by Anita Mills
“I have lain with penny whores who have pleased me better,” he muttered finally.
She swallowed back tears of humiliation and tried to conciliate him. “Simon, ’twas too soon. I cannot just—”
“I’ll warrant you lay better for him. Aye, I doubt you lay like stone for him.” He turned on his side to face her and twisted her hair cruelly, forcing her to look at him, and his eyes were hard in the darkness. “The time will come, wife, when you moan and pant beneath me as much as for your highborn lover—d’ ye hear me?”
“Aye, and so will Garth and Aldred.”
“I care not.” He lay back, silent for a time, and then turned his back to her. “Get some sleep—’tis a long way to Beaumaule,” he growled finally.
She turned away, seeking as much distance as possible on the narrow pallet. Tears spilled onto her cheeks and rolled unchecked as she dared to remember another time, another, kinder lover.
28
After years of poorly rewarded service in other men’s households, Simon of Woodstock reveled in his newfound status as lord to even a small keep. Almost immediately he set about enforcing his authority over his wife, her land, and her people. From the moment they first sat outside Beaumaule’s newly repaired gates, Gilliane realized she’d made his obsession reality.
He reined in, drinking in the sight of the small castle thirstily, straining forward in his saddle to admire what to another man would be as naught. Gilliane watched his pride lighten what had been a grim face most of the ride, and she followed his gaze. Even from the distance, she could see that Richard of Rivaux had ordered much done, for the blackened stakes of the old stockade were gone, replaced now by a new rock curtain wall that extended further out than the old one to take advantage of a rise in the terrain. And above the wall itself, Beaumaule’s lone square tower still stood, its soot-blackened walls keeping vigil over less than one hundred hides of land.
“I mean to get back what your father and brothers lost,” Simon said finally. “Aye, I will make Beaumaule what it once was. I’d be lord of more than this.”
“Rivaux has done much,” she murmured, scarce attending him as she studied the new wall.
“Rivaux—Rivaux,” he mimicked sarcastically. “He has not done one-tenth of what Simon of Woodstock will do.”
“His pennon still flies here.” Her heart lurched at the sight of the familiar black hawk peering down from its crimson banner, and for the first time she worried about her welcome in her own keep.
“ ’Twill not fly there long,” Simon muttered grimly. “Aye, I’d have naught to remind me of Rivaux here.”
“Stephen confirmed him as my guardian.”
His eyes narrowed, growing cold as they raked over her. “Your husband guards you now, Gilliane de Lacey. And I’ll not wear the horns of a cuckold for you.”
“And you’ll not speak to me thus,” she responded with equal coldness. “Without me, you’d have no claim to Beaumaule.”
“I mean to have it all, Gilliane—the land and you.”
He turned away from her, leaning across his pommel to watch the few sheep that grazed on the gentle slope of a grassy hill, and his expression changed abruptly. It was as though he counted each one, coveting it, letting his eyes wander over the wattle-and-daub huts slowly, exultantly.
“Aye, I mean to have it all—and more,” he half-whispered. “I’ll not be a beggar in Clifford’s keep again.”
Then he seemed to catch himself, and straightened. Clicking his reins and nudging his horse with his knee, he approached the closed drawbridge, stopping only at the spiked timber bridge nest. Across the narrow moat, a red-shirted guard hailed him.
“Nay, but who comes?” he called out.
“Simon of Woodstock, lord of Beaumaule by right of marriage to the Lady Gilliane! I am come to take possession of what is mine!”
Had it not been for the authority in his voice, they would probably have laughed at him, for there were but the four of them—two men, one boy, and a girl. But Rivaux’s man looked down at them curiously, and then turned to confer with another guard on the wall.
“There is a man here who knows the lady!” he shouted back again. “Have her uncover her hair!”
The muscles of Simon’s jaw tightened until they twitched, and his hand went to his sword, an impotent gesture for one on the outside. Finally he nodded. “Show your head,” he ordered Gilliane curtly.
