by Ling, Maria
Everyone, Henry included, seemed to have accepted as fact the total absence of any attraction between her and Geoffrey. Which hurt her, deep down, in a way she could hardly understand.
A footman ascended the stairs, she could hear him. One of the older men, most likely: a slow and laboured step. Not Henry's, she recognised his the moment his boot touched the stone.
So she stared with amazement as the door swung open and Henry stood before her, dressed for hunting but with a face so pale she thought he'd faint. Clutching a shred of parchment as if it were the dagger that had dealt a mortal blow.
"What's the matter?" Maud asked, because she'd never seen him like this. In all the years of their marriage, never once had he appeared so ashen, so thunderstruck, so weak.
"She's left me." He raised the parchment slightly, with a hand that shook. "Alice. She's taken refuge at a convent and appealed to the king for her wardship and land. I'm... not sure what to do."
Good for Alice. Maud indulged for a moment in the jubilance that flooded her heart. Then pressed her voice into compassion. "We'll not hunt this afternoon, then?"
"No." He made a small, desultory gesture. "Well, you can if you like. I'll be writing to the king. And mustering my troops. See if this convent can hold out against an organised attack." But his tone lacked the ruthless certainty she'd always heard from him. For once in his life, he'd come up against an enemy he couldn't conquer by force.
"You could apologise," Maud said.
"What for?" He gave her a vague look. "Well, if it makes you happy. I'm sorry. For whatever it is I've done."
"Not to me," Maud said. "To Alice."
"What does she have to complain of? I gave her everything she asked for."
"You threatened to beat and rape her."
Henry frowned. "I never did."
"When the three of us all spoke together last. Those were your words."
"All I said was... Oh." He stood for a moment wavering, visibly caught between honesty and pride. "I was angry. And she hasn't resented me for it since then."
"Are you sure of it?"
"She would have said. Indeed she did say -- wouldn't let up until she'd told me how wrong I was in every respect."
Maud silently paid tribute to Alice's courage. "To which you replied... what?"
"No concern of yours. But I ordered her not to speak of it further. And now this." The parchment fluttered in his hand.
"Did you threaten her again?" Maud demanded.
"I would never harm her," Henry said. "Not in truth. She must have known that."
"Must she?" Maud drew in a deep breath. Saw him, for the first time in many years, as a lost and bewildered human being not much different from herself. Only placed in a position far more privileged, through no virtue of his own. "God has granted you the power to do exactly that, and worse, and suffer no consequence at all. How is she to know whether you mean to use such power or not?"
"Well, I wouldn't." He smacked the parchment against his thigh. "Damn her. She does know."
"You could still apologise for threatening to use it."
Henry stared at Maud. Seemed for a moment to see her, likewise, as a human being like himself. "You think she'd listen?"
"I don't know," Maud admitted. "But she might. If you arrived as the decent man you are, and not as a warlord complete with an army set to subdue her."
"Hardly an army. No more than thirty men or so. But you've made your point." He nodded slowly, as to himself. "Worth a try. I'll ride over at once. Shouldn't take more than a couple of days. You'll be in charge here while I'm gone."
Maud nodded also. They'd done this before, during the years of war, when he was off on the King's service against the Empress's troops. She was well used to commanding his home. Though it had been some time since he let her.
"What are your orders?" she asked simply.
"Just keep things steady as they are. If there's trouble, let the steward deal with it."
"Very well."
Henry kissed her, lightly on the cheek, his mind clearly on other things. Maud watched him with a strange pang, a grief for vanished love.
"I did care for you a great deal once," she said -- and held her breath, mortified to have confessed so much.
The pallor waned. "I know," Henry said. "As I did for you." He held her by the elbow, gently. "Take good care of the children while I'm gone."
"I will," Maud promised. And watched him leave, still dressed for an afternoon's hunting on his own estate, with the set expression of a man about to face his doom.
***
"Gone away?" Geoffrey's expression hadn't so much as flickered, but now it assumed a nuance of courteous regret, even as an odd light kindled in his eyes. "I'm sorry to hear it. But if I may solicit the pleasure of your company regardless -- ?"
"Of course." Maud viewed him with honest admiration, though she strove to maintain an air of benign indifference. "My husband was called away so suddenly, and I know you must have made arrangements already. If it would not inconvenience you, I should be delighted to hunt."
And it could not rouse suspicion, not now. She had the perfect excuse for venturing without Henry, and she'd brought a lady attendant with her. Besides, she wanted to.
They spoke lightly as they rode across the fields. Maud weighed every word for significance. But she found him as attentive a listener as ever, while betraying no particular emotion.
"His ward -- Alice, you may have met her?" Maud waited only for the brief headshake. "She has retired to a convent -- temporarily, I am assured. I believe he is escorting her there, or was to have done so but was a little delayed... I am not sure of the details. In any case, I believe he means to call on her and ensure she is quite well."
"Very thoughtful of him," Geoffrey said equably. "And after that he will return?"
"There may be some other business to conduct also. No doubt he will write to let me know what his plans are."
Geoffrey shot her a quick shrewd look. "In the meantime, I'd be honoured to provide the occasional diversion." He reined in his horse and pointed. "Over there I thought, today."
