by Speer, Flora
“I think it’s your mother I should speak to,” Guy replied. “Is she home?”
“Follow me, sir.” The girl bobbed a curtsey and set off around the corner of the house, Guy following her. She led him in the back door to the kitchen, where a plump, middle-aged woman bent over a table kneading bread, her arms dusted with flour to the edges of her rolled-up sleeves.
“Here’s a lord to see you, mam,” said the girl.
“Katie, love, it can’t be for me. Take him to your father.” The woman turned, brushing a wisp of stray hair off her face – tarnished brass mixed with grey now, Guy noticed – and gaped at him, her flour-smudged face filling with surprise. “Master Guy.”
“Hello, Kate.”
“I mean, Lord Guy. What do you want of me?”
“Not what I used to want, I assure you. I only need to ask you a question or two and have an honest answer from you.” Guy smiled at her in open friendliness, and she relaxed.
“Go on, Katie,” the older Kate said to her daughter. “Go sweep the courtyard, and close the door after you. Will you sit, Lord Guy? Would you like a mug of ale?” Kate snatched up a cloth and dusted flour off a stool.
“Let me put it by the table, and you can go on with your work while we talk,” Guy said, picking up the stool. She gave him a pewter mug of ale, and he sat down and watched her as she went back to the bread dough, kneading it with strong, well-muscled arms. She had grown stout, the hair that escaped from under her linen scarf was grey indeed, and the once-smooth face had wrinkles about the honest grey eyes. There were still a few freckles on her pert nose. She looked happy. He guessed she had made Hugh the armorer a good wife.
“Well,” she asked, “what are your questions?”
“I need to know,” Guy said, wishing there were an easier way to do this, “If you ever came to me at night.”
“What?” She stared at him, her arms deep in bread dough. “What did you say?”
“Did we ever make love? In the dark, when I could not see your face?”
“With you, you silly boy? You lout? You, always trying to put your arms around me? Never!” She slapped at the dough as if she were slapping the foolish youth he had once been, before she looked straight at him again, and saw how serious he was. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I was hoping we had.” Guy’s pain sounded in his voice, and she heard it.
“If we had, you’d remember it,” she said. She covered the dough with a clean cloth and then sat down across the table from him.
“I had no dowry, like a great lady has,” Kate said. “I had only one gift to bring to the man I married. My maidenhead. I never had aught to do with any man until the night of my wedding. I love my Hugh and he loves me. I have never looked at another man. You and I never made love.”
“I wish it had been you,” Guy said.
“Why me?”
“Because if it was not you who came to me that night, then it was someone it should not have been,” he replied.
“It should not have been me, either,” Kate said firmly. “Did something wrong come of it?”
“Yes.” Guy put both his hands on the table, heaving himself to his feet. He felt ancient, weighted down by sin and self-disgust and helpless anger at Isabel. How like her to carelessly use him to get what she wanted and never stop to think what his feelings might be if he ever found out what she and he had done. In that moment he knew surely and certainly that Thomas was his own son. He had been a fool to doubt it. One need only look at the boy to see it.
“If you did not know who the woman was, you can’t be blamed,” Kate said, still sitting at the table.
“I participated.” The words were filled with self-loathing.
“I’m sure you did.” Kate chuckled. “You always were a randy boy. How old were you?”
“Fourteen and a half.”
“So young? Well, I wouldn’t worry about it now, especially if it only happened the once. I think you don’t like the woman in this, and you’re not planning to do it again?”
“No. Never.”
“D’you want my advice?”
He looked at her over the rim of the pewter mug. It was good ale. Hugh the armorer had done well for himself. Married well, too. Good, sensible, honest Kate. She was treating him like an equal, not like a noble. She had always treated him that way. She’d never said my lord. It was one of the reasons he had loved her.
“Find a priest,” Kate said, “Make your confession, do your penance. Get it off your soul and then forget about it.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“You nobles.” Kate made an impatient gesture. “No common sense at all.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” He put down the empty mug.
“I know I am. Don’t look back, I say. Look to the future.”
