by Anita Mills
“You mislike him.”
“I mislike those who have everything, Demoiselle. What can he wish from a small place like this? Nay, he is as greedy as Brevise, but in a different way.”
His tone angered her unreasonably, and she felt an inexplicable need to defend a man she’d alternately cursed and hailed herself. “Nay, but he would protect Aubery and me against Brevise, Simon.”
“Why?” he asked bluntly. “It cannot be that you are a wealthy heiress or that Aubery’s patrimony can be bled. Look around you, Demoiselle—is there aught of worth here?”
“Beaumaule has succored you these nineteen years past, and I’ve not heard you complain ere now,” she snapped. “You have been content enough to eat at our table, have you not? You have wanted for naught here, Simon of Woodstock.”
“Aye, and I would have died protecting Beaumaule for you, Demoiselle, but I am not given the task. Instead, you would turn to Rivaux.”
Taken aback again by the harshness, the suppressed anger in his voice, she was at a loss for words for a time. And then she sought to placate him. “Simon, there is so little left of Aubery’s patrimony that I have no choice but to turn to him. I have prayed it be otherwise, but it is not.”
“There is this knight before you, but you have never thought of me, have you, Demoiselle?” He watched her eyes blink in surprise as though she had not heard him aright, and then he turned away. “Aye, but I am a nithing in your eyes, Demoiselle—naught but a landless knight who eats at your table.”
“Sweet Mary, but you mistake the matter, Simon. I’d have you stay, but I have not the land to—”
“You could wed with me.”
She stared, unable to believe her ears. “Holy Jesu! Simon, you know not what you ask. I—”
“Aye. You think yourself above me, but had I the land, I could be lord to you.” His back to her, his voice low, he leaned against the cold stone wall and nodded. “It surprises you that I have dared to think thus of you, Gilliane de Lacey, but I’ve thought of naught else since we were in the chapel at Geoffrey’s bier.”
“I have no dowry, and I’d not—”
“There is Beaumaule.”
“And there is Aubery,” she reminded him softly. “Simon, I have to hold Beaumaule for the son of my father’s blood.”
“A weak fool!” he spat at her viciously, turning back to face her. “Aye, a boy more a maid than a man! A boy unfit to rule!”
“My last brother, Simon—only he has the right to rule Beaumaule. Nay, but he cannot be set aside, and I’d not will it if he could.”
“You are more a man than he! Send him to the priests and rule in his stead! There will be a new king—receive this fief in my name! ’Tis I who have held it for all of you these nineteen years past!” He took a step toward her, his hands outstretched, his voice pleading with her. “Aye, we could hold Beaumaule, Gilliane!”
“Jesu! ’Tis wrong what you would ask me to do, Simon! The land is not mine to give you—’tis Aubery’s!”
“And you would let Rivaux make you his leman to keep it for one who does not value it! Nay, but ’tis wrong what you would do also!”
In all of her years as daughter of the house, she’d never been addressed thus. Bright spots of anger heightened the color in her cheeks as she groped for words of denial. Nay, but she did not have to answer to him. Slowly, ever so slowly, she mastered her temper, drawing it in tight check. The man before her was a sudden stranger.
“Look at me.” He held out his scarred hands in supplication at her silence. “Do you not see the blows I have taken for Beaumaule? Look at this face—can you not see the lines of years I have spent in service here? And ’twas all for naught.”
“You swore to my father, Simon, and to my brother after him, but your oath gave you not Beaumaule or me,” she said finally. “And ’tis insult to say that I would be leman to any man.” Drawing herself up to her full height, she met his eyes squarely. “But for the service you have given Beaumaule, I will forget what you have asked—I’d not part angered with you.”
“Gilly?”
Both of them spun around at the sound of Aubery de Lacey’s thin, reedy voice. Simon raked him contemptuously with eyes that betrayed his impotent fury, and then he pushed past the boy without speaking. Gilliane sighed heavily and shook her head.
“God’s blood, but what ails him?” Aubery demanded plaintively.
“Rivaux, I think.”
