by Ling, Maria
"This is our first place," Geoffrey whispered, his mouth so close to her ear that his lips brushed her skin. "Remember it."
"I will." She kissed his neck, breathed words of promise. Her body lay in his arms, and he held her close through all the layers of linen and wool that separated skin from skin.
"Tell me what you want," Geoffrey whispered. "A lover, a husband, a friend? I'll be anything I can for you. Just tell me your wish."
"I can't leave Henry," Maud whispered back. "He'll keep the children -- he's told me so. And he suspects us, he said that too. We must be very careful. And I can't -- I can't take such a risk, not again. But I want to see you." She hugged him so hard that desperation rang through him, more vivid than any words could describe. "As a friend -- a good friend. Often."
"As often as I can devise." Geoffrey kissed her one last time, then gently pushed her away. "Best go. Tell them need called you. I'll vanish."
He did so, with smooth efficiency, and began his cautious journey across. Swapped hats in secret, emerged from a suitable spot to offer quiet congratulations to the keeper and send him on to the next planned point of attack, stepped forward into Henry's view just as the last bird died.
Mission completed. He had seen and spoken with Maud, he knew her wish, and he'd established one spot where they both knew they could meet again. All without rousing suspicions, whether on Henry's part or anyone else's. Indeed, from the relaxed and affable manner of his guest and attendants, he rather gained the impression he'd succeeded in lulling them.
Good. The first point of any campaign was to get your opponent on the wrong foot. A false sense of security was as great a weakness as a false sense of fear. After years of mild intrigue, both on and off the battlefield, Geoffrey possessed in overflowing measure the patience that had led him to success for so long.
This particular campaign, though, already stimulated him more than most. The prize was a new one, and the challenge greater than any he'd met so far. Not only a dalliance, a chance for flirtation or a few hours' pleasure of the body -- or a solid bout of fighting, for that matter, which he'd been accustomed to enjoying almost as much. But a friendship, deep and lasting, with perhaps the promise of more to come in later years. Because the children would not remain young forever. Already they were of an age to be sent out as pages, or promised in marriage to men willing to wait a few years for their bed. If that was the only hold Henry retained on Maud's affection, it was one that must unavoidably loosen in time.
Even as Geoffrey formed that thought, he became conscious of a new sensation. Or not exactly new: an old sensation, long since forgotten, never touched since boyhood days. Impatience.
He didn't want to wait for Maud's children to grow up, before she could venture to stray. He wanted her now. In his home, his arms, his bed. In his life, which seemed to him more lustrous than ever now that she was near.
A mad impulse came over him to speak with Henry directly, as one man to another. Offer an arrangement of some kind. But that would be foolhardy beyond belief. There was a chance, of course, that it might go well -- a very remote chance. But if it did not, that was the end of any hope for Geoffrey to win his Maud. No more opportunities to sneak a word, a touch, a look. Henry could shut her in forever, and nothing but outright war would free her.
Geoffrey mulled the idea over in his mind. He didn't much fancy his chances. Henry possessed a large and well-skilled force, plus a strong castle to lodge it in. Geoffrey could match the first, given time and money spent, but the latter would not be so easy. Even if he did get royal permission to build a castle here, it was not the sort of thing that could be done in secret. Henry would harry him tirelessly, and the work must grind to a stop.
No. Force was not an option. Finesse alone could win the day.
Pity, though. Geoffrey watched his rival with a mixture of respect and regret. It would have been better to settle the point openly and with honesty, as between friends.
Well, maybe one day. He grinned at some jest of Henry's, indicated the direction from which to expect the next burst of ducks. Spared one moment to glance up the slope towards Maud, and saw her standing there quite still, watching him.
Foolish. Risky. He turned away, glanced out over the lake, pointed to some random object of interest and asked its nature. Listened to Henry's reply, and nodded, and ached to think of the woman behind them -- warm, alive, and inexorably beyond his reach.
