Gift for a Lady Fair

by Ling, Maria

  "You never know, he might even fancy one of them himself."

  The jab to Maud's heart was so fierce she could have screamed. "They're far too young. I'm sure he's not that sort of man."

  "Three or four years, they'll be about ready."

  "No, they won't."

  "We can discuss it then." Henry yawned. "Now I'm going to sleep. Good night."

  She wished him the same, in as meek a tone as she could manage. Then lay stark awake, burning with rage and fear, until dawn crept through the crack in the curtain and over her rigid face.

  ***

  CHAPTER 3

  On his arrival at the castle, Geoffrey discovered -- somewhat to his amusement -- that he was supposed to undertake an informal training session for close on a hundred knights.

  "Thought you might as well talk to them all at once," Henry said, lounging negligently against the wall while his younger son struggled with straps and buckles. Geoffrey's fingers itched with the urge to help, but he held off. Better for the boy to work things out for himself. Which he did, gradually, though the leather grew slippery with sweat and handling.

  "We could set up a mock bout," Geoffrey said. "If you care to, and have a field you're willing to sacrifice. Otherwise I'm happy to take your lead."

  In the end they settled on hand-to-hand engagements in pairs, later moving to groups, which gave Geoffrey an excellent opportunity to study the techniques advocated by his host. They were effective, if devoid of flair, and showed a shrewd understanding of men's vulnerabilities. Geoffrey's opinion of the man rose by the hour.

  "So," Henry said afterwards, with a grin, while the two of them brushed dust off their sleeves. "What do you think? And quit pretending there's anything the matter with that wrist. I saw some pretty swift strikes from it."

  "It holds. As for the men, very sound work." For once, Geoffrey felt no need to reach for flattery. It was easy to see how this man had managed to win every engagement he'd entered into. Clever enough, also, to refrain from doing battle if caught in a poor situation. Just shifted his ground, or changed his numbers or his tactics, until he regained the advantage. Shrewd, and utterly ruthless. A good lord and father to have.

  Not the best choice for a husband to cuckold. This affair would call for careful management. And Maud was nowhere to be seen. Probably tucked away with the girls somewhere, sewing in that northerly day-room of hers. He'd shivered as he entered it, chill and gloomy as it was. Shivered now to think of her lingering in the half-light, when she ought to be warm and alive in his arms.

  He must get her alone. Just to speak with, so he could ask after her wishes and feelings and what was best to do.

  "Come now," Henry said. "You must have some opinions beyond that perfumed oil you bring out for the ladies."

  Geoffrey allowed a reluctant smile. Plenty of men resented the way he preferred to charm ladies rather than bludgeon them into compliance. Or perhaps they resented his success. Though in this case, that was unlikely. There could be no cause for suspicion on Henry's part. What husband, knowing himself deceived, would welcome his wife's lover in so relaxed a fashion?

  Still Geoffrey could not quite shake off the sensation was all was not right. Something about the expression in Henry's eyes gave him pause. Not a man to cross, this one, for all his current affability.

  Geoffrey had met a few men like that in his time. Killers, under the pleasant exterior. What Henry would do to a man who dared take liberties with his wife was anyone's guess.

  Worse, as Maud's husband Henry held power of life and death over her. That wasn't a risk Geoffrey was at all willing to toy with.

  Tread carefully, Geoffrey told himself, and summoned what he could of current thinking on tricks and techniques. Found himself in the midst of an animated though unheated discussion with his host, and discovered to his wary amusement that he enjoyed that too.

  Pity, really, the whole thing. He liked Henry, respected him more and more. Hadn't seen enough of the man, last time, to form much of an opinion -- and besides, the brothers had been forever locked in conversation. But Geoffrey found him now a sound and sensible man, with Roland's intelligence and humour, lacking only the sparkle.

  Not the type of man you wished to deceive, even if it were safe to do so. In other circumstances, they might have become friends.

  "We'll take that ride directly after dinner," Henry said. "There and back in an afternoon, comfortably. Unless you have other plans?"

  "None in the world."

