“Or else Odin would have the Norns withdraw their protection from him.”
“Did Tyr lose his hand because he did not treat his wife well?”
She smiled. “No, he lost it in an act of great courage, and because of his bravery, the Norns agreed thereafter to protect him. Unless, of course, he did not treat his wife well.”
“And what happened to him?”
Her smile deepened. “Why, nothing. Tyr always treated her well, and the Norns continued to protect him.”
It was a smile she had given him—a very lovely smile, but just a smile, nothing more. Still he felt the effect of it like a deep wound in his breast and had the vague notion that he had been tricked into lowering his sword and shield to receive the thrust of a slender lance. He was momentarily stunned and reinforced himself with a sip of wine. He did not like what had just happened to him, and he would take care that it did not happen again.
He mentally lowered his visor against her. Only then did he dare look at her again. “It is a fascinating tale you tell, my lady,” he said. He glanced over to the corner, now empty, where the three weird women had stood. “The crones are gone,” he said by way of closing the subject, “and so are the Norse gods.” As his gaze traveled over the hall, he saw Cedric of Valmey, who had caught him before the meal and requested a meeting. He added, “There is someone I must see now.”
So saying, he rose from the bench without further excusing himself. As he left her, he had the fanciful thought that he should be ready to fend off a Valkyrie. He looked furtively about him, but saw no signs of warrior women. However, just at the limit of his vision, he perceived a very different image that made no sense to him. It seemed to be a plump baby boy who had wings and could fly. He easily banished this absurd image and continued to stride across the hall toward Valmey, feeling increasingly better the further he was from the table.
Gwyneth watched him walk away. She wasted no time being offended by his abrupt withdrawal. She was rather more interested in evaluating the effect of the risk she had taken by inventing a wife for Tyr—a weak and peaceable wife, no less. Simon of Beresford was blunt, not stupid, and he had not missed her point. She deemed it counterproductive to be overly obvious, and had decided not to declare that Tyr was supposed to be a faithful husband as well as a gentle one. If she had to choose one indignity to protect herself from, it would be from a husband who beat her. She could more easily accept a husband’s roving eye and any natural children that might result, which Beresford seemed to produce with ease.
All in all, Simon of Beresford was a difficult man for her to judge. He was certainly not a companionable and comfortable man, like Senlis, for instance. Nor did he seem to be, as she had first feared, as dismally predictable as Canute. He had frankly surprised her with his reaction to her threat on his life. Canute would have breathed fire or pouted sullenly, but in either case, he would have backed down and grudgingly fulfilled her request for a show of public respect, although he would have later made her pay for that direct challenge. Beresford had managed both to fulfill her request without backing down and to disarm her. The moment he had looked into her eyes and put his lips to her fingers, she had felt her breathlessness overtake her again. She hated to think that her reaction was from fear; she hated to think that it was from anything other than fear.
And she was feeling rather breathless again just now from the cool way he had looked at her upon rising from the bench and leaving her. Perhaps she was offended by his graceless exit, and her fluttery feeling resulted from renewed anger at his boorish behavior.
She did not have more than a moment to examine her feelings, however, for Walter Fortescue was saying into her ear, with avuncular affection, “It’s a splendid match, my dear, and I hope that you are pleased.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she kept track of Beresford’s movements. She saw him meet with Cedric of Valmey, and then walk away with him. She registered that piece of information quickly, then turned and smiled at the elderly courtier. “Yes, splendid,” she agreed modestly. “I am honored by the match.”
“Quite right,” Fortescue said approvingly. “It’s splendid. Why, I was saying as much to Simon this afternoon, just after Adela announced her plans for him. We were all surprised. Oh, yes, and Simon most of all! But I can see that he’s come around to the idea. Oh, yes!”
“I am pleased to know that the match suits him as well as it does me.”
