It was a comforting thought and Sir Richard clung to it as plans were finalized and Gilliane somehow induced him to offer his son as guardian of Tarring during the time they would be away. Adam was a trifle annoyed because he did trust Sir Richard and did not want any shadow of the notion that the young man would be hostage for the father’s behavior. Gilliane, however, was even willing to endure Adam’s displeasure to ensure their safety and blandly ignored his frown as she maneuvered Sir Richard into leaving his eldest boy to “manage” Tarring keep.
A day earlier Osbert de Cercy had bowed low before the Prince of France. Louis knew Osbert was a coward and a coxcomb, but he did not know the man was also a fool. Thus, he thought he might gain doubly by dispatching him to the places that had been raided by men using FitzWalter’s battle cry. He would be rid of a tale-bearer, and he might get some information about who had done the raiding. The prince did not bother to wrap the matter up in clean cloth.
“I have heard, Sir Osbert,” he began abruptly, “that you are not fond of scaling walls or thrusting yourself into breaches.”
“My lord,” Osbert protested, his voice high with shock.
“Do not bother to explain to me,” Louis interrupted. “As it happens, your distaste for battle and my need fall in very well together. Doubtless you have heard the tale of the raiders who cried ‘Dunmow.’ I know they were not FitzWalter’s men, but I do not know who they were nor why they used this device. Since you are more like to turn all awry in an assault than to help it forward, you will be of more aid to me if you ride south to Knepp castle, Arundel keep, and Lewes keep. You are to do two things in each place—assure them they were the victims of a treacherous trick, for Robert FitzWalter had no part in their loss, and try to discover any hint as to who played this trick.”
“I will do your bidding, of course,” Osbert replied, ignoring Louis’s all-too-frank reasons for the assignment, “but I am not rich, my lord, and to support my men away from the camp will be difficult.”
Grudgingly, Louis gave Osbert a little money and a letter instructing all men to give Sir Osbert de Cercy all aid and comfort possible while he was about the business of Louis, Prince of France. With this, Osbert had to be content. He had every intention of extending his researches into the raiders for some time—at least until Louis concluded his campaign and came to rest in winter quarters in London. The thing that displeased Osbert most was Louis’s warning that he not dally along the way and most particularly not stop in London.
There was something in Louis that pierced Osbert’s stupidity and self-satisfaction enough so that the warning took hold. Feeling spiteful because he could not enjoy himself as he had intended, Osbert spent three days ostentatiously “making ready.” It was only when an assault on Berkhampsted was being planned that, grumbling, Osbert set out. However, he had taken Louis’s warning to heart. Instead of traveling south-east to London, he went due south, turning a little east at Uxbridge. He planned to stop at Leith Hill and demand hospitality from Sir Philip. His demand, however, was thrown back in his face. Sir Philip knew Saer was dead; he did not know what else had happened, but he wanted no part of Osbert de Cercy, with or without a letter from Prince Louis.
Osbert was livid with rage. It was already time for dinner and he was cold and hungry. However, after uttering some ill-advised threats that he had no power to carry out, he was forced to ride on. He feared at first that he would need to ride back to Guildford or to Reigate, which would take him out of his way, but then he remembered that the Abbey of St. Leonard was little more than eight miles away and in the right direction. Abbeys did not offer the kind of entertainment Osbert liked, but in this case, austere hospitality was better than freezing and starving.
The letter Geoffrey had written from Hemel caught tip with Adam in Sir Andrew’s keep at Rother. It had been sent on from Tarring by Sir Richard’s son, and Sir Richard and Sir Andrew were highly impressed when a message bearing the double seal of Lord Ian de Vipont and Lord Geoffrey FitzWilliam was delivered to Adam just before they sat down to dinner. He excused himself for opening the missive immediately, but when he had done so, the worried frown smoothed away and he was shaken by laughter. Gilliane, who had whitened at Adam’s initial exclamation of surprise, regained her color.
