by Anita Mills
“What I will do … ?”
She’d started walking quickly away from him, but he was even more curious now. He caught her from behind, pulling her back between the kitchen and the garden wall, covering her mouth as she opened it to cry out. He could feel her whole body shudder beneath his hand.
“Listen to me!” he hissed, his palm still stifling her protest. “I know not what I have done to you, but I am sorry for it.” He leaned closer and her eyes widened like a cornered animal’s. “Jesu! You think I wish to bed you unwilling? Nay, but I do not wish to bed you at all, Cicely of Lincoln!” He released her then and stepped back, ashamed of himself for frightening her.
“But you will, because ’tis necessary.”
It came home to him then what scared her and, God aid him, he meant to use that fear. “Aye, I will have to. A man must have heirs, Cicely.”
She looked up, swallowing hard. “Art so big.”
“Smaller girls than you have carried babes in their bellies,” he reminded her.
“And died.”
“You are afraid to wed me because you think you will die carrying my babe?” he asked incredulously.
“Not just that.” She glanced downward below his belt and then looked away quickly, repeating, “Art a big man, my lord.”
“And you are afraid to lie with me also.”
“I have heard Maman’s tiring women speak of what happens, and I—”
“And you are afraid I will tear you apart.”
This time her face was as red as the roses she carried. “Aye,” she whispered, mortified.
He was torn between trying to allay her fears in the case that he did have to marry her and trying to give her such a disgust of him that she straightway refused to wed him. “A marriage is not binding without your consent,” he reminded her softly.
“And you think I have a choice in the matter?” she cried, showing more spirit than he’d expected. “Nay, but I do not! When I would speak of this to Papa, he is angered! ‘Nay Cecy,’ he tells me, ‘but I have found you a handsome husband—’tis up to you to please him’—and he will hear no more! Even Maman thinks I should be happy to have a man twice my size in bed,” she added with a tinge of bitterness.
“Aye, you are small,” he agreed, feeding her fear of him.
“And I have heard you have a wondrous temper, my lord—that you can be as fierce as your father.”
“Sometimes fiercer,” he admitted. “But so long as you please me, I’ll not beat you.”
“And that you have killed many men.”
“In battle.”
“That you tore a man’s head from his body with one blow.”
“Jesu, which one was that? Did I use Hellbringer or my ax—or did you hear ’twas my bare hands?” he asked, scarce hiding this amusement.
“Hellbringer?”
“Robert of Belesme’s sword.”
“You carry Belesme’s weapon?” She stared at him in horror, wondering whether to believe him or not.
“Aye. Would you wish to see it?”
She shook her head. “Nay, ’twould be accursed.”
“Cicely …” He tried to speak patiently now, fearing to push her too far just yet. “I am a hard man—as hard as my father before me—but I am no ogre. If we are wed, I will take my rights of you, but I will try not to harm you any more than necessary.”
“Can you not delay?” she asked desperately. “Can you not tell Papa that you’d wait?”
“Nay.”
“My lord, I’d not wed with you.”
“Alas, but there is no help for it—I have to take you or break my oath.”
“And what of the de Lacey? What of your whore?” she cried out. “Would you not lie with her instead?”
His eyes hardened, darkening, and the sudden fury in his face backed her up against the garden wall. “Gilliane de Lacey is no whore!” he spat at her. “A whore lies willingly for any man with the penny to pay her, Demoiselle, and that cannot be said for Gilly!” His hand snaked out, grasping one of her blond braids. “But what sort of wife would want her husband in another woman’s bed? Wed with me and I will be in yours!”
“And tear me asunder!” Tears welled in her eyes as she looked up at him. “Aye, you will hurt me in the taking, and make me bear sons for you!” She slid down slightly and slipped beneath his arm as he released her hair. “I do not want to wed with you!” she flung at him as she ran away.