“Well, he’s doubled his lands, as you know,” Fortescue continued, with all the candid eccentricity allowed a man of his age and status, “and was given an earldom into the bargain! I should say he would be pleased! But, then,” he reflected, “Beresford is not one to seek worldly advancement. His pleasure in the match, I am thinking, must come from being allied to such an extraordinarily charming young wife!”
Walter Fortescue seemed likely to continue in this vein for some time. Because maintaining a polite and patently false conversation such as this was as simple for Gwyneth as setting a plain stitch, she was able at the same time to observe the after-dinner mingling in the hall. With the part of her mind not engaged in making conversation, she applied herself to putting the names she had learned earlier to faces. She was exceptionally skilled at interpreting the most minimal gesture, the casual nod, the hasty glance, because her personal wellbeing and that of her immediate retinue had depended so desperately on her ability to read the mood of the men at Castle Norham.
This evening, as she unassumingly scanned the hall and felt its pulse, she quickly determined several friendships and several enmities. She noticed that Johanna, Beresford’s cousin, was flirting prettily with a man Gwyneth recalled as Lancaster. She noticed that Beresford had left the hall. She noticed that Valmey had left, as well, presumably with Beresford.
In fact, little escaped her notice. During her lengthy, inconsequential conversation with Fortescue, Gwyneth also learned that Rosalyn enjoyed an easy relationship with Adela, for she had come to the head table and spoken familiarly with the king’s consort, chatting and laughing. She saw that Valmey returned to the hall, but not Beresford. She watched as Rosalyn left the queen’s side and crossed the hall to intersect, as if by chance, the path of Valmey. Although they did not appear to exchange more than a greeting, she noticed that the baron checked his step slightly to put a word in Lady Chester’s ear, and she noticed that Rosalyn nodded in understanding. Then Adela rose from her chair and headed in Rosalyn’s direction.
It was as if Gwyneth had seen a web of intrigue woven before her very eyes. She did not pause to reflect on the nature of the intrigue, but she knew she had to act swiftly. To Fortescue, she declared her desire to catch a breath of fresh air, and the elderly courtier was kind enough to offer his arm to escort her outside. She promptly accepted.
They rose from their bench and made their way in the direction Adela had taken. Fortunately, her progress through the hall was very slow, due to the fact that this important woman had to stop and speak with so many people. Thus, Gwyneth was able to anticipate her direction by going to the door under whose barrel vault Rosalyn had just passed and which led, as she recalled, to the staircase.
Indeed, she and Fortescue came upon the circular staircase at once. He suggested that they go down for a turn in the pleasance in the courtyard below. Gwyneth had no interest in the garden and cocked her ear to determine whether she should descend or ascend. She knew that below the great hall was the guardroom. The floor directly above held the sleeping chambers. This staircase led as well to the square tower above the chambers. She hesitated then made her choice by instinct.
“But I would far prefer to be high above it all just now, Sir Walter,” she said with a suggestive sigh.
“To the battlements, then, my dear,” he replied chivalrously.
With Fortescue behind her, she held her skirts in one hand and placed the other on the central stone column of the stairs, which fanned out like a snail’s shell to the stairwell wall. At the dormitory floor, she listened, heard
nothing and kept climbing. She arrived at the fourth floor and stood a moment on the landing before deciding whether to mount the adjoining stairs, a straight flight, to the exterior of the castle. She nodded to the sentry at the head of the steps, who regarded them impassively. She wished to ask him if another couple had just come this way, but decided against revealing her motives to Fortescue.
Following her instincts still, she sensed they should go outside. “Here we are, then, Sir Walter,” she said, linking arms with him now that they could walk side by side up the stairs to the battlements.
They walked out into the soft, smoky blue evening. When they walked past the crenels that cut the wall at regular intervals, she could see a long way over the city of London to the outlying fields, plowed straight as arrows pointing to the thick woods beyond.
Around a far corner, she thought she saw the train of Rosalyn’s gown disappear. She tried to quicken Fortescue’s step. Behind her, she heard Adela greet a sentry as she made her way along the battlements. She had no clear idea yet what was happening or what she would do about it, but she knew that she was wise to be here, to protect whatever her interests may be.
