by Anita Mills
“Firmly for now. As I told Richard, I believe his marriage could change that.”
“Only if he thinks the Empress will win,” Richard retorted sourly. “You cannot believe he will change sides without promise of reward.”
“That his heirs will have Harlowe and Rivaux is reward enough,” Guy muttered dryly. “I told you that at the time you wished to wed the daughter.”
“I’d tell him I will take her when the peace is settled.”
“Aye, and he will tell you ’tis now. I’d not thought it possible, but Stephen weathers rebellion well.”
“You will have to take her,” Robert of Gloucester declared finally. “I gave my guaranty to the agreement between you.”
“ ’Tis a pity you are not a Turk—else you could have them both. As ’tis, I tried to tell you—”
“Aye, and when have you not? Jesu, Papa, but all you have done since my birth is tell me! Aye, I have to wed Cicely! I accept it! Does that please you, Papa—to have been always and in all things right?” Richard rose, kicking his stool violently. “Aye, I’ll wed her against my will. Does that please you? ’Tis always your honor, is it not?”
“Richard—”
But his son was too flushed, too angered to listen. “Nay, I’d not hear it! You think because your choices have been clear, that mine must be also! Well, they are not. I will marry Cicely of Lincoln for mine family honor, Papa, that we may both suffer for it! I will have an heiress and she will have a cold husband in her bed!”
Gloucester stared at the man he’d fostered, scarce able to believe what he heard. “Richard of Rivaux, ’tis to your sire you speak,” he reproved him. “Nay, but I’d not hear this—not when ’tis your father to whom you owe your very blood!”
Guy of Rivaux winced visibly and turned away. “Nay, leave him be.” He spoke low, gesturing wearily. “He cannot help the temper he has of me.”
The door behind them banged shut, and they were suddenly alone. “Do you go after him, or would you have me do it?” Robert asked, still stunned by Richard’s outburst.
“He has the right to tell her unaided.”
The room was dim, owing to the storm, and there was no sound within. Richard moved reluctantly to brush aside the curtains that shrouded the bed. She lay curled and silent, unmoving, and for a moment he thought she slept.
“Gilly?”
“Aye.” With an effort she rolled to sit within the deep feather mattress and managed to control the tearing, searing pain that threatened her composure. She faced him, meeting his eyes.
“You heard?”
“Aye.”
“Gilly—”
“ ’Twas to be expected, was it not?” she cut in calmly. “ ’Tis not as though I did not know it, after all. From the first time I met you at Beaumaule, you told me you were betrothed.”
“Gilly, do not—”
“ ’Tis all right, my lord.”
“ ’Twill not change what is between us, I swear.”
“Nay.” She reached a finger to his lips. “Do not swear that which we cannot know.”
“I know. I’ve no more wish for Cicely of Lincoln in my bed than for Queen Maud herself,” he muttered bitterly, reaching to draw her against him.
She rubbed her head against his shoulder, savoring the hard feel of him. “You cannot in all faith refuse to honor that which you have promised, Richard. You will wed her and bed her and get your heirs of her.”
“The only sons I want are yours,” he whispered softly, holding her close.
The ache in her breast was almost unbearable. “Nay—any sons I’d bear you could not stand beneath the pennon of Rivaux, my lord. Take Cicely of Lincoln and do your duty to her—’tis her right.”
“ ’Twill change naught between us, Gilly. I will love you still.”
She swallowed hard then, not wanting him to know how terribly she hurt. “Love me, then,” she choked, turning her head into his chest. “Aye, love me now.”
21
“Sweet Mary, but what is that?”
Gilliane turned around from folding back the wide sleeves of her favorite deep blue gown to see what Richard had in his hands. A boyish grin lightened the face that had been so strained since first they’d known Maud would see her, and he held out a roll of silk, pressing it into her palms. She looked down, perplexed.
“Nay, unroll it.”
But he could not wait to let her. Instead, he pulled one end of the material and revealed two bright skeins of coppery hair bound in embroidered silk cases. She stared in disbelief for a moment and then looked at him.
