Hearts of Fire

by Anita Mills

  Keeping his sword back with the pressure of his palm, Richard dropped to one knee to kiss the episcopal ring. Henry of Blois’s fingers closed over his briefly, gesturing him to rise.

  “You have the look of your father, my lord,” he murmured, stepping back. “Art Rivaux in deeds as well as appearance also, from what I am told.”

  It was an encomium that should have made him proud, but Richard was restive with being compared to his sire. The more he heard it, the more he wanted to shout, “There is but one Guy of Rivaux—’tis Richard you face,” but he held his counsel and schooled his face to pleasantness. “You honor me.”

  Henry lifted the other beringed hand to beckon the page while addressing his guest. “ ’Tis cold this night, my lord—I pray you join me for a cup of mulled wine.” His black eyes were intent as he contemplated the younger man. “Aye, and you must tell me how ’tis I am to serve you.”

  “I would address the Curia—and I’d seek your aid.”

  The bishop’s eyebrow lifted, betraying surprise, and then his eyes were veiled. “I see. ’Tis a matter of some import then.” Turning briefly, he took a steaming cup from the boy and handed it to Richard. “ ’Twill warm your blood, my lord.”

  “Aye.” Richard sipped it and burned his lips.

  Henry took another cup for himself and settled into a seat by the Fire, gesturing to Richard to sit. His eyes narrowed shrewdly for a moment as the younger man sank into the seat opposite, and then he spoke with an uncharacteristic bluntness. “And how do you think the Curia can serve you where the king’s council cannot? You came from Normandy, did you not? The lay barons meet even now, I am told.”

  “Aye, they meet to choose your brother Theobald in the Empress’s stead.”

  “I see.” Henry set aside his cup and pressed his fingertips together over his rounded stomach. “And your father would plead for the Empress—did he send you here? Can it be that he does not know the old king—may God have mercy on his soul—that he changed his mind ere he died?”

  “Where had you that story?” Richard asked with a start, unprepared for the news.

  “Hugh Bigod has sworn that he heard King Henry’s last words at Lyons.”

  “Sweet Jesu—and were there any to believe him?”

  “I believe him, my lord, for he swore before the Curia on the most sacred of relics that he spoke naught but the truth. Aye, there were few who chose to dispute him.” Leaning forward, he reached to take another sip of the warm wine. “Your father is too late, if he would argue for the Empress.”

  “I do not come from my father, Excellency—nor from my grandsire of Harlowe. I would address the Curia as lord of Celesin and Ancennes.”

  “Norman lands,” Henry reminded him silkily. “You cannot speak as an English lord before us.”

  It was clear that they played a game of cat’s-paw between them. The bishop leaned forward, watching his guest warily, waiting. And there was something in those black eyes that made the neck hairs stand on the back of Richard’s neck. He drained the fiery liquid in his own cup, letting it heat the path to his stomach, and then leaned back.

  “Aye, but I hold English lands also—and you forget I have wardship of royal castles.” As though to adjust it for his comfort, he grasped his pommel and shifted his sword in its scabbard, moving it against his leg.

  It was a gesture reminiscent of Guy of Rivaux, one that reminded Henry of Blois that regardless of the extent of his land holdings, regardless of what he would in time inherit, the young man before him was already a power to consider. “Aye, ’tis your right, my lord—there’s none to dispute that,” he conceded quickly. “But if you are come to argue the succession, you are too late. We were met two days before and have offered the crown to my brother Stephen.”

  “Jesu!” The word escaped him involuntarily, but Richard recovered his composure on the instant. “And none disputed that?” he found himself asking almost casually.

  “How could they?” Henry relaxed as his guest sat back, and he proceeded to tell the tale. “Aye, with Bigod swearing that the king repudiated the oath he made the baronage give the Empress, ’twas plain to all that another must be chosen quickly to prevent anarchy. And since Bigod clearly heard Stephen named with King Henry’s blessing, there was naught else to be done.”

  “It was unanimous then?” Richard found himself asking with sinking stomach.

