by Ling, Maria
"So, no lover for you," Henry elaborated, and watched her in expectant silence.
She had to say something. "I don't intend to argue about it. He seems pleasant enough, and carries himself well in company. If you insist on taking that as reason to suspect an affair, I don't see what I can do except repeat that such a thought had not occurred to me."
"Don't lie," Henry said. "You do it badly."
Maud shrugged. She didn't care any more, she thought only of the fact that Geoffrey was here, that he would stay, that she would see him.
"If the love poetry was for him," Henry added, "then it clearly didn't do its work."
"It wasn't. I like the Roman poets. Besides, it helps the girls to learn."
"God knows what they're learning," Henry muttered. He stretched out on the bed and pulled the cover over himself, leaving the merest edge for her.
"Latin," Maud said tartly. "In case you hadn't noticed." She got in beside him, and yanked the cover back.
"You'll miss him when he's gone," Henry said.
Maud's heart froze. "Gone where? I thought he was going to buy the place."
"Not Geoffrey. The reader. But thank you for confirming my suspicions."
"And what are those?"
"That you're terrified you'll never see him again."
Maud willed herself to stay calm. "The reader? I wouldn't say terrified. But I do like his voice."
Henry was silent. Then said: "You're either very clever, or very foolish."
"Wake me when you've decided which." Maud turned her back on him, closed her eyes, and searched for sleep.
"If I've wronged you," Henry said after a while, in a quiet voice unlike his own, "then I apologise. Which I don't often do."
No. That much was truth. She struggled to recall the last occasion.
Temptation rolled over her, to confess the real nature of her feelings for Geoffrey, to admit even that one hurried encounter in the gloom of the mews. A crazy impulse, and one she held firm against. She could not afford taking such terrible risks. But it cost her to remain silent, more even than it had cost her to lie.
"You are ready to believe me as bad as yourself," Maud said instead. It had the advantage of being true, and the anger in her voice was not feigned. Because she never would have reached out for Geoffrey, no matter how attractive she found him, if Henry had remained faithful to her.
"Well, I never expected to marry a saint." Henry slid a hand over her shoulder. "Time was when you found pleasure in my company."
"Don't." Maud shook him off. "If you touch me again, I will leave this bed and not come back."
A pause, terrible and cold. Because he had the power to prevent her; he could force her to do his will. And she shrank from it now, with a sense of utter dread. How it could ever have brought her enjoyment, she could no longer recall or imagine.
"No need for such drastic measures." Henry took his hand away, turned his back on her likewise. Tore the cover off her with sudden strength, to leave her bare and cold. "I've never forced a woman in my life, and don't intend to start now. Sleep well."
***
CHAPTER 5
Geoffrey preferred to travel light, relatively speaking. Three carts sufficed for him as a rule, one for his tent and two for his belongings, guarded by no more than a dozen attendants. Lawless men did exist, but few bold enough to attack an armed retinue. On the rare occasions that he faced hostility from powerful lords, his smooth tongue and ready coins had always earned him escape.
But he took with him all that he needed, and not least among his prized possessions was his collection of love poetry. It went down a treat with high-born ladies, especially ones who fancied themselves to harbour a poetic streak as well. He'd endured enough clumsy chants to make him swear off the stuff for life -- except that the tangible demonstrations that followed were usually worth it.
He'd never yet encountered a woman who frowned on delicate allusions. And he liked to think he was not so great a fool as to miss the significance of the reader's choice of subject. Maud's decision, surely, and showing a deal of good taste. Geoffrey didn't need to search through his books to find the pages he wanted.
Once they lay before him, he studied each line intently. Then picked up a quill pen, dipped it in soot ink, and began to make the faintest of marks.
***
"A gift?" Maud accepted the small parcel with a dazed sense of having started a bigger quarry than her falcon had skill for. "I'm delighted, of course. Tell him I am most deeply obliged for his kind thought."
