by Anita Mills
“You do not think me wanton?”
“I do not. I think you a woman with the appetites God gave you. It pleases me that you would lie willingly with me.”
It was wrong of her to tear at him for what he could not give her, and she knew it. When she’d asked to come to Celesin, she’d known what it meant—she’d made her choice then. He stepped back and dropped the cloth into a basin. “But …” His flecked brown eyes met hers again, and this time there was a glint of rueful humor in them. “ ’Twas not for this I sought your company anyway.” Reaching for her undershift where she’d dropped it, he straightened and handed it to her. “Alas, ’tis easier to speak when you are covered.”
She took the garment and shrugged it over her head, settling it over her hips. Then she turned to watch him dress, waiting for him to tell her why he’d come. His black hair was damp and rumpled from his earlier passion, and his back was red where she’d scratched it, but she was again struck by the thought there could be no handsomer man—not in Normandy, not anywhere. He sat on a low bench and crossed his garters over his chausses, smoothing them, his head bent down to the task.
“Gloucester comes.”
Sudden fear gnawed at her insides, holding her breath in abeyance. In the month since she’d been at Celesin, they had been away from the rest of the world, away from the politics and threats of war. She willed herself to hide her fear.
“I but had his message this morning,” he continued. He leaned back, his shoulders against the wall, and watched her carefully. “I do not know what he means to do, but he’d have me go to England with him, Gilly.”
“Nay!” she cried out involuntarily, and then tried to calm the rising panic she felt. “Why? Why must you go?” she asked in a calmer voice, turning away.
“Gilly … Gilly …” He heaved himself up from the bench and moved behind her to grasp her shoulders and turn her back to him. “Sweeting, do you not know that whither I go, you go also?”
“But England! Sweet Mary, what if Brevise … what if King Stephen … ?” She choked, unable to put her worst fears into words.
“They will not,” he answered grimly, taking her again into his arms and cradling her against him. “If I find I have to swear to Stephen, I’ll get wardship of Beaumaule in the bargain.”
“And if you cannot?” she whispered into his shoulder.
“I’ll fight to keep you.”
19
Gilliane watched from the tall tower window, awaiting the nearing mesnie with some trepidation, while Richard stood on the courtyard steps with almost boyish eagerness. An approaching herald sounded the trumpet call, and then the bridge began to lower. Despite the chill of an early-spring mist, Gilliane leaned forward through the open window for a better look at Robert of Gloucester as he led his men into Celesin. And she was more than a little disappointed by her first glimpse of him, thinking this then was the great earl, the man who inspired such loyalty and trust.
But though he was neither particularly tall nor very handsome, Robert of Gloucester nonetheless drew people to him, and it was oft remarked for a pity that this best son of the old king had been born a bastard. Nearing forty-six years of age, he was the undisputed landholder of such vast lands that only he could rival Stephen of Blois for wealth, power, and popularity in England. And although three months had passed since Stephen had usurped the throne, all Normandy and England still waited and watched to see what, if anything, Earl Robert intended to do about it.
She stared downward, thinking that all of her life she’d heard her father and brothers speak of him with awe—“Robert, the king’s son, the one who helped defeat the French king at Bremule”—the great military leader, the man everyone respected. And yet when she saw him, he looked like any mortal lord. Nay, but if looks made a hero, then Guy of Rivaux was the greater man.
He dismounted, handing his reins to one of Richard’s ostlers, and removed his helm, exposing softly curling brown hair well-tinged with gray, and strong, regular features. His helmet still tucked beneath his arm, he exchanged the kiss of peace with his taller host, stretching to reach first one cheek and then the other, then waiting for Richard to do the same.
Richard had said she could greet him, but she’d found an excuse, not ready to face a stranger’s disdain. Nay, but her love was too new, too precious to tarnish just yet. But there was a pang of regret—had she been the lady of the house, she’d have been honored with Gloucester’s kiss also.