  The bishop shrugged expressively. “When is a crown bestowed to everyone’s satisfaction? Nay, but they could not quarrel when ’twas made known that Roger of Salisbury yielded my brother the keys to the treasury and King Henry’s seal.”

  So the king’s justiciar, his regent in his absence, had sided with Stephen. That was a circumstance that Richard had not foreseen. “The Empress will make war.”

  Again the older man shrugged. “Nay, but her husband of Anjou has little interest here.”

  “There is her son—there is yet another Henry.”

  “A babe of some two years.” Henry dismissed the matter with a wave of a beringed hand. “Babes make poor kings, my lord, and there’s not a man in either England or Normandy to want Geoffrey of Anjou for regent in the boy’s stead.” Henry of Blois gripped the arms of his chair and leaned forward again, confronting Richard with the thought. “Would you? Think on it—would you have the Angevin over you?”

  “Nay.”

  Satisfied at Richard’s easy capitulation on the matter, the bishop relaxed, unbending enough to explain further. “In the absence of the lay magnates, the Curia has but exercised its ancient right of choice, my lord, and we have chosen Stephen of Blois as rightful king. And all London has hailed him for sovereign, as there is no other with a better claim.”

  “There is Gloucester.”

  Henry’s head snapped back, and his eyes glared at his guest for a moment. He shook his head as though the very idea offended him. “Earl Robert is a bastard,” he pronounced firmly, “and therefore unable to succeed.”

  “William the Conqueror was bastard-born. And Robert of Gloucester carries his grandsire’s blood as surely as I carry Rivaux’s.”

  “Alas, but ’twas 1066 then, and the Church had not ruled on the matter. I doubt even Old William would be accepted in these times.” Henry rose, signaling that the interview was at an end. “How long are you in England, my lord?” he asked abruptly. “My brother’s coronation is at Westminster on the twenty-second—just before Christmas feast. He’d have the barons renew their feudal oaths then and when he keeps Easter feast, mayhap at Oxford.”

  “Nonetheless, it seems precipitate, Excellency,” Richard murmured, rising also. “Aye, there will be those who will dispute Stephen’s claim.”

  “Then why did they not present themselves before the Curia?” Henry snapped. “Why did not Gloucester himself come, if he would claim England’s crown? And what of the Empress—what of Mathilda? Nay, but ’twas only Stephen who dared to come.”

  “Earl Robert executes King Henry’s wishes, remaining at Lyons-la-Foret with his father’s body.”

  “Then perhaps he does not truly wish to be king. But if ’tis Gloucester you favor . . . But if you are yet wishful of speaking before the Curia . . .” The bishop allowed his voice to trail off deliberately, conveying the impression that Richard’s appearance would be useless, that there was no more to be said to England’s independent-minded prelates.

  “Nay.” With a heavy heart, the younger man hid his disappointment, realizing that he was too late and that he could only gain Stephen’s hostility by speaking openly now. Nay, it was better to return to Normandy and seek Gloucester’s counsel in the matter. One thing he did know, however: the earl had little love for Stephen, and his dislike was returned in full measure. Aye, there would be bad times ahead between them, but even a newly crowned king would not dare move against England’s most powerful tenant-in-chief. And all England would watch what Robert of Gloucester would do. Richard bent to kiss the bishop’s ring again, and Henry murm
ured a brief blessing over his head.

  “Do you take your oath to the king at Christmas?” Henry asked as Richard straightened up.

  “Nay, I am for Normandy now. Mayhap at Easter court.”

  “Then I bid you Godspeed on your journey, my lord.”

  It was over, his bid to make Gloucester king—over before he’d had a chance to present his arguments, over even before he’d arrived in the country, Richard reflected bitterly as he stepped out into the cold winter’s night air. Aye, he’d ridden through a storm and nearly lost a man for naught. A sense of intense frustration gnawed at him—it was an injustice to even think of Stephen as king. Bigod had lied—he’d not even been at the old king’s bedside at the end—but what was that to the purpose? The handsome, fickle Stephen had stolen a march on everyone, taken the royal treasury, and had himself named ruler whilst the baronage quarreled in Normandy over who should have the crown.

