by Ling, Maria
For a moment she hoped, intensely, that he would. Just be nearby, spend a few hours with her every so often, renew her hope in a life beyond the present. She was blessed with good friends in her ladies: she was lucky there. But the companionship of an attractive man -- a little light flirtation -- there was no harm in it, surely. She would not allow herself another indiscretion, that had been a mistake. Delightful, her senses thrilled at the recollection, she did not regret it for an instant. But it had made her more dissatisfied with her life in the here and now, it had reminded her of possibilities that were beyond her reach, doors that closed long ago. A foolish impulse, worthy of a heedless girl and not a responsible mother.
If Henry knew, he could cast her aside. Keep the children, but send her away. She'd never get to see them again. The thought chilled her to the bone.
Such a risk she could not run. This must all be decent and honourable, witnessed by everyone around her. She was glad of Henry's company today, he would see for himself that nothing untoward occurred. That other little matter... well, she'd made a mistake, but she knew better now. Never again.
Where was Henry? She could not pace: that would give her away for certain. Instead she fretted at her belt with her fingernails, tore out loose strands. Wished she'd had new clothes made, she couldn't remember the last time she troubled with anything for herself. It was all about the children, and her ladies, and gifts for far-flung members of her family. For Henry, even: she'd sewn him six new shirts last Christmas. Couldn't think why, now -- some fit of pique or regret. He'd thanked her briefly and never worn them. What he'd given her, if anything, she did not recall.
"Geoffrey d'Anger, madam."
Maud turned, strove to chase the joy from her face and felt it settle in her heart. Smiled at him, careful not to betray too much delight. "You are punctual to your time, sir."
"It wouldn't do to be late." Geoffrey strolled towards her, casual, with that knowing look in shrewd grey eyes. And she felt herself falling, the way she'd fallen before, tumbling into wide open spaces where no walls hemmed her in.
"Afternoon." Henry's voice, dry as always, recalled her to sense. "Take it you have a horse with you?"
"Only the hack I rode over on," Geoffrey said. "Picked him up at Dover, found him a decent mount all things considered. He'll do."
Henry snorted. "Don't ask much out of life, do you? Comes of kicking around in cheap taverns and soggy fields, I suppose."
"That may have something to do with it," Geoffrey admitted. "Certainly I envy your surroundings here."
"It's a fine place. Come on, then. Hawks are waiting."
They rode out all together, surrounded by grooms and beaters and falconers and attendants. A small family party. Maud fought not to watch Geoffrey beyond what was courteous. She must learn to be content with a little more liveliness in her company, and not wish for more.
Though when they settled into order, and she found herself directly behind him, she allowed herself a few stolen moments of admiration. He sat well in the saddle, his lean light frame perfectly balanced with every step of the horse. Henry, beside him, almost appeared to slouch.
They spoke of farming, she noticed. Geoffrey asked general questions, appeared honestly interested in the workings of the estate. And Henry, who took such responsibilities seriously -- she could not fault him there -- responded with meticulous accounts.
Perhaps she wronged him. It was clear that he spent a great deal of time and effort on running the estate. Maud had no doubt that he and Alice were lovers, and had been since before he gained the wardship, but her conviction that he spent half of every day in the woman's embrace seemed increasingly unfair.
"You're lucky with terrain," Geoffrey observed while they waited for dogs and handlers to get into position. "Plenty of small game at little maintenance, I would wager."
"Pretty decent," Henry acknowledged.
"Good lie for tourneys, too," Geoffrey went on. "Flat enough to fight on, but with some interesting challenges. Do you host any here?"
"Not worth the trouble. Though I'll grant it's a dull life for the men, now there's peace. Shame the Empress' nerve failed after her brother died." Henry shrugged. "Suppose we could look into arranging something here."
Maud's heartbeat quickened. Henry had never mentioned such a possibility before. She carefully avoided glancing at Geoffrey, didn't want to betray her interest in case it made Henry change his mind.
