Gift for a Lady Fair

by Ling, Maria

  They all had. Geoffrey watched the four children as the talk became more general, watched Maud and Henry engage with them in distinct but complementary manner. Maud led with finesse, Henry with blunt good humour. They were well matched as a couple. And yet they did not speak directly to each other, barely exchanged a look or word -- and those oddly cold. No, they were not on good terms, and hadn't been for some time.

  The children sensed it, too. Not exactly aware, perhaps -- but he noted the slight empty pause after each such exchange, the hurry to speak of something, anything, the sudden tension in childish voices. They knew, or guessed -- or feared.

  He pitied them. But envied them also, in a way. They had each other. The four of them together, companions and friends. He missed that in his own life.

  But he was lucky, now: he shared in theirs. Only on the fringes, yet they seemed ready to invite him into the family. Relieved, perhaps, at some calming adult presence to dissipate the sense of tension between their parents.

  He would come as often as he could, Geoffrey resolved. Invite them over, also. Not only for Maud, though he craved her presence more than ever. But because the more time he spent in the company of her children, the more he liked them too.

  ***

  Henry proved as good as his word. He not only gave thought to organising an event at home, he went ahead and did it. In his own inimitable style, inviting five local lords with full retinues, to indulge in a day of open sparring out on the practice ground.

  Maud didn't care much for fighting, but she had to admit it was an impressive spectacle, and organised with all the ruthless efficiency Henry was capable of. The children were delirious with enjoyment, spared barely a glance or a word for her as they swapped commentary and hung forward over the ropes strung between posts all along the edge of the field.

  She herself was content, for Geoffrey found occasion to take up position by her side and remain there for almost an hour. Unnoticed, it seemed, or at least unremarked. Even Henry looked clear through him, too intent on measuring other men's strength and skill to trouble over an attentive neighbour.

  They spoke a great deal, of hunting and poetry and the glories of outdoor life, of his years on the road and her years with the children, of his plans for improvement to his new abode and all the things he must leave unaltered. For all sorts of reasons, some that made her smile: the steward wished it, the housekeeper insisted it had always been done so, there seemed no great reason for change.

  "You need to show them a firm hand," Maud reproached. "Else they'll run the household their own way, and brook no argument from you."

  "I rather gain the impression that's what they've been accustomed to of late," Geoffrey conceded. "Made a fine job of it, too."

  "Nevertheless."

  He laughed at that, a mellow sound, all sunshine and warm contentment. "No doubt you are right. But I prefer to focus my attention where it's needed. Leave good staff to get on with their work in peace."

  "You can do that, of course," Maud admitted doubtfully. "But how will you know that they order things as you would wish?"

  "Oh, I'll oversee," Geoffrey assured her. "Keep an eye on the management of the place. But really -- they've been there for decades, most of them, and I've only just arrived. They're not merely set in their ways. The manor is their life, and has been for a long time. I'd be sorry to come in and disrupt it without cause."

  "I suppose so." Maud watched Henry execute a swift manoeuvre, outflank a troop of horsemen and capture their lord. Impressive, she had to admit. And yet nothing stirred within her -- nothing at all. He was a fine man, Henry, but not the right man for her. Not any more.

  She glanced sideways at Geoffrey, thrilled anew to that finely set face, the intelligent expression in those knowing eyes. Thought with spiralling heat of their solitary encounter, of the touch of his skin against hers, his member hot and throbbing inside her. And then --

  "Of course, they'll have to get used to new ways in time," Geoffrey added. "Perhaps you're right, and I ought to start as I mean to go on. That was an excellent move, there." He offered a salute to Henry, who acknowledged it with unusual exuberance. Thriving on all this, Maud realised, loving the crowds and the noise and the physicality of combat.

  She cast another glance at Geoffrey. Thought of all the years he'd spent fighting for sport, and loving every moment of it by his own account. "Do you miss the circuit?"