She heard Richard speak low to him and direct his gaze upward, and she saw the earl frown for a moment before he raised his hand in salute to her. She lifted her hand to acknowledge the honor and drew back inside. Sweet Mary, but what had Richard said?
“So Gloucester comes,” Alwina muttered in disgust, plying her needle forcefully behind her. “Aye, and what of it? If he’d meant to wrest Stephen’s crown, he’d have raised an army instead of lingering, and he would have moved ere now.”
“I pray you are right.” Gilliane closed her eyes tightly and whispered a fervent plea to God that he’d not come to ask Richard to fight.
The old woman looked up and her expression softened at the intensity of Gilliane’s prayer. Given everything that had happened to her, the girl could not be entirely faulted for falling under Richard of Rivaux’s spell, for taking what he offered. And as much as she hated to admit it, she believed he did in truth love her mistress.
Running footsteps sounded on the stairs and one of the pages burst in eagerly, his face flushed with excitement. “My lord of Gloucester comes!” And then, remembering himself, he dropped on bended knee to add, “And Lord Richard bids you come to meet him.”
Not knowing what Richard had told the earl of her, Gilliane was at once both glad that he took pride in her and afraid that Gloucester would think her little more than a whore. The thing that never ceased to amaze her was that Richard alone seemed unconscious of the difference in their stations, seating her to sup on the dais beside him when she belonged far below. But surely he did not mean to bring her into the earl’s company at dinner—as daughter to a lesser lord, she had not the right.
“You’d best cover your hair,” Alwina reminded her pointedly.
“But what if Richard has not told him—what if he thinks me but a ward?”
“There are those to tell him differently.”
“Aye.” Gilliane’s mouth went dry at the thought of facing Gloucester, and yet she’d do Richard’s bidding. Her hands shaking, she picked up a blue-and-gold baudequin scarf and draped it over her head, pulling the ends back over her shoulders.
At the last landing, she stopped to nervously smooth the deep blue sendal of her gown with her damp palms, hoping that Gloucester would offer her no insult for what she had become. Her soft kid slippers, particolored in red and blue, peeped beneath the skirt of the overgown, while her long, full-cut sleeves folded back to reveal red silk beneath. The filigree heart nestled between her breasts, reassuring her. She walked down slowly, the jeweled medallions of her golden girdle swinging against her skirt.
Owing to the damp cold, they’d moved inside to the main hall, where Gloucester’s retainers mingled with the men of Celesin while their lords shared cups of mulled wine. There was an almost festive air to the place despite the fact that the visitors were travel-stained and mud-splattered from their ride. Gloucester himself, plainly dressed in a brown woolen tunic, sat with his head cocked, listening to Richard tell of what had happened at Winchester.
Richard stopped mid-sentence, aware that Gilliane had entered the room, and rising, he murmured his apology to the earl. His eyes feasted on her, taking in the pale, nearly translucent skin, the eyes made even bluer by the deep color of her gown, and the few strands of copper hair that escaped the lovely veil. His mouth was almost too dry for words when he turned back to announce to Gloucester with pride, “I make known to you the Demoiselle of Beaumaule, my lord.”
If Gloucester thought it odd to find her thus, dressed as fi
ne as a royal princess in a young lord’s house, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he surveyed her with little curiosity, smiling as she sank in low obeisance before him.
“Geoffrey de Lacey’s sister then?” he murmured, raising her before Richard could offer his hand.
“Aye.”
“I am sorry to hear of your loss, Demoiselle,” he continued politely. “Geoffrey was good and fair.”
“Robert, I have taken the Lady Gilliane for ward as there was none to hold for her,” Richard explained smoothly. “Alas, her younger brother is dead also.”
“Aye. She could have turned to me as liege to Beaumaule, but I recognize there was not the time.”
Gilliane’s heart paused with dread. Did Gloucester think to take wardship of her as her brother’s nominal overlord? Her fingers grasped the heavy silk of her gown almost convulsively as she looked from one man to the other. But the earl turned instead to address Richard.
