by Anita Mills
And for once, the old woman’s face softened. “Nay, tell him of the babe, and he cannot but understand.”
“Nay! I cannot—and you must not either, Alwina! I’d have your word that you will not! ’Twas for my daughter that I left him—I’d have her heiress to Beaumaule rather than bastard to anyone! Do not make what I have done be for naught, I pray you.”
“Aye.” The old woman turned to place a sugared rag in the unsatisfied babe’s mouth, hoping to still her crying.
“Give me your word, Alwina.”
“He’ll know—even a man knows enough to count.”
“If he sees her not, he’ll not know when she was born.”
“Aye, I’ll not tell him.”
Gathering her skirts about her as though she gathered courage, Gilliane started up the steps. Her mouth was dry and her palms wet, and her stomach seemed to have risen into her throat. With thudding heart she managed to make the last turn in the narrow, winding stairs.
Stepping just inside her solar doorway, she faced him. “My lord, I’d not undress or bathe you in my husband’s absence. He—” She got no further, as he’d crossed the room to tower over her.
“I did not ride two days to hear you gainsay me, Gilliane de Lacey!”
Her hands clenched in the folds of her skirt as she raised her eyes to his. “Then why did you come?” she asked with a calmness she did not feel.
“To see for myself that you have taken Woodstock for husband! To hear from you that you chose him over me!” His hands reached to grab hers, forcing them open, lifting them before him. “Look at yourself, Gilliane de Lacey, and tell me I did not offer you better than this!”
She stared downward into her roughened palms, palms that had helped scrub and clean and rebuild Beaumaule. “He wed me, my lord.”
“I loved you, Gilliane.” He dropped her hands and looked away. “Aye, I clothed you in silks, draped you in jewels, and gave you my heart, Gilliane de Lacey—all for naught.”
His voice had dropped, but it carried as clearly as if he’d still shouted. She swallowed hard, attempting to speak over the awful aching lump in her throat. “I am sorry for it, my lord.”
“Sorry, Sorry?” he hissed intensely. “Nay, but you are not half so sorry as I mean to make you and the husband you have taken!”
“My lord, ’twas not my intent to wound!”
“Wound!” he howled, his voice rising again. His eyes raked her contemptuously, his mouth curving in a sneer. “Holy Jesu, but you know not the meaning of the word!”
“I swear I am sorry for the pain,” she whispered, turning to stumble for the stairs.
“Nay—we are not done, Gilliane.” He lunged past her, blocking the doorway with his body. Then, facing her, he reached behind him to throw the latch bar. “I’d have my bath and more of you this day.”
“You’d dishonor me, and I—” His face blurred before her, blotting out all else as his hand grasped her arm painfully, pulling her close. And she felt again the hard strength of his body, but this time there was no gentleness in him. She closed her eyes tightly, squeezing out tears of humiliation, as his mouth came down on hers as brutally as Simon’s. Twisting her head away, she managed to gasp, “You would take me for revenge.”
“Revenge? Nay,” he whispered back, his lips again seeking hers, his arms closing about her body, his anger fading to hunger and desire.
He’d been unprepared for the feel of her, for the softness he’d nearly forgotten in his bitterness, and the old fire flared unbidden between them. One of his hands caught at her braids and cradled her head while the other moved incessantly along her spine and down over the curve of her hip, seeking to mold her closer. And all the time, his lips sought, teased, and took, moving to trace increasingly urgent kisses from her earlobe to the sensitive hollow of her throat. And she responded ardently, arching her head back to give him access, pressing her body achingly close. And for a moment she allowed herself to experience the desire she’d thought had died.
But it was wrong to let him touch her again. With an effort, she broke away and clutched at the door-jamb for support. “I … I cannot. Sweet Mary, but I cannot!”
“I thought I hated you,” he rasped, staring at her from where he stood, “but part of me would love you still.”
“I swore my marriage oath to Simon, Richard, and ’twas not lightly given.”
