by Anita Mills
“Would you have me aid you?”
“Nay. I’d have you send the boy to me.”
She pulled on the overgown and folded back the sleeves to expose the fine bones in her wrists. Picking up the polished steel mirror Richard had given her, she studied her countenance with a frown. At least her hair had grown to where it slipped just past her shoulders now.
“Demoiselle?”
“Aye. Close the door after you, Garth,” she directed, reaching for the sealed parchment case. “You once rode for me to Rivaux and found it, did you not? Well, this day I’d have you seek out Clifford’s keep in Kent.”
He looked up, surprised.
“Aye.” She nodded. “ ’Tis for Simon of Woodstock’s eyes—and his only.”
23
Despite the lateness of his arrival at Harlowe, Richard was escorted immediately into the bedchamber where his grandsire lay. Although a number of retainers grouped about the tapestry-hung bed, the room was strangely silent, and for a moment Richard feared ’twas over—that he’d not come in time. Then, almost in unison, heads turned at the sound of his spurs clinking against the planked floor.
A small, incredibly frail-looking woman leaned back from the bed itself. A quick glance at Richard and she rose, coming forward with her hands outstretched.
“God be praised—I knew but that Stephen had summoned you to London. I feared you would not come.”
Despite his sweaty, travel-stained appearance, he opened his arms and enfolded Eleanor of Nantes against him, taking care not to crush her. “Nay, naught but hell could have barred my way, Grandmother.”
“Art so tall and strong, Richard.” She looked up mistily, her pride in him written on her face. “Aye, but you have the look of your father, and next to Roger, he is the handsomest man of my memory.”
Though she was old, she had retained her great beauty with dignity. Instead of wrinkling, her skin had grown thinner, almost translucent, and tighter over her fine, delicate bones. And her hair, once almost as dark as his, was softly silver. Even now, ’twas not difficult to see what had made his grand- sire and Robert of Belesme fight over her. He held her close for a moment, and then bent to brush his lips against the smoothness of her cheek.
“How fares he?” he dared to ask, his hand smoothing her hair against her crown.
“He was wont to do that also,” she whispered, turning away to hide her tears.
“I am too late then?”
“Nay, but I can almost wish you were, Richard. He suffers greatly where the leg will not heal, and yet he’d not die ere he spoke with you and Guy. He has already sent his love to Cat, knowing that she cannot come.”
His throat constricted painfully and he nodded. “I’d see him.”
“Aye, but you must not weep—he’d not want it.” Choking back a sob, she managed to whisper, “He says he has no regrets in this life, and goes readily save for me. Oh, Sweet Mary, Richard, but I’d not thought I’d be a dowager—I shall not know how to go on when ’tis over.” She swallowed and tried to breathe for a moment, and then took his hand. “Come, we tarry too long, and I’d not worry you over an old woman’s tears.”
“ ’Tis all right, Grandmother,” he whispered soothingly. “Nay, but you still have the family.”
“Aye, but I have had Roger since my birth—through all that has passed, he has always held for me.”
“Aye.”
“May God in His wisdom make you like him, Richard.”
Those around the bed moved back as he approached, and he could see the reddened eyes of his uncle, Brian FitzHenry, and his aunt, Aislinn of the Condes. At least if his mother could not have come, they were there. Brian clasped his shoulder and looked away, unable to check the tears that trickled down his face. Aislinn pressed a quick kiss on his cheek and fled.
He was unprepared for the sight of his grandsire in bed. All of his life, he’d seen him as a strong man, a man whose stature came as much from his character as from his build. But now Roger de Brione lay still, his blue eyes closed beneath mottled lids. Unlike Eleanor’s, his face was lined, etching deeply the handsomeness that had been there. His skin was dry and flushed with fever beneath the shock of pure white hair. But the thing that struck Richard most was that he seemed to have shrunk in size. He knelt beside the bed and reached to grasp Roger’s hand.
“ ’Tis I, Grandsire—Richard.”
“Richard?” The old man’s eyes fluttered open to focus on him, and he struggled to sit, falling back exhausted. “ ’Tis what bothers me most about this,” he muttered. “I cannot rise.”
