Simon’s Lady

by Julie Tetel Andresen

  He was never to finish that sentence, for from the main courtyard below came the noisy sounds of arrival and a shout announcing that the master had returned home.

  Gwyneth stood up when she heard Benedict and Gilbert crying, “Papa! Papa!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Beresford passed through the portal to the house, took one look at the courtyard and realized that he had made a mistake. He turned around and was about to exit again, and to command his men to do the same, when John the Porter asked him if he had left something out in the street.

  Beresford fixed his regard on a man he had known for over fifteen years and wondered why his porter should be at someone else’s house. The answer that came to him was so surprising that he was rendered speechless for a moment and could mumble only, “No, no, I’m all right.” He turned back around and gave the courtyard a long, hard look.

  He was in his house, there was no mistaking this now that his eye subtracted the scaffolding and the boxes of tools and the sawhorses and the swarming workmen finishing their tasks for the day. He recognized it, but it looked different here and there, as if the house breathed a different air. He thought it a shame that such a well-proportioned courtyard was being occupied by craftsmen who could do their work anywhere else in town, as far as he was concerned. Such a fine courtyard deserved to be occupied by a full complement of knights-in-training.

  He did not dwell on the waste of the space, for his attention was claimed by two high-pitched voices exclaiming, “Papa! Papa!” He turned toward the voices and had the extremely curious notion that a few neighborhood girls had wandered into his house and had mistaken him for their father. At second glance, his eyes widened considerably, and when two small bodies flung themselves at him, he caught them automatically. He was relieved to discover that there was nothing girlish about the way his sons felt in his arms.

  After greetings and gestures of affection, he set Benedict and Gilbert on the ground again and looked down into their bright, scrubbed faces. He flicked fatherly fingers at their perfectly clipped hair, now shiny clean. He asked humorously, “What happened to you, my pretty fellows?”

  They were happy to tell him. “If s all her fault!” “It was Gwyneth!” “She made us take a bath!“ “She wouldn’t let us exercise in the courtyard!” “She spoiled our fun with the bucket and pulley ropes!” “She won’t let us belch at the table!” “Or pick our noses!” “It’s all her fault!” “Our beds are nice, though!” “Oh, yes, but the rest of it is Gwyneth’s fault!”

  Their wicked stepmother, who nevertheless gave them angel-sweet bedtime kisses, had descended the staircase and was crossing the courtyard. Beresford looked up at her. It was extraordinary, his reaction to the mere sight of her. He felt his eyes see. He felt his lungs fill. He felt his heart come to rest in the place where it belonged. He felt his wanderings come to their natural, desired end.

  During the past several days, he had admitted to himself that he was eager to see her again, but he had not realized until setting eyes on her now that he had lived to see her again. She was more beautiful than he had remembered. Something about the way the golden braids encircled her head reminded him of the first time he had seen her, but he could not have said why. In the soft light of the late afternoon, her skin was flushed pale rose. Or, perhaps, her color was not affected by the slating sun but by some emotion she felt upon seeing him again, too? He could not discover the answer in her eyes, however, for she had lowered them out of modesty or respect to him.

  Recalling her flush of anger at him upon his departure, when he had put her at such a delicious disadvantage, he did not think that she acted out of respect for him. Recalling the way her body had met his on their wedding night, he did not think that she acted out of modesty. He hoped she did not, in any case. No respect. No modesty. Not tonight. Only desire.

  Which flashed over his skin like a warm summer’s breeze, just from watching her come toward him. He saw in his mind’s eye what lay beneath the fabric of her light bliaut, which molded itself to her curves as she walked calmly toward him. He could not control his reaction and was glad he did not have to. He could claim his husbandly rights now, in her chamber, for they were newlyweds, recently separated. He did not care if his men knew what was on his mind—or the porter, or the craftsmen, or the rest of his household or the neighborhood or even his children, for that matter. He was in his home. He was master, and she was his mistress.