Often. He had promised her that. So he would arrange a further meeting, and another, and longer ones -- and soon.
Geoffrey turned his eyes towards the morning's sport, and his mind towards better things.
***
CHAPTER 6
Maud glowed. It had all been accomplished with such effortless ease, she felt certain now that Geoffrey would find a way for them to see more of each other. Much more, for as long and as often as she could wish.
Oh, it had felt so good to be held -- to stay close to him, encircled by his arms, and relish the touch of his lips on hers, his tongue against her own. To smell his skin, fresh with morning, and hear his whispers in her ear.
"I'm glad you had a pleasant time," her attendant said. Margaret, oldest of Maud's ladies, and a favourite with the children. Her own were grown up, and either in Henry's service or married out among neighbouring lords. Which made her something of a grandmother figure to everyone fortunate enough to know her.
"It was delightful," Maud admitted. She strove to maintain a cool exterior, though her heart pounded at the memory. Geoffrey was here, and he cared for her, and he promised to be whatever she asked of him. Which set her free, for she need not choose among those she loved -- need not give up either him or the children -- need not fight Henry over him just yet. She could rest content in the knowledge that love was there for her, as indeed it was here at home, and she could surround herself with it all.
"You look the better for it," Margaret said. "Of course, it's been a lovely day." She peered out of the window at a sky just tinged with pink. "We'll have another one tomorrow, I believe."
"I hope so." Maud studied the children's work, listened with interest to their accounts of how they'd spent the few hours she was gone. She hadn't missed them, not then, but she was happy to be back among them. Oh, she could never give them up, not for anything -- not even for Geoffrey.
But she needn't. Relief flooded through her as she formed that thought. No one would take her dear ones from her, not yet.
She watched them all in a glow of affection: earnest and hopeful and justly proud of their achievements. They would leave her in time, of course they would, they must. But for now, for a few more precious years of their lives, they still belonged with her.
"Well done, my darlings," she said. "You've spent your time very well indeed." And maybe they deserved a treat of sorts, a family entertainment. Invite some of the neighbours to hunt and dine, and let the children take part on condition of exemplary behaviour. She would suggest it.
They might invite Geoffrey too. Just as one friend among many. Let the children talk to him, and ask him all the questions they now plagued her with, of tournaments and feasts and the fashions from abroad. The girls, sharp-eyed, had noticed some detail of Geoffrey's sleeves, and wished to know how it was done. The boys, exuberant, boasted to each other of how they'd win every battle they took part in.
Let them make the suggestion, Maud thought. It would sound better, because entirely innocent, coming from them.
She took her chance when Henry joined them for his customary evening hour spent in their company. Listened to their happy chatter, watched Henry's indulgent smile, and said lightly: "Perhaps we might arrange a little party here one day. Something informal. Maybe take the children out hunting with us."
Henry shot her a glance of instant suspicion. "What's your plan?"
"Make an event of it. A whole day out. Invite some friends over from neighbouring estates." She named a few innocuous ones.
"And Geoffrey," the youngest girl said. "I
t wouldn't be polite to leave him out."
"Of course," Maud said with breezy indifference. "And the county justice -- we'll have him to dine soon in any case."
"Mm." Henry sounded non-committal. But the children besieged him with pleas, until he relented. "Very well. It's a good plan, and I approve it. In a week or so, perhaps."
"We can ask Geoffrey over before then," the eldest girl said decisively. "I want to ask him about his sleeves."
"His...what?" Henry's face was a study in bewilderment. Maud smothered a smile.
The girls launched into a description of the relevant needlework, but were soon outvoiced by the boys, who clamoured for a tournament at home.
"Absolutely not," Henry declared, on surer ground now. "We're not having a bunch of riff-raff tearing up my fields and harassing my tenants."
"But you can have hundreds of men charging at each other," the youngest boy declared, eyes alight. "All at once. On horseback. Hundreds of them!"
"Not on my land," Henry replied, unmoved.
