by Anita Mills
12
Within four days Richard of Rivaux showed signs of improvement. His fever, which had been constant at first, abated to the point where it rose only between vespers and prime, those hours of darkness. And once he could struggle to sit unaided, it was determined that Gilliane should no longer attend him alone. Strangely, as tired as she was, she experienced a sense of loss as she watched the brothers go and come from his tiny chamber while she stood by, unnecessary and unwanted.
A woman residing in a monastery had no function, for all the useful tasks were already divided between the men. Moreover, having withdrawn from the secular life, those men were disinclined to female company to the extent that some of them regarded the girl among them much like the temptation of Eve. With the exception of Brothers Hugh and Lymas and the abbot himself, none of the monks even spoke with her. Her meals were delivered silently to the small cell she’d been given, and she was expected to stay out of the way except when summoned.
She caught Brother Lymas as he crossed the yard between cloisters and hall, stopping him. “I know ’tis Brother Hugh who ministers to the sick, but what is your task here?”
He held out ink-stained hands, turning them over for her to see. “God has blessed these to His service, Lady Gilliane—He lets me copy His precious word.”
“You are a scribe then.”
“Aye—and I draw the letters making them pleasing to the eye.”
“I would that I could see them,” she offered wistfully.
He eyed her doubtfully and then relented. “I see no harm if you do not touch my colors, Demoiselle. Indeed, as I have heard of your plight, I cannot think but that the Church is the place for you also.”
“Nay—I have not the piety.”
“Piety comes from inner discipline, little Gilliane—few are born with any thought to God or His works.”
She fell in beside him and listened to him warm to the telling of his chosen vocation. As they walked, he spoke of his great love of all things written, and when they drew near the room where he worked, he finished with, “Aye, as son to a poor knight with four daughters to marry and two sons to provide for, I was sent here to learn my skill. And I have discovered God’s blessing in reading and keeping His Scriptures.” He stopped to hold the door open for her, letting her pass in before him.
She moved to the table placed to catch whatever light came from the window and read aloud the Latin words, stumbling over some of them, and then translating imperfectly, “The destroyer of nations comes.”
“Aye, and comes still, Demoiselle, for the destroyer of what he has is always man, and ’twill not change until we learn to live God’s words. Greed and lust take their toll still, catching poor men in the schemes of the powerful.” He came up behind her to look over her shoulder. “ ’Tis rare to find a demoiselle who can read above her birthname.”
“My father could afford to send but one of my brothers away, and I sat with the others at the priest’s knee. I know only a little Latin, although I can read and write in French.”
“You were fortunate in your priest then, for many cannot read themselves and must rely on memory to say their prayers.”
Without actually touching the parchment, Gilliane traced her finger over the richly illustrated capital. “ ’Tis so beautiful—the red and gold light the page.”
“I pray ’tis as pleasing to God as it is to you,” he responded, pleased by her praise.
But her attention was suddenly distracted by the sound of many horses clattering into the courtyard amid shouts from what could only be armed men. Once again she felt a momentary stab of fear as she stood on tiptoe to reach the small window. She watched an impressive retinue of nearly fifty men dismount. “Sweet Mary,” she breathed. “Who comes?”
Brother Lymas looked out. “By the looks of it, ’tis my lord of Rivaux come for his son.”
“Oh—aye.” Her spirits, which had been lowering since she’d been barred from the sickroom, plummeted now. Somehow, she’d not expected him to come so soon—she’d thought she had more time. Richard would be restored to his family, and she … well, she would be naught to any of them. With a pang of guilt for wishing Guy of Rivaux had not come, she drew away from the window and turned to hide her fears from the monk. “I … I’d seek my chamber now,” she managed before she fled.
She sat alone, waiting to be summoned, worrying that she’d not be welcomed by the elder Rivaux. As the time passed with almost unbearable slowness, she turned her attention to the meanness of what little she had. Her meager clothing had gone with Alwina to Warenne’s keep, and there was naught but the dress she wore now. Her hands smoothed the wrinkles in the blue wool. A spot caught her attention, prompting her to spit on a fingertip and rub at the stain.
