Gift for a Lady Fair

by Ling, Maria

  Gift for a Lady Fair

  Maria Ling

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 Maria Ling

  Cover image copyright Stillkost - Fotolia.com

  Published by Byrnie Publishing

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. No similarity to any living person or recent event is intended or should be inferred.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ***

  CHAPTER 1

  "That's it, then." Geoffrey glanced around at his companions, fought down the urge to stay. It was over, had to be. He'd come to the end of his tournament career, there was nothing for it now but to say goodbye. No reason to linger -- though he did, dawdled over each word and gesture, longed to remain. Here in this world where he'd made his home for... too many years.

  "Best of luck." Alan touched Geoffrey's shoulder, careful not to jar the broken wrist. "With everything."

  Nothing in Alan's tone suggested he knew the truth of where Geoffrey was headed. In fact, he was the only one among their little group who did.

  "Fuckwit." Guillaume glowered. "You'll be set within a couple of months. What do you want to give up tourneying for?"

  Geoffrey offered a faint smile. "It's been coming on for a while. You know it has. And this injury has forced a decision. Since I'll be out for months in any case, I might as well take a look around some suitable estates. Purchase one or more, if I find any that catch my fancy. Always planned to retire before old age got me."

  "It'll be strange," Matilda said. "With all of you gone."

  There had been five of them at one time, fighting side by side, but this year they'd begun to peel away. First Roland, who'd attended his wife to her manor before the birth of their first child, and expected to stay there through the next season at least. Then Alan, happily settled with his own bookish wife and reluctant to be drawn further than a couple of days' ride from her. Now Geoffrey himself, who'd been feeling the slow creep of age for longer than he'd ever let on to the others.

  Only Guillaume was left, still tall and powerful but with the calm of experience in his eyes. And Matilda, strong and capable, the equal of any other knight on the tourney field.

  "You'll do well together," Geoffrey said. "The pair of you. Send me word now and again as to how you're faring." He nodded to Alan. "You, too."

  "Gladly," Alan said. "If you let me know where I can reach you."

  Geoffrey turned aside and mounted his horse. Paused for a moment to watch the sprawl of tents and carts and people.

  Never again. He knew that, with an almost painful intensity. He would never see the tourney scene again.

  "Goodbye," he said, and rode away.

  ***

  Maud gave her husband a chilly look. "It's not much to ask. A bed of my own. I'll tell everyone it's because of your snoring."

  "Bet you would." Henry didn't rise to that. He never did, curse him. She didn't know what she hated most about him, his calm or his indifference. "But you are my wife and you will share my bed. I don't ask further."

  "I know." She ought to be grateful, probably. Though it was harsh, that even her body must belong to him. Along with her wealth, her land -- and most gashing of all, her children.

  If she could take them with her, she would leave. Would already have left. But the children were his, they belonged to him in law, and he'd told her in so many words that they would stay with him no matter what she chose to do.

  He turned away from her now, conversation concluded. Everything would remain as it was. Herself a prisoner in his house, and he at liberty to come and go as he pleased.

  And share whatever bed he liked. "Give my regards to your ward," Maud said. "I assume you'll call in on her as you pass."

  The bastard. He didn't so much as twitch. "Thank you. Yes, I imagine I will."

  "Making sure she's comfortable, and so on." Maud heard the sneer in her voice, didn't care enough to bother concealing it. Let him hear it too, and understand that she knew exactly what he was about.

  "I imagine she is." Henry's own voice remained level. "But I will ask her, if you wish me to."

  "Don't bother. I can ride over and ask her myself."

  He swung around, and Maud felt a brief dazzle of triumph. She'd got to him at last. "That would not be convenient."

  "For you or for her?"

  Henry scowled. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Of course you do."

  They stood for a moment staring at each other, on the point of open declaration of enmity. Which would be a relief, Maud thought, she was tired to death of pretending. But Henry's forehead smoothed, and he shook his head, and the moment passed.

  "Alice would wish to receive you with all due courtesy," he said. "If you mean to call on her, let me at least leave word."

  "She doesn't stand on ceremony with you, though?"

  Henry didn't answer, just flicked dust from his riding-coat.

  Maud choked back the rage that rose in her heart. She couldn't get anywhere with anger, she knew that already. Better to keep things as they were. Formal, if frosty, and the children unaware that anything was amiss.

  She had them. That was worth more than happiness in her own personal life. If the children were happy, she must be content.

  And she had time yet. She was not so old. A few more precious years of caring for her little ones, and then they'd be of an age to take off into their own adult lives. Then, surely, she and Henry could agree to live at separate manors, and be free of each other's grating company.

  She didn't hate him, not really. She was just tired -- so dreadfully tired -- of all the pretence.

  "I know she's your mistress," Maud said. "Please don't lie to me about that."

  Henry shrugged on the coat. Stood for a moment in silence, with his back towards Maud, as if awaiting an answer from beyond the door. Then said: "I won't."

  "Why don't you go and live with her instead?" Maud demanded. "Leave me here. I won't try to run away." That last remark came out more bitter than she'd intended.