He remained impeccably mannered throughout the hunt, spoke as much to her attending lady -- Margaret, the oldest and most firmly married: Maud prided herself on being no fool -- as to herself, offered no smouldering looks. But Maud sensed the tingle of expectation between them, the knowledge that they might snatch more than a moment alone.
"I hope you will stay for a simple meal," he suggested, once they were suitably weary from exercise and fresh air.
Maud accepted readily, for they had done this before, many times, in Henry's company. She took Margaret with her to the usual room set aside for their refreshment, dawdled a little over her bowl of scented water. Sniffed with appreciation as the scent of freshly baked bread and honey-spiced wine floated up the stairs.
"Go on," she told her friend. "You look famished."
"It's not suitable," Margaret replied, but she was every day of sixty and liked her warm drink after hours in the crisp air.
"You know there's no standing on ceremony here," Maud urged. "I'll be down in a moment. Hover by the foot of the stairs if you like."
"Well, don't be too long." And the woman left, sniffing happily. Maud drew a deep contented breath.
Geoffrey arrived within the moment, a silent shadow that glided in practically across Margaret's wake. He said nothing at first, simply gathered Maud into his arms and held her there, a long embrace of undemanding affection. She leaned her face against his shoulder and breathed slowly, caught the scent of his body under the neatly cut tunic and shirt.
"There." Geoffrey kissed her hair, just to one side of her head. "I've missed you."
"I want more than this." Maud seized her courage in both hands. Because she must know where she stood with him, and they had so short a time in which to speak. "I want to live here, with you."
Geoffrey hugged her closer. "I want that also. Now or in the future -- but if the choice is min
e, I say now."
Maud smiled against his shoulder. "I have the children to consider. And Henry, too."
"What does he value most?" Geoffrey asked. "If there was some benefit for him in yielding you up to me -- "
"There isn't," Maud said, dully realistic. "He will not have me shame him with another man. He's said so."
"Mm." Geoffrey's cheek rested on her hair. "But this ward of his -- Alice? I take it they are... closer... than merely guardian and ward."
"They're lovers," Maud admitted. "Have been for years. He says that's different."
"It is, of course."
Maud straightened at that, pulled away a little, turned accusing eyes on him. "You take my husband's side on this?"
"I can see his point," Geoffrey said. For a moment she recognised the ruthless chill in his eyes: she had seen it in Henry's, many times. Too much alike in some ways, that pair of men. "No one thinks the less of a wife if her husband strays. But for a wife to leave her husband -- that's a different matter entirely."
"So he's told me."
"But if this Alice wishes to be lady of a castle -- "
"She doesn't." Maud gave him a brief summary. Geoffrey raised his eyebrows a little.
"An independent-minded woman," he observed.
"Very. I like her. And a match for Henry, I think. But he's a man, and lord of the manor, and commander of his own troops. He can do as he likes, and we must all obey."
"Even me," Geoffrey admitted ruefully. "Though I could spirit you away to some other home, where another lord rules. Somewhere easier to defend, or further and less tempting a target."
"I can't leave the children."
"You'll have to one day. When they have lives to go to that are not within the compass of your arms."
"But not yet. They are still so young."
Geoffrey kissed her lips, a tender caress that sent shivers through her body. Then said: "Let me consider. I may find a way to tempt Henry. Though what man could favour any prize over you..."
Maud laughed. It felt wonderful to do so. She hadn't laughed in years, not with simple joy. "I'm not much of a catch. An ageing woman, well past thirty, and a mother and a wife to boot."
"Sounds like the very best kind of woman to me."
"Silly man." She kissed him again, warm and happy and confident. They could face any danger, any threat, as long as they were together.
"We'd best go down," Geoffrey said. "Play innocent as much as we can. If he returns to gossip and scandal, that would not be the best start to any campaign to free you."
"It would not." But she held on a little longer, just for the delight of being so close. Released him at last, regretfully, and heard him descend the stairs.
When she judged the moment right, she descended likewise. Attempted to remain cool and detached, while he sought her company and offered his arm, and with the most urbane indifference escorted her to a seat.
***
"She won't see me." Henry looked tired and worn, and curiously unsettled. Maud regarded him with an emotion akin to pity. "And I don't know how the king would take to an all-out assault on a convent. Not well, I suspect." He spoke in his usual dry tone, but his eyes were bleak.
"A friend might plead for you, perhaps." Maud threw the suggestion out with little thought, merely for something to say. But she thought of Geoffrey, and how smoothly he would broach the subject, how light his touch would be.
"If I had a friend who'd convince." Henry rinsed his hands thoroughly, then dried them on the linen towel. Inspected them with an odd expression of distaste, as if they were soiled with blood.
"Geoffrey might," Maud ventured, busying herself with her dress. "Being entirely neutral, yet a friend of your brother's and somewhat like family."
"I suppose so. Don't know that I care to confide in him, though."
Maud shrugged as artlessly as she could manage. "I'm sure you'll find a way to bring her around."