“Is it good news, my lord?” she asked. Her voice was still somewhat tremulous. After several days of listening to conversations among the men, Gilliane had come to realize that what she might regard with horror, Adam considered great fun.
“It is amusing news and may well lead to good news,” Adam replied. However, he had no intention of really telling them at what he had been laughing. He did not think it safe to mention his raiding exploits in front of Sir Richard and Sir Andrew. If Arundel did come back to King Henry, it would be most unfortunate if he should discover that Adam, rather than a Frenchman, had been the raider who had started his quarrel with FitzWalter. Sir Andrew was exactly like his mother’s vassal, Sir Henry of Kingsclere, and could never be trusted with the smallest subtlety or secret. He was loyal, honest and well intentioned, but anyone could extract information from him without his having the faintest notion he had spoken amiss. Later, Adam thought, he would tell Gilliane and they could enjoy the joke together. For the others, he had a safer story.
“Prince Louis,” Adam continued, grinning broadly, “is doing as much for King Henry’s cause, I am happy to tell you, as any of Henry’s most devoted subjects.”
He went on to describe in detail the incident concerning de Mandeville, omitting only the fact that Louis had apologized for the Count of Perche’s behavior. Also, without mentioning what had caused Arundel’s dissatisfaction, Adam told them of the earl’s visit to Hemel, reading bits of Geoffrey’s letter aloud to them. He had cause, seeing the expressions on Sir Richard’s and Sir Andrew’s faces, to bless his mother for forcing him—much against his will—to learn to read and write. Had he needed to withdraw to have a clerk read the message to him, it would never have had the same effect. Although the men might tell themselves that it was only reasonable to listen to a family communication in private, a faint unease would have been created, possibly even a feeling that Adam had had time to make up or embellish the tale he told.
As it was, the impact of Geoffrey’s news was most convincing. True, Sir Andrew’s reaction was at first largely indignation at the French attitude, but Sir Richard soon pointed out that had they not come under Sir Adam’s protection, the defection of the Earl of Arundel from Louis’s party would have left them open to attack and confiscation as rebels. This notion, once inserted into Sir Andrew’s head, took strong hold. It was he who suggested that they go as soon as possible to explain these matters to Sir Edmund.
Accordingly, they set out the next day. Sir Andrew had been somewhat surprised to see Gilliane, but the conditions under which she was traveling did not really sink into his head until they were out on the road. He was then so loud in his wonder at her ability and endurance that she was hard put not to laugh in his face. In fact, except for one thing, Gilliane had never been so happy in her life. The respect with which she was treated by everyone, the fact that Sir Andrew and his wife had given up their own bed to her—which she would have refused had Adam not frowned at her severely so that she realized she was obliged to accept the courtesy—the bows and shy approaches of the daughters of the house, who sent Catrin away and offered their own service as maids just to speak to a great lady, were all wine to Gilliane’s soul.
Everything smiled at her. The weather was cold, but clear and dry. Her mare was strong and beautiful and of a docile disposition so that her limited experience with riding was not obvious. Also, she grew more confident and experienced with each mile traveled so that she no longer needed to concentrate on staying in the saddle and controlling her mount. Then it became a great pleasure to look around at the countryside, which was all new to her.
Gilliane told herself not to be a fool. Men never paid any attention to women when they had other men for company
. In addition, she and Adam had agreed that there must be no sign of intimacy between them, and she knew Adam had refused the company of a woman in Sir Andrew’s keep. How could he look at her, anyway? He rode ahead with Sir Richard and Sir Andrew. To look at her, he would have had to turn around in the saddle. It was ridiculous to keep hoping he would do so, but the fact that he did not cast a faint pall over Gilliane’s joy.