“The future.” He pulled out a packet and handed it to her. He had known she would never accept money, but this gift she would like. He watched her open it and hold the narrow rolls of brown bark in her plump, flour-covered fingers.
“Cinnamon. It’s very dear.” She rose and made as if to hand the spice back to him. He curled her fingers over the bundle.
“So are you dear, Kate.” He kissed her cheek and went out of the warm, fragrant kitchen, into the courtyard. He came face to face with the leather-aproned Hugh. The armorer had brown eyes and hair, a ruddy, open face, A good man, by the look of him. Lucky Kate. And the girl beside her father who would soon be as pretty as her mother had once been.
“Good day to you, my lord,” Hugh said, obviously puzzled.
“And to you, sir.” Let Kate explain whatever she wanted. Guy left.
He had the truth at last, and it ought to have made him miserable. Instead, though he wasn’t sure how, Kate had cleansed him. Find a priest, she had said. He took her advice, and after telling the whole story was surprised at the mild penance he was given. He made a sizable donation to the church, not out of any residual guilt but simply because it pleased him to do so.
He had a son. He could not acknowledge Thomas, for it would hurt the boy too much to learn the truth, but he could see to it that Thomas was well provided for, and if he never had another son, he could leave all he had to Thomas with a mind free from doubt. It was with the lightest of hearts that he went to see the king.
Chapter 35
“So you let that traitor Walter fitz Alan live, did you?” King Henry said as Guy finished the long story of treachery and death. “You set a bad example there, Guy.”
“I think not, my lord. Walter’s brother, Baldwin, is so angry that Walter has disgraced their family that he will make an excellent gaoler, at no expense to you.” Guy saw a twinkle in Henry’s eye at that idea and hastened to add, “Any man of Walter’s pride would prefer death to unknighting. You gave me leave to punish Walter in any way I saw fit, and this was the worst sentence I could think of, knowing your dislike of wasteful violence.”
“Aye, you are right about that. And as for Lady Isabel,” here Henry began to chuckle and then to laugh heartily as the full implication of Guy’s sentence on Walter finally dawned on him. “Oh, you are clever, my friend. This punishes her, too, without need of my royal word for it. Given Isabel’s high ambition, to be forced to spend the rest of her life in some cramped lodge in Brittany, with no hope of advancement in her status, no money to spend on clothes, and no one to see her wear them even if she had them, I can’t think of a worse fate for her. And as for Walter, unknighted, burdened with Isabel and her reproaches for the rest of his life, that is vengeance of a high order. Your time in the East was well spent, Guy. You learned subtlety from the infidels.” Henry went off into laughter again. Some time passed before he wiped his eyes and sobered, then continued.
“The manor of Tynant, which was given to Walter by the Earl of Chester, has just been presented to me as a gift from my friend the earl. A sign of his loyalty, he said. Dear Chester, always so thoughtful. He never mentioned that he doesn’t hold Tynant since you took it from
Walter.” Henry grinned. “I am awarding the manor to you, Guy. You have earned it.”
“I thank you, my lord.” It would make a good holding for Geoffrey, who deserved it equally, Guy thought.
“Now,” Henry went on, “as to your own future. I understand you have taken as mistress a woman who should by rights be my ward.”
“I beg your pardon?” Guy knew Reynaud had always written his own confidential reports to the king. He had expected it would be so, and since he had never done anything that might anger the king or cause Henry to distrust him in any way, it had not disturbed him. Now he realized that Reynaud must have told the king about Meredith.
“Meredith of Kelsey, in Mercia,” Henry said, “Only child of Lord Ranaulf of Kelsey, now deceased.”
“I know Meredith is illegitimate,” Guy said. Yes, this was surely Reynaud’s doing. He must have suggested that Henry have some investigation made into Meredith’s past. “Her father exercised his lordly rights over her mother, but never acknowledged the child. How could she become your ward?”
