by Anita Mills
Time stood still for Richard as Lincoln’s last words sank in. “You repudiate the betrothal?” he asked finally.
“Thomas, ’tis binding,” Guy reminded him. “They were pledged.”
Lincoln turned to the elder Rivaux and shook his head, his bitter disappointment evident. “Nay, ’tis not—the girl won’t have him, my lord. I have beaten and berated her, and yet she maintains that she pledged her heart to the Church as a little maid. I’ll not stand against her in this longer—I’d rather have her a nun than wife to a traitor.”
Guy looked over Lincoln’s shoulder at his son and then back to the earl. “And if we sue to claim her?”
“Her chaplain will swear she chose holy orders first.”
“You are certain of this? You knew and you forced her to give her oath to my son also?”
Stung by the censure in the other man’s voice, Lincoln retorted, “What was I to do? Gloucester proposed the match, and ’twas a good one—my girl could have been countess to much. And I did not know ’twould come to this! Nay, I thought I allied myself with honorable men!”
“You sold your daughter against her will.”
“Bah! What choice does a girl have, I ask you, but to bend to the will of her father?”
The import of Lincoln’s revelation was not lost on Richard. Recovering from his shock, he managed to hide the surge of elation he felt. “You are telling me that my betrothal is not binding, my lord—that Cicely has bound herself to Holy Church?”
“Aye.”
“Will you repeat this in the presence of Gloucester and Mowbray, saying there is no betrothal between us—that there is no bond of blood?” Richard asked coldly.
“Will you absolve me of blame in the matter, saying I did not know at the time?” Lincoln countered.
“Aye. I’d take no wife who found me abhorrent—I’d have no unwilling woman in my bed.”
“So be it then,” Lincoln answered bitterly. “I’d have no treason in my blood.”
“Then there’s naught more to be said between us, my lord.” Walking to the door, Richard reached for the latch. “Swear before witnesses, and ’tis done.”
The earl pushed past him, muttering, “I’d tell them ere you make them think me as false as you.”
“Call me false, Thomas of Lincoln, and I’d meet you now,” Richard responded coldly.
The earl paled visibly, and backed down. “I will tell them she had a prior pledge and I did not know of it.”
Guy leaned past Richard to push the door closed behind Lincoln, and then chuckled. “ ’Twas one of those rare times when cowardice brought forth truth, I think.”
“Aye.” Nearly overwhelmed with relief, Richard turned to face his father. “I know what you would have done for me, Papa, but I could not let you do it.”
Guy’s divided eyebrow lifted over his strange, flecked eyes. “It matters not now whose blood I bear, my son. If I keep Harlowe and Rivaux, ‘twill be by battle anyway. I’ll hold them by right of arms rather than blood.”
“Aye, I doubt the Empress cares whether ’tis a Belesme or a Rivaux who supports her.”
“Do you care?”
“Not at all.”
His face breaking into a grin, Guy reached an arm around his son. “Do you go to Rivaux with me to tell Gilliane?”
“Nay, and I’d not have you tell her either, Papa. Too many times the Church courts have ruled slowly or not at all—and when I come for her, ‘twill be to wed. I mean to carry Lincoln’s sworn statement to Rouen and ask that it be ruled I am free ere I come home.” Richard turned into his father’s arms and held him. “And whatever blood I carry to my sons, ’tis yours that gives me the greatest pride.”
“Nay. I tell you what Roger de Brione once told me: you are what you make yourself, not what blood you bear.”
40
Castle of Rivaux
Normandy—Christmas Day, 1137
Outside, the wind whistled through the courtyard, rattling the shuttered windows and swirling heavy snow into drifted peaks and valleys over the hard packed earth. Inside Gilliane de Lacey had withdrawn with Elizabeth to the quiet of the small chamber they shared to finish the last work on the fine Christmas robe they made for Catherine of the Condes. Drawn close to the blazing hearth for both heat and light, the two of them plied their needles rapidly, one stitching an embroidered band at the hem of the garment while the other finished the wide sleeve. And with the hammering on the mummer’s stand in the hall below and the ringing of the chapel bell as it pealed out the hour of tierce, neither heard the bridge lowered, nor did they hear the riders cross below.
