by Anita Mills
“I would see that which you have done.” He spoke kindly enough, reaching to take the cloth from her lap and holding it to the window light. “Aye, ’tis good,” he approved.
But he did not move away. Instead, he studied her soberly, assessing her almost as he had the cloth. She kept her eyes demurely averted, fixing her gaze on his knee. He cleared his throat as though he would have her attention.
“Alys, I know it has been scarce a fortnight …” His voice trailed off while he waited for her to look up at him. “Aye, but I have watched you these days past, and there is a pleasing gentility about you not often found in townswomen. You have skill with your needle, but you also show promise in other things. I have seen you direct the others, offering advice to lessen waste.”
She looked up briefly to see warmth in his eyes, and she wondered where his words led him. She did not have long to wait. He laid aside the cloth and moved closer to touch the crown of her hair.
“My wife departed this earth two summers past, Alys, and there’s been none since.”
She sat very still, afraid to hear the rest, certain he meant to ask her to his bed. And if he did, she would have to leave his employ.
But he stroked her hair awkwardly, murmuring, “ ’Tis such pretty hair you have, Alys—I have never seen the like. ’Tis a pity that it had to be cut for your illness.”
She felt another stab of guilt for lying to him about so much. “It will grow,” she mumbled, embarrassed.
“Alys …” Again he hesitated, and then he dropped to the bench beside her, reaching to possess her hands, turning them over in his own. Irrationally, she noted that the veins stood out like blue cords on his wrists, and that the dark spots on his skin showed his age. “I am not a young man,” he added almost as if he knew her thoughts. “But I am wealthy, child, and you would want for naught. As wife to a merchant, you would have some standing beyond free-woman.”
Holy Jesu, but he was asking her to wed. She looked up then, taking in the thin hair he combed over the top to hide his baldness, the sunken dark eyes that watched her, and his stooped shoulders. The thought that he could not live long flew to mind and was dismissed. He was kind, but he was not Richard. She groped in her heart for the means to refuse him.
“Nay, I cannot. ’Tis an honor you offer me, but—”
They were interrupted by the loud clatter of armed men riding into the small yard in front of the house. The old man whitened, his sallow complexion making his eyes black, and he dropped her hands quickly. “Hide the piece, good maid, that they rob me not of it. I know not why they are come, but I can hear the sound of mail and spurs.”
Gilliane quickly folded the rich cloth she’d been stitching and sought the means to hide it. Moving to a box bench beside the door, she opened it and hastily thrust the sendal beneath the lid. She could hear Master Ollo plead with someone that he’d done naught to cause offense.
“Nay,” she heard a familiar voice answer him. “I have but come for the girl you took from Rivaux.”
“She is a freewoman, good sir,” the merchant protested feebly.
Gilliane crouched low before the box bench and hoped he would not see her. Her heart was in her throat, beating wildly as she heard his heavy boots cross the wooden floor. His mantle brushed over her as he lifted his hand above her, and she felt his strong grip beneath her arm, raising her roughly. For a moment, she thought he meant to shake her as she looked up in horror at the eyes that glittered beneath the shadow of the helmet nasal.
“You have your wish, Gilliane de Lacey—you are going to Celesin with me.”
There was such cold anger in the tone of his voice that it frightened her. “You have not the right to come for me! Nay, but I …” Her protest, begun strongly, ended feebly.
He did shake her then, so hard that she felt her bones would rattle within her skin. “I take the right,” he answered curtly, his grip painful on her shoulder.
“But she is a freewoman,” Master Ollo tried again, this time more timidly. “She is Alys, a freewoman of Caen.”
“She is Gilliane de Lacey, mistress of Beaumaule,” Richard snapped, still holding her. “She ran away from my father’s keep.” The gold flecks in his eyes spread out from the black pupils as he continued to stare at her. “ ’Twas poor payment for my parents’ kindness to you.”
“They pitied me!”
“Nay—they liked you right well.”
“I would not stay there!”
