by Ling, Maria
"If I knew, I'd have offered it."
A tricky proposition, this one. Geoffrey turned over various approaches in his mind. "Does she read? Sing, play, or dance?"
"Not unless someone puts a knife to her throat. Says she had more than enough of that sort of thing at her husband's hall."
Ah. Yes. "Their marriage was not a success, I take it?"
Henry shrugged. "Apparently not."
"What does she do with her time, then?" Geoffrey asked, honestly puzzled.
"Embroidery," Henry said. "That's about all I can think of that's fit for your ears."
"I see." For once, Geoffrey failed to maintain his smooth exterior. Henry scowled in response to the grin.
"She's frank-spoken," Henry added. "Won't think much of your perfumed oil. But she'll give you a fair hearing, if you can get to speak with her at all. And me, if it ever gets that far."
***
"A proposition?" Alice proved to be a handsome blonde woman with an air of determination. She sat in state in the visiting chamber near the convent entrance, and regarded Geoffrey with deep suspicion. In one hand she held the letter he had brought.
He hadn't read it, didn't know what Maud had written, but the letter had done its work. It had gained him admittance, past a reluctant gate-keeper and a sceptical abbess, and earned him a moment alone with the lady herself.
Who did not appear ready to be swayed. Geoffrey rejected his first choice of approach, that of outright pleading, and decided to try the frank speech Henry had mentioned.
"I understand you want freedom," Geoffrey said. "Independence. A means to assert yourself against your guardian, if you need to."
"The convent provides it," Alice said. "If you come on his errand, you can leave again."
"With great respect, the convent cannot hold out against a determined assault by trained men under a resolute commander. If Henry wants you, he will take you."
"So he said. That's why I left."
"From here, I meant." Geoffrey kept his tone suave. "But if you had troops of your own, who could answer him in kind, that would be another matter."
"I don't. And although I own land and a house of my own, I receive little in rent. I can live, but not pay for troops."
"Quite. I offer to do so."
Alice blinked. "You?"
"I want Maud," Geoffrey said. "Henry will release her on condition that I persuade you to return to him. I don't intend to lie my way to that, because you left him for good reason and you'll hear no argument against it from me. But if an armed force of your own would enable you to feel secure enough to return, I would be happy to place one at your service."
"Commanded by you," Alice retorted. "Paid for by you. And you would have no reason to order it to resist Henry, if that kept Maud in your house." She glanced at the letter, and added in a softer tone: "I did wonder, that time we spoke. She seemed on the point of confession... Though it doesn't matter now. You can tell Henry from me that I've heard all I need to from him." She rose.
"With your permission," Geoffrey said quickly. "I understand that you have appealed to the king for your wardship. May I ask if you would consider another guardian?"
"Not you," Alice replied calmly. "For precisely the same reason. I am no fool."
"Evidently." Geoffrey tried a smile. It brought no response. "But at this convent, you feel safe?"
"I am among friends. My sister holds an influential position here."
"My suggestion, then," Geoffrey said mildly, "is that I pay the convent and they pay the troops. If you wish me to buy the wardship also, on behalf of anyone you care to name, I stand ready to do so."
"Henry won't part with it."
"Is that not for the king to decide?"
For the first time, Alice permitted the glimmer of a smile. "There are more powerful men in the world than Henry, though you'd never get him to admit it."
"He apologises," Geoffrey said. "He acknowledges that he was in the wrong, and offers every assurance that you are in no danger of harm from him."
Alice shrugged, very much like Henry for a moment. "Words cost him nothing."
"I will be your neighbour," Geoffrey said. "Maud will be with me. At a word, you are welcome in our house. From there, a messenger can reach the convent with all speed. As can you, of course."
"Still words," Alice argued, but with less certainty than before.
"Answer me one thing only," Geoffrey said. "Do you wish to return?"
He braced for an absolute refusal. But Alice hesitated, then resumed her seat. "Yes," she said. "I do. But Henry must understand that he can't threaten me at will."
