by Anita Mills
He held the door for her, waiting for her to pass, and then he shut it after her, turning again to his son. “You cannot have her, and well you know it.”
“Aye.”
“You can bring her naught but ill.”
“Aye.” Richard turned away to lean against the cold wall. “Think you I have not said such to myself?”
“Then you have not listened, have you? For you are scarce able to stand, and still you are after her like a rutting boar.”
“ ’Tis not like that at all!”
Guy crossed his arms and leaned back also. “Nay? Then how is it that you would take her? Had I not come upon you, what would you have done with her?”
“Nothing! I’d have done naught! Jesu, Papa! Do you not think I know I owe her more than that?”
“She’s a comely maid. If she had hair, she’d be a beauty. ’Tis a pity you contracted yourself to Lincoln’s daughter, isn’t it?”
“Leave me be!” Richard spun around, goaded. “Aye, ’tis what rankles you, is it not? Not whether I would have Gilliane de Lacey, but rather that I chose Cecily of Lincoln without your blessing!”
“Nay! But you did choose her, Richard, and you will have to live with that. Just last month I had another letter of Lincoln, reminding me that the girl is of an age to bed now.” He straightened up and walked closer. “If you burn, Richard, I’d say the time is now to wed her—before you harm an innocent maid.”
“Whether I burn or not is none of your affair!”
“It is when you bring Gilliane de Lacey to Rivaux. I’d protect the girl.”
“Think you I would not? She kept me alive … she held me on my horse … she warmed me—”
“Then what would you do with her?”
It was a question he’d asked himself a hundred times in the week, and it had but one honorable answer. He exhaled, forcing all the air from his lungs in capitulation. “What I would do, Papa,” he answered finally, “is dower her. Aye, that surprises you, does it not?” he asked bitterly. “And I’d have you seek a husband for her—someone strong enough to hold Beaumaule against Brevise for her, someone wealthy enough to rebuild her home.”
“How much dowry?”
“How much is my life worth?” Richard countered. “I have seven castles in England. I’d give one hundred marks and one of them—Ardwick, mayhap.”
“And I name the husband?”
“Aye—with her consent.”
It was a substantial offer, one that he did not have to make. Nodding, Guy reached out to his son. “I am sorry, Richard—truly I am.”
“Nay, save your sorrow for yourself.” Richard ducked beneath his father’s arm and pushed past him. “ ’Tis a heavy burden to always have the right of the matter, I’ll warrant.”
Guy stood alone for a long time, remembering the years of fear he’d had for his only son. It had been a long struggle to master the temper the boy had been born with, and an even harder one to suppress his own. They were much alike, Cat said, but it was not so. Nay, Guy had fought the demons of his blood that his son could live unafraid. A deep ache gnawed at his breastbone as he thought once again of William de Comminges, and he wished fervently that he were yet alive to guide him.
“You’d think he’d been born with hooves rather than toes,” he could hear William say. “ ’Tis the man who makes the blood rather than the blood that makes the man.” Aye, and any who learned the secret Guy of Rivaux himself bore would turn away in fear and loathing, despite what William had said.
Resolutely he pushed away from the wall to make the long walk to the chapel. Snow fell, blanketing the courtyard softly with its beauty as he crossed it. He stopped to brush the melting flakes from his black hair and composed what he would say to the girl inside. Although he had not met her before Dieppe, he instinctively liked her, not only because she’d saved his son but also because she had a courage and resourcefulness not unlike Cat’s. And her lack of a dowry did not bother him, for between what he’d inherited and stood yet to inherit, he was wealthy beyond belief. But his son was betrothed. No matter what passed between Richard and the little demoiselle, there could be but dishonor in the end.
Gilliane knelt before the flickering candles at the side of the altar and tried to pray yet again. The death and destruction at Beaumaule seemed far away, a part of a distant past, and her prayers for the souls of the brothers who’d left her had been said quickly, replaced by an earnest plea to God to deliver her from what she felt for Richard of Rivaux. The latter prayer died on her lips at the sound of footsteps at the back of the chapel. Her heart pounded with dread at what Count Guy would say to her, for she knew full well that he must think her little less than a harlot.