“There are scarce the rents or fees to interest any in her wardship, but if you are willing and able, I’d support your claim. I have heard that little is left of Beaumaule but burnt wood and a few stones.”
“I have set my men to rebuilding it,” Richard admitted. “While the land is not so much, the keep commands the old roads, should we have need of it later.”
“Aye.” Gloucester glanced back at Gilliane for a moment, his brow creasing. “If you would have aid in dowering her, I’d aid you.” Addressing her, he added, “How old are you, Demoiselle?”
“Nineteen.”
“And Geoffrey did not seek a husband for you?” he demanded, surprised. “God’s bones, but I’d not thought him so lax!”
“Nay, but he had not the money. The lord king fined him heavily for my sister’s wedding.”
“Your pardon, Demoiselle, but ’twould seem your right to be given first—you are the eldest girl, are you not?”
She sighed, hating to explain yet again. Keeping her eyes downcast demurely, she nodded. “But I was the plainest one, my lord, and Geoffrey was pleased to have me order his keep.”
“Whoever said you were plain was half-blind,” Gloucester observed dryly.
“Alas, but you have not seen my sisters.”
“Nonetheless, I trust Rivaux will remedy your lack.”
“Nay, but I’d not wed,” she managed, afraid that he would have her given to another. There were, after all, dozens of men and boys in his wardship, and it was not impossible that one would take even a knight’s daughter if Gloucester provided the dowry.
“You wish the veil then?”
“Nay.”
Richard poured him another cup of the spiced wine and pushed it toward him, diverting the earl from his questioning of her. “She has but lost her home and her brothers, and has not had time to consider wedding.”
Taking the cup, Gloucester nodded and passed on to more pressing matters. “I leave her marriage to you then. ’Tis not as though I do not have aught else to do. Stephen summons me to Easter court to do homage for mine English lands.”
Despite the earl’s frown, Richard held a bench back for her to sit, indicating that he’d have her stay. “There’s not much for a maid to do in Celesin, my lord, and I thought she would be glad of the company.” He pushed the bench closer as she sat, squeezing her shoulder for reassurance. “But ’tis nearly Easter now. Do you go?”
“Aye. I have already instructed Mabel to tell him I will come as soon as may be—within the fortnight, I expect.” Gloucester looked away as he spoke, unwilling to meet the younger man’s eyes. “He caught me unprepared.”
“Jesu! You’ll recognize his right to rule? Nay, but …” Richard did not want to believe what he’d heard. “He usurped the throne, Robert!”
Gloucester cast a quick glance at Gilliane. “The Demoiselle—perhaps she’d not wish to hear of this,” he murmured in warning.
“Nay, she has no love for Stephen herself,” Richard retorted, brushing the objection aside. “ ’Twas Brevise who killed her brothers, and he is Stephen’s man.”
“Aye.” The earl put his elbows on the table before him and peered into his cup of wine, swirling it, and weighed his words. “I have little choice in the matter just now.”
“He had not the right!” Richard exploded. “God’s bones, but he claims his crown through his mother! If we are to accept that, then ’tis Mathilda who should rule! At least the baronage swore to her, after all!”
“Aye. And Stephen and I disputed who should be the first to take the oath to her—so eager was he to swear,” Robert of Gloucester recalled.
“And neither is fit to rule! If there would be any justice—”
“Nay, do not say it. There was a time perhaps—”
“Your grandsire was bastard-born, and yet Normandy called him duke and England called him king!” Richard argued hotly, knowing what Robert would tell him.
“ ’Twas a long time ago, Richard.” The older man lifted his cup and drained it. “Aye, but William the Conqueror was no ordinary man—and even he had difficulty holding Normandy at first. As for England, though he claimed it by right of blood, it could not be disputed that he’d won it by right of arms.”
“As can you!”
