by Anita Mills
His men came in quietly, slipping back and forth to fill the heavy round tub, and then Walter of Thibeaux tested the water before pouring in a vial of perfumed oil. “ ’Tis ready, my lord.”
Richard stood, stretching muscles tired from two days of riding, and untied his chausses. Before he could stop her, Gilliane knelt awkwardly to unfasten the leather cross-garters. And as she struggled to rise, he was conscious again of the hurt she’d taken, hurt brought about by Brevise, and new anger coursed through him.
“I should not have left you here,” he accused himself bitterly.
“ ’Tis not your fault alone I am called a whore and a witch, Richard. Nay, but what I have become, I have done willingly.”
“Gilly—”
“Nay, I’d not speak of it further, my lord.”
“If I had but found Brevise!” he exploded.
“Then you would have killed him—aye, think you I do not know what you would do for me?”
She looked up at his naked body, seeing again the hard muscles of a fighting man, taking in the still- red and puckered scar that dented his shoulder. And then she looked again at his face, taking in the strong planes and curves, the clean, straight profile, and the eyes. Even if he had been ugly and misshapen, those dark, gold-flecked eyes would have made him beautiful, for to her they were a mirror of the man within. “Aye,” she repeated softly, “you have given me much to love in you.”
“Gilly—”
“And if you do not take your bath, I’ll not be able to stay in this room with you,” she added hastily as he stepped toward her.
He stopped, dropping his hands. “Aye. Jesu, Gilly, but art hard on my overweening pride. In one breath you tell me you love me, and in the other you say I stink.” But incredibly, he was grinning. “I’d keep you with me if for naught else but to make me humble.”
“Nay, you will have Cicely for that.”
“Gilly, I’d not speak of her.”
“Then take your bath.”
He stayed up late, talking to his father about how best to take William of Brevise—whether he should seek royal redress for what had happened or whether he should search and fight his cowardly enemy and risk royal wrath. One course would again drag Gilliane’s name before those who would judge her rather than her attackers, and the other might well send him into exile. In the end, Guy’s pragmatism prevailed: they would wait for Brevise’s next move and see that it was his last.
As the floating wick in the bowl of oil sputtered, signaling that it was about to drown, Guy finished the last of his wine and, setting it aside, leaned across the trestle table, his eyes intent on his son. For three whole days there’d not been a cross word between them, and he hesitated to strain their newfound peace. But he knew Gilliane de Lacey’s situation was desperate, and he’d promised not to reveal her secret, so he’d try to aid her as best he could.
“You cannot keep her much longer, Richard.”
“I cannot let her go, Papa.”
“Think on it,” Guy persisted, “and think on what is right for her. This day she was almost murdered because of what she is to you.”
“I should have left more men,” Richard retorted defensively.
“And think of the shame she suffered at court— would you condemn her to a life of that? Once you are wed to Lincoln’s daughter, her shame increases, and you make her an adulteress.”
“Jesu, Papa! Do not tear at me! I accept that I must take Cicely! But I’d not abandon Gilliane for her—I’d not.”
“And what if she conceives of you? Would you—”
“Think you I have not thought of that also? I’d acknowledge the child as King Henry did his, and I’d love it for whence it came.”
“Nay.” Guy’s voice was gentle, but the message brutal. “Nay, you’d bring a bastard into a household where it has no legal standing—you’d let a babe suffer for the pleasure you have taken with the mother. Ask your uncle—ask Brian FitzHenry what ’tis like to be a bastard, or Gloucester. And they were royal bastards, Richard—yet both would say they have borne much for their birth. If you believe it not, ask Gloucester why he lies with none but Mabel, and he will tell you he’d offer no child what he has had to bear. Though he is the better man, there’d be few to support him as king—because he is a bastard.”
It was something that had tormented Richard when he’d first taken Gilliane to his bed, but as the months passed and it had not happened, he’d begun to think it wouldn’t—that mayhap she was barren. His duty to Cicely of Lincoln was a cup of gall to be swallowed, but his loss of Gilliane would be impossible to bear. He stared into the dregs of his wine like a soothsayer seeking answers.