  "On and off. But if this is how the neighbourhood gathers for an informal entertainment, I'll have much to enjoy." He smiled at her, lit for a moment by some passion alien to her.

  Henry shared it. Rode up now, hardly noticing her presence, to taunt Geoffrey about his lack of participation.

  "I would not take precedence over you, sir," Geoffrey retorted. "But if you will permit, I'll gladly have my own little band take to the field."

  "Don't strain yourself." Henry rode on.

  "You can if you wish," Maud said. "Join in." She studied his own small group of attendants, who lounged to one side, intent on watching Henry's men.

  "Perhaps in a short while," Geoffrey said. "I believe he's enjoying himself immeasurably out there."

  "He is, of course." Maud wondered a little at that. Henry had never shown the least interest in the tourney circuit -- she remembered him scoffing at Roland's unsettled life. As far as she was aware, he regarded fighting as a duty rather than a joy. But now he seemed a man transformed.

  "I've seen it happen once in a while," Geoffrey added, half to himself. "Men who know how to fight, and fight well, but always in deadly earnest. Never simply for sport. Then they get the chance, and it's a remarkable experience. Very different indeed. Some take to it, others don't. Those who do... well." He threw Maud a quick smile. "I fear we bore you with all this hacking and slashing."

  "Not in the least." She could remain like this, close to Geoffrey, free to study him at will, without rousing any suspicion at all. Provided she kept her own feelings and imagination in check. Which was hard, when affection and desire spiralled within her, coiling around each other in a rising whirl of warmth.

  Geoffrey held her gaze for a moment. The smile faded, and his eyes grew serious. "I will not ask your thoughts," he said. "But you may have mine for the price of asking."

  She recognised the quotation, from one of the poems he'd marked for her. "Tell me, if it brings you joy."

  "Always, to be with you." The love that shone for her in his eyes swept her breath away.

  "I want us to be alone," Maud whispered, half fearful as desire tore through her. "Together."

  "So do I." Surreptitiously he caught her hand, held it for a moment. She thought he would kiss her, the notion glinted briefly in his eyes, and he leaned forward a little, close enough that she felt the faintest hint of warmth from his body. But then he eased away, smiled that polite and nothing-meaning smile, released her hand.

  Maud didn't need to glance aside to know that they were being watched. By Henry, or one of his men, or a neighbour -- it hardly mattered who.

  "I can't bear this," she said, careful to let her candour show in her voice only and not her face. "Being this close to you, and yet having to dissemble. I don't want to pretend any more."

  "I know." This time his touch lingered on her hand. "But it's the best we can do, for now. Be patient, my love. I always find a way to gain what I desire."

  "Always?" Maud taunted, swirling with both jealousy and relief at his confidence. How many women he might have sported with, far from her ken.

  "Absolutely." He raised her hand to his lips, caressed it with a slow gentle movement of his fingers. It made her shiver with pleasure, and desire coursed through her once again.

  "I envy the others," Maud said truthfully.

  Geoffrey laughed at that, kissed the palm of her hand and then released her. "No need. I have eyes only for you, now. Besides, who else could I admire?" He swept his arm out in a gesture that took in all the commotion of men and horses and dust and yells. Maud laughed too, unthi
nkingly, as she had not done for years.

  Oh, it would be well. She basked in that certainty, relished the sunny confidence with which he approached all things in this world. He would find a way, together they both would. Even if it took them years. It would be worth waiting for, she felt certain.

  "This may be the moment I make my appearance." Geoffrey scrutinised the chaotic horde. "Just there, I think. If you would be gracious enough to excuse me?"

  She couldn't grudge it, not while her heart bathed in such joyful certainty -- and while his expression showed such clear conflict between the wish to remain with her and the wish to throw himself into the fight.

  "Go on, then," she said. "Fight well and bravely."

