by Speer, Flora
“Henry has lost two sons,” Valaire said, “while I still have all of mine. I grieve for Selene, and always will, but Henry’s loss is greater, for it is England’s loss, too.”
“He did nothing but weep while I was with him,” Thomas said.
“It’s all he does all day. Bishop Roger of Salisbury, his treasurer, holds the reins of government now, and there are many who do not like that. There’s a plot afoot to try to convince Henry to marry again, in the hope of getting another heir.” Valaire had a speculative look. “Will you stay at court, Thomas? With so many nobles lost to us, there is easier preferment for a capable man with ambition. You could go far. I’ll be happy to speak in your behalf to Salisbury.”
“I thank you for that, sir, but the only place I want to go is Afoncaer. It’s where I belong. I’m not overly fond of court life. I much prefer the freedom of the borderlands. And until we are certain what will happen next in this realm, or who will rule it after Henry, we must keep a strong guard at Afoncaer. The Welsh may take advantage of this situation to try to drive us out.”
“I understand.” Valaire accepted Thomas’s decision with good grace. “Don’t let our friendship languish, Thomas. Our families are still connected by affection.”
“And by Jocelyn and Deirdre,” Thomas added. “You must come to Afoncaer to see your grandchildren.”
“Will you send Arianna back to us?” asked Lady Aloise, who after a first tearful embrace had sat quietly during Thomas’s conversation with her husband.
“She’s part of Afoncaer now,” Thomas replied, warmth welling up in him at the mention of her name. He tried to control it. He would not allow himself to think of Arianna. Not yet. It was too soon after Selene’s death, and he owed his wife a suitable period of mourning. But he could not let Arianna leave Afoncaer – not unless she wanted to, and he did not think that was likely. “Arianna has charge of my children. She is dear to my Aunt Meredith and also to Uncle Guy. I don’t think they would want her to leave.”
“Then let her stay where she is,” Aloise said. “There’s no real place at court for a penniless orphan. Let her be useful to you and Meredith.”
Thomas had planned to question Aloise about the way his marriage to her daughter had been arranged. He wanted to know if she was aware of Isabel’s plotting. But watching the plump, self-satisfied court lady who had been his mother-in-law, he decided to say nothing. Isabel had probably used Aloise as heartlessly as she used Selene. It was over and done now. No need to cause unnecessary grief or trouble. He took his leave of Aloise and Valaire most courteously.
And then it seemed to Thomas that there was no more reason to stay at court. He wanted to be with those he loved, to feel their comforting presence. Royal permission to leave court was easy to obtain; in his present mood Henry did not care what anyone did. On a cold, grey morning in December, Thomas, with Benet and the men-at-arms who had been at his back since Barfleur, set out on the long journey to Afoncaer.
The closer they came to the border, the harder they pushed their horses and themselves, wanting to reach home with a mutual yearning that urged all of them toward the northwestern horizon, where storm clouds had been steadily gathering for days.
“There will be a blizzard,” Benet predicted, “a bad one.”
They pressed on toward the warmth and safety of Afoncaer, until, just before the early dark of that Christmas Eve, they thundered across the drawbridge to shouts of welcome from the guards who recognized Thomas’s blue and silver banner. Up the main street of the village they rode, over the sharply slanted wooden bridge that spanned the dry moat, through the main castle gate, and into the inner bailey, just as the snow began to fall. Thomas leapt from his horse. He ran right up the stairs of the keep and through the door, startling Kenelm out of the wardroom to see what the noise was. At last he came into the great hall, showering drops of moisture and unmelted snowflakes on anyone near him.
Guy was standing in front of the nearest fireplace, warming himself at the roaring blaze. He spun around at the sound of boots on the stone floor.
“Thomas!” His arms opened and Thomas went into them, knowing Guy for his father. He could not speak of it yet, but he would, in time. For now, it was enough to feel the strength in Guy’s arms and know he was well recovered from his wounds of the previous year.
Thank God, Thomas thought, he was not lost to me before I knew who he truly is. We’ve so much to say to each other.
