by Anita Mills
“Nay, but you will have to stay some time, my lady. Annys, she has fevered—see if there is any skilled in simples here.”
“I am all right,” Gilliane managed before she choked in a fit of coughing. “Jesu, but it hurts, Alwina—it hurts.”
“Aye.” The old woman sat down beside her and stroked back the bright hair from her forehead and temples. “Aye, but you must rest.”
Gilliane rolled miserably onto her side and drew up her knees, hugging them, and did not see Alwina’s worried frown. She slept, she knew not how long, but when she wakened, it was dark and her thirst was unbearable. She tried to croak out a request for water, only to discover that Alwina still sat beside her. The gnarled and veined hands slid behind her, easing her upward, and someone handed her a cup. She drank deeply and fell back.
“Sweet Mary, but we must go on,” Gilliane whispered. “On the morrow.”
“Aye—on the morrow.”
She slept again, her body aching and racked with a fever that broke from time to time into a heavy sweat, only to rise again. But each time she woke, the old woman was there with a cup and a cool cloth to ease her. And then she plunged into a netherworld of demons, a world where she knew nothing but heat and pain, a world tormented by visions. Richard lay dying at her feet, Simon laughed over him, and Cicely of Lincoln wept. And a hundred babes wailed somewhere. When she struggled to sit, she was pushed back into the abyss. She screamed for Richard again and again, but no one heard and no one came.
“How long has she been like this?”
Alwina looked up and her tired old eyes brightened at the sight of Guy of Rivaux. “Two days and more.”
He walked into the room, dominating the small cell, and stood above Gilliane. Her face was swollen beyond recognition, her eyes were blackened closed, and her lips cracked and bleeding from her fever. He reached down and lifted the blanket to see the ugly purple and greenish bruises on her body, and his jaw hardened. “This comes not from a fever.”
“Nay. Her husband beat her.”
“The boy did not tell me she fevered.”
“He did not know it when he left her.”
He eased the cover back over her shoulder and turned away. It was one thing to see a man broken and battered in battle, another to see a girl beaten thus. “Do you think ’tis from the injury she has taken?”
“I think he broke her ribs,” she answered. “If ’tis the reason or not, I know not.”
“Aye. And what of the babe?”
“The abbot found a woman of the village to give her suck, and she is well.”
“And you look like the mask of death, old woman. Nay, get you to your own pallet.”
“And who would tend her? Annys nears her time, and—”
He silenced her with a wave of his hand. “Nay, I will see to her.” He went into the narrow corridor and called out to someone, “Bring me a bench that I may sit.”
Gilliane thrashed restlessly, murmuring his son’s name. He took the bench and drew it close, leaning over her to take her hand. For a moment her eyes tried to open but could not. “Richard?” she croaked.
“Aye.”
She stilled somewhat then. Alwina gaped at the sight of Guy of Rivaux sitting there, his strong hands clasping Gilliane’s. She hesitated, unwilling to leave her mistress in any hands but her own, but the ache in her old bones was undeniable.
“You may put a pallet here also. We are not enemies in this, I think.”
He sat there more than half the night, holding the girl’s hand, answering her when she called to his son. There were so many fevers to take one from this world, and he knew not whether this was one of them or whether she would mend. But he did know that she’d once meant everything to Richard.
When she coughed, he raised her to ease her breathing, and when she thirsted, he held the cup to her swollen lips. Jesu, if there was ever a man in need of a lesson, ’twas this Simon of Woodstock she’d wed. But he understood why she’d done it— she’d wanted to give her babe what his son could not.
The abbot, who’d been such a reluctant host before, could not do enough now—he’d not realized the girl was anything to the likes of Rivaux, he’d apologized to any and all of those who would listen. And when he’d heard Count Guy himself call her daughter, he worried she would complain of him later. But Jesu, who could have guessed that one so poorly accompanied as that was anyone at all?
No expense was spared for the girl now—herbs were brewed for her fever, broths were made to nourish her, and precious poppy juice was given to ease her pain. Finally, when nothing seemed to be of use, the abbott had her moved to his own bed and he sent to another chapter house for a physician skilled in fevers.
