by Anita Mills
Richard harsh? Guy of Rivaux hard? The older girl fought the urge to laugh hysterically, thinking it beyond belief that she should be asked to describe her lover to his bride. “Nay,” she managed finally, “they are both kind.”
“I suppose you cannot know him well,” Cicely of Lincoln sighed, “and no doubt you would see him differently than I. But Papa says I must bear it, for he can make me a countess twice. Alas, if the old king had not made Earl Roger give up his claim to Nantes, ’twould even have been thrice.”
“You do not wish to wed him?” Gilliane choked.
“Well, I shall like being a countess, I suppose, but …” She hesitated and reddened. “I should not speak of such things, I know, but he seems so very big that I … well, I know not how ’tis done, but—”
“You will survive,” the older girl muttered dryly, starting around her.
“Wait. As you and I are but newly arrived, I thought perhaps that we might share a bed—the others here are but filled with overweening pride and self-consequence.”
“Nay, I have another bedmate,” Gilliane lied, hurrying past her.
Sweet Mary, but how was she doing to bear it? Until the Queen and her ladies found her out, she’d be expected to spend her days with Lincoln’s daughter. That the girl did not want Richard was no consolation at all, for once they were wed, once she’d shared his bed, Gilliane was certain she’d love him also. Nay, but she had to think of the means to leave Maud’s court, and soon.
She pulled a bench close to one of the long, narrow windows that lined the Queen’s hall and stared into the well-tended garden outside. The rain had ended, and the May flowers glistened, their wet petals shining in the sun. On any other day she would have thought them beautiful, but today they were just there. She pressed her fist against her still-flat stomach and held it, wondering what Richard would do if he knew. But nay, she’d not tell him—’twould serve no good to do so—and she’d not tear at him further or make it harder for him to do what must be done. She’d known he was betrothed, known that it could not last forever, and yet she’d taken what she could of his love. Well, she sighed heavily, ’twas now time to pay for what she had done.
“Demoiselle.”
Never had she heard such censure, such reproof in one word before. Her head snapped back from her reverie, and she looked up to face the Queen herself, and by the looks of it, Maud was furious. The knot in Gilliane’s stomach tightened apprehensively.
“Lord Richard tells me that which I am loath to hear.”
Gilliane’s mouth went dry as she realized that the others in the room stared curiously at her. For one awful moment she thought she would be truly, utterly sick. The stiff silk of Maud’s overgown swished angrily as she strode closer, blocking all else from view.
“I will have no unchaste ladies in my household, Gilliane de Lacey. If you have lain willingly with a man unwed, you will have to leave.” There was a pause as Maud surveyed her, and then she demanded, “Have you?”
There was no use denying it to anyone, for before long ’twould be known. Gilliane took in a deep breath and looked up, meeting Maud’s icy eyes. “Aye,” she answered almost inaudibly, and then repeated clearly, “Aye.”
“He comes for you.”
As Gilliane looked about her, she could see the disdain and the hostility in the faces of those around them. And what had seemed so wonderful, so very good between her and Richard of Rivaux, was suddenly sordid and wrong. She rose slowly, nodding. “And I’d go with him, Your Grace.”
“You will not come again into my household.”
“Aye.”
She walked past the silent, staring women, expecting to be spat at as she passed, but no one said a word until she reached Cicely of Lincoln, who hissed under her breath, “Filthy whore.” She winced slightly, but held her head high, moving slowly until she reached the door.
Richard was waiting, and his face was flushed as though he’d been in an argument. Wordlessly he gripped her elbow and steered her through the antechamber. It was not until they’d reached the outside air that he spoke. His shoulders hunched, his face grim, he walked faster, waiting for the safety of the courtyard to explode.
“I will kill him! Jesu! ‘Twould never have been said had he not spoken!”
She walked faster, trying to keep up with his furious stride. And then, realizing they were indeed alone now, he stopped. She bent to pull her slipper over her heel before she lost it.
