Simon’s Lady

by Julie Tetel Andresen

  ****

  Later, when she awoke to gray gloom and stretched, he was awake as well and moved with her and under her, with intention.

  ****

  She lazed at length, wishing to push back the faint light of dawn squeezing in and around the cracks in the door and shutters of her bedchamber. She must have moaned in protest, for the next moment a broad hand came down lightly, but with purpose, on her bare backside.

  He said, “Enough of this. The day has come, and I’ve work to do.”

  “I’m not stopping you,” she retorted, too smart in her half-sleeping state. She rolled over, trying to recapture full slumber, and in so doing, rolled back into his arms. She felt his erection next to her thigh, and she shot up to a sitting position.

  “You’re not stopping me?” he queried. He was not in the least apologetic about his state, “Remember that I am the one who announced the day and our work.” He moved against her. “Consider this a promise. For later. You see. this morning I’m charged to take the useless castle guards back to the Tower first thing.”

  With such a good dawning to the day, Gwyneth would have never predicted that it was to end in disaster.

  The household came to life. At prime the fast was broken with bread and broth. By the terce the courtyard hummed with the activity of craftsmen, and Beresford had left with the castle guards for the day, which he would spend, presumably, at the Tower, in preparation for the tournament on the morrow. Thoughts of the tourney reminded her of Beresford’s squires and Valmey’s potential for treachery. She decided that at supper this evening she would relate to Beresford the conversation she had overheard between Valmey and Rosalyn, letting him make of it what he could.

  Sometime during the morning activity, Gwyneth received a most unexpected visitor. She was busy in a far corner of the main courtyard, dividing her attention between the carpenters on the scaffolding and the plasterers who were raising buckets of water to the balcony. She was also attempting to involve Benedict and Gilbert in the work, while keeping them safe. Two buckets of water were just being raised when one of her serving women claimed her attention and informed her that a man had come to see her. By the tone of the woman’s voice, Gwyneth did not think her visitor to be a routine tradesman come with his wares.

  Walking toward the shadows of the gallery where the man was waiting, Gwyneth wondered with a prick of anxiety whether it might be Geoffrey of Senlis again. Or perhaps, even worse, Cedric of Valmey. It would be just like that rat to come to her house, knowing that Beresford was away and occupied for the day.

  But it was neither Senlis nor Valmey, nor anyone with anything to do with the court of King Stephen or even with the town of London. When she was close enough to discern the features of the man in the shadows, Gwyneth could hardly believe her eyes or contain her amazement.

  “Gunnar? Gunnar Erickson? Is that you?” She spoke without thinking in Danish.

  “It is, Gwyneth Andresdaughter,” the man returned in the same language, stepping from the shadows and into the bright sunshine.

  Gunnar Erickson, big and blond and blue-eyed, was all that was familiar to her, and she should have been happier to see him, this link to her past. He had been the one man from her father’s employ who had gone with her to Castle Norham, as her guard and protector. He had been her father’s brute, and under close supervision from her father, his volatile temper had been governed. At Castle Norham, he had had no similar check on his temper, since his lord and master there had no control over his own. Her father’s brute had never harmed her at Castle Norham, but neither had he ever protected her from Canute, and she had witnessed more than once the terrifying lengths to which his temper could take him. In the past five years, she had learned to fear Gunnar Erickson.

  Thus she was not wholly pleased by his presence in her new and so-far-safe household. She was justifiably puzzled to see him, as well, and even somewhat disturbed. Masking all of that in a flash, she smiled and clasped his forearms in greeting. “But what a welcome visit! Allow me first to recover from the great surprise of seeing you alive, and then I will ask you what you are doing here in London and at my door!”

  Gunnar answered that, in the bloody confusion of the final hours of the siege, Gwyneth could not have known that he had not been killed by the Normans but had been taken prisoner.

  “Which you are no longer?” Gwyneth ventured.

  “They let me go after a few days.” He lifted his broad hands to signify a fatalistic acceptance of the incomprehensibility of Norman ways. “There were so few of us left, and the Norman pigs must have thought us harmless enough or, at least, not important enough to feed.”

  Gwyneth felt uneasy about this explanation, but did not openly question it. Instead she asked, “Why did you come to London, of all places?”

  “I was already halfway here when I was let go.”

  “Yes, but this is the center of support for King Stephen. Why did you not stay in Northumbria—go to York, for instance, where you might remain among the supporters of Duke Henry?”

  “After the wreck of Castle Norham, I thought there was little hope for Duke Henry.”

  Gwyneth’s unease grew. She suddenly saw dangers everywhere, but could not say why or what form the dangers took. She had to ask, “But how on earth did you find me here?”

  The brute’s smile crinkled his face hideously. “Now, Gwyneth Andresdaughter, that was as easy as walking into the meanest tavern and hearing the news of a Norman lord marrying a Saxon beauty from Northumbria.”

