by Anita Mills
“Holy Jesu!” the boy breathed. His own face was pale, greenish-gray almost, and his eyes were wide with horror. “Nay, but I cannot—I cannot even reach you, my lord.”
Rivaux’s eyes mirrored the pain he felt as he leaned toward Gilliane. Numbly she shook her head also. He exhaled visibly and reached again to the shaft, stopping midway. “Take the glove, Demoiselle.” It was as much a groan as an order, but Gilliane reached to pull the heavy blood-reddened glove from his hand. His breath was uneven, coming in white puffs of steam that dissipated into the cold air. “Aye, hold me steady—that I do not fall.”
As he loomed above her, his eyes closed for a moment, she attempted to reach him. Finally she stood on tiptoe to press against where his leg straddled the horse. “ ’Tis the best I can offer, my lord.”
He raised the bared hand again, grasping the arrow shaft, and blood seeped between his fingers, dripping onto his saddle in front of him. He grimaced as he attempted to dislodge it, and then, with an effort, he broke the slender wood between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it as he did so. He slumped forward to catch his breath, swaying again. Alarmed, Gilliane ordered Garth, “Help me to mount, that I may hold him.”
The boy stood transfixed, his throat visibly swallowing the gorge that rose at the sight of the arrow stump. And then her words took on meaning for him. Wordlessly he cupped his hands and moved next to Everard’s bay. Gilliane lifted the skirts of her gown and undergown and stepped into the interlaced palms, swinging up as he boosted her. She threw her leg over the width of the animal’s back behind Rivaux’s saddle, and leaned forward to slide her arms around the man.
“Hand me his reins.”
“Aye, Demoiselle.”
“Nay—you cannot . . .” Richard of Rivaux weaved unsteadily in her arms, protesting weakly.
“Be still, that you may breathe, my lord,” she muttered into the breadth of his back. “Garth, you will have to guide us, as I cannot see around him. My lord, can you use your knees?” she addressed Rivaux.
It was an important question, for any horse capable of going into battle had to be directed by its rider’s movement rather than his reins. In front of her, Richard managed to nod. Gilliane waited for the boy to remount, and then she slapped the bay’s rump. Its braided tail swished, but it moved slowly forward. Rivaux pressed his knee into its side, directing it toward the road that was little more than a path.
Gilliane knew not how long or how far they rode, bobbing and weaving, jarred until their bones ached, but it seemed an eternity. She leaned her head against his back and prayed silently that he could keep his seat. He spoke not at all, and she feared he had swooned, but she held him tightly encircled and willed him to live.
When they came over the last chalk hill, the busy port bustled before them, its narrow streets teeming with the sounds and smells of vessels being laded. Rivaux kneed the horse forward into the first lane. They must have been a strange sight, a wounded knight and a girl, for people immediately began to collect around them, walking beside them.
“My lord of Gloucester’s ship—I’d seek Gloucester’s ship,” she announced boldly. “I’d seek aid for his man.”
Rivaux straightened up and rallied with an effort. “Aye—a silver mark to any who leads us there.”
“My lord Stephen—” One man looked up at them doubtfully, reaching for the reins.
“Nay, he is Gloucester’s man,” she interrupted quickly. “He is his lord’s responsibility, for he is hurt.”
“There is a physician—”
“Nay.” This time it was Richard who spoke, brushing aside the man’s words. “Gloucester.”
The fellow shrugged and grasped the leather lines that encircled the bay’s nose. “ ’Twill fester, sir.” He looked up at Richard’s plain cloak and the well- battered helmet that hung from his saddle pommel, and surmised that perhaps the knight could ill-afford a physician. “I’d not take your money.”
“See us to one of Gloucester’s ships, and ’tis yours,” Gilliane promised. “I’d have him tended in Normandy.”
“And he lives.”
The man’s words sent a chill shuddering through her, but she dared not discourage Rivaux. “Nay, he will live.”
