by Speer, Flora
A sudden cold chill flowed along Guy’s spine then gripped his insides. He pulled on the reins to stop his horse and sat still in the middle of the road, trying to recall every detail of a night fourteen years earlier, trying to banish a horrible, unthinkable possibility.
“It was Kate,” he muttered. “It was. It had to be.” It was impossible to remember every detail surrounding the act now, there were too many years in between, and more than a few women, and he had let the memory of his first sexual experience recede into the sweet, hazy dimness of lost youth.
His brother’s wife. A sin. No matter if her husband had neglected her for another man, no matter if Guy had not known who she was – still, his brother’s wife. Still a sin. Still disgusting, sickening. Why would Isabel do such an unspeakable thing? He thought he knew why: to get herself a son and heir and thus strengthen and improve her position at court. Small comfort to Guy now that the scheme had not worked but had resulted in Isabel being sent from court to Adderbury for five years.
But was that what had happened, or had she taken the opportunity, while Lionel was in her bed, to seduce her own drunken husband? Perhaps she had. Lionel had never, to Guy’s knowledge, doubted the child was his. Only Isabel could say what had really happened that night, and Isabel was not noted for truth-telling.
Guy rode slowly back to Afoncaer, turning the awful idea over and over in his mind. The first person he saw when he entered the great hall was Thomas, and Guy stared at him as if he had never seen the boy before. Was he nephew or bastard son? He loved Thomas, and whatever the truth was, it was not Thomas’s fault. He could not blame Thomas.
Meredith moved into view, gentle, smiling Meredith, bringing him wine after his long, hot ride. Guy felt a nearly uncontrollable need to put his head down on her sweet shoulder and, giving way to most unmanly emotion, tell her all that was troubling him.
He could not. There was no one he could tell, not even a priest in confession, because he was not sure what was true and what was not. And that, he realized, was Isabel’s final, subtle revenge against him, a punishment more tormenting than the one he had inflicted on her.
His household took his silence, and his lack of interest in food, to mean he was still distressed by the unhappy ceremony earlier that day, and they left him alone as he wanted. Reynaud, the only other person who could have heard Isabel’s wild words about Thomas, did not mention the incident. Reynaud was discreet. Guy was certain he would say nothing. He got hold of himself eventually and forced the terrible idea far down into the back of his mind and went on with his life as he always had. But every time he looked at Thomas, he wondered if he would ever know the truth.
At dawn three days later, after the people of Afoncaer had recovered a little from the unusual spectacle of an unknighting, two much more joyous ceremonies took place. A priest had been fetched from Llangwilym Abbey to say Mass and to conduct the religious part of the service. Guy knighted Geoffrey, publicly commending him for his bravery in helping to rescue Thomas. Guy then received Geoffrey into his personal service.
He had given Geoffrey a new suit of chain mail and both sword and shield. Since the young man, though of gentle birth, was quite poor, he could never have found the funds to pay for his armor. Without Guy’s generosity he might well have remained a squire all his life. Guy had smiled away Geoffrey’s profuse thanks for the new equipment.
“You have shown bravery in battle,” Guy said. “You deserve your knighthood. For my part, I am pleased to have you in my household. I know you will be faithful.”
It was considered good fortune for a woman to help with a knight’s first arming, so the day before Geoffrey had shyly asked Meredith if she would assist in this part of his initiation.
“I would be honored,” she replied, and then went to Thomas for secret instructions on how to help Geoffrey with his chain mail and his sword so that she would not fumble or make a mistake when the time came.
Immediately following Geoffrey’s knighting another, simpler, ceremony was held, during which Guy presented Thomas to the priest to be blessed and then bestowed on Thomas a squire’s sword and baldric, a beautifully ornamented belt, to hold his sword.
“Though you are a year younger than most squires,” Guy said before all those assembled in the chapel, “You have shown unusual bravery in the face of danger, and I know of your private acts of kindness toward those less fortunate than yourself. You have served me well as page. I believe you will be as fine a squire. If you are mutually agreeable, I would see you attached to Sir Geoffrey’s service, to serve him until it is time for your own knighting.”