It did not occur to Gilliane that Adam was suffering more than she was. To her, everything was new and exciting and distracting. Adam, on the other hand, knew the countryside, and although Sir Richard was an intelligent man, his conversation was no substitute for Gilliane’s, which Adam found far more interesting. Moreover, whenever Gilliane was not looking at the scenery through which they passed, she looked at Adam. It was safe enough to do so. He rode with the other two men a few horse lengths ahead. No one could see on which man her eyes were fixed and, in any case, it was natural to look ahead. Adam, however, could feel her attention—one can sense being stared at—and he reacted almost as strongly as if Gilliane had been stroking his naked back with her hand.
Frustrated desire worked upon Adam in the same way that enforced inactivity would. He had a growing need to exert himself physically. If he could not make love or fight, he needed to ride hard rather than dawdle along at a pace suited to foot soldiers. At first, it seemed that this desire, too, must be subdued, but soon after they had stopped to rest the horses and eat a bite themselves, Sir Richard remarked that they would be entering St. Leonard’s forest in a mile or so. Adam’s eyes lit.
“Do you think the abbot would give us leave to hunt?” he asked.
Sir Richard was surprised. It was a little odd to think of stopping to hunt in the middle of a purposeful journey, but in a moment he smiled indulgently. Adam had been so serious and so sensible all the time they were making their plans that Sir Richard had almost forgotten how young he was. Poor boy, to carry such a weight on his shoulders. No wonder he longed for a little respite.
“I doubt he would think of denying us,” Sir Richard replied with a glance at the tail of men stretching down the road.
Adam laughed shortly. “No, but I do not wish to imply any threat. I know the Church officially supports King Henry, and I would not like to act as if I thought we could therefore make free with Church property.”
“I will ask, then,” Sir Richard offered. “I have hunted here with my late lord once or twice. Besides, we can crave hospice for Lady Gilliane. She makes no complaint, but she must be very tired, and, truly, I do not like to think of her lying on a pallet on the ground.”
“Why?” Adam asked, genuinely puzzled and thereby innocently giving Sir Richard the false impression that he hardly thought of Gilliane as a woman. “She is young and strong.”
Adam could not understand such coddling. His mother and his sister never made anything of camping out. Then he thought that Sir Richard might feel he was slighting his overlady’s honor and he apologized for his casual attitude, saying he meant no insult and explaining that Alinor and Joanna often traveled rough when there was need. Nonetheless, it occurred to him that the hospice was an excellent idea. Gilliane could make the necessary visit of politeness to the abbot and save him trouble.
The men-at-arms, of course, could not be accommodated at the abbey. Cuthbert and the other two masters-at-arms were told to march the troop southwest to some open fields where they could set up a camp while Gilliane, Adam, Sir Richard and Sir Andrew presented themselves to the abbot. They were welcomed graciously and permission to hunt was given readily. A lay brother was told to guide them to the foresters. Without more ado Adam said farewell and drew his companions out to ride off, regardless of the fact that the afternoon was not the usual time for a hunt.
In summer, the beasts went to earth during the day; in winter, however, sometimes they foraged all day. In any case, Adam insisted they had not much time. It would be more sensible to try to catch a stag at his dusk feeding than to wait until the following dawn. If they did not kill at once and were caught out at dark, well, doubtless there was a lodge somewhere. Sir Richard sighed. He had been looking forward to a decent dinner and a warm bed. The sigh, however, was indulgent, and Sir Andrew saw nothing wrong with Adam’s enthusiasm. He was himself a passionate huntsman. In any case, neither man associated Adam’s desire for the chase with a need to escape from Gilliane.
Gilliane was somewhat alarmed at being left in the august company of an abbot. Adam did not realize how limited her life and experiences had been. However, the abbot was not of Adam’s mind concerning what made for a good woman. He had no high expectations of Gilliane’s mind or abilities. Thus, he addressed a few kind words to her, which she received in modest silence. This being most proper, the abbot was pleased and showed it, considerably relieving Gilliane’s mind. Then he suggested that she must be tired and would like to rest. The prior who was summoned led her in silence to a small, neat house, separated from the abbey by a gate and a wall, which was the area set aside for female guests. Gilliane retreated to this haven promptly and thankfully. She was tired and was glad enough to sleep for a while on the bed Catrin had warmed and spread with her own sheets.