Guy, knowing he’d planted the seed at least, leaned across to grip his son’s hand in comfort. “Think on it—’tis all I ask. I have not the right to make such decisions for you now—art a grown man.”
“I’d not let her go, and she would not wish it,”
Richard decided finally. Rising slowly, he tried to ease his aching shoulders. “And I am too tired to think on anything tonight.”
Guy remained at the table after he had left, wondering if there could not be some way, if there was not something he could do to ease his son. All of his life he’d fought and striven hard against so many enemies, and he had won. But all his wealth and all his power did not seem to matter in this, the happiness of his only son. The fact that he should have stood firm, stood against Gloucester in his opposition to the betrothal made no difference now. What was done was done in the eyes of the Church. Or was it? But there would have to be a reason, and even if he could find one, ‘twould be too late. The Church moved slowly, and took years to resolve such things, and it was not likely that Lincoln would draw back from the betrothal, not when Richard stood but a pulse away from the earldom of Harlowe. Gilliane de Lacey could bear half a dozen children ere it could be determined that Richard’s betrothal was invalid, particularly if Lincoln fought to enforce it. Nay, but as painful as it was to all of them, Gilliane was strong enough to choose the right path. And then he thought of Cat, his beautiful Cat, and knew how hard it would be for Richard to lose his Gilly. But he was not the only loser—already Guy felt a sense of emptiness knowing there would be a child born of them that they would never see.
Richard undressed in the darkness, taking care not to waken her, and eased his body into the deep feather mattress. The ropes and leather strappings groaned slightly with his weight, and she turned against him, proving she did not sleep. His arm slid around her, drawing her close.
“Are you in pain, Gilly, that you are awake?”
“Aye,” she lied, grateful that he could not see her swollen eyes.
“Would you have me salve you again?”
“Nay.”
He lay there stroking the softness of her hair against her shoulder, thinking of what his father had said. For a moment he considered asking her how she would feel if she conceived of him, and then he abandoned the idea. It would serve only to give her something else to worry her, and she needed no more pain. Instead, he stretched his body closer against hers and nuzzled the hair that fell forward over her temple.
He made no move to take her, choosing to hold her instead, and they lay in close embrace, savoring the warmth and nearness of each other. Finally, thinking he hesitated because of her injuries, she eased her hand from beneath the covers and reached to stroke the hardness of his shoulder.
“You need not fear to take me,” she whispered.
“Nay.” His arms tightened protectively around her as he shook his head against hers, and his breath was light and soft in her ear. “ ’Tis for more than that I love you, Gilly. I can wait for you to heal.”
In another time, it would have made her heart sing to hear him say it, but this night was different. She swallowed hard, thinking how soon it would be that she’d not feel his arms around her and not know the closeness of loving him again. As the time drew nearer to leave, she was loath eve
n to sleep, lest she waste what there was.
The silence in the room was almost loud as neither of them slept, not daring to voice the thoughts that plagued them, until finally she roused slightly and asked, “I forgot—’tis the morrow that you swear to Stephen, is it not?”
“Uh? Oh, if ’tis the fifteenth of June,” he murmured, yawning finally. “Aye, and I’d have you go to watch.”
“Nay, I’d have none see me like this.”
“You could go veiled.”
“And have it said you brought your whore again to court against Queen Maud’s wishes?”
“You are not my whore to me, Gilly, but I leave it to you to decide if you go. Now, try to sleep so that you will heal.”
26
Neither Richard nor Guy spoke much as they rode back from Westminster, each feeling less than at ease with what he had done. For Guy it had been a difficult decision to swear to Stephen, and only the fact that the Empress had made no move to stop her cousin’s usurpation of her throne had allowed him to do it—that, and the fact that he, like Gloucester, fully expected the pope to rule Stephen’s claim invalid and reinstate the oaths they’d all taken to Mathilda. For Richard it was a different matter. He’d not sworn fealty to her and yet he was loath to give his allegiance to a man he neither liked nor respected. And it particularly worried him that somehow Stephen would find the means to be a threat to Gloucester.