  Gwyneth relaxed a little. Of course, the marriage of Simon of Beresford to Gwyneth of Northumbria was newsworthy enough to have been bruited about town, and certainly Beresford’s house would have been known to anyone Gunnar chanced to ask. She let out the breath she had not realized she was holding and said, “But what a lamentable hostess you find me, Gunnar Erickson! Please, come in and I will pour you some wine. Then you will tell me exactly how it goes with you and what your plans are for the future!”

  At that fateful moment, a great crashing and clattering came from across the courtyard, followed by much magnificent cursing in Saxon, every word of which Gwyneth understood. She whirled and was immediately reassured that the accident had not involved Benedict and Gilbert, for the two boys were leaning over the balcony railing, looking with wide-eyed delight at the tangle of rope and spilled buckets and broken scaffolding and prostrate bodies below.

  Before the confusion of servants rushing, curses flying and shouts for the surgeon-barber could reach its peak, Gwyneth turned back to Gunnar Erickson. “The wine and your story will have to wait, I’m afraid,” she said, “for I must tend to this crisis, as you see.”

  “I will return,” Gunnar Erickson assured her.

  She did not want to lose contact with him. She held out her hand anxiously to stay him. “Come back tomorrow. No, not tomorrow,” she amended, “for then the tournament begins.”

  “After the tournament then, Gwyneth Andresdaughter.”

  “Oh, yes, then, after the tournament!” She called out a hasty, “God be with you, Gunnar Erickson!” before hastening to sort out the mess, assuming quite rightly that the porter would see the huge, hulking Dane out the door.

  The uproar in the household lasted nearly the entire day and had not completely settled down by the time Beresford returned. He entered the solar where she was directing the preparations for the evening meal. He went to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of wine, and when Gwyneth turned and first noticed him, he was leaning against the sideboard, cup in hand, regarding her silently.

  “Good eventide, sire,” she said, feeling a little leap of joy at sight of him.

  “Good eventide, madam,” he replied with a curt nod.

  He was distant, and she thought he was teasing her. A small silence fell. She felt herself flush. To cover it, she smiled.

  He returned no answering smile. “I thought you would tell me about the day’s unexpected events.”

  Her smile became rueful
. Of course, he was displeased by the elaborate accident in the courtyard. She explained all efficiently and summarized the damages thus: “The apprentice carpenter broke his leg but not badly, and the bone is now set. The second plasterer turned his wrist and bruised his forehead. Beyond that, there were remarkably few material damages, and I worked out a way we can all share the costs.”

  “Did you?”

  “Why, yes,” she said, feeling a trickle of apprehension. “Shall I outline for you what I think is fair?”

  He shook his head, then asked abruptly, “I would rather you tell me about the visit from the Dane.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The Dane?” Gwyneth queried, bewildered. Then she remembered. She opened her mouth to speak then closed it again.

  Beresford’s face took on a sardonic cast. “Did you think you could hide from me his visit to you?”

  “Why, no,” she said, trying to maintain a calm she did not feel. “I supposed that the porter would tell you of his visit, since he let the man in and out.”

  “He did not. One of the castle guards did.”

  “I thought you took the guards back to the Tower with you today.”

  His smile was not friendly. “One of them stayed behind and watched the house the entire day from across the street.”

  She summoned icy courage. “At Adela’s urging, no doubt?”

  He shook his head. “I followed my own counsel.” He looked at her through hard, gray eyes. “It proved a wise precaution.”

  “Oh, indeed? Just what do you think I discussed with the Dane—” She broke off, then continued with tenuous control, “His name is Gunnar Erickson, by the way, and he was in my father’s employ before he accompanied me to Castle Norham. He is a man I have known for most of my life.” She nearly choked on her anger, but mastered it and her voice. “So, just what do you think Gunnar Erickson and I could have possibly discussed for one minute—perhaps two—in the open courtyard with the entire household surrounding us?”

  “I would not know,” Beresford answered slowly, “for several of my retainers mentioned that you were speaking with him in the Norse tongue.”

  That was true, of course, but she had not used Danish to prevent anyone from understanding an entirely straightforward conversation. She was momentarily speechless then said coldly, “I spoke Danish to Gunnar Erickson just as you speak Norman to Geoffrey of Senlis.”

  Instead of responding to that, he remarked, “Apparently the Dane survived the capture of Castle Norham.”

  “Well, yes, he was taken prisoner.”

  “Ah, I did not realize that he had come to my home accompanied by Normans.”

  “Well, no, he came alone,” Gwyneth said. “The Normans let him go free after a few days.”

  Beresford’s heavy brows rose with frank incredulity. He repeated, “You are telling me that the Normans—we must be speaking of Cedric of Valmey—let a captured man go free after a few days?”

  “That is what he told me.”

  “And did he tell you why?”

  “Because there were so few of Canute’s men left, and the Normans thought them harmless or, at least, not important enough to feed.”

  Beresford’s expression was severe. “And once Vaimey let him go, or sanctioned the order for his release, the Dane— this Gunnar Erickson—” he said, mangling the pronunciation, “came to London. Is that right?”

  “Yes. He said that he was halfway here anyway, and so it seemed….” She could not finish the thought.

