by Anita Mills
“Nay. Go home to Maman. One of us has the right to be happy, Papa.” Richard sighed. “And ’tis not your fault I have gotten myself into this coil.”
“It will be dark within a few hours.”
“Aye.” Richard ran his fingers through his hair as he was wont to do when distracted. “I will send Everard and two others to question any who may have seen her and Garth leave. And on the morrow I mean to take to my saddle and look until I find her. There’s little enough to be done on a moonless night.”
Guy clapped him on the shoulder and turned to go back to the outer room. At the doorway he tried one last time. “Richard …?”
“What?”
“Have you considered that after all that has befallen her, Gilliane is tired of being called your whore? That she has no wish to be beaten and spit on and humiliated further?”
“I’d wed her.”
“Alas, you cannot—who would recognize the marriage?” Guy’s hand lifted the latch and pushed the door open. “Think on it.”
Suddenly weary of the incessant struggle within him, Richard picked up the skin and filled his cup again. Carrying the brimming goblet to the bed he’d shared with Gilliane, he sat for a time sipping his wine and thinking. There had to be a way. If Lincoln … Nay, Lincoln wanted the marriage. And his father was right: if he somehow found her, what had he to offer? If he wed her while still contracted to Cicely of Lincoln, his marriage would be invalid and his children bastards. He closed his eyes briefly and saw how Maud had received her, and then he saw again the terrible bruises inflicted by yesterday’s mob. Jesu, he knew not how she could sit her horse, for she could scarce walk. Aye, she must have been terrified to have taken such a beating.
He drained his cup again and flung it to the floor, where it rolled, clattering against the wall. Mayhap it was wrong to go for her, mayhap he should free himself from Lincoln’s daughter first. If Gilliane were under the care of nuns, there’d be none to harm her there, and if some miracle happened, if some impediment could be found to bar his contracted marriage, then he could offer her not only his protection but also his name. Aye, he’d find her direction, he’d know where she went, and he’d send money so that she would not be a poor penitent there. But what if she thought to take the veil? He did not think it likely, but then, he’d not thought she’d leave him. And then he realized that even if she had such an intention, ’twould be a year and more before she’d be received into any order.
With that comforting thought, he rose and walked to the door. Guy, who hunched over a table in earnest conversation with his own squire, looked up.
“Your pardon, Papa. I should not have accused you.”
“You were overwrought.”
“Aye.” He moved into the room and reached to take a piece of cheese from the table. “I am decided to order a search for Gilliane, but I do not mean to go after her yet.” He waited as Guy digested this sudden change, and then he nodded. “Aye—I am for Lincoln.”
“Lincoln,” Guy echoed, stunned.
“ ’Tis time I became acquainted with Thomas of Lincoln and his daughter, I think.”
27
It was St. John’s Day—June 24, 1136, the day she’d chosen for her meeting with Simon of Woodstock. Gilliane rose early and dressed with care, choosing a plain blue gown and girding it about her waist with the golden chain Richard had given her at Christmas. Her red hair had grown past her shoulders now, but it still lacked the length to braid it properly. For a moment she considered weaving the false hair into it, but then it seemed somehow wrong to do it.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, she began to worry that he would not come after all. And part of her feared he would. She paced the small cell, composing what she wanted to say to him. It would be difficult, she knew, for what man would accept such an offer? A landless man, she told herself fiercely, bolstering her flagging courage.
For ten long days she’d waited, torn between hope and doubt. And more than once she’d wanted to turn back, to seek out Richard of Rivaux and take what she could of life. Aye, and if she’d been the only one to consider, she would have done that. But there was Cicely of Lincoln and there was her own babe.
She heard riders then, and her heart stopped as it always did when any approached, but this time it was no large retinue to remind her of Richard of Rivaux. She drew her bench beneath the small high window and stood to peek outside as two men entered the walled courtyard. Nay, it was not Richard. These men were shabby in comparison, dressed in dark tunics pulled over dull and mottled mail. The one lead dismounted, tying his horse to the iron ring in the wall, and removed his battered helm. It was Simon of Woodstock come on the appointed day.