"I think he does," Geoffrey said. "Would you hear him? If he comes here again -- I do not imagine you are willing to return at once -- but if he comes, will you permit him to see and speak with you? That will provide an opportunity for you to demand every safeguard you wish. If he does not comply, then you need never leave these walls."
Alice pondered. Then gave a single quick nod. "Tell him to come alone."
***
"He really has consented." Maud regarded Geoffrey with a look of deep suspicion that he struggled to meet with total innocence. "He says you persuaded him. Just like that?"
"Well, not quite." Geoffrey suppressed a smirk. He'd watched Henry ride by with Alice's new entourage, and been heartened by what he saw. Never did a man look more entirely content with the world, and Alice shone like a bride. "It took some work to bring him around. But your letter to Alice certainly helped." He grinned. "I won't ask what you wrote."
"Nor should you. But I can tell you anyway. Just that I never saw Henry so utterly destroyed as when he realised she wasn't coming back."
"Was it truth?"
"Of course it was. I'd never tell a lie -- not in such a matter, at least." She corrected herself with a haste that spoke of guilt, and not a little of shame.
"I'm sorry I've asked you to lie for me," Geoffrey said slowly. He'd been so used to tourney dalliance, where such things were commonplace and entirely passed over by any man or woman of experience. But this was a new world, one in which truth mattered a great deal. If he was to remain within it on good terms, he must learn to be a man of his word.
"You didn't ask me to," Maud reasoned -- too generously, in his view. "The decision was mine. And it wouldn't have helped to be honest from the start. Not with Henry. He would have stood between us at once, and never yielded. It was Alice who brought us salvation."
"A grand term," Geoffrey teased, but he felt it too. The dawning of hope for a new life, one of utter contentment, beside the woman he'd coveted since the moment he first saw her. He dared acknowledge that, now: to himself, if not yet to her.
"Resolution, then." Maud smiled at him. Relaxed and happy at last, as he'd longed to see her ever since that first response to his secretive message. With no shadow of fear hanging over her: brighter, and more lustrous, than he'd ever dared to hope.
"There will be obstacles still," Geoffrey said cautiously. "The children will be confused at first, I should think."
"They'll be all excitement," Maud said. "They've spoken of nothing but tournaments since you arrived."
"Really?" Geoffrey grimaced. "That can't have helped my cause with Henry much."
"I don't think it troubled him. Henry likes the notion of the boys learning to fight for sport and not in earnest. As for the girls, he sees the value of them gaining a little Continental polish."
"I'll do my best to oblige."
"But yes." Maud's expression grew pensive. "What they'll think of the two of us... I really don't know. We must begin slowly, and be discreet."
"Of course." Geoffrey caught her hand, and kissed it, and thrilled to the knowledge that he could do so at will, with no fear of causing her grief or harm. "I hope I'm neither bully nor boor. Their happiness comes first. If I can only enjoy the pleasure of your company, I'll be content." He flashed her a grin. "For now. Not forever, I trust. But there's no hurry. I can wait." He'd waited years alre
ady -- a lifetime, or so it felt. A little longer would not harm him.
"I brought your book." Maud held it up to him, triumphant. "We could read from it."
"Did you bring the reader, too?"
Her smile faded. "Well, no. He belongs to Henry."
"I'll have a word." Geoffrey still had plenty of coin laid by. If he'd not mistaken his man, Henry would be persuaded by the prospect of gold. Especially for a reader he'd shown no appreciation of. "The girls must have better entertainment than I've provided for myself. A musician or two, perhaps. Dancing?"
"They've never learned," Maud admitted, a little shamefaced. "Henry prefers games and jests." A faint expression of distaste crossed her features. No jester, Geoffrey vowed. Which was just as well, because he didn't much care for them himself.
"Acrobats?" he suggested. "A jongleur? I don't know what's the fashion these days, not in settled life. I'm afraid the girls will learn nothing but makeshift from me."