Because Geoffrey fought at tourneys, she knew that much. Made his living by it. If he wanted one here, it could only mean that he intended to stay. For a little while, at least -- a week or two -- she'd be content with that, and never ask for more.
"Should be coming out any moment now," Henry said, as the hounds bayed and the undergrowth rustled. "Be ready."
Maud plucked the hood from her own falcon's head. The bird peered about, getting used to the light -- which though dim, here in the green gloom under a canopy of leaves, was yet more brilliant than the shade under a hood. Maud could sympathise. She felt like that herself, whenever she glanced at Geoffrey or caught the sound of his voice.
Which was absent now. He waited in patient silence, like themselves. The old and experienced falcon on his wrist swapped a speculative glance with him, man and animal so alike in expression for a moment that Maud only just stifled a laugh.
Henry raised his arm, and all three of them loosed their birds. The creatures soared, intensely alive with the luxury of freedom. Maud watched them with a strange ache in her heart. She yearned to fly like that, masterless if only for a little while. Almost it seemed to her she could feel her own body soar, weightless, swift to turn and steady to glide, trusting the speed and strength of her wings.
"Fine creatures," Geoffrey murmured. Henry shot him an unreadable glance.
A blur of grey whizzed past them. Maud watched her own falcon stoop and mark its prey, then swoop down hard. More hares emerged, Henry's young bird scrapped briefly with Geoffrey's over the right to pursue, then realised she'd lose her chance if she delayed any further. She struck, and brought the kill in, and flew to Henry's hand to be fed and praised.
"Able young beast," Geoffrey said. The older bird flew to his wrist, blood-beaked from its own kill. A wise creature that one, able to show younger birds how things were done.
"Coming on well," Henry agreed. "I've had her in training for some time."
They swapped observations on seeling and unseeling, weathering and tending. Maud offered her own opinions, ignoring Henry's chill disapproval. She knew as much of it as he did -- more, probably -- and she wasn't going to let the hostility between them prevent her from saying a few civil words to a guest.
Especially Geoffrey, who listened gravely to each remark, talked lightly of mews and birds and hunts he'd known, carried her effortlessly into another life entirely, where every day was spent in dedicated pursuit of one's own passion. She wished for that life, intensely, so far from her own grim determination to hold only to duty.
But to love also, she reminded herself. She had the children, whom she adored.
"Stay to supper," she begged, when at last the hunt had yielded hares enough to feed every man in the castle. Henry, at ease and in good humour after several hours of Geoffrey's urbane conversation, approved her invitation more readily than she could have dared to hope.
So they ate, bread and cold meat and fruit from the orchard, while the children talked of their day's accomplishments and watched Geoffrey with unabashed curiosity. Which turned to wide-eyed admiration from the boys when he happened to mention tournaments.
"Have you really fought in those? Did you kill anyone?" And they listened, rapt, as Geoffrey related his adventures on the Continent. Maud cast anxious glances at Henry, but even he seemed intrigued. Amused, even, by some of the tales of ambush and double-handed dealings that made Maud gasp.
"But not any more," Geoffrey concluded at last, in a tone of deep regret. "I've left the circuit, I'm sorry to say. One injury too many." He held up
his sword-hand.
"Looks sound enough," Henry said. "Seen you ride and eat with it, too."
"It's healed well," Geoffrey conceded. "But I can't trust its strength with lance or sword."
"Pity." Henry considered. "What are your plans for the future?"
"Nothing firm. I've thought of settling. An estate somewhere -- good farming, good hunting -- something like this one, I suppose." Geoffrey shrugged, deprecatingly. "If one could be had. Other than that, in truth I don't really know."
"You'll be wanting a wife," Henry observed. Maud flinched at the sting to her heart. But she held her breath, and kept her face impassive, and waited for Geoffrey to answer.
"I suppose I will," he admitted. "In time. No hurry."
Maud breathed out.
