by Anita Mills
“Winchester?”
“Winchester. And while I cannot prove ’tis so, I think I owe the arrow I took to him. ’Twas Warenne that would have stopped me, and he is Stephen’s man. My folly was in seeking out the good bishop ere I appealed to the Curia itself,” Richard added bitterly. “Stephen has taken the seal and the treasury, and Bigod has perjured himself to gain us an amiable king.”
“Does Gloucester know?”
“Nay—I had not the chance to warn him of it.”
A low whistle escaped Guy. “As they are rivals, he’ll not stomach the news well, I fear.”
“Nay, he will fight.”
“For his sister.” Guy paced over to the high window and looked out, staring for a time at the leafless trees beyond the courtyard. “This changes nothing, Richard—Gloucester will raise the Empress’s standard, and I will raise mine also in her cause.”
“She is wed to Anjou! You cannot want Anjou over Normandy and England!”
“I gave my oath to her.”
Guy turned from the window and started for the door. “There is no reasoning with you—honor means naught to you, my son. You are too like—” He caught himself and shook his head. “Nay, I’d not discuss this with you. As my son, you will support Henry’s daughter.”
Despite the almost continuous quarrel between them, Richard had to know what he meant to do now. “Wait—do you send to the Empress and Geoffrey of Anjou?”
“Aye, and to Gloucester also.” Guy paused on the threshold, turning back to his son. “Unlike you, I believe him an honorable man.” And then, almost as an afterthought, he added stiffly, “As for Gilliane de Lacey, I’d remind you that she is a gentlewoman—and you are not free to wed. There is the matter of Lincoln’s whey-faced daughter—the one you chose for wife.”
After he left, Richard sat again on the bed. He had not a doubt that his father would apprise Robert of Gloucester of Stephen’s treachery in such a way that Gloucester would support the Empress. If naught else could be said of Guy of Rivaux, he had the ability to shame a man into doing his bidding.
Defeated, Richard turned his thoughts to Cicely of Lincoln and tried to remember how she looked. It was difficult—he’d not seen her since she was a small, pale child. And then the image of Gilliane de Lacey floated before him. Her bright coppery hair shone in the dim light of Beaumaule’s chapel as she urged him to kill William of Brevise for her. Aye, he was caught in a coil of his own making in that matter also—he’d promised his name to Lincoln’s daughter and he feared he’d given his heart to the fiery-haired Gilliane. He looked down to where Brother Hugh’s bandages bulged across his chest and remembered the feel of her head there. An acute loneliness stole over him with the realization that he could not in honor have her.
13
Gilliane had never seen a place to compare with Rivaux. She stared in wide-eyed awe at the tall, forbidding walls that loomed ahead of them, and wondered what Richard of Rivaux’s mother would think of one who came from the likes of Beaumaule. Involuntarily her eyes stole to the man in the litter beside her, and she was surprised by the set look on his face. His very glumness reminded her of the prisoners he’d taken at Beaumaule.
They’d spoken little beyond the commonplace in those last two days at the abbey, constrained by what had passed between them in his cell. She’d played the harlot by letting him kiss her, she was certain, and he’d taken a disgust of her, scarce looking at her since. And now he lay back amid the cushions in the litter, silent and sullen.
His black hair fell forward over his forehead, shadowing skin made pale by his wound, and his dark eyes stared ahead as though they could see something she could not in the space before him. She could stand his silence no longer, and after a furtive look to where Guy of Rivaux rode ahead of them, Gilliane edged her horse closer to his litter.
“My lord,” she hissed low for his ears alone, “I would that we could cry peace ere we reach Rivaux.”
It was as though he were reluctant to look at her, but he finally turned toward her. “There is no peace to cry, Demoiselle, for there has been no war.”
The thin, fragile thread that held her own temper in check broke, and she no longer cared if any heard her. “Nay, but you wrong me, Richard of Rivaux!” she snapped. “You had no right to force me from my home, to … to bring me here amongst strangers when I would not come! And you had no right to touch me, to … to …” She sputtered, seeking to put her hurt into words, and then finished hotly, “I’d not be punished for what I did not want!”