  "Of course you won't." Henry still hadn't turned. "I have the children, and you'll never leave them."

  The threat hung unspoken in the air. Until Maud could bear it no longer, and said: "I know they belong to you." Submission hurt, an almost physical pain that ran through her belly and chest and arms, where she'd held and fed and rocked each child.

  Henry turned then, tired and grey in the pale light that sifted through the nearest window. "I love them. They are my children, too. No one will ever take them from me."

  That was all they shared, now: a passionate love for their babies, a fierce determination never to part with them and never to see them hurt. Whereas what they'd once been to each other lay dead and broken, like old gnawed bones in the straw of their hall, forgotten until trodden on.

  "Get out," Maud snarled. "Go fuck that bitch of a mistress of yours, and leave me be."

  "That was my plan," Henry replied, and slammed the door behind him as he went.

  ***

  It wasn't all bad, Geoffrey found, this travelling as a minor lord on no particular business. The broken wrist irked him, but he'd suffered worse, and this time he need waste no thought on how soon it would mend. In its own good time, that was an answer he could be content with. There were no dates
to hold to, no great meets to attempt. He had money and leisure, he could do as he chose.

  Even with that, he travelled as straight as he could. Made good time, and had the fortune to reach the coast in calm weather and with a favourable wind. He sold his horse, confident of finding as capable a mount across the Channel, and took ship for England.

  For Maud. Whom he'd dallied with once -- it could not be called more than that -- and yearned for still.

  Age. Must be. He'd known women enough, the circuit was crowded with them, and few cavilled at a tumble. Pleasant for both parties, and with little need to pursue the matter afterwards. Though matches were made, also. The flower of the Continent's nobility all gathered on the tourney circuit, at least when they could be spared from warfare, and the marriage market thrived there.

  He'd managed to avoid entanglement so far. At first he'd wanted to sample every blossom, and later he'd grown to see the advantage in remaining single. Married men often faltered in their devotion to the sport. Look at Roland, and Alan too. Only Guillaume remained as dedicated as he'd been in youth, and that mainly because he had Matilda beside him. Husband and wife, they fought side by side with equal ferocity. Geoffrey wished them many happy years of it.

  For himself... well, it was truth. He'd toyed with the notion of abandoning the sport, mostly when injuries claimed him. Thought of setting up as a landed gentleman somewhere, run his estate and spend his days on hawking and table games. But it was only when he met Maud that his vague daydreams took physical form.

  He wanted her beside him. The hours he'd spent in her company were among the happiest he'd known. As for their solitary encounter of the flesh -- hurried, breathless, half guilty with smothered smiles -- it had been more promise than achievement. Delightful in its own way, and he'd dwelt on it with fondness since. But nothing to what he hoped for, if he could only get her away from the clasp of that husband of hers.

  If she wanted to get away. He didn't know. They hadn't spoken of Henry, hadn't spoken much at all. Just known, both of them, from the moment their eyes first met, from the instant of that first hesitant touch.

  Though maybe she greeted all male guests like that. The suspicion had invaded his mind since then -- unworthy, unwanted, but unshakable too.

  Still. He'd go, and meet her, and decide. Take his lead from her. If she wanted to pursue the matter further, then so did he. There must be manors for sale nearby, for lease even, he'd pay a portion to any lord who demanded it. Run his own estate, invite prominent neighbours over, take their wives out hawking. Maud among them. And have some little place set up, a hideout for the pair of them, it would do. Until he knew what she wanted, if anything -- and had the means to achieve it.

  Money and connections saw him into the right neighbourhood, and led him to a small manor that bordered Henry's land. Geoffrey looked it over, liked what he saw, mulled over the possibility of making an offer. Then made himself comfortable at a modest inn, washed and dressed with particular care, then rode over towards the castle he remembered so well.

  ***

  "No, my darling." Maud suppressed a sigh as she corrected her daughter's Latin. "You must always remember -- " She broke off as the door swung open to admit one of the heralds. "Yes?"

  "Your pardon, madam. A Geoffrey d'Anger, friend to my lord's brother Roland, has arrived. It appears he is travelling through the area and wishes to pay his respects. He waits in the hall."

  Geoffrey. Maud schooled her face into benign indifference, but her heart beat painfully fast. Oh, she remembered him well -- every moment of his stay here, too brief as it had been. A few glorious weeks of magical companionship, hawking in fair weather and reading poetry together when it rained. Having him close enough to touch, seeing his smile and hearing his voice. And that one solitary encounter, flesh to flesh and skin to skin, that had haunted her dreams since then.

  "Of course," she said coolly. "I will receive him here. Send him up. Is my lord at home?"

  "Not yet, madam."

  No. She hadn't expected it. The bastard took his time. But she was glad of it, in a way: the longer he stayed from her the better pleased she was. And it got her the children, alone and untroubled.

  She rose to greet Geoffrey as he entered the room, noted with concern the bandaged arm. "You are injured? I'm so sorry. Please let me know what you need to make your stay more comfortable."

  "I would not trespass on your hospitality." His eyes had lit the moment he saw her, as if the joy that danced in her heart reflected in them. "I am very well lodged at an inn nearby -- I came only to offer my respects. Roland sends his regards also."

