by Anita Mills
“ ’Twas not often at first—only when he quarreled with you.”
Gilliane stood still, her stomach knotting within her. “With me?” she asked hollowly, not wanting to believe the awful suspicion that was taking root in her mind.
“But when your belly grew—”
“Jesu!” Gilliane exploded finally. “You accuse Simon—you accuse my husband?”
“I did not come to you because I did not think you would wish to hear it!” Annys cried out. “And he said if I told, he’d deny it! That he’d have me sent away—or condemned for a whore!”
“Does he know of the babe?” Gilliane’s voice was suddenly hoarse. “Did he think to hide it?”
“He knows.”
“And what did he say? What said he to this?”
“He said I lied—that I’d been with others.” The girl turned a tearful face to Gilliane, and her voice rose. “But I have not—I swear I have not, my lady! And I’d not go to a serf’s hovel for this!”
“Of course you will not,” Gilliane said soothingly. She sat down heavily beside Annys and stroked the girl’s thick blond braids. “Of course you will not.”
She believed the girl. Too often Simon had flung out of her solar, saying he’d find a more willing woman. But he’d found Annys instead, and Annys had been less than willing.
“I’d not go to a serf for wife.” The girl cried softly now, her face turned against Gilliane’s shoulder.
“Nay, lovey, but I’d not let it happen.”
“He’ll send me away.”
“Of a certainty he will not.” With a comforting pat, Gilliane straightened the girl away from her. “Nay, dry your tears and seek your bed until you are better. You have naught more to fear of Simon, I promise you.”
“He’ll beat me,” Annys sniffed.
“He will not—he’ll not touch you again.”
The girl rose uncertainly, hesitating before blurting out, “You do not hate me?”
“Why should I hate you for what you cannot help?” Gilliane countered. “Nay, if any should be faulted, ’tis he.”
Gilliane walked to the shuttered window and threw it open, letting the cold, snow-laden air blow in. Drawing a deep breath of it, she remembered how she’d first met Richard of Rivaux. Had he not wed, she’d have stayed with him, warm and secure in his love for her. But instead she’d made a bargain for her daughter, one she now regretted bitterly. The chill wind tangled her hair, whipping it about her face as she stared below at the piece of land that had once been everything to her. Slowly she closed and relatched the shutters, replacing the rags that had shut out the draft.
She crossed the room to where the babe lay, full and warm, in the cradle near the crackling fire. The tiny fingers curled even in sleep, drawn close to the small, perfect face. The red down of her hair contrasted brightly to the pale, lightly veined skin, and the rosebud mouth moved silently, as though she still sucked. Amia of Beaumaule, born of love and claimed as daughter by a man who already hated her.
Dropping to the bench beside the cradle, Gilliane rocked the basket gently, almost absently, and considered what must be done. With her determination to love Simon gone with Annys’ revelation, she could not bear the thought that he would touch her again. And yet a woman could not deny her husband. For a moment she considered fleeing, leaving Beaumaule behind, and taking her babe to Guy of Rivaux. But in doing so, she would openly admit her daughter’s bastardy, jeopardizing the babe’s claim to Beaumaule.
She sat thinking long, her mind in turmoil. Too many people depended on her now—too many for her to be weak. Nay, but she would fight for her babe, for Annys, and for her people.
32
Richard of Rivaux recognized the gold trim of Gilliane’s favorite dress as Simon of Woodstock placed his hands between Richard’s, and he felt a surge of anger and bitterness. As he looked down on the bent, graying head, he wanted to draw away, to strike a blow rather than accept the man’s oath. The man before him, poor as he was, had what Richard wanted most—Gilliane de Lacey—and he could think of naught else as he felt the callused fingers beneath his. Try as he had, he could not conceive of what had made her prefer Simon of Woodstock over him. Not even marriage seemed enough of an answer. He felt betrayed still, as much now as when he’d heard she’d wed. And those roughened hands that touched his now touched Gilliane de Lacey at will.
