by Anita Mills
“Seek his blessing, my son,” she urged finally, still torn by his leaving. “I’d not have you go angered with him.”
“Nay—’tis he who is always angered with me.”
“He loves you.”
“He loves his blood—not me,” he retorted. Then, seeing the troubled expression on Cat’s face, he relented. “Nay, Maman, but I’d not quarrel with you. I know you cannot help loving him.”
He had the wrong of it, she knew, and yet she was powerless to make peace between the two men she loved most. She rose and stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss against her son’s face. “Sweet Mary, but I will worry about you, Richard,” she whispered. “When will you leave?”
“On the morrow.”
Gilliane felt chilled in the depth of her bones. He would leave her on the morrow without so much as another thought. He’d think her safe and count that he had done honorably by her. Jesu, but he could not go—he must not. She closed her eyes and gripped the edge of her bench.
“You are my most precious son,” Catherine whispered through her own aching throat.
“Nay, I am your only son.” He strove for a lightness, a teasing that he did not feel. Parting from his mother was always painful, made doubly so because he knew how he tested her loyalty to his father. “Come, let us not weep over this, Maman. If Gloucester needs me not, I swear I will come again before St. John’s Day in June.”
“Aye.” With an effort, Cat drew back and managed to smile up at him. “Nay, if you must go, I’d bless you and wish you Godspeed.”
Her own heart sore, her stomach sick, Gilliane silently laid aside the embroidery and slipped out to wait for him. When Isabella thought to follow her, Elizabeth put out a slippered foot to stop her. “Nay,” she murmured, “ ’tis no concern of yours.”
Lying in wait for him, Gilliane practiced in her mind what she would say to him, but when he did emerge, words deserted her. He stopped abruptly when he saw her.
“You heard?”
“Aye.” Her mouth had gone suddenly parched, too dry for speech.
“Gilliane—” he began gently.
“Nay! I’d not stay—I’d not! Sweet Mary, but I am not a horse to be stabled just anywhere!” The words, when they came, where nothing like the conciliatory plea she’d planned. Instead, they tumbled out. “Did you think not to bid me farewell even? Am I as naught to you?”
“ ’Tis not as you think. I—”
“ ’Twas not I who made myself your ward, my lord—nay, I protested it! But you swore to protect me, to … to take revenge against Brevise! To rebuild Beaumaule! Have you forgotten your Fine words so soon, my lord? When I held you on your horse, when I warmed you in that ship’s hold, when I found aid for you—’twas not for this!” She choked, unable to find the means to convey her hurt to him.
“Gilliane—”
“Nay! I did not care for you that I may be left among strangers!” Tears welled in her blue eyes, blinding them. She blinked and brushed angrily at the wetness on her cheeks.
It was a gesture far more moving than the tears themselves. He’d not meant to hurt her—quite the opposite, in fact. He’d meant to save her from himself, from what he would make of her. But as he stared into her upturned face, he felt totally helpless.
“You swore to me!” she reminded him. “You swore on Belesme’s sword!” He ought to turn away, he ought to be harsh for her sake, but he could not. He reached his hand to lift an errant lock that fell over her face and brushed it back with his fingertips. Even the feel of the coppery silk that was her hair burned him. There was not a night that he had not imagined it spilling onto a pillow beside him.
“Gilliane,” he began again softly, “ ’tis because I swore to keep you safe that I would not take you with me. You are a maid. ’Twill be said … Jesu!” The quivering of her chin and the welling tears were making it impossible for him.
“Please, my lord, I pray you—”
She got no further. His arms slid around her, pulling her close, and she leaned into him, smelling the clean scent of Hawise’s harsh soap. “Gilly, ’tis impossible,” he whispered into the crown of her hair. “I have other … There is that which I must do.” She was so near he could feel the swell of her firm breasts pressed against his body, and his resolve almost deserted him. For a moment he allowed himself the forbidden pleasure of rubbing his cheek against her shining hair, savoring the warm, sweet scent of roses that lingered there. He could feel the suppressed sob that shuddered through her. His hand came up to smooth the silken mass, stroking it where it lay against the back of her head.