  And he savoured the hour spent in Maud's company, surrounded though they were by a host of unwelcome witnesses. Ate food without much tasting it, listened and complimented, watched with caution for any sign of coldness from her. But she seemed only remote, a little aloof, pale and with red-rimmed eyes, as if she had not slept since yesterday.

  "Are you well?" he asked eventually. "Forgive my impertinence, but you seem a little out of sorts today. Nothing troublesome, I hope."

  "No, no. I am quite well."

  "You will ride out with us, I hope? Fresh air is a wonderful tonic."

  "It is a little too far," Maud said lightly. "Besides, the children will be wanting me. I'm sure my husband's company will be more to your taste."

  Geoffrey paused. Carefully avoided looking at either Henry or her. Pretended to be entirely occupied in spooning sauce over his meat. Then said, in the same light tone: "Doubtless we'll have many matters of interest to discuss. I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you all as my guests very soon, though. Or to enjoy your hospitality once more before I leave, should the estate not prove to my liking."

  "We'd be delighted to have you, of course." Nothing could be inferred from the way she said it -- nothing at all. A flat, even tone, and a complete avoidance of his eye.

  Geoffrey ate, and said as little as possible during the remainder of the meal. Something had occurred between husband and wife overnight, and he did not much care to guess what.

  For the moment, though, Henry at least remained affable. Geoffrey decided to make best use of that if he could. It might even give him a clue as to what was amiss.

  They rode out together at an easy pace. At first they followed the lane that led to the woodlands and yesterday's hunting ground, but then veered off across country, skirted well-tended fields and close-cropped meadows. Geoffrey glanced around him, idly, and found much to like. Glanced behind him, also, once or twice, but found he could no longer discern the castle where Maud remained.

  "So," Henry said. "You're after my wife."

  Geoffrey gave one guilty start -- slight, brief, but enough to make him curse in vivid terms within the privacy of his mind. "Who could fail to be enchanted?"

  "I see how she looks at you. Hard to believe, but she used to look at me that way. Years ago. Not any more. I don't blame her -- the fault was more mine than hers." Henry's voice remained dry and unemotional, like the expression on his face.

  Geoffrey nodded, warily.

  "You'll not take her," Henry said. "She's mine, she belongs to me. I've no objection to you as a neighbour, and I hear good words about you from Roland. But I won't have your tourney dalliances here. What's mine remains mine. You're welcome to purchase elsewhere if you wish to add to your property, but you'll not pilfer on my side of the boundary. We keep our fences mended and our marker stones in place. Agreed?"

  "I'm sorry to have trespassed." A judicious lie might be in order. "The merest flirtation. It had not occurred to me to take matters any further."

  "Good." Henry raised one hand to point. "That's the manor house there. Decent little place. Not fortified. If there's trouble, your best bet is to send word to me."

  "Likely to be attacked, would you say?"

  "No. We live on the dullest patch of Christendom, since the Empress took flight. You'll miss the circuit."

  "Perhaps." Geoffrey let his gaze travel over the mellow stone-built house, the sheds and barns, the gentle slope of the surrounding fields. Breathed in the scent of ripening wheat, of wild blossoms s
omewhere beyond sight. "But I've hungered for a peaceful life these past few years. It's time to settle, I think."

  "Well, you could choose worse places."

  "My thought also."

  They rode on in companionable silence. Geoffrey allowed himself to start liking the man. After all, they had one thing in common. They both wanted Maud.

  "So you fought in Normandy?" Henry asked.

  "Against the Angevins. Yes. Glad to see the back of the place, to be honest. Too much ruination. They talk of rebuilding, making it lovelier than it ever was before. Tall churches, grand cathedrals." Geoffrey shrugged. "It may happen."

  "You never know." Henry indicated a swathe of blush white. "Good orchards over there, nice sunny spot. I've bought a few cartloads of apples every year, would be happy to continue. We have a joint arrangement at harvest time, keeps the workers from drifting. You'll find it to your benefit, but feel free to ask around."