“I am sorry, Gilly.”
“ ’Twas to be expected, was it not?”
“Not like this—nay, not like this.”
“The fault is as much mine as yours, Richard.”
“I’d thought to persuade her to let me take you back to Celesin—or perhaps even Rivaux.” He reached to brush back a strand of her hair that escaped from where it had been plaited into the false braid, stroking it against her face lightly with his fingertip. “But Brevise had already accused you—had told her that you were my leman.”
“Aye, he said that before King Stephen.”
“She asked me if it were true, Gilly. I could have denied it—even should have. But Lincoln had complained also, and she would know, saying she’d discover it.”
“As she would have, and ’twould have been worse then.”
Thinking she meant that they would have examined her for her maidenhead, he nodded. “Aye, I’d not wish for that. I have heard ’tis done before witnesses.”
“They think me a whore.”
“Gilly, I told her that I was proud of loving you—my only regret is that it pains you.” His finger twisted in the strand of hair, twirling around the tip, as his eyes searched her face. “I am proud of loving you, Gilly.”
“Aye.”
“It shames you to love me, doesn’t it?”
She reached up to clasp his hand against her cheek, and held it close, feeling the strength, the warmth, the vitality of it. “Nay, it does not, Richard. For whatever pain it gives me, I know that I would still make the same choice.” A rueful smile twisted the corners of her mouth as she looked up at him. “Aye, and I do not even regret that the queen knows of it, for Cicely of Lincoln wished to be my bedmate had I stayed.”
“Better you than me.” He grinned, relieved that she could still smile. “Come—as soon as I give the fool my oath, we are for Celesin. I’ll tell Thomas of Lincoln to keep his whey-faced daughter another year.” He reached to catch her hand and started to walk again.
“She is not truly whey-faced.”
“I care not if she is Helen of Troy come back.”
She kept pace beside him, grateful for a few more days of his company. He would marry Lincoln’s daughter, but for now there was still a little time to love him.
22
She drowsed, unwilling to waken, reluctant to leave the warmth of his arms. She had not much more time for this, and she’d savor every moment, storing every memory for that day when she no longer had him. He stirred, rolling to lie on his back, and pulling her into the crook of his arm.
“I cannot go to Celesin,” he admitted, sighing heavily, revealing that he’d been awake thinking for a time. “Were it only for me and you, I’d not take her, Gilly.” When she lay very still and made no answer, he sighed again. “Aye, when I was young and foolish, I pushed my sire for the betrothal, demanding an heiress for mine own consequence. And now ’tis a matter of his honor and mine that I take her.”
“You do not have to explain to me, Richard.” She spoke quietly, drawing closer to lay her head in the small hollow of his shoulder. “I have long known what would happen, that there could be nothing else.”
“It does not seem right to wed where I would not love.”
“It would seem stranger if you did.”
“Aye, I suppose so, but I have seen my mother and my father, and I’d have what is between them. And so it is with my grandsire Roger and Eleanor of Nantes. Through my folly, I will not be like them— I’ll be the o
ne to lie where there is no love, seeing Lincoln’s daughter where you should be.” His hand brushed over her stomach and then rested there. “If there were any right in the matter, my sons would be born of your flesh, sweeting.”
“Nay,” she managed finally, fearing that somehow he had guessed, “my sons would be but bastards.”
“Robert of Gloucester is a bastard, Gilly.”
“And his father was a king who dared to set his bastards high, knowing none could gainsay him.”
“Still I’d keep you, seeking your company and your bed—aye, and I care not if Lincoln knows it.”
“And what of Cicely?” She forced herself to use the girl’s name. “What of his daughter? Does she not have a right to have you alone once you are wed?”
He half-turned to look at her then, and his eyes were troubled. “One would think you wished me to wed her, Gilly.”
“Of course I do not wish it!”
“Then I’d not hear you say such again.” He rubbed her cheek with the back of his hand and leaned closer until his face blurred before her and she could feel his breath on her skin. “There is no way I could deny what is between us,” he murmured softly as his lips touched hers.