  He finished it for her, savagely. “And so it seemed highly likely that, halfway to London, when Valmey released this Gunnar Erickson—for no reason that occurs to me—he would continue along on his own to London anyway. Of course, a once-captured Northumbrian Dane strolling the streets of London makes perfect sense!”

  She grasped at a straw. “After the wretched defeat of Canute, Gunnar thought Duke Henry’s cause to be without great hope.”

  “You are saying then,” he blazed, “that since arriving in London, this Gunnar Erickson has heard nothing of how the Angevin Henry fares so well in the west? Without even fighting, let me remind you!”

  Gunnar’s explanations sounded absurd to her now, worked out in such a fashion. Everyone knew that King Stephen’s hold on the throne was far from secure and that Duke Henry’s threat was real. She recalled having been disturbed by Gunnar’s strange appearance at her home. However, she had been so surprised to see him, and there had been such a press of activities before and after his brief visit—and during it, by Odin! —that she had spent little time sifting through the oddities of his explanations. She now realized her mistake.

  One piece of the puzzle Beresford did not question. “At least it is not necessary to wonder how it was that Gunnar Erickson found you here,” he said. “Even the most ordinary citizen, Saxon or Norman, could tell him where I live! That much is obvious.”

  Even that much had not been obvious to Gwyneth for, in her surprise and confusion at the Dane’s visit, she had found it necessary to ask him how he had found her. She felt a physical pain at this evidence of her stupidity. “Yes,” she agreed, “it was undoubtedly easy for him to find me here.”

  “At least,” he said slowly, “you admit that.”

  “Of course I admit it!” she shot back. “I have no reason not to admit it! I have told you the story exactly how it happened. Gunnar Erickson arrived at my door this morning and told me just what I have told you. No more, no less!”

  He was regarding her with an expression that she suspected many an enemy had seen before dying. “Do you expect me to believe any of what you have just said?”

  “Why should you not believe it?”

  “Because you, madam wife, are far too clever to waste your time with imperfect plotting.”

  “Then consider again! If I am so clever, I should have devised a story far better than this!”

  A flash of admiration and a stronger emotion momentarily lit his eyes. He seemed to falter, then gave his head a slight shake. “I should have said that you are far too clever for your own good,” he amended, “and that your one mistake was to have underrated me.”

  She saw with blinding clarity how he was interpreting Gunnar Erickson’s visit. It was equally and wrenchingly clear to her that he had every reason to interpret the visit thus. She was at a loss to understand how she had let her guard down so far as to expose herself to this disaster. She was at a loss to know how to protect herself from the consequences of her misjudgment, or how to convince her husband that she was not plotting against him, that she did not want to. It was so simple, really, yet impossible to say—that she wanted to be with him, smiling at him, kissing him, lying next to him, giving herself to him.

  She was without protection, without strategy, without the right words. She had only her courage—courage to face him and the danger of the situation. She stood straight before him, head high, her hands at her sides, palms out in supplication. “What can I say to make you believe me?”

  She thought, from the look flashing across his features that he was going to kill her. She did not know that in standing before him, proud and fearless, she made him think for a moment that she was offering herself to him as a way of seducing him from his doubts about her. And he did not know, as he considered accepting her courageously flaunted invitation, whether he wished to wring her neck or make violent love to her.

  She watched, terrified and fascinated, wavering between lovesick despair and morbid hope at what he might do to her. His eyes striving with hers, he visibly struggled with himself, with her, with the emotions unleashed in his breast. Finally, he thrust his cup down on the sideboard with such force that it shattered. Then he flung himself out of the room.

  As he strode furiously around the balcony to the stairs, scattering retainers right and left, he was prey to emotions he had never experienced before, not even in the heat of battle. In the solar, he had just pulled himself with extraordinary effort back from the brink of complete capitulati
on to her, and he was shaken to the core by the previously unimaginable possibility that he would ever voluntarily lay down his arms and surrender to the enemy. He had come so death-defyingly close to it that he lost his breath all over again, just thinking about it.

  He imagined crossing the room to take her in his arms. He imagined her looking up at him and smiling. He imagined abandoning himself to the violet pools of her eyes, to the cherry of her lips, to the liquid velvet between her legs. He imagined the Valkyries swooping down to take him to Valhalla.

  He was at the door to the street. John the Porter was there, already lifting the bar. “I’ll spend the evening at The Swan,” Beresford growled, making some vague gesture that caused the man to duck.

  At that, Beresford stopped dead in his tracks and eyed him in a way that did not cause the porter to think his chances of living had improved. “Do you have an objection to that?” he demanded.

  “No, no, no, sire!” John assured him. “Only that, if you’re to spend the evening at The Swan, you’ll advertise to the entire neighborhood that you’re having trouble at home. You being newly wed and all, I was thinking that—”

  His master’s quelling eye brought an end to that thought and a swift prayer to the porter’s lips. Beresford was furious with him, with himself, with her all over again. “I’ll be at The Boar’s Head,” he snapped, naming the roughest tavern at the distant Galley Quay, “in case I’m needed.”

  “And the curfew, sire?”

  He had no choice. “I’ll spend the night there as well.”

  The next time Gwyneth saw Beresford was across the tourney field.