  A sturdy man emerged from one of the outbuildings and strode over, unhurried, to call greeting. Henry replied in kind, and effected a swift introduction. The steward -- as the man proved to be -- measured Geoffrey by eye, gave a brief nod, and conducted them on a tour of the estate.

  Geoffrey saw plenty to like. If he were going to settle, this was indeed a home that would suit him. Not a grand place, by any stretch of the imagination, and certainly the price would leave him with a generous amount to invest elsewhere. Which might not be a bad thing. War came swiftly, and not always preceded by a warning. He'd learned that in his youth.

  "I'll take it," he said, and met Henry's quirked eyebrow with a shrug and a grin. "I'd half made up my mind already, to tell you truth."

  "Just bear in mind what I said." Henry's voice was dry as sunburnt hay.

  "You'll have to show me all the marker stones," Geoffrey told the steward. "He tells me I shift them on peril of my life."

  "He's a stickler," the steward agreed, with a new touch of warmth in his manner. "Told you that, did he? Likes everything just so. And always the way he says it. Which has made for some fires with her ladyship, I can tell you that for nothing. Better since she moved away. Well, better for him. Thinks he's lord of the whole neighbourhood now."

  Henry, unabashed, grinned and allowed it to be so.

  "You'd best prepare to stand your ground," the steward told Geoffrey. "Else he'll ride you into it. But he's a decent sort, for all that. Fair-minded. You won't have any trouble from him, no worse than can be settled by a word or two."

  "That sounds reasonable," Geoffrey said. "What of the tenants?"

  "Good sorts," the steward assured him. "Bit of vagrancy on occasion, people who lost homes and all during the war. We put them to use if we can -- there's a few small crofts still wanting a tenant, and better have a grateful soul working them and paying us for the privilege than send our own men to do the work. Some lords flog them off their estates, but that hasn't been her ladyship's way." He looked expectantly at Geoffrey.

  "Nor mine," Geoffrey said. "If they're honest folk and good workers, and if there's land going untilled for want of labour, they're welcome to it as far as I'm concerned."

  The steward nodded briskly, and became almost friendly in manner. "That'll sit well with us, my lord. You'll be wanting to see the accounts next? Come in and take a cup."

  "Gladly," Geoffrey said, and settled into deep contentment. He didn't yet know what would happen with Maud, or what the consequences might be. But the tranquillity of the fields and hills surrounded him, and he yielded up his soul to their embrace.

  ***

  Maud peered out through the window, past the fields and woods towards a watchful sky. Henry and Geoffrey had been gone so long, she almost grew concerned. What harsh words might they have spoken between them, and she not by to hear? If Henry did suspect the truth, he'd have no compunction about ordering Geoffrey off his land -- and setting the troops on him, if necessary. She had no doubts whatsoever on that score. He'd dealt with trespassers before. Armed gangs, even, both during and after the war.

  But there they came now, riding side by side in friendly companionship. It gladdened her to see that, and not only for selfish reasons. They were good men both, she had no wish to be the cause of enmity between them.

  She hoped fervently that Geoffrey would decide to take the manor. But she promised herself to show no peculiar interest, ask no questions beyond the merest commonplace. Though he might think she did not care, then. He might decide to leave, believing her indifferent, and she would have no chance to persuade him otherwise.

  Somehow she must convey to him how much she wanted him to remain with her, but in such terms that Henry could not take either looks or words amiss. Which would call for careful handling, she knew that now. He was sharp, her husband, and forewarned.

  Maud composed herself to wait among her attendants, patient as if nothing in particular rode on the outcome of this excursion. Turned over suitable phrases in her mind, discarded each in turn as being too formal, or too revealing, or too intense.

  "I trust you had a pleasant ride?" was her best effort when the men finally did join her. Henry shrugged, uncommunicative as usual, and Geoffrey assured her in suave tones that the weather had been excellent. She knew that much already -- she'd spent far too much time glancing at the window, though fortunately the girls had been speculating on the likelihood of rain and she had used that as her excuse.

  "We thought you might get wet," the younger girl said now, addressing Geoffrey with the cheerful abandon of an old friend. "Then you'd catch a chill and you could even die."