“Aye,” he cut in abruptly, “the fault was mine, and I acknowledge it. I am heartily sorry for what passed between us, Demoiselle.”
Somehow the apology did not assuage her anger in the least. He was sorry for having held her, for having kissed her, and her woman’s mind had no wish to hear that. That it was illogical to be angered on the one hand because he’d dared to touch her, and on the other because he’d apologized for doing so was irrelevant. It was his manner, she told herself, still seething. He’d pushed her away as though she disgusted him then, and now he admitted he regretted the kiss itself.
“You had not the right—”
“I had not the right. Aye, I swore to protect you.”
“I am not a kitchen wench that you may—”
“You are not a wench to be tumbled,” he agreed, interrupting her. “And I’d not speak of it longer, Demoiselle, for I have said I am sorry for the lapse. You need not fear it will happen again.”
“Jesu!”
She threw up her hands in frustration and then realized he was not attending her. Instead, he’d sunk back against his pillows and closed his eyes, ending any discourse between them. He still looked ill from his wound, and his bandage still bulged even beneath the blanket that covered him. His black lashes lay against almost alabaster skin, and his lids were bluish above, forming circles with the hollows below. Aye, he’d not recovered from the arrow he’d taken as he’d fled to save her. Her anger faded, dissipating abruptly as she recalled what she owed him.
The terror of that last day at Beaumaule came home to her again, much as it had haunted her nightmares, and she could see again the Fires burning around her, could hear the screams of the wounded and dying, could smell the breath of the man she’d killed in the kitchen, and her stomach knotted with remembered fear. And ’twas Richard of Rivaux who’d saved her—Richard of Rivaux who’d found her in that dark storeroom, who’d crawled and pulled her to safety amid the fiery rubble of what had been Beaumaule. She hunched closer over her saddle and felt again the safety of his arms about her. And felt again the sensation of his lips on hers as he’d held her in the abbey. Blood heightened the color in her cheeks, and she turned away as she remembered she’d not wanted the kiss to end.
“You will not find Rivaux inhospitable, Demoiselle.”
Gilliane looked up into the strange green-and-gold eyes of Richard’s father, and her color deepened. He’d reined in and waited for them, and she wondered what he’d heard. She turned away hastily and busied herself with smoothing her cloak over her gown, not daring to discover what he must surely think of her.
“ ’Tis so very large, my lord,” she mumbled, keeping her gaze on the saddle pommel before her.
“Aye, but ’tis not so fine a place as either the Condes or Harlowe, Demoiselle, and you must not think we are overgiven to ceremony here. You will soon meet my lady Catherine of the Condes, and she will bid you most welcome.”
The Cat—the proud Cat of whom Richard had spoken. Gilliane doubted one such as that would even acknowledge her existence, but she dared not dispute the count’s words. Instead she nodded. “Aye—I hope I am pleasing to her.”
“You will be.” To her further discomfiture, he kneed his horse even closer, leaning almost across her to address his son. “Did you not tell her that we have daughters in our house?”
“Aye.” It was a monosyllabic reply uttered through nearly clenched teeth.
&
nbsp; Guy turned back to Gilliane, favoring her with a wry smile. “You must forgive my son, Demoiselle, for his wound seems to have affected his tongue. Nay, but ’twill be as yet another daughter comes to us.”
She knew not how to answer such graciousness. Casting a quick look to see if he amused himself at her expense, she found his gaze pleasant enough, but she felt tongue-tied in his presence. Finally, for want of anything else to say, she blurted out, “How many girls do you have?” and then wondered if he thought her an ungrateful fool. She bit her lips and flushed anew.
“Four. There is Elizabeth, the eldest, once our Demoiselle, and then there are Isabella, Joanna, and Eleanor, the last so named for her grandmother of Nantes. You are probably of an age with Bella for she is seventeen.”
“I am nineteen, my lord.”
“Liza is twenty.”
“And has a temper to match the Empress.” Richard broke his silence. “When her husband died without an heir, she came back to Rivaux to make life miserable for the rest of her family.”