There could be no doubt that this plan was pleasing to both parties. Newly made knight and his young squire were grinning at each other.
“When I am twenty-one,” Thomas solemnly told Meredith later, “Uncle Guy will knight me in that same chapel where he knighted Geoffrey.”
“If God is willing it should be so,” added Reynaud, coming up behind them. “We are all proud of you, Thomas. Just as a knight may earn his spurs on the field of battle, so you have earned the right to be a squire. I congratulate you.”
“Thank you, Master Reynaud.” Thomas went off to attend Sir Geoffrey, and Reynaud turned to Meredith.
“What will you do now?” he asked. “You will not return to your old home?”
“Sir Guy will not allow me to leave Afoncaer to live elsewhere. I suppose,” Meredith said wryly, thinking of her latest argument with him on the subject only the day before, “that I shall become a kitchen wench.”
“I doubt that will be allowed either. I know you can read a little.”
“Only a very little. Rhys taught me. I can also speak Welsh, English and French, but I can read only the French.”
“Would you like me to teach you to read more? Until some permanent provision is made for you, you could be useful to me. To my work,” Reynaud amended hastily.
“I would like it very much. I have a book that belonged to Rhys. Perhaps you can teach me to read it. But, Reynaud, I do not want to spend all my days poring over manuscripts. I am a healer. Since Sir Guy will not free me to go forth on my own, I would prefer to be in the stillroom making what medicines I can there, or else attending to those who need my skills here inside the castle.”
“You can do both,” Reynaud assured her. “There is sufficient time in every day. If you are willing, I will speak to Sir Guy about this, but it must be tomorrow, not today. We are called to the table.”
The feast arranged to celebrate Geoffrey’s knighting was magnificent. The new cook, under Joan’s tactful supervision, had shown what he could do, preparing many fancy meat pies and other pastries in addition to the usual stuffed and roasted game birds, venison, and suckling pigs. The last of the harvest was being gathered in, so there were still plenty of fresh greens for salads, and for vegetable stews spiced with calendula petals, parsley, garlic, and sage. Barrels of wine were broached, the acrid taste of the wine sweetened with honey and the expensive addition of those exotic new spices from the East, cinnamon and cloves, as well as local herbs, to make the drink more palatable. The guests ate and drank all day, until the early November dusk had fallen.
When the revelers had finally gone home or rolled themselves into blankets to sleep in the great hall, Guy took Meredith’s hand and led her into the cold, misty night, and then up the spiral stairs to the lord’s private chamber. She had by now spent more than a few nights in this room with him, and the place always delighted her.
“I like it here,” Meredith said. “I used to come up here before the tower was finished, to look out over your lands.”
“I remember.” His arms were around her, her face pressed against his heart. She had meant to talk to him yet again about her future and her need to continue in her healing work outside the castle confines, but his nearness sent her thoughts and careful arguments spinning away into empty air, until all she was aware of was Guy and her love for him, of his mouth on hers, and his hands, those large, square h
ands that could be so gentle and so strong, tantalizing her, stroking her flesh, driving her wild for complete union with him, until he picked her up and laid her on his bed and took her in ecstatic abandon.
“Meredith.” She heard his breathless gasp through pulsing waves of pleasure given and received, not fully comprehending his words until later. “Meredith, I love you, love you.”
“I love you, Guy. I’ve always loved you. I always will.” Her lips moved without her conscious thought. The words came directly from her heart and her spirit.
After, when they lay quietly, their legs still entangled and his arms holding her more gently, she thought about those words.
“It’s impossible,” she whispered. “I must go from Afoncaer before my heart is broken.” She did not add that it would break her heart to go.