For Gilliane, her work was a labor of love, some small thing she could do to repay Elizabeth’s mother for her many kindnesses. Indeed, in the seven months she’d been at Rivaux, she’d truly been received as a daughter of the house by all of them, welcomed and tended lovingly while her wounds of flesh and heart healed. And they had all adored Amia from the day she had ridden in with the child, treating the babe as a treasured grandchild, petting and cosseting her until Gilliane feared they would spoil her beyond bearing. But Amia loved them back wholeheartedly, and there was not a day that passed that she did not beg to be taken up on her tall grandsire’s shoulders and carried about the great castle. Nay, but Gilliane’s cup was nearly full—she had everything she desired except Richard. And she had long since accepted the impossibility of that.
He wrote her often, inquiring about her and the child, but he had not come to Rivaux when Guy had returned home, nor had he come as she had halfexpected for Christmas. Swallowing her pride, she’d managed to ask Guy why, saying she was sorry that her presence kept him away. But he shook his head, replying that Richard was busy pursuing a matter in the courts. She had to be content with that, she supposed, but she still ached unbearably when she allowed herself to think of him. And, try as she might, she thought of him far too often for her own peace of mind. Wrenching those thoughts from her mind, she smoothed the rich, deep green samite of the new gown she’d donned almost hopefully earlier, and she turned resolutely again to her work.
Elizabeth finished the last stitch of the hem and rose to stretch, holding her hands toward the fire. “God’s bones, but if Mary were in the stable this night, she’d freeze.”
“ ’Tis warmer in the Holy Land,” Gilliane reminded her.
“Aye, I’ll warrant it is.” Elizabeth reached for a poker and thrust it into the coals to heat. “I’d mull some wine to warm us—would you have it spiced or sweetened with honey?”
The bells stopped abruptly and the sound of Amia’s squeals of delight carried up the stairwell. Gilliane looked up, frowning. “I’d take it spiced, but do you not think I ought to fetch the babe here? Your father—”
“Papa probably makes her do it, if the truth were known, Gilly,” Elizabeth cut in, exasperated. “And if she makes too much noise, there is Maman or Alwina to calm her. Nay, but I’d finish this yet this morning.” She poured from the wineskin into a pitcher. “Cinnamon and ginger?”
“Aye. Is it still snowing?”
Elizabeth walked to the window and lifted the rug to peer through the crack in the shutter, and her heart quickened at what she saw. “ ’Tis blinding,” she managed, turning back. “But there’s no cinnamon —I’ll fetch some whilst you finish the sleeve.”
Gilliane’s spirits lowered. She’d known Richard would not come, but now the weather made it impossible even if he would have tried. She dropped her head and appeared to study the intricate pattern she’d embroidered, hoping that Elizabeth could not see her disappointment. Taking another careful stitch, she nodded, “Aye, go on.”
In the courtyard below, Richard of Rivaux removed his snow-caked helmet and pulled off his heavy gloves, handing both to Walter of Thibeaux. Despite the howling storm, the yard was filled with people come to share their lord’s table, and many huddled around small fires sheltered by stretched hides. He pushed his way through them, acknowledging gre
etings as he passed, until he reached the warmth of the lower hall. It too was crowded by those who would share the wassail bowl. Rather than fight his way across it, he ducked up the back stairs to his mother’s solar, stamping the snow from his feet as he climbed.
Already there was an assemblage of his father’s lesser vassals come to feast, and many had gathered in this, the warmest room in the castle. His eyes still blinded from the snow glare, Richard tried to make out Gilliane but couldn’t. Guy saw him first and lifted the child he held on his knee as his face broke into a grin.
“Come see your sire, little one,” he murmured, settling Amia on his shoulders. The babe squealed with delight, one hand grasping at the thick silver and black hair, the other clutching his face while she bounced against his neck. Guy’s eyes met Richard’s and his grin broadened. “You behold one born to ride—ouch, you little vixen—’tis your grandsire you would blind.”