“Were it not for Lincoln’s daughter …” he murmured, daring to voice what was in his heart. But his voice trailed off before he betrayed both of them to his desire for her. Cicely of Lincoln was in truth his betrothed wife, and he would have to honor his pledge to marry her.
“Aye?” she whispered, holding her breath for his answer.
Abruptly he thrust her from him and looked away. “I have to take her, Gilliane—there is no choice for me.”
“But I—”
“And I’d not make you into a whore for me.”
“Richard, I pray you … you said I could go to Celesin with you, and—”
“Jesu! You cannot ease this for me, can you?” he asked. “You would tear at me for what I cannot help, Gilliane! Leave me be ere we regret this!” He turned his back to her as though he meant to leave. “You are far safer in my father’s care than mine, Demoiselle.”
“I’ll not wed any paid to take me!” she blurted out.
“That is between you and my father.”
She had not the means to stop him. She’d appealed, nearly baring her heart, and he’d denied her. She stood like stone while he walked away, and then she fled to the empty chamber she shared with Elizabeth, too mortified to cry even. Flinging herself to lie on the bedcovers, she stared unseeing at the richly embroidered canopy overhead. She’d made a fool of herself in his eyes.
“Gilly?”
It was Elizabeth, come after her, something that Gilliane did not think she could bear. “What?” she responded sullenly.
“Ah, Gilly … Gilly,” Elizabeth clucked soothingly, sitting beside her on the bed. “You love him, do you not?” she asked softly. When the younger girl did not answer, she reached to pat her. “Well, if it means aught to you, I think he loves you also.”
“ ’Tis impossible,” Gilliane whispered hollowly.
“Nay, naught’s impossible whilst you live and breathe—or so my father has told me.” Leaning closer, she smoothed the copper hair back from Gilliane’s face. “If I share no man’s bed, Gilly, ’tis because there’s none I would have, but if there were, I’d let naught stand in my way.”
“What if you could not in honor have him?” Gilliane managed to ask, turning on her side to face her.
“Well, I was once wed to a handsome man, one whose wealth was matched by his face, one who appeared to be all my father could want for me,” Elizabeth recalled bitterly. “And he was naught that we thought of him. I was glad enough that he died.”
“And yet—”
“He loved neither man nor woman, Gilly—’twas himself that he admired beyond all. Look at me—I am not a plain woman, and yet he turned from me from the beginning.”
“Nay, but he could not—you are beautiful,” Gilliane protested loyally.
“Aye, but it gained me naught. For Five years I was wed to him without the comfort of his love or his babe.” The green eyes met Gilliane’s squarely. “My husband was as different from my brother as night unto day.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“That you will know that happiness does not always come in the marriage bed. It comes, I think, from loving the man himself.”
“But he weds Cicely of Lincoln!”
“Because he must, Gilly, but that’s naught to you.”
Gilliane stared at the beautiful girl beside her, scarce able to believe
what she’d heard. Was Elizabeth seriously suggesting she become Richard of Rivaux’s leman? As if the other girl knew her mind, she nodded.
“Given the choice between a husband I could not love and a love I could not wed, I’d take the latter, I swear to you.”
“But your family would condemn you.”
Elizabeth appeared to consider for a moment, and her green eyes grew distant with thought. “Aye, but ’tis not they who lived with my husband, was it? They would mayhap condemn me, but they would love me still.”
“He leaves me here.”
“Aye. Now, there is your problem—you can scarce win him if he is gone and you are here.” Elizabeth rose and smoothed her sleek black braids against her breasts, straightening the ornate gold bands that bound them until they hung even with the jeweled pendant she wore. “But however you decide, Gilliane, I am for you in this.”
