by Anita Mills
“Mayhap, but I’d not wager on that. Already Stephen promises more than he can provide—and as those who opposed him also swear fealty to him now, he will have to dispossess those who supported him from the beginning. There is only so much land in England to give. And then, Richard, there will be much unrest.”
“King David’s invasion from Scotland was turned back.”
“My Uncle David turned back because Stephen paid dearly to gain relief from him. How long do you think Scotland will stay out of the fray if Mathilda’s standard is raised?”
“Not long,” Richard admitted. “He’ll take the excuse to raid English lands.”
“There’ll be many to join us. Aye—I even have hope of Lincoln once you are wed to little Cicely.”
Gilliane, who had been listening with mere curiosity, was suddenly intent at the mention of Richard’s marriage. Her body stiffened apprehensively, but she managed to appear outwardly calm. It had to be expected, she told herself—there would be many who’d have him honor his contract with Lincoln’s daughter.
Richard’s hand crept to smooth the baudequin veil at the back of Gilliane’s hair, and he felt the tension in her body. “These are troubled times, Robert,” he began evasively. “And Lincoln is not noted for his loyalty.”
“The girl is fifteen, and your contract with her is of long standing,” Gloucester reminded him.
“Aye, but I am not ready to wed.”
Richard’s finger twined absently in an escaped lock of Gilliane’s hair, and the intimacy of the gesture was not lost on the earl. He set down his cup and spoke softly, seeming to address the goblet rather than his host. “I have not been unhappy with Mabel, though she was chosen for me. A good, chaste woman is about all a man has a right to ask.”
Abruptly Richard released the hair and sat up straight. “Gilly, we neglect our guests—I’d have you see that all is in readiness for supper.”
She flushed, embarrassed that he’d dismissed her so quickly as talk turned to his marriage. In effect, she was being told to leave so that they might discuss a matter of great import to her. Her color heightened, but she managed to rise gracefully, keeping her voice even as she faced Gloucester. “Your pardon, my lord, but I find myself dismissed so that you may speak of Cicely of Lincoln.” Her displeasure evident in her carriage, she then walked carefully the length of the hall, her head held high.
“She is a comely lady,” the earl observed, watching her thoughtfully.
“Aye, she is that. And she speaks her mind also,” Richard muttered dryly, knowing that she was angered with him.
“You are young, and handsome also—and unwed. If you do not seek a husband for her, ’twill be remarked, and there will be those who will suspect she is unchaste.”
“ ’Tis naught of their affair.”
“Ah, but there are enemies who would eagerly dispute your honor in even so small a thing as this.”
“I’d not send her away—if ’tis what you ask.”
Gloucester’s eyebrow lifted again. “ ’Tis a dubious favor you would do the demoiselle, Richard of Rivaux. Have you thought that in keeping her, you risk having her called leman to you?”
Richard drew in his breath and looked away. “ ’Tis the truth.”
For a moment the earl stared, and then he shook his head almost sadly. An upright, truly pious man, whose own illegitimacy had weighed heavily on him, Robert of Gloucester was not inclined to view the debauching of maids lightly. “You have taken the Demoiselle of Beaumaule to your bed?” he asked finally.
“Aye—and to mine heart also. I’d not wed Cicely—at least not yet.”
“And she came willing to you?” the earl wished to know.
“Do not fault her for it—the fault is mine alone, Robert. She was but bereaved of her brothers and had no other place to go. And I wanted her.”
“You forced her then.”
Richard winced under the censure in the older man’s voice, but he could not let Gilliane bear Gloucester’s wrath. “Aye,” he lied.
“Jesu, but I’d thought better of you,” the earl muttered in disgust. “If you burned, you should have taken your lawful wife—you should have wedded Lincoln’s daughter.”
“I do not want her, Robert.”
“You are contracted to her.” Robert of Gloucester poured himself another cup of the now-cooled wine and mused aloud, “The most honorable choice now will be for the Demoiselle to take the veil.”
“Nay. She is content enough with me.”