"There's an estate up for sale not far from here." Henry raised the cup of wine to his lips, drank slowly, put it down again. "Borders my own land, as it happens. I could put in a word if you like."
"That's very generous," Geoffrey said. "Of course, I'll want to look around. Another region may suit me better. But if it's a good property..." He nodded, thoughtfully. "Pleasant countryside, excellent neighbours, rich soil and plenty of small game. Why not?"
Henry accepted the compliment with the briefest of smiles. "It's an idea, at least."
Maud's heart beat so fast she thought she'd faint. "It's a splendid estate," she enthused. "Very profitable, I understand. Rather small -- the owner wishes to consolidate her manors, which are greatly scattered at present. I believe she intends to buy up land near her chosen home, and sell off everything further than three days' cart ride away."
"Makes good sense, if she doesn't care for travel," Geoffry conceded.
"She's a little elderly now for such adventures," Maud said. "Troubled with pains in the joints -- doesn't like to be shaken about any more. And, of course, she has grandchildren elsewhere. I imagine she would rather spend the time with them."
"If you lived there," the elder boy told Geoffrey, "you could come over and joust with us."
Henry snorted. "He could, if you wanted your bones broken."
"But he could teach us how."
"No better than I can."
"Your father will show you how to fight a battle," Geoffrey said. "None knows it better than he. Do you not recall that he stormed a castle during the war with the Empress, and held it afterwards despite all that her troops could do?"
The children stared at him with rounded eyes, even the girls.
"No," the boy replied in a voice full of wonder. Then turned to his father. "Did you really?"
"As best I recall." Henry regarded Geoffrey with open curiosity. "How did you come to hear of it?"
"Roland mentioned it, I believe."
"Surprised he knew." Henry considered for a while longer. "Come to drill practice in the morning, if you care to. Try out that hand again. Show us how it's done for sport and not in earnest."
Geoffrey laughed. "Worth the attempt. I'll come, and gladly. Will you ride over with me afterwards, take a look around this nearby estate? I'd value your opinion of it."
Henry agreed, and by the end of the meal every detail had been settled. Maud, flushed and delighted, bade Geoffrey a modest farewell before shepherding the girls to their room.
Once alone, she fizzed with such excitement she could not keep still, but paced and paced at the side of her own marriage bed. Geoffrey meant to stay, would be living less than a morning's ride from her.
They would meet. They must be able to find secret places, snatch clandestine moments away from watchful eyes. They'd done it before -- though once only, and that a swift encounter, and Henry had changed her attendants since then.
That thought descended on Maud like chill fog. He had. Told her some vague excuse about altering the watches, given her other men instead. Older men, who'd been in his service since before she married him, who brooked no orders from her. Spoke with perfect courtesy, but left her not for an instant, not even at her explicit request.
Here he came now -- she recognised his footsteps on the stairs. Knew him too well, after all their years of marriage, for any hope of concealment.
He didn't look at her as he came in, just shut the door -- quietly as usual, not the slam of a furious man -- and began to undress. She'd hated that, of late: his body near her, naked under the cover, close and warm and with a far too familiar smell.
Of course, he barely touched her any more. She was grateful for that much, at least. And he'd never insisted, since her first absolute refusal, on exerting his rights over her. She was grateful for that, too, and raged at the fact that she must be.
But this evening, she did not mind so much. Hardly noticed him, even as she stripped to her shift and slid into bed beside him. Blew out the candle, and settled back in comfort, and waited for him to fall asleep so she could indulge herself with thoughts of Geoffrey.
"I know what you're about," Henry said, his voice quiet in the dark.
Maud froze. He couldn't know -- had no means to. Unless she'd betrayed herself somehow, by glance or word or tone. In her mind she ran through every moment since Geoffrey arrived, probing for any hint of her feelings.
"Maud? I'm not stupid. Do me the courtesy of remembering that."
