brevise. I will not rest, my brother, until he is dead. I will do anything, everything to see you avenged, Geoff.
Gilliane knelt on the cold stone floor, her head bowed and covered with her dead mother’s sendal veil, and tried vainly to compose words for the repose of her brother’s soul. But no matter what came to mind, it was soon obscured by the bitter thoughts of revenge, thoughts that tumbled, crowding all piety out. She was consumed by the helpless realization that if Stephen became king—nay, when he became king—he would surely protect his liegeman. Aye, ’twould be a small fine at most that Brevise paid for her brother’s death. Mayhap Geoffrey and Richard of Rivaux were right—mayhap in Robert of Gloucester lay her greater hope of justice. And certainly she’d never sworn to the Empress.
She drew her cloak closer and tried again to pray over Geoff’s body. In the chill, damp duskiness of the chapel, there were but two of the precious wax candles flickering, one at each end of the wooden box, casting strange shadows on the embroidered satin de chine that draped the catafalque on which Geoffrey’s bier rested.
Her reverie broken by the sound of bootsteps on the stone, she hastily bent her head and signed the Cross to again compose her mind for prayer. Her heart thudded as he grew nearer. His walk was heavy, deliberate, the sound reverberating through the emptiness of the chapel, sending a chill racing down her spine. Powerful both physically and politically, he gave her a sense of unease, frightening and fascinating her at the same time. Even in the duskiness of the room, he cast a long shadow over her as he came to stand behind her. Her heart caught painfully for a moment while he hesitated, and then he dropped to his knees beside her and leaned to rest his elbows against the chapel rail.
Stealing a covert glance through the softness of the tissue sendal, she could see that he’d closed his eyes and that his lips were moving in his own prayers. Strangely drawn by the almost echoing silence now, she cocked her head to study him again. The profile was fine and even, with firm, straight chin, nearly hawkish nose, and a forehead almost concealed by black hair that although combed still hung like black fringe above his dark eyes. Gone were the mail and the other trappings of a warrior, replaced by a heavy velvet tunic girded with a thick gold chain, and where the wide sleeves feel away from masculine wrists, the gold embroidery on his silk undertunic gleamed, catching the candlelight. He must be immensely wealthy to wear such clothes, wealthier than nine-tenths of the lords in England, she suspected, for not even the old king had dressed so finely when he’d passed by Beaumaule hunting. The Black Hawk of Rivaux, they called his father, an appellation that seemed equally well-suited to the son. Aye, he was as handsome as she’d first thought him. What had be called his mother? The Cat? Son to the Cat and the Hawk—sweet Jesu, ’twas small wonder Richard of Rivaux was such a man.
An ice-covered branch brushed against the small window as the wind came up again. She shivered anew, this time from the cold, tried yet again to turn her mind back to her prayers, forcing herself to realize that they would bury Geoffrey beneath the floor on the morrow. This time, her eyes sought to commit her brother’s face to memory, and all thoughts of Rivaux left her mind as she considered the finality of the parting she faced. Deep melancholy descended, tightening the hollow ache in her breast. Slow tears trickled in rivulets down her cheeks and spotted her old cloak.
“ ’Tis difficult to pray when the heart is empty,” Richard of Rivaux murmured aloud beside her, revealing that he had been watching her also from beneath his lowered lids. “ ’Tis easier to ask why than to accept it.”
“Aye,” she sighed in agreement. “Geoffrey was blameless.” She looked up and her breath caught in her throat. Sweet Jesu, but mortal man ought not to look on one quite like that. The flecks seemed to have disappeared from his dark eyes, leaving them almost black, and the faint light played off the angles of his face, giving it a harsh strength. She averted her gaze, staring at the even pattern of the stones on the floor. “Aye,” she sighed. “There can be no reason why Brevise lives and my brother dies, can there?”
“I do not know—the will of God, perhaps, but I would doubt it. ’Twas blind fortune, more like.”
“ ’Tis blasphemy to say that,” she murmured.
“But ’tis something that you think also.”