“I assume she has told you something of her history.” When Guy assented, Henry went on. “The Lady Branwen, a Welsh noblewoman, I believe, took Meredith away from Lord Ranaulf’s domain, which was against the law. Meredith belonged to Ranaulf, as did Branwen, through her marriage to one Alfric, a villein of Kelsey. When Ranaulf returned to Kelsey and discovered what had happened in his absence, he sent out searchers to look for them, stating before witnesses that not only was the older woman his villein, the younger woman was his daughter and he wanted her back. It seems he had some idea of marrying the girl to one of his friends. But the search came too late. The pair had vanished by then and were never seen again. It was believed they were both dead. Lord Ranaulf thought no more of the matter. He died two years ago, leaving no legitimate heirs, and so far as my agents can discover, no living bastards, save Meredith. At Ranaulf s death, his lands escheated to the crown.”
“Most noblemen have illegitimate children, and this Lord Ranaulf apparently was of no great importance,” Guy said, unable to discern where Henry was leading with all of this. “What are you suggesting, sire?”
“Do you not think Meredith deserves some recompense for all she has suffered because of Walter fitz Alan? Some repayment for her rescue of Thomas?”
“Indeed, yes. But I still do not fully understand your intentions, my lord.”
“Do you not?” Henry had an odd look on his face, half humorous, half sly. “It seems to me only fair that Lord Ranaulf’s lands should be attached to Meredith’s person as a dowry. An ample reward, don’t you agree? And an appropriate one. Then, I feel it will be my duty as her legal guardian to find her a good husband to hold those lands for her.”
A husband for Meredith? One of Henry’s nobles? No, Meredith belonged with him, in Wales, at Afoncaer.
“You will have trouble finding a Norman to marry her, my lord. She is half Saxon.” Guy did not add that his open relationship with Meredith would also prevent her from finding a Norman husband. He hoped Henry never found her a husband.
“My own queen is half Saxon,” Henry reminded him serenely.
“Her Majesty is also the daughter of the king of Scotland,” Guy replied. “Your marriage, as all royal marriages must be, was a political arrangement.”
“Not entirely.” Henry smiled, “I saw the advantages in mingling Norman blood with Saxon. It must happen if we are to hold this kingdom securely. But I also saw the woman, good and kind and loving. Matilda is the best of wives. Would not your Meredith be the same? In appreciation of your recent efforts in my behalf, I would even consider remitting the marriage tax in your case.”
“My lord, I do not under-”
“Marry her, Guy.” There could be no mistaking Henry’s tone. This was no request or suggestion, it was a royal command. Guy did not know whether to bless or curse Reynaud, who surely was the source of this decision of Henry’s. Guy did not want to marry, not ever, but Meredith…Meredith was his. She would not be wed to some unknown Norman noble. She would not leave Afoncaer. Guy knelt before his king, concealing his sudden excitement as best he could. “Yes, my lord,” he said humbly.
Chapter 36
The snow lay deep on Afoncaer, and the cold winter sun was sinking in pale gold and blue splendour when Guy and his men galloped up the castle road. The gates were not yet closed for the night, so they paused for only a moment while the guards greeted their returning lord and then waved him on into the safety of his own walls.
Guy tossed his reins to a groom who came running from the stables to take his horse, and then strode into the great hall, pulling off helmet and gloves. Reynaud rose from his usual seat by the firepit, leaving a pile of papers on the trestle table.
“My lord,” Reynaud exclaimed, “welcome home.”
“You.” Guy frowned. “I’ll have speech with you later about your communications to King Henry. Where is Meredith?”
“I believe she is in the stillroom, or perhaps in the lord’s chamber.” Reynaud met the cold blue fire of Guy’s glare, adding, “I beg you to remember, Sir Guy, that like yourself, I am King Henry’s sworn servant.”
“I knew that. But I did not expect you to spy on me in my own bedchamber.”
“I have not spied, I have only reported what I could not avoid seeing or hearing, and also what people such as Sir Brian or the Lady Branwen, have told me. Believe me, my lord, I am your friend.”
“And Meredith’s.” Guy saw a flicker of something strange in Reynaud’s eyes. It was only for a moment, and then it was gone, but suddenly everything Reynaud had done made sense to Guy.
“Most assuredly, I am the lady’s friend,” Reynaud said smoothly.