Geoffrey's messenger bowed and left. Maud unwrapped the parcel, conscious of her attendants' curious stares. Then gave a little cry of startled joy. There before her lay a calfskin-bound collection of Roman poetry.
She turned the pages with reverence. A fair hand had copied these: the letters were smooth and evenly formed, the lines steady. Small decorations garnished the margins. No gold leaf or fancy dyes, nothing that indicated ostentatious display. Just dainty ornaments inked into the spaces beyond the words: a swirl, a flower, a snake.
Only when she reached the pages that echoed her own choice of readings from the day before did she hesitate. Something was amiss, and at first she could not understand what. Then it came to her that the pages were perhaps better thumbed than the rest, or smudged maybe. Certainly there appeared to be stray specks of ink here and there, as if the scribe had momentarily paused in admiration over some phrase of exquisite beauty.
Still it niggled at her, the sense of oddness. She cast it to one side, leafed further through the book. Found another page with similar marks, and then another.
Turned back to the first one she'd found, and read the word above each discreet touch.
Felt jubilation rise through her chest and spill out into her limbs.
'Meet me,' she read. 'Tell me your wishes.' Later: 'I have not forgotten.' And again, on the final sullied page: 'Beloved.'
"How wonderful," she said aloud. "Such a kind thought. Here are some I have not encountered before -- we shall certainly have them read to us." And she dug her nail into the parchment, made a tiny tear right at the point where the lady replied: 'Yes, I shall come.'
***
Geoffrey did not hurry to make his formal courtesy call on his new neighbours. A slight delay would cool Henry's suspicions, and allow Maud to consider her response to his message. If she received it at all, and recognised it for what it was. If not, he must try more overt methods.
But he thrilled with the certainty of success when he met her in the day-chamber above the hall, and she immediately thanked him for the book. Which lay open beside her, at an innocuous page. She made some inconsequential comment, idly turned the leaf, and revealed to him a slight notch just where her fingertip rested. Geoffrey read the line, nodded with grave attention, exchanged just one intense glance with her.
She was clever, his Maud. He relished that. It would make his own campaign so much easier, and more enjoyable too.
"I hope I'll see you both over to hunt," he said. "I've had some success with ducks down by the edge of the lake, but I'd value your husband's opinion. Yours also, of course, if you care to come."
"I might," Maud said with careful indifference. He knew how to read that, as easily as her subtle mark in his book. The attendants were watching them both with ill-disguised interest. He wondered how much of her marriage secrets they knew or guessed.
Not that he wanted to know. Though rage filled him, sudden and unexpected, at the thought of Henry's privilege. To be with her, touch her, possess her at night in his own bed -- while Geoffrey slept alone. He could break the man's face, just for that.
Geoffrey pushed such thoughts aside. Emotion clouded his judgement, he knew that of old. He'd learned over many years to quell all feelings before he rode onto the battlefield, to set aside fear and hope and anger alike. Just to fight, with cold and careful calculation, and let that potent but unacknowledged brew spurt through his arm with startling strength.
He'd caugh
t out many a man that way, knights and lords who saw only his cool exterior and never guessed at the strength and passion beneath. That suited him well.
With women, hitherto, he'd mostly remained as he appeared. Suave, courteous, controlled. They liked that, for the most part: it made them feel safe. Some had even told him so. At which Geoffrey had smiled, and murmured some platitude, and made the most of his opportunity.
He didn't blame them, either. Any woman took a great risk in being alone with a man. Stronger, fitter, trained for battle and privileged in law, he held absolute power over her. Geoffrey had never misused that, not to his knowledge. But he remained conscious of it, while other men took it for granted and boasted of their conquests, and blamed the woman if anything went awry.
Geoffrey had never done that. Never seen the justice of it. But his was a rare viewpoint, he knew that too.