“You tell the wrong man!” he shouted after her. He looked down at the spilled roses on the ground and felt an overwhelming ache for Gilliane de Lacey. Bending down, he picked one up and crushed it between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it until he smelled the sweetness that reminded him of the rosewater on her copper hair. And he wondered if she missed him too.
Supper had ended, and the harpers played whilst the jongleurs tuned their lutes and vieles in a corner of the hall. Richard beckoned a servant over to pour him more of the honeyed wine and then sat back to sip it pensively. At his side, Cicely of Lincoln remained silent, staring at the huge signet ring on his hand. Throughout the meal he’d taken every opportunity to emphasize what she feared most—his size. He’d laid his hand next to hers, had brushed against her arm while cutting her meat in her trencher, and had moved his thigh to touch where her gown lay over her leg. And each time, she’d recoiled. Telling himself that he did it as much for her as for him, he played the lover she did not want.
A page approached Lincoln and whispered to him something about “a man from Beaumaule,” only to be shunted away with a frown. But Richard’s interest was piqued on the instant.
“Beaumaule? God’s bones, but I’d hear any who comes from there, Thomas.”
“ ’Tis but a messenger.” Lincoln shrugged and motioned the boy back. “Bring him here, then.”
Richard recognized the man wearing his colors immediately and beckoned him forward, certain that he brought ill news—that Brevise had attacked again before the earlier damage was repaired. The fellow pulled off his red felt cap and went down on bended knees to deliver Simon of Woodstock’s letter.
Breaking the wax at the end, Richard opened it and began to read, his face darkening as his eyes traveled down the page. Heedless of his host or the company, he exploded with a string of oaths that bordered on blasphemy and rose furiously, knocking the bench from behind him with such force that it flew off the dais.
“I will kill him! Afore God, I will! Jesu, but the impudence of the man!” His fingers shook as he scanned the letter again, and then he flung it away. “He’ll not keep her—not so long as there is breath in this body!”
“My lord—”
He turned on Lincoln with full fury then. “ ’Tis because of this accursed marriage that she left me! Nay, I’ll not stand for it, d’ye hear? He can wed her, but he cannot keep her!”
The hall lapsed into stunned silence as he pushed past those still seated at the long trestle tables and left. Everard of Meulan rose from his seat toward the back of the hall and followed him. Lincoln bent to pick up the discarded letter, then signaled to his steward to bring on the jongleurs while he read. Turning to his wife and daughter, he could not contain his glee at Simon’s message.
“You need fear the witch’s spell over him no longer,” he chortled. “Aye, the whore of Beaumaule has wed!” He sat back in his high-backed chair and reread Simon of Woodstock’s curt message. “And whether it angers him or no, there’s naught Lord Richard can do about it.” Leaning past his wife to address his daughter, he crowed, “Aye, Cis, but the last impediment to your marriage is gone. When young Rivaux realizes she is lost to him, he’ll wed.”
The girl blanched and her supper rose from her stomach. Covering her mouth, she left the table and ran for the door. Lincoln stared after her in disbelief. “God’s blood, woman, but your daughter acts as though good news makes her sick. ’Tis time you schooled her in what is expected of one who will be twice a countess! Aye, and I’d
have you cease filling her head with foolish notions,” he grumbled, turning back to his wine.
His own countess sighed, cognizant of the ingratitude of the girl. “She would be a nun, she says.”
“A nun!” he fairly howled with indignation. “A nun! Madam, you have raised a fool! Look at the man—sweet Jesu, but there’s not a maid in Christendom who’d not have him if he had nothing! Nay, but your daughter has no wits!”
The morning was still early when the Earl of Lincoln was summoned to his daughter’s bed, and his temper was already strained. A brief unsatisfactory interview with his prospective son-in-law had been for naught, and the young man was leaving for Celesin forthwith. That he found Cicely lying amid pillows with a basin beside her, looking as wan as if she’d been ill a month and more, was almost more than he could bear.
“Get out of that bed and bid your betrothed farewell with a pleasant countenance,” he growled. “I’d have him come back for the wedding ere long. Aye, and if he does not choose a day soon, I will appeal to King Stephen.”