Gilliane lay for a long time after Richard’s sister left, her confused thoughts tumbling despite her best efforts to sort them out. It was easy for Elizabeth of Rivaux to speak thus—she was the pampered daughter of a great house. Gilliane, on the other hand, was a nobody. Aye, if the beautiful Elizabeth sinned with a man, Guy of Rivaux would see them wed to cover his honor, but there was none to stand for Gilliane de Lacey. Besides, she had not the means to stop Richard from leaving her. She could scarce throw herself at his feet and offer to lie with him, could she? Her humiliation would know no bounds if he refused her even that. And neither could she stay at Rivaux forever—she’d not hang on Count Guy’s charity. After much thinking, she concluded that her only answer was to leave Rivaux. But for where? Beaumaule had burned to the ground, and she had no claim to anything else. Mayhap she would have to throw herself on the mercy of an abbess. With that unhappy thought, she dragged herself from the bed and returned to work.
Inside the solar, Gilliane again took up her seat beneath the window and looked out into the courtyard. As she watched, Richard emerged from the armorer’s shed carrying a practice lance. He’d exchanged his fancy tunic for a plain woolen one that hung only to his knees. Behind him, Walter of Thibeaux bore his heavy leather cuir bouilli, and still another man held the quilted felt gambeson. The cold February air whitened with their breaths. For a moment she wished he might somehow fall—and then hastily begged God’s forgiveness for the thought. A bruise would not keep him there, and she’d not have him hurt.
Catherine of the Condes looked to where Gilliane sat intently watching out the tall, narrow window. The girl’s profile, outlined by the winter sunlight, betrayed her anguish, and Catherine’s heart went out to her. If only Richard had not chosen the maid of Lincoln, she sighed. But he had. She pulled herself up by a cabinet edge, and several of her women hastened forward, anxious to do her bidding.
“Nay, I’d speak with the Demoiselle only.”
At first Gilliane did not hear her come up, but Catherine’s hand on her shoulder made her start guiltily. She flushed, afraid her thoughts were betrayed on her face.
“Nay, do not rise, child,” Catherine told her. Looking past Gilliane into the yard below, she saw her son slip the gambeson and stiffened leather on. Turning back to the girl, she shook her head. “I thank God that I am not a man—I’d not live in my saddle, weighted down with all that.”
“I was always sorry that I was not a son,” Gilliane admitted, smiling grudgingly. “Aye, I thought my brothers had the better life.”
“My father was wont to say that he baked in summer, froze in winter, and had naught but salt meat and cold bread to eat when he rode to war.”
“Earl Roger?”
“Aye.” Catherine plumped a cushion and sat down beside Gilliane. “But we are women and care not about war, I think, unless ’tis our men who fight.” She reached for the altar cloth on the girl’s lap and lifted it to the light. “ ’Tis as fine work as I have ever seen, Demoiselle—you have uncommon skill.”
“Nay, ’tis but that I have practiced.”
“So have I, and yet I dare not offer anything of mine to Christ’s altar. What say you—if I would purchase for you a goodly piece of cloth for a new gown, would you embroider new hangings for my bed?”
“There is no need—I should be pleased to work it without the cloth for me.”
“Nay.” Cat’s eyes twinkled, pleased that she’d found something to divert the girl’s attention from her son. “You will earn the gown, I promise you. Your stitches are nearly as fine as the French orfrois that we prize so highly.”
“I had once thought to learn it, but there was none to teach me.”
“Mayhap Master Ollo will know of one who can instruct us,” Catherine offered. “He is supposed to come today, and I am told he carries some pieces worked in the French style. Aye, I should like to see it done also, and ’twill give us the excuse of examining all his wares.”
Gilliane sat, to all appearances listening to the countess, but her mind raced ahead. If there were indeed a cloth merchant coming who dealt in fabric worked with gold and silver, then mayhap he would have need of one skilled with a needle. An impossible scheme formed in her head and grew. She would leave Rivaux, freeing all of them from any obligation to her.
“What say you, Demoiselle—would you see what he has?”