“Demoiselle?”
She looked up, and her heart and stomach knotted fearfully at the sight of the big man in the doorway. He loomed tall, blocking escape, and his green-and-gold eyes took measure of her. She did not need to ask his name. Her breath caught for a moment as she stared back at a man she’d heard of all her life. The only rational thought that came to mind was that he looked so much like his son. Tongue-tied, she dropped to her knees before Guy of Rivaux.
“Nay, Demoiselle, do not kneel to me.” He reached a strong hand down to her, drawing her up. “My son tells me I owe you for his life.”
“Nay, but—”
A black eyebrow divided by a fine scar rose above those strange flecked eyes. “Art not the maid of Beaumaule?”
“I am Gilliane de Lacey, my lord,” she acknowledged, feeling very much the fool in his presence.
“I regret the loss of your home and family, Demoiselle, for that I cannot change. But I can offer you another home at Rivaux so long as you have need of it.” His hand, which had cupped her elbow, released her, and he stepped back.
“Nay, but I cannot—”
Again the eyebrow lifted quizzically. “Nay? You mistake the matter, Demoiselle—I offered not out of pity, but rather from gratitude. My son cannot be replaced to me.”
She stared up, still nonplussed beneath his gaze, realizing she was in the presence of the man who’d ended Robert of Belesme almost a quarter of a century earlier. He did not look old—nay, he looked commanding—and almost everything about him except for the green in his eyes and the sprinkling of silver in his black hair reminded her of his son. Somehow, she managed to speak finally.
“ ’Twas Lord Richard who saved my life, my lord—’tis I who must be forever grateful.”
A smile crinkled the corners of his mouth and warmed his strange eyes. “Then you may be indebted to him as I am to you. ’Tis settled—as soon as he can make the journey without breaking open his wound, we leave for Rivaux.” He lifted a hand to touch the hair that framed her face, brushing it back in a gesture that reminded her of her own father. A lump formed inexplicably in her throat. “Aye,” he agreed, smiling at her, “ ’tis as Richard said—’tis a rare color, Demoiselle.”
“I am unused to serving great ladies,” she blurted out for want of anything else to say to him. “I do not know—”
“Cat would not ask it. When she welcomes you, ’twill be as a daughter.” He stepped back abruptly and turned to leave. “My son asks for you, Gilliane.”
“Wait—did he tell you I am undowered?”
He stopped and appeared to consider her. His smile broadened, lightening the flecks in his eyes to pure gold. “As my son is already betrothed, that is no concern to me, Demoiselle.”
Richard lay abed, his tall frame filling the narrow cot, and his temper was not good. It had galled him to have to turn to his father, to have his father know what a fool he’d been. None had ever dared to ambush the great Guy of Rivaux—and none ever would. He could not imagine his father riding into a trap as he had done. Even his physical weakness now served once again to put him at a disadvantage. And if his father knew that he’d gone to England to promote Gloucester’s cause over the Empr
ess’s … His thoughts trailed off in unwillingness to think on his sire’s certain anger.
Gloucester. Robert of Gloucester had to be warned of Stephen’s treachery. Richard lurched upward to sit on the edge of the narrow cot and ran his fingers through his thick, disordered hair. He had to find the means to warn Gloucester.
He heard the muffled sound of soft slippers on the hard floor, and when he looked up, he saw Gilliane. She stood, poised tentatively in the open doorway, her bright hair haloed by the stream of winter sunlight from above, and he wondered how he could have ever thought her plain.
“Sweet Mary, but you warm a man’s heart on a cold day, Demoiselle.” He smiled at the faint blush that rose in her cheeks, and gestured to the seat beside the cot. “Come take your bench and tell me how ’tis that you have deserted me these two days past.”