They wended, a strange procession, through the cramped streets of the city, drawing everything from the derisive jeers of those who instinctively hated mounted knights, to shouts of encouragement from those who didn’t. Many stood watching in silence, unwilling either to aid or to stop them. As the way grew narrower, she considered the possibility that they would be robbed and left for dead in some dank alley. The stench of offal and rotting fish assailed her nose and nauseated her, but she managed to hold the man before her steady on his horse. Finally there was the unmistakable salt scent of the sea, and the crowded wharves lay ahead of them.
“Give him the money—’tis in my belt.”
Nodding, she pulled back his cloak and felt along the stamped leather that girded his waist, moving her hands over his flat abdomen, finding the soft leather pouch that hung there. As she loosened it and drew it out, a collective gasp escaped the crowd massed around them. It was suddenly realized that the wounded knight was a man of substance, and whatever sympathy his plight had gleaned for him faded. Several people pressed closer, reaching out their hands to rob the fat purse.
“ ’Tis a rich lord—aye, he’s a lord!”
The red silk gleamed bright with gold embroidery on the surcoat that covered his cuir bouilli, but the black hawk was for the most part obscured by his bloody cloak. One of the bolder men sought to pull the wounded man down, frightening Gilliane, who kicked furiously at him.
“Nay—’tis Rivaux!” she cried out in alarm. “Aye— you’ll be punished if you touch him! ’Tis Rivaux!”
“Rivaux! Rivaux? ‘Tis Rivaux?”
Doubtful murmurs swept through the crowd as all eyes suddenly studied him intently. The mood, which had grown ugly, eased almost to awe. The man who’d led them looked up at him curiously. “Nay, but you are too young to be such a one as he.”
“He is Richard of Rivaux, son to Count Guy,” Gillian hastened to explain before they turned on him again. “Aye, but his father punished Belesme.”
Belesme. It was a name that could bring fear and loathing into the hearts and minds of Norman and Saxon, peasant and lord alike, despite the fact that he’d been gone from the earth almost twenty-four years. Even now there were the superstitious who feared that he would incarnate himself yet again and return to wreak death on them. But it was Guy of Rivaux who’d taken him, Guy of Rivaux who’d finally ended the terror Belesme had visited on Normandy and England. And it was of Guy of Rivaux that every bard sang in the halls of both lands.
“Art truly his son?” a ragged beggar who’d followed them asked.
Richard leaned forward, swaying in Gilliane’s arms. “Aye,” he whispered. “Jesu, aid me—”
A dozen hands grasped at him, easing him down as he fell, almost taking her with him. “Sweet Mary, but he bleeds to death!” she cried. “Can no one aid us?”
They’d gathered around him, bending over him, obscuring him from her sight. The one who’d led the horse straightened up before the others and shook his head. “Nay, he is but weakened from the ride. We can take him to my lord of Warenne—”
“Nay! He is Gloucester’s liegeman. Is there no ship of Gloucester’s here?”
“Aye, but—”
“If you love his father, if you love Guy of Rivaux, I pray you will take us to one who serves Gloucester—I pray you.” Gilliane managed to slide from the big bay’s back into their midst. “Garth, tell them—tell them that Gloucester will reward them.” She rounded frantically on the startled boy, who stood tongue-tied behind her now. “Garth!”
“Aye, D-Demoiselle,” he answered finally, stammering at the suddenness of her plea. “Aye.” Facing the curious onlookers, he managed to tell them, “ ’Tis as the Lady Gilliane says—’tis Rivaux’s so
n.”
“And we’d see him to Normandy before his enemies overtake us!” Gilliane begged them. “I pray you—aid us!”
For answer, one of the burlier men knelt beside Richard and wrenched at the stub of the arrow shaft where it still protruded from his chest. Richard groaned, biting his lip until it bled, and then his head lolled as flesh and leather yielded the metal tip.
“Oh—nay, but you would kill him!” Helpless tears rolled down Gilliane’s cheeks.
But the men ignored her as one tore at his own undertunic to provide a piece of cloth. The fellow who’d pulled the arrow free laid his head close to Richard’s bared head and listened for his breath. Satisfied, he sat back on his haunches and rolled the dirty cloth. Loosening the lacings of the stiffened leather cuir bouilli, he thrust the wad beneath the hole and then pulled the leather thongs tight again. Rising, he wiped his hands on his own tunic.”