Over Guy’s shoulder Thomas saw Reynaud smiling at him in greeting, and then Meredith came hurrying into the hall, and behind her Arianna, with his son Jocelyn in her arms and Deirdre clinging to her skirts. Bewildered as he was by a rush of conflicting emotions over Selene’s death, his feelings for Arianna, and his newly discovered relationship to Guy, Thomas could think of nothing to say to Arianna. He was uncomfortably aware of a large portion of the castle’s population crowding into the great hall to welcome him, and he wanted to do nothing before others that might embarrass her or make her the subject of gossip.
She seemed to understand. She smiled bravely at him, tears welling in her eyes when Selene’s name was mentioned.
“Welcome home, Thomas,” she said quietly. “Here is your son,” she said, handing Jocelyn to him.
It was not at all like a meeting of would-be lovers, and yet in the expression of their eyes and the quick touch of their hands as he took the boy from her there was something that soothed his aching spirit. She had not changed; she loved him still. She would wait. He knew it. And knew something more: Arianna genuinely grieved for Selene.
“I will forget the unhappy times when she was not herself. She was my playmate when we were small,” Arianna said. “She was kin, though distant, and I loved her.”
While he tried to think of a suitable reply, cursing the slow wit and wooden tongue that left Arianna to carry the burden of this too-public moment, Jocelyn broke the mood.
Wriggling and squirming like any other two-year-old, young Joce demanded to be put down at once. Thomas complied, laughing, and Joce, once his small feet were on the ground, made for the nearest dog he could find and began to pull its tail.
“He never stops,” Arianna said. “He wearies us all. But Deirdre is quiet and well behaved.” Deirdre had hidden herself behind Arianna’s skirt and now peeped out, her blue eyes wide and round as she regarded her father.
Before Thomas could speak to the child, he was surrounded by men. Guy had questions for him, Kenelm had the latest news to tell, and others crowded about him, separating him from Arianna. He looked for her and saw her leading his children out of the hall. She was taking them back to the nursery, he supposed. He had no chance to be alone with her that night, nor, as it turned out, for some time to come, and that was his own doing.
After all the greeting was done, after those gathered had wept again over Selene’s death and that of the men from Afoncaer who had been with her, after Christmas Mass and a very subdued feast for the holy day, and visits with the survivors of those others who had died, Thomas found, on the day after Christmas, that he had no desire to rise from his bed.
Meredith came to see him.
“Your spirit is weary,” she said. “Too much has befallen you. You need to rest.” She gave him one of her hot herbal brews to drink, and after taking it he fell asleep and did not wake completely for two days. Then she fed him until he felt like a stuffed pheasant before roasting, and made him stay in bed for days longer, until he snarled at her in unaccustomed irritation at the restrictions she had put on him.
“I’ve been waiting for that sign,” she told him, laughing. “You are better now, Thomas. Get up whenever you want.”
He did, the next day, but he was not cured yet. There was too much unspoken and unsettled. Because of that, he continued to avoid Arianna. Ten days after his return he confronted Guy and Meredith in their private chamber at the top of the tower keep.
“I know the truth of my parentage,” he said bluntly. “I wish to speak with you alone, my
lord.”
“There is no need for that, Thomas.” Meredith glanced at her husband’s white face and took his arm, moving protectively closer to him. “I know it, too.”
“I’ll not ask who told you,” Guy said. “There is only one person who could have done so. Isabel. You have seen her.”
“I was with her when I learned of Selene’s death.” Thomas told them the story, not leaving out his suspicions about Isabel’s influence on Selene, or what Isabel had admitted about arranging their marriage.
“I think there is still more in this tale than we will ever know,” he concluded. “But Selene is dead and cannot speak, and Lady Isabel never will. Let it rest there, let Selene rest in peace. She had little enough peace in life, poor tormented woman. My lord, what we must talk about now is Isabel’s claim that you are my father.”
“That she should deal you such a blow,” Meredith cried, “by telling you when you were already in such deep pain. What cruelty.”