"Next week, then, perhaps?" he suggested in an idle tone. "Say, Tuesday -- I should be at leisure then." It didn't matter at all what day of the week they chose, but Sunday would seem godless and Monday too eager. Saturday would be too soon: he needed to make certain arrangements first. Everything must be in place, and with no appearance of haste, that would allow him to steal a few moments alone with Maud. By Tuesday, he should have all the details required by his plan strapped in tight.
"I'll speak with my husband," Maud said. "But I think I can venture for that."
"Excellent." Geoffrey went on to speak of polite nothings -- and noted with satisfaction how the attendants' interest waned -- until he judged the call had lasted long enough. Then left his best regards for Henry, and rode home again.
***
Maud breathed out. It had all gone so smoothly, she now began to feel afraid of some dreadful doom. Certainly there had been nothing untoward about Geoffrey's visit. She had kept careful control over her voice and demeanour, allowed only one single significant glance. That much she was compelled to give, since he could not otherwise guess at her strength of feeling.
He'd received her message, too: she was sure of it. That answering glance, so hot that it singed her. Never would she have guessed him capable of such a look, even for an instant. He'd appeared, throughout her acquaintance with him, entirely the consummate gentlemen, light of touch and deft of manner, with no strong passions of any kind. But he must possess them, she thought, a man did not give over his life to the pursuit of combat unless something stirred within him. What it was, exactly, she did not yet know or guess. But she longed to find out.
It had cost her to remain cool and indifferent towards him, but her caution had been well rewarded. The attendants, at first alert to any hint of impropriety, soon lost all trace of concern. For most of the call, after that brief initial conversation about the book, their attention had been divided between Geoffrey and the girls. The latter Maud did not grudge at all, she loved to see her darlings well cared for.
As for the former -- well, she could not blame other women for seeing what she saw: a sleek and self-assured man, quietly handsome, courteous of both look and tone. Rich too, or at least comfortably off, able to buy a modest estate on a whim. An excellent match, for a woman born to a family of no vast power or wealth.
Three of her ladies had husbands in Henry's service, but two were unmarried. They would be on the hunt for themselves, if they had the sense and intelligence she credited them with.
Maud shifted uncomfortably. She didn't like that thought. It was altogether too obvious a prospect. And she resented the notion that either of her friends would claim the right to cleave to Geoffrey as a wife, in a way that she herself could never do. Marriage was absolute, indissoluble -- in theory, at least. In practice, she knew well enough that men could put wives aside for any reason or none, at any time they wished. It was only for women that the marriage bonds were held to be eternal, impossible to shed. Unless she obtained her husband's permission, a woman could not even leave his house. Separation was only possible with his consent.
Which Henry would give, eventually -- Maud was sure of that. He was not a cruel man, never had been. Even now, she doubted he would physically prevent her from leaving, if she truly wished to go. It was his hold over the children that she feared.
She studied the girls, both intent on their respective tasks. Sweet darling children, her own babies that she'd birthed and rocked and taught. The boys also -- though they became more Henry's by the day, had little time or inclination for sitting quietly among the women. She didn't blame them, either: in their place she'd be out in the grounds also. Riding, and hunting, and revelling in her freedom. Not fighting, she didn't care much for that, only wanted them not to get hurt. Understood well enough why they must learn, and trusted Henry to teach them well, but viewed their inevitable participation in warfare with a fear that chilled her stomach. She desperately didn't want them to die.
But Henry had fought, and hadn't died. There was hope. And perhaps he was right in saying that war was not likely to come again, that men had grown weary of it at last. She could pray for that, and not be a coward in front of her sons.
As for her daughters... well, she could only pray they would find their vocation as nuns, and that Henry would grant them his blessing. Four times she'd laboured in childbed, each time convinced she would die. Two of her sisters had done so -- of the three who had not perished in fever, she was the only one yet alive. Henry's sister, also. And one of Maud's lady attendants, just last year. Such a great tragedy, and the child succumbing only days later, despite all that cuddling and prayer could do.
Maud would not take that risk again, she had sworn it. And she would do all in her power to prevent the girls from taking it, though they blossomed daily further into womanhood. That hurt her, in some deep fastness of her soul unreachable by thought.