It was the truth—she could not deny that. Instead, she traced the polished wood of the rail with a fingertip. “I know not what to think, if you would have the truth of it. Sometimes I believe the de Laceys are truly accursed, and other times I believe we will prevail—that somehow Aubery will grow strong and regain what we have lost.”
“Demoiselle . . .” He hesitated, his heart racing as hard as it had in his first calf-love, wondering if she would rail at him when he told her what he meant to do. “Demoiselle,” he began again, “I ask your pardon for the offense I offered you. ’Twas not my intent to insult so much as to protect.”
She felt as though her whole body had turned to stone, that all time stood still as she waited for what else he would say. Her fingers curled over the railing, holding it.
The girl gave him little encouragement. Sweet Mary, but he was not born to grovel before a woman. He sucked in his breath and tried again. “The storm has passed—I leave as soon as Geoffrey is interred on the morrow.” Rising to stand above her, he looked one more time at her brother’s bloodless face. And then he leaned to draw the sign of the Cross over him, intoning, “May God in His gentle mercy love and keep you forever and ever, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
When she looked up, he appeared to be a giant from where she knelt. Reluctantly her eyes traveled up the length of him to his seemingly impassive face. “Then I wish you Godspeed, my lord.”
“Nay, but I return here within the fortnight.” He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen in surprise. Apparently Simon of Woodstock had not yet told her of his plans. “My mind is decided, Demoiselle—you and your brother are under my protection. You will return to Normandy with me.”
“Sweet Mary—nay,” she gasped. The words escaped her involuntarily, and she had to swallow hard to hide the panic she felt. “But why?”
Ignoring the question, he continued, “Aye, I leave your Simon of Woodstock here to hold the place under my banner in my absence. I doubt even Brevise will be so bold as to challenge Rivaux, and when it is known I have taken the boy for ward, he has naught to gain in besieging the place.”
“But you cannot. You have not the right—” “I have every right!” he snapped, irritated at her consternation over his news. “I won Beaumaule this day, Lady Gilliane.”
“But Aubery—”
“I mean to hold it for him.”
“But why must we leave—why must I go?” she protested, her voice little more than a whisper. Her heart seemed to have quit beating, held in abeyance for his answer.
“Your walls are timber, your keep too small to provision—think you that you could hold it against the likes of Brevise?” he countered, not answering her question directly.
“Nay, but—”
“And if that gown you are wearing is your best, you have my leave to bring it. You’ll need naught else but your cloak. I’d buy you clothes more fitting your gentle birth, for I’d not have it said I mistreated you.”
As her blue eyes widened and she sought to comprehend that he meant to wrest her from the only home she’d ever known, he turned aside, genuflecting slightly before the altar, signing the Cross again, this time over his own breast. His back to her, he added with unwarranted harshness, “Nay—I’d not hear it. We are late to sup.”
She gaped after him, barely aware of the sound of his footsteps on the stone floor, and the blood drained momentarily from her face. Why would he do this? He’d asked her pardon for what he’d said earlier, but could she trust him? And even if she could, what made him think he had the right to de
clare himself Aubery’s guardian—or hers? Two spots of high color rose in her cheeks, fired by her rising temper. Heedless of where she was, she gathered the long skirt of her gown in clenched fingers and ran after him.
“Nay! I’d not go! I’d stay at Beaumaule with Simon!”
He’d emerged into the deserted, ice-glazed courtyard, striding so rapidly away from her that he was nearly across it before she caught up to him. They were alone, save for the sound of his heavy boots cracking the layer of ice and the rattle of the tree limbs.
“Wait!” she shouted furiously.
The wind ceased in that moment, and the whole yard was suddenly silent when he turned back to her. She shivered, sending a puff of frosty breath into the icy air. Pulling her cloak closer, wrapping her arms against her breasts, she faced him. His eyes seemed to rake her, and her arms tightened.
The gesture was not lost on him—it was one of defense—and for some reason it angered him that this girl would fight him. “Nay, I’d not harm you—you are safer with me than with Woodstock,” he offered curtly.
“You cannot force me to go with you, my lord. You are not my liege lord, and these are not your lands.” She tried to keep her voice from shaking despite her anger and the bitter cold. “I shall remain at Beaumaule with my people.”