“ ’Tis only one—and they would not let me near you when you improved, my lord,” she answered almost saucily, her own heart warming at his greeting. “ ’Twas your lord father that bade me come.”
His smile faded abruptly, replaced by a troubled frown. “Aye—he means to take me to Rivaux, Gilliane, and I’d not go.”
“But you yourself said—”
“ ’Twas when I thought my life’s blood ebbed, and I’d have you safe there,” he retorted. “But now I mend here, and I’d return to mine own lands.” With an effort he rose, wincing from the stiffness and the pain, and walked to the high window. His back to her, he stared briefly into the open courtyard.
“What day is this, Demoiselle?”
She calculated briefly and guessed. “ ’Tis the twenty-first, I think.”
“Jesu!” he exploded. “It cannot be. Nay, but—”
“Well, ’twas the seventeenth of the month when you were brought here, and as ’tis the third—nay the fourth day—’tis the twenty-first of December.”
The twenty-first. And they would crown Stephen king on the twenty-second. Henry of Winchester had delayed him as surely as if Warenne had taken him prisoner. It was too late for Gloucester to take action now, even if he were so inclined. Richard’s voice was strained when he spoke again.
“I’d send word to Robert of Gloucester.”
“Your father—”
“My father must not know of it,” he cut in harshly. “Nay, but Gloucester must be warned that Stephen is king.”
“ ’Tis settled then?” she asked, swallowing at the unwelcome news. She’d expected it to happen since Geoffrey had first ridden out for Winchester, but to hear it as fact was a blow to her. Both she and Beaumaule would be bestowed by King Stephen’s whim.
Her silence turned him around. “Aye,” he answered bitterly. “For now.”
“Will Gloucester challenge him?”
“I know not what Robert will do now, Gilliane, but I have hope that he will.”
“Does Count Guy … does your father know?”
“Nay, but he will raise his standard when he does—of that I am certain.”
Her eyes widened in consternation. “But you cannot … that is, you are so lately wounded, my lord—you cannot take the field—”
“My father and I will not be on the same side, Demoiselle, for he is sworn to the Empress.”
“Jesu! And you would quarrel with him—you would fight against him?”
“I’d fight for Gloucester.” He walked to where she still stood. Raising his unbound arm, he reached to lift her chin, and searched her blue eyes intently. “Would it pain you, Gilliane? Would you care if I fell?” he asked suddenly.
“Aye.” She tried to look away, unwilling to let him look into her heart. “Aye, for I’d have no guardian—there’d be none to protect Beaumaule from Brevise.”
His gaze never wavered as he held her chin with still-strong fingers, holding it steady. “And what of you, Gilliane?” he asked softly. “Would you have a care for me?”
There was a subtle difference in what he asked, and she was afraid to answer him, afraid of what that answer would bring her, afraid to guess the meaning of this quicksilver change in him. Still trying to avoid the warmth in his gold-flecked brown eyes, she fixed her gaze at his mouth, and her own went dry. “If you fell,” she answered carefully, “who would kill Brevise?”
“Nay—’tis not what I would hear, Gilliane.”
His voice was barely above a whisper now, and his hand forced her chin higher. His head bent closer, until she could feel the softness of his breath against her cheek as her eyes closed. Her fingers clenched into fists and her body stiffened until his lips met hers almost gently, touching softly at first. She gasped in shocked surprise at the feel of his arm as it slid around her, pinning her against the tall litheness of his body, bending her. And the touch of his mouth, light as it was, sent first a shiver and then a burst of liquid fire coursing through her veins. Her hands, which had been at her side, caught at him now for balance, as his arm tightened, and then returned his embrace.
His mouth played on hers, his tongue teased her lips and then her teeth. Somewhere in her mind she knew it was wrong to like what he did to her, knew she could never call him her own, and she made a feeble attempt to protest, turning her head away. His breath was warm and alive against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. She clutched at his arm for support, bracing herself against the unaccustomed weakness she felt. His good arm held her so close that she could feel his body stir against hers, could feel the rapidness of his breath as his chest rose and fell in rhythm with hers.