“ ’Twas no simple thing to find the color, but I’d not have you go to court shorn.” He took one of the cases and held it up to her head to compare the hair with her own. “You are but fortunate ’tis the fashion to wear it thus.”
“But where … ?”
“And while ’tis not perfectly matched, the silk separates it enough that ’twill not be noted.”
“Richard, did you cut off some poor maid’s hair for this?” she asked, still not quite believing what she saw.
“Nay, I paid a full pound for it, Gilliane de Lacey—and I’ll take your thanks now.” He caught her at her waist and pulled her close, nuzzling her crown. “Later, we’ll have yours twined into it so ’twill be thought to be your own.” His hand moved possessively over the curve of her hip, smoothing her gown and pressing her against him. “But for now …”
“Richard! I am but just dressed!”
“Aye,” he murmured agreeably, leaning to nibble at the corner of her mouth. “Sweet—art sweet, Gilly.” He took the other piece of hair and dropped both of them to the floor.
“Would you have me late to see the Queen?”
Both of his hands slid around her, one to stroke her back lightly, the other to guide her hip against his. And his breath sent a shiver of anticipation through her as he whispered against her ear, “Aye.”
There was so little time, and neither could know what would happen once he took her to court to face Stephen’s queen. Aye, and then he’d be wed in Lincoln. With almost a sob, she flung her arms around his neck and brought his lips to hers. “I’d not have you hurry overmuch,” she answered, giving herself up to his kiss. Already his hands had moved to tug at the laces beneath her arms, and liquid fire sped through her veins at the thought of what he would do with her. As his mouth left hers to trace light soft kisses along her jawline to her ear, she closed her eyes and reveled in what he would do to her. “Oh, aye,” she gasped as his lips found the sensitive hollow of her throat. “Sweet Mary, but I’d not have you tarry overlong either.”
She felt Guy of Rivaux’s reassuring hand on her shoulder as she entered the long reception room at Westminster Palace. They paused while Richard whispered their presence to a royal page, and Gilliane smoothed the brilliant blue silk with her palms, taking care not to unfold the wide gold-trimmed sleeve where it rolled back to reveal the fitted wrists of her undersleeve. Then her hand crept to feel the filigreed heart that hung down between her breasts. On either side, plaits of red hair encased in long tubes of gold-embroidered blue silk rested against her shoulders, and she felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love for the man who’d bought them.
“Make way! Make way!” One of the household guards stepped forward importantly to clear the crowd, calling out, “Guy, Count of Rivaux! Richard, Rivaux of Celesin and Ancennes! The demoiselle of Beaumaule!”
“Holy Jesu,” she breathed.
Stephen’s queen, Mathilda of Boulogne, known as Maud, leaned out of her high carved chair with interest. “This then is the de Lacey? Come forward, child, that I may look at you.”
Gillian moved forward reluctantly, sensing that somehow the woman before her was not her friend, and dropped low in obeisance before the chair, to the approving murmur of those about her. Nearly touching the floor with the jeweled chaplet that held her filmy baudequin veil, she waited for Queen Maud to speak again.
“You may rise, Demoiselle.”
Two pages assisted Gilliane to stand, and she faced the queen. Maud’s dark eyes narrowed shrewdly, moving over the expensive gown and the jewelry the girl wore. “I’d heard you were not an heiress.” She spoke almost reproachfully.
“I am mistress of Beaumaule,” Gilliane answered proudly, stung by the queen’s tone.
“And unwed, I am told.”
“Aye.”
“There is some dispute as to your wardship, I believe, with my lord of Brevise claiming the right as one whose land marches with yours, whilst yon Rivaux would say he has it.”
The hairs at her neck prickled in warning, but Gilliane forced herself to smile demurely and appear innocent of the quarrel. “Alas, but I am but a woman, Your Grace, and have no knowledge of such things.”
“But you have been under Richard of Rivaux’s protection?”
“Aye.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw a man standing to one side watching her, and her heart nearly stopped. At his belt he wore the buckle she’d sold the traveling merchant, and instinctively she knew he was William of Brevise. And she could hold her tongue no longer. “Aye, I have been under Richard of Rivaux’s protection, Your Grace, as I sought it after my patrimony was burned and my brothers murdered by my lord of Brevise.”