Despite the ice still on his boots, Richard crossed the room to face his daughter. Her green eyes sparkled impishly and she reached a chubby hand toward him.
“Take her,” Guy urged. “She knows no fear, this one.”
Richard hesitated, but the child leaned forward, arms outstretched. “I am wet and muddy.”
“She likes the red cloak.”
Richard lifted her gingerly from his father’s shoulders and stared at her, taking in the deep red of her hair and the brilliant green of her eyes. “Jesu, but she is beautiful,” he breathed, feeling the softness of her cheek with his knuckle. “My hands are cold, Amia of Beaumaule, but if you will wait for them to warm, your sire intends to become better acquainted with you.” To his father, he added, “Gilliane—she is well?”
“Her body mended long ago—her heart mends today.”
“You received my letter, then?”
“Aye, and ’twas hard not to tell her of it, but I did not—that I leave to you.”
“Richard!”
He half-turned into Elizabeth’s welcoming arms, hugging her with the babe between them. “Jesu, Liza, but what ails you? If I’d thought you meant to greet me like this after all these years, I’d have come sooner,” he teased.
“Mayhap living with Gilly has made me see you through her eyes,” she retorted, tiptoeing to plant a kiss on his wet cheek. “She still loves you, you know.”
“And I her—where is she?”
“In my bedchamber—I’ll take you up, Richard. Sweet Mary, but I’d see her face when she sees you.”
He set her back from him, shaking his head. “Nay, you take Amia, Liza—I’d see her alone. Aye, I’d surprise her.”
“She thinks I am come down for spice for the wine—I’d take it up first, then.”
“I’ll take it.” He eased the babe into her arms, teasing her with, “Practice holding her—mayhap ‘twill make you want to wed again.”
“Never. Maman and Gilly have the good men, brother.”
He paused at the landing to remove his soaked boots and finished his climb in his hose, hoping to take her unaware. At the last step, he reached within the folds of his crimson and vair cloak and felt again the parchment case that contained his freedom, and he toyed with the thought of just giving it to her. But he had to see her first.
He cleared the stairwell silently and stopped. She sat close to the fire, her back to him, her hair plaited into a single braid that hung down like a copper rope over the rich emerald of her green and gold samite gown, and he watched her, feeling suddenly humble. Her love for him had cost her her honor in the eyes of all but his family, and yet she loved him still. And it came to him yet again how very blessed he was to have her. She worked quickly, the gold bands that trimmed her wide sleeves catching the firelight as they dipped to brush over the woven mat as her fingers moved deftly with each stitch. Jesu, but she was so beautiful in her shimmering Christmas gown that it made him loath to disturb her.
“Your poker is hot, Elizabeth,” she observed, bending still lower to knot the golden thread and break it with her teeth. “Did you get the cinnamon? If you did not, I’d be glad enough with just the heated wine.”
His throat ached with what he felt for her, but he managed to step fully into the chamber, asking softly, “Would you be willing to settle for me, Gilly?”
She sat very still, not daring to move for fear she’d but dreamed she heard him, and then she forced herself to turn around. He stood there almost diffidently, his handsome face wearing the faintest of smiles, his black hair still dusted with melting snow, his dark eyes intently watching her. And her heart pounded at what she read in those eyes.
“Sweet Mary,” she whispered as time stood still. And then she rose, letting Cat’s magnificent robe slide to the floor. “Richard!”
“Aye.” He smiled crookedly, his eyes misting with tears, and he opened his arms. “I’d wed you, Gilly.”
She mistook his meaning as she was caught tightly in his embrace. “Aye, I know you would, but it matters not anymore, Richard—’tis enough that you love me.” She leaned into him, folded into the soft warmth of the fur-lined mantle she’d made him, and rubbed her cheek against his blazoned surcoat, feeling the hardness of the man and his mail. “I was so afraid you would not come,” she choked out. “The weather—”
“Nay, I’d cross hell for you this day, Gilliane de Lacey,” he murmured into the shining crown of her copper hair. His hands rubbed over her back as though to make certain she was really there, and then his arms tightened about her again. “I would have been here sooner, but ’twas not ruled for certainty until two days ago.”