“I am glad enough he leaves us, Gilly. He faults me for what I cannot become.”
Gilliane took in her brother’s slight form and wondered if he were the changeling Alwina had always claimed, for there was so little resemblance between him and the tall, stalwart brothers she’d lost. There must have been something wrong with Morwenna’s blood, or else her father’s seed had weakened before his last marriage. But it did not matter—he was in truth lord of Beaumaule now. Aloud she merely answered, “He would have you be a warrior, Aubery—’tis all that he asks of you.”
“Aye—and I cannot even bear the weight of the lance without pain.”
“You are young yet.”
“Nay, but I do not grow as the others,” he added sorrowfully. “And I cannot stand what he would inflict on me. I would that Geoff had not died, Gilly, that I could give myself to God.”
“Beaumaule has the greater need of you, Aubery.”
“Aye, but I’d not—”
“Well, ’tis no matter now, lovey, for we go with Rivaux, and Simon leaves us. ’Twill be some years ere you are called to rule here.”
“I am glad for that also.” He walked to the loosely shuttered window and peeked out the crack in the middle. “Do you think Rivaux will despise me also? Will he care that I would rather copy verses than fight?”
“I know not what Rivaux will think,” she admitted. “I know him even less than Simon.” Reaching to ruffle his bright orange hair above his pallid face, she managed to smile. “But I have not given up hope that you will grow tall and strong. Come, let us go see what the cloth merchant brings.”
“Nay. I did but come to see why Simon shouted at you. I thought he meant you harm.”
“Well, as you can see, I am whole. ’Twas over naught,” she reassured him. “He is but disappointed to leave Beaumaule, I think.”
Gilliane stroked the gray-and-white softness of the fur, admiring the warm luxury of it, before reluctantly pushing it away and turning instead to the bolts of cloth the peddler had brought. Her woman’s heart yearned for these silks that had come from the East, some shimmering from the metallic threads woven within them, others embroidered by Flemish artisans in the orfrois, or French style, with ornate designs worked in gold and silver. But she dared not even ask the cost of any of them for fear her shock would betray to the peddler how little she had to spend.
“Perhaps my lady would look again at the vair,” he suggested, lifting the precious fur before her eyes. “A hard winter such as this one makes it thicker.”
“Nay.”
His blunt fingers ruffled the fur to show its beauty again. “Seven shillings a skin, my lady.”
“Nay.” The price he asked was one-quarter of all the money in Beaumaule. Turning away from the silks, she noticed a roll of lustrous crimson velvet, and she could not resist asking, “How much for that?”
“The red?” He shrugged expressively and appeared to be figuring the cost in his head. “Red is most expensive—the dye is not plentiful—but for you, lady, five shillings to the ell.”
It was much like the velvet of Richard of Rivaux’s ruined mantle, yet another reminder of just how very wealthy he must be. Her fingertips touched the softness gingerly, wondering how it would work beneath her needle. And she remembered the way he’d looked at the meanness of Beaumaule’s hall. Spend your gold on yourself, he’d said. Impulsively she rose, ordering the merchant to wait for her, and hastened to rummage in her mother’s meager jewel chest. Drawing out a golden buckle set with brig
ht blue cabochon stones, she held it to the light. It was the finest thing to be had in Beaumaule, having once belonged to the grandsire who’d come to England in the Conqueror’s train, and she’d thought to use it on the sword belt she was working. Pocketing it, she hastened back to the hall.
“How much would you give me for this?” she asked, laying the buckle on the table before the peddler. When he did not pick it up right away, she hurriedly added, “ ’Twas a gift from the Conqueror himself.”
“A pretty bauble—twelve shillings at best.”
“Nay. See for yourself, Master Galeran—pick it up,” she urged. “ ’Tis of gold and set with stones from Byzantium. I’d have twelve ells of the cloth and six skins of the vair for it.” Her heart pounding at her own daring, she waited.
“ ’Tis but a buckle!” he snorted.
“Nay—hold it in the palm of your hand . . . weigh it.”