“And what of Lincoln’s daughter—what of Cicely of Lincoln? ’Tis not right what you do, Richard. A wife has the right to expect her husband in her bed alone—think you I cannot remember the pain my father’s queen suffered when she was surrounded by myself and a dozen other reminders of his inconstancy?”
“Robert, you have not heard me—I mean to keep Gilliane de Lacey so long as there is breath in my body. Aye, and if I thought ’twas possible to break my betrothal, I would, but failing that, I will take Cicely of Lincoln in my own time.” He rose abruptly, towering over the earl. “But you must be tired and in need of bathing after your ride.” Clapping his hands loudly, he motioned one of the lurking pages forward. “Show my lord to his bath, I pray you.”
The long-awaited reunion with Robert of Gloucester had been a disappointment to both of them, for Richard had no wish to accept Stephen as sovereign, and Gloucester had hoped to urge the politically advantageous marriage on him. Well, he’d delay as long as possible on both counts.
He climbed the steep steps to the solar slowly, wondering how he could tell her that ’twould be better if she supped alone until the earl left Celesin—that Gloucester did not understand. He stopped in the doorway, expecting to see her seated at the window, practicing her interminable needlework, but the room appeared empty.
“Gilly?”
“Aye,” came her reply from the depths of the bed.
“Gilly, I am sorry,” he murmured, parting the curtains to sit on the edge of the deep mattress. “I did not wish you to be there when I told him what you are to me.” He reached to stroke the heavy silk of her gown where it covered her rigid back. She lay unmoving beneath his hand.
“I know you must wed her.”
“Gilly … Gilly.” He spoke softly, easing his body to lie beside her, and tried to take her into his arms. “I will delay as long as possible—and even if I am forced to take her, I cannot be forced to love her.” His fingertips traced the line of her shoulder lightly, moving from her arm upward to twist a strand of coppery hair against her ear. “Nay, do you not know, Gilly, that there’s not room in my heart for another?” he whispered, turning her to face him. “ ’Tis you and only you I would love.”
20
Gilliane looked out into the sodden street, thinking how much she hated London. It had rained the two days since their arrival in a driving storm, and the standing water clogged the narrow, cramped lanes, making cleaning impossible. To her, used to the isolation of Beaumaule and Celesin, it seemed that the city teemed not only with people but also with stinking garbage and offal.
They’d come at last, summoned by King Stephen’s ultimatum: Count Guy and Richard of Rivaux would do homage for their lands, both English and Norman, or lose them. And after a brief conference between father and son at Celesin, attended by envoys from Anjou and Gloucester, it was decided that they should offer together their conditional homage, much as Robert of Gloucester had done the month before. Faced with the common problem, father and son had not quarreled in this. Indeed, it had been an almost pleasant meeting—until Guy had suggested that they leave Gilliane safe at Celesin. In this Richard was adamant, refusing to part with her even for the month they’d be gone. Guy had shouted at him then, arguing that he risked her for his own selfish passion, that ’twas not certain that Stephen would recognize Richard’s wardship over her. And she, afraid to have him leave her, had sided with Richard.
Not that Guy of Rivaux seem
ed to fault her for what had happened—quite the opposite, in fact. Aye, despite the unblessed love she shared with his son, he continued to treat her as a daughter. Not that she had not been worried when word first came that he arrived at Celesin—she had more than half-expected him to censure her, to call her whore or harlot. But he had not. He’d offered her his kiss instead, making no mention of her flight from Rivaux. Aye, Guy of Rivaux was a good man.
And now she stared through the thick, distorted windowpanes of the merchant’s house they’d taken for lodgings, and wondered what would happen now. King Stephen had moved from his Easter court at Oxford to Cotton Hall at Westminster, and Count Guy and Richard had gone there to discuss the terms of their swearing, while all she could do was sit and wait. It seemed that the day dragged, made even drearier by the incessant May rain, and homesickness stole over her.