They proceeded around the far corner Rosalyn had taken, and she was lucky enough to find an empty corner in which a sentry would stand. She drew Sir Walter into it with her and paused as if to admire the remarkable view of the surrounding countryside afforded by the arrow slit in the thick stone wall.
When she turned back toward the interior battlement, she was witness to a remarkable scene. Ten feet ahead there was a break in the height of the battlement, joined by three steps. Beresford was about fifteen feet away, striding toward the steps, and Rosalyn was moving toward him from the other direction. When she came to the steps, she stumbled artfully. Beresford rushed forward and caught her before she fell, and suddenly he was holding her in a most intimate embrace. Rosalyn lifted her head to Beresford and seemed to invite a kiss.
Gwyneth had but the flash of a second to consider the implications of this little scene. It was certainly possible that Rosalyn was the woman of Beresford’s current interest. Since it was well known that she might soon become a widow, Beresford’s anger at his forced marriage to Gwyneth might thus be given a plausible explanation. But was this an amorous passage-at-arms and did Beresford desire it? Given Rosalyn’s trick, she was inclined to doubt it.
Just then Adela rounded the corner in front of them, to see Rosalyn in Beresford’s arms, and Gwyneth saw Adela’s back become rigid.
“What is the meaning of this, Simon of Beresford?” Adela demanded.
Gwyneth emerged from the shadows, gesturing behind her to Walter Fortescue. “We all of us needed a breath of fresh air, madam,” she explained, as if the two couples had arranged to come together, “and my lady Rosalyn lost her footing on the step. Sire Beresford was so quick as to catch her and so prevent her from turning her ankle.”
Three faces turned toward Gwyneth. The queen’s look of displeasure was replaced by one of relief to see Gwyneth present. Beresford was clearly dumbfounded, and Rosalyn was unable to conceal the malevolent look of a conspirator foiled that sprang out before she smoothed her face into a pleasant mask.
“Why, yes, that is correct, madam,” she confirmed. She moved away from Beresford, who released her immediately. “I lost my footing.”
When Rosalyn turned to look over her shoulder, Gwyneth did not think that she had made an enemy so much as discover that she already had one.
Chapter Six
The next afternoon, Gwyneth was escorted by a litter with several ladies-in-waiting accompanied by two soldiers, through the streets of London to Simon of Beresford’s house. The sun was shining benevolently, and a good night’s sleep had taken the edge off her fear for her future. The colorful journey, the first through the streets near her new home, helped to raise her spirits. She saw craftsmen at their benches, young students in the schools, priests at their devotions, apprentices practicing archery, ladies at their spinning wheels and well-kept public cook shops with their savory meats roasting on outdoor spits. When she passed by the sign of The Swan decorated with its ivy, she was beginning to feel almost cheerful about the prospect of living in such an industrious environment.
Thus, she was not entirely prepared for what was to greet her once she entered Beresford’s home. Passing through the portal and coming upon the central courtyard, she beheld what she initially reckoned to be a legion of men, most lounging about and regarding with interest the drama unfolding in the center of the yard. That drama consisted of vigorous training exercises, in the very center of which was her husband-to-be, and this is what held her initial attention. Then she took in the structural details of the house, blinked in disbelief and looked back at the knights-in -training. Her eyes flitted again to the upper story of the house, moved up to the roof, then down to the gallery in whose shade she stood. She hardly knew where to look next, for she was having great difficulty reconciling two wildly different impressions.
Never had she seen a man more graceful in combat than Simon of Beresford. Never had she seen the house of a nobleman in more graceless disrepair.
In the center of the yard, drenched in brilliant sunshine, Beresford stood with shield and sword engaged, clearly commanding the activity. He seemed to be giving most of his attention to one young man who looked strong and fit but entirely incapable of keeping up. Beresford would stop occasionally to show him a movement and work through the series several times before surprising the young combatant with an unexpected attack. His teaching was methodical and masterful.