“Aye.” She lifted off the scarf, baring the coppery waves. Raising her arm, she waved to the men on the wall. “Let us in, good people. ’Tis I—’tis Gilliane de Lacey!”
Simon reached across to knock her arm down roughly. “Nay, but I’d not have you overfriendly,” he hissed at her. “You will conduct yourself as befits my lady.”
Stung, she retorted, “Art unused to ladies, Simon of Woodstock, and cannot instruct what you do not know.”
For an instant she thought he meant to strike her. But at that moment the bridge began to lower, distracting him, and he merely dropped his hand. Taking her reins, he urged his horse in front of hers, leading her into her own keep. And, once inside, when one of Rivaux’s men stepped forward to dismount her, Simon brushed him aside to lift her from her saddle.
As she slid down, her body against his, he leaned into her and growled, “I’d have none other touch what is mine, and I’d have you remember that.”
“I told you at St. Agnes that I’d honor my vows,” she retorted, pushing him away.
“Aye.”
For the moment, it seemed she’d pacified him, and he turned to the man he took to be in charge. “You may deliver the keys to the castle to my wife.”
The fellow hesitated. “We received no word of your coming, and my lord of Rivaux—”
“She is the last de Lacey,” Simon snapped, “and you cannot deny her right to be here—nor mine as her husband.”
“Aye, but—”
“Simon …” Gilliane laid a restraining hand on his arm and hissed in a low underbreath, “We are but four, Simon, and have need of their goodwill. Tell him you will write to Rivaux of Celesin.”
“Gloucester is overlord here,” he muttered.
“Aye, but he supported Rivaux for guardianship.”
“I’d ask Richard of Rivaux for naught.”
“There is no other way.”
Finally Simon nodded grudgingly and spoke aloud. “I will write to your lord of what has passed,” he told the red-shirted man. “Aye, and whilst we wait for his answer, I’d take the lord’s lodgings here.” The two guards looked blankly at each other. The one who’d been silent spat on the ground and considered the matter. “Well, there’s naught but the one tower for sleeping, sir, and all are bedded there.”
“How many?”
“We are but thirty garrison.”
“How many from Beaumaule?”
“Seven.”
“Jesu! And thirty men built this wall in a matter of months?” Simon demanded incredulously.
“Lord Richard granted relief from rent for services and the villeins have done the heavy work.”
His hand still resting possessively on Gilliane’s shoulder, Simon looked around the small courtyard where the stable, the granary, and the main hall had been cleared away, leaving a blackened open space where once they’d stood. A rough shed at the other end now served for a stable; wooden stalls that had been leaned against the base of the single tower appeared to be used for everything else. The second man followed Simon’s visual inspection of the yard and nodded.
“Aye, there is not much left save the tower and the chapel, is there? Lord Richard has ordered that new windows be fitted over the chapel and a carved stone over the boy, but they are not done yet.”
Simon noted then the small stakes driven into the packed earth to mark off portions of the yard. “And those?”
“A new kitchen and a new hall. We have lived poorly here whilst rebuilding, but I was told that Lord Richard himself is de
termined to build another two towers inside the wall and to connect them with upper walkways. Would you see the drawings he has sent?”
“Nay,” Simon muttered tersely. “I’d see to the clearing of a chamber for my lady and myself.” Then, looking at Gilliane, he squeezed her shoulder, and his eyes warmed. “ ’Tis not meet that she should sleep in a common room with the others. She should have a bed with a mattress of feathers and hangings to keep out drafts.”
Clearly, he viewed such a thing as a great luxury, but it nonetheless touched her that he would want her to have it. For the second time in the clay and night they’d been wed, she felt sympathy for him. In his own way, he was trying to give her something beyond what he himself had experienced. But later, when she tried to thank him for it, he merely shrugged and said if she had no stature in the keep, then he had none.