“Do not be a fool!” he retorted. “Would you go the way of your brother? Would you fall into your enemies’ hands for your overweening pride? I can hold his patrimony for Aubery de Lacey—you cannot.”
“You cannot just come here and impose your will—surely. We are naught to you, my lord.” Her whole body now racked with shivers, she wished she’d caught him inside the hall itself instead of in the open yard. “Aye, and I’d not—” She stopped. She could not very well accuse him of base motives when he had but apologized, and besides, she had no wish to put such thoughts into words again. “Nay, but you have not the right,” she finished lamely.
Her cheeks were ruddy with the cold, and the wind had whipped her cloak and her veil back from her incongruously short hair, but there was something that brought him a grudging admiration of her, something beyond mere desire. His answering scowl softened as he stared down into her flushed face. “Do not be a fool, Demoiselle—I can protect you and your brother, whereas Woodstock cannot.”
“Sweet Mary, but will you not listen to me?” she demanded in exasperation. “I said I would not go with you! I am a gentle-born woman. You have not the right—”
A wry smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Aye, I will concede that you came more gently into this world than I did, Demoiselle, for you speak to one born on a muddy riverbank, received into Robert of Belesme’s bloody hands, and cut from my mother’s cord by his sword.”
“Holy Jesu!” she breathed, temporarily diverted. “And he let you live?”
The smile broadened. “As you can see, I am flesh and blood.”
“But from all I have heard, he was the devil come to life—I mean, he was . . .” She recoiled visibly at the thought of the hated name of Belesme.
“Aye, he was, from all I have heard also, but he breathed his own breath into me, and for that I cannot curse his memory, however cruel he may have been.” He watched her whole body shudder with revulsion. “But we tarry where ’tis cold, Demoiselle, and I have no mantle,” he added pointedly. “Come, I’d not die of lung fever.” He slipped his fingers beneath her elbow and guided her toward the hall.
She was acutely conscious of his hand, and even though his fingers were separated from her flesh by the layers of her clothing, she thought she could feel a warmth that could not be there. “Wait.” She hung back for a moment, resisting the pressure on her arm. “You would not dishonor me?”
The eyes that searched his face were intent, beseeching and seeking her answer. For a moment he was torn between truth and falsehood, for he could not deny he meant to have her. He stared at her upturned, wind-reddened face and then looked away to where the icy tree branches raked the small chapel walls.
“I’d do naught with you that you did not will—you have the word of Rivaux for that.”
“Then you’d let me stay here, my lord.”
“ ’Twas not what you asked just now, Demoiselle.” His jaw tightened perceptibly. “Do not be clever with me, Gilliane de Lacey, giving one question and taking the answer for another. I mean to take you to my keep at Celesin for your safety.”
There was no use arguing. Richard of Rivaux had the greater force and obviously he was accustomed to being obeyed in all things. Wordlessly she allowed him to draw her toward Beaumaule’s single stone tower. At the doorway, he stepped before her and pulled the heavy iron ring. As the door groaned open, a gust of warm air carried the intermingled smells of smoke, food, musty rushes, and oiled leather past her. And across the sooty, rush-strewn hall, Simon of Woodstock looked up, frowning.
Reluctantly handing her cloak to Alwina, Gilliane pulled her veil back over what was left of her hair and moved to take her place on the small dais that oversaw the room. Her gaze traveled over the blackened walls critically, making her all too aware of how mean Beaumaule’s hall must seem to a man like Rivaux. No doubt he was used to palaces and could not value her home at all. Look at him in all his finery, she told herself—his rich, deep red velvet tunic, with its wide sleeves bordered in costly vair, was worth more than Geoffrey’s armor, and the blue silk undertunic, embroidered with gold thread and winking jewels at his wrists, would have bought clothes for Beaumaule’s entire household for two years and more. Her eyes dropped to her own simple gown, and she felt as though she must appear to him as little more than a serving wench who would be treated as a lady.
