Hearts of Fire

by Anita Mills

  “Aye, and if you think me vexed that I have no husband to beat me or to use me like a breeding sow, you mistake the matter,” she retorted tartly, ignoring his attempt at amends. “There—you are undone.” She stepped back and waited for him to lift off the heavy shirt.

  He stood to disencumber himself from his steel casing, peeling the soiled links away from the stiffened leather garment beneath. The distinctly male odor of oiled metal and leather wafted past her nose, prompting another look at him. Her gaze flitted to his face, taking in the high cheekbones, the slightly hawkish nose, the dark eyes that seemed to mock her predicament, and she had to force herself to look away. Her next words slipped out unbidden.

  “And you, my lord—art wed?”

  “Nay.”

  “ ’Tis a pity you are not, then,” she mimicked to hide her embarrassment. “For you have not my excuse, I’ll warrant—’tis well-known that you are heir to much.”

  “Aye, but my father was not eager to ally himself with anyone,” he admitted candidly. “ ’Twas I who pushed the matter, Demoiselle. I found mine own heiress, and am betrothed to Lincoln’s daughter.”

  “And King Henry allowed it?” she asked incredulously, somehow disappointed that this man was already taken. “Nay, but I thought he wanted none to rival his power. It surprises me that he would risk adding Lincoln to Rivaux and Harlowe. ’Twill make you as rich as Gloucester and Stephen one day.”

  “I had Gloucester’s aid in the matter.” He dropped back to the bench and leaned back. “Are you not going to unlace me?”

  “Nay.”

  His dark, flecked eyes gleamed wickedly as he openly grinned at her now, favoring her with a slow, lazy look that seemed to mock her. “What—now that you find me betrothed, you cannot bring yourself to minister to me?”

  “ ’Tis no matter to me whether you are wed or betrothed,” she retorted stiffly. “I did but ask to serve you from the same cup—’twas you who pried in my affairs first.”

  His grin faded at the tartness in her voice, and he sobered. “I wished to know how Geoffrey left you, Demoiselle—whether I should ask Gloucester to intercede on your behalf, or if you had a husband to hold for you.”

  Unmodified by the change in his mien, she snapped, “There is naught to hold but this—this keep at least is Aubery’s.”

  “Aye, but he can seek wardship over you and your brother,” he reminded her.

  “From Stephen? You jest, my lord.”

  “Stephen is not king yet.”

  “Nay, but he will be,” she muttered bitterly. “Do you think the baronage will remember their oaths to uphold a mere woman? Nay, they will not—they cannot wait to offer King Henry’s crown elsewhere.”

  “The Empress is no mere woman, Demoiselle,” he answered dryly, “and there is more than Mathilda to stand in Stephen’s way.”

  “Gloucester?” she asked with a faint lift of one eyebrow.

  “He is one.”

  “Aye—Geoffrey died because he would declare for Robert of Gloucester,” she acknowledged bitterly.

  He nodded. “As king, Robert would be kind to your family.”

  “He swore to the Empress! Jesu, but you are like Geoffrey, my lord, if you would follow a forsworn liege! Nay, but the Empress Mathilda has the right!” she declared passionately. “Nay, even though Geoffrey believed him an honorable man—loved him for it—I find it curious that Gloucester’s honor lets him forget his sister.”

  “Demoiselle, ’tis beyond his hands now,” Richard protested, stung by her attack on the man who’d fostered him. “Aye, if the Curia should choose him, he could scarce refuse, could he? And the Empress is not well-liked, after all.”

  “Bah! He still swore to her. If you persist in his ambition, you will cause bitter war in this land, my lord.”

  “Nay—we stop it. More than half the baronage hates the Empress for her overweening arrogance, lady, and they will not follow her. And while Stephen wants a crown, he lacks the wisdom to rule.” He leaned back to watch her, and his irritation faded, replaced by a faint smile that lifted the corners of his mouth appealingly. “But I’d not tax you with what you cannot understand, Demoiselle. Just now, I am more concerned with food and warmth.”

  “What I cannot—” She gaped in astonishment at the effrontery in his words, and then caught the mischievous glint in his eyes as his smile broadened to a grin. “Sweet Mary, but you mock me again.”