“Nay, but I’d not … Sweet Mary, but I dare not …” she whispered helplessly.
Heavy bootsteps accompanied by the jingle of a knight’s spurs came down the hallway and paused outside the small cell, bringing Richard once again to his senses. Cursing himself for a fool, he thrust her away so quickly that she nearly stumbled, and his hand grasped her shoulder as though he would shake her to vent his own anger. Bewildered by the sudden change, she blinked back tears and stared up at him with widened eyes.
“The fault is mine, Gilliane—’tis poor payment for the service you have given me,” he muttered harshly, denying the rush of desire that had flooded over him.
It was as though he’d struck her. Not daring to let him see her tears, she turned and ran blindly from the cell. Outside, she collided with Guy of Rivaux, who steadied her. Mumbling almost incoherently, she begged his pardon and fled.
Guy’s flecked eyes hardened as he faced his son. “Is this how you would repay her kindness?” he demanded brutally, kicking the door shut behind him. “God’s blood, but if you are able to attempt a maid, you are able to ride.”
“Nay—you mistake the matter.”
The divided eyebrow shot upward in disbelief. “Nay? Look at you—art heaving like a stallion ready to mount!” he countered in disgust. “And I just saw the demoiselle flee as though hell pursued her.”
Richard ran his fingers through his hair, combing it away from his forehead. “What passes between Gilliane de Lacey and myself is on my conscience alone, Papa,” he answered stiffly. “I mean her no dishonor.”
Guy moved closer, searching his only son’s face as though he would see another there. A silent anger burned within those dark eyes, reminding him too much of his own sire. Guy raised his hand as though to strike him, and then let it fall when Richard did not flinch. It had long been thus between them, a tenuous truce so fragile that it threatened to break with mere words. There was far too much of the blood he’d given him in the boy, and he feared it.
“Then let your acts be tempered by your intentions,” he said finally.
“I cannot be what you are, Papa—there is but one Guy of Rivaux for the bards to praise.”
“You bear my blood.”
“And naught else!”
“Nay, you have the look of—” He halted and stepped back, muttering, “Your mother would not have me quarrel with you, Richard.”
“Aye.” Richard exhaled sharply, as though he would expel his anger, and th
en nodded. “I mean to protect the demoiselle—she has no other to stand for her.”
“You have not said why you were in England.”
“You did not ask.”
Guy sighed. Speech with his firstborn was too often like the beginning of a sword fight—tentative and testing. “I surmised ’twas because King Henry died in the forest of Lyons.” His green-and-gold eyes met Richard’s and held, and his voice was even. “Aye, I am not the fool you would think me.”
“I have never thought you a fool—except in this, Papa.”
“I swore to the Empress, Richard—twice I gave my oath to Henry’s daughter. All that you are—all that you have—is owed to King Henry. I’d not have you forget that.”
“But I did not swear to her.”
“Aye, but I did, and you are my son. Sweet Jesu, Richard, but you would try a man! Robert of Gloucester will never be king! The man is bastard-born! Bastard-born!”
“As was the old Conqueror!”
“Aye, but the time is different—Holy Church would hold against Robert now. The time is past for a bastard to inherit—and I do not believe Robert would attempt to usurp his sister’s right.”
“He knows she cannot rule, Papa.”
“Does he? Or is it that you want him in her stead? Nay, my son, but he has too much honor to break his oath to her.”
“Unless you wish to swear to Stephen, you’ll support Gloucester,” Richard shot back defiantly.
“Stephen has no claim—if the Empress were dead, ’twould be his brother,” Guy retorted. “And well I know full half the baronage would rather have Count Theobald than her.”
“The Curia crowns Stephen, Papa—on the morrow.” For once he had the satisfaction of knowing he’d caught the all-knowing Guy of Rivaux by surprise, for his father breathed an oath under his breath. “Aye—I had it of Bishop Henry’s own lips.”