  Stephen. To Richard, it was a cruel jest. Stephen, he snorted derisively to himself, lacked the temperament to control anyone. Aye, he’d seek to rule by his smiles and gifts, no doubt. Jesu, what would Gloucester do? Would he swear to his cousin of Blois—or would he support his half-sister now? Or would he raise his own standard?

  An ostler held the bridle for his prized Spanish stallion, and billows of foggy breath spewed forth from its nostrils. Richard swung up into his saddle and grasped the reins, clicking them as he nudged the horse with his knee.

  Everard’s mount fell into pace beside him silently. One look at the set of his lord’s jaw had been enough to tell the captain that all had not gone well with Henry of Blois. He waited, keeping his own counsel, until finally the famed Rivaux temper exploded.

  “God’s bones! The fools would crown Stephen! Can they not see him for the affable fool he is? Jesu! Do they think he can stand against Anjou’s wrath? Nay! And he’d have my oath at Christmas or Easter!”

  “They chose Stephen then?”

  Ignoring Everard, Richard muttered tersely, “There will be hell on earth ere I swear to him.” Then louder, “Hell on earth—d’ye hear!” The winter wind caught at his words, swirling them with the light snow, carrying them until they were swallowed in its howl.

  His captain shook his head and held his tongue. It was better to let his lord vent his anger where there were none to hear him now. Stephen as king. The older man sighed heavily and wrapped his cloak closer to his body. Jesu, but it did not bode well for any of them, not when ’twas known Richard of Rivaux would have stood against him. Aye, there would be war, but for whom? Would Gloucester declare for himself, pitting Rivaux against Rivaux—or would he uphold his half-sister, sending them all forth beneath her standard?

  Behind them in his palace, the Bishop of Winchester took another cup of mulled wine and stared into the crackling flames, trying to reassure himself that Gloucester would come to terms with Stephen. It would take time, but even a powerful earl like Gloucester must surely see there was no use fighting what was already done. Aye, the judicious award of a few choice manors should soothe the bastard’s anger.

  But the hotheads like young Rivaux worried him—’twas always those who believed in causes who made the greater trouble. Perhaps Lord Richard’s passage to Normandy should be delayed until after Stephen was crowned—just long enough to ensure that Robert of Gloucester remained unaware until the deed was done. But no harm must come to the boy—he’d not have it said that he plotted against Guy of Rivaux’s son. A brief sojourn with Warenne—or Brevise mayhap. Nay, ’twould have to be Warenne, for he could not trust Brevise not to harm him.

  7

  The fire crackled and popped in the brazier, sending sparks that flew harmlessly into the air, drifted, and then landed as small black specks on the woven mat beneath her feet. Gilliane’s hands unworked a knot in the long strands of hair while she uttered a mild oath of frustration and wondered why silk tangled less. At her feet lay a spool of precious gold thread, thread she’d been hoarding for use in Geoffrey’s chairing gifts. Aye, and for embroidery on his Christmas robe. The cloth itself had come from the Flemish clothmakers and had cost her the silver marks her mother had left her, and now there was none to wear it. There would be no chairing of the lord this Christmas, for Geoffrey lay beneath the cold slabs of Beaumaule’s chapel floor.

  Above her, the chimney hole revealed that the weather had cleared and the sun shone brightly in contrast to both the cold air and the chill in her heart. The knotted hair stretched and broke in her hands, prompting another oath. Reluctantly she turned her full attention to the task, carefully tying the coppery strands. Would Rivaux think a sword belt a poor gift, an unsatisfactory substitute for his fancy cloak? she wondered. The image of the great lord floated before her, and she saw again those strange dark eyes and that faintly mocking smile. Her palm tingled as she remembered anew the feel of his thick, shining black hair, and she found herself reaching to touch the blunt ends of her own. It had been her best claim to beauty and it was gone, reduced to the few long tresses that she’d retrieved where they’d spilled from the hearth, the tresses she now worked into the belt. Ah, but if he could have seen it as it was . . . Her thoughts trailed off, and she forced herself to deal with the present.