“I won’t let you leave me.” She felt his arms tighten convulsively. “I need you. Stay here at the castle under my protection. You are free to do your work. There are enough injuries and illnesses to keep you busy, and anyone from outside Afoncaer who seeks your help may come to you here.” He kissed her, a long, slow, tender kiss. “I need you beside me,” he whispered, but he did not ask her to marry him. She knew he never would. She was base-born, of unwed parents. The Lord of Afoncaer must marry a noblewoman, some great heiress perhaps, who would bring her husband lands and wealth and more titles to add to those Guy already held.
If she did as he wished, and stayed at Afoncaer as his mistress, what would happen to her when he did marry? What wife would accept her husband’s mistress under the same roof, not to mention the children who would be the inevitable result of such a liaison? As for herself, how would she ever be able to bear the nights when he went to another woman, as he must, to get a legal heir? She felt Guy stir, then settle himself more comfortably beside her. She did not know his thoughts were as anguished as her own.
Meredith had brought him a peace and completion he had never experienced before. With her he was no longer lonely. He wanted her with him permanently, but he could not ask her to marry him. There was no place for love in a Norman baron’s life. As Guy had once told Walter, a wife should be chosen for the dowry she would bring and for her ability to provide heirs, not because her husband had passionate thoughts toward her.
And always, always, in the back of Guy’s mind, tormenting him ceaselessly, lay the question of who Thomas’s father was. It was intolerable to Guy to think that he might once have lain with Isabel. But if Lionel had not fathered the boy, and if he, Guy, were not the father either, then Thomas, much as Guy loved him, was no true heir to either Afoncaer or Adderbury. In that case, Guy had an obligation to marry and provide legitimate sons of his own to carry on his family’s line.
Guy’s unhappiness deepened during the next weeks. Any contentment he might have felt now that Afoncaer was safe was dissipated by his two beloved problems, Meredith and Thomas.
It was Reynaud who dared to challenge him on the subject of Meredith. Reynaud had been writing a steady stream of messages and reports to King Henry ever since Walter and Isabel had left Afoncaer. Guy assumed all the writing had to do with the attempt to take Afoncaer from him.
“What are you going to do about Meredith?” Reynaud asked, catching him by surprise one afternoon. “Everyone at Afoncaer knows you lie with her nightly, yet she has no official position here. There are those who look down on Meredith and treat her unkindly, saying she is no more than a temporary bedfellow. Others resent you taking a woman they regard as one of their own kind – and a very special one, at that, because of her relationship to Rhys – and using her for lewd purposes.”
“There is nothing lewd about my association with Meredith,” Guy retorted sharply, knowing in his heart that he had brought upon his love that very shame he had once wanted to spare her. Guy felt guilty and thus belligerent.
“My lord,” Reynaud said, “you have done much to make peace between the Welsh who live on your domain and the new settlers you have brought in, and you yourself are regarded as an honest man. Here in this small portion of borderland there is a chance for peace and for prosperity for everyone under your rule. Do not disrupt the peace you yourself have established by keeping Meredith as your mistress. You must either marry her or send her away.”
“Marry?” Guy stared at him in horror. “I will never marry. Thomas is my heir.” Even as he spoke, a voice in his mind said, but you may have to marry if Thomas is neither your son, nor Lionel’s.
Reynaud looked at him narrowly, and Guy knew the architect was thinking of Isabel’s parting words. At least the man had sense enough to keep silent about that. Reynaud could be trusted.
“Thomas is but mortal, my lord,” Reynaud said quietly, providing yet another reason for Guy to marry. “I have learned enough of your personal history to understand how your mother and your sister-in-law have turned you against the idea. But you need a legitimate heir of your own getting. Afoncaer needs a chatelaine to manage it. You need a wife.”
“Meredith is not noble, and she is illegitimate.”
“So was Sir Brian illegitimate, but that did not prevent him from achieving knighthood, and becoming a hero. Branwen told me that Meredith is the child of a Norman baron.”
“The difference between Meredith and Brian is this, Reynaud. Brian’s father acknowledged his son, gave him support, and raised him to be a knight. Meredith has grown up wild, with no gentle schooling.”