It was always thus with her—he had but to touch her to send fire through her veins. She closed her eyes and eased into his embrace, telling herself that these few last bittersweet days were worth what she faced. Aye, no more harm could be done in lying with him now, and he was not wed to Cicely of Lincoln yet.
“My lord of Rivaux?”
The messenger, wearing the blue and gray of Harlowe, stood just inside the door. Flecks of foam from a hard-ridden horse spattered over his short tunic, attesting to the urgency of his mission.
“I am Richard.”
“My lady sends to Count Guy.” The fellow wavered, uncertain whether to deliver the father’s message to the son. Finally he drew out the parchment case and extended it, not bothering with the customary obeisance. “I am bidden to wait for a reply.”
Curious, Richard broke the seal quickly and drew out his grandmother’s letter, whitening as he read. “Sweet Jesu,” he breathed, rereading in disbelief. “Aye, I will come.” Turning to Gilliane, he ordered almost curtly, “My father is gone to Bristol with Gloucester—send to him, saying that my grandsire of Harlowe dies and my grandmother would have him come in haste.”
“Lord Roger?” she echoed, scarce able to believe that a man of his stature could die. For even in her childhood she’d listened to the traveling bards sing of Roger de Brione and his single combat with Robert of Belesme, and somehow he’d seemed more than mortal in the telling of the old song.
“Aye. There’s not much time, Gilly—she writes that ’tis grave, and he’d have my father come.”
“And you?”
“Aye, he sends for me also.” Turning back to the man of Harlowe, he nodded. “If you will but partake of some bread and ale whilst you wait, I’ll make myself ready to ride.”
Gilliane clasped her hands together tightly and closed her eyes. There was no question of her going, for she had not the right, and it was nearly time to part with him, anyway. But somehow it seemed hard and selfish to strike him two blows at once.
He saw her stricken look and mistook the reason. “Nay, sweeting, ’twill be but for a few days. I mean to leave four knights for guard to keep you safe, Gilly, so you need not fear in my absence.”
“Aye.”
With a heavy heart she moved about the merchant’s house helping Richard’s body servant with the hasty packing of his things. As her hands folded the crimson tunic she’d recently worked so carefully, they shook. And the finely stitched undertunic of whitest cambric, bleached and softened that it would be smooth against his skin—that must go also. He would have need of his best if Earl Roger died.
It did not take long to gather things for a hasty ride, and all too soon they were ready. She busied herself about the small sleeping chamber, trying not to realize that this was the last time she would see him. She closed and locked each chest and cabinet carefully, and scanned the room for anything that might be left by mistake.
“Gilly.”
He leaned against the doorway, filling it. And for one brief moment she allowed herself to think that that was how she’d remember him, that he’d always be with her, watching from the door.
“Aye.”
“I’d have your blessing and a kiss ere I leave.”
“Go in peace with God, then.” She moved to stand before him and rose up on her toes to brush his lips lightly.
“Nay.”
He caught her close, holding her as though she were life to him, and kissed her long, tasting of her, until she broke away, breathless and trembling. “Sweet Mary,” she gasped, “but if you would do that, you’ll never leave.”
“ ’Tis how I would have you remember me, Gilly.” The flecks in his dark eyes lightened them, and his mouth twisted into the semblance of a grin. “Aye, I’d have your thoughts until I return.”
And then he was gone. She stood still in the middle of the room, listening to the sound of the horses growing more distant, taking with them a part of her life. Brushing at a tear of self-pity that trickled down her cheek, she straightened her shoulders and sighed. Aye, she had not the time to feel sorry for herself, she told herself fiercely, for she had to consider the child within her first. No matter what happened, she’d not have his babe share her shame. She pressed her hands against her belly and felt a great sense of protectiveness for that which had been conceived in love, a child whose very being would be a living memory of him.