  “Mayhap,” he admitted. “Art quick to temper, Demoiselle, when I mean no real harm. As son to the Cat, I know a woman’s worth.”

  “The Cat?”

  “My mother—Catherine of the Condes. No man dares meet her and think a woman weak or foolish. Nay, but both she and my grandmother Eleanor are strong of will, Lady Gilliane.”

  “And wed to men who keep their oaths, I’ll warrant. If I have heard aught else of Guy of Rivaux and Roger de Brione, ’tis that they are honorable, truthful men, my lord.”

  He sobered at the tone in her voice, and his eyes grew hard. “I did not swear to Henry’s daughter, Demoiselle—I was in Normandy when the English barons swore and in England when ’twas Normandy’s turn.”

  “Oh.” She was conscious of a desire to placate him, this powerful noble who sat before her. “ ’Tis no concern of mine,” she conceded. “I am naught to any of them—’twill make no difference to Beaumaule whether ’tis Stephen or the Empress or Gloucester even who rules England—we will be the victims in any event.” Sighing, she leaned over him and began to unlace his leather shirt.

  She was so close he could smell the faintly sweet and slightly musty odor of dried roses that emanated from her clothing. Either she wore a sachet bag between her breasts or she had packed her gown in the dried petals to gain the scent. Where her wide sleeve fell away from her wrist, he could see she was fine-boned for a tall girl, and her fingers were white and slender. He closed his eyes and remembered the full white breasts he’d seen in the kitchen, and desire washed over him again.

  “Scratch my head, I pray you,” he murmured.

  “Art full of lice?” she asked curiously, wondering if she should get the grease to smother them.

  “Nay—’tis but where the coif fit tightly.”

  Her hands left the leather laces to touch the black hair, gingerly at first. It was thick and heavy—had it been long like a woman’s, it would have taken a day to dry it. But it was neither greasy nor smelly, and its glossiness shone in the firelight. She slid her fingers through it, working along his scalp, feeling strangely drawn by the unseemly intimacy of touching him, of feeling the warmth of his skin beneath hers. He was so vital, so alive, so near that it felt almost sinful to stand there, to feel his breath against her arm. And yet she was loath to move away.

  He opened his eyes to watch her, enjoying the feel of her hands on his head. There was something infinitely pleasant about her touch, something intensely intimate. His renewed desire made him bold.

  “You do not have to look to Stephen for protection.”

  He spoke quietly, but his words penetrated her momentary reverie as though he’d shouted. She froze, her hand still in his hair, and cautiously looked down into his now intent gaze.

  “Aye—nor Gloucester even,” he added softly.

  A knot formed in her stomach as she feared what he would say, but she willed her tongue to silence and waited to hear it. Without a dowry, she was unmarriageable, and therefore more like to get offers she did not want. But the pleasure she’d had in this man’s company had fled, replaced by the sickness she felt.

  “I’d take you under my protection,” he found himself saying to her. “You’d want for nothing.” His hand reached to clasp hers and pull it down from his head. His thumb stroked the smooth cup of her palm, sending a sudden, visible shudder through her. “Aye—there’d be none to gainsay me now, and later . . .” His voice dropped to a husky, coaxing whisper. “You behold before you a man able to give you anything—I’d see you wanted for
naught,” he repeated. “I can give you the silks and velvets that befit your station, Gilliane.”

  She jerked her hand away as though he’d burned it. Two red spots flamed in her cheeks, and her eyes flashed. “The station of a whore? Nay, but you cannot give me a marriage bed, can you? ’Tis shame you would offer me, Richard of Rivaux!” she spat at him. “Fie on you—I am as gently born as you are!” Turning on her heel, she marched from the room as stiffly as if she were the Empress herself.

  He stared after her, aware he’d done the unpardonable. He opened his mouth to protest she’d misunderstood him, but he knew she hadn’t. He wanted to call after her that he’d meant her no dishonor, but he’d be lying. But he’d not meant to be so precipitate about it—his passion for her had come upon him quickly, unbidden almost, and certainly without reflection. He lifted his hand as though to order her back, and then he dropped it, sighing. There was no denying he wanted her, but somehow the thought shamed him. Unlike the women he usually took to his bed, this one was neither a whore nor baseborn. This one was sister to a man who’d fostered at Gloucester’s castle at Bristol with him. This was a girl he ought to protect. Resolutely he forced the heat from his body and resolved to offer Gilliane de Lacey no further insult. Aye, he’d seek her pardon when her temper cooled, and he’d bed a wench who knew what he was about. He’d think no more of the fiery-haired Gilliane who smelled so enticingly of dried roses.