The room went still, and even the king turned to look at her. “ ’Tis a lie!” the black-visaged Brevise spat at her. “The girl knows not what she says!”
Gilliane faced King Stephen, and before any thought to stop her, she approached him. “My lord king, though I am but a woman, I claim your justice for the deaths of my brothers Geoffrey de Lacey, cruelly murdered by William of Brevise’s deceit, and Aubery de Lacey, a boy of but eleven years, burned to death in Brevise’s raid against Beaumaule.”
“ ’Tis a lie! She lies to cover her disgrace!”
“Nay, Your Grace, but he wears my grandsire’s belt, and I know how he came by it.” Her eyes met Stephen’s without wavering. “ ’Twas taken from a trader murdered outside Beaumaule’s gate.”
She’d found the king unprepared for such charges, and he stared, first at her and then at William of Brevise. “The accusations the Demoiselle makes are of a most grave nature, Lord William,” he said finally.
“Aye, and she lies, Your Grace.” Thinking to sway Maud more easily, he turned to the queen. “Ever have I been my lord Stephen’s man, in each and every thing—and I’ll not stand charged thus by a girl who seeks to cover her shame,” Brevise lashed out, accusing blindly to divert them. “Aye, ask why ’tis that Rivaux would not yield her—ask how ’tis she sought succor of him at Celesin rather than coming to her king.”
Richard saw Gilliane go white as the man’s barbs hit home, and shaking off his father’s warning hand, he stepped forward to face Maud. “When the Demoiselle of Beaumaule turned to me, there was no anointed king,” he answered evenly, “and basely accusing her of what he cannot know does not prove him innocent of what she says.”
“What know you of this?” Stephen leaned forward to ask.
“When first I came to Beaumaule seeking shelter from the storm, I found Gilliane de Lacey burying her brother, sire, and when I returned, her house was burning and Brevise’s men overran her keep. We found Aubery de Lacey’s body among the ashes of the stable.”
“I was not there!” Brevise spat at him. “Aye, had she turned to me, I’d have punished those who committed the crime!”
“Jesu! And who would punish you?” Gilliane demanded. “Nay, but my man saw you there—saw you lead the charge!” Turning to Richard, she appealed, “Tell them—tell them ’twas Brevise you saw.”
Knowing his son trod a dangerous path, Guy of Rivaux nonetheless held his counsel and waited. And every ear in the hall strained to hear what Richard would say. Maud’s knuckles whitened as she gripped her chair, and Stephen’s gaze was fixed on the young man before him.
“I saw the banner of Brevise, I saw men fight beneath his colors, and I hanged his own captain there.”
“But you saw me not!” Lord William crowed triumphantly.
“I think I did.” The gold flecks nearly disappeared from Richard’s dark eyes, chilling them. “And I am willing to put it to combat to prove who lies.”
The stout, florid baron stared upward in dismay, and all the color drained from his face, blanching it. Richard of Rivaux was much taller, outweighing him as much as a stone, and his reach was greater than any but his father’s. Already there were those who would say the hawklet could take the hawk if all odds were even. Brevise swallowed, his Adam’s apple dipping within his fleshy neck.
But Stephen had not summoned two of his most powerful Norman barons to provoke a quarrel when ’twas peace he needed most to consolidate his power. He raised his hand, silencing the sudden buzz of excitement that was spreading through the room. “Nay. Whilst the demoiselle’s charges are serious and must be considered, I’d not have it resolved thus. That she has lost her brothers cannot be denied, but ’tis possible that she is mistaken in claiming ’twas my lord of Brevise.”
Lord William relaxed visibly, and his color returned as he nodded gratefully. “Aye,” he growled, emboldened. “I’d not meet the whelp over naught.”
“Naught!” Gilliane fairly exploded, and then caught herself. Appealing again to Stephen, she managed to speak with a calmness that she did not feel. “My lord king, as I am a woman and cannot redress the matter myself, I’d seek justice for my brothers’ souls. If it pleases you, I would ask that my charges be heard in the royal courts.”