  Then she was before him, curtsying slightly, almost kneeling, and he was smiling in anticipation. He took the hand she extended and drew her to her feet.

  “Good eventide, my lady,” he said, permitting himself the license of kissing the back of her hand.

  “Good eventide, my lord,” she said then cleared her throat. “I am happy to see you again.”

  “Are you?”

  She looked up at him then, and he was happy to lose himself in the violet of her eyes. “Yes, of course,” she said, “and I have been anticipating your return for several days now.”

  He released her hand and bowed slightly. “You have wrought changes, I perceive,”

  “Yes, I have been busy in your absence,” she said. “May I point them out to you now?”

  He shook his head. “Not now,” he said. The look in his eyes was unmistakable.

  The color in her cheeks deepened, he was pleased to note, “No, indeed, you are right. Now would not be a good time, since we have a visitor and the evening meal will be ready to serve soon. I am sure that you and your men are sharp-set. Shall we withdraw to the solar, sire, where I might offer you a cup of wine after your journey?”

  He was trying to remember where the solar was and why anyone would go there. He caught the word visitor and was vaguely displeased, but the offer of food and wine sounded good, and as ready a substitute as any for what he really wanted. He said, “Good enough,” then quickly sorted out what his attendants were to do with his horse, his gear and that of his men.

  Gwyneth turned to walk back across the courtyard, and he fell into step beside her. Benedict and Gilbert tumbled along behind, eager to be with their father, while Gwyneth commented on some of the improvements being made to the house. Beresford was content to listen to her lilting voice.

  They came to the stairs, and he ushered her before him. Out of habit he was going to guide her past the faulty third step, when he grasped the railing. To his surprise, the wood did not give way to his touch, but was solid under his palm. He wiggled the railing, testing it for strength.

  Gwyneth looked down at his hand upon the banister, then over her shoulder at him. Her brows rose, inviting comment.

  “Hmm,” he said.

  She smiled at him, somewhat provocatively, he thought. Then she turned and lifted her skirts slightly so that she could proceed up the stairs. When she had put her foot resolutely down on the third step, she turned back to him and said, “Of course, you have the local carpenters to thank for much of the work on the staircase. Still and all, it must be acknowledged that Robert of the Armory did his share.”

  Beresford blinked. His master of the armory at work on a staircase? As if conjured up by mention of his name, Robert emerged from the back courtyard, hammer in hand, and exclaimed, “Ah, sire! I heard that you had returned!”

  “Robert.” Beresford ran his eye over his man’s leather apron. His heavy brow lowered to see what he was holding in his hand.

  Without further warning than a gleam in his eye, Robert tossed the hammer across a good ten feet of space, and Beresford caught it smartly in his left hand.

  “See for yourself how it feels,” Robert recommended.

  Beresford did so, flexing his supple wrist, flipping the instrument over several times and catching it deftly. He tapped it against the wood of the stairs, listening to the ring of it, then tossed it back to Robert, shaking his head as he did so. He proceeded to climb the stairs behind Gwyneth. He caught up with her midflight but stayed a few steps below so that her hips were at eye level.

&n
bsp; “Do you mean to ban all training exercises from the courtyard from now on, madam?” he inquired of her back.

  “Of course not, sire,” she replied sweetly without turning around. “I have no reason, and no authority, to interfere with your management of the household.”

  Of course, he had had no intention of allowing her to effect such a ban, but it amused him greatly to hear her defer authority to him, what with the signs of her authority all around them. He took two steps at once and came up right behind her. He put a hand on her hip, the one toward the interior of the staircase, so that no one watching could see his gesture. She paused slightly, but did not stop, when his hand moved up her waist and under her arm, where his fingers could close around her breast. He put his lips to the back of her neck and smelled her lavender freshness. He experienced an unexpected lift to be a man returning to wife and home. The pleasure was at the same time simple and extravagant.

  They arrived at the top of the stairs, where Beresford’s pleasure was immediately doused. He had come up behind Gwyneth and placed an arm over her shoulder casually, possessively, when he chanced to look across the balcony to see their visitor. It was none other than Geoffrey of Senlis.