“I am too sick, Papa.”
“Pinch her cheeks and put on her best dress—I’d have him remember her thus,” he ordered her tiring woman.
“Nay.” Cicely lifted her hand and let it fall wanly. “I am sick, I tell you.”
He moved closer, eyeing her suspiciously. “You were well enough yesterday.”
“ ’Twas supper mayhap.”
“You ate of the same trencher as Rivaux.”
“I feel as though I am poisoned, Papa. Nay, but I cannot be in the same place with him without this, I tell you.” She raised up to spit into the foul-smelling mess in the basin. “I’d not wed him.”
“Aye, you will. I have a contract—”
“He sickens me, Papa—he frightens me!”
“God’s blood, girl! What nonsense is this?” Lincoln exploded. “You’ll get out of that bed if I have to pull you out! Aye, and you’ll dress in your finery and—”
“Nay, I will not.”
“Leave her be, Thomas,” the countess spoke up. “Would you have him see her whey-faced and ill ere he leaves? He does not appear overeager for the match as it is,” she reminded him. “Would you give him cause to withdraw, saying she is unhealthy?”
“ ’Tis no cause!” he snorted. “There’s naught wrong with the girl that a good beating would not cure!”
“Aye,” she agreed mildly, “but will he know that?”
While he doubted it possible to annul the betrothal on such grounds, since the girl was neither diseased nor badly blemished, he had to admit that Rivaux might attempt it. “Very well,” he snapped. “Then let her stay abed until she is well. But I warn you, Cecy, that I mean to send to Rivaux as soon as you are well, demanding that he honor his oath to take you.”
“Aye, Papa,” she managed weakly.
He moved closer, reaching to touch her head, which was cold and clammy, and then looked into the contents of the pan and nearly retched himself. “ ’Tis but something you ate,” he muttered finally, retreating.
The countess followed him out, leaving Cicely with the woman who had attended her since her birth. The girl pulled herself up in bed. “Take this away—I know not where you got it, but it smells.”
“ ’Tis the gorge of a man who had too much wine.”
Cicely pulled out the wet cloth from beneath the covers and tossed it onto a bench. “Well, I think they believed me, Ada.”
“Aye—this time. But he will come back, Demoiselle.”
“And when he does, I shall take to my bed again—if I have to spend the next three years in this bed, I’ll not wed him. I’ll not be torn apart bearing babes for a man whose temper frightens me. Ever have I been the dutiful daughter, but I cannot do this. Nay, but I will be sick at Lammas also.”
30
Autumn came to Beaumaule, bringing it with cooler, crisper weather that made Gilliane’s pregnancy easier to bear. The sickness had subsided, but her belly had grown and the child had quickened within her, taking on new meaning to her. As she could feel it move, she began to love it intensely, praying daily for its safety and health.
And a big belly was not without its blessings, for as she grew ungainly, Simon ceased making demands on her body, turning his attention fully to Beaumaule itself. She rose, restless now despite the fact that she had a full two months more to wait, and walked to the narrow window. The cool, almost chill breeze blew her skirts about her legs as she surveyed the changes he had made.
The moat was wider, deeper now, having been dredged completely and refilled. And a new garde robe had been built out over the side of the tower, flushed by new pipes that had been built into the wall from the cistern above it. Wooden scaffolding embraced the beginnings of another tower, and fresh lumber still smelling of its sap lay seasoning in the yard for next spring’s rebuilding of those structures that had burned. Simon worked ceaselessly—she could not deny that—lavishing all of his love and care on Beaumaule, taking all his pride in the keep.
Already new timbers crossed like skeletal ribs ready for a roof where the old hall had been. She felt a pang of regret remembering how she’d met Richard there, the way he’d looked as he pulled her after him, his face cold and impassive beneath the shadow of his nasal. She’d thought him the enemy then. But he was neither cold nor an enemy—not then anyway.