“You mistake the matter,” Guy snapped. “She does but mourn him.”
“She wraps herself in widow’s weeds that she may live with Maman forever. Nay, but you do her no service, letting her stay at Rivaux when ’tis another husband she needs. Her tongue lashes out with impunity, making hell on earth for the younger girls.” Richard pushed himself up awkwardly, shifting the balance of the litter between the two horses precariously. “Have a care, Demoiselle, that you do not draw Elizabeth’s ire, for she will make you pay. You are better served to become friends with Bella.”
“Pay him no heed, Demoiselle, for ’tis that they have always quarreled since her birth. A brother is last to value his sister, I fear.” Turning to Richard, he sighed. “Aye, ’twas always thus between you, was it not? One would think you had never loved her, and yet you were the first to argue against her marriage.”
“Because I’d not see her given to a weakling!”
“There was naught weak about Ivo,” Guy muttered irritably. “He was son to the Count of Eu, and had he not fallen in a quarrel, he’d have made a good husband.”
“Jesu! He was a handsome fool, Papa.”
“She had a choice in the matter.”
“Aye, and was much struck by his looks, I’ll warrant, but you did not see them after. I did, and had he not fallen in battle, I’d think she’d poisoned him, for his tastes ran not to women.”
Guy fell silent, unwilling to yield that there’d been anything wrong with his daughter’s marriage. Certainly she’d been glad enough to return home to Rivaux, but he believed that to be because she’d borne no children to the union. Still, it was strange that she showed no inclination to take another husband.
“There was naught wrong with Ivo,” he repeated finally, spurring his horse forward and returning to his place at the head of the column.
“You should not vex him so,” Gilliane murmured.
“Aye, I suppose not.” Richard stared unseeing for a moment and then shrugged against his pillows. “But you cannot know how it is to be his son. He would have me in his own image in both spirit and deed, Demoiselle.”
“Do you really dislike your sister?”
“Nay, but I’d see her wed again ere she withers like an old woman, content to stay at Rivaux with Maman.” He looked again to the gates of the castle ahead, and suddenly ordered the riders who led the litter to halt.
“We are nearly there, my lord,” one of them protested.
“Aye, and I’d ride in unaided. I’d not be cosseted and wept over by Maman,” Richard retorted.
“Lord Guy—”
“I can ride.”
“He’ll be angered if your wound breaks open, my lord. Nay, but I’d ask if—”
“My lord, I’d not—” Gilliane started to reason with him, but her words died under his quelling look. “Garth, tell Lord Guy that he wishes to ride.”
“Nay.”
“Nay that you no longer wish to sit astride your horse?” she asked with feigned innocence.
“You take too much on yourself, Demoiselle! I’d have my horse.”
“Garth.”
“Aye, lady.” With a great deal of reluctance, the boy nudged his horse forward, ignoring Richard of Rivaux’s dark scowl.
“You have not the right—”
“And you have an excess of pride, my lord. Would you rather heal, that you may leave Rivaux as soon as may be, or would you rather risk falling at your mother’s feet?”
“Demoiselle, ’tis naught to you—” He stopped, well aware of what he owed her, and shook his head.
“Aye?”
“I’d have you draw closer, that I might buffet your ears, if the truth were known.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. “There is much of my mother in you.”
“I shall choose to take that as a compliment, my lord,” she responded sweetly.
“ ’Twas meant as one.”
“So you would ride rather than be carried?”
For a moment Gilliane feared that the quarrel between Richard and his father was about to begin anew, but then she saw Guy of Rivaux rein in and dismount. “Get him his horse,” he ordered curtly to the man who still led the pack animals. He walked to the side of the litter and thrust back the hangings, peering intently into his son’s pale face. “Aye,” he said with surprising softness, “I’d not be carried either. Lean into me.”
“My lord, you must not—”
Before the words were scarce out of the man’s mouth, Guy had slid his arms beneath Richard’s shoulders. “I carried him when he was a babe, and I can do so now.” With an effort, he lifted the son who was as tall as he was, easing him out of the litter and letting him slide gently to the ground. “Can you stand? Or have your limbs grown too accustomed to the motion?”