“Well,” Guy decided finally, “ ’tis done, and there’s naught to keep me here longer.”
“Aye.”
“I’d go home to Rivaux—it has been a month and more since last I saw your mother, and I’d be away from her no longer.”
“Do you bring her to Harlowe?”
“Nay, not for a time. I’d find it hard to bear sitting in his place, and I am afraid your grandmother would think it necessary to leave, that Cat could rule in her stead.”
“You do not think she will be lonely now?”
“Eleanor? Your grandmother is a remarkable woman, Richard. We spoke of that, and she said she could face whatever was left to her, knowing that she’d go again to Roger at the end. Besides, Aislinn stays with her for a time, seeing that she wants for naught.”
They rode through streets so narrow that their escort followed in twos, each silent again until they turned into the small lane. And it was Guy who spoke again. “And you? Do you go to Lincoln now?”
“Next month.” Richard squared his shoulders as though he faced a writ of execution. “For now, I take Gilly back to Celesin to spend these last days with her there. And once I am wed to Cicely, I suppose I must wait until she conceives before I go home.”
“It is not right to leave your wife in her father’s keep.”
“Nay, and it is not right to break Gilly’s heart,” Richard snapped with asperity. “Jesu, Papa, but there is no right in any of it!”
“If I could, I’d break the contract for you, my son.”
There was a genuine regret in Guy’s voice that gave Richard pause. “Aye, I know it.”
“But you are of an age, and I can think of no impediment. Loving elsewhere carries little weight with Holy Church.”
“ ’Tis a mull of mine own making, Papa. My greatest regret is that ’tis not just I who pay the cost of what I have done.”
There was naught more to say on the matter, each having dwelled on it until he was sick of it. Stephen, the Empress’s indecision, Richard’s marriage, Gilliane—all weighed heavily on a newfound but fragile understanding. Richard leaned across the pommel of his saddle to touch his father’s arm.
“I do not forget I am Rivaux—I’d not shame you.”
“You never have.”
Ostlers awaited them, ready to stable the horses. Still in court dress rather than mail, Richard swung down and walked toward the new door. And his mood, which had been heavy since he’d placed his hands between Stephen’s, lightened. He’d tell Gilliane they were going to Celesin, that he’d bargained for more time.
He’d half-expected her to be waiting at the window, her needlework spread across her lap, but the front chamber was empty. “Gilly!” he called out. “Gilly!”
But the house was ominously silent. He strode to the room where they slept, thinking perhaps she was abed, still nursing her hurts from the day before. But that room was empty also, and he experienced an awful sense of dread. The hairs on his neck raised, warning him.
“The Demoiselle bade me give you this.”
He spun around to face the woman who’d tended them during their stay, and one glance told him that she was afraid to hand him the parchment in her hand. He stared, unwilling to take it.
“Where is she?” he demanded hollowly.
“She left with the boy.”
“And none stopped her? God’s bones, but—” He lifted his hand as though to strike, and then dropped it. Nay, but after the vengeance he’d taken for those who’d dared touch her in the street the day before, none of his men would have wanted to restrain her. And he’d taken those closest to him for escort to Westminster, leaving but some of Guy’s knights and his wounded. Numbly he reached for the parchment, taking it now.
My sweet lord, I recommend me to you, and pray that you will forgive me for seeking shelter with the holy sisters, and that God also forgives me for what I must do.
The Maid of Lincoln must be your wife in fact as well as name, and you must honor her for what she will be to you. ’Tis her right rather than mine to have your love, and I have come to accept that.
I pray you do not regret what has been between us, for I do not. Love me for what I have been and love her for what she will be. May God in His mercy care for you and keep you in His grace always. And I ask you to pray for me also. Fare thee well, Richard of Rivaux, from Gilliane de Lacey.