It was as if he shared part of her thoughts, for he leaned from the seat beside her to murmur, “You will be pleased with Celesin, I think, Demoiselle—it lies well-situated above a pretty valley, and it has its own manor house within.” Reaching to trace the edge of the plain sleeve of her overgown, he added, “And there are few to compare with the seamstresses there, for they are skilled in all manner of embroidery. Once you are made new clothes, you’ll forget the harshness of your life here.”
“Forget my birthplace? Nay, never,” she retorted stiffly. “Beaumaule may be naught but a stinking pile to you, but we cannot everyone be born to wealth and power—what appears as poor to Rivaux is the reward given my great-grandsire for following the Old Conqueror into this land. Ere King Henry confiscated my brother’s fields, we were rich in crops, and this keep, ancient even in Saxon times, once commanded the old coastal roads.”
“Nay—have done, Gilliane. Art too quick to offense,” he protested, reaching to touch an errant strand of copper hair.
“You may have the means to force me from here, my lord,” she said harshly, turning away from his hand, “but Beaumaule is de Lacey land—and I will return to it.”
“I would you had not cut it,” he murmured, leaning closer, brushing the strand of hair back from her temple and tucking it beneath her veil. “Aye, I’ve never seen the like of the color.”
But she was not to be so easily diverted. Instead she pulled further away from him and stared fixedly to where Simon of Woodstock sat. “Had you been any other, you’d not dare to do this to us, but I suppose the great son of Rivaux does as it pleases him,” she observed woodenly.
He leaned back, but the flecks in his eyes were warm as he continued to gaze at her proud profile almost lazily, and then his mouth broke into a decidedly sensuous smile. “Always,” he murmured. “Aye—always.”
6
Richard brushed the melting snow from the hair that fell over his forehead and rubbed his hands together to warm them as he waited to be ushered into Henry of Blois’s presence. It had been a cold ride from Beaumaule, and the fire in the antechamber was a welcome one. He was tired, so much so that Everard had urged him to seek his bed first and speak with the bishop on the morrow, but frustrated with the delays of weather and Gilliane de Lacey, Richard had chosen to seek the late audien
ce. He paced restlessly, his eyes scanning the rich hangings that shut out the winter drafts and muffled the sound of the wind outside. Jesu, but the bishop’s palace at Winchester reflected the occupant’s love of luxury, Richard decided as he observed the exquisitely worked tapestries and the polished dark woods that lined the inner walls.
A sense of unease stole over him as his spurs clicked noisily, rhythmically against the hard stone floor. The good bishop was, after all, Stephen’s brother, and therefore possibly dangerous. Not that blood meant everything, he reminded himself, for Henry of Blois had been known to quarrel with both of his powerful brothers. And he shared blood with Count Theobald also, that brother the Norman barons were already prepared to approach with England’s crown. Nay, but if he could but persuade Henry to remain neutral, Richard considered it possible that he could sway the Curia Regis to support Gloucester. England and Normandy needed the earl, needed a strong and capable soldier rather than either the affable Stephen or the high-handed Empress —aye, that was the argument—there was none more capable, none more respected than the old king’s eldest bastard. As for Theobald, the danger from Anjou ought to be enough to keep him in his own lands. Aye, if only the good bishop could be made to see that … if only he could be brought to lend his support to Gloucester.
“This way, my lord.”
He spun around to see a page in Winchester’s colors waiting diffidently to escort him into the reception room. A cursory glance revealed the boy to be liveried in velvet and gold braid. Richard smiled to himself, thinking the churchman lived like a king in royal splendor. Aye, he could be bribed with gold if necessary.
He followed the boy, pausing in the doorway of the long chamber whilst the page announced importantly, “Richard of Rivaux, Lord of Celesin and Ancennes, warder of the royal keeps of Ramsey and Stanford.”
For a moment Richard’s palm sought the rounded pommel of his sword in a gesture he’d unconsciously learned from his father. Then, swinging his scabbard backward and out of his way, he stepped into the room. Owing to the lateness of the hour, the bishop was almost alone save for the page and a clerk, sitting in a chair before the fire. At the sound of Richard’s boots on the flagged floor, he rose and moved forward to extend his hand.