  "I could," Geoffrey agreed with exemplary gravity. "What a relief that the sun persisted so valiantly."

  "You might have got heat stroke." The older girl subjected him to a critical stare. "Does your head spin?"

  "In both directions."

  Maud choked on a laugh. Even Henry grinned as the girls pleaded for a demonstration.

  "Are you going to live over there?" the younger girl asked eventually. "Because then you could ride over to see us. If it's not too wet."

  "Or too hot," her sister added.

  "Or too dry," Henry said.

  Maud kept her smile indulgent, and aimed at the girls. "Or too cold."

  "I'll come in all weathers, if it allows me to find your Latin improved." Geoffrey took his lead from Maud, bantered with the girls and did not waste a glance on her. Which stung her, though she admired his composure and his deft handling of the situation.

  Whether he meant to flirt with her or not, she would enjoy the company of a man so adept at social interaction. God knew Henry's brusque demeanour could wear out the patience of an angel.

  "So you will take it, then?" Maud enquired at last, in the blandest tone she could summon. At this point, it would be rude -- and suspicious -- not even to ask.

  "Yes, I believe I will." Geoffrey replied in kind, both look and tone brimmed with benign indifference. "It's a fine little place, just the sort of thing I'm looking for. The accounts are solid, the location excellent. And, of course, it will leave me plenty to spare for other purchases. I've been fortunate in my career."

  "That's good," Henry said. "I'll press you for contributions. Entirely voluntary, of course."

  Geoffrey looked momentarily foolish. "Ah. Yes. Naturally, I'd be happy to -- but when I speak of wealth, you must not imagine me a courtier."

  "Oh, I imagine you can afford half a dozen knights a year."

  Geoffrey winced. "If it's imperative to maintain order in the region."

  "Settled." Henry showed a ruthless grin. "Let's hope there's no trouble, eh? I might touch you for more."

  "If you do, I'll offer my own services instead."

  "Hm." Henry gave him a calculating look. "From what I saw this morning, we could use you for a training master."

  "Glad to oblige."

  Maud held her breath. Then realised she was doing so, and forced herself into the semblance of a natural rhythm. She would see him. He would live within a day's ride, he would v
isit, Henry stood ready to regard him as a friend. And she...

  She must be patient. Much had already been won. What would come next, she could not yet discern.

  "Let us know if we can assist," she said coolly. "I'm sure the house will need some attention."

  "Not much," Geoffrey replied. "It's been kept in good repair. I'll want to bring in a few touches of civilisation, of course. Wall-hangings. Boarded floors. A singer or two, maybe. Or a reader, even -- I notice you keep one at dinner."

  "The jester's sick," Henry said. "I'd rather have him back. If you know any doctoring, let me know."

  "Keep the wounds clean and let the fresh air at them," Geoffrey suggested. "Infusions of thyme to drink and to wash with. That's all I have for you."

  "Worth a stab. Not that he's injured, just a vicious cough. Wish the reader would catch it."

  "I thought him well skilled," Geoffrey demurred. "Beautiful intonation."

  "Don't care much for love poems," Henry said. "Especially from dead Romans. What's all that fancy talk doing for them now, when they've long since rotted away?"

  "It passes the time," Maud said mildly. "And covers the sound of chewing."

  "Only just." Henry shrugged. "Cure my jester and you can have the reader at half the price I paid."

  Geoffrey laughed. "With such an incentive, I'll do my very best."

  ***

  "I had a word." Henry pulled off his shirt and tossed it over a hook on the inside of the cupboard door. "About flirtation, and such. Nothing doing. He said it wasn't serious on his part."

  Maud went on combing her hair. "What wasn't serious?"

  "Don't start that again."

  She snagged on an unexpected knot, fought the urge to rip at it. Instead she forced herself to ease the teeth through the tangle, unravel each section in turn. "I suppose he was insulted that you would suspect him of such a thing?"

  "On the contrary. He acknowledged it at once. Intelligent man."

  No, this wasn't working. She would never get through the tuft of glued strands. Irritably she drew her knife and cut the knot loose. Dropped it on the floor, where it would get swept up in the morning.