“To be cruel when one of her intrigues failed was always Isabel’s way,” Guy said. “Thomas, I tell you truthfully I did not know it was Isabel who came to me the night you were conceived. I was not quite fifteen years old. I had never lain with a woman before, and at first I thought I was dreaming. Then I thought it was one of the kitchen wenches, a girl I fancied, come to lay with me in the dark. Had I known who it really was, I would have run from that woman in horror. Although,” he added, “I cannot say I am sorry you were born. You have always been a joy and pride to me, and I loved you well, even before I knew you for my own.”
“And you, Meredith,” Thomas turned his gaze on her. “You said that you knew.”
“Guy told me after Cristin was born. It seemed we could have no more children, and I was distraught that I had not given him an heir of his own body. I told him to set me aside and take another wife.”
“That I could never do.” Guy put an arm about Meredith’s shoulders. “I told her the story, so she would know you were my true heir.”
“And what might have distressed another wife,” Meredith added, “was comfort to me. I loved you before, Thomas, but all the more dearly once I knew you were Guy’s own son.”
“But I am a bastard!” Thomas cried. “You should have told me.”
“We kept the secret out of love for you,” Guy said. “Why hurt you needlessly? The fewer people who know of this the better. I have more than enough land to divide between you and Meredith’s son, and still provide dowries for my daughters. No one will be cheated, and no one else need ever know.”
“I should have been told,” Thomas cried again. “Do you know what I have suffered, believing I was Sir Lionel’s child? Even as a page at court, at that young age, I was fully aware of what manner of man my supposed father was, and I lived in terror of becoming like him, cruel and licentious, and overly ambitious. It’s one of the reasons I spent two years at Llangwilym Abbey, and thought so seriously of entering the Church. To avoid passing that bad blood down to another generation. But you, I always loved and admired you so much. If I had known you were my father, how relieved I would have been. I would have been glad to be your bastard.”
“I’m sorry, Tom. I tried to do the right thing for you.”
“You know now, Thomas,” Meredith interrupted. “Can’t you forgive Guy for hiding it all those years?”
“Forgive?” Thomas exclaimed. “It’s my mother who should ask forgiveness, from all of us, for the wicked things she’s done. But you, who have given me naught but love and guidance all my life, you who – Father—”
“Tom, my son.”
They were in each other’s arms, slapping each other on the back and trying not to weep with joy, and Meredith turned aside to wipe her eyes. It was a long time before the two men let each other go.
“I think,” Guy said, “we had best keep this among ourselves. I doubt Isabel will ever tell another soul.”
“There is Reynaud,” Meredith added.
“Reynaud?” Thomas stared at her. “Reynaud knows?”
“I told him years ago,” Guy explained. “He has written it into one of his histories in case the information should ever be needed after we are dead. But that volume is sealed, and Reynaud will never speak. So, just we four will know.”
“And one more,” Thomas said. “Not yet, but when the time is right, there is another who must know. It’s only fair to tell her, and she will keep the secret.”
“I’m not sure -” Guy began.
“I am,” Thomas insisted. “I’ve lived too long with untruths. My marriage to Selene was built on them. I’ll have no more of that.”
“Agreed.” Guy put out his hand, and Thomas clasped it. Father and son stood grinning at each other before they embraced once more.
Chapter 20
Late March, A.D., 1121
When her secretary had finished reading Sir Valaire’s letter to her, Isabel cried out in dismay.
“He cannot do that to me!”
“I believe you will find, my lady,” the secretary said, “that he can indeed. The agreement between you and Sir Valaire was contained within a marriage contract, and was in force only so long as the marriage continued between your son Thomas and Sir Valaire’s daughter Selene. The marriage is ended by the Lady Selene’s death.”
“And so Valaire will drive me out of my home and leave me destitute?”
“As you have heard, my lady, he suggests you enter a convent. He has been most generous to allow you a few months’ grace.”
“Grace? Grace? How dare he?” Isabel picked up her secretary’s inkpot, preparing to throw it at him. “Go into a convent? That is just what I’ve been trying to avoid for the last six years!”