“You would beggar me,” he grumbled, lifting it and balancing it, testing its weight for the gold. “But mayhap a pound—”
“There will be many lords at Christmas court eager for such a buckle—I’ll take no less than the cloth and the fur for it.”
“Byzantium, you say?” He squinted, holding the jeweled ornament up to the light and looking for cracks in the blue stones. Aye, there’d be a market for such a piece. “The cloth then,” he offered.
“And the fur.”
“Jesu, but you would rob me,” he complained.
“Very well, then.” She reached to pluck the buckle from his hand. “If you cannot see its value, Master Galeran, then I shall use it on the sword belt I am making—’twill make a fine Christmas gift for a fine lord.” With a wave of her hand toward the cloths he had spread over the rough tables, she shook her head. “You may repack these, as my mind is set on the velvet and vair and naught else.”
“Six ells of the cloth and four skins then,” he negotiated grudgingly.
“Nay. ’Tis for a big man, and six ells would scarce cover him.”
“Six ells will cover anyone,” he sniffed. “Sweet Jesu, but is he a giant?”
“I’d have it reach his ankles—I’d not make a short one.”
“Six ells—”
“Twelve,” she repeated definitely. “And the vair.”
He could see she was adamant on the amount. Mentally he calculated how much he thought a wealthy magnate would pay for the buckle. It was, after all, exquisitely wrought. “Aye.” He sighed grudgingly. “ ’Tis not often Galeran is robbed by a mere girl.” Reaching for the heavy cloth shears, he turned to the velvet.
“And I’d not have it stretched until it tears, either,” she warned him, her heart beating rapidly at thought of the staggering price she’d just paid.
Later, as she climbed the solar stairs carrying the precious material and fur in her arms, she worried if she had the skill to work it into anything Rivaux would wear. The lowering thought that she should have put the buckle on the belt instead came to mind. But nay, she’d promised him a cloak, and by the blessed saints, ’twould be a cloak he’d have. She would have liked to line the entire garment with the vair, but ’twas impossible. Nay, inside where it would not show, she’d use plain English rabbit.
It was only when she reached the small solar that she actually realized the enormity of what she’d done—she’d all but beggared Beaumaule to make a cloak for a man who could buy a hundred such garments for himself. She stared at the shimmering velvet, wondering if the devil had prompted her to squander such a sum. It was her honor that had demanded such sacrifice, she told herself. And this time, Richard of Rivaux would not think her so very poor.
After availing himself of the keep’s slim hospitality, the peddler led his packs out of Beaumaule, still wondering at the Lady Gilliane’s extravagance. Sitting astride the lead ass, he picked his way over the narrow road that wended through the chalky hills, until he reached the appointed place where a band of mounted men waited.
“Did you sup inside?”
“Aye.”
“How many are there?”
“I counted but twenty-five, my lord, and of that number, several are sore wounded and unable to bear arms. And there are mayhap another twelve or thirteen women.”
“Did you see the boy?”
“Aye.”
“And his sister?”
“Aye.”
A slow smile spread over William of Brevise’s harshly lined face as he stared upward toward Beaumaule’s single stone tower. Too long that small castle had stood in the midst of Brevise lands, a thorny reminder that he was not lord of all he could see. The red-and-black pennon that flew above it had worried him at first, but then he’d seen Rivaux pass by close enough to determine that it was the son rather than the father. And now, by the time that young lord gave Beaumaule another thought, it would belong to Brevise. Aye, Stephen would see to that—he’d confirm what William meant to take.
“My lord . . .”
William looked across to where the peddler had his hand outstretched, and his face hardened. “What?”
“There is the matter of money between us.”
“Nay, there’s no gold spent in hell,” William retorted coldly, signaling to one of his men, who raised his sword to strike. Spurring his mount aside, William turned back to the rest of his mounted knights. “We return with sufficient men that we shall not fail.”
8
With the help of Alwina and the girl Annys, Gilliane spent the early afternoon pressing, stretching, and cutting the costly velvet, taking great care to keep it as clean as possible. Smooth boards had been laid across three trestles, and the floor had been swept bare and washed as an extra precaution, so great was her concern that the cloak be perfect. Even her needles were tossed in sand and vinegar to remove any hint of rust that might spot the softly shimmering fabric.