"We can start with a reader," Maud said, glowing as she uttered the word 'we'. Geoffrey's heart reflected her pleasure. It bathed him in warmth, this sense that it would be the two of them at last, that they had a home together and a life before them, and that all things would in time be settled to their complete satisfaction.
"Chess, naturally," he pressed on. "Other table games? Draughts?"
"Yes, all those. We can make do." Again that delightful glow. "Nothing requires haste, not now." She drew in a deep breath, half closed her eyes. "I can't tell you how wonderful that is. Not to have to rush to see you, or rush away."
"Especially that." Geoffrey gathered her into his arms. Gently, because they had yet to learn how best to be with each other. Maud settled into his embrace with a contented sigh, and they remained so for a long moment, utterly at peace.
"Though I suppose I'd better go and fetch them," Maud said eventually, her head still nestled against his shoulder. "They'll need some hours to get acquainted with their new home, before we can expect them to sleep."
"But not yet." Geoffrey kissed her hair, then her cheek, let his hands travel over her body. Felt desire rise within him, hot and fierce. Manageable, of course -- he always had himself under control. But powerful, a surge of strength that would carry all before it, if only he dared to let go.
But he didn't. Not yet -- not until she desired it. He'd always fought in his own name, never been in service to any lord. But he'd serve a lady now, and be for her all that she wanted him to be.
"Maybe I can stay a little longer," Maud whispered.
She'd come attended, of course. The accursed woman waited in the hall below, all knowing eyes above the cup of spiced wine. "If you don't fear gossip from your friend."
"Margaret? Not at all. She's very dear to me."
"And married." Geoffrey would stake his life on it. Only a mature woman with knowledge of men would regard him so. That relentless understanding bored through him, even now.
"For decades. And very happy. But she says she'll come across with me, if I want. And I do. The children adore her."
Geoffrey experienced a twinge of doubt. He liked his bachelor life, didn't want this comfortable home of his cluttered up with women. Except for Maud, of course. But reason told him both she and the children must have attendants, helpers and friends, just as he had boys and men in service.
"Any friend of yours is welcome here," he said. And he meant it. But still he found an unexpected flicker of resentment within his heart. Of envy, also. Henry would have a castle all to himself, with only men around him.
Might be worth a visit, now and then. Abet the boys as they scurried to harass their father, and remain to watch the effects.
"What are you smiling at?" Maud pulled away, and subjected Geoffrey to a critical stare. "What amuses you?"
"Nothing at all." He kissed her, and thrilled to her touch. It would be wonderful to have her here. Geoffrey swore he'd learn to love every detail that went with her presence, because that was all he craved.
"The children wish to travel," Maud said softly against his mouth. "To see those tournaments you've talked about."
Geoffrey gave up the attempt at seduction. This would all have to wait, that much was clear. "I've given Henry my word. The children remain here, at this manor."
"Really?" Maud tilted her head. "He told me himself they'd have to be sent away in time."
"Well, yes. Eventually."
"Within a few years -- those were his words."
"Fortunately, I have plenty of acquaintance on the circuit still. And connected to it." Even Guillaume maybe, if the boys proved tough. Somehow, recalling the ruthless glint in Henry's eyes, and the way the boys had measured Geoffrey up when he first arrived, Geoffrey thought they might prove a match even for that legendary fiend.
"I grew up in Flanders," Maud said sadly. "As a child, I mean. Haven't been there for twenty years or more."
Geoffrey squeezed her hand. "We'll go. Eventually. When the time is right. If you want to. As for the children -- well, Henry won't be far away. There will be many opportunities for us to speak together. I think we all want what's best for the children, while they are still young."
"Always," Maud corrected. But she let herself be kissed again, and held him close to her body. Geoffrey savoured the moment, and promised himself many more.
***
It was an odd sensation, Maud reflected, to sit at table in hall with the lord of the manor, and have him not be Henry. She'd eaten here before, of course: she'd sat in this very seat, looked out over this very room. But always as a guest. Never formally acknowledged as lady of the manor, and never in company with the children.