“I’ll not pay wergild—nay, I’ll not be fined!” Brevise retorted angrily. “The wench lies!”
“You mistake the matter, my lord,” Gilliane answered him coldly. “I’d not ask money—’tis your life I would have.”
“Demoiselle.” This time it was Maud who spoke, and there was surprising gentleness in her voice. “We share your pain in your loss, and would see your grief redressed.”
“Aye.” Stephen nodded. “ ’Tis our will that the matter be considered. If you will but present witnesses before the courts, we will give you justice.”
Justice. Gilliane knew in her heart that she would present those who’d survived from Beaumaule to swear, and William of Brevise would seek the perjury of six men, and there’d be naught done. But she’d not risk Richard’s incurring royal wrath further. She managed to nod her acquiescence despite the bitterness that nearly choked her.
“There is yet the matter of the Demoiselle of Beaumaule’s wardship, Your Grace.” Thomas of Lincoln stepped forward now to speak. “I do not believe that has been addressed.”
It was the first time Richard had seen his prospective father-in-law since he had been sixteen years old, and he felt a surge of dislike for the tall, gaunt Lincoln. He opened his mouth to protest, but Robert of Gloucester suddenly spoke up. “As suzerain to Lord Richard’s English lands, I support his claim. When there was none else there, the Lady Gilliane turned to Richard of Rivaux, and as there is not above fifty hides of land and a burnt keep for income, I see no harm in his wardship. Nay, but I am overlord to Beaumaule also, and I’ve no wish for the task.”
If there was anyone that Stephen yet feared, ’twas Gloucester, and despite a lifelong rivalry with the man, he had no wish to offend him now—nor did he wish to make an enemy of either Rivaux. “So be it then,” he agreed, readily disposing of the matter.
The tenseness passed for all but Gilliane, and she dared not speak further. Queen Maud beckoned her closer, murmuring, “Perhaps you would wish to attend us, Demoiselle. It cannot be comfortable for you among men.” And even in Stephen’s relaxed court, a royal suggestion was taken to be a command. Again Gilliane felt the hairs at the back of her neck stand.
Richard’s jaw tightened and his hands clenched at his sides, but somehow he managed to appear almost pleasant. “I’d seek a private audience with Your Grace this day.”
“What tempests you stir, Demoi
selle.” Maud’s eyebrow lifted in surprise at the request, but she did not deny it. “Aye, I will send to you, my lord,” she sighed.
Richard drew back, aware that he’d gained all he could for now, and heard his father murmur for his ears alone, “Art fortunate none asked how you came to be in England during that storm.”
The Queen’s apartments at Cotton Hall were spacious and open, reflecting the late King Henry’s second wife’s attempt at comfort. But Gilliane saw neither the wealth nor the luxury there, viewing it instead as a prison from which she could not escape. Aye, and if Maud kept her in the royal household, there’d be no way to hide her shame from everyone’s eyes. A new wave of nausea swept over her, forcing her to lean her head against the wall.
“Art ill?” one of the other girls who served the Queen asked.
“Nay,” Gilliane lied, straightening up and swallowing the gorge that rose in her throat. The girl who watched her curiously had eyes bluer than her own and hair like pure gold. Gilliane tried to smile at her, thinking this could well prove to be her only friend at court. “From whence come you, demoiselle?” she asked as the sickness subsided.
“Lincoln.”
The room reeled around her, but Gilliane forced herself to look again. Though the girl was smaller than she, she had claim to true beauty, possessing a clear complexion, delicate features, and a trim, well-molded figure. This then would be the one who would share Richard’s marriage bed.
“You are betrothed to Lord Richard?”
The girl colored slightly and nodded. “Aye. ’Tis why I would have speech with you, Lady Gilliane. You know him—and I’d know what he is like.”
“You’d ask me what he is like?” Gilliane echoed numbly, feeling as though she surely dreamed this awful circumstance.
“Well, I know him not,” the girl responded defensively, “and I thought … well, I would discover if he is as harsh as he looks. That is—” She wavered under Gilliane’s incredulous expression, and then blurted out, “They say Count Guy is a hard man, and I scarce know his son. Nay, but I have not seen him since I was but nine.”