“Why? Why did you take him over me, Gilly?”
“ ’Twas not over you! ’Twas never over you!” Her voice rose almost hysterically as she cried out, “I wanted to be more than a rich man’s leman!”
“And are now but a poor man’s wife!”
“Aye, but I am wed—in the eyes of Holy Church I am wed, Richard! My sons will not be bastards! If my sons cannot stand beneath the banner of Rivaux, they can rule Beaumaule!”
“Beaumaule. Sweet Jesu, but ’tis naught, Gilly! I could have given our sons lands far greater than this scrap of ground you value so highly.”
“But could you have given them your name? Nay, but I’d have borne babes with naught but a Fitz to your name!”
“I told you when you first came to me—when first we lay together—that I would wed you if I could, Gilly.”
“Aye, if you could—but you could not!”
“As well you knew from the first!” He took a step closer and held out his hand. “Nay, I’d not quarrel with you, Gilly, not when there’s so little time here.” He spoke softly now, reaching out to her. “I’d lie in your arms again and remember love.”
She wanted to take his hand more than anything, but she dared not—to touch him again would destroy what little resolve she had. Instead, she backed against the door and lifted the bar. “Nay, but ’tis my husband’s honor as well as mine own.”
“Gilly, I cannot live like this. You have cast me into hell. At night I burn, wanting you, and by day I hate you for it.”
“Please—”
“You would tear at my very soul for that which I cannot help, Gilly.”
She thought he meant to move yet closer, and she knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Turning the iron latch handle, she backed out onto the step. “As hard as ’tis to say, my lord, I’d tell you what I tell myself: if you burn, lie with your wedded lady. Lie with Cicely, Richard—only she has the right to your love.”
“I did not wed her, Gilly. Unlike you, I could not.”
“Simon of Woodstock gave my babe a name, Richard.”
She’d not meant to tell him, had sworn to herself she would not, and yet the words had escaped. Taking advantage of his shock, she turned and ran down the steps, not stopping at any landing until she reached the safety of the ground. And then she stood shaking against the hard, rough stones of the tower wall.
Too stunned to call her back, he stared after her as the realization came slowly that he had a daughter, a babe born of his blood and Gilliane de Lacey’s flesh. Amia of Beaumaule was his babe also. Amia—named for love. And then he followed her, running down the winding steepness of the stairs and catching up to her in the courtyard below, where she stood, her tears spilling down her cheeks and wetting the soot-streaked yellow limestone.
“Gilly …” He spoke gently now, his hands reaching to touch her shoulders and turn her around. “Why did you not tell me, sweeting?”
“You saw how I was received at court—you saw what those people in London did to me. Nay, but I could not bear a bastard child, Richard.” She raised reddened eyes to his face and met his gaze squarely. “I did not wish my babe to grow to hate me for what people said I was.”
“Jesu!”
“I thought to give my son legitimacy—and Beaumaule. I thought I owed him that. But ’twas a daughter.”
“And Woodstock knew?” he asked incredulously.
“Aye.” She sighed heavily and looked down again, digging at an embedded twig with the toe of her slipper. “He wanted Beaumaule. To you ’tis naught, but to a landless man ’tis
everything.”
“Gilly, bring the babe and come with me.”
“Nay. When I wed him, I swore to Simon I would lie with him and none other. I cannot go with you.”
He knew defeat then. He searched her face for hope and found none. And then he noted the bruises he’d mistaken for shadows earlier. He lifted a hand to brush back an errant strand of copper hair, and he studied the discolored marks.
“He beats you,” he observed soberly. “The swine beats you, Gilly.”
“Because of what I was to you. I was glad you called him away to your service.” She pulled away from his touch and traced the outline of a stone with her fingers. “Please—for whatever love you bore me, Richard, I’d have you leave ere he returns.”
