Hearts of Fire

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Hearts of Fire Page 37

by Anita Mills

They all turned to her, and even Garth looked shocked until Alwina reached to touch Gilliane’s swelling face. “He hit you first, I think.”

  “Aye, I was afraid.”

  Annys moved closer to peer down at Simon, her hatred evident in her face. “I would that I had done it,” she murmured.

  Simon groaned and tried to sit, but Aldred pushed him back. “Get some water—’twill waken him faster.”

  Alwina was the first to move, walking over to where a ewer sat in a basin. Picking it up, she checked to see that it was full, and then she turned and threw it in Simon’s face. He coughed and choked and struggled to stand.

  “Jesu!” He looked down to where his chausses were tied. “You would have ruined me, Gilliane de Lacey!”

  “You beat me without cause!” Gilliane retorted.

  “Aye, I remember.” His face twisted with anger and he lunged for her again. “Aye, and I will teach you to play me false! Get out of here—all of you!” he shouted as he caught her by the shoulders and pushed her to the floor.

  The boy Garth was the first to reach them, and he tried to pull Simon away. With his greater weight, Simon flung him against the wall and turned back to Gilliane, catching her in the side with his heavy boot.

  “Aye—lie there like a bitch on the ground,” he panted. “God’s bones, but what a fool you think me.”

  Turning away, he staggered to where the babe wakened in her cradle, and he kicked the side of it with such force that it turned over. Amia of Beaumaule began to squall loudly.

  “Bastard!” he spat at her. “Art naught but a fancy lord’s by-blow, you little witch!” He raised his foot again as though he meant to stomp on the helpless babe, and Garth caught him off-balance, butting him from behind. The two of them fell to the floor and rolled, knocking over benches and a cabinet. As Simon tried to shake free of him, Garth cried out, “Save yourself, lady!”

  But Gilliane could scarce move. Holding her ribs with one hand, she crawled toward her babe, reaching it just as Simon regained his footing, Garth still on his back. The men of Beaumaule, many of whom had watched in uneasy silence, unwilling to interfere between a man and his wife, stirred now. Aldred grasped Simon’s sword and raised it to strike at Garth, but Alwina and Annys both caught at his arms and cried out.

  “To your lady! To Beaumaule!” Annys screamed, holding desperately onto Aldred’s sword arm. “Sweet Jesu, can you not see they would kill your lady? To her! To her!”

  Only two men tried to intervene when the rest tackled their lord, bringing him down. Garth managed to fall free and came to his knees. “He tried to kill her,” he gasped. “He tried to kill them both!”

  “ ’Tis his right,” Aldred muttered, his arms pinned between two other men.

  “Nay, she is blameless! He accuses her falsely because he would rule Beaumaule alone!” Garth disputed. “Look to your lady! See what he has done!”

  It was no light thing to turn on one’s lord, but as each one of them saw the blood that trickled from Gilliane’s mouth, the swelling of her eyes, and the bruises on her naked body, the collective mood grew ugly. She sat, her pain evident, and cradled her babe against her, trying to soothe its frantic cries. Alwina moved to throw a sheet over her mistress’s body to cover her.

  “Kill him,” someone urged.

  “Nay, let Rivaux do it,” another argued. “The king’s justice is hard on one who kills his lord.”

  Gilliane tried to focus on Simon through eyes that were already swelling shut. “You would have killed her,” she whispered. “You would have slain an innocent babe.” Then she touched her face gingerly, feeling the cut on her lip. “Why, Simon—why?”

  “I received word that he came here, and I rode all night,” he muttered sullenly, cowed now by the ugly looks of his own men. “I told you I’d not wear horns for you.”

  “Simon, ’twas I who sent you word—’twas my own hand that wrote it.”

  Annys walked over and stood staring at him for a long moment. And then she spat in his face. He struggled to free an arm, but neither man released his grip. “If ’twere asked of me, I’d have you dead,” the girl told him. “Aye, I would.”

  His anger replaced by fear now he appealed to Gilliane. “Nay, Gilliane—”

  “Nay.”