"Games, then," the eldest boy argued in a perfect echo of his father's most reasonable tone. "A contest of skill. You could hold a competition among your own knights in service. And we could join in. Well, I could. Since I'm a man."
Henry stared at him. Maud stifled a laugh.
"I suppose you are, almost." Henry acknowledged it with obvious reluctance. "Don't know that I'm inclined to indulge you, though."
"Geoffrey might," the youngest boy suggested, brightening. "He'd hold a tournament if we asked him, for sure."
"Would he, now?" Henry cast Maud another glance of suspicion, which she met with fortitude. This was not of her doing, and he must know that. "Better his fields than mine, that's all I can say."
"We'll ask him," the eldest boy declared. "When he comes to dine with us again. You asked him, didn't you?"
"No," Henry replied. "As it happens, I did not."
"That's a bit rude. You'd better send a messenger across. Ask him to come tomorrow. Then we can discuss the matter at table." His manner was every bit as decisive as Henry's own. Maud bit her lip to hold back a smile.
"I have a better idea," Henry said. "Why don't you send the message. By all means command my troops also. And perhaps you'd like my seat at table."
"You may keep it," the boy said. "For now. And I'll allow you to retain command of your troops. Understand that it's temporary, though."
"Cheeky rat." Henry ruffled the boy's hair. "Well, since you ask so politely. I'll invite him, and I'll consider organising an event of some kind. Not promising anything as yet. We'll have this vagabond over to dine, since you insist on cluttering up my hall with your own guests, and you may ask him yourself for tournament. My guess is he'll say no, but if you want something it's always worth going after it."
Maud held her breath. He could not have spoken any words that rang truer within her own heart.
"How do you know if you'll get it?" the younger girl asked.
"You don't," Henry said. "That's why it's better not to ask until you're strong enough to take it anyway. But I don't see any of you waiting twenty years for this, so you may as well take a swing at it."
Maud finally permitted a smile. But it earned her no particular notice, because the children were lost in delighted speculations, and Henry watched them with deep affection. He was a good man, Maud thought -- he really was, underneath all the tough aggression. Which he needed, as lord and commander, she understood that too.
It had appealed to her once. Not any more. But she respected it, admired it even, just so long as it did not stand in the way of what she herself wanted most.
Which it did. For now. But she wouldn't think about that, wouldn't worry any more. Geoffrey was here as a friend and neighbour, on good terms with Henry and the children, able to see and speak with her, perhaps to steal a moment's affection now and then. A touch, a kiss, a brief embrace. She did not ask for more.
"What do you think?" Henry turned to her, without hostility, speaking for a moment as friend to friend. "Shall we have a grand tournament here, with all the great lords of England and Flanders and France gathered together for the sole purpose of destroying our fields and ravaging our stores?"
"It sounds delightful," Maud said, smiling. "Do invite the pope and a handful of kings as well."
"I'll do better," Henry declared. "I shall order them to come." For a moment, he looked as if he might -- and as if they would know better than to refuse his summons.
Confidence, Maud thought with a twinge of envy. Henry had it by the cartload. She wished herself a share of it, sometimes.
"Do that," she said lightly. "I'm certain they will rush to obey."
"They'd better." Henry wasn't altogether joking, even now. She could see that in his eyes. And she quailed at the thought of incurring his displeasure, even over the most innocent of friendships with another man.
But although Henry was ruthless, he was fair also. For the most part. In all the years of her marriage, she had never found him unreasonable. Unshakable, yes. But not beyond the reach of an argument from right, or an appeal to his better feelings.
"I should like an event of some sort," she said mildly. "Nothing quite so grand. A modest arrangement will do very well for me."
The children rejoiced as if everything was settled to their complete satisfaction, and jubilantly extolled all the delights that awaited.
"We'll see," Henry said, but his smile carried real warmth. "Let's hear your tourneying friend's opinion, when he dines with us tomorrow."