“Ahhhh,” Guy said, shaken by complete understanding. “More than friend.”
Reynaud was too clever to pretend he had not noticed Guy’s comprehension.
“May I remind you, my lord, that although I am not an ordained priest, I took a vow of chastity when I became a lay brother?”
“And have never foresworn any oath?”
“Never, my lord.”
“I believe you. We’ll talk later. I may have cause to thank you for your meddling, friend fox.” On that, Guy left him.
Meredith was not in the stillroom. Guy paused at the entrance, breathing in the mixture of scents that filled the room. Herbs hung from the ceiling to dry, capped jars and covered bowls of medicines sat on the shelves. A small basket of dried lavender flowers sat on the work table. Guy bent his head and sniffed, remembering how Meredith smelled when he took her into his arms. He had abstained from women during his absence, though several ladies at court had made it quite clear they would not reject any advances he might make. He had wanted none of them, only Meredith. As the clean, astringent scent of the lavender filled his senses, the need for her swept over him. He could think of nothing else.
He raced for the stairs and bounded up and around the spiral, two and three steps at a time. It was so far to the top. She had to be there, in his own room, waiting for him.
She met him halfway up. She fell into his arms, nearly knocking him off his feet.
“I heard your men in the courtyard. The servants will bring water for your bath in a moment. I laid out fresh clothes for you. Oh, Guy. Oh, Guy.”
His face was buried in her fragrant curls, and then her soft white throat, and at last he found her lips and stilled her jubilant cries with his kiss. When he removed his mouth from hers she was giggling.
“Will you have me here on the stairs, my lord? Without unarming? What will the servants say?” Only then did he realize he had sunk against the curve of the stairs, Meredith under him, his knees braced awkwardly against the hard edge of one stone step.
“Wouldn’t you prefer your own bed?” Meredith teased, nibbling at one of his ears. “You can remove your armor first, and the bed is much softer, not to mention warmer, than these steps.”
“Up, wench.” He swatted at her bottom as she scrambled to her feet
and ran lightly up the steps ahead of him. Her laughter bubbled out, and then he was laughing, too, marveling at the effect she had on him. Just the sight of her made him happy, her voice was like music, the warmth in her eyes was a soft caress. No matter how many times they made love, he never tired of her.
She glanced over her shoulder, flirting with him as he followed her into his bedchamber. He would have tossed her on the bed and taken her then, chain mail or no, but two brawny man-servants arrived with buckets of hot water for his bath, and then his younger squire, Robert, appeared to help him disarm, and so he was forced to wait.
There seemed to be a great many people in and out of his room as he disrobed and then bathed with the help of a kitchen wench, while Meredith stood in the background directing the activity as if she had been ordering servants all her life. Robert collected Guy’s chain mail and took it to the great hall to be cleaned. One of the men who had brought the bath water was told to carry the padded undergarments to the women’s quarters, where Joan would sew up a rent in one sleeve and patch a hole. A maidservant appeared with a tray of food – it was past time for the evening meal, and Guy had said he would eat in his room, and agreed with Joan, who had also come to the room while he was in his bath, that the welcoming feast would take place two days later, and then finally Guy was in his long, warm indoor robe and the bath water and tub were carried out. Meredith closed the door behind the last servant and threw the bolt. She leaned back against the door.
“Welcome home, my lord,” she said.
“Come here.” Guy opened his arms and she went into them, nestling against him, and Guy, who had been wrestling for the last hour and a half with the frustration of an aching, urgent need, suddenly found himself overcome with tenderness.
He kissed the top of her head, then her forehead and her eyelids, the tip of her nose, and finally the lips she offered so happily. Her body under his searching hands was rounder than he remembered it, her breasts fuller and firmer. He took note of the changes, meaning to tease her gently about eating too much in his absence, but her hands were on him, she was loving him as only Meredith could, easing his need, ending any lingering doubts about King Henry’s order or about the proper kind of marriage for a nobleman. He did not want a loveless contract, a legal agreement to breed children for heirs and nothing more. He wanted Meredith, only Meredith, beside him for the rest of his life.