  His blood ran cold, then hot, then cold again. He did not like that Geoffrey of Senlis had come to see Gwyneth during his absence. He did not like that Gwyneth looked unusually beautiful this evening. Most of all, he did not like his reaction to a man he had long loved and trusted as a friend.

  “Geoffrey,” he said by way of greeting as he and Gwyneth walked around the balcony. He did not raise his voice, but he knew that it carried the distance.

  Senlis bowed, and Beresford longed to wipe the expression—was it a smirk?—off his face.

  Beresford dropped his arm from Gwyneth’s shoulder when they were at the door to the solar. Now he remembered what the room had been previously used for. She went in ahead of him, saying that he should come in and sit down and she would serve him. He did not immediately obey that gentle command, but stopped instead at the threshold where Senlis was standing. He eyed his friend pointedly.

  When Gwyneth was at the sideboard, Senlis said in a very low voice, “I have come to your house at Adela’s orders, Simon.”

  Beresford’s expression hinted at incredulity.

  “To glean reports from the castle guards Adela assigned to her,” Senlis continued.

  Beresford had forgotten about the guards he had told Adela to have keep watch over Gwyneth. He did not think that his wife had much interest in politics or anything to do with plots, but he had used the rumor to make sure that Gwyneth would be safe in his home and well protected while he was away.

  “Ah, yes, the guards,” he said, looking down at the courtyard below. “By the by, where are they?”

  “I believe that Gwyneth has put them to work,” Senlis said. He nodded toward the well. “I recognize one or two of them hauling water.”

  Beresford’s brows quirked. He was inclined to smile, but did not. “And what will you be reporting to Adela about my wife’s political activities?”

  “Nothing,” Senlis replied. “However, I will be able to report that your house is very clean.”

  Beresford knew the polite smile on his handsome friend’s face well enough, and he was not in the mood to be charmed by him. “Why are you telling me this, Geoffrey?” he demanded flatly.

  Senlis bowed again, with a hint of self-mockery. “Merely a desire to save my skin, my friend.”

  Beresford laughed. “And such pretty skin it is, too.”

  “I know,” Senlis said. “Shall I tell you now of my success this week past with the fair maiden at court who has caught my interest and perhaps my heart?”

  Gwyneth was approaching them with a cup of wine in her hand and gesturing them to the table, upon which a broad white cloth had been laid.

  Beresford said to Senlis, “No, you can tell me over supper.”

  “Oh, am I staying?” Senlis asked smoothly.

  “Now that you are here,” Beresford invited ungraciously.

  Senlis bowed a third time. “You are too good. And this will give me an opportunity to hear how matters stand with Henry’s forces in the west.”

  “You could return to the Tower and hear it all there, for I stopped to give my complete reports to the king before coming here.”

  “But I would so much rather hear it from you,” Senlis said, adding slyly, “now that I am here.”

  Gwyneth had heard this last exchange. She said, “You are most welcome to say and sup with us, Sire Senlis.” As the three walked toward the table, she continued, “Although our household is not yet ready for official entertaining, I believe we need not stand on ceremony with you. I would be pleased if you would join us, but be prepared for a meal that is quite plain.”

  So it was decided. The topic of Geoffrey of Senlis’s new, and perhaps fictitious, ladylove was not to arise during the meal, as Beresford had suggested. First, Beresford had to accustom himself to the mealtime ritual—that is, reaccustom himself to it, for he only distantly recalled such a sequence of events from years past. The blowing of the horn to announce the supper seemed familiar, as did the passing of the napkins and the basins for washing hands. It reminded him of the high formality of the great hall at the Tower. It vexed him to be wasting time with all the fussiness when he had better things to do, but he enjoyed watching Gwyneth command the proceedings. The sight of her must have mellowed him enough to find a further, rather tender enjoyment in the fact that, since his household kept no clergyman, the youngest member of the family, namely Gilbert, said the grace.