***
"A tournament here at your father's manor? I doubt he'd care for that." Geoffrey grinned openly at the boys. They had broached the question confidently, as if all the arrangements had been made and they waited only for his approval. Of their first natural diffidence on meeting him, no trace remained.
"But you could hold one." The eldest boy, undeterred, pressed home the point. An iron glint in those round eyes told Geoffrey that a firm will thrived under the childish exterior.
The younger brother, quieter but no less determined, nodded vigorously. "You could. At your manor. Because it's ever so close."
"And you could show us how it's done." The eldest boy fixed Geoffrey with a commanding look, uncannily like Henry for a moment. "The tactics and techniques in vogue on the Continent."
"I could." Geoffrey directed a questioning glance at Henry, who merely shrugged. "But I confess that was not my purpose in taking up residence at a peaceful place such as this. If you want tourney action, you'd best go where the tourneys are."
"I will," the boy replied fearlessly. "When Father lets me. I'm to be squire to the best fighter in the world."
"And who is that?" Geoffrey probed, much amused.
"I've no idea. Maybe you can tell me."
Geoffrey pretended to think. "There's always Guillaume," he teased. "You might have seen him when I was here last, in company with your uncle."
Henry uttered an oath more fitting to the heat of combat than the peace of a meal at table. "That bastard? Lost me three good men, he did."
"Best fighter on the circuit," Geoffrey said without hesitation. "I'm not joking, either. But his temper was always of the worst. He's mellowed a bit since he married."
"Has he?" Henry pondered that news. "I will say he laid about him with conviction, especially given his injury. You could do worse than be squire to a man like that."
"You could indeed," Geoffrey agreed. "He's trained up some fine lads over the past few years. But there are others, of course. Ralph de Niege, for one. I know he's in the market for a squire or two, since he knighted the pair he had. Or my friend Alan, who still fights. And don't forget your own uncle Roland. One of the very finest, as your father will tell you."
"Not while I'm alive," Henry snorted, but he didn't appear much disturbed. "Yes, any of those may do you well, or any one of a dozen lords I could name myself. But you're not taking off to foreign parts just yet, my boy."
"We could go together," the
youngest said. "I could be a page."
"If you ever took the least notice of what your elders told you," Henry replied. "Pity the man who tries to make either of you into something useful."
"You don't actually want to leave home," the eldest girl reproved. "You'd be homesick. You'd even cry."
"Would not!" both boys replied at once, in equal indignation. Geoffrey choked on a laugh.
"I would," the youngest girl opined sadly. Her eyes brimmed at the mere idea.
"No one's sending you away," Maud reassured her. Geoffrey stole a glance at the lady of his heart, and warmed at the sight of her cuddling the little girl. No cold indifference towards children in this household. He was glad to see it. Too many little souls had to make do without affection, and were beaten if they cried.
"I did," Geoffrey admitted. The boys stared at him in horror, but he bore it with equanimity. Small blame if a child grieved at being torn from home, and Geoffrey would not stand by and see any shamed for it. "Most of us do, I think. Secretly or openly, inwardly or out. There's no harm in tears, given just cause. But soon I grew comfortable, and even happy after a while. It stood me in good stead, also. I can make a home anywhere, and have done for many years. Change no longer troubles me."
"You'll struggle with settled life," Henry commented. "Not much changes here."
"I'll have to grow used to that also," Geoffrey admitted.
"You will," the eldest girl told him, with her mother's air of reassurance. "This is a lovely place to be. You'll like it."
"I believe I will," Geoffrey said gravely. "Indeed I already do. Such kind hospitality among my neighbours, and such beautiful countryside, is more than I could ever ask for."
The girl blinked a little. "That's... nice."
Not accustomed to polite small talk, Geoffrey concluded. He made some further comments along similar lines, and watched her take on Maud's dignified manner as she strove to match him in conversation. She proved to possess knowledge, sense, and taste enough for it, lacking only the polish acquired through practice. A provincial girl, but neither foolish nor clumsy. She'd been raised well.