Disheartened by the silence, she turned back to the richly furnished room, moving to trace the edge of a well-waxed table with her fingertips. ’Twas a Lombard’s house, Richard had said, belonging to a wealthy merchant who kept businesses in Italy and Flanders as well. It seemed odd to her that such men were disparaged when they apparently lived better than full half of the nobility. Aye, every single item in the room was better than anything she’d had at Beaumaule.
A cart rolled past, its lone occupant calling out his services from beneath a dripping canopy, and men and dogs scurried about the narrow lane despite the steady downpour. From time to time an occasional rider could be heard, sending her heart thudding until he passed. Gradually she realized that, given the business of a king’s court, even a Norman count might have to wait, and she finally drifted to pick up the new undertunic she worked for Count Guy. It would have been for Richard, but he already had more than was godly.
Settling into a leather-slung Italian chair drawn up to the small fire that chased the chill from the room, she began to stitch the narrow neat border at the neck of the garment. It would have leaves and stag heads intertwined with bright-colored vines when she was done. Aye, but she knew not how Countess Catherine managed to keep her wits in her lord’s absence, for she had not the solace of her needlework. That at least kept Gilliane occupied and away from thoughts better not considered.
She paid no heed to the riders now, considering that they were but men going about business, until she heard the voices of Count Guy’s ostlers. And then the door latch lifted and Richard filled the open doorway. Her heart caught in her throat at the expression on his face.
“Sweet Mary!” she gasped. “It went ill?”
“My father was right—I should not have brought you,” he answered bitterly.
“But what—?”
“Brevise.” He unclasped his wet cloak and flung it into a heap in the corner before turning to slam the door so viciously that it banged on its heavy hinges. “He seeks wardship of you.”
“Nay!”
“ ’Twill not happen,” he muttered grimly. “God’s bones, but the boldness of the man! He kills your family, burns your home, and dares to ask to be your guardian, saying there’s none better to care for you! Had I been armed then, I’d have struck him down!”
She rose, clutching the corner of a table against the rising nausea. “And King Stephen—what did he say?” she asked, feeling suddenly afraid.
“ ’Tis not Stephen I fear, Gilly—’tis Maud. Stephen, for all his faults, is not given to unkindness. His queen, however, is aware of what he owes those who have supported him.”
It was then that he noted her blanched face, and his own fury abated. “Holy Jesu, Gilly, I did not mean to worry you for naught.” He crossed the room quickly and drew her against him, cradling her against the stiff embroidery on his chest. “Nay, but ’twill not happen—both my father and Gloucester stood against it.” His still-cold hand smoothed her hair, stroking its silkiness over her neck. “If anything, you will but be asked to court.”
Her hands flew to the blunt ends of her hair. “Oh, nay! They will mock me for this!”
“It has grown much since first I saw you, Gilly.”
“But ’tis overshort still!”
“Gilly … Gilly—nay, but there’s none to look on you who will not think you beautiful.” He held her back from him to study her face. “Hair or no, I think you the loveliest woman I have ever seen.”
“Then you are besotted. Richard, all the maids will wear their hair long and unbound, and …” She stopped guiltily and looked away. “Aye, but I am not—”
“You are mine.”
“I have not the right to be—and they will know it.”
They were interrupted by a pounding on the door that brought a manservant from the back room to answer it. Two men stepped inside, dripping a puddle on the flagged stone floor. One of them glanced apologetically at Richard while drawing a parchment case from the folds of his cloak. Bowing quickly, he held it out.
“Art Rivaux of Celesin?”
“Aye.”
“We are come with greetings from the Queen, and are bidden to see the Demoiselle of Beaumaule into her presence.”
One of Richard’s hands closed protectively over Gilliane’s arm even as he reached for the letter case with the other. He felt the tremor that passed through her.
“I have but come from Stephen’s court myself, and heard no word of this.”
“The Queen—”
“Nay.” Richard dropped Gilliane’s arm and broke the wax coating with his thumbnail, taking care not to damage the parchment. Even as he unrolled and read the letter, he shook his head in denial. His expression darkened as his eyes scanned the page, and then he handed it back. “Tell Maud … tell the Queen,” he amended, “that the Demoiselle Gilliane de Lacey is ill and therefore unable to attend her.”