“Your father said ’twas a court case that kept you,” she whispered into his shoulder.”
“Aye.” Abruptly he released her, setting her back from him, and he reached beneath the heavy cloak to draw out the parchment case. When she looked perplexed and disappointed, he handed it to her, urging her, “Read it—’tis the archbishop of Rouen’s seal that witnesses it.” Then, not waiting for her to open it, he took it back, broke the seal, and shook the rolled document out for her. “Go on.”
She glanced up at his eager face uncertainly. “The archbishop—but what—?” Then she unrolled it and looked down, reading aloud.
Know ye all men that it has been adjudged this day, 22 December, in the year of our lord 1137, that the betrothal contract between Richard of Rivaux, lord of Celesin, Ancennes, and lesser possessions, and Cicely, daughter to Thomas of Lincoln, is found null, voided by said Cicely’s disparagement of her vows to Holy Church.
Gillian’s hands trembled until the parchment shook. “Richard, what does this mean?” she asked, unable to read further.
“It means that Cicely would not wed with me.”
“Would not wed with you? Nay, but—” “Aye, she feared to be crushed beneath me in the marriage bed, and finally her fear of me exceeded her fear of her father. Cicely of Lincoln, my love, goes to be a nun.”
She stared, too stunned for speech, as he began rerolling the document that had given him freedom from the unwanted marriage. “Aye, Gilliane de Lacey, and since yours are the only sons I want, I’d have them stand tall beneath my standard. Our sons, Gilly—yours and mine—will one day rule Rivaux and Harlowe and the Condes—and anything else I can win for them. And our daughters will wed into great houses.” “Amia—”
“I’d not mantle her—’twould brand her for my bastard when she is legitimate in the eyes of all now, but I’d dower her with as much as any of them.” His dark eyes were heavily flecked with gold as they studied her. “What say you—would you wed with me this day? Would you pledge to me at the chapel door now, Gilly?”
She could not speak for the lump that formed in her throat. Tears welled in her eyes and overflowed as she nodded her assent.
“You are dearer than my life to me, Gilly,” he told her, watching her still. “Sweet Jesu, but I do love you.”
“And I you.”
She turned her head into his chest and slid her arms beneath the man
tle to encircle his waist, savoring the feel of his body against hers. The drops of water from the snow that had melted on his black hair dripped on her, but she cared for nothing but to be held by this man. Her heart sang and her mind repeated over and over, “He is yours—Richard of Rivaux is yours,” until it sank in.
“I’d have you unbind your hair, Gilly—I’d have you wear it down like a maid’s. I’d see it the way it ought to be worn on your wedding day.” One of his hands came up to work at the silk band that held the single plait, loosening it, and then his fingers gently combed through the braid until her hair streamed in waves over her shoulders. “You cannot know how often I have seen it thus in my dreams of you.”
Her hands twined in the heavy swordbelt at his waist, the one she’d made in what now seemed another lifetime, and then she was conscious of the sharpness of the buckle where it pressed against her. Looking down, she saw the winking stones and felt overwhelming gratitude for what he’d done for her.
“You had this of Brevise,” she murmured, touching it.
“Aye.” He loosed her arms briefly and stepped back for room, grinning boyishly as he felt for the leather pouch that hung from his belt. “In my gladness, I almost forgot—” He fumbled with the flap and then drew out a large cabochon emerald, holding it so it dangled from an exquisitely wrought gold chain. “ ’Tis your bridegift, Gilly.”
“Nay, but I—”
“It pleases me to give you things, Gilly.” Still grinning, he reached to clasp it around her neck, lifting her heavy hair to hook the chain. “And ’tis beautiful with your gown.”
She fingered the green stone where it nestled at the crevice between her breasts. “ ’Tis—’tis beautiful, Richard,” she managed as her eyes misted over. “But I have naught to bring you—I have naught to give you.”
“Nay, you bring me Amia—and you bring me love, Gilly, making me richer than any man I know.”