“If he touches you in anger again, I will kill him,” he promised her grimly. “If you will not come now, you have but to send to me.”
“Aye.”
“And I’d still punish Brevise also.”
“Nay, I absolve you from the oath, my lord. Brevise rises too high in Stephen’s favor to attempt his life now.”
“The day will yet come, Gilly. I did not take the oath lightly.” He squared his shoulders and squinted up at the brilliant sky, wondering how the sun could shine so brightly when his heart was so empty. “If you will but feed us, then, we will leave and seek lodgings elsewhere. I’d cause you no further pain.”
Her heart cried out within her, but somehow she managed to nod. “Aye.”
He spoke low. “God aid me, Gilly, for I love you still.”
“Then may God aid me also, Richard.”
Unable to bear the pain that caught beneath her breasts, she ducked beneath his arm and started back inside. As her hands wrenched the heavy door ring, she felt his cover them, and her will crumbled. “Sweet Mary, but I cannot stand this,” she whispered, turning into him.
His arms closed around her, holding her close as the spring wind whipped the sleeves and skirt of her gown around them. He stood, locked in her returning embrace, his heart breaking.
“Nay, ’tis not right what I would do,” she choked into his shoulder. “You will have to go.”
“Gilly … Gilly.”
“Please.” With an effort, she drew her arms from about his waist and brought her hands up between them to press at his chest.
“I’d kill him, Gilly.”
“Nay. I could not live with his blood between us.”
Reluctantly he released her and stepped back. “I’d see the babe at least—would you give me that?”
She started to say that ’twould serve no purpose, but then relented. Sighing, she nodded. “I’d not have you claim her, Richard—I’d not have wed for naught.”
He followed her inside and up to the second landing. Alwina looked up as they entered the sleeping room, and her lined face betrayed her surprise. Then, without a word, she crossed to where the babe lay in its cradle and picked her up. Turning back to Richard of Rivaux, she brushed the soft, bright hair on the child’s head with her veined hand and held it out to him.
“She was christened Amia—for Christ’s love,” she told him with a perfectly straight face. “Aye, and she is as fair as any.”
He hesitated before accepting the squirming babe and then held his daughter as though she were made of eggshells, cradling her gingerly in a warrior’s arms. Looking down, he felt a surge of pride.
“Amia.”
“She is called Mia also,” Gilliane murmured behind him, “for ‘mine’.”
“She is that. Jesu, Gilly, but she’s got your hair.”
“And your sister’s eyes—I think they will be green when she is grown.”
The child blinked solemnly, regarding him with those widened eyes. “You know not what to make of your sire, do you, little one?” he whispered to his babe. Then, returning to Gilliane, he met her misting gaze. “You had not the right to keep her from me, Gilly—I’d have found some way to have you both with me.” And in his arms, Amia began to squirm and fret.
“Then she would have been naught but your bastard.” She reached to take Amia from him, holding her easily against her shoulder. “She is not used to being held as though she were an uncooked egg, my lord.”
He took another look at the daughter that he could not claim. “My mother would have cherished her, Gilly—aye, and my father also.”
“And Elizabeth would have cosseted her.” Unwilling to allow herself to think further of what could not be, she asked instead of his family. “Your lady mother is well then?”
“Aye.”
“And your lord father?”
“Equally so. He comes to England within the week as Stephen quibbles over the relief fee for Harlowe, saying that my father is overgreedy if he would have the Condes, Rivaux, and Harlowe also. I think Papa means to counter that he has already relinquished all claim to Nantes in my mother’s name. He wrote that he should reach Dover by midweek.”
“I would that I could see him,” Gilliane sighed wistfully. “Aye, he was ever kind to me.”
“And would be still, Gilly—he loved you as a daughter.”
The child in her arms stirred, turning its head against her breast and wetting her gown with its mouth. “She grows hungry, my lord, and would eat.”
“I’d watch.”
She shook her head. “I’d have no milk. Go down and I will sup with you ere you leave.”