He released her and dropped his hand. “Aye.” He nodded grimly, his eyes still cold on her face. “You wished to go to Celesin, did you not? Well, you behold before you one who leaves his duty to come for you, Gilliane de Lacey. I pray you do not regret the choice you have made.”
“I chose to come here!”
His gaze raked the room almost contemptuously before settling again on her. “Nay, but I can offer you better than this,” he told her harshly. “You will not have to sit and sew in my keep.”
Despite all of her girl’s dreams of him, the man before her was neither kind nor gentle. She bit her lip to still the shiver that his coldness gave her. “I am to wed Master Ollo,” she announced baldly.
“Nay. For good or ill, you are tied to me—’tis I who will kill Brevise for you.”
The merchant looked from one to the other and then looked away. He’d not lived fifty years and more by tempting the tempers of great lords. “If you say she is yours, take her,” he offered to conciliate the towering knight before him.
“Do you come willing or not?” Richard demanded of her.
“Nay.” Sweet Mary, but she could not go with him like that.
She had not the time to back away. His jaw tightened visibly and the gold faded completely from his eyes. In one swift move his mailed arm snaked out, encircling her roughly and lifting her over his good shoulder. She cried out as the steel links cut into her flesh, but he ignored her, carrying her like she was but a sack of grain past the bemused stares of Master Ollo’s embroiderers and into the crowded yard. Without a word, he flung her over his saddle and prepared to mount behind her.
“Wait.” She licked her lips at the expression on his face. “Please, my lord—I would ride.”
“In my haste, I brought no other horse. Aye, Gilliane de Lacey, I have searched full half of Normandy for you, sitting my saddle until my legs pain me, freezing these two weeks past—and all the while you were warm in Flanders.”
“I did not ask you for the service,” she retorted. “You refused what I asked.”
“My wound chafes beneath the weight of my mail, my backside is saddle-sore, and my goodwill is gone,” he continued, swinging his tall frame up behind her. “But I give you your wish and pray you do not rue the day you made it. Now, be still and make me room.” Almost by afterthought, he wrapped the cloak she’d made him around them both, drawing her closer, pressing her against the steel links that were like ice beneath his crimson surcoat.
“You have the cloak,” she observed foolishly. “Where is Alwina?”
“They came to Rivaux the day I left it—I sent her on to Celesin to await you there.”
The arms that she’d dreamed of held her prisoner now, surrounding her as he grasped the reins. She tried to crane her neck, to look up into his stranger’s face, but all she saw were his chin and the helmet. “But what of Gloucester?” she asked.
“I know not,” he answered tersely. “I sent to him, but I have been sitting my horse in search of you, and I have not heard.”
“I will go back to Rivaux,” she sighed. “I’d not keep you from your duty to him.”
“Nay.” His arm tightened around her. “We go to Celesin together.”
“You punish me for not wishing to stay at Rivaux!” she cried out, goaded by his harshness.
“Punish you?” he snorted derisively. “I do but give you what you ask.”
“I never asked for your anger!”
“Nay? Then how is it that we awo
ke to find you gone, gone without so much as a word to my lady mother, who showed great kindness to you—or to my sister Elizabeth, who had a care for you? Or my father even? He would have kept you as a daughter in his house, finding you a husband, Gilliane de Lacey. But nay—you stole away in the night, leaving all of us to worry that you were cold, or hungry, or mayhap dead.”
“I am sorry for the trouble I caused them,” she managed low, shamed by the truth of his words.
“Aye, and you have a hard three days’ ride to Celesin to regret what you have done.”
She shivered, as much from his coldness as from the weather, and pulled the fur-lined mantle closer over her chest. His heavy gauntlet held the reins tight beneath her breast, scarce giving her room to breathe. A sideways glance at Everard of Meulan yielded nothing—his face was as set as his lord’s.