“Do you love her any the less for that? Oh, yes, I know you love her. Thanks to Rhys and Branwen, Meredith is better taught than most noblewomen. With Joan’s help she would soon learn to manage your household. As for the dowry, you are rich enough to overlook it.”
“The king would never allow it.”
“Ask him. If you wish, I will myself write a letter suggesting that you marry the lady. I can say such a marriage would have a calming effect upon your Welsh subjects. Henry would like that.”
“For a man sworn to celibacy, you are remarkably persistent about urging others to marry,” Guy said dryly.
“I am concerned for you, my lord. And for Meredith. She does not deserve public scorn.”
“I will think carefully about what you have said, Reynaud. Content yourself with that for the present.”
One week later Guy announced he would go to Westminster for Christmas to meet with King Henry, who had just returned from Normandy, and to make a personal report to the king about Walter’s attempt to take Afoncaer. Reynaud, without being bidden to do so, wrote his own account of recent events at Afoncaer, including in it high praise of the bravery of one Meredith, daughter of the late Lord Ranaulf of Kelsey in Mercia, a minor baron under Henry’s brother, King William Rufus.
Guy reached London in the middle of December and was granted a private appointment with the king, scheduled for three days later. He used the time he must wait to renew old friendships and catch up on court gossip. News of Walter’s treachery had circulated freely, and Guy was pleased to learn, as his friends discussed it, that Walter’s brother, Baldwin, taking his duties as custodian seriously, had confined both Walter and Isabel to a limited area of his estates in Brittany.
The talk of Walter and Isabel brought up once more the tormenting question that would not leave Guy alone. He had to know who Thomas’s father was. He considered a voyage to Brittany to confront Isabel, but discarded the idea. The weather was unusually bad, and passage across the Narrow Sea was severely curtailed until the seas had calmed. He told himself he would not have believed anything Isabel might have said, anyway.
If only there were someone in London, in Westminster Palace perhaps, who could help him. He thought about that night again, trying to recall everything he knew, anyone who had been near Isabel’s bedchamber. Isabel’s maidservant Agnes had been sent away to sleep in the women’s quarters. She probably would have known nothing, and in any case, she had died of lung congestion shortly after reaching Afoncaer. Lionel, too, was dead. That left himself, Isabel, and Kate the kitchen wench, object of
his youthful fancy. Kate, who had repulsed him over and over again after that night. Kate, who just might remember, and tell him the truth. If he could find her again after all these years.
He made his way to Westminster Palace, to the kitchen where once he had spent so much time watching the beautiful girl with the orange-red hair and the freckled nose, and there he began his inquiries. No one remembered a youthful Kate, until, in near despair, Guy asked a gnarled old man who was bringing in buckets of water from the well in the courtyard. The man looked vaguely familiar to him.
“Sir Guy of Adderbury, is it?” The old fellow looked at him through rheumy eyes. “I remember you when you were a page. You spent a lot more time than you should have in the kitchens. A fine, strong lad you were then, with an eye for the wenches.”
Guy slipped the man a coin.
“Do you remember a girl named Kate, who worked here when I was a page?” Guy asked, and held his breath while the man thought, scratching the thin grey hair behind one ear.
“Kate?”
A pause long enough to make Guy want to shake the fellow followed. He restrained himself and contemplated handing over another coin instead. Before he could, the man nodded. “There was a Kate who married Hugh the armorer. Is that the Kate you want?”
“I’ll soon find out. Do you know where she lives?”
“It’s not far from here. Hugh still does work for the palace. Now let me see.”
The old man’s directions were garbled, and it took Guy half the afternoon to find the house, but at last he stood before it. It was well-built and neat, set across a small courtyard from the armorer’s shop, from which issued the clanging sounds of hammer on metal. A girl of ten or so accosted Guy as he lifted his hand to knock at the door of the house. Under her linen scarf the girl had bright orange-red hair, and freckles splashed across her snub nose.
“You’ll want my father, sir,” the girl said, pointing in the direction of the noise coming from the other building. “He’s over there.”