Guy considered for a time that he ought to send to Ardwyck to Richard, but her husband was there also. And as much as he knew Richard loved her, he wondered if the bitterness between them was yet too great. Besides, he had hopes of the new monk’s curing her, for unlike so many, he wanted neither to purge nor to bleed her. Instead, he brewed bark brought from the East, making a bitter draft, and forced it down her, stopping when she choked, and painstakingly trying again until the cup was gone.
It was a strange alliance—a ruling count, an old woman, and a silent monk. But by day, ’twas the old woman who bathed and spread balm over her wounds, and by night, Guy himself took the task, telling himself that he could do no less for her.
As dawn broke the third day after his arrival, Guy dozed with his head braced against the wall. Gilliane, bathed again in sweat, turned her head, and the first thing she saw was the red silk of his overtunic, its front brightly blazoned in black and gold. She was safe—she’d not been dreaming.
“Richard?” she whispered into the soft, rosy light.
His hand tensed in hers and he leaned forward to push back her tangled hair. The wild, half-crazed expression she’d had ever since he’d arrived was gone. Rubbing her cheek with the back of his hand, he answered, “Nay—’tis Guy.”
“Guy? Nay, but—”
“Gilliane, would you that I sent to him?”
“Oh, Jesu. Nay.” She swallowed hard to hide her disappointment. “I must have dreamed. I …”
“You were taken ill on your way to Dover,” he prompted her. “You sent the boy Garth to me there.”
“Garth.” And then she remembered. “Oh, nay— Simon means to kill Richard,” she croaked. “Aye, and Stephen plots with Brevise.” She closed her eyes again. “So tired.”
“How came you by this?” he asked, leaning closer to hear her. “Gilly, how came you by this?”
“Brevise sent to Simon. Garth knows …”
He released her hand and rose, stretching his tall frame, letting his tired muscles tense and then relax. Then he walked to where the old woman lay sleeping on a pallet by the foot of the bed. Nay, there was no need to waken her yet. Instead, he went to the door and ordered the sentry, “I’d see the boy Garth.”
Still sleepy, his hair rumpled, Garth stumbled into the abbot’s chamber and tried to make sense of being awakened. At first he thought perhaps his mistress was worse, but she seemed quieter, and yet he could hear her breathe.
“Nay, she mends.” Guy of Rivaux looked years older now, his black hair flecked with gray, but the green-gold eyes were alert and intent as he faced the boy. “And I’d hear more of this plot against my son.”
Garth swallowed, wishing she were awake also, and then nodded. “Aye. But hours after Lord Simon departed Beaumaule, a letter was brought for him. As I knew the one who carried it came from my lord of Brevise, ’twas decided to read it.”
“And?”
“It offered Lord Simon money and land to take Lord Richard when they go into Normandy.” The boy hesitated, uncertain as to what Gilliane would have told him.
“Go on—I’d hear the rest.”
“Aye. If ’tis to be believed, Stephen means to ask my lord of Gloucester to accompany him to Normandy, and Lord Richard al
so. And when they arrive, they are to be beset and killed, with Brevise offering Lord Simon and others their lands with King Stephen’s knowledge and will.”
“Jesu! And you have the letter still?”
“Nay, but Lady Gilliane had it in her litter with her and the babe. She meant to carry it to you.”
“When? When do they go to Normandy?”
“I know not, my lord—’twas not said.”
It made no sense, but Guy knew Stephen was more affable than wise, and he did not doubt at all that he’d be glad enough to have Gloucester gone. What surprised him most, he supposed, was that an unsteady king would risk his rising—and rise he would if any thought to harm his only son. Aye, and so would Mathilda—he’d see to that if he had to promise Geoffrey of Anjou half his lands.
But why had Gilliane come to him rather than Richard? Aloud he merely asked the boy, “Why did Woodstock beat her?”