  "You may count on that." And he was gone, fitted his helmet and mounted his horse, and stormed into battle with a speed and ease that astonished her. Decorous as he was in company, he proved the equal of any man in combat. Maud winced at the blows he gave and received, but was delighted to see him victorious at last. He demolished the force that beset Henry's men to the rear, and was received among her husband's troops as if he were a long-lost friend. Even Henry, swept out of his usual reserve, leaned over to embrace him like a brother.

  ***

  A successful engagement, Geoffrey reflected as he washed and readied himself for bed. His body ached, he'd be sore in the morning, but it was worth every moment of exertion. He'd missed fighting, hadn't realised how much until he stormed onto the field and laughed aloud for sheer joy of it.

  With Maud watching, his own lady fair.

  He'd never had that, neither sought nor carried any lady's heart or favour, didn't care enough to ask. Knew it, also, and refused to risk a woman's unhappiness by sporting with her affections. Flirtation, yes, and pleasures of the body with those who sought him out -- and the urbane politeness of common discourse, naturally. But to hurt or grieve someone who truly cared for him, simply because he did not return her feelings? No. That low he would never stoop.

  Whereas now... he wondered if perhaps his own feelings were the strongest. He'd longed to sweep Maud into his arms, kissed her with all the passion that surged through his body, carry her off to some private spot where they could enjoy each other fully and in peace. While she remained cool and collected, betraying no similar fervour.

  And yet -- those few words she had let fall, with the look that accompanied them and singed him with its heat -- he held to those as a promise and a hope of more to come. Much more.

  She did care. He was certain of it. And he'd fought well before her eyes, he was proud of himself this day. Though she wasn't to be won by ferocity in combat, she could have that for the price of asking in the shape of her own husband. Henry would give Guillaume a run for his tourney fee any day. Geoffrey smiled at that memory, he'd give much to see those two go up against each other. Maybe in future years, at an informal meet such as this one, held at his very own manor.

  With Maud beside him. He promised himself he'd find a way to make it so.

  In the meantime, he ought to go sensibly to sleep. But he didn't. Instead he dawdled, picked over his collection of favourite books, well-thumbed and scuffed with long use. Hidden within them lay the poems he truly loved, the ones that reached far beyond mere seduction and stirred the depths of his soul.

  He wished he could read to Maud from these books, recite by heart even, since he knew most of the poetry within. Or listen to her, she'd been so ready to cap his occasional quotation that he knew her for a fellow enthusiast.

  He could envisage her in his own hall, heading the high table while a reader declaimed sonorous lines. Or in a chamber above, the one next to his would do her for a day-room if she chose, where they could share quieter and more intimate verse. Or here in his own room, in his own bed, where nothing would be held back or hidden away. Where they could share the most explicit words, the most erotic imagery -- oh yes, he had those poems too. Held them in his hands now, each one in turn. Lingered over them, touched each vivid phrase with tingling fingertips. Enjoyed in his imagination every one of them with Maud, first in verse and then in flesh. Which he envisioned with the full strength of desire, wanted to share every whisper and every caress with her.

  Which he couldn't. Not yet. But he rested his hand on each poem, laid each book carefully upon the bed. Pondered them in turn, smiled a little, and then reached for his knife.

  ***

  Maud's mood of jubilation persisted into the evening, and traces of it lingered the next day. During the afternoon, as she watched over the children who struggled to concentrate on their appointed tasks, she dwelt with satisfaction on the future.

  She would see him. Often. Every moment she could devise. Touch him, if only briefly, and glory in his presence. Nothing more.

  She would not pursue it further as yet, she swore that to herself. There would be no flagrant indiscretion, no breach of her marriage vows. For the children's sake, if nothing else. Dear ones, still buzzing with excitement over yesterday's display, making grandiose plans for many more such meetings. She ought to reprove them, but could not find it in her heart. They were delighted, and so was she.

  Geoffrey was truly hers. As a friend -- a dear friend, a lover in spirit though not in the flesh. That she could justify to her own conscience.