That had been an oversight, perhaps. She ought to have let them visit on less momentous terms before. Yet as Geoffrey pointed out, this sudden and complete change of habitation would be part of their grown-up life, something they must begin to get used to. The girls would marry, perhaps without ever seeing their husband's estate. The boys would take service with a new lord, and never know exactly what awaited them until they got there.
So far they appeared to take things well. They were at ease with Geoffrey, of course, and regarded the whole affair as an exciting adventure. The girls quizzed him now about some detail of the seating arrangements, different from what they were used to in Henry's hall. The boys, uncharacteristically quiet, were demolishing a generous serving of food.
She missed him now. Henry. Which was odd, and more than a little disturbing. She'd been so accustomed to his company, all these many years. It was peculiar not to have him with her, to know he would not come. Nor take her back, not now, it had been clear from the finality of his tone when they parted. No resentment, she was glad of that, no anger or recriminations. A slight touch of sadness, perhaps, but that would pass. Alice would see to it, no doubt. His tone, and his look, had been more like when they married. When he first brought her back, to the place she was to live all the remaining years of her life, and told her this was her home.
And now it wasn't. And while he remained her husband, in law and in fact, she could scarcely think of him in that way again.
Which meant she wasn't a wife any more, not quite.
That was an odd feeling, too. All her adult life, she had been married. To Henry. Who wasn't here.
"Your health." Geoffrey raised his glass to her with consummate courtesy, the way he did at every meal. She was glad of that, it helped to ground her. She'd felt as if she were floating free for a while, drifting, carried on some random breeze. Which might blow her away entirely, unless she was careful.
They'd spoken French so far, but he dropped into Latin now, discussing some point of poetry with the girls. Maud listened with half an ear, but really she was just watching the children, trying to get a sense of how they felt underneath that darling eagerness to please. Curious, she thought, and contented enough. Not distressed, certainly. That would do for a start.
"I thought we might hunt tomorrow," Geoffrey said. "The six of us. A small party. Perhaps inv
ite a neighbour, also. What do you think?"
The boys hooted at that, and cheerfully suggested the wording for a formal invitation to their father. Geoffrey considered their advice gravely, made some slight alterations, called a servant and allowed the eldest to instruct him. The boy glowed with satisfaction at being entrusted with so important a task, and dismissed the heated objections of his younger brother with contempt.
"You'll get your chance when you're older. Right now I'm in charge. So there!"
Maud quelled a smirk. Then continued to watch, entranced, as Geoffrey smoothly recruited each child in turn for some small but significant responsibility. He had a way with children, she thought. And berated herself for a fool. Of course he would have had boys in service, pages and squires, he was no stranger to this age. To little ones, yes, but her children weren't babies any more. They really weren't, for all she longed to hold and cosset them a few years more. Instead they proved themselves on the verge of becoming young men and women, grew up almost before her eyes, as they gained assurance and confidence while the meal progressed.
They would leave her. Soon. She knew that with an aching certainty. They would be off to their own lives, independent, while she remained behind.
With Geoffrey. Who smiled at her now, and made some remark, and watched her with a heat that made her gasp. She'd never viewed him as a passionate man, she'd taken him entirely for the cool urbane surface he presented to the world, but she realised now, almost as a physical touch, the strength of feeling that lay underneath.
She trembled. This she'd never had with Henry, not even when love was at its height. They'd been fond of each other, passionately fond, and the sex had been -- oh yes, that had been good too. She remembered that, with a flurry of warmth that sent a blush to her cheeks and a glow throughout her body. It had been marvellous, once.
But not for a long time. And not like this. She'd never felt the heat of such desire as watched her now, naked and undisguised, though carefully contained behind a mask of calm. Never felt the answer to it in her own body, such a flood of feeling as might carry her away, fling her onto some distant shore to journey deep into a land she'd never known.