He had to be content with that, he supposed. He smoothed the rich red hair over the babe’s crown, knowing full well that ’twould be the last time he saw his daughter. “Fare thee well, Amia of Beaumaule,” he told her softly.
After he had left, Alwina watched Gilliane bare her breast and set the babe to it. “Your husband will not like it that he has come, I fear.”
“Aye, but there is no help for it,” Gilliane sighed. “Surely when he learns that Richard did not stay, he will know I turned him away.”
She looked down at Amia and wished it could have been different, that this small babe could have grown in Richard of Rivaux’s love, that he could have called her daughter. Amia of Beaumaule would have been Amia of Rivaux, and she herself would have been his wife. But it did no good to think such thoughts. Resolutely she forced herself to once again accept what she had done.
36
“Whore! Red-haired witch!”
For a moment Gilliane tried to waken from her nightmare, and then she realized she was not dreaming. Before she could raise her arms in defense, her husband hit her, smiting her so hard across the face that her head snapped backward against the pillow.
“Jesu … what … ?” She rolled away, only to be pulled up roughly from between the bedcovers. His hand struck her mouth with enough force that her own teeth cut her lip.
“You lay like a bitch in season for him! You damned whore!”
“Nay, I …” She wiped the blood from her face with the back of her hand and tried to rise from the bed. “Simon, I swear I did not—I swear it!”
“Lying harlot!”
He stood over her, his fists clenched to strike her again. His whole body shook with uncontrollable anger, and Gilliane knew fear. “ ’Twas not so—he came for you!”
He hit her again, this time catching her shoulder, and she collapsed back into the depths of the feather mattress. Raising her arms now to shield her face, she cried out, “You have no right to accuse me thus! I have done nothing!”
“Nothing!” he shouted at her. “Nothing? What call you Rivaux’s brat? Deny to me how you got her!” His fist caught her arm, knocking it away. “Aye, tell me that!”
“You knew when we wed!”
“You swore to me, Gilliane—swore to me that you’d lie with me and no other then!”
“And I have not! Simon!”
His hand struck her full in the temple. She rolled away and struggled, panting, to her knees. “For the love of God, Simon! I tell you I have done naught!”
“For the love of God!” he mimicked
cruelly. “Aye, for the love of God, Gilliane—tell me again how you came to name the babe!”
“She was born at Christmas!”
“I’ll teach you not to gainsay me!”
He hit her again, this time with his closed fist, in the ribs. Doubling over in pain, she managed to roll onto the floor behind the bed, crouching warily. He grasped a bedpost to move it out of the way, and she lunged toward the cold, empty brazier, reaching the poker before he reached her.
She’d had enough—whether it was his right as husband to beat her or not, she’d not let him kill her. Clutching the poker behind her, she waited for him to strike her again. And this time when he raised his hand, she aimed it, swinging hard and catching him in the groin. He doubled over and went down in a heap at her feet, rolling and howling in pain.
“Jesu,” he gasped, “you have hurt me!”
“Aye,” she panted over him. “May you never get another child!”
“Witch! Whore!”
She raised the poker again. “Call me either one more time, Simon of Woodstock, and ’twill not be your manhood that suffers, but rather your brain!”
“Whore!” he spat at her.
The poker caught him across the brow and he collapsed as though the breath had left him. He fell forward, his face buried in the rushes, his body sprawling motionless. She stared, stunned by what she had done, and then dropped the poker and screamed, “To me! To me! To de Lacey!”
She could hear running footsteps below and then the door burst open, admitting Aldred and the others. Alwina caught at her hands, holding them, while Simon’s squire and Garth knelt beside him. Aldred shook his head in disbelief as he turned his master over and noted the already darkening bruise on his forehead.
“Is he dead?” Gilliane asked numbly, heedless of her nakedness.
“Nay, he stirs. God’s bones, but what happened, lady?”
“I hit him.”