Simon, his own hatred of the man who stood above him barely contained, managed to get out the accepted words, muttering so low they were scarcely audible, “I promise by my faith that from this time forward I will be faithful to Richard, Lord of Celesin, Ancennes, Ardwyck, and lesser possessions, and that I will maintain toward him my homage entirely and against every man.”
“In good faith and without deception,” Everard of Meulan prodded.
His color rising, Simon fought the urge to spit at Richard. “In good faith and without deception,” he repeated, adding, “saving in matters that conflict with my allegiance to my lord king, Stephen of England.” He felt small relief when the other man’s warm palms released his hands.
“So be it, then,” Richard managed tersely. Taking the baton from his herald, he tapped Simon’s shoulder, intoning in sharp, clipped cadence, “Having received such from my lord Robert FitzRoy, Earl of Gloucester, I hereby invest you, Simon of Woodstock, with the manor of Beaumaule, secured to you and your heirs so long as you keep your faith to me and mine.”
Instead of raising Simon according to custom, Richard merely dropped his arms, growling, “I’d forgo the kiss of peace—’tis enough that you have sworn.”
It was done, then. Humiliated, Simon struggled to his feet, facing his new overlord. That Richard of Rivaux was of taller stature, physically stronger, and certainly handsomer than he did nothing to improve his temper. He stepped back, his jaw tightening visibly at the insult Richard had offered him.
“I’d return to Beaumaule with your leave,” he grunted.
“I’d have your castle-guard here.”
Simon was surprised and not a little chagrined at the order. While it was Richard’s right to take his feudal obligation in service as part of a garrison or as escort in time of peace, and certainly as soldier in time of war, Simon had not expected to be called so soon. “If it please your lordship, I’d serve later.” Then, deliberately baiting the man who rivaled him in Gilliane’s heart, he added, “My wife is with child, and I am loath to leave her.”
The thought of Gilliane de Lacey’s bearing this rough man’s babe was almost more than Richard could stomach. Every feeling revolted, and for a moment he thought he’d be sick. He waited, trying to master his rising temper, and lost the battle within.
“You lie!”
“Nay, she bears the heir to Beaumaule,” Simon spat back at him.
The desire to punish Simon of Woodstock and Gilliane overwhelmed him, and he struck out with the means at his disposal, not caring what it would do to him also. “Very well, then,” he snapped. “Tend your … wife”—it was an effort not to choke on the word—”but afore God, I’ll have your service ere the year is out. You’ll come to me here again in May, bringing your lady with you then.” He turned away, muttering, “I’d not have it said I deprived you of her company.”
Simon paled. He’d meant to taunt Richard with Gilliane, but he had no wish to bring her to Ardwyck, where she’d see her lover again. “Nay, the babe—”
“Bring the babe also.” Richard caught the disapproval in Everard of Meulan’s face and shook his head, dismissing it. “Nay, bring forth the next man who owes me fealty this day.”
Surrounded by men loyal to Rivaux, Simon had no choice but to withdraw with what little dignity he could manage. He turned stiffly and walked the length of the long audience hall, hating his new lord and wondering how many there knew he’d taken Richard’s leman for wife. And suddenly the rich samite tunic she’d made him counted for naught—he was still but Simon of Woodstock, lord of but Beaumaule. A
nd his wife’s lover, the sire of her babe, held power over him now.
“My lord …”
He saw the boy Garth waiting for him, his plain cloak wrapped about him, his face ruddy from the cold, and Simon knew why he had come. He held out his hand for her letter, dreading that she’d borne a son. Moving into the small antechamber, he looked to see that none watched him, and then he took the letter case from the boy’s hand, opening it.
“Do you know what it says?” he asked, not wanting to admit that he could not read.
“Nay.”
“But the babe came?”
“Aye, Lady Gilliane was delivered of a daughter two days ago at Beaumaule, my lord, and she would have you know of it.”
He should have felt relief at the news, but he didn’t. Instead, he took the letter and went in search of a clerk who would read it for pay. So the bastard had turned out to be a girl—how that must have rankled Gilliane, who’d probably thought to cheat him of Beaumaule with her babe. Well, she had not, and any sons she bore would now come from him.