His blond hair seemed lighter in the summer sun, and his face darker, as though it had been weathered in sun and heat and rain. He looked toward the bell tower, squinting upward, and then he frowned. Leaving his companion behind, he walked slowly, limping slightly, to the building where she waited, and she could hear him ask of the prioress and be directed there.
It was not long ere they came for her, their disapproval written on their faces. She smoothed damp palms over her gown, drying them, and then took a deep breath before following the two nuns down the narrow corridor. And for the first time she believed he’d deny her.
“Lady Gilliane.”
The prioress, a dour woman who’d received her grudgingly enough, motioned her forward. Turning to the man who waited, she offered, “You may be private here until the bells ring sext.” And to Gilliane she murmured almost by afterthought, “ ’Tis Simon of Woodstock who seeks speech with you.” Brushing past her so close that the rough cloth of her habit touched Gilliane’s gown, she left, closing the door after her.
“Simon.”
He started to kneel, but went only half down on one knee, apologizing, “My leg was wounded in a skirmish this spring and has not yet fully healed.”
She took in his bared head, noting the sprinkling of white with the blond, and passed a nervous tongue over dry lips. “You look well.”
“As well as can be in Clifford’s keep.”
“He is a hard lord?”
“He is a lean master who keeps his money to himself. Thrice he would have cheated me of my due had I not complained. But no matter.” His blue eyes seemed oddly pale against his bronzed and lined skin. “ ’Twas not to inquire of Clifford that you sent to me, I think.”
“Nay.” She clasped her hands together and then unclasped them, seeking to find the words to broach her business with him.
He cleared his throat, his own discomfiture obvious, and looked at her. “You look well also, Demoiselle.”
“Simon …” She sucked in her breath and then let it out in a rush, blurting out, “You once asked me to wed with you, did you not?”
He stared and then nodded warily, wondering where she led him. “Aye, and I had not the right.”
“But you loved Beaumaule,” she prompted him.
“Aye.”
“Rivaux has rebuilt part of it, Simon, but there is still more to finish.” She turned her back to him, not wanting him to see her face as she confessed, sighing, “You once asked what Rivaux would have of one whose lands could scarce be bled.”
“I should not have spoken thus.”
“Aye, you should, for you were right.” She closed her eyes for a moment and plunged ahead baldly. “He wanted me for leman, Simon, and God forgive me, but I went willingly.”
“And now you are here—he tired of you.” The flatness in his voice betrayed that he took it for fact, that he did not question.
“Nay, I fled. Simon, would you have Beaumaule still? Would you wed and give your name to the babe I bear for the sake of Beaumaule?” As the silence between them grew until she could not stand it, she turned back to him. “I’d not bear a bastard, Simon, and I have Beaumaule to give.”
In all of his years of warring and surviving, he’d thought he had seen and heard almost everything
, but he could only gape at the girl before him now. Two things assaulted his rational mind: she offered him land and she carried another man’s child. But his heart still leapt in his breast, and he knew he wanted her still. But he’d not appear too eager—not if he’d be master of her rather than her servant in this. And he’d punish her for what she brought to him.
“All a man leaves this world when ’tis done is his blood,” he answered carefully. “Does Rivaux want the child?”
“He does not know of it, and I’d not send a bastard to live where there will be legitimate heirs. If ’tis a son, I want him to have Beaumaule.”
“God’s bones! And what am I, then—the mantle that cloaks your babe?”
“You will rule Beaumaule, Simon,” she answered softly. “And you will claim my child for your son or daughter. If ’tis a son, your name will go on, and if ’tis a girl, then your blood will rule.”
He faced her, taking in the bright hair and the soft, delicate skin, knowing that she would make him the envy of any man. “You will lie with me then?”