  She handed Amia up to Alwina and then sought her feet, lurching to stand, her face ashen and damp from the sharp, searing pain in her ribs. “ ’Tis the last time you will beat me, Simon. The next time you think to do it, I’ll see you dead.”

  She spoke tonelessly, but he knew she meant it. And he knew that with the exception of Aldred, she had the loyalty of every man in Beaumaule. What he had sought so long to command, what he held now, was still not truly his.

  “ ’Twas my anger, Gilliane,” he offered lamely. “I thought—”

  “You have made it plain to all of us what you thought,” she interrupted coldly. “And now I’d have you leave Beaumaule while we both yet live.”

  “You cannot deprive me of my right to this place.”

  “Nay, but neither do I have to live with you. I’ll not gainsay your right if you will go.”

  “You need me to hide your shame,” he gibed, realizing now that she meant to hold Beaumaule without him.

  “Why? Have you not shouted to the world that Amia of Beaumaule is my bastard? Have you not called me harlot and whore before my own people? Nay, Simon of Woodstock, but there’s naught left to hide.”

  “Rivaux—”

  “He knows now. In your anger, you sent a letter certain to bring him here, and it did. He has seen her, Simon, and if you harm either of us again, he will see that you do not live.” With an effort, she dragged her aching body to face him, and he had to turn away from her bloodied face. “Nay, look at me.”

  “I did not mean—”

  “I do not forgive you.” She nodded to the men who still restrained him. “Let him go that he may ready himself to leave—he takes service with Rivaux the first day of May. Until then, I care not where he goes.”

  “Jesu, lady!” Garth protested. “You cannot let him go!”

  “Nay, he will not harm me now—he knows he has no further power over me.”

  There was a grumbling among the men, but Alwina shook her head. “He knows he will not leave Beaumaule alive if any harm comes to her or the babe now.”

  Simon shook free of his captors and tried to touch Gilliane’s arm, but she shrank from him. Wordlessly he dropped his hand and stepped back. “Aye, I’ll go,” he decided finally. “Aid her to bed.”

  Still grumbling, they set up a watch over her while Alwina put her to bed and drew the heavy curtains. For a long time Gilliane lay and stared up at the canopy over her, scarce listening as her husband moved about the chamber gathering what he would need at Ardwyck. Aye, she admitted to herself, if ’twere not for the pain he’d given her, she would have felt nothing at his leaving.

  Disheartened and ashamed of what he’d done, Simon searched silently for his things, seeking the fine tunic she’d made him for his last journey to Richard’s keep. Finally he turned toward the bed, asking, “Where is the purple overtunic?”

  “In the large chest.”

  Again her toneless voice unnerved him. “Gilliane, when I am come back, ’twill be different between us.”

  “Nay.”

  “If you could have ceased to love him—”

  “I could not.”

  He flung open the chest and began throwing out those things which were not his until he came to the tunic, its rich, deep purple samite carefully folded with a linen cloth between. And as he reached for it, the faint light reflected on the jewels beneath. His fingers closed on the filigreed heart and pulled it out. When he opened his palm and saw the winking stones, he knew from whence they had come.

  He held it up to the light, charging, “He brought you this!”

  Without looking, she knew what he’d found and her heart tightened within her breast. “If yo
u have discovered the necklace, my lord, I have saved it for Amia these many months past.”

  “Amia—Amia! ’Tis always Amia! There have been times when I had not the money to buy so much as a new helm—and all the while you had this!”

  “Put it back.”

  The necklace still in his hand, he walked behind the bed and threw open the curtains before any could stop him. “Put it back? So you can give a babe what by rights you should have brought to me?” He dangled it before her, waiting for her to reach for it. “ ’Tis mine, Gilliane.”

  “Put it back, Simon.”

  “Else you’ll call out again?” he taunted. “Nay, you have the babe if you would remember him.” Then, just as they reached him, he dropped the jeweled heart to the floor and ground it into pieces beneath the heel of his boot. It crunched against the hard floor as it collapsed.

  He’d expected her to plead, to cry for this last treasure from her lover, but she lay quietly within the feather mattress and said nothing, cheating him again of revenge. He bent to pick up the crushed pieces and flung them into the cold brazier, not seeing the wet trickle of tears that coursed silently over her swollen cheeks.