  It would be a deception, yes, but not an outright betrayal. Even if Henry did grow suspicious, he would not be able to charge her with more than she was guilty of. She would make sure of it.

  Except for that one time... but she shied away from the thought. That was past, it was over, she could not change it now. Wouldn't, even if she could, because it had been so much fun. She'd forgotten, during all the years in Henry's bed, the sheer delight of two human beings coming together as one.

  But she wouldn't -- no, not though she chafed at such restraint and ached with unsated desire. If she wished for completion, she must seek it with her husband. There was no other way.

  Irritably she tossed that thought aside. She didn't want Henry any more, not in that way. Hadn't done for a long time, but it was unthinkable now. Too many afternoons waiting in stoic patience while he entertained himself with his whore. Too much resentment, and anger, and hurt.

  A sudden wish came over Maud to confront that woman, to spit out all the rage and hate that lay gathered in her heart. She hadn't seen Alice for the past few years, and even before that it had been the barest courtesy. She'd known from the moment she first saw Alice and Henry together, almost before the pair of them did, what they would become.

  Though she wondered now, abruptly, whether it had been like this for them also. Whether they had likewise known this tearing asunder of the heart, duty on one side and desire on the other, with no way to reconcile the two. It was easy for Henry, of course, he was lord of the manor and a man to boot, he could do just as he liked. Whereas Alice was a woman, as Maud was a woman, dependent entirely on his good will.

  Maud bit her lip. She ought to see Alice, really. Speak with her. Because they were both human beings, and both women. Sisters of a kind, given their respective positions, each of them in the absolute power of the same man.

  But Henry wouldn't like it. Hadn't expressly forbidden it, not in so many words. But he would take it for defiance, if she went there without his permission.

  Maud caught herself. She had always been used to managing her own affairs without seeking Henry's approval first. It had not before occurred to her to consider his displeasure. Yet here she was, reminding herself what he was capable of, what the law would excuse if he chose to exercise his rights. And he was the law, here on his own estate: he tried his own cases and gave his own judgement, save only when the charge was one reserved for the king's own justice to hear. And even then, he was well used to finding reason to keep the matter within his own court, and pay off the king's representative at need.

  He really could do anything he liked. Torture and kill her, even. And no law would ever touch him.

  Maud felt utterly cold.

  Whe
n had she become so afraid of him?

  It must have happened by degrees. Little by little, as he revealed more of his nature. Or perhaps as she began to wish for escape, and consider ways and means, and gradually came to realise just how powerless she was.

  Yet she still had allies, friends and family both. She might leave for a while, go to her brother's house to think things over. Or to her mother's, though since that third marriage Maud had never felt entirely welcome in her mother's hall. Her new stepfather made no secret of the fact that he was not the one who had invited her.

  But first, she thought, she would speak with Alice. Perhaps they might find some common ground, after all.

  Perhaps between them, they might even come up with a plan.

  ***

  "I don't want to be lady of the castle." Alice shook back thick golden ringlets from a determined face. She was a handsome woman, Maud had determined, and not at all the fool. Already they had gone beyond the platitudes, the cries of false delight and honest surprise, the idle conversation about weather and wind, and had entered upon far more intimate subjects. She was easy to talk to, Alice. Maud found the words spilling out more readily than she had planned.

  "It has its advantages." Maud glanced around at the comfortable day-chamber. "Of course, it's not as private as here."

  "Tell me. I was married once, you know."

  "I heard." Maud recalled what Henry had said, that Alice's husband had cast her aside when she proved barren, feigned the discovery of some shared though distant ancestor. Relatives within certain degrees could not marry, according to church law -- though no one cared much about that until a man wished to rid himself of an inconvenient wife. She knew for a fact that first cousins had married, with no objection raised from church or king. Even she and Henry shared an ancestor, far enough back that it had not occurred to either of them that it might matter. But technically, they were related to the seventh degree.