  Slowly he rose and finished unlacing his leather shirt, pulling it over his head and discarding it in a heap at his feet. The quilted wool gambeson underneath itched his skin, and he indulged in scratching where it had rubbed against his sides. He moved closer to the fire to heat his still-stiff arms, and he extended his hands over the blaze. The smoke curled around his fingers and wafted upward to the vent hole in the ceiling.

  “My lord, we found the boy—we found young de Lacey.”

  “Where?” Richard did not turn around at the sound of his captain’s voice, but continued to warm himself.

  “In the stable loft. Had we been this Brevise, he’d have been cooked alive, no doubt.” Everard stepped into the small chamber and pulled off his dripping helmet, setting it on a low table before he too sought the fire. “Jesu, but ’tis cold.”

  “Aye, but the ice stops, I think,” Richard observed, looking up at the hole in the ceiling.

  “But the wind does not. I gave orders that we billet in the common room below, and everyone was glad enough for the fire there.”

  “What did you do with the boy?”

  “Gave him over to his sister just now—and to Woodstock. ’Tis certain he would beat him if he dared—he’d told the boy to hide beneath the bier in the chapel.”

  “God’s bones, but young Aubery is a fool,” Richard muttered, shaking his head. “Geoffrey should have fostered him ere now, for by my count he is old enough.”

  Everard shrugged expressively and hunched closer to the blaze. “Mayhap they were too poor to send him—by the looks of it, Beaumaule has not prospered—or mayhap ’tis because the boy has little taste for war. I had it of Woodstock that he’s more suited to the Church than anything—he says the boy’s not got one-tenth of the girl’s spirit.” Rubbing his hands to warm them over the flames, he added, “What think you will happen to them now? There’s not much to be bled from this place, and I doubt that whoever is king will want the bother of it.”

  “Nay,” Richard agreed readily, his mind turning once again to Gilliane. “And there’d be little quarrel if I took them under my protection, I’ll warrant.”

  “Them?” Everard cocked his head sideways to stare quizzically at his lord. “Why would you wish such a thing? Beaumaule’s naught to you either—naught but a small stinking pile of sticks and stones.”

  “Geoffrey de Lacey fostered with me—’twill not be remarked if I accept wardship of the girl and her brother,” Richard mused almost to himself, making up his mind with a suddenness that startled even him. “Aye—I mean to do it.”

  “You scarce knew de Lacey!” Everard protested. “And if you take wardship, you will have to protect this place. Sweet Jesu, my lord, but we have not the men to leave here now.”

  But Richard’s enthusiasm warmed for the newly formed idea as he continued to consider it. “I’d have Woodstock raise my pennon above—not even William of Brevise dares the wrath of Rivaux.”

  Everard stared, uncertain as to whether his lord jested, and then, perceiving that Richard was indeed serious, he sought to dissuade him further. “With Stephen king, ’twill make him bold. Nay, I’d not do it—’tis too distant from any lands of yours, and—”

  “Stephen is not crowned yet!” Richard retorted sharply, unwilling even to admit the likelihood of its happening. “Nay, but I’d see Theobald rule me ere I’d swear to Stephen, and that’s not to say he’s any more like to best Gloucester in the matter.”

  He spoke so emphatically that his captain hesitated, still doubting Richard’s motives in the matter, and then shook his head. “But . . .” He paused, eyeing his young lord warily, and then blurted out, “ ’Tisn’t as though you know the whole, is it? The girl and her brother may have a kinsman to stand for them.”

  “Nay. My mind is set in the matter,” Richard announced flatly, ending any further thought of protest. “And now, Everard, I’d have you tell Lady Gilliane that I’d have a bath.”

  “You’ll die from lung fever.” But there was no mistaking the impatient set of the younger Rivaux’s jaw—it reminded Everard too much of Count Guy’s to brook further complaint. Sighing, he capitulated. “Aye, I’ll tell her, but she will think you mad.”