“You refuse her?” the man asked incredulously.
“Aye.”
“Nay, but you cannot. ’Tis the Queen who—”
“What goes here?”
The two messengers spun around at the sound of Guy of Rivaux’s voice. Coloring, the one who spoke answered, “Queen Maud bids us bring the Demoiselle of Beaumaule into her presence, but my lord of Celesin refuses us.”
For a moment Guy’s gaze met Richard’s, and then he pulled back his cloak to rest his hand on the pommel of his sword, a gesture not lost on Maud’s men. “As do I. You may tell Maud that the matter of this demoiselle’s wardship is settled between ourselves and the king.”
Even as Guy spoke, Richard edged to where Hellbringer rested against the wall. Alarmed, the two men backed toward the door, being careful to give the Count of Rivaux a wide berth. He stepped aside, faintly amused.
“Nay, but we are come in peace, my lords.” Grasping the latch, one of them turned it. “Your message will be delivered.”
“God’s bones, but ’twas well-said,” Richard breathed in relief as the door closed after them.
Guy’s amusement faded, and his flecked eyes grew cold. “I told you to leave her in Normandy, did I not? For your own comfort, you have gained us an enemy we did not need—unlike Stephen, his queen neither forgives nor forgets.”
“You did not have to support me in this then.”
“You are my son.”
Gilliane watched the two men stare across the sudden chasm between them, and felt a new wave of nausea wash over her. It was Guy that noted it first.
“Art all right, Gilliane?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Aye—’tis the rain,” she lied.
“Then you had best rest, for I’ve not a doubt but what Maud will carry the tale to Stephen and you will have to make your obeisance to her.”
“Sweet Mary, but I’d not do it,” she almost whispered. “Can I not return to Celesin?”
“ ’Tis too late for that,” he answered abruptly. “Nay, but we must be forthright now and hope that Stephen confirms Richard’s wardship over you.”
“But you said—” Again the terrible nausea threatened her, cutting speech sh
ort.
“I said ’twas between us and the king.” Guy’s face softened briefly. “Nay, do not worry for what cannot be helped, child—I mean to tell him that we’d keep you, and as much as he wants our oaths, I doubt he will object. ’Tis not as though you were heiress to much.”
“Art sick, Gilly?” Richard moved closer to peer into her pale, sweaty face. Lifting his hand to brush back her hair from her forehead, he felt her brow. “There is no fever,” he murmured, relieved.
“I’d lie down, I think,” she managed.
“Aye.”
She had but reached the feather bed they’d brought when there was much stomping and pounding anew. Lying down, she clung to the edge of the mattress and listened as the room spun around her. Richard closed the door between them, but she could hear the sound of voices yet.
“Jesu! Is this how you would greet an old friend? Nay, put away your swords, my lords—’tis Gloucester who comes.”
“I feared you came from Maud,” she heard Richard say.
“Nay, I did but wish to tell you that Lincoln is arrived and asks for you.”
“Let him find me then.”
“He means to press you to honor your contract for his daughter—I heard him speak to Stephen ere I left.”
There was a silence between them, and then it was Guy of Rivaux who spoke. “You cannot delay forever, Richard—you will have to take the girl. There are no grounds to break the oath you gave her.”
Richard’s answer was so low that Gilliane could not hear it, but in her heart she knew that his father spoke the truth. She drew up her knees and huddled into a ball, sick in both body and spirit. The joy she’d known at Celesin seemed so very far away, and the knowledge she carried within her would be a burden to him now. She closed her eyes and tried not to cry.
In the outer room, the three men huddled over the small fire, drying the chill from their clothing and sharing cups of ale brought by the merchant’s housekeeper. Warned by Guy of Rivaux’s frown, they had lowered their voices and now spoke in hushed tones.
“Where stands Lincoln on Stephen?” Guy wanted to know.