by Anita Mills
“Richard! Richard! Sweet Mary, brother, but we’d thought you nigh dead!”
The clamor of voices drew Gilliane back to Richard of Rivaux, who’d been pulled from his saddle and stood now in the midst of three clamoring girls, all younger than herself. He bent to kiss each of them in turn and then looked up to where Gilliane still sat astride. “Garth!” he called out to the boy who’d ridden at the back of the train, “Come dismount your mistress! Your pardon, Demoiselle—I’d do it myself if I thought I could.” Herding the girls toward her, he introduced them in turn. “Nell, make your obeisance to the Lady Gilliane de Lacey—Demoiselle, ’tis my littlest sister, Eleanor of Rivaux; Gilliane—Isabella, called Bella; and Joanna, who thinks me invincible. Ouch! You little vixen—’tis my sore side you would press!” He scolded the one he’d called Joanna. “Have a care before I cuff your ears!”
She looked from one girl to another and was struck by all of them. Every one had eyes darker than Richard’s and hair that was lighter, more brown than his, with small, delicately formed features like Catherine of the Condes’.
“So you are come home at last, brother.”
It was then that she noted the tall girl who stood apart slightly, her hands on her hips, surveying him with the faintest of smiles. She was uncloaked against the cold, and her rich blue samite gown was laced under her arms to pull it smooth over high, firm breasts. But it was her face that men would remember, Gilliane decided as she stared openly at the beautiful girl. Defying tradition, she wore her thick, glossy black hair unbound like a maiden, and it whipped around her face, framing skin as translucent as the best parchment, setting off fine, even features that mirrored her brother’s. Only the eyes were different—where as his were brown flecked with gold, hers were a clear, deep green.
“Liza.”
There was a slight hesitation between them, an awkwardness born of too many quarrels. And then he opened his good arm to her and she stepped into his embrace, leaning her head against his shoulder.
“Well, I am glad enough you survived, brother, else I’d have had to do penance for all I’ve said to you these twenty years past.”
“ ’Twould almost have been worth the dying to have witnessed that.” Richard looked over a shoulder nearly as tall as his own. “Demoiselle, come closer that I may present you to the termagant.”
Elizabeth of Rivaux turned to her then, and Gilliane was suddenly self-conscious of her own dowdiness as the older girl’s green eyes assessed her openly. But then she smiled warmly, tossing back at Richard, “You have brought us something we have need of, brother—another girl to this house. Come, Demoiselle, despite what he may have said, I will not devour you.”
“Elizabeth, ’tis Gilliane de Lacey. She—”
“Saved your life. Aye, we had the tale of the boy,” Elizabeth said dismissively. “How old are you, Demoiselle?”
“You did not let me finish, Liza,” he complained.
“Well, she knows I am Elizabeth, and since I am born of this house, I am Rivaux, so there was naught more to be said, was there? Nay, get you to bed, Richard, and leave the greetings to Gilliane and me—you look tired unto death, anyway.”
“Richard.”
The woman spoke low, but they all turned to her. For a moment Gilliane thought she ought to kneel at the countess’s feet, but then decided to wait until she was presented. It made no difference, for Catherine of the Condes now had eyes for none but her tall son.
“Sweet Mary, but you gave me a fright, Richard.”
“Nay, Maman. As you can see, I am all right.”
“I can see you are half-dead,” she retorted, but incredibly she was smiling mistily at him. “Aye, Elizabeth has the right of it—you should be abed. Arnulf, see Lord Richard to the solar—I’d tend him myself.”
“Maman—”
“Nay. You may bully this demoiselle into doing your bidding, my son, but in this house ’tis my will that will be done,” she told him firmly. “Arnulf, take Gervais with you, that he does not fall.”
Ignoring his protests, Catherine turned her attention to Gilliane. “You must be the maid of Beaumaule, Demoiselle,” she murmured, moving forward to catch her before she could make a proper obeisance. “Nay, ’tis I who should kneel to you for my son’s life.” Like her eldest daughter, she too seemed to inspect Gilliane’s poor cloak and the woolen gown that could be seen where it parted. “Come—you must tell me all that has happened since you were met with him.”