No more children. She had promised herself that. And Henry, to his credit, had never forced her.
Though it was harsh, that she must be grateful to him merely for that fact.
Never again -- and yet she'd chanced it with Geoffrey, that one time. Foolish, a crazy impulse, she'd been terrified after. For three weeks, until such a torrent of blood arrived as set her mind entirely at rest. But she'd wept over it, also, and not known why.
She would remain chaste with him, from now on. Just a flirtation, nothing more -- and yet she sensed it could never be only that. On the surface, yes, perhaps: they would not meet again on carnal terms. But there would be more to it than casual play. It would be something deeper, truer and more lasting. What exactly she anticipated, she could not tell.
But she had some days to think it over. Which she did, now, intent on her sewing, careful to let no hint of a smile creep across her face.
***
There. Geoffrey surveyed his work with satisfaction. Everything was in order.
He'd had good reports from the lakeside this morning, by an elderly gamekeeper whom he'd already begun to view with respect. The steward, also, had proved adept at organising the details for a small and friendly hunting party. Indeed, he performed his tasks with such an air of relaxed competence that Geoffrey guessed he'd been lord of the manor in all but name for some time. Yet there was no sense of enmity or resentment at being thus displaced in authority by a resident new owner. Geoffrey watched with interest, and concluded that the man was of a type he'd met on the tourney fields: an excellent commander with no wish or pretension to oust his lord. The perfect choice for a high position within the household, in other words.
Geoffrey had laid his plans with meticulous care. And here, on the bed before him, lay the -- as it were -- crowning glory of his plan.
Not that it looked like much. A battered roundel of thick coarse wool, such as worn by gamekeepers long in service. Or by their masters, when hunting under threat of rain.
Because the weather had come to his aid this morning. He'd been prepared to plead the sun, but that had vanished behind black forbidding clouds. Which spat defiance at the earth now, and promised battle to anyone who dared take to the field.
Geoffrey smirked, and donned armour appropriate for the occasion. A greased-leather cloak, thin but serviceable, and boots that had seen plenty of mud. All meticulously cleaned and greased and polished, of course, it would be rude of him to appear neglectful of his appearance. But each item showed clear signs of wear, and a few smudges were to be expected while hunting ducks through the thickets by the lakeside.
He sent the keeper and his men out ahead of time, to get into position and allow the quarry to settle. Then rode out to greet his guests, as they arrived through the western pastures. To his relief, they showed no concern for the weather, and declared themselves perfectly ready to endure a spot of rain if Providence willed it so. He guided them down to his chosen spot, saw Maud settled in relative comfort under a reed shelter, then walked companionably on with Henry into the damp squelch of mud.
"Here's the best place," Geoffrey murmured. "Watch for them over by the thickets there. I shall go across and then down a little further." He touched his slouching hat briefly, as if in unconscious irritation, so that Henry would take notice of it. Then he withdrew, carefully choosing a line that could not reasonably lead him to Maud. Got well out of sight, continued a little beyond just to be safe, then doubled back towards her position.
Down by the water's edge, past the thickets he'd drawn Henry's attention to, the keeper obligingly stirred. That shocking old hat, so like Geoffrey's own, could be glimpsed within the reeds, and then vanished again.
Geoffrey slipped off his own and tucked it under his cloak, then threw on a cap he'd carried tucked under his belt in the small of his back and circled around to the rear of Maud's shelter.
Her ladies -- she'd only brought two -- were fully occupied in watching the hunt. And there a flurry of ducks burst forth, just as he stepped out from a snarl of willow-fronds. It took a mere breath of movement to touch Maud's arm. She half turned in surprise, and her eyes widened as she saw and recognised him.
Geoffrey slid back into hiding, and she followed him with a ready step. Hidden from view, screened by willow-fronds and safe with all other eyes on the carnage among the ducks, she leaned into his embrace.