But he did not speak at first. Instead, he knelt beside her to pray also, and she was reminded of that first day she’d met his son. For a time there was naught but silence in the chapel, and then he rose, offering her his hand.
“ ’Tis Christmas,” he began suddenly. “Aye, this day we celebrate the birth of God and mayhap the birth of a new life for you, Demoiselle.”
“My lord—”
“Nay, hear me first. You have borne much lately, and I’d not overset you further, but there is that which must be said. I offer you this better life in the hope that you will take it.” He paused to look at her, to see if she were truly listening to him. “My son will dower you that you may wed, and I am prepared to seek a good husband for you.”
“Nay!”
Ignoring her outburst, he went on, “But if ’tis not your will to take a husband, then you are welcome to remain here as daughter to me and Cat so long as you would—unless, of course, ’tis the convent you desire.”
“I do not want a husband, my lord,” she whispered hollowly. “And I cannot stay here when I am nothing to you. Nay, but Lord Richard took me for ward, and I—”
“Gilliane, ’tis for you that I do this,” Guy told her gently. “I have seen how my son looks at you, and I’d not have you dishonored.”
She swallowed hard and looked away, shamed. “And ’tis what you think I want also.”
“He is not free to wed.”
“Did he ask you to speak with me?” She had to know.
“He acknowledges the truth of what I have said.”
“And thus I am given the choice but whether to go to a husband asked to take me, to a family who could not truly want me, or to the Church. Nay, my lord, but I’d return to Beaumaule.”
“ ’Tis not safe. Hearken to me, little Gilliane—a war comes, whether we will it or not, and—”
“And there’s none to care what happens to Gilliane de Lacey, my lord,” she finished for him. “Aye, I can accept that.”
“Demoiselle, you have but lost two brothers—mayhap I speak too soon.” He reached to lift her chin as Richard had done. “Think on what I have said—’tis all I ask.”
“Aye.”
For a moment his flecked eyes were more gold than green. “I would that he had not taken Lincoln’s daughter, Demoiselle,” he murmured, holding her with his gaze. “Cat and I do not offer lightly—Rivaux’s gates are open to you, whether ’tis now or later.”
He released her chin and turned to leave. “Pray on it, if you will, and take God’s guidance.”
She stared after him, unable to believe what he’d offered her. She could live at Rivaux, protected by a lord more legend than man, treated as a daughter in his house, and want for nothing. But she had not the right to be there—she had but done what had to be done. And she did not want to stay at Rivaux, she admitted to herself. She wanted to go with Lord Richard when he left. But to what end? She closed her eyes and tried to blot out the thought that came to mind: even if he were free to wed, she was too lowborn for his wife and too highborn for his leman.
15
Days passed quickly at Rivaux—the Christmas feasts, the New Year, Epiphany, and Candlemas. Gilliane plied her needle in solitude, shutting out the sounds of those aroun
d her, lost in her own melancholy thoughts. Despite the bustle of life in a great castle, despite the kindness of those around her, she still felt alone, isolated from both the past and the present, unwilling to dwell on what the future held for her.
She smoothed the soft wool of yet another new gown over her lap and studied the embroidered bright-colored band that decorated her wide sleeve. Aye, she had clothes now, pretty ones, but to what end? As Richard of Rivaux had mended, she’d seen less and less of him, catching but glances of him as he sat at the table above her during meals, watching him from a distance as he passed about his business. The rest of his time, as far as she could glean from Elizabeth, was spent in strengthening his shoulder, practicing with the squires, and biding his time until he could leave.
She wished fervently that he had never kissed her, for it had changed things between them greatly. It had made her dream of him constantly, a foolish maiden’s dream that could give her naught but pain. Even in the bed she shared with Elizabeth at night, she could not rid herself of thoughts of him, she could not help reliving the feel of his lips against hers, tossing and turning until his sister had complained. And while she chided herself for a fool, the memory of that one kiss nurtured a hopeless love for him.