Gilliane glanced helplessly to where two men already walked Richard toward the tower stairs. Catherine followed her gaze, frowning slightly. “Nay, but I have had enough of the tale to know you are welcome in this house, Demoiselle. Elizabeth, see if there’s aught of yours that she can wear ere we sew for her,” she directed. “And Isabella, tell Hawise I’d have something hot for the demoiselle to drink. You must be nigh frozen, Gilliane, and wonder at my hospitality already.”
“Do I get to sleep with her?” the youngest girl asked, trotting alongside as Catherine shepherded Gilliane inside.
“You have Joanna and Isabella,” her mother reminded her.
“Nay, but a pallet is all—”
“Nonsense. Only serving women sleep on pallets here.”
Following the men, they climbed up the winding stairs cut into the thick tower walls, past the landings that opened to the main hall, and on up to the third floor. Catherine waited for a manservant to hold the door for them and then stepped inside a room, the likes of which Gilliane had never imagined existed. The roof was cross-timbered above whitewashed walls, and the floors were swept bare, while tall windows provided light to the low, cushioned benches beneath them. Richly carved and hasped cabinets lined the outer walls, while a great curtained bed rested on a raised platform at one end. This then must be the lord’s bedchamber.
“We sleep here,” Catherine confirmed the obvious for her.
“ ’Tis quite fine,” Gilliane murmured, awestruck.
“And there are other chambers beyond. My younger daughters share a bed in one, with the women taking pallets beside, and then there is a room for Elizabeth as Demoiselle of the house. Over there …” She pointed to a heavy door. “Over there is my solar. Unlike that in most keeps, ’tis not shared with my bedchamber, so that my women will not disturb my lord when they waken to work. The looms are there also, but for now, ’tis where we put Richard. I have had a bed set that he may be tended closely, so I fear Guy will have to have us underfoot in here.”
“You will share my bed, Demoiselle,” Elizabeth spoke up. “ ’Twas decided that since we are of an age, ’tis more fitting.”
An old woman came forward to thrust a steaming cup at Gilliane, favoring her with a toothless smile as she did so, and ten-year-old Eleanor of Rivaux piped up, “ ’Tis spiced and sweet—Hawise makes it herself.”
Through an open door Gilliane could hear Richard complaining as he was undressed, and the countess hurriedly excused herself to tend to him. Gilliane stared around her, still not comprehending either the wealth or the welcome. She was now among one of the truly great and powerful families of Normandy, and it ought to gratify her that they meant to treat her kindly, but she felt terribly alone, more so than at any time she could remember. Although Richard of Rivaux was now among those who loved him, she was among strangers.
“I asked if you had any clothes to put away,” Elizabeth repeated, breaking into her thoughts.
“Nay—what you see is all I have.”
“No matter then, I am taller than you, but Hawise can hem.”
“Nay, but I—”
“Maman will not let you look like a beggar here, Demoiselle.” Elizabeth surveyed her with a mixture of exasperation and concern. “And do you mind if I use your name? I’d call you Gilliane if ’twill not offend you. You may address me as Elizabeth or Liza, as Richard does—it matters to me not.”
“Aye.”
Gilliane closed her eyes momentarily, straining to hear
the sounds that came from Catherine’s solar, straining to hear him. She’d heard from Geoffrey that there was little discourse between unmarried men and girls in a great house, so that she wondered if she would see Richard much again.
“Gilliane!” This time Elizabeth spoke sharply, and then when Gilliane flushed guiltily, she relented. “Had I not heard of what has befallen you, I’d think your wits had gone with your hair, but I know you are but tired.” Then, looking toward the open door herself, she added, “I hope he leaves you with us when he goes, for I will be glad of the company.”
14
The chair teetered precariously, balanced unevenly by the thrust of seven pairs of hands actually on it and a dozen more pressing close by. Guy of Rivaux grinned good-naturedly and tried to maintain his seat whilst the women clamored beneath, holding him hostage in the traditional Christmas chairing.