She woke some hours later, ate the meal sent in by the monks, who could not have a woman in their refectory, and then became horribly conscious that she had nothing at all to do. This freedom immediately trapped her mind into its familiar round of hope and fear. If Adam loved her, would he not pay her more attention? Then she blamed herself for that doubt, reminding herself that his attentions would brand her a whore to her own men.
Logic is not very satisfactory to a woman who desires kisses and strong arms around her, however. Gilliane knew she did not care for anyone’s opinion but Adam’s. Had he been willing, she would cheerfully have let down her hair in public. Since he was not willing, perhaps he had other reasons than her honor. Perhaps there was another woman, a woman whose delicate ears he did not wish sullied with the fact that he had a mistress. Yet he had refused a woman in Sir Andrew’s keep. Did that mean he was merely still sated by their lovemaking? Did it mean he cared enough for her to wish not to hurt her? Or was it all for the sake of some sweet maid for whom he was negotiating? Surely if it was for her own sake, Gilliane thought, he would have looked at her and spoken to her more these past days.
Having come round to the beginning again, Gilliane cave an impatient exclamation. It was ridiculous to sit in this tiny bare room thinking herself into sadness when she should be happy. God knew, there would probably soon be reason enough for misery. While she could be happy, she would be. Gilliane rose and took her cloak. If it was forbidden for women to walk in the cloister, surely there must be some place set aside for guests to exercise.
In this supposition, Gilliane was quite correct. There was a small garden just behind the house along the abbey wall. It was dead and dry, but Gilliane was able to see how the beds were laid out and how the root stocks of the perennials were mulched. She examined the monks’ arrangements with care because they were famous gardeners and Gilliane was aware that the gardens of Tarring were now her responsibility. She was very surprised at how much that knowledge increased her interest in the subject and continued her examination of the bedding out until it was too dark to see clearly. She might have lingered longer, had she not heard the arrival of horsemen at the gate. Gilliane was too late to see who had arrived, but assumed it was Adam and his companions. She hurried into the chamber assigned to her to make sure everything was neat and welcoming. Surely he would come to her now surely? But no one came.
Osbert de Cercy told his troop to camp about half a mile north of the abbey. They had just passed a village, so the men raised no demur. They had their own methods of making themselves comfortable, and their master, if he did not make any attempt to see to their welfare, did not question what they did when he left them to their own devices. Osbert himself, with Jean and Pierre, rode on and passed through the abbey gates just before they were closed for the night. Dinner was
long past and the abbot at his evening devotions, but the prior welcomed Osbert and saw that something was found for him to eat.
Disturbed because the dark and cheerless refectory offered so little comfort, the prior chatted amiably, deploring the lack of company. Few traveled in winter, he remarked, especially in these uneasy times, but they did have other guests. It was a shame Osbert had not come a few hours earlier; then he could have accompanied Sir Adam, Sir Richard, and Sir Andrew when they had gone hunting. The dim light of two candles, which made eating possible, was not sufficient to show the prior that Osbert had turned white as a lily. To begin with, Adam was not a common name for a nobleman, and in conjunction with Richard and Andrew in this area, it could only be Adam Lemagne. Between chewing and swallowing, however, Osbert had time to recover from the shock and recall that the prior had said Adam was away hunting.
He even managed to ask when the prior expected his other guests to return. The prior did notice that Osbert’s voice had changed, but assumed he was a little choked with what he was eating and said, regretfully, that he was afraid they would not come back until midmorning of the next day. He assumed, since they had not come in before dark, that they would sleep in the lodge and hunt again in the dawn. Osbert’s sigh of relief was misunderstood by the kindly man as a sign of regret and he cast about in his mind for something to assuage Osbert’s disappointment. His eyes brightened.
Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four) Page 24