“Nay.” Gloucester turned light brown eyes on Richard and shook his head. “Holy Church recognizes no claims of bastards—it takes a dispensation now to go into the clergy. But even if it did not, I’d not break faith with my father.”
“Jesu.” It was not what Richard had wanted him to say, not what he wished to hear.
“All I am—all I hold—came from my father, Richard,” the earl reasoned carefully. “You behold before you a man bastard-born of but a common woman of Caen, and yet my father raised me high, giving me an heiress, making me Earl of Gloucester—that I would support my sister. I’d not break his faith in me,” he repeated softly.
“But Stephen—’tis to Stephen you would swear.”
“Conditionally.” Gloucester’s eyes met Richard’s and held. “Aye, he is fool enough to think he can buy my loyalty with mine own lands.”
“But if you swear—”
“He sends to the Holy Father, asking recognition of his claim on the grounds that my sister is a bastard also—he would say that her mother was a nun ere she wed. I mean to use his appeal to justify my oath. But I have said to him that I will swear if he confirms the honor of Gloucester and my lands to me.”
“Nay, but I fail to see how you can do it.”
“If there is any justice, the pope will find the oaths we took to Mathilda binding when all is said and done. And if the Holy Father refuses to bastardize her, or if Bigod recants his perjury, then I am absolved.” He leaned closer and his light brown eyes were sober as they held Richard’s. “And already Bigod thinks his reward from Stephen was not enough.”
“Holy Jesu!”
“Aye. ’Tis but a matter of some time before Cousin Stephen will prove it takes more than a pleasant face to rule those who know in their hearts that he has not the right. To show the truth of that, he is such a fool that he believes he can have me for friend rather than enemy now.”
“Nay, but I’d not swear to him.”
“That choice is yours, but I advise you to think on it. You also have English lands, and your grandsire of Harlowe grows old.”
“But his treachery—”
“His treachery came when I was still in Normandy, still attending to my father’s burial wishes. Had I rebelled then, I would have had no access to my English levies—nor to my lands. He had but to take my countess hostage and dispossess me. Nay, ’tis better to bide our time and wait for his mistake, Richard. But were I you, I’d swear to him also, for ’tis known your father will not. Think on it,” he urged. “Think that Stephen will be disinclined to take Harlowe if one of you appears to side with him.”
“I’d be forsworn—I cannot claim to have given my oath to the Empress.”
“Then swear with reservations. Say that if
it should be proven that Mathilda has the better claim, you are absolved from your oath,” Gloucester reasoned. “He is so eager to appear to have support, I’ll warrant he’d even accept that.”
“And then? What happens then if ’tis ruled for the Empress? God’s blood, but I like not the choice.”
“And then I keep my oath to my father—I can do no less. But when I move, ’twill be with the full resources of my lands and title at my back.”
“And what if the Holy Father bastardizes her?”
“He dares not. She is wed to Geoffrey of Anjou, and whether her Angevin husband likes her or not, he’ll not want it said she is bastard-born.”
“I like her not.”
“Mathilda?” Robert raised a curious eyebrow, and then appeared to think of his half-sister. “Well, I was raised in household with her, and ’twas always understood she took precedence over me, of course. But I do care for her—I think her more man than full half of those that are. I believe you will find she has my father’s courage as well as his temper when the time comes.”
“You will raise her standard then.” It was a statement of grudging fact rather than a question.
“Aye.” Gloucester leaned back, his strong fingers still playing with the stem of his empty cup. “For now, I will but renew old alliances and wait.”
“My father will be overjoyed to know you support her,” Richard muttered bitterly. “He told me you would keep your oath.”
“Guy of Rivaux is a wise man—he knows that loyalty that is bought is faithless. I’ll count it as an honor to fight with him at my side.”
It was hard for Richard to accept that his father had been right in this also—that he’d instinctively known what Gloucester would do. But in some ways, the two of them were more alike than Richard cared to admit. “Aye,” he sighed finally, “but full nine-tenths of the baronage support Stephen now, and they are not like to change for a woman.”