One of Geoffrey’s well-mended cloaks was taken apart, each piece pressed, measured, and laid on stout English wool, where it was used for a pattern. The wool was cut carefully, allowing several inches around each piece to make it bigger, before the new pattern was transferred to the velvet itself to avoid soiling even the underside of the cloth. It was a painstaking process that would yield two cloaks, one for Richard of Rivaux and one for Simon of Woodstock to ease his parting. No matter what he’d said to her, she did owe him for nineteen years of service to her family, and a mercenary knight would have need of a warm woolen cloak. Perhaps the gift would aid in easing his bitterness.
While Annys and Gilliane cut out each piece of the velvet, Alwina measured and trimmed the vair, cutting it into strips for use around the edges of the cloak itself and for lining the hood. And all the while, she muttered to herself that ’twas foolishness to squander gold on one who did not need it.
“Be still, old woman,” Gilliane ordered her finally. “ ’Tis a matter of honor—I ruined one far better.”
“Aye, and he probably has ten of them, if the truth were known,” Alwina complained. “ ’Twould be more useful to have gotten cloth for yourself.”
“You’ve no cause to carp—Geoffrey saw that all had new Christmas robes.”
Unmollified, the old woman bent her head to her task and continued muttering as to the folly of giving to them that already had. Gilliane chose to ignore her this time and returned to her own work.
A stack of rabbit skins was brought up from the storeroom, and soon Alwina had enough to occupy her thoughts as she brushed and trimmed them into strips to add length and breadth to the lining she’d already pieced for Lord Geoffrey’s Christmas cloak ere he died. That task done, she threaded her needle and stitched them together until they added to the chessboard pattern on the skin side so neatly ’twould be thought the whole had been done at once. Turning it over from time to time, her gnarled and veined hands smoothed the fur until it lay soft and flat.
When Annys would have sewn on the velvet, Gilliane shook her head, saying that if ’twas to be ruined, she’d ruin it herself. Wi
th a disappointed shrug, the girl turned to the plain brown wool, muttering that naught was wrong with Sir Simon’s old mantle.
They worked far into the evening, long after the light from above turned to black, starry sky. The work was tedious and meticulous as each woman stitched, her head close to her work beneath the smelly tallow candles. The yellow light smoked and flickered, while Gilliane silently thanked her patron saint for the fact that a man’s cloak had few pieces to it. She and Annys were done long before Alwina, who had the greater task. Dismissing the girl, Gilliane turned her attention to the hood, lining it carefully with the pieced rabbit the old woman had sewn, and then framing the edge with the gray-and-white vair. Looking up as she put in the last portion, she noted that Alwina dozed over her blanket of fur.
“Alwina,” she began softly. “Alwina, get you to your pallet.”
“Unnnnuhhhhh.”
“Alwina!”
There was a pause in the low, sonorous breathing as the old woman roused slightly. “Eh?”
“Get you to bed.”
“Nay, but . . .” Determinedly the Saxon woman turned back to the skins on her lap.
“ ’Tis all but done.” Gilliane rose and walked to pick up the neatly stitched fur, holding it up to the brazier light, where the reds and golds of the fire made it look more brown than gray. “Aye—’tis warm and well-made, Alwina,” she observed with satisfaction. “He cannot fault it for that.”
“Humph! ’Tis fit for a royal prince, if you was to offer it there,” the old woman sniffed as she also rose and flexed stiffened fingers. “Aye, and a prince’d have as much use for it as Rivaux, too. Alms begins with them that need it, my lady.”
“I ruined his cloak—I can do no less.” Turning aside to lay the fur on the underside of the velvet mantle, Gilliane measured it against the outer garment. “ ’Tis of a size,” she murmured almost to herself.
“ ’Tis you as should be in bed also,” Alwina muttered.
“Nay, I’d finish the task. I cannot depend on when he will return, and I’d have it done ere he comes.”