  He finished his packing then, rolling his clothing into a blanket much as he’d done when he was but a mercenary. “When I return to you a great lord, we will speak again,” he muttered. “And then you will love me as you love him.”

  They followed him out, closing the door and leaving her alone. She stuffed her fist into her mouth and bit her knuckles to stifle her sobs. With the loss of her necklace, she had naught left of Richard of Rivaux—naught but Amia. Aye, and as much as she wanted to die from the pain that tore at her heart as well as her body, she could not. God might punish her for her hopeless love, but he’d given her Richard’s babe to love. Slowly she mastered her tears and lay quietly, listening to the sounds of the bridge lowering and Simon riding out of Beaumaule.

  After a time, Alwina brought Amia to nurse and bathed her cuts and bruises while the babe sucked. “I think he may have broken your ribs—they will need to be wrapped to heal.”

  “Aye—Sweet Mary, but he hurt me.”

  “ ’Twould be safer if you took her to a convent,” the old woman murmured, rubbing balm into places where he’d cut Gilliane’s face.

  “ ’Tis no place for a babe—and they’d ask why I came. I’d have none beyond here know he repudiates her.” She sighed and felt her ribs ache.

  “Would you that we put her to a wet nurse now? It must pain you to bear her weight.”

  “We are together in this, Alwina, and I do not mind it.” She rubbed the silky hair lovingly and looked down at her daughter. “I pray her red hair does her more good than mine did me.”

  “Red hair had naught to do with it,” the old woman retorted. “ ’Twas loving unwisely.”

  The child’s small mouth worked noiselessly, drawing its very existence from her, and its greenish eyes were almost closed now. “Nay,” Gilliane whispered, caressing the soft skin, “never that.”

  She lay awake a long time after Alwina took the sleeping babe from her breast, unable to ease her broken body. She heard the door creak inward and footsteps cross the floor.

  “My lady?”

  Garth pulled a bench closer to the bed and peered anxiously between the hangings, his face mirroring his concern. She tried to see him through the slits and managed a painful smile.

  “Aye. I think I owe you my babe’s life, Garth.”

  “ ’Twas naught.” He leaned closer and drew out a parchment roll. “A rider bearing this came just after Lord Simon left,” he told her, lowering his voice.

  “For Simon?”

  “Aye, and I’d have you read it.”

  “ ’Tis not mine—it should be sent to Ardwyck to await him.”

  “The man bearing it serves Brevise.”

  “Sweet Mary, but you cannot know that, Garth.” Nonetheless, Gilliane attempted to sit up, holding her covers to hide her nakedness.

  “I know—I saw him when we were overrun. The man comes from Brevise.”

  Gilliane felt a cold chill of apprehension spread through her. “Art certain—you could not be mistaken?”

  “Nay.”

  “Open it then, and light a candle so that I may see it.”

  “ ’Tis lit.” To prove it, he drew the heavy candle spike closer, and then he slit the wax covering with his knife.

  “Jesu, but I cannot see still.”

  The boy nodded and peered closely at the words on the heavy vellum, reading aloud slowly and haltingly:

  To Simon of Woodstock, lord of Beaumaule, I give you greetings. As I spoke at Ardwyck, so it comes to pass. My lord king bids Gloucester and Rivaux of Celesin also to accompany him into Normandy to discourage rebellion there. Already all is in readiness, and my lord of Brevise does but wait to strike the first blow at Gloucester with King Stephen’s goodwill. As the earl is well-liked in England, ’twill happen once they are there.

  If you still would strike at Rivaux also, my lord of Brevise offers not only Beaumaule but another of Lord Richard’s keeps as well, both to be held of him when King Stephen confirms them to him. He further offers one hundred silver marks on Richard of Rivaux’s head, the same to be paid in addition to what you have already had of him.

  “There is no seal, nor name given either,” he observed, turning the letter over in his hand.

  “Art certain ’tis what it says?” Gilliane asked hollowly. “You cannot be mistaken?”

  “Nay, Father Gerbod teaches me to read—and ’tis what it says.” He held it closer for her to make out the beginning.