“Because Lord Richard came to Beaumaule.” Garth looked at the floor, uncertain as to whether to tell the story, and then decided that surely Guy of Rivaux must know most of it anyway. “Lady Gilliane wed Simon of Woodstock to give her babe legitimacy, my lord.”
“You’ve said naught I did not know.”
“Aye, but she thought he’d be content with Beaumaule, but he was not. He could not forget that she came not a virgin to him or that she bore Lord Richard’s babe. It made him more than a little mad, I think.”
“And when my son left, he beat her.”
“Aye. He means to kill Lord Richard that she will love him no more.”
“But why did she not go to my son?” Guy had to know.
“Because she feared for the babe, I think. Lord Simon nearly killed Amia of Beaumaule in a rage ere he left, and he is now at Ardwyck too. And she said you once told her she could turn to you.” Garth squared his shoulders and met Rivaux’s strange eyes. “I think she thought you had the power to end the plot.”
“I can scarce accuse the king,” Guy retorted.
Then, seeing the boy’s face fall, he relented. “But I can warn my son and Gloucester—aye, and I can go with them, that they are not taken by surprise.”
Garth brightened and his face broke into a smile. “Then ’twas right that she came to you.”
“Aye, ’twas right.” Guy turned back to where Gilliane lay, her body bathed in sweat as she again seemed to sleep. “I know not how she came this far like that—Jesu, but she has the courage of a man,” he observed to himself.
“She did but want to save Lord Richard, my lord. She knows you brought in Belesme—and William of Brevise is no Belesme.”
“Of a certainty he is not,” he admitted, his expression sobering. “But I cannot tarry, for you know not when they mean to leave for Normandy.” He looked again to where Gilliane lay. “The monk thinks she mends, though I doubted it until this morning. I’d have her stay here until she is well enough to travel further, and then I’d send her to Rivaux. If Stephen means to move to Gloucester, ’tis safer there than in England. Tell her that I have written to Cat—to my lady—and that a welcome awaits her.”
“And you will see Lord Richard safe.”
“Aye, and tell her also that she should rewax and seal the letter and send it to Woodstock. I’d not warn them lest they devise another plan.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“And tell her not to worry ere she is well—Richard is a man grown and can defend himself. Now …” He flexed his shoulders again to ease them. “Now, I would see the babe born of my blood ere I ride.”
38
Unable to sleep, Simon of Woodstock moved uneasily about one of the several small campfires that dotted the Norman hillside. After years of hating Richard of Rivaux, he had his chance to take him, to strike a blow against the man who had everything he’d wanted. But it was not an easy thing to do despite Talebot’s urging.
They were all there—King Stephen, Gloucester, Richard of Rivaux, Brevise, and a host of others—all come to Normandy to suppress the uprisings that spread throughout that troubled land. Aye, and there were even more murmurings of discontent in England. For a moment Simon wondered if his reward would be worth the certain anarchy that would follow the death of Robert of Gloucester.
“Art about late.”
He spun around to see Richard of Rivaux standing in the darkness between the tents. Not that he could be mistaken for any other, for he stood taller than any save his own sire, and he had a voice that carried well. As he stepped closer, his dark eyes reflected the firelight eerily, making Simon suddenly afraid. There was that about the younger Rivaux that was oft said of his father: if he fought not at all, he would still command men.
“Aye,” Simon muttered, unwilling to look at the overlord who had so much. “As are you.”
Each man eyed the other warily, one knowing the other meant to kill him at some appointed time, the other fearing to do the deed. Simon measured him, taking in the fact that he was armed but not mailed, that only the stiffened leather cuir bouilli protected him, and the tension was unbearable. He considered his chances of getting it over with, of striking him now, but Richard of Rivaux’s fighting skill was greater than his own, greater mayhap than even his sire’s. And he would face certain punishment.
“You carry the sword of Belesme, I am told.”
“Aye. It has served me well.” The warning hairs on Richard’s neck stiffened as he faced the man who’d beaten Gilliane so badly that his father had not recognized her, and he too was tempted to end it between them then and there. Too long he’d waited for Brevise to move, too long he’d let Woodstock live. “Would you see it?” he asked.