His reply to Simon had been terse—he’d ordered his small garrison to fall back to Ardwyck for the winter, leaving the protection of Beaumaule to “Simon of Woodstock, husband to the Lady Gilliane.” That was it—there’d been no recriminations, no other word even. The only others who’d appeared to be interested in Simon’s assumption of lordship over the keep had been Stephen, who’d charged him but five sheep in relief or inheritance tax, and Brevise, who’d taunted him with “You and the whore you have wed cannot hold it once Rivaux is gone.”
For once, Simon had shown sense over pride and sought out Gloucester, giving his oath and securing the earl’s writ of protection, a copy of which he’d had carried to Brevise. So long as Gloucester remained in England and continued his uneasy truce with Stephen, Brevise dared not move against them. But as always, rumors of an impending rift abounded.
Reluctantly she closed the shutters against the breeze and turned back to her needlework. She sewed almost incessantly now, making things for her babe, the finest things she dared afford for this son of Rivaux. What she could not obtain in fabric, she made up for in intricate embroidery, taking care that each small garment had lavish borders.
“You’ll go blind without light.”
Simon came in and pulled up a bench to watch her, keeping his eyes on her hair and the chiseled profile of her face. He could not bear to look lower now, and he longed for the day when she no longer carried the unwelcome reminder that Rivaux had had her first. He burned now, burned with the wanting of her, but whenever he ran his hands over the swell of her belly, whenever he felt the kicking of the bastard within, he felt so cheated that the lying with her was worse than the wanting. He rose and moved behind her, where he could no longer see the advancing pregnancy.
His callused hand smoothed the red hair that shone like a torch in the dimness of the room. “I think your hair is what I like best,” he murmured. “I was used to dream of it even when you were but a little maid.”
She tensed, fearing that he meant to bed her, and he felt it. “Nay, I would not,” he muttered, dropping his hand. “I will wait until you drop your bastard.”
He’d long since fallen into the habit of referring to her babe thus when they were alone, and it rankled her. “My bastard,” she reminded him evenly, “is all that ensures your lordship here. Were there no child, there’d be no claim.”
“I’d get my own babe of you.”
“Simon, ’twas the bargain we made—you accept my babe and gain Beaumaule.”
“Aye, but I did not know it would be like this. I did not know that the babe would be all to you, and I would
be as naught.”
“You have Beaumaule.”
“I want no more than that.”
It was the way he said it more than what he said. There was a yearning there that she could recognize, for ’twas what she herself had felt when she knew Richard would wed. And she felt guilty for what she could not give him. “Aye,” she sighed. “Mayhap when the babe comes ’twill be different between us.”
“Aldred asked me what I would name it,” he mused aloud.
“They think it your right.”
“Even the old priest says it should be named for me, Gilliane, but I could not bear it.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I’ve leave it to you, that I thought you meant to name it for one of your brothers that died, and that I did not object to it.”
“Simon, ’twill be yours by birth—there’s naught you can do now to deny it. Holy Church holds that unless it can be proven that we did not lie together in the year before its birth, ’tis yours.”
“Aye.”
“I’d have you cease calling it my bastard then.”
Her needle darted expertly, making bright, intricate stitches around the neck of the tiny bleached linen shirt. With an effort he tore himself away from her and dropped again to sit on the bench. Even though he was lord now, even though he could claim Gilliane, the gulf between them was as wide as ever, and he felt it acutely.
“How much longer?”
“Until the babe comes?”
“Aye.”
“I have hopes of Christmas. Alwina says she judges ’twill be then.”
“Jesu! ’Tis two months and more,” he complained.
“Lady Gilliane?”
Both of them turned to where one of Beaumaule’s men stood in the stairwell. When Gilliane nodded, he emerged to hand her a parchment case. Irritated that there were still those who looked to her, Simon reached across to take it, opening it.
“Fetch the priest.”
“Nay, I can read it,” she murmured, her heart leaping as she recognized Richard of Rivaux’s seal.