They rode until she was numb and her lower limbs ceased aching. Her whole body cried out from its fatigue before the man who held her reined in at last. Thinking they stopped for the night, she looked around and saw nothing. He threw the reins to Garth and dismounted, reaching up to her almost as soon as his feet were planted on the ground. She slid down into his arms and found she could not stand at first. Clutching at his arms for balance, she leaned into him. He steadied her and gestured to Everard.
“Walk her about until I relieve myself.”
The captain slid an arm beneath hers and steadied her. “Can you step, or are your limbs too stiff?”
“They pain me,” she muttered through clenched teeth as she tried to walk.
“Aye, as do mine, Demoiselle.”
Inexplicable angry tears scalded her eyes, threatening to humiliate her further. “He has not the right! He has not the right to treat me so!”
The captain stopped. “Nay, I’d not tempt his temper further, lady. He quarrels with Count Guy over you.”
“I did not ask him to!”
“You fled.” He spat on the ground in disgust. “Aye, and kept all of us in our saddles this fortnight past.”
“I’d go back to Beaumaule.”
“Nay, but he’ll not give you the choice now.”
Richard returned to stand before her. “If you have the need to relieve yourself also, there are those trees for privacy, Gilliane. Otherwise, we’ll ride on.”
“Ride on? Holy Jesu, but …” She gaped in consternation. “I thought …”
“That we would eat and rest?” he gibed. “Nay, but I’d have you see how it has been for me these two weeks past. Garth, cut her a piece of the meat and some bread ere she mounts.”
She looked around her in mute appeal to the men who stood about, and she was surprised by their hostility. These were the same men who’d ridden with them from Beaumaule. Garth fumbled in the food bag, drawing forth a chunk of hard cheese. She started to protest that she’d rather starve, and then thought better of it. Given the way they looked at her, they just might let her. Instead, she took it and began to gnaw at it, hoping that the meat was better.
“Put your foot in my hand,” Richard ordered her as he walked to stand beside the big black horse.
Still clutching the cheese, she moved closer, muttering, “You have the devil’s own temper, if you would but admit it.”
“Admit it? Aye, I have it of my sire.” He cupped his hands to boost her up, and smiled faintly. “And you tempt it sorely.”
17
Her bones still aching from the three-day ride, her skin chafing from the rubbing of his rough mail through her gown, Gilliane welcomed the sight of Celesin. The man behind her eased off his helmet and set it over the pommel before her, speaking finally.
“Behold that which you wanted to see so badly.”
For some reason, he was still angry with her—indeed, he’d been angry the whole journey, scarce speaking to her, keeping his own counsel, ignoring her despite the fact that he held her against his body. And her stung pride would not allow her to beg his attention. Instead, she’d ridden before him as stiff and silent as he.
“You are displeased? Do you wish you’d not fled Rivaux?” he gibed at her back.
It was an ancient keep, one whose old walls intermingled with the new, giving the stones different hues of yellow and gray. But it was now large and well-secured, sitting perched atop solid rock and overlooking a bend in a river. Above it flew the red flag of Rivaux—with an exception. The black hawk did not swoop, but rather sat like a bird waiting in its aerie.
He nodded. “Aye—’tis the lot of firstborn sons to wait, ready to fall upon the carrion when their sires die.”
“ ’Tis an evil thought.”
“There is evil in us all, Gilliane.” His knee directed the horse they rode up the narrow path. “But it pleases me that you have found your tongue. I’d thought you’d gone dumb these three days past.”
“And I thought you merely ill-tempered.” She tried to turn against him, looking up at his shadowed face, trying to read his expression. What she could see was unfathomable, but she gambled anyway. “Aye, but there was a time I thought you kind.”
She could feel him tense at her back, and then he shrugged, “There is kindness also, but kindness gained me naught. I sought to protect you, Demoiselle, and you fled.”
“Sweet Mary!” she exploded, having had enough of his coldness. “Protect me? You sought to leave me amongst strangers who did not want me!”
“Hold your tongue,” he ordered sternly. “I’d not have you carp before my men. If you’ve aught to say on the matter, you may say it when we are alone.”