Richard slid his other arm around him and braced him with his shoulder, lifting him. “Aye, you can. Does it pain you much—the leg, I mean?”
“Nay, but it does not heal. The surgeons would have taken it, but I’d not let them. Jesu, but what good would there be in an old one-legged man?”
“He’d be worth more than ten whole if he were Roger de Brione.”
“Nay, my time has come—I’d not survive the cutting anyway.” His fingers grasped Richard’s firmly, belying the fact that he was dying. With his other hand he touched his grandson’s face. “Do not weep for me, I pray you—I am shriven and go with but one regret.”
Richard’s jaw quivered with his effort to control the unmanly flood of tears that threatened. The back of his grandsire’s hand brushed at those which brimmed.
“Of all that I would change, ’tis what is between you and Guy,” Roger whispered so low that Richard had to lean to hear. “Aye, I’d have you cry peace and cease tearing at your mother’s heart.” He looked up at Eleanor and murmured, “I’d be alone with him.”
“Aye.”
“You tire,” Richard choked.
“Aye, but there will be an eternity to rest later.” Roger dropped his hand and appeared to wait for more strength, not speaking until the door closed. He rallied then, his blue eyes showing some of their old intensity. “I’d feel your hand in mine, Richard.”
“ ’Tis there.”
“Guy—I’d hoped to see Guy again.” For a moment the young man thought him confused, but he spoke low again. “There’s been no better son to me than your father—aye, he makes me as proud as if he’d been born of my own blood.”
“No prouder than we are of you.”
“Richard … Richard. You cannot know what you mean to him.”
“My father—” He started to protest and realized ’twas not the time to vent his feelings about Guy.
“Nay—hearken to me. I had no son—but my daughters gave me the sons I lacked.”
“You should not speak, Grandsire. Nay, but let me hold you.”
But Roger ignored him. For a moment his eyes grew distant and Richard was afraid the end had come, but the weak voice grew suddenly in intensity, gaining strength as he talked again. “Given all that has passed with him, Guy of Rivaux has striven to make you a good man—I’d have you know that.”
“Aye—in his own image.” Richard fought the bitterness he felt, knowing it was not right to argue with a dying man.
“Not in his own image—never that. If there is anything Guy of Rivaux fears, ’tis that you will be like him.” The blue eyes cleared and fixed on Richard’s, burning them with the urgency of what he would say. “Aye, he fears greatly the blood he has given you.”
“I have heard Eudo of Rivaux was a hard man.”
“There’s naught of Count Eudo in you.”
Richard stared, uncomprehending. “Grandsire—”
“You were born of the blood of Belesme, Richard.” Roger’s Fingers tightened as he spoke, and he pulled his grandson closer to make no mistake of his words. “Aye, you bear the blood he hates.”
“Jesu!”
“For these twenty-three years I have waited for him to tell you of it,” the old man rasped, lying back. “But my time ends, and soon there’ll be none to tell the tale. Guy would but protect you from what he fears in his blood.”
Clearly his grandsire’s mind had wandered into the realm of fancy, and his ancient quarrel with Robert of Belesme had somehow intermingled in the final meanderings of his mind. Richard leaned forward and brushed the white hair back from the lined brow. “Hush—do not speak so much.”
“You think me daft, but ’tis my leg that rots rather than my mind. Your other grandsire—your father’s father—was Robert of Belesme.”
A shiver of suppressed fear shook Richard—and denial. “Nay, but Belesme was . . . Jesu, ’twould make my father a bastard.”
“I’d not tell the tale otherwise, but Guy feels as you do. And he mistakes his temper for the madness he saw in Belesme, Richard. Ever does he seek to control what he fears.”
“He’s spared me naught—he’d make me what I cannot be.”
“You did not know Belesme—we did.”
Richard looked down to where the blue lines of his own veins could be seen at his wrists, and he felt a sense of revulsion now for the blood that must flow through them. And so many quarrels he and Guy had had took on new meaning to him. Roger’s eyes followed his and he nodded, confirming yet again what he’d said.
“ ’Twas why he did not wish me to have Hellbringer then,” Richard mused aloud. “ ’Twas why it was William that gave it to me.”