“Oh, aye.” A pang of momentary guilt stabbed at her, but Gilliane was certain that once she was gone, they’d be relieved not to have to provide for her.
16
Gilliane paused to suck on her sore fingertips, wondering if they would ever become callused enough that they would not hurt from pushing the needle through the stiff silk. Master Ollo praised her work, saying she showed great promise, but she wondered if she would ever truly learn the small, intricate stitches that made orfrois so highly prized. She lifted the end of the piece she worked to examine it and sighed. While it was far above that done in any castle solar, it could not compete in trade with the sample Master Ollo had provided her.
Master Ollo. The old merchant had taken an instant liking to her at Rivaux when she’d questioned him about his cloth, praising this one and that until the others had left. Then she’d shown her own needlework, producing the fine altar cloth she’d made, and he’d admired it. She was but a freewoman of Caen, she’d told him, and she wished to learn the French art, but she had not the means to reach Flanders on her own. Aye, and he’d believed her—believed even that her hair had been shorn during a fever, believed that the countess would not wish her to go because of her skill. And together they had plotted her escape. She’d left Rivaux beneath the noses of Count Guy’s sentries, disguised as a boy, riding in the back of the cloth wagon.
She rose and stretched aching shoulder muscles, flexing her spine to ease it. Looking out into the yard from the tall casement window, she could see the length of the merchant’s great warehouse, and she could smell the sorting house, where workers in wooden shoes sorted, washed, and beat the raw wool before it was dried and carded. The scent of oil used to smooth it seeped through a crack in the casement, reminding her of a different oil, the kind used on mail, and a terrible longing gnawed at her heart.
She’d never again arm a man to fight, nor wait for him to come home to her. Nor would she bear her lord’s babes and tend his castle. Already she felt as one of those sere, dried old women who, maidens still, sat in drafty corners and did naught but spin and sew. But it was not her lot to be a wife, she reminded herself, for she would not wed the sort who would wed with her. Nay, she’d not have an errant, nearly landless knight, who’d use her, get an endless number of children of her, and drag her from keep to keep. She paused, remembering Beaumaule. She did, after all, possess Beaumaule. A self-derisive snort escaped her. Beaumaule was naught but rubble now.
Nearly overwhelmed by her self-pity, she turned her attention again to the long building that abutted the merchant’s fine house, and wondered at the lot of those who labored as warpers, spoolers, weavers, fullers, and tenters. They worked hard to weave, shrink, and stretch woolen
cloth that was prized throughout Christendom. A teasel-boy passed the window, carrying the brush he used to raise the nap to a fine sheen. Nay, but she had the easier task, she told herself resolutely. She would always work in the warmth and comfort of the house, and she could admire the fine silks the others never touched.
Seating herself again, she lifted the bright blue sendal and pulled the needle from the seam where she’d stuck it. This piece was for Master Ollo himself, he’d told her, and it needn’t be so fine as that she’d work for the lords who patronized him. She pulled the gold thread through the stiff silk and thought of Richard of Rivaux. He had many rich garments embroidered in gold, and he probably never gave a thought to the nameless women who’d stitched the intricate designs that blazoned across his chest. It was a lowering reflection, one better forgotten. He was far away—in Caen, or Rouen, or wherever it was that he sought Gloucester—whilst she was now in Flanders. And she wondered what he’d thought when they discovered her missing. Nay, but he’d probably already forgotten her—his fine words and his kisses were most likely but a pleasant dalliance to him.
She tightened the last stitch and knotted the fine thread, breaking off the remainder with her teeth. Aye, if the truth were admitted, he probably considered himself well rid of her, for she would not but be an encumbrance to him. ’Twas why he’d sought to leave her at Rivaux with his family. The familiar pang of guilt assailed her at the thought of them—she’d not so much as left a word of thanks for all they’d given her.
“Alys?”
For a moment the address meant nothing to her, and then she remembered she’d even lied to Master Ollo about that also. “Aye?”