“Nay! I’ll not hold my tongue!” She tried to twist her body again, but his arm across her ribs was like a vise. “Jesu, but it is as though Richard of Rivaux is two men! First you come to Beaumaule and threaten me, then you return to save me, and now you would threaten me again. Nay, but there is no sense to be made of you!” This time, he eased his arm, and she was again able to look up at him.
“I recall a few things also, Gilliane.” His dark eyes met hers, challenging her, bright beneath the shadow of his nasal. “Aye, I remember all that has befallen me since I met you. There are those who would count us more than even.”
“Then why did you come for me?”
He did not want to tell her that she’d become almost an obsession with him, that she had such power over him that he’d forgotten Gloucester when he’d discovered her gone from Rivaux. Aye, he’d struggled within himself, torn between desire and honor, between desire and duty, and desire had won.
She waited, disappointed that he did not answer. The horse picked its way up the rocky road, swaying her tired body. She bit back a dozen questions rather than ask anything of him again. The man who held her was not the man of her girlish dreams, and she was suddenly afraid of what her pleas at Rivaux had gained her. She felt him flex his left arm, transferring his reins to the right, and she was intensely conscious of his strength. And then she felt him wince as he drew her back.
“Your shoulder—does it pain you still?” she asked involuntarily.
“Aye, but it mends.” To demonstrate, he lifted the arm again. “ ’Tis tender, but it drains no more, and the scar fills it in. If I have aught to be thankful for, ’tis that ’twas only flesh that the arrow took.”
“You should not have come for me.”
“Seventeen days I have spent in my saddle for you, Gilliane, seventeen days in cold and pain—nay, if you’d not wanted me to come, you’d not have fled.”
“I’d not have stayed at Rivaux as naught but a pensioner to your family.”
“If you tell me that you would wed the old burgher, I’ll know you for a liar.”
“Nay.”
He glanced down to where the hood of her cloak fell back beneath his own, and he could see the bright crown of her head against his breast. “I think ’tis your hair that draws me,” he decided dispassionately. “When first I saw it, ’twas like none other of my memory. I remember picking it out of the brazier and wondering at it.
”
“My hair? Sweet Jesu, but you have plagued me for my hair?” she demanded incredulously. “I have never heard the like of that. You must be daft. ’Twas not your shoulder that the arrow took—’twas your wits.”
“It made me decide that I favored red-haired women.”
It was the first time since they’d left Master Ollo’s house that he’d said anything pleasing to her, but his meaning was not lost on her. For three days she’d argued within herself as to why he had come for her, first saying that ’twas anger, then that it offended his honor for her to flee his protection, and finally that he came to take her for leman. She’d be a fool, she knew, but somehow it gratified her that it was the latter.
“Even in the darkness of the ship, I could see it,” he went on. “It caught and held what there was of the light. And when I awoke among the monks, ’twas the first thing mine eyes could see.”
“Now I know you mock me,” she managed despite the thudding of her heart, “for there’s scarce any of it left.”
“Nay?” He raised his heavy glove at her crown and tugged. “Then what is this?”
“But it will not plait.”
“I can wait for it to grow.”
The fire burned brightly in the large brazier in the center of the room, heating it. Gilliane leaned back in the huge oaken tub, sliding down further than the small seat on the side, letting her tired, aching body luxuriate in the warm water. A thin film of scented oil from the East floated on the top, making a swirling pattern with the soap. Two women scrubbed her body, relieving her of even the trouble of lifting her arms unaided, something she’d never experienced before, while Alwina waited, her arms crossed in disapproval.
“Would you have your hair washed, Demoiselle?” the woman called Neste asked politely.
It was an inviting thought, but she was too sleepy to wait for it to dry. “Nay, ’twas clean the day I left Douai.”
“ ’Twas a pity to cut it.”
She dodged her head beneath the woman’s hand and twisted away. Sweet Mary, but she tired of hearing of her loss. “ ’Twas most necessary at the time,” she muttered ungraciously.