It had come as a revelation, this love she bore him, brought about by the loss of his company at Rivaux. The less she saw of him, the more her thoughts dwelled on him. And when she was fortunate enough to cross his path, he was almost always surrounded by servants and men-at-arms, and she had not the chance to speak with him alone. It began to seem that even God conspired to keep her from his thoughts.
She laid aside the altar cloth she was working, and leaned to hug her knees. But last night had been different, she remembered, savoring the reliving of each glance. Last night, the countess had bidden her tall son to her solar, saying that if his wound had healed enough that he could wield sword and shield, then he could entertain them with his lute. And Gilliane had sat with the women of the household, listening at his feet. He was a good singer, one of those blessed not only with a good voice but also with a sense of story. He’d sung the old song about his grandsire Roger de Brione vanquishing Robert of Belesme in single combat. And if Catherine of the Condes thought it strange that he sang of her father rather than of his own, she gave no sign of it.
They were a strange family, Gilliane reflected, for apart it appeared that the father loved his son and the son loved his father, but together … well, neither spared the other. It was perhaps that they were too alike, Count Guy and Richard, both of whom quarreled over the smallest things. It was as though Guy of Rivaux despised any sign of his own temper in his son.
Even last night there had been an encounter of sorts over Richard’s choice of song, with the count snapping that he’d very much rather hear of something else—that Robert of Belesme had been dead twenty-three years, and ’twas time to let tales of him die. But Richard had persisted, and Elizabeth had murmured low for Gilliane’s ears alone, “Alas, but my brother cannot understand that my father hated Count Robert so. To Richard, ’tis enough that the devil’s spawn gave him breath.”
“Aye—I heard the tale,” Gilliane hissed back. “But do you not think that the greater he makes Belesme, the greater his father’s feat?”
“Mayhap.” The older girl shrugged and turned her attention back to the song. “But Papa likes not to be reminded of him.”
But when Richard reached the place in the song where he described his grandmother, Eleanor of Nantes, singing, “Her beauty was as the sparkling sky, her eyes like shining stars, and her lips as red as roses,” Gilliane became aware that he was watching her. And she had shivered with excitement at the expression in his dark eyes.
She laid aside her embroidery and rose, stretching her muscles. It was so foolish of her to indulge in such hopeless fancies, she chided herself. What she’d seen was but the mirror of his song. Aye, ’twas no more than that, for when he’d risen to seek his bed, he’d passed her, brushing against her, stopping but to ask her pardon. But he’d sung to her, she was certain of it, another part of her mind argued—’twas not fancy.
Jesu, but she was beginning to lose her good sense. Resolutely she picked up her cloth and began to stitch again. ‘Twas that she refined too much on kisses that meant far more to her than to him, she told herself severely, bending closer to examine the intricate pattern she made.
“ ’Tis beautiful, Gilly,” Isabella breathed. “Wherever did you learn to do that? Maman has paid dearly for work not so fine as yours, I swear to you.”
“Well, when there’s naught to do but sew, one becomes skilled, I suppose,” Gilliane answered, grateful to be drawn to safer thoughts.
“Aye, our poor efforts look as though we had not but thumbs on our hands,” Elizabeth agreed readily. “Not even Maman can do what you can with a needle. If I thought it possible, I’d ask to learn of you.”
“Nay, with your beauty, you’ve no need of sewing skill,” Gilliane answered.
Elizabeth stopped mid-stitch and lifted her brow much as her brother was wont to do. “Nay, Gilly, ’tis not beauty that holds a man in thrall—I can attest to that. Nor housewifely skills either,” she added judiciously.
Her curiosity aroused, Gilliane longed to ask of Elizabeth’s husband. Having once been mistress of a great keep, surely the girl could not like being but a daughter in her mother’s house. But Richard had said she had no wish to remarry—she who had dowry enough for ten husbands. Sometimes it was difficult to see God’s justice in such matters.
“Can you work the new French style?” Bella asked.