The fat candle on the spike sputtered as the wick was almost drowned in the melting tallow. Gilliane bent closer over the sheet of parchment, her head casting deep shadows over her careful script. From time to time she leaned back and held the candle closer, taking care not to drip the grease onto the words. It was the most difficult letter she had ever written—and the most important—for her proposal had to be couched in the most careful of terms lest it be rejected.
She finished finally and sat back to wipe the ink from her sharpened pen. Laying it aside, she sifted sand from a leather pouch onto the parchment to dry the ink before it smeared. Aye, her letter did not say exactly what she wished, but then neither would it betray her if it fell into the wrong hands. And what she would say was best left for a meeting.
It was late, too late to send it before the morrow. She carefully rolled the parchment, taking care not to crease it, and inserted it into a waxed cylinder lest there should be yet more rain ere he received it. She placed a small chunk of wax from her writing case into a handled tin vessel and held it over the flame, heating it, and then poured the warm liquid over the flap that closed the end of the cylinder, sealing it. It was done.
Laying everything aside on a low table, she leaned to blow out the candle and undressed in the darkness. As she parted the filmy baudequin curtains and pushed back the heavier sendal hanging to ease her body into the bed, she felt again her loss. The deep feather mattress was strangely cool, unwarmed this time by his body heat, and she fought the urge to allow herself this one bout of tears. Nay, but it would not serve—’twould but upset the babe she carried.
Once she made up her mind, sleep came quickly, but it did not last. Within but an hour or so her rebellious mind had come almost awake, lingering in that netherworld where fears come forth to be magnified. What if he came after her? What if he hated her for what she did? Aye—what if? She forced herself to consciousness then. Nay, but she could not dwell on such things, else she would go mad.
She rose then and moved to the window, unshuttering it to look outside. There was a full moon— ’twas why she had not slept, she told herself—and the narrow, cramped buildings lined the lane like sentinels, standing a silent, approving watch over the dogs that sniffed amongst the garbage and litter in the street. A lone figure crept along, outlined by the moonlight, and disappeared into a creaking door across the way
. A faint breeze stirred, bringing with it the intermingled smells of flowers in boxes and the stench of the refuse below. She wrinkled her nose and thought perhaps she detected rain.
Owing to the warmth of the late May air, many of the upper-story windows were unshuttered also, and she heard the insistent wailing of a babe coming from one of the other houses. And she dared think of her own, wondering how much longer before she would feel it quicken. She wanted a son desperately, his son, but she prayed ’twas a daughter she carried. It had to be. Anything else would jeopardize the bargain she meant to make.
It seemed she sat there forever, not wanting to go back to the empty bed, but finally her tired body insisted, and she dared try to sleep again. This time, she rolled into the depths of the mattress and drew up her knees against her, curling around them. And as she finally drifted off, the dreams that came were pleasant. The sun was shining at Celesin, and she stood within his arms, watching the small dark-haired boy that was their son.
“My lady?”
She roused slightly and opened her eyes to peer at the merchant’s housekeeper, who’d served them since they came to London. The room was bathed in light from the still-open shutters, and the sun was high in the sky.
“Jesu!” Gilliane sat up and looked about. “ ’Tis late.”
“Aye. I’d not have wakened you, but I feared you’d slept overlong. So when the bells rang tierce, I thought I’d best see if you were all right.”
“I am all right.”
She moved too quickly and was assailed by a wave of nausea. Well, it would pass, and before long, she’d not have it at all. She saw the woman peering at her curiously, and she shook her head. “Nay, ’tis naught. Is Garth about?”
“Humph! Aye, he is—two sausages and a full bowl of porridge he’s had of me already!”
“He grows.”
At least Richard had left her Garth—she’d not relish asking one of his knights to carry her letter. She rose and reached for an undershift to cover her nakedness before padding to one of the cabinets to select a gown. There was no need to dress in silks now, for he had gone. Instead, she chose a plain English wool woven so fine ’twas thin and soft.