She swallowed, fighting the gorge that rose in her throat, and nodded. He moved closer and she steeled herself not to back away. A shiver of apprehension traveled down her spine as his callused hand cupped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes, eyes that burned now with recognizable desire.
“You will be wife to me and lie with none other?”
“If we are wed, I will honor my vows.”
His mouth came down on hers, and his mail-clad arms wrapped around her, crushing against her spine. There was no gentleness, no tenderness in this first kiss between them—only a hardened warrior’s physical need. She stood still within his arms, letting him take what he would, and tried not to cry out as his mouth bruised hers.
When at last he released her, his breath came in harsh rasps. “Aye, Gilliane de Lacey, I’d be husband to you.”
“So be it.”
He looked down, his gaze falling to his shabby clothes. “I’d have a bath and a barbering, but I’ve naught else to wear. You find the new master of Beaumaule yet a poor man, Demoiselle.”
“I have sewn a tunic for you whilst I waited—aye, and chausses also.”
“You knew I’d take you.”
“I thought you’d take Beaumaule.”
“ ’Tis more than Beaumaule I’d have,” he reminded her as his face twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Aye, and I’d wed here today. I’ll send Aldred into town to seek lodging for us for tonight, but we will have to travel to Beaumaule on the morrow.”
“Aye.”
He turned to leave, then stopped in the narrow door, his back to her. “And when does this son of my name arrive? Will all count and know?” he asked, his voice tinged with a bitterness he could not hide.
“Between Christmas and the new year, I think.”
“I’d save my given name for the second one then. This one you can call any but Richard and I will not care.”
“Simon?”
“Aye?”
“When we are at Beaumaule, I’d not have it known—I’d have my people think ’tis your child I bear.”
An almost derisive snort escaped him. “I doubt me he will be blond.” Then, realizing she could well change her mind, he added, “But I will spread it about that my mother was dark also.”
“And I’d have you send for Alwina. She is at Celesin still, for Ri … for ’twas thought she was too old to travel to London.”
“Aye.” For some reason, that pleased him. He would be lord of Beaumaule when he had the priest write to demand the return of the woman. “Aye,” he repeated.
Gilliane stood still for a time after he left, and felt a sense of unease about what she had done. Finally, telling herself that she was in no way worse than most of her class, that few had any choice in a husband, she shook off her misgivings. At least her babe would inherit Beaumaule.
Gilliane knelt beside Simon of Woodstock in the chapel of St. Agnes to receive the priest’s blessing. Unlike Richard, who would wed Cicely of Lincoln amid great pomp and ceremony, she’d given her vows at the church door before asking God’s blessing. She closed her eyes and prayed that in this hard, silent man beside her she would find something to love.
It was over quickly, this wedding devoid of ceremony, and she was wife to Simon of Woodstock for good or ill. The priest brought forward the marriage lines to sign, and she managed to scratch “Gilliane de Lacey, once Demoiselle of Beaumaule” beneath where the priest had noted “Simon of Woodstock, his mark.”
They emerged into the priory courtyard, where the sun shone with a brightness that belied the sadness in her heart. Aldred and Garth led forward two horses apiece, while the prioress bade her good-bye and Godspeed, admonishing her to be a good wife and please God. Impatient to be gone, Simon cupped his hands and boosted her onto her horse, then mounted his own.
At the inn where he’d taken lodging in the stable loft, they shared a meal of roasted duck, cheese, and bread, washed down with ale, and he spent the last pennies in his purse, saying ’twas fitting as ’twas the only time he meant to wed. Then, to let the loft cool from the summer’s heat, they walked through the town, winding through the merchants’ stalls along a riverbank. Stopping to admire a bright silk scarf, he dug deeper within his purse and drew out a small broken brooch.
“The stones can be pried from it,” he told the fat merchant who displayed his wares. “And I’d have that scarf for my lady.”
“ ’Tis not enough.”
Simon’s jaw worked as he fought his temper. “Nay, but ’tis a bridegift for her.”