"I don't know what you mean." She kept her own voice cold and aloof, uninterested. While her heart pounded, and she held her breath and prayed that he didn't guess the truth.
"Answer me one question honestly," Henry said. "Just one. It's not much to ask. Did you sleep with him last time he was here?"
"Of course not." Too quick, that answer, and too glib. But it was out now: she'd spoken, and must leave it be. Any further protestations would only make him more suspicious.
So she waited, in a silence that grew utterly dreadful.
"I want you to know," Henry said slowly, "that I believe you. But do me a favour, and don't take him as a lover. I won't deny I've given you cause. But it's not something I can overlook."
"Will you give me the same undertaking in return?" Maud shot back. "Not to take a lover -- or in your case, continue with the one you already have?"
"No."
"What a fair-minded man you are."
"It's not about fairness," Henry said. "It's about honour. For a man to take a mistress is understandable. Acceptable. Expected, even. No one thinks the less of his wife for it. But for a woman to betray her husband with another man is a separate matter. A calculated insult, that will lower him in the opinions of all other men. I won't let you do that. To the children, or to me."
Well. There she had it. "I don't know what gave you the idea. Why do you imagine I'd be interested in some random stranger from the Continent?"
"It's a mystery," Henry agreed in his driest tone. "Might be something to do with the way you look to him the instant he speaks."
"That's common courtesy, nothing more. I cannot be seen to ignore a guest."
"No, I mean the instant he speaks. As if you wait only for that excuse."
Maud swore silently. Henry was a clever man, she'd always known that, and in her giddy rush of infatuation she'd forgotten it. "I'm sorry it troubles you. I will pay him less heed in future. In truth, I think it's simply because he's new. There hasn't been much that's fresh and interesting in our life of late."
She'd intended to refer only to the common round of chores and duties, but Henry's voice was cold as he answered: "I'm sorry to disappoint you. Perhaps if you were less hostile to my presence in this bed, I could improve my performance."
Oh God. She'd got him thinking exactly what she least wanted him to. "I didn't mean that." Best to hurry on, salvage the situation if she could. "New conversation, new experiences. You liked his accounts of tournaments, and the children enjoyed them too. It's pleasant to have some new entertainment now and then."
"True enough." Henry sounded calmer now, less angry. Or less hurt, maybe. Maud didn't know, herself, where the border lay between those two.
"I think he'd make a good neighbour,
" she said lightly. "You obviously have more in common with him than with an elderly lady who makes her real home elsewhere."
Henry laughed at that, which startled Maud. She hadn't heard such a pleasant laugh from him for... she didn't know how many years. Not in response to her, anyway.
But she'd used to. Long ago. Before the children came.
They'd been in love once, she and Henry. So long ago, and so completely past now, that she'd almost forgotten.
"The steward's a decent man," Henry said. "Even though he's not much given to hunting. But I'll admit it would be a fine thing to have a jouster and tourneyer for a neighbour. Good for the boys. I don't keep up with the sport, which Roland never fails to rib me about. Maybe that ought to change." Henry fell silent again, while she listened to his breathing in the dark.
"God knows," Henry murmured at last, "I'd rather have the boys charging about for their own profit and amusement than fighting for their lives in some rat-infested hole of a battered castle."
He'd never spoken about his time in the war. She'd never asked, either. "It might not come to that."
"I hope it doesn't. Well, the decision need not be made right now. They'll know how to handle themselves in combat, that much I'll make sure of. If they want to fight for sport, no doubt Roland would take them on as squires. In time. Give it a few years, maybe."
There was that also, Maud reminded herself. Unlike most men, Henry was in no hurry to send the boys away to be trained by another lord. She could have lost them already, had she married elsewhere. There was much to be grateful for, right here.
"As for the girls," Henry went on, "they could probably do with the practice of visiting and being on display. Get familiar with the manners in vogue on the Continent. Don't want them to grow up too provincial, especially if they marry abroad."
Maud winced. "In time."