“I can stand.”
Despite the cold, small beads of perspiration moistened Richard’s brow, and for a moment he swayed. But then he gained his balance and stepped from his father’s embrace. “My thanks, Papa.”
“Nay, I understand pride,” Guy told him gruffly. “Mount him,” he ordered the ostler who led Everard’s bay forward. “And ride close to him.” He turned to Gilliane, his strange gold-and-green-flecked eyes betraying a flash of humor. “ ’Tis no small feat for a man in his forty-eighth year—eh, Demoiselle?”
“Jesu, but he is strong,” Garth breathed after him.
“Aye.” Richard nodded, still watching him. “He is that,” he conceded. “But make no mistake—he did it for the love of my mother. He’d not frighten her with the litter.”
“Sweet Mary, but you wrong him, I think,” Gilliane murmured without thinking.
He shook his head, his face betraying his bitterness. “You know not what is between us.”
“You are his son.”
“Aye, but he did not want a son—for some reason, Demoiselle, he never wanted a son.” Richard grasped the pommel and heaved himself up into Everard’s worn saddle with an effort. Wincing against the stiffness and the pain, he reached for the reins.
“Every man wants a son, my lord.”
His eyebrow lifted, much as Guy of Rivaux’s had earlier. “Not my father. Four times in my memory I have seen my mother bring forth a daughter and each time, the babe has been greeted with relief by him.”
“ ’Tis unnatural what you say.”
“Mayhap, but I once asked Old William, who was with him from birth, and ere he died, the old man even admitted ’twas so.”
“But why?”
“Now that he never told me.” He reached to pat the saddle sheath that held his sword. “See this? ’Tis Hellbringer, Belesme’s sword, and had it not been for Old William, it would have been melted like old mail at the forge. ’Twas he who saved it for me—despite my sire’s ire.”
“Mayhap he wished to destroy its evil,” she offered, understanding how that could be.
“Nay. He did not wish me to have
it.”
There was no use disputing something that she had no real knowledge of. Gilliane fell silent again, watching the horses ahead of them pick their way along the rock road that led to Rivaux’s gate. When they crossed into the fortress itself, she would know none but Richard and Garth, for despite Guy of Rivaux’s encouraging words at Dieppe, she was going among strangers.
They were almost there now. The first of the horses had already clattered onto the lowered bridge. Gilliane reined in, uncertain of where she should ride, for there were no others of her rank with them. She stole a look at Richard and saw him straighten to sit tall in his saddle.
“I’d have you ride in with me,” he managed through teeth clenched against the throbbing pain in his shoulder.
“Jesu, mayhap you should—”
“Nay, ’tis not so bad when I favor it. But I’d have you draw closer. Garth, stay near on the other side.” He winced again as he lifted the reins with his left hand. “I hate weakness,” he muttered.
With great misgiving, Gilliane looked about her uneasily, taking in the high, thick stone walls of the outer curtain and then the broad expanse of winter-browned meadow that lay between it and the inner walls. Four tall towers dominated the curtain, standing sentinel over a small town that clustered in Rivaux’s shadow, and four others marked the corners of the four-story keep itself. And an extraordinary number of arrow slits cut into the thick stone gave the fortress dominance over the surrounding countryside.
“Aye—’tis a thing of beauty, is it not? ’Twas raised from a motte and bailey not much greater than that of Beaumaule,” Richard cut into her thoughts again. “Mine own keep at Celesin has little to compare with Rivaux, save that its walls are stone also.”
Passing through the second gatehouse, they were instantly surrounded by ostlers ready to divest and stable the horses. And waiting on the steps of the tall keep that filled much of the inner yard were a woman and four girls, all of whom hastened forward in greeting. The woman stopped first at Guy of Rivaux’s side, and he slid down to embrace her, affording Gilliane her first look at Catherine of the Condes. Small, dark-haired, and beautiful still, the woman looked up into her lord’s face with such love that it gave Gilliane a pang of envy to watch them.