Gilliane shook her head, no longer truly attending. Even as the girl spoke to her, she could hear his voice at the other end of the solar, and she was instantly alert. Every fiber of her being strained to hear as he addressed his mother. Drawn by his presence, she tried to watch covertly from where she sat. He stood straight, no longer favoring his shoulder, and he was magnificent in a red samite tunic that gleamed as the light caught the golden embroidery across his chest.
“So soon?” She heard the consternation in Catherine of the Condes’ voice, and her own chest tightened painfully. “Nay, but you are not healed—’tis but a month, my son.”
“Last night you told me I was well,” he teased.
“But singing is different from riding mailed and armed,” Catherine retorted. “Richard, you are but come home—nay, I’d not have you leave yet.”
The awful knot in Gilliane’s stomach nearly made her sick. She stared across the length of the solar, willing him to look at her. Nay, but he could not leave her.
“And Gilliane?” Cat demanded. “What of her? Richard, I’d have her here, if it pleases you that she should stay.”
“Aye. I’d provide for her—I have already spoken to my sire in the matter.”
There was a trace of bitterness in his voice that was not lost on his mother. “My son—”
“Nay,” he cut her short. “Spare me the telling of how ’tis he loves me. Just let it be said that once again I do his bidding in this.”
“Well, she seems content here,” Catherine countered, “and we are glad enough to have her.”
Nay! Nay! A thousand times nay! Gilliane wanted to cry out, to tell them she had no wish to stay. Instead, she sat still as stone, unable to move. He was in truth leaving her without so much as a backward glance.
“I mean to seek out Gloucester,” he continued. “It has been over a month since Stephen’s crowning, and I’ve still not heard what he’d do in the matter. Papa says we are summoned to Easter court for our oaths of fealty, and I’d not go if Gloucester means to fight.”
“He keeps his own counsel,” Cat sighed. “Guy does not think he has decided.”
“Aye—Stephen’s treachery caught him unaware.”
Gilliane glanced about her wildly, her heart thudding in her chest. Content at Rivaux? Sweet Mary, but she would not stay, a pauper amongst them, no matter how great the
ir kindness. She bit off her thread, bending her head low so that neither Elizabeth nor Isabella would see her pain.
“When will you ride?”
“On the morrow.”
“Does Guy know?”
“Aye.”
“And gives his blessing to your going to Gloucester?”
Richard ran his fingers through his hair in the distracted manner Gilliane had come to recognize. She willed her heart to silence, that she might hear.
“Nay—when has he ever? He would have me rot at Celesin whilst he makes up his own mind what he would do.”
“He is decided. Surely you who are his son cannot think he would break his oath to the Empress? He means to fight for her, Richard, and does but wait for her to move.”
“I accept he swore to her, but I did not.”
“He thinks Robert of Gloucester will follow her also,” Cat told him quietly. “He also swore, as you recall.”
He had no answer for her. Already his wound had delayed him far too long, and it was time that he discovered whether Gloucester would be king. If not, then he was for his own lands, and the others could fight it out between them. There was but one whose rule could benefit him.
“I suppose you have heard that Lincoln comes to press Guy to declare for Stephen?”
“Aye.”
“And for your marriage also.”
For some reason, any mention of his impending marriage to the Maid of Lincoln made him uneasy now. “I’d not wed in troubled times, Maman,” he said evasively, looking away. “What if Papa declares for the Empress and Lincoln for Stephen? Nay, but I’d have a bond of blood with them both and would have to choose between them.”
“It has been six years—the girl is fifteen, I think. There will come a time soon when you can delay no longer and maintain your faith in the matter.”
“Aye—but not now.”
Catherine appeared to consider her words carefully, knowing she trod on dangerous ground. On the one hand, it had been Richard who had first asked for the marriage, had contracted himself almost without Guy’s grudging consent; and on the other, she knew that Guy still opposed the alliance on the grounds that no matter how wealthy the Earl of Lincoln, he was still a faithless fool. But he would see that Richard honored his pledge to the girl, even if he had to shame him into doing it. There was no middle ground with Guy of Rivaux—a man’s given word was his honor. He owed that to Belesme, she supposed, for he was determined to be as different from him as night to day.