She drew a painful gasp of air and shifted her glance back to the great hall. Her eyes rose to roam the magnificent rafters, from which hung bright banners that so thoroughly satisfied the Norman taste for symbolic display. Feeling oppressed, she lowered her eyes to survey the impressive length of the hall and the array of noblemen and ladies who were assembling, here and there, for the evening meal and diversions. She attempted to guess whether any man among them was the one who had been chosen to provide her “comfort in grief,” as Adela had phrased it.
She picked out a short one, a fat one, an old one, an absurdly young one. They were all possibilities, so far as she knew, for she had been given no information about her husband-to-be, not even his name. She saw a cocky one parading, a tall one gossiping and a clever one, resplendently dressed, watching her through narrowed eyes. She quickly shifted her gaze. It fell on a pair of knights who had just entered the hall and who were standing off to the side, behind the clever one.
She noticed first the handsome one of the pair. He was well formed, pleasing to the eye and had a charming, easy-going smile that he was just then bending on his companion. Interesting. What luck if he were the chosen bridegroom. She knew just how to handle such a type.
Then she looked at his companion and her heart convulsed spasmodically. By Odin! she swore to herself, invoking a god of her father’s father. Indeed, the man was like one of Odin’s warriors descended directly from Asgard, with sledgehammers for arms, chips of steel for eyes, molten bronze for hair. His body must have been chopped from the side of a granite mountain, and his features had been fashioned with no other goal than to inspire fear on the battlefield. It was a face only the goddess Freya could love.
Gwyneth glanced away and quickly reassured herself that of the several dozen men in the hall at the moment, it was unlikely that Odin’s earthly warrior was the chosen one. Fortunately, her thoughts were given a new direction when Lady Chester returned to the hall and to her side. Gwyneth saw that her gentle jailer was wearing an expression that gave her winter beauty a crafty cast.
“Well, now,” Rosalyn said, “I have just heard that the meeting in the council room has ended and that your chosen husband is Simon of Beresford.”
“What should I know about him?”
Rosalyn’s slim brows arched. “That he is a most unexpected choice! And that he is a man not known for softness. But more to the point, you should know that he is a widower with three sons.” She calculated. “Five years ago already it must have been that poor Roesia came to her untimely end.”
“How,” Gwyneth forced herself to ask, “did she die?” Her voice wavered, a little pitifully.
Rosalyn laughed. “Did Beresford beat her to death, do you mean? Oh, no! Roesia killed herself, more or less, in a foolish riding accident. But given everything, I am sure that he would have been capable of killing her on any number of interesting occasions!”
At this bad news, the tightness in Gwyneth’s throat increased still more. “Do you see him here, then?” she managed to rasp. “That is, you do know what he looks like, do you not?”
Rosalyn’s pretty red lips curved upward. “Every woman—and man—at court knows Beresford,” she said, somewhat slyly, Gwyneth thought. Rosalyn’s black eyes flashed around the room. Then she laughed musically. “Ah, yes! Look straight across. There he is with Geoffrey of Senlis.”
Gwyneth glanced in the direction Lady Rosalyn indicated with a tiny toss of her head. Feeling a strong jolt to the nerves, she saw the two knights move forward, the handsome one accompanied by Odin’s warrior. She dropped her eyes. Her heartbeat thumped. Her stomach lurched.
“They’ve seen us now, my dear,” Rosalyn purred, “and they’re coming our way.”
Which of the two men was Senlis, Gwyneth wondered wildly, and which one Beresford? She did not have long to consider the question, for presently the two men stepped into the circle of her downcast vision, and she saw them from the chest downward. The one on the left was standing at his ease, his tunic a fashionable mulberry kerseymere, his chausses and cross-garters neat, his shoes fine and clean. The other stood stock-still before her, as rooted and strong as the Norse world tree, Yggdrasil. The cerulean of his tunic was beaten with dust and dirt and age to a disreputable bruise blue. His chausses and shoes were in such a battered condition that they did not further disgrace his tunic by negative comparison.