  After his man left, Richard paced before the fire, waiting for her, composing his apology for his lapse. His offer of protection was genuine, he’d tell her, and was made with chivalry. It was his regard for Geoffrey de Lacey that had made him speak, and she must not think he meant any dishonor. But she could not remain at Beaumaule—the place was too unprotected for her safety. Aye, that’s what he would say to her. And in time . . . well, it was not as though she had hope of any other, he rationalized.

  It seemed like time crawled while he waited for her return. The smaller logs in the brazier burned through, letting the larger ones fall with a rumble and a bump. He picked up the iron rod and poked the pieces back into the fire, then added two more logs to the top, hoping they’d catch soon. Jesu, but what kept the maid? Did she think to make Rivaux wait forever? The gleam of red hair trailing from beneath his discarded cloak caught his eye, and he walked to retrieve it, idly wondering what it would have looked like in its glory, streaming from her head, spilling onto his pillow. It gleamed like bright silk in his hand, its strands reflecting the firelight so richly that he thought again that it had been a travesty to cut it.

  He spun around eagerly at the soft scuffing sound of a woman’s footsteps on the stairs, and his pulse raced with desire. But the woman who entered the small chamber was neither red-haired nor young. “God’s bones! Jesu!” he muttered under his breath before allowing himself to address the old woman. “I sent to the Lady Gilliane.”

  “Aye, and Old Alwina is come to tend your lordship at your bath.”

  “By whose authority? Did she send you to me?” he demanded.

  “I did. Lady Gilliane attends Sir Geoffrey’s bier in the chapel, my lord.” Simon of Woodstock stood behind her, one foot remaining on the winding stair, and spoke with an edge to his voice that brought Richard up short. Leaning against the doorway, the older man met Richard’s eyes coldly. “She has but lost her brother,” he reminded Rivaux.

  The desire and anticipation cooled under that cold stare, replaced again by shame for what he would have of the girl. Turning back to the fire, he muttered tersely, “You exceed your authority, Simon of Woodstock.”

  “I guard Beaumaule and its people—as I am sworn to do, my lord.”

  “Do you hold lands of de Lacey? Is Beaumaule patrimony to your overlord?” Richard demanded, knowing full well
that it was unlikely that the small fief could in turn enfief another.

  “Nay.”

  “Then your oath died with Geoffrey, did it not? You were bound to serve the man rather than the land. Nay, but you will tell the Demoiselle that I am taking wardship over her and Lord Aubery until such time as the king deems it meet that they go elsewhere. If you would stay here, you answer to me now.”

  The muscles in Simon’s jaw worked, and temper flared in his eyes for a moment before he recalled himself. As a landless knight, a mercenary, he had no claim to either Beaumaule or its people. And there was naught to be gained by disputing the authority of Guy of Rivaux’s son, but he could not quite hold his tongue. “By whose writ?” he managed to ask, knowing that a man like Rivaux needed none when there was no king to gainsay him.

  “By right of conquest if any dares dispute it. I take Beaumaule, holding it forfeit for the injury to Walter of Thibeaux. Later I will return it to Geoffrey’s heir.”

  “Nay, you cannot—you are not overlord here,” Simon spat out.

  Richard’s eyebrow lifted at the unexpected challenge to his authority. “And who is to refuse me? An uncrowned king? You?”

  Simon looked away, stung by the tone of Rivaux’s voice. “Nay,” he answered low.

  “Think on it—Gloucester will stand for me.” Richard walked to the doorway to face the older man. “You will fly the hawk of Rivaux over this keep, Simon of Woodstock.”

  “I’d not stay—my oath to Geoffrey de Lacey lies dead with him.”

  “You have my leave to seek service elsewhere, if ’tis your wish.”

  “Aye.”

  “So be it then. I go to Winchester as soon as the storm clears, but I mean to return this way. Until that time, I hold you responsible for the safety of Gilliane de Lacey and her brother.”

  Woodstock turned and started down the stairs, his heavy steps reflecting the anger he dared not vent openly. Above him, Richard turned away, wondering how Gilliane de Lacey would react to her captain’s news.