While Simon sought out the garrison’s chaplain for the purpose of drafting a letter to Richard of Rivaux, Gilliane unpacked his meager possessions, carefully folding his two tunics and laying them within the ancient cabinet. Despite all that had passed since that cold December day, she felt a sense of homecoming as she surveyed the tiny solar she’d once thought relatively fine. But that had been before she’d seen Rivaux or Celesin or the Lombard merchant’s house. Yet, despite all she’d seen, Beaumaule was still the place of her childhood, the place where she’d fought and teased and played with brothers and sisters now gone. Her place. Aye, for good or ill, she was mistress of Beaumaule now in fact as well as in name.
The old bed that had been dismantled when she’d left was found and put together with new ropes. And one of the villeins’ wives aired and beat the mattress to freshen it, but Gilliane had little hope that it would not still smell of smoke. Her small tasks done, she dismissed the woman and moved about, idly opening and closing boxes and cabinets, thinking she would have to see what, if anything, of Geoffrey’s could be made to fit Simon. In the last box there was a scrap of the crimson velvet and some tiny pieces trimmed from the precious vair, remnants of the cloak she’d sewn so carefully for Richard. She stared, thinking it seemed so long ago now, that so much had passed since then.
She heard heavy steps on the stairs and hastily closed the box, turning around guiltily as Simon stooped to clear the low archway of the door. He stood, not speaking, watching her.
“Did you send your message?” she asked warily.
“Aye, and if the priest wrote what I asked, I expect to hear again from Rivaux of Celesin forthwith.” He stepped into the room, kicking a bench aside. “The fellow didn’t want to write what I asked.”
Her stomach knotted uncomfortably, but she managed to keep her voice calm. “You should have brought it to me—I’d have written it for you.”
“Aye, I’ll warrant you would,” he gibed. “Would you tell him that you lie with me now, that you’ve given his bastard my name?”
“I’d not have him know of it, Simon. I’d not have you tell him.”
“Aye,” he sighed. “And I did not. I’d not have it said that the babe you bear is not mine—I’d have no man’s pity.”
“What did you write to him, then?”
“I told him that I wedded you and that I’d be lord of Beaumaule now. Aye, I said all that was right and meet to say, Gilliane, but it pained me to say it.” He moved closer and reached to twist a strand of copper hair around his finger. And he felt her flinch at his touch.
“God’s blood, but is he that different from me?” he demanded, pulling her head closer by the hair. “I’ll warrant that you did not jump away when he touched you, else you’d not have gotten a babe.”
“Simon—”
“This is Simon of Woodstock, Gilliane—not a fool! For six long years I watched you here, and I wanted you even then, but you had no eyes for one beneath you. Aye, you did not even know how many years I had—I was naught but your brother’s poor captain then. But now you have as much need of me as I of you, and if you’d have me cover your shame, you’ll lie as willing for me as for him.” His voice dropped low as he released her hair and let his hand drop to trace the bone along her shoulder, eliciting an involuntary shiver. “Nay, Gilliane, but you’ll not deny me what you gave to him.”
She was suddenly frightened of the rough man before her, but she knew she dared not show it. Instead, she broke away and moved to the window, hoping he would not follow. “I did not deny you what was your right, Simon.”
“I want more than that.” He came up behind her and turned her around, forcing her chin up so he could look in her eyes. “I want what you gave Rivaux.”
This time she did not flinch. “I had but one maidenhead to give,” she answered evenly. “And I have lain with you.”
“Lie with me now then, and show me what you did for him. I’d feel you alive beneath me.”
She wanted to cry out that she could not, that she did not love him as she loved Richard, but she dared not. But neither could she give him what he wanted. She met his gaze soberly and exhaled slowly. “If I am dead beneath you, Simon, ’tis because my heart is sore. Give me time, and I will be a good wife to you.”
“There is no time, Gilliane,” he told her hoarsely, his hands moving to her shoulders. “Before your belly grows, I’d like to pretend that mayhap I could have put the babe there—then mayhap I will not hate it as I hate Richard of Rivaux.”