  Richard of Rivaux was not the sort of man one dared dream of. Nor was he even one it was safe to dream of, for he could not bring her anything but shame. And yet she had dreamed of little else in the days since he’d left Beaumaule for Winchester. Aye, when she was not mourning Geoffrey, she was left wondering what Rivaux truly meant to do with her. One part of her fervently hoped that he would forget his promise to protect her and Aubery, that he would leave them be at Beaumaule, but another part of her wanted to see him again, to see if her memory had somehow played her false, to see if he were indeed as handsome as she remembered him.

  Leaning to pick up the thin multicolored strips of bright silk, she continued the painstaking process of weaving the long, brightly colored band. Drawing an end from the spool, Gilliane’s fingers moved deftly, intertwining silk, hair, and gold thread, braiding them into a pattern that was pleasing to her eyes. If she could not give him a fine cloak, she reasoned, she would give her self-appointed guardian something he could not obtain even in London, and mayhap she would gain his goodwill for it.

  But would he return anytime soon? Or would he spend days, weeks even, at Winchester? If the magnates and the clergy could not agree on Mathilda or Stephen or Gloucester, they could well argue a month and more. But he would come back—she was certain of that at least, for Walter of Thibeaux mended at Beaumaule. And from all she had seen of Rivaux, he bore affection for the boy who served him. Nay, but he would come back for the squire at least. She finished one end of the belt and held it up to admire how it caught the light from above. ’Twould be like Joseph’s coat of many colors, the only one of its kind.

  “My lady . . .”

  She looked up, surprised to see Simon of Woodstock standing in the doorway of the small solar, for he usually sent a boy first to ask her permission for admittance. She’d often thought it his age or an old wound that troubled him, as he seldom came all the way up the steps. But as the light from the partially shuttered window caught his fair hair and his un- lined face, she realized that he was by no means as old as she had thought him. Aye, the white hairs that mingled with the gold were few enough and almost beneath notice. That he’d been a man as long as she could remember did not necessarily make him more than thirty-five or thirty-six years old.

  He stepped the rest of the way into the small chamber. “There is the merchant come with his wares below, Lady Gilliane. Would you have me send him away?”

  There was so little money, scarce a pound of pennies to be had in the keep, but Gilliane could not resist the thought of seeing and touching the pretty things most of the traveling traders brought with them. “From whence does he come?” she asked, hoping it was from Flanders.

  “France—he but stops here to warm himself.”

&nbs
p; “There can be no harm in seeing, do you think, Simon?” she ventured wistfully.

  “There is no money here,” he reminded her.

  “Still, I would come down to the hall to inspect his wares.” She made up her mind to do it, laying aside her nearly finished work. With a disgusted shrug at her foolishness, the captain turned to leave. “Simon,” she asked, “how many years do you have?”

  He stopped, one foot on the stairs, and turned back to her with seeming impatience. “I am six-and-thirty.”

  She’d not guessed wrong then. Curiosity prompted her to blurt out, “Why have you never wed, Simon?”

  His blue eyes grew so hard, so embittered, that she almost recoiled. “When I have thought to take a wife, I am reminded that I have no property, something not easily forgiven by any maid’s family. Alas, I have nothing, Demoiselle.”

  “Yet you do not seek service with Rivaux.”

  “Nay.”

  “But why?”

  “I’d not serve him,” he answered simply, turning back to the stairs.

  “Wait . . .”

  He stopped and waited, his irritation at her questions barely concealed. His head and shoulders were still visible at the top of the stairwell. Impulsively she picked up the belt she’d been working and held it out. “Come tell me what you think of this.”

  With seeming reluctance he came back into the room to take it from her. As he turned it over in his callused palm, he nodded and an appreciative smile lightened his usually sober face. “I think it quite pretty, Demoiselle, but if you have done this for me—”

  “Nay,” she cut in hastily, realizing now she’d made a mistake, “ ’tis for Rivaux.”

  His smile faded abruptly, replaced by a bleakness that chilled even his eyes. “Aye, Rivaux. ’Tis the Rivauxes who gain all and leave naught, isn’t it?”