"Thanks for your confidence in me." For once Henry didn't sound sarcastic. As she studied him, she found that he regarded her with a strange expression, almost of regret.
"You love her," Maud said. And it hurt her, that knowledge, on some deep level she could scarcely reach or understand.
"I wouldn't go that far." Henry turned away, began to change out of his travelling clothes. Maud averted her eyes. She didn't want to see him undress.
"Then it's just the money?" Maud asked. "Alice's money, I mean."
"Not that. It's welcome, granted. But no. It's her. She's a remarkable woman."
"Yes, I know."
"So you do." Henry paused. "I did not show myself at my finest there, that time. I owe you an apology, no less than her. I am sorry for the way I spoke to you."
Maud regarded him for a long moment. Found, to her surprise, that she believed him. "Thank you."
"I need to play the lord at times," Henry said. "With the tenants, and with my own men. That doesn't mean I can't hear justice and truth also. Though it may take me a little while to acknowledge it as such."
"You need not play the lord with me. Ever."
Silence fell between them. They regarded each other openly, without hostility. And without fear, Maud realised. The tension between them, that had persisted for so long she'd grown entirely used to its presence, had disappeared.
"Maybe I'll speak to Geoffrey," Henry said in an odd flat tone. "You've spent time over there, I believe."
"Hunting," Maud replied. "In company. You can ask anyone."
He stood for a while longer, considering her. "I know you've done no wrong," he said. "And I accuse you of nothing. But would you prefer some other home than mine?"
Maud caught her breath. Held it for a moment, then let it out in a faint but steady stream. "I believe I would."
Henry pulled on a clean tunic, then fastened his belt around it. Nodded, as if reaching the end of some complex thought.
"Then I'll have a word," he said. "Any man who brings Alice back to me on friendly terms may have you by way of a trade."
***
CHAPTER 8
"So." Geoffrey paused to take in the view across the valley. Green fields stretched in all directions, wrapped in a faint haze of mist. "Your ward is well, I take it?"
Henry shot him a grim look. "Has Maud told you how things stand with Alice?"
"Not in so many words."
"Well, she's left me. Alice has. Over some words I spoke in haste. Not saying she was wrong to take offence. She wasn't. The fault was mine, and I admit it. But now she refuses to hear me at all."
"What did you tell her, exactly?"
Henry offered a crisp account of events. Geoffrey listened carefully, and resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands.
"You have a way with women," Geoffrey concluded.
"I do," Henry said. "Not the best, but it's mine."
"A friend would advise you to change it."
Henry leaned against the fence that separated the orchard from the pasture. "Go on, then. Tutor me."
"Hard to know where to begin."
They stared out at the landscape, peaceful in the gathering mist. Cattle called mournfully to each other from the far side of the pasture.
"You're after my wife," Henry said. "I know it, and I warned you off her once. But you may take her, if you bring Alice back to me. On good terms. I was to bring her home by force, but it seemed churlish."
Geoffrey laughed. "You've made a good beginning, then. She won't love you if you carry her back against her will."
"She won't, I know."
Geoffrey considered. "Maud wishes above all to keep the children."
"To see them happy," Henry corrected. "I also."
"The boys will need to train up as page and squire to some other lord. And the girls would benefit from the chance to practice their manners in a new setting. Now might be the time -- if they weren't too far from home. And still together, all of them."
"It might," Henry conceded. "And I'll see them whenever I choose. If yo
u think you can keep me off your land, I suggest you consider the number of men I have in my pay."
"Quite."
"But the children stay here," Henry added. "At this manor, and no other. You do not take or send them away."
"Never, unless you order it."
Henry gave the slightest of bows. "Very well, then. Work your magic on my ward."
Geoffrey smiled at that. "I'll do my best. But what I would advise, as a friend and fellow campaigner, is that you offer her what she wants most. If she refuses that from your hand, you have your answer. But if not -- "
"She wants freedom," Henry said morosely. "Independence. The right to govern her own body and home. She's told me so a dozen times."
"Doesn't seem unreasonable."
"Reasonable or otherwise, it's not possible. She's a woman. She must be some man's ward."
"Or wife."
"No. I'll not put Maud aside for any cause. Wouldn't do that to the children."
"Of course," Geoffrey soothed. "I understand entirely. But if your ward were to marry a friend -- "
"Don't even suggest it."
Geoffrey abandoned that idea. "If Alice had troops of her own, would that satisfy her?"
"God knows. Who'd pay for them, in any case?"
"I would."
Henry stared at him in blank disbelief. "Why?"
"Because I'm not you. If they're in your pay, they owe you allegiance. But if they're in my pay, they answer to me. And it's in my interest to keep Alice happy and safe, if it means she consents to remain with you. Otherwise you might demand your family back."
"But then it's also in your interest to compel her to remain."
"Not if she's unhappy."
"Why not?"
Geoffrey quelled a sigh. "Because I'm not that kind of a man."
"A poor argument. She'll reject it out of hand."
"Will she?" Geoffrey was intrigued. He looked forward to meeting this formidable lady. Though she wouldn't compete with Maud, not in his eyes, no matter how skilled a fighter she might prove to be. "What else does she want?"