He swoons, but he breathes strongly,” he addressed Gilliane, stating the obvious, and then he added, “Our lord serves Stephen, lady, but we’d not see harm come to Rivaux’s son—nay, but ’twas he who took Belesme.” He paused to sign the Cross over his breast at the hated name, as though doing so would protect him from some ancient curse, and then he turned back to the others. “ ’Tis Guy of Rivaux’s son—would you carry him to Gloucester’s ship?”
Nodding assent, several of the men attempted to stand the unconscious man up, bracing him between two of them. As he sagged, others formed a human bed with their arms beneath him and lifted him. Gilliane followed as they carried the unconscious man, praying silently that he’d live and that they’d not betray him.
The captain of the Windrunner received them, and after listening to Gilliane’s plea for Richard, agreed to lift anchor early for the crossing. In their haste, they’d found a cargo vessel more used to carrying barrels of pickled fish and lampreys than people. Gilliane huddled in the cold, dank, rancid hold, covering Richard with Everard’s bloody mantle, hovering over him anxiously. It was dark, and the air was unbearably foul, but she didn’t care. Once she heard what sounded like a great sigh, and fearful, leaned close to listen for his breath.
“Demoiselle,” he whispered in the darkness. “I am in your debt this day.”
Tears stung her eyes, scalding them, as she gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving that he would rally. God in His mercy had not abandoned her entirely.
“I thirst.”
“There’s naught—Garth, ask if there is water to be had for my lord.”
“Aye, Demoiselle.”
She could hear the scuffle of his boots as the boy scrambled toward the faint light at the other end of the hold, and then there was only the sound of Rivaux’s breathing and the movement of the rats as they scampered along the ribbed timbers.
“I … I feared you would die, my lord.”
“Nay.”
“You cannot ride to Robert of Gloucester.”
There was a heavy sigh in the darkness as he acknowledged the truth of her words. “Nor even Celesin,” he admitted reluctantly. “Nay, but Rivaux is closer—though I am loath to go there.”
Rivaux. For some reason the idea of going into Guy of Rivaux’s great keep lowered her spirits, which already seemed to rise and fall with the seas beneath them. What would they—Count Guy and his highborn countess—think of her? She’d be a nithing to them, one scarcely above a serving maid, she supposed, and they could not be expected to welcome a homeless, undowered maid.
“Gilliane?”
“Aye, my lord?” She leaned closer to listen to his harsh whisper.
“I’d have you lay your head down again, that I may smell the rosewater in your hair—it eases me.”
His mind must be wandering. She started to retort that ’twas smoke he’d smelled, but the words died on her lips. If in his confusion he turned to her, what harm could there be in comforting him? She lay down beside him, stretching her body against his greater length and curving her arm over his chest, feeling the bulge in the torn leather. He sighed and turned his head against hers.
His breath was warm against her face, reassuring her that he would live. He had to. Her hand sought the hard muscle of his arm, closing over it, as she eased her head to rest against the stiff leather of his cuir bouilli on his good shoulder. The thought crept into her mind that, for good or ill, his fate was hers.
It took Garth a long time to beg wine and a suitable drinking vessel of the ship’s captain, and when he returned, he discovered his mistress and Rivaux both asleep, twined together in Everard’s cloak. After sitting for a time huddled against the cold, he drank the wine himself and eased his body against theirs. The three of them lay close, taking and giving warmth in the cold, dank hold.
11
It was obvious by the time they reached Dieppe that Richard of Rivaux could travel no further. The shipmaster had him carried to a wharfside inn, and Gilliane drew upon Richard’s purse to buy lodgings for them despite the meanness of the place. With great misgivings she sent Garth to carry a message to Guy of Rivaux, hoping against hope that the boy could find his way in a strange land—and that the great lord would believe his son lay grievously wounded in Dieppe, unaided by any but a maid.
She knelt in the small sleeping loft over the inn stable that Rivaux’s silver had bought them, and tended him anxiously. He’d lost far too much blood, and his mind wandered often, alarming her greatly. And now he complained of the cold also, shivering mightily within Everard’s cloak, but when she touched him, his brow was hot.