“Aye—you have the look of Belesme.”
“Nay, I look as my father.”
“And he also.”
“And none knew of it?” Richard asked incredulously, still not wanting to believe. “Surely ’twas noted if—”
“Belesme was disfigured by then, and none remembered.” Roger closed his eyes and waited, seeking more wind. “ ’Twas too dangerous to tell—as it is now. You dare not speak of this to any but Guy.”
Part of Richard believed him then, but part still sought to deny. “Jesu, Grandsire, but there’s naught of Belesme in him! Belesme was devil’s spawn—mad, vile! Guy of Rivaux brought him to justice.”
“To atone for the guilt he felt over what Robert had done, Richard.”
He knew Roger had no reason to lie, but every rational feeling rebelled at what he’d heard. Richard closed his eyes as though he could blot out the thoughts that came to mind.
“I tell you what I told Guy then: ’tis not what you are born—nay, ’tis how you live and die.” He paused, straining for some resource to sustain him, and sighed deeply. “I’d leave you knowing that Guy of Rivaux has fought and striven against enemies of flesh and mind, that you have not had to fight them. Honor him for that.”
The latch lifted at the door and both men fell silent. A page crossed the room, his soft leather slippers scuffing almost noiselessly against the floor. He leaned close to Richard’s ear and whispered, “Your father is here.”
“Guy is here?” Roger struggled harder to pull himself up, and his face went white with the pain. “Sweet Jesu, but I’d see him.” His blue eyes met Richard’s for the last time. “Make your peace with him.”
“I will try,” Richard promised solemnly, leaning closer to kiss the weathered cheek. “Go with God, Grandsire, and know that you have my love.”
“And you mine also,” Roger whispered, releasing his hand.
Richard passed Guy wordlessly, his head bowed to keep from meeting his eyes, but his father stopped him. “Is he awake?” Guy’s face was lined with fatigue, but his flecked eyes mirrored a greater pain. “Your man found me ere I reached Gloucester’s keep, and I turned back in haste, afraid I would be too late.”
“He awaits you.”
Richard lifted his hand and dropped it, unable to speak further. There were so many things he’d know of his father, so many things to know when this was past. And so many quarrels to put behind them if he’d keep his promise. Numbly he turned away, scarce hearing Guy’s hushed greeting at the bed.
In the outer chamber, Eleanor caught him to her and wept. He stood holding her helplessly, thinking that a better man than he died. Finally his aunt moved forward to take her from him, leading her to sit on a cushioned bench. Brian FitzHenry looked up and wiped his hand across wet cheeks.
“There will not be another to equal him, I fear.”
“Nay, and well we know it,” Richard managed through his own tears.
The outer chamber was quiet save for the soft weeping of those who kept the death vigil with them. From time to time the physician rose and paced anxiously, complaining that they tired Earl Roger now with so many visitors, but Eleanor merely shook her head, saying that it was as Roger wanted it—that not every man had the opportunity to say farewell to his heirs. “And Guy of Rivaux and Brian are the sons I could not give him, so I’d not keep them away.”
It seemed an eternity they waited, but finally the door creaked open, and a dozen pairs of eyes watched Guy come out. Richard was stunned by the ravaged expression on his father’s face as Guy whispered, choking, “Brian, he would speak with you also,” before he turned his head into the stone wall and wept openly, his broad shoulders heaving with the great sobs that racked his body. In all of his nearly twenty-four years, it was the first time Richard had ever seen his father cry. Nay, but the Guy of Rivaux that he knew was strong and harsh, unable to love any but his wife and daughters, hard and unyielding to all others. With an effort, he forced himself to walk across the room and lay a tentative hand on his father’s shoulder.
“Nay, Papa—he would not wish it.”
“Aye, but ’tis hard to part with that which one has come to love,” Guy answered haltingly, turning into his arms.
For a time they stood, two men grown, holding each other tightly, both weeping. Finally Guy mastered himself, looking into eyes level with his own. “Art like him in many ways, my son, for there is a kindness in you that I did not note until now.”