“Have done, good ladies, have done,” he protested, pretending to fear falling. “Nay, but I cannot reward you from here.”
“A ransom! A ransom!” the younger girls chanted, while Catherine watched him, giggling like a maid. Little Eleanor reached out, begging, “My gift, Papa—my gift!”
Catherine caught Gilliane’s sleeve and thrust her forward. “Get you a hand on the chair, that you may have something also,” she urged.
“Nay, I—”
“Hush—he expects it.”
“What? Another one? Sweet Mary, but you will beggar me, the lot of you!” Guy’s face was flushed from the exertion of the resistance required—it was accepted that they would push and pull until they’d gotten him into his chair, and then they’d hoist it, keeping him off the ground until he gave in and ordered the distribution of Christmas gifts to the women of the household.
Reluctantly Gilliane reached across the younger girls to grasp the leg of the chair, and he immediately capitulated. “Aye, you’d make my stomach queasy, all of you,” he teased. “I vow I have had a better ride on a sorry nag than on this. All right—have done, I say.”
“Nay, hold him longer,” Joanna urged. “ ’Tis the only time we have the better of Papa in the whole year.”
“Cat, get the gifts—you’ll have to ransom me, I fear.”
“Oh? And what if I will not?” she asked saucily.
“Vixen!”
He was a big man, tall rather than given to fat, but heavy, and the chair pitched as they tried to lower him carefully. He lost his balance at the last and would have fallen had Gilliane not been in the way. He grasped her shoulder to right himself, and laughed.
“ ’Tis two men of Rivaux you have saved, Demoiselle.”
Catherine and two of her tiring women carried armloads of garments forward to lay them across the bed. “Come see what my lord’s largess brings you—all of you.”
“Demoiselle, you do not join the rest,” Count Guy chided Gilliane.
“Nay, but I am just arrived.”
“Go on.”
The Christmas chairing at Rivaux was so unlike that of Beaumaule. Geoffrey and his father before him had merely passed out a new set of clothes to each of the few retainers and been done. But here—here there was much laughing and teasing and many gifts for everyone. Gilliane would have hung back despite Guy of Rivaux’s urging had Richard not come up behind her. He laid his hand on her shoulder and turned her toward the bed. She closed her eyes at the feel of his strong fingers against her flesh, afraid to let any see the effect he had on her.
“Aye,” he murmured above her ear, “there is a gift from me there also.”
“Gilly! Gilly! Come see!” Eleanor shouted excitedly. With the exuberance of a child, she’d given up any pretense to propriety and had immediately taken to Gilliane’s childhood name.
Richard released her shoulder and moved to the bed, while Gilliane still stood rooted to the floor, unable to believe their kindness. After a quick conferring with Elizabeth, he lifted up a gown of purple and gold-shot samite. The sleeves were banded with intricate embroidery, and so was the hem.
“Well,” he asked, holding it before him, “what say you—do you think it will fit?”
“I think it too short for you,” Elizabeth retorted. “You’d best give it to someone else.”
His eyes meet Gilliane’s, warming until the gold flecks could be seen plainly. “What say you, Gilly?” he asked softly, “Would you like it?”
She stared from one to the other of them, knowing full well that nothing could have been made for her in one short day. “Aye,” was all that she could manage.
Impatient of the delay between them, Elizabeth took the gown from him and carried it to Gilliane, holding it to her shoulders to check the length. “You have Hawise to thank that it fits,” she murmured. “She measured what you came in whilst you slept.”
“ ’Tis beautiful.”
“And there is more.” Grinning broadly at her pleasure in her new finery, Richard ordered another sister, “Bella, get me the girdle, I pray you.”
Isabella rummaged in an open chest and drew out a thick golden chain weighted at either end with jeweled medallions. “Is this it?” she asked, lifting it for him to see.
“Aye.”
“But I thought ’twas Liza’s!” Joanna exclaimed.
“Dolt!” Elizabeth hissed at her. “I sold it to him for ten marks.”