Then Gwyneth gazed again, aghast, at the state of the house that surrounded her. The gallery sagged in various places, and slats were missing from the balcony railing like gaping teeth, along with those of the railing of the exposed staircase, which did not look safe to use. The posts holding up the whole were scarred and half were probably rotten. There was no doubt about the rotten state of the shutters of the rooms of the upper story, and each seemed to hang on one hinge. The eaves sagged in sympathy with the gallery, various roof tiles were missing and the courtyard, whose proportions were undoubtedly generous and lovely, was beaten to dust, fine clouds of which drifted over everything. The whole had obviously not been cleaned in years.
Beresford had apparently become disgusted with his pupil, for he knocked his sword out of his hand and called to an older man, an obviously experienced knight, to work through the movements with him. Now Gwyneth saw the full range of Beresford’s skill, and as much as she abhorred the violence of the exercise and of the world that made such exercise necessary, she realized that Beresford’s sword work approached beauty.
She gasped at the decrepitude of the rain barrels off to her left, and was even more outraged by the ragged state of the two unattended boys playing around them. She caught a whiff of something foul emanating from an unseen corner. However, she did not have a moment to investigate what household horror had produced it, for Beresford had been made aware of her arrival by one of his men and had called a momentary halt to the combat. The sound of his commands brought Gwyneth’s head around, and she saw him narrow his eyes against the sun to focus on her in the shade of the gallery. His expression registered recognition, then mild interest in her appearance at his home. He handed his sword and gauntlets to the knight with whom he was sparring, indicated what he wanted the men to do, then gave the signal for everyone to continue with their business.
He strode first to the stone well not far from the rain barrels and poured several quick ladlesful of water over his head, which he shook once. He called to a page to toss him a towel. By the time he arrived at Gwyneth’s side, he had wiped his face dry, but his sun-streaked hair was still spangled by dripping sweat and water. He was incredibly dirty and disreputable, but so thoroughly in his element that Gwyneth judged him, incongruously and to her own amazement, elegant.
“I did not know you were coming,” he said by way of greeting.
She came to her senses and met his hard,
gray eyes. She saw no profit in reminding him that she had informed him last evening of this day’s visit. She swallowed the insult to her pride at his contemptuous welcome and curtsied respectfully. “God save you, sire. Adela recommended that I make myself acquainted with my new home.”
From the look on his face, Gwyneth would have sworn that her words reminded him of something else he had forgotten, namely that she was to become his wife. He recovered enough to say, “I see.” He peered around her at the company in which she was traveling, and frowned. “And for this visit you needed an entire retinue?”
“I could not travel alone through London,” she explained calmly, making a continuing effort to restrain her indignation at this insulting reception, “and was pleased to accept the escort that Adela provided me.”
He grunted then asked, apparently recalling some precept of civility, “Have you had dinner? May I offer you a cup of wine?”
She hastily declined any offer of food or drink, her stomach shrinking from accepting anything from Beresford’s kitchens. But she was mindful of the others of her retinue, whose tastes might be less fastidious, and consulted their wishes. While the requested water from the well was being fetched, she turned back to Beresford and declined, in advance, any further forced gesture of hospitality from him.
“I see that you are engaged in your work, sire,” she said pleasantly, “and can assure you that it is not necessary to interrupt your exercise to show me about. You need only send me your housekeeper and she will attend to me well enough, I am sure.”
Beresford liked the first part of what she said about not interrupting his exercise. He had passed an excellent morning and afternoon in combat and had no desire to stop now. The physical release had been very effective in draining the disaster of the previous day out of his body. It was the second part of what she said about a housekeeper that stumped him.
After he had looked about him and muttered, “Housekeeper,” several times, as if attempting to conjure up a mythical creature, Gwyneth tried to put an end to his puzzlement.
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