Richard shook his head. “Maman says I am more like you than anyone.”
For a moment Guy’s face grew wary, and then his mouth twisted into a faint smile and his eyes lightened. “Aye, I could not deny you if I wanted.”
“ ’Tis my temper as much as my looks, Papa.”
It was as though darkness descended. Guy stepped back and turned away. “He told you of what I have given you,” he murmured tonelessly. “I would he had not—’twas a curse I’d not have you bear.”
“I think it means more to you than to me,” Richard told him quietly. “I knew him not and cannot therefore feel as much pain in the knowing. I only know I am proud to be Guy of Rivaux’s son.” And he did something he’d not thought possible. He leaned closer and kissed first one of Guy’s cheeks and then the other in the traditional gesture of peace. “Nay, I am not ashamed of anything I have of you.” Then, realizing that the chasm between them would be bridged slowly, that years of pain would not go away in one night, he grinned almost sheepishly. “Nay, do not think me a fool for this, Papa.”
“Jesu, but what a maudlin pair we are become,”
Guy murmured gruffly. But he draped his arm about his son’s shoulder and gestured to the stairs. “Come, let us walk apart. If there is aught you would know, I will try to tell it.”
24
The first time that Gilliane realized something was very wrong, there was an insistent, loud pounding on the heavy outer door, and angry voices could be heard as a crowd milled in the narrow street. The men Richard had left to guard her peered anxiously out the windows, and one shouted to ask their business there.
“Send out the harlot! Send out Rivaux’s fancy whore!”
Gilliane whitened, scarce able to believe what she heard. But even as she listened, she heard the chant grow. She ran to the upper story and opened one of the shutters to look on the crowd below. They were crudely armed, some carrying poles and others sticks. A stout woman saw her and pointed, directing the others.
“There’s the witch! Burn her!”
A hail of stones hit the house, forcing Gilliane back. She shuttered the window with shaking hands and tried to comprehend. A chill crawled down her spine as she r
ealized they’d called her a witch. Bernard, the knight in charge below, yelled back at them.
“Nay, but she is under my lord of Rivaux’s protection also!”
“The witch dried my milk!” someone cried out.
“Aye, and my dog has died since she has come here!” called out another.
“And my babe sickens!”
“Would you anger Rivaux?” Bernard challenged them. “Nay, but he would have her safe!”
“We’d free him from the witch’s spell!”
The clamor grew louder, and the crowd pressed forward, pushing against the bar latch, bowing it inward, to no avail. Richard’s knights drew swords while the merchant’s housekeeper and servants piled furniture to block the door. A sense of despair stole over Gilliane as she watched their almost frenzied preparations for an assault. They were but four armed men and half a dozen others against a mob crying for her blood.
For several hours the mob milled, gaining strength. One of the absent merchant’s servants, hoping to spare his master’s house, volunteered to escape from the back and seek help. But they caught him before his feet had scarce touched ground, and his cries of terror could be heard as the crowd tore him apart. Inside the house, the mood was grim, and it grew grimmer as those outside shouted their triumph at the arrival of a large beam for battering.
Bernard raced to the small stairs, hissing up at her, “Hide yourself as best you can, Demoiselle.” It was an impossible task—with her red hair, there was certain to be one to recognize her. For a brief moment she considered shearing it again, and then decided against it—it would make no difference, after all. Knowing the futility of what she did, she lay down and rolled beneath the curtained bed, holding her ears against the relentless thudding of the beam against the thick door.
“We are armed!” Bernard shouted at those who beat the heaving door.
But even as he spoke, the wood bar splintered against the concentrated weight of a dozen men, and Gilliane could hear the clamor as her defenders sought vainly to push ten times their number back. The howls of pain and the moans of agony carried upward while steel weapons and wooden pikes clashed in a murderous frenzy. And she could hear the retreat of Richard’s knights backing up the stairs. The room filled with the thunder of bootsteps, the closely confined slashing, and finally the crash of the shutters splintering with the weight of someone being thrown through them. And as some fought, others already looted, pulling down locked cabinets and stripping the sendal and baudequin hangings from the bed. She lay as still as stone, not daring to breathe.