Jesu, but the man had not blood in his veins to offer to disarm himself like that. In another man, ’twould be said he was but a fool, but Simon realized that Rivaux baited him, offering him the advantage. And as Simon looked at him, he thought he saw hellfire in the gold-flecked eyes. He nodded.
The sword flashed quickly, reminding Simon yet again what he faced, and then it was proffered hiltfirst. The dancing flames caught and were reflected in the strange symbols etched the length of the blade. “Runes,” Richard noted softly. “They are said to protect whoever wields it—even you now.”
Simon gripped the hilt, curving his palm against the crosspiece, feeling the weight of it in his hand. “ ’Tis heavy.”
“For the striking of a better blow. ’Tis called Hellbringer, for it has sent more than one man there.”
“Aye.”
He raised it then as though he would strike, and saw the glitter of the other man’s dagger as it reflected firelight. He hesitated, and then dropped the blade, driving it into the ground at Richard’s feet, frightened by what he thought he saw in those eyes.
“Nay, I’d not use it,” he muttered.
“And I’d not let you.” Richard of Rivaux sheathed his dagger and leaned to retrieve his sword. “But I’d hoped you would try—I’d thought the greater length would make you bold. Alas, I was mistaken.”
Simon gaped after him as he disappeared again between the tents and his insult sank in. In so many words, he’d called Simon a coward. With an effort, Simon shook off the fear he’d felt, telling himself it was but the effect of Robert of Belesme’s sword. Aye, it had bewitched him, its master’s evil reaching from the grave.
“What did he say to you?”
Simon jumped at the sound of Talebot’s voice. “Jesu, but you would frighten a man,” he complained. “He said naught.”
“I am come to tell you ’tis the morrow—when the sun rises high and they are tired and thirsty, Brevise means to strike.” Talebot clapped a hand on Simon’s shoulder “Aye, tomorrow you make yourself a rich man.”
“I mislike it. I’d strike when they are unarmed.”
“Nay, it must appear we have been beset by rebels, Woodstock, else the cry will be too great. That ’tis only our enemies that fall will not be noted so easily then.”
“Aye, but I think he knows.�
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“Rivaux?”
Simon nodded, his unease growing as he remembered the way Richard of Rivaux had looked at him—as though killing him would be a pleasure. “He knows,” he repeated.
“Nay, only a fool would come if he knew it, and Rivaux is no fool. Besides, he cannot know—there’s none to tell him of it.”
“There was your letter.”
“But it reached you still waxed and sealed, did it not?”
“Aye.” Simon closed his eyes and thought of Gilliane, wondering if she could ever be brought to forgive him for what he meant to do. The messages he’d had written to her were unanswered, and there’d been no word except Talebot’s letter. Jesu, but if she only knew what she’d done when she sent the letter unopened.
“Tomorrow night we will join in mourning him.”
“Aye.”
“And Gloucester also. God’s bones, but what there is there for the taking. You will return lord of far more than Beaumaule, Simon of Woodstock.”
And Gilliane de Lacey would learn to love him. With Richard of Rivaux dead and buried, she would learn to love him. Simon exhaled slowly and nodded. “So be it then.”
Robert of Gloucester led the way, his banner unfurled in the hot summer’s wind, followed by Richard of Rivaux and their combined mesnies. King Stephen had stopped to pay his respects earlier at an abbey he’d founded, saying he would rejoin them later in the day, and William of Brevise brought up the rear of the small host.
Richard reined in beside him and looked down over the crest of the hill to where the road disappeared between thickets. “I mislike the place,” he muttered. “Too much can be concealed there.”
“Aye.” Pulling up, Gloucester leaned closer, speaking low for Richard’s ears alone. “Art certain Guy follows?”
“His men have come and left our camp at will under my badge. He lies somewhere between us and the king.”
“Stephen will not come this way—he’ll want to appear blameless,” Gloucester hissed back.