“Please, my lady.” The secretary flinched, backing away from the angry woman before him. “I’ve done nothing. It’s not my fault.”
After a moment Isabel lowered the inkpot slowly, thinking, while her secretary breathed a sigh of relief.
Isabel wanted to weep, but she knew only too well that tears would not help her now. What she had to do was see to her own welfare. An idea was forming in her mind.
“A convent,” she murmured. “I have heard that King Henry is completely bowed down by grief over his son’s death.”
“So I have heard, too, my lady,” the secretary eagerly affirmed, glad to have Isabel’s attention diverted from the inkpot. “They say he sits and stares before him all the day long, weeping, and leaves the business of governing to others.”
“But he has roused himself enough to give permission for William Atheling’s widow, Alice, to return to her father in Anjou,” Isabel added.
“That is true, my lady. She is expected to enter a convent.”
“Where? Do you know?”
“I believe it is Fontevrault.” The secretary looked at her, his eyes twinkling with humor, for he knew his employer well after many years in her service. And everyone knew about Fontevrault, where a gentle abbess held sway and noble women often went for peaceful retirement from the world of men. Its rule was not strict, its inhabitants were allowed to bring servants with them when they entered, and a fair measure of freedom was accorded to those who lived within its walls. “And which convent will you chose for your retirement, my lady?”
“I will go to her, that poor widow,” Isabel said suddenly. “King Henry is too preoccupied to prevent me, and in any case, in Anjou his writ does not run. Alice of Anjou would doubtless appreciate the sincere sympathy of one who has also lost a close family member in that horrible tragedy. We can mourn our losses together. If enter a convent I must, I’ll at least do it in good company. You will come with me, of course, master secretary. And all my personal servants. Write to Sir Valaire, tell him I am content to retire from this wicked world, but will need funds, a dowry of some kind to turn over to the Church to assure my good treatment there. Sir Valaire is a religious man, he will not cavil at giving money to the Church.”
“And before you are done,” the secretary murmured softly, “before you
leave this life, you will probably become Mother Abbess yourself.”
“Turn punishment to my advantage once more?” Isabel’s sharp ears had caught his words. She smiled at him. “Well, I’ve done it before, have I not? Do you know, master secretary, I had never thought of that kind of advancement until now? But I might do it. Anything is possible.”
“So King Henry has married again.” Guy frowned. “And she’s only eighteen years old to his fifty-three?”
“So Sir Valaire’s letter says,” Meredith replied, rereading it. “He says, the better to get a new heir to the throne. It’s Henry’s most pressing need right now. Valaire says Adelicia of Louvain is a gentle young woman who will do her part with kindness toward Henry.”
“How sad to be forced to accept pity in one’s own bed, from a wife young enough to be a granddaughter.” Guy put his arms around his own wife, heedless of the amused glances of squires and servants, not caring one bit that they stood in the inner bailey in full view of everyone. “I’m glad I have you, my love.”
Despite her husband’s close embrace, Meredith pressed the parchment flat against his chest and continued reading Sir Valaire’s letter, for Guy was eager to learn its contents and Reynaud, busy with the new bell tower for the village church, would not be back until nightfall to read it to him.
“Guy, listen to this. Valaire says Henry is coming to Wales later this year. It is expected the Welsh leaders will sign a treaty with him when they meet. It will mean peace, and an end to the raids.”
“We may hope so.” At the clatter of horses’ hooves, Guy momentarily withdrew his attention from his wife to watch two riders passing beneath the castle portcullis, heading through the town and out toward the forest. “There go two more with hope. Thomas is healing at last. I was not happy to see him retreat to Llangwilym Abbey for more than two months. I wanted my son by my side, but I see now he was right to leave us for a while, to finish his mourning for Selene in that way. He told me last night that Father Ambrose, his old teacher at Llangwilym, advised him once more to return to the world. Though from the way he looks at Arianna, I doubt he would have made a very good monk.”