“This is all she left?” He read the letter again, his eyes scanning it with disbelief. “Nay, but she would not—she cannot have …” He turned to where Guy stood in the doorway and his fingers shook as he held out the letter. “Oh, Jesu, Papa—she has gone from here.” He felt as though he’d been stabbed, that he stood a dead man waiting to fall. And then the ache in his chest tightened, intensifying until he could not bear it as he realized his loss.
Guy nodded. “I am sorry for it.”
“Sorry for it! Sorry for it!” Richard’s voice rose nearly to a shout. “Nay, but she cannot! D’ye hear me? She cannot!” He cast about wildly for some sign of her, moving to throw open first one cabinet door and then the other, experiencing an initial relief when he saw the rich gowns and then acknowledging that she’d taken but her plainer clothes. Picking up the chest that still held much of the jewelry he’d given her, he flung it across the room with such force that it cracked the plaster over the stone wall, splintered, and spilled its contents in a heap on the floor. Then, kneeling over it, he let the pieces slide through his hands before he leaned his head into the wall.
“Richard!”
“She took naught but the girdle and the heart.” He spoke low. “She took naught else of what I gave her.”
“Richard!” Guy repeated, reaching to pull him up.
“Art satisfied, Papa? You and Lincoln and Gloucester have your wish! She’s gone!” He turned away, kicking viciously at a bench, sending it crashing against the floor. “Aye, I will take Cicely of Lincoln! May she not rue the day she has me in her bed!”
“Get him a cup of wine,” Guy ordered the terrified housekeeper over his shoulder. “And bring the skin.” Still holding his son’s arm, he tried to calm him. “God’s blood, but this does not answer, Richard! Would you force Gilly to stay against her wishes?”
Richard wrenched away with such force that he staggered into the heavy curtained bed, caught at the hangings, and tore them from the frame as he fell. “Aye!” he shouted back. “Aye, I’d keep her! She is mine, d’ye hear? Mine!”
Guy took the cup from the woman and moved to stand over him. “Drink this,” he ordered curtly.<
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Brushing his father aside, Richard disentangled himself from the heavy curtains and struggled to his feet. “I do not want to addle my brain, Papa—I want Gilliane de Lacey back!”
“Aye, and she is a free woman! You have no claim!”
“No claim! No claim?” his son howled, and then he stopped and turned around. “You forget—Stephen confirmed me as her guardian. Nay, but I have but to go after her—to find her,” he managed in a calmer voice. “Aye, and when I do, Lincoln can come for me in Byzantium, Papa.”
“Where? There are a thousand nunneries and more—where do you think to find her?”
“I’ll find her,” Richard promised grimly. He reached for the cup and drained it, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his crimson samite overtunic. Mastering himself, he picked up the letter she’d left him and read it again, this time aloud to his father. “I can feel the pain, Papa—I can feel what she must have felt. Jesu, but I thought I could wed Cicely and keep her, but I see now ’twas not so. Nay, she has the greater claim. Lincoln’s daughter is but tied to me with parchment.” He lifted the letter and held it beneath Guy’s eyes. “Gilliane de Lacey is tied to me by my soul.”
“You know not where she went,” Guy repeated.
“Then I will look—if I have to seek every nunnery in England. Nay, but she cannot have gone far, one girl and an unarmed boy.”
“And if she does not wish to be found?”
“I will make her wish it.”
“I would not speak of this to Lincoln yet, Richard.”
“Nay, I’d not alert her enemies that she is alone and unprotected.” He was outwardly calm now, but his mind raced ahead to the task that faced him. “There has to be someone who saw them leave. The old woman—someone has to know or to have heard her speak of this.”
“I think you are wrong to do what you do,” Guy murmured, pouring himself a cup from the wineskin. “But if you wish it, I will go with you.” For a moment he considered betraying what he knew, and then he thought better of it. When his son did not find her, he’d come slowly to his senses and honor his commitment to Cicely of Lincoln. Aye, if it were possible that he could wed Gilliane and give his name to her babe, it would be different. But no matter how painful it was now, it changed nothing.