His arms went around her, holding her against him, and his mouth sought hers hungrily, his teeth gnashing against hers, forcing her to take his tongue. For a moment she thought she would gag, for she felt no passion. But she tried; she twined her arms around his neck and molded her body into his, thinking that somehow it would be possible to feel something. But it was as though he was doing what he did to someone else.
His mouth left hers to croak, “I’d have you show me how you lay for him, Gilliane.” With one arm still around her, he picked her up and carried her toward the bed. Then, laying her down and working her gown upward to expose her legs, he straddled her and undid his chausses, while very fiber of her body revolted against what he was doing.
It was over quickly—a few angry thrusts and then he cried out. He drew back on his haunches and stared hard into her open eyes. “ ’Tis no wonder he left you,” he muttered. “Or is it that I am not good enough for you—that you think yourself too fine a lady to lie with me?”
The acute queasiness she’d been feeling rolled over her like a wave, engulfing her. She barely had time to scramble from the bed to vomit into a basin. She leaned over, holding on to the rough stone wall for support as she retched until there was naught left to bring up. He rose from the bed and retied his chausses before dipping a corner of his tunic in water. Pulling it up, he tried to wash her face.
“I am sorry that this crude touch of mine sickens you,” he told her bleakly. “I’d not wanted it this way.”
She caught her breath finally as the last of the sickness passed and managed to shake her head. “Nay—’tis but the babe.”
And in that moment, Simon knew he hated Richard of Rivaux’s unborn babe as much as he hated the man. Between the two of them, they’d cheated him of his dreams.
29
It did not take long to discover that Richard’s greatest ally was Cicely of Lincoln herself. Although the earl had welcomed him openly, his daughter was far more subdued and disinclined to his company. In fact, whenever it appeared likely that she would be expected to entertain him, she managed to plead illness, so much so that Lincoln was fast losing all patience with the girl, telling his wife, “If she persists in this nonsense, I will beat compliance into her.”
But Richard did not realize the depth of her aversion to the marriage until the second week of his sojourn there, when at supper Lincoln allowed that they’d waited far too long to tarry further—that he’d have the marriage solemnized the day after Lammas, August 2. Richard almost choked on his food, and a quick, covert glance at Cicely revealed that all the blood had drained from her face. For some reason,
the girl was loath to wed him.
It took him two more days to discover her alone. As he emerged from the armorer’s stall within Lincoln Castle, he caught sight of her crossing between the garden and the kitchen, the skirt of her over gown held up to form a bag for the roses she’d gathered. He hastened to catch up with her, waiting until he was almost even to call out, “Demoiselle, I’d walk with you!”
She started guiltily, releasing her skirt and dropping the roses at her feet. Gallantly he bent to retrieve them, collecting most of them from the ground and handing them to her. She flushed, taking the flowers reluctantly, as though they’d somehow become tainted, and she backed away slightly. It was the first time in his memory that he’d met a girl who had not openly admired him from the beginning.
“If we are to wed, do you not think it wise that we should at least speak?” he murmured, reaching for her elbow. “Come, I’d speak with you where we can be alone.”
“I’d not be alone with you, my lord.”
His black eyebrow rose slightly. “Am I wrong to think you’ve no wish to wed me?”
She was very small and delicate, beautiful in a fragile way, and his sun-bronzed hand seemed huge on her arm. She looked down at it as though she were held by a serpent, and then she glanced about them to see if any could hear.
“Nay.”
“Then I’d walk alone with you and hear why you have taken me in dislike.”
Her color deepened against the fairness of the pale gold hair. “I’d not speak my foolishness to you,” she managed, shaking her head.
“Cicely, if you would talk in riddles, I cannot aid you.”
“I want no aid of you!” she cried out, wrenching away from him. “Do you think kind words can make me forget what you will do to me?”