He paid a penny to have the fellow read it thrice—once to hear what Garth had already said and twice more to verify that the babe was fair rather than dark. Amia—Jesu, did she think him a fool? Amia for Christ’s love? Nay, she’d chosen the name because she yet loved Richard of Rivaux. The daughter he was forced to claim—the daughter he already hated—was named for her love of his new overlord. Aye, and as poor as his Latin was, he knew it.
He left the clerk’s small office and almost collided with Everard of Meulan, captain of Rivaux’s mesnie. “Ill news?” Everard inquired.
“Nay.” Simon rolled the parchment and tucked it inside the neck of his tunic, unwilling to have it known that Gilliane had borne Richard of Rivaux’s babe. Aye, even a man-at-arms could count and surmise. Instead, he managed a semblance of a smile. “My lady wife would have me at home.”
“How fares she?”
He eyed Richard’s captain suspiciously for a moment and then shrugged. “She is as well as can be, I suppose.”
“You are fortunate in your lady.”
This time, Simon was certain he detected a hint of sympathy in the other man’s voice. “Aye,” he growled, unable to bear that Meulan knew he had taken Rivaux’s leavings.
“Give her my greetings then—tell her she has my regard.”
Richard’s captain moved on, leaving Simon alone with his resentment. Bring Gilliane here? Nay, but he’d not do it. He’d not risk being cuckolded for all to know. He’d say she was unwell—anything to keep her away from her lover.
“Methinks you like Rivaux no better than I do.”
Simon spun around guiltily, wary of the intrusion, and faced a thin, hake-faced man, who glanced furtively about them before moving closer. “He is overlord to me,” Simon responded cautiously.
“Aye, I have taken service with him also.”
Curious, Simon stared openly at the man before him, taking in that he wore the red shirt of Rivaux over the black hose of a household knight. “Art a mercenary then?”
“I serve him who pays me best—as should you. Those of us not born to the wealth of Rivaux must make our ways as best we can.”
“Aye.”
“I think him overproud—Guy of Rivaux’s whelp—and without his great sire, he would be as nothing.”
“He’d still be rich,” Simon muttered.
“A new king can raise a poor man.”
The hackles raised on Simon’s neck, telling him to be wary, not to betray his hatred of Richard of Rivaux, and yet he was intrigued that one of Rivaux’s own men would dare to speak so openly. “How are you called?” he asked, stalling while he tried to determine a motive.
“Talebot.”
“Methinks you are rather bold to speak thus of your master, Talebot.”
“You also like him not.”
“Aye.”
“You’d not serve him had you the choice,” Talebot persisted.
“Poor men have no choices,” Simon retorted bitterly. “We serve whoever claims suzerainty over what little we have.”
“There is always the choice.”
The younger man spoke softly, but there was no softness in the eyes that scanned Simon’s face, and Simon felt a chill, as though he ought to move away. “I put my hands between his—I swore to him. Nay, my feelings mean naught in the matter.”
“You swore homage save in matters pertaining to allegiance to your king,” Talebot reminded him smoothly.
“I have naught of the king—Beaumaule matters little to Stephen.”
“Would you be lord of more than Beaumaule?”
“What manner of question is that?” Simon snorted. “Aye, I’d be lord of the world if ’twere possible. But I am not a fool. If I break mine oath to Rivaux of Celesin, I will not even have Beaumaule.”
“Walk apart with me in the yard,” Talebot urged. “Aye, but there is more than one small fief to be had, Simon of Woodstock—there are lands for men such as you and me.”
Simon drew back, feeling very much like Satan tempted him. “I am not an oath-breaker.”
“Whom would you serve first—Richard of Rivaux or Stephen? Who can give you more?”
“Nay.”
“If Rivaux were dead, there’d be none to remind you that your lady wife lay with him also.”
For a moment Simon considered hitting the man before him. Instead, he turned to walk away. ’Twas too dangerous to listen to such talk.
“My lord of Brevise would reward you—as would the king.”