The man on the left spoke, and Gwyneth heard his words with a wave of horrified fatalism. “Simon of Beresford,” he said, “I have the honor of presenting you to Gwyneth of Northumbria.”
Gwyneth felt her throat close completely. She fought for breath.
****
Upon leaving the council room, Senlis had bent his courtly graces to filing the rougher edges off his friend’s demeanor before they arrived at the great hall. The going was not easy, and Senlis was already imagining diplomatic measures to take should the unlucky wife-to-be run screaming from the room at her first encounter with Simon of Beresford in ferociously bad humor.
Beresford only half listened to his friend’s cajoling. It was not so much the marriage itself that vexed him but the reason why he had been chosen as the bridegroom. Anger filled his chest to such a degree that at one point he exploded into Senlis’s skillful discourse with a bitter, “Sons!“ His voice was harsh as he strode angrily beside Senlis. “I’m to produce sons!”
Senlis’s brows quirked expressively. “Is it such a difficult assignment, then, Simon?” he inquired with mock innocence, matching his friend stride for stride. When Beresford’s scowl deepened, he added, “A man always needs sons.”
Beresford cast a fierce eye at Senlis. He growled, “I’m satisfied with the sons I already have and with the set of my life such as it is!”
“You’ll not have to give up Ermina, if that’s what you mean.”
Beresford had difficulty at the moment recalling the pretty, buxom serving wench, who was, in any case, irrelevant to the conversation. “I mean,” he said savagely, “that it’s one thing for a king to command a man to raise his sword in honor on the battlefield, and another for him to summon a man to—” Here he described in extremely rude terms exactly what he would raise to produce the commanded sons. He continued inventively in this vein at some length.
With a half laugh at the vivid descriptions, Senlis at last interrupted with the observation that, “We’re almost at the hall, Simon. I have no power to cool your temper, but I’ll ask you kindly to control your tongue. Adela will not thank me if you cause a riot with your uncourtly language.”
Beresford uttered an inarticulate sound of disgust deep in his throat.
“That’s better!” Senlis encouraged. “And here we are. Now, smile, Simon! No? Then glower less gloomily, if you please, so that your wife-to-be won’t search in vain for something to like.”
The moment they stepped into the great hall, Beresford felt insensibly better, in part because he had had a chance to vent his anger so thoroughly, but also because the polished planking beneath his feet and the high beams soaring above his head never failed to impress him with regal majesty and to remind him of his knightly duty. Although his present duty was unusual and he was obeying only grudgingly, he came a fraction closer to accepting it.
“And Lady Chester?” he inquired sardonically, glancing about the room. “Which one is she?”
“I don’t see her,” Senlis said slowly. He craned his neck, looking this way and that. “Could she have gone—ah, no, there she is, walking toward the… Well!”
“Well, what?” Beresford asked sullenly.
“Look, my dear friend,” Senlis said with a strange note in his voice, “toward the fireplace across the room.”
Beresford looked over toward one end of the fireplace. His lip curled. “And is Lady Chester the fat one,” he asked with grim satisfaction, “or the wizened one?”
Senlis followed the line of his friend’s gaze. He shook his head and smiled. “Neither, Simon,” he said. “Look to the other sid
e. You see the woman standing? The dark beauty?”
Beresford considered the dark beauty. “I see her,” he said indifferently.
“That,” Senlis said, “is Lady Chester. My guess is the woman standing next to her is Gwyneth of Northumbria.”
Beresford shifted his gaze from the dark beauty to the young woman standing beside her. Her face was in profile, for she was speaking to Rosalyn. His eyes widened, and he felt a powerful emotion pass through his body like a lightning bolt. He had never experienced such an emotion and so could not identify it. It was odd and unexpected, certainly. It was strong, too. Its unfamiliarity was strangely tantalizing, but it had a distinctly unpleasant twist to it, like a wrenching of internal organs.