“And ’tis your gown also!”
“I sold that to him also.” She faced Gilliane apologetically. “Forgive her manners, demoiselle. We had not the time to make you anything, and Richard would have … indeed, all of us would give you something. And the purple becomes you better than me.”
“Not to mention that I bought it,” Richard added dryly. “Sometimes, Joanna, I think Maman ought to have given you to the Church.”
“Nay, I am unsuited,” the girl answered blithely. “And I do not see how—”
“Demoiselle—Gilliane …” Catherine held out a jeweled crucifix. “ ’Tis from my lord and me.”
As Gilliane turned the small golden cross over in her palm, the others returned to examining their Christmas robes and jewels, and to passing out amongst the serving women their tokens of appreciation for the year’s service. Even Guy of Rivaux seemed to be taken with the spirit of the day, moving around the room, passing out small silver coins to everyone. Gillian took the opportunity to slip from the chamber into the passageway behind, where she leaned her head against the whitened wall and cried.
“You did not try—” Richard stopped mid-sentence. He’d seen her leave, but he’d not expected tears. In a few swift strides he caught up to her and turned her into his arms. His left hand slid around her, and the pain in his shoulder made him stiffen for a moment, and then his right hand came up to clasp the back of her head, smoothing her short hair against her neck. “Gilly … Gilly, what ails you, sweeting? Nay, but the bad in your life is over. Maman …” He could feel her sobs increase rather than lessen. “Sweet Jesu, Gilliane, but …”
She clung to him, unable to answer, and he had to content himself with rubbing soothingly between her shoulders while he waited. Elizabeth had said she would be too proud to take much from them, but he’d wanted to give her what she’d lacked. Mayhap he should have waited—it had not been yet a fortnight since her brothers had died. Mayhap she could not rejoice in anything yet.
“Gilliane.”
He spoke low, but somehow his voice brought her to her senses. She choked back a sob and tried to master herself, feeling very much the fool. “Your p-pardon,” she hiccupped finally.
“I did but think you would like the dress, and Maman said they’d made more than one for Liza,” he told her quietly. “But if you cannot—”
“Oh, no! ’Tis beautiful, my lord … as is the girdle, and the cross also.”
“Then what in the name of Mary ails you?”
“I have nothing for anyone!”
“Jesu! Gilliane, nothing was expected of you. You saved my life—there’s naught that could ever repay you for
that.” He set her back so he could see her face. “I am a wealthy man, Demoiselle. If I cannot give what I would to you—”
“What would you give to me?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, God, Gilliane. I’d not have you ask me that,” he groaned. “I owe you much—there’s naught I would not give to you if I could.” He brushed her wet cheeks with his fingers and then lifted her chin with a bent knuckle, forcing her to look into his eyes. “I’d dower you so that you may wed, I’d have my father seek a husband for you …” Even as he looked at her, pools of tears welled anew, spilling again. “Sweet Mary, but I’d … Gilly …”
He’d not meant to kiss her again, he had not the right, and yet he could not help himself. And as he tasted the salt of her tears, he was lost. His hand twined again in the copper silk of her hair as his lips met hers.
Guy of Rivaux watched in the doorway, saw his son crush the girl against his body, and knew he had to stop what could only bring shame and dishonor to them both. “Richard!” he called out sternly.
Gilliane felt Richard’s body tauten as he drew away. She grasped his arm and stepped back shakily, her face flaming. Glancing from one to the other as they faced each other, she felt beneath contempt.
“The fault was mine,” she heard Richard say.
“Aye. Demoiselle, I’d speak with you later,” Count Guy told her. “If you would not join the others, perhaps the chapel …” He let his voice trail off as he waited for her to leave them.
“Nay.” Despite her thudding heart, she managed to face him. “The fault was mine, my lord, for he did but seek to comfort me.”
“I am well aware of what he seeks, Demoiselle,” he cut in harshly. “I’d speak to you in the chapel.”
He did not bear defying. She sucked in her breath and let it out slowly before she dared meet his gaze. “Aye, my lord.”