“I th-thirst,” he croaked for the fourth time in a short while. With an effort, his eyes opened to stare at her as though she were a stranger, fluttered, and closed again.
Her hands shook from the cold as she poured sour wine from the skin the innkeeper had sold her, taking care to strain the debris with her fingers. Lifting Richard from the straw pallet, she braced his shoulder against her knee and held the crude cup to his lips. He drank deeply and fell back sighing.
“J-jesu, b-but ’tis c-cold.”
Laying aside the cup, she drew the woolen cloth closer to his shoulders, pulling it up to his chin, but the chills continued to rack his body. In desperation she scooped straw from the floor around them and piled it on him for warmth, and still he shook. She pinned him down, lying over him to try to stop the awful shaking, but he moved beneath her like a quivering horse until she could stand it no longer. What if he died in her care? What would his family do to her then?
Finally she left him then to seek out the innkeeper. Afraid to reveal ’twas Richard of Rivaux she tended, afraid she might be among his enemies, she begged for a blanket for her husband. The innkeeper’s eyes raked her boldly, scoffing at her claim of marriage, but she no longer cared about that.
“Tumble you for it,” he offered, his eyes on the swell of her breasts beneath her plain mantle.
“Nay.”
“Then let him freeze.” He shrugged and moved away.
“Wait. I have silver . . .”
It was a mistake. She could see the gleam of avarice in the man’s eyes as he turned back to her. “How much?”
“A little,” she lied, wishing she’d not come down from the loft. “I gave you most of it for the pallet.”
“Give me the rest.”
“Aye.” She nodded, running her tongue over suddenly parched lips. “I will get it of my husband.”
“Husband?” He sneered, taking in the plainness of her clothing and her short, blunt hair. “ ’Tis plain to me that you are naught but a harlot shorn for her sins. But if you would seek the knight’s protection, you’ll find yourself alone.” His eyes lingered insolently on her breasts again. “Aye, for he won’t live long with a wound like that.”
Her heart tightened painfully in her chest, but her fear did not betray her. “Nonetheless, sir, I’d have a blanket for my husband,” she repeated coldly.
“Get me the silver then.”
“Aye.”
She
returned to the loft afraid—afraid that the innkeeper spoke the truth, afraid that Richard of Rivaux’s life ebbed, afraid that when night fell they would be robbed or worse. She picked up the purse and moved to where the shutters let in a sliver of light. Opening it, she counted out the contents. It was the equivalent of a fortune to her, but she dared not spend any more of it without risking losing it entirely. She drew the string reluctantly and carried it back to where he lay, his eyes closed, his teeth chattering, beneath the pile of straw.
Nay, but ’twas not just another blanket he needed, she had to admit to herself. Even as unskilled in simples as she was, she could see he had to have a physician or die. But she knew of none in the strange place, and she’d not risk approaching the innkeeper again. Mayhap a priest could direct her—aye, a priest—he’d need one anyway if she could not find help.
She bent over to brush back the thick black hair from the hot, dry skin of Richard’s face. His eyes fluttered but did not open.
“My lord, can you hear me speak?” she asked, placing her mouth near his ear.
“Aye.”
“I leave to seek aid for you—I will return,” she promised him.
“Nay.”
“I must.”
The straw rustled beneath her as one of his hands wriggled free of the cloth and reached to grasp hers. “Nay,” he croaked again. “I’d h-have you w-warm me, G-G-G—” He abandoned the effort to speak and pulled her hand closer to his breast.
Gratified that he knew her at least, she lay down beside him again and spread her cloak over both of them, waiting for him to sleep. His breath was harsh and labored beneath her head, so much so it was difficult to tell if he slept or swooned. She waited until she could stand it no longer.
This time she did not tell him she was leaving, but rather stole down the ladder with his purse tucked beneath her mantle. The stableyard was busy enough that none took note of her. Approaching an ostler scarcely older than herself, she told him, “A priest—I have need of a priest. Do you—?”