Again the hackles on Simon’s neck warned him, but he stopped, unable to resist hearing Talebot’s offer. Reluctantly he turned back, knowing he should leave instead. “Aye, I will walk with you, but I’d mistrust Brevise. William of Brevise wants but Beaumaule.”
“Nay—he aims higher now.”
Talebot held the door and waited for Simon to pass before him. As they traversed the gloomy corridor to the outer steps of the keep, neither man spoke. At the bottom of the stairs Talebot waved away a sentry and turned to Simon. “We cannot be heard here, I think.”
“Aye, only a fool would stand outside in the cold.”
“A fool or a cautious man.”
Talebot’s next words stunned him. “Brevise has little interest in the likes of Beaumaule—’tis this keep he would have. Aye, he would share in what Richard of Rivaux leaves after him.”
“Then he is the fool!” Simon retorted, disgusted that he’d listened to the man’s nonsense. “You yourself said Lord Richard is Guy of Rivaux’s whelp!”
“Count Guy will declare for the Empress—King Stephen is certain of it—and when he does, his lands will be forfeit. And the old lion, Roger de Brione, is dead.”
“Everyone remembers ’twas Guy of Rivaux that brought down Belesme!”
“ ’Twas years ago. Nay, but Count Guy is not so well-known in England—people know not of whom they sing.”
“God’s bones,” Simon muttered, “and this is supposed to concern me?”
“Unless you are a fool also.”
“You forget Gloucester. He would rise if any threatened either Rivaux. They are close allies.”
“Dead men do not rise—not on earth, anyway.”
“King Stephen would move against Gloucester?” Simon stared in disbelief. “Nay, the earl is too powerful.”
“Alive.” Talebot leaned closer, dropping his voice so low that Simon had to incline his ear to hear. “Stephen will not move openly against him—’twill be treachery.”
“It concerns me not.”
“Aye, it does. With Gloucester and Richard of Rivaux dead, there are lands, rich lands, to be divided among those who serve King Stephen. My lord of Brevise already offers me ten manors to spy on the whelp. He would do the same for you.” He caught at Simon’s arm to stay him. “Aye, if you were in his mesnie, when the time is right, you could strike the blow that takes Lord Richard from this world.”
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Simon shook free angrily. “You would make me an oath-breaker and a murderer!” he hissed at Talebot. “You would rob me of mine honor! I ought to betray you!”
He turned and strode halfway across the courtyard, his heart and mind torn by what he’d heard. Behind him, Talebot spoke clearly. “Nay, you will not, Simon of Woodstock. When all is considered, you will join me.”
33
Simon thought it odd that Gilliane did not come down to greet him on his return to Beaumaule, but then assumed ’twas because she still ailed from birthing the babe. Taking off his helm and gloves and divesting himself of his sword belt, he handed them to Aldred before crossing the yard to the tower. The steps were as steep as ever, but there was an eagerness to see her that made the climb easier than usual. Already his pulse quickened at the thought of her, her body now slender, relieved of the babe that he’d grown to hate.
She sat as always, drawn close to the light of the winter sun diffused through the oiled parchment she’d placed over the unshuttered window, her head bent over her exquisite embroidery. He stopped, his shoulders just clearing the stairwell before the open door, and watched her hungrily. Her red hair was unbound, still drying from a washing, and it gleamed brightly where it fell forward over her breasts.
“You should not sit close to the window when ’tis cold,” he chided her, his mouth dry with rising desire. “Draw your bench to the fire instead.” Negotiating the last step, he entered the solar.
She looked up then, and he was taken aback by the coldness in her blue eyes. There was no welcoming smile, no pleasure in his arrival. Setting aside the cloth she stitched, she rose gracefully, and he could see by the lacings of her gown that she was as slender as ever—save for the fullness in the breasts. But instead of walking toward him, she went to the cradle by the fire and picked up the babe, smoothing the soft red hair that fuzzed like down on the small head. For a moment she held the child close, nuzzling it and speaking softly. Then she carried the babe past him, calling down the stairwell, “Alwina! Come tend Mia for now!”