He was looking at the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. Her profile was delicate, with a certain calm strength, her nose straight and finely boned, her lips full. Her skin was a glowing alabaster that, in defiance of nature, was not mineral but floral in quality. Her hair looked like thick, liquid gold spun into filigree braids around her head and caught and curved at the nape by one of those spidery nets webbed with pearls whose correct name he would never know. Her back was straight, her womanly curves were evident and her hands were crossed in front of her. Her long, white fingers were lightly laced.
“Close your mouth, my man,” Senlis whispered into his ear.
Beresford mechanically clamped shut the mouth he had not known was open. At that moment, the woman turned her gaze to him. Before she lowered her eyes modestly, he caught a luminous flash of violet.
“Rosalyn is beckoning us forward, Simon,” Senlis said. “Come and meet your bride.”
Beresford betrayed no reluctance in crossing the hall at Senlis’s side. It felt strange, though, this simple walk across the room. He would have felt more comfortable galloping across the tourney field, his lance raised and the raw animal power of his charger working beneath him. He would have known just what to do: strike his enemy down and prepare for the next encounter. In the current case, no similarly clear objective presented itself to him, but from force of habit his stride conveyed confidence and strength of purpose.
When they were standing before the two women, Senlis said, “Simon of Beresford, I have the honor of presenting you to Gwyneth of Northumbria.”
Rosalyn returned the courtesy by performing the sleekest of introductions, “Gwyneth of Northumbria. Simon of Beresford.”
Beresford mumbled something, he did not know what. Gwyneth of Northumbria said nothing. Beresford noticed that she was taller than he had expected, for the top of her head came to his chin. He glanced down at her briefly, long enough to see that her eyes were still downcast. Feeling as though he were walking into a fire as a test of courage, he stretched out his hand, and she laid hers in it. His fingers closed over hers, and he was almost surprised that he was not burned by her touch. Her hand was cool, even a little cold. He bowed over it then let it go gracelessly. He had no idea what to say, if anything.
Rosalyn filled the gap. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Sir Simon. The last time we were together was at the feast of Ascension.”
If it had been, Beresford did not recall it. A stiff silence threatened to wrinkle the air before Senlis smoothed it over with the bland comment, “I understand that Gwyneth comes to us from the north.”
When no response was immediately forthcoming from Gwyneth, Beresford dared to look at her straight on, albeit cautiously. It was left to Rosalyn to supply the account of Gwyneth’s journey southward. For the next few moments, Rosalyn and Senlis bandied words, as if it were expected that they should carry the conversation.
During this exchange, Beresford thought he had discovered the flaw in the jewel of his wife-to-be. He relaxed and broke into the banter with the blunt statement, “She is mute.”
Rosalyn broke off, her pretty lips parted with a kind of scandalized delight. “Ah, but no, Sir Simon, she is not.”
“I see. Does she lack Norman?” He looked down at Gwyneth and saw two spots of pink flushing her alabaster cheeks.
“No,” Lady Rosalyn answered.
“Is it English that she prefers?”
“I must suppose that she does.”
“Have you heard her speak in any language?”
“Why, yes, of course.”
“What, then?” he demanded abruptly. “Is she simple?”
Chapter Three
Gwyneth’s anger cleared the constriction in her throat, although she almost choked on that healthy anger as she drew her breath to speak.
“If I have said nothing thus far, sire,” she said in a low, clear voice, “it is because I have found that men—in particular husbands—are not partial to women’s chatter. In the present circumstance, I sought to please with silence over speech.”
Senlis clapped a friendly hand on Beresford’s shoulder. “There, you see,” he remarked jovially, “she speaks! And very nicely, too!”
“Yes, I speak,” Gwyneth said, looking first at Senlis then bravely at Beresford. Her heart quailed slightly at the sight of him, but she strove to keep her gaze steady. “Perhaps it will benefit you were I to tell you about myself, so that you will understand when I miss a phrase in Norman or fail to find the correct word.”
“But, of course!” and “Please do!” Rosalyn and Senlis encouraged. Beresford grunted.