  "You'll take wine?" She refused to feel disappointed. He was here for the moment, that must be enough.

  "Thank you." He took the seat she offered, smiled at the children who greeted him politely. Maud breathed out at that, they weren't much used to guests and sometimes fell prey to shyness. Not with Geoffrey, though -- and in truth he had a comfortable way with him, an undemonstrative friendliness that put them at ease. Her, also: they made a pleasant little family party, even before the wine arrived.

  "Latin," he sighed as her daughter demonstrated her prowess. "I struggled with that when I was your age. Let's see what I can remember." And proceeded to instruct the girls, so gently that they lost all deference and talked over both him and each other in their eagerness for answers to every question.

  It was Henry who broke the mood. He arrived unannounced, just flung the door open and stood scowling at them all.

  "You remember Geoffrey." Maud offered up her blandest smile. "One of Roland's friends. He stayed with us when -- "

  Henry gave a curt nod. "I remember." He glared at Geoffrey. "What brings you here?"

  "Your brother sends his best regards," Geoffrey said mildly. "I promised him I'd call in on you as I passed."

  Henry relaxed, and the scowl faded. "Much appreciated. When do you leave?"

  "Soon."

  Maud choked back a wail of protest. "I hope you can stay to dine with us, at least?"

  "Supper in the hall," Henry said. "Bread and cold meat. Hardly worth staying for."

  "I'd be delighted." Geoffrey glanced over the boots and cloak. "How do matters stand on the estate?"

  "Well."

  "Henry has been visiting his ward," Maud said in as blithe a tone as she could manage. "He's extraordinarily fond of her, the dear girl."

  Henry shot her a lethal look. "Only civil to pass the time of day."

  "Or several hours."

  Geoffrey studied each of them in turn. Then said: "Does she care to hunt? I seem to recall excellent hawking when I was here last. Perhaps she was one of the party."

  "No," Henry said. "She doesn't hunt."

  "I do." Maud quelled her rising excitement. She too remembered those afternoons of hawking, vividly. "In fact, I plan a trip tomorrow. You might come out with us. Unless Henry is busy elsewhere." She threw her husband a taunting look. Let him say yes, and forfeit another afternoon in that woman's bed, or else say no, and leave Maud to the pleasure of Geoffrey's company.

  "I'd be honoured," Geoffrey said.

  They both looked at Henry, who for all his faults was at least a reasonable host. "We'd be glad to include you," Henry said after a longish pause.

  "You don't have estate matters to tend to?" Maud pressed him.

  He fixed her with a cold stare. "Not tomorrow."

  "Oh." She tried to hide her disappointment. "Good."

  "Come after dinner," Henry told Geoffrey. "I drill the men in the mornings. Two hours past noon, we'll be at leisure."

  ***

  Not the best welcome from his host, Geoffrey reflected once he lay ensconced in his tavern bed, free at last to mull over the day's events. But Henry had been civil at least, and even approved Maud's gracious invitation to hunt. Geoffrey had accepted with genuine pleasure.

  Maud had met him with all the enthusiasm he could have hoped for. It was clear that to her, as to him, fond memories of his previous visit linge
red. He still didn't know -- couldn't know -- what her real feelings for him were. Perhaps all she saw in him was the chance for a casual affair. But he was no stranger to such encounters, he could not pretend to feel aggrieved. If that was all she wanted, he would be glad to provide it.

  Much as he hoped she might be persuaded into something deeper and more lasting.

  Henry was the only stumbling-block, and he had proved almost genial the moment he realised Geoffrey had no intention of staying at the castle itself. Whether from suspicion of what had passed between Geoffrey and Maud, or from general churlishness, Henry had showed himself disinclined for entertaining this particular guest.

  Tomorrow would show how things stood. Geoffrey flexed his hand, which had healed during the journey and barely offered a twinge. Freed of its bandage, which he wore only for caution in the daytime, it served him perfectly well. He wouldn't trust it with lance or sword, not yet. Fortunately, he had no need of either.

  Never would again. A strange notion, that. He'd made his decision, and knew it for the right one, but part of him still grieved.

  He didn't miss the fighting, or not as much as he'd feared. It was the camaraderie he lacked, the easy-going friendship of men who'd lived and fought alongside him for longer than any of them cared to reckon.

  It had been the three of them, at first. Him and Roland and Guillaume. They'd set the tourney fields alight, made a name for themselves that rang across the circuit, gained fortune enough to retire on. They'd fought long and well. It had been a happy life.

  But it was over. It had passed, as all earthly things must pass, and he would have to get used to it.

  After seeing Maud again, he rather thought he could.

  ***

  CHAPTER 2

  She was ready too early, and had the frustration of waiting alone while Henry dressed. The children were well settled with their attendants, she looked in on them for something to do, admired the girls' stitching and the boys' scribing. Gave the same refusals she had given already, to the same pleas to be allowed to come along. "Not today, my darlings. We are entertaining that friend of your uncle's. Your father and he will wish to speak undisturbed. Perhaps some other day, if he remains in the neighbourhood for a while."