  “Holy Jesu.” Brevise plotted with Simon against Richard and Gloucester, with King Stephen’s blessing. ’Twas certain why ’twas unsigned, for it was a dangerous message. Aye, and it explained more than she cared to believe—Simon’s sudden ability to pay for new mail and his boasts that he would come back a richer man.

  “Garth, I’d have you ride to Ardwyck,” she decided suddenly.

  “And if Lord Simon is already there?”

  “Oh—aye. Nay, ’twould not serve, for it tells not how they mean to take him, does it? And if the king supports them …” Her voice trailed off as she held her aching head and considered the problem.

  “He will turn on you again,” Garth warned. “Nay, I’d have you safe ere I rode, for if ’tis discovered the message I carry, more than one of us will die.”

  “Not if ’twas Count Guy who warned Richard,” she mused slowly. “Garth, I’d go to Count Guy.”

  “In Normandy? Sweet Mary, but ’tis a long way, and you are unable to ride,” he protested. “Nay, I’d seek sanctuary closer—at St. Agnes mayhap.”

  “If Richard could ride with an arrow broken in his shoulder, I can ride with sore ribs. Nay, we seek him in Dover, Garth—Richard says he comes this week.”

  “Then I will ride to him, but you—”

  “He might not believe you.”

  “Aye, but—”

  “And he once told me that I could turn to him if the need arose. I am taking Amia and going to him.”

  37

  When it was discovered that she could not in truth ride, it took two days to build a makeshift litter for her, and still the men of Beaumaule were uneasy about her journey. In the end, she left the small keep with far better escort than the two men Simon had taken with him. Parting the curtains, she took a last look back at her childhood home. It had not the same memories for her now; in the last ten months she’d lived there, it had become almost a prison.

  The constant jostling between the pack animals made for an arduous trip, and Gilliane’s ribs pained her greatly and tired her beyond bearing. Still she managed to sing soothing songs to Amia and keep the babe reasonably quiet. From time to time Alwina took the child, but it was all that Annys could do to ride by herself. As it was, her huge belly made it impossible for her to see her own saddle.

  They had to break thei
r journey into short distances to allow for the litter, making Gilliane fear that they’d miss Richard’s father at Dover. Richard had said midweek, and already ’twas Tuesday, and if they were too late, all might be lost.

  “You are certain he would pass this way should he have already left for Harlowe?” she questioned them often.

  “There’s not so many roads, my lady—aye, he’ll come here if he goes directly there. If he means to stop in London or Westminster, he’ll not,” was the best answer any could give her.

  “Then I’d not stop again.”

  Garth edged his horse closer to the pack animals and offered, “I’d recognize his standard and him also. Would you that I rode ahead and sought him out? If he is in Dover, I will find him,” he promised solemnly.

  She was torn by the knowledge that only he shared fully in her plans, and if he was taken … Nay, she dared not think it. But she did have the letter from Brevise’s man to carry to Harlowe if necessary. And for all her brave words, she doubted she could go much further. Finally she nodded. “Aye. Go, and God speed you, Garth. I’d see you knighted one day for this.”

  “Nay, ’tis not for me. If you would do anything, I’d have you place me with the clerks.” He flashed her a boyish grin and leaned over to confide, “I’d live to be old and gray over my books rather than have my brains spilled by an ax.”

  “I’d seek a place at Rivaux for you then—I’d not part with you.” She managed a tired smile, knowing he did what she could not—that the cough that plagued her was growing worse and sapping her strength.

  He rode on, leaving from that first abbey where Richard had taken her nearly a year and a half before, while Gilliane and her small party broke their journey there. The fat abbot bade them less than truly welcome, taking in the frayed surcoats and the mended mail on the men. But when she produced the stones that had once been set in her necklace, he relented sufficiently to offer them food and shelter.

  “Humph! That one wins few souls, I’ll warrant,” Alwina grumbled under her breath.

  Gilliane unwrapped the heavy veil from about her battered face and lay wearily upon the cot provided her. She’d thought three days sufficient to ease her pain, but her sides still ached unbearably, and now she was coughing far too much. Alwina reached to touch her brow, and shook her head.

 

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