“My father’s father was a Dane,” she explained, struggling against panic, “so I learned Danish very young, although I grew up speaking English. My late husband, Canute of Northumbria, and his men spoke English, as well, although it was mixed with Danish. The Normans have not conquered northern tongues as thoroughly as they have northern land, so I have learned your language mostly through tutors, but with little practical use. I pray you to excuse any errors I make.”
She fell silent again, feeling breathless, nearly exhausted. She did not, however, lower her eyes, but kept them raised and alert.
Rosalyn smiled. “That certainly explains the matter, does it not? Norman, Danish and English. Very versatile.”
Gwyneth drew a painful breath. “Only necessary,” she said.
Senlis glanced at Beresford. It seemed he needed to step in again to keep the conversation afloat. “You will not have much call for Danish at Stephen’s court, but you will find English of great use, especially in Simon’s household! Now, as for excusing your errors in Norman, my lady,” he said with a gallant bow, “I am afraid you have given us none to excuse!” He referred this point to Beresford. “Has she, Simon?”
Beresford said nothing until Senlis’s elbow nudged him into biting off a brief “No.”
Senlis smiled charmingly. “Our Beresford is given to silences just as you are, my lady,” he informed her affably, “and when he breaks silence, he is a plain-speaking man.”
“So I have perceived,” she replied.
“Which is, of course, what we all like best about him,” Rosalyn offered, insinuating her fingers through Beresford’s arm.
“Indeed,” Gwyneth said, looking at Lady Chester, who did not immediately release her hold on Beresford. She moved her eyes on to Senlis then to Beresford. “Plain speaking is a virtue, for then one cannot complain that one has misunderstood you.”
Senlis found it difficult to know whether this remark was naive or extremely clever. Either way, he felt it was safe to say, “Well, well, Simon, you are most fortunate, I think, for you are sure to find your lady’s speeches as delightful as her silences.”
This time a true silence fell, for Gwyneth’s eyes had locked with Beresford’s. She wished she could breathe better. She wished she could look away from the chips of slate that were his eyes, but she could not, and she saw something unwavering in their depths that caused her to blink first. She hated herself for her weakness at such an important moment and felt her color rise again.
Senlis and Rosalyn were heard to murmur politely, “I have just seen a friend with whom I must speak,” and “I promised Warenne that I would meet him soon.”
Beresf
ord flicked a glance at their retreating figures much as he would regard disloyal troops abandoning the fray. He was silent a moment longer before ordering gruffly, “We shall walk!”
Gwyneth wondered if he would command a dog to heel in just such a voice or if he would use a gentler tone.
It had been her habit and, in fact, her perverse pleasure never to obey immediately one of Canute’s dictates. She had always enjoyed that fraction of a moment when she made her husband think that she was considering his order, as if it were in her power to disobey him, as if the choice to follow his command was a generous act on her part. That moment of artful hesitation had always infuriated the bully-beast Canute, and his powerless fury had always satisfied her. But she did not think that a similar hesitation would serve her purposes now.
She put her fingertips lightly on Beresford’s outstretched wrist and nodded agreement. They moved forward, and she looked up at him. She did not know that she was half expecting an apology from him for his initial insult to her intelligence until he foiled that expectation by saying abruptly, “Tell me about the battle.”
“About the battle, sire?”
“The one that took your husband’s life.”
Gwyneth blinked. The man was a brute. She cleared her throat. “A siege was laid to Castle Norham during a fortnight or more.” Her voice was low and dispassionate. “I believe that Canute and his men made some tactical blunders. They misjudged the number of the enemy—begging your pardon,” she said with a deferential nod, “and did not properly defend the part of a curtain wall damaged by a large petrary. Neither did they adequately prepare to counter the Greek fire.” Her free hand fluttered once in a futile gesture. “When the castle was stormed, the capture was successful.”
“Given your inexperience with the Norman tongue,” he observed, “you have a remarkably accurate military vocabulary.”
Gwyneth smiled faintly. “I had much time, during the long journey to London, to hear repeated descriptions of the Norman success, which were recounted, of course, in Norman.”
Simon’s Lady Page 3