  The food was good, too, when he finally got a chance to taste it. With Gwyneth on his left, and with Senlis to the left of her, Beresford’s attention was, at the beginning of the meal, focused less on the food and more on the flow of conversation, the looks and the gestures that were exchanged between his wife and his friend. Even his very attentive eye detected on Gwyneth’s part not the slightest hint of anything more than friendliness toward Senlis. As for Senlis, whose eye he caught more than once, the handsome courtier was a genial companion, but nothing more. He included Beresford in all his conversational gambits, and Beresford responded to an opening or ignored it, as the spirit moved him.

  After the openers, Beresford chose to ignore the conversation and pay attention to the food. Gwyneth offered excuses, for no reason known to Beresford, for the lack of a brewet as the first course. She was serving instead, she said, a porray. Beresford had always liked the leek soup with chitterlings and ham cooked in milk, and thought what was served him a particularly tasty version.

  The second course was a civet of hare, which he liked even better, although Gwyneth made deprecatory noises about the dish lacking spices. To this, Senlis made some rather elaborate remarks about the subtlety of the flavors, approved of some method or other she had devised of grilling the meat and praised the onions. Beresford said that he liked his food plain but would be glad for some pepper. As for the other spices, he stated a preference for dill on fish but was just as happy when it was dressed with sorrel.

  When the food was settling in his stomach, and all was being washed down with wine from the earthenware jug on the table, Beresford began to think this not a bad arrangement at all. The room was pleasant, and his eye, when it did not stray to his wife, was drawn to the bright and beautiful windowpanes, half-opened to let in the fresh breezes and the softening light and the city sounds from the street below. He felt a certain contentment to be in the room, surrounded by family and household, seeing his retainers fumble through the routines they did not know well.

  He also had time to gauge his competition in Geoffrey of Senlis. For the first time, he discovered a decided advantage to being the husband. He was in command of the essential territory and did not have to fight anyone for it. He needed merely to remain in possession. The novelty of the situation appealed to him.

  The meal proceeded pleasantly, the talk drifting this way and that, sometimes light and go
ssipy, sometimes domestic and informative. The topic of the tournament was raised and kept aloft for some time.

  Senlis imparted the most delicious court news that a mysterious knight had entered the lists for the Saint Barnabas Day tourney. No one knew his real name or where he came from, but he was rumored to be the strongest man to have ever entered the lists. Adela was, reportedly, the only one to know who he was.

  Beresford asked how, since no one knew the knight’s name or country, it could be known that he was the strongest. Senlis had no answer to that. Beresford dismissed the topic with a smile compounded of complacency and menace and the words, “Then the matter of who is strongest will be decided soon enough in the usual manner—on the field of contest.” He added reflectively, “Or perhaps his squires—they exist, I suppose—can confirm reports of his strength.”

  Senlis answered, “The Unknown will have squires assigned to him on the day of the tournament, so Adela has ruled.” He wished to turn the topic to good account, so he added, “But speaking of squires, your wife and I were discussing them just before you arrived.”

  Beresford smiled indulgently. He recalled the topic from their wedding day, when he had been charmed and amused by Gwyneth’s game attempt to meet him on masculine terms. It had given his desire for her a compelling, intriguing dimension, something more than the usual, impersonal desire for a woman. “She is knowledgeable about tournament regulations,” he said, glancing at Gwyneth. He was pleased to see faint color scribble her cheeks.

  “She knows the names of your squires,” Senlis said, “and observed that one of mine has the same name as yours.”

  Beresford felt smug. “That must be Breteuil,” he said, exaggerating the vowel sounds that were so difficult for Gwyneth to pronounce.

  Gwyneth met his eye and accepted his implied challenge. “Breteuil,” she repeated, matching the sounds closely enough.

  Vaguely aware of the muted spark between his host and hostess, Senlis said, inadvertently playing into Gwyneth’s hands, “Yes, and I was just about to tell her the names of the other knights who had engaged squires from the same family.”