The fellow behind the table took in Simon’s weather-roughened skin and his callused hands and relented. “Aye, ’tis fitting for a pretty lady.” He dropped the broken brooch into the box where he kept his money and held out the scarf to Gilliane. “God’s blessing on you this day, lady.”
Despite the heat, Simon insisted on tying the scarf around her hair, saying that a married woman ought not to go about uncovered like a peasant. His hand dropped proprietarily to her shoulder, and she tried not to draw away, telling herself that she had given him the right to do what he would with her. But as she felt his rough palm catch in the cloth of her gown, she could not help but think of Richard.
They walked back to the inn slowly as the sun lowered, stopping to eat the rest of the cheese and bread he’d bought, and then climbing the ladder to the loft. It was still hot, and the straw felt steamy beneath her feet. Garth opened the wide doors used to pitch the hay into the courtyard below, and a warm breeze blew across, stirring dust in the closeness of the half-dark room. Aldred unrolled two pallets, setting one next to Garth’s and the other near the open doors. It was then that the enormity of what she’d done came home to her—she’d share Simon of Woodstock’s vermin-ridden sack of straw this night.
He looked up, catching her stricken look, and it angered him. “Nay—I paid a woman at Clifford’s keep to wash and refill it ere I came. I like fleas no more than you.”
Outside, the street grew quiet save for an occasional cart, and the summer insects hummed loudly. Below, the horses milled within their stalls, waiting as the ostlers pitched fresh hay and carried water to them. Gilliane moved to the loft doors, cooling herself in the breeze, and looked down into the darkened yard.
Behind her, Simon stripped eagerly, hungering for the feel of her flesh beneath his. For years at Beaumaule he’d watched her from afar, not daring to think of her thus, but now she’d turned to him, now she was to be his. And for this brief time he forgot that she came not a virgin to him, that she carried another man’s child. Instead, he watched her gown billow from her body and his mouth was dry with desire.
“Come to bed.”
He stood there like a stallion ready to mount a mare. She blinked, closing her eyes, as her face reddened with the realization that he expected her to lie with him in the presence of Garth and Aldred. When she did not move, he walked closer, bending so c
lose she could smell the ale on his breath. His hand reached for the chain at her waist, unhooking it, as his other arm slid around her shoulders. Richard’s golden girdle fell at her feet.
“Please.” She swallowed hard, fighting revulsion at the crudeness of his embrace. “Nay, I cannot—not before them. I—” She tried to bring her hands up between them, pressing against his chest. “Oh, sweet Mary, but I cannot.”
“Leave us then,” he ordered over his shoulder, still holding her. Then, as their footsteps could be heard on the ladder rungs, he released her, staring at her with glittering eyes. “Take off the gown.”
“Nay, I—”
“ ’Tis my right, Gilliane—I’ve not given my name for naught.”
“Aye, but, Simon, ’tis so sudden, and—”
“You cannot say you have not known a man before,” he gibed cruelly, stung that she did not want him. His hand reached to cup a breast through the softness of her gown and he leaned to kiss her. “Take it off,” he croaked as his mouth left hers.
This then was the price she paid for her babe. She turned her back to him and pulled off her gown, shivering in her undershift despite the heat. “Lie down and I will come to you,” she whispered. “You will have your right.”
She slipped the thin cambric over her head and walked to where he’d taken to his pallet. And despite the rebellion of every fiber of her being, she dropped to her knees beside him. She could hear the sharp intake of his breath and then felt him pull her down against the hard, lumpy pallet.
Willing herself not to cry, she let him explore her body roughly with his callused hands as they moved covetously over her shoulders, her back, and her hips. His mouth grew hot and insistent, his breath came in gasps. Without waiting for her acquiescence, he rolled over her and forced her legs apart with his knees, taking full possession of what his name had bought. She stiffened at the first hard thrust and then fell slack, lying beneath him passively until his body collapsed, his passion spent. There were no love words, no gentle easing when he left her. He rolled off as abruptly as he’d mounted her, and he lay staring upward into the darkness.