by Anita Mills
Mia. It sounded neither French nor Latin, but he liked it better than Amia. With an effort, he forced himself to look over her shoulder at the babe, wishing it were his, wishing he could love it.
“ ’Tis small,” he offered.
“Most babes are.”
“I received the letter.”
“Aye.”
It was as though, close as they were within the room, an abyss gaped between them. He laid a hand on her shoulder, moving the back of it to rub against her neck. “I am glad ’tis fair at least. ’Twill not be said that she cannot be mine.”
She ducked beneath him and called down the stairs again, “Alwina!” Then, turning back to him, she eyed him with utter contempt. “Well, I am not—I’d have rather had a dark son.”
He groped about for an explanation, something to give meaning to her coldness. “But you wrote—”
“ ’Twas before I knew about Annys.”
“Annys?” He knew dread then. His stomach knotted, sickening him, but he tried to keep his voice light. “What of her?”
“Sweet Mary! Dare you to ask?” she demanded. Alwina rounded the top step and Gilliane thrust the babe into her arms quickly. “Take her down whilst I speak with my … my husband.”
Her hesitation was not lost on him, nor was the loathing inflection she placed on the word. He steeled himself, considering how best to excuse what he had done. Stalling for time now, he walked to the brazier and held his cold hands over the fire.
“By rights, you should be castrated!” Gilliane flung at him. “Aye, you should be taken before the hall-mote and charged!”
“For what? What lies does the girl tell you?” he managed to ask, keeping his voice far calmer than he felt.
“Do not try to lie to me, Simon of Woodstock!” Her face flushed, she moved to face him across the fire. “This is Gilliane de Lacey to whom you speak! For twenty years I have known you!”
He cursed himself for a fool under his breath—he ought never to have left the girl there. “I know not what she has told you, Gilliane, but I swear—”
“Do not swear to me! On St. John’s day last, I wed with you, Simon of Woodstock, putting aside all else, promising to be wife to you and none other!” Her red hair caught the light from the fire, forming a soft bright halo about her, making her even more beautiful. Her voice dropped low, coming as a forceful whisper as she reminded him, “Aye, I gave you Beaumaule, Simon, and I gave you my body in this marriage!”
“Not willingly,” he muttered, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. “Nay, you never lay willingly for me.”
“I never denied you—I gave you all I had left to give.”
“You wanted a name for your bastard—’twas all you would have from me.”
“Aye, and you knew it from the first. I never lied to you.”
“You cheated me! You bore his bastard!”
She reached across the fire and slapped him hard. “Nay, you gave up the right to call her a bastard the day we wed, Simon! Whether you like it or no, Amia of Beaumaule is as legitimate as you are! Aye, ’tis the price I paid—my body and Beaumaule—for your name! Every time you call her bastard, you shame your own honor!”
He flushed and clenched his fists as though he would hit her back. “She’s not mine.”
“Nay, but she is mine, and she bears the blood of the masters of Beaumaule.”
“And that atones for what you have done to me?”
For a moment they faced each other, each flushed from the heat of argument. Gilliane’s eyes flashed with anger as she shook her head. “Nay—I’ve naught to atone for to you, Simon of Woodstock, and well you know it. What is it that you think I have done to you?” she demanded awfully. “I wed you, Simon—I gave you my land. Without Amia, you would still be in Clifford’s keep!”
“You think of me as naught but a common soldier, Gilliane. You care only that I hide your shame,” he charged back.
“I made my bargain in good faith, and I have tried to honor you as husband. But ’tis hard—’tis hard to learn to love one who calls my babe a bastard.” And then she remembered her earlier anger. “But that is not so important as Annys just now. You forced a maid—you ravished a girl in my house.”
“She was willing enough,” he grumbled.
“Nay, she was not—you took her unwilling and got a babe of her.”
“I said she was willing!”
“Jesu! What a fool you must believe me! Think you I cannot remember the bruises? Think you I cannot recall the excuses she gave me for them? She was afraid of you, Simon—you ravished her!”
“I am lord of Beaumaule,” he muttered defensively.
That was too much for her. She stared incredulously across the darting flames, wondering how she could ever have thought to give him her land. “Sweet Mary,” she breathed finally. “And you think that makes it right? What were you going to do with her ere I discovered it?”
“I’d have taken care of her.”
“How? By making her wife to a serf she loathed?” Noting the dull red flush that crept upward to his face, she nodded. “Aye, ’twas what you would have done.”
“I will wed her to Aldred! He’ll be glad enough of a wife,” he maintained stoutly. “Aye—he’ll take her.”
“Nay. I’d not wish such a thing on another woman living, Simon of Woodstock! I’d not have him call her a whore and your babe a bastard as you have done to me!”
“If I turned to her, ’twas because you were cold to me!” he retorted hotly. “ ’Twas because your belly was filled with Rivaux’s babe! ’Twas because you did not want me in your bed!”
“Neither did she!”
“I burned, Gilliane de Lacey! I burned for you—and you were cold to me.” He unclenched his fists and moved around the fire to her. “I wanted you for years, Gilliane, and you never noted me.”
“You cannot excuse rapine by blaming me, Simon.”
“Since you were scarce more than a maid, I have lain awake on my pallet and thought of you. Long did I dream of taking you, of having you beneath me, and you never knew it, did you? Aye—ever have I loved you.”
It was the first time he’d ever used the word between them, and it sickened her to hear it now. “I cannot love you, Simon, I’ve no love left in me now.”
“Because of him!”
“I should not have wed you. I should have stayed with the nuns at St. Agnes’ priory.” She felt drained and empty, as though there was naught more to say to him.
“I want you still, Gilliane.”
“Nay.” She turned her back and went again to the window, tearing the oiled parchment away from the opening. Looking down on a land as cold and bleak as her heart, she shook her head. “Annys will stay here unwed, cared for by me since you blame me for the lust that got her babe, and I will keep the child she bears. If somehow we should prosper, you will provide for the child when ’tis grown.”
The tonelessness in her voice was more frightening to him than her anger, and he sought the means to placate her. “Gilliane …” He came up behind her and tried to put his hands on her shoulders, but she wrenched away. “Nay, I’ll not lie willingly again for you either—if you would have me, ’twill be as you had Annys,” she told him coldly.
“You dare not deny me, Gilliane—I am lord of Beaumaule and your husband.” His finger twined in a strand of her hair, curling it. “Nay, you’ll not deny me.”
“There is a difference. Before this, I was willing to try to learn to love you, Simon.”
“ ’Twill happen.”
“I cannot forget what you have done to Annys.”
“I’ll make you forget it—I’ll give you no other cause for complaint of me. Lie with me, Gilliane—lie with me this night.”
“I could not if I would—’tis too soon after the babe.”
Unreasoning anger surged through him. It was still the babe between them, the babe that cheated him of what he wanted. “You’d have me ac
knowledge her, would you not?”
“You will.”
“Only if I am your husband in fact as well as name, Gilliane. I’d rather bear the shame of telling that she is not mine than of sleeping alone in mine own keep.” His hand closed over the hair that hung down over her neck, pulling her head back roughly. “Nay, ’twas not for this that I gave you my name.”
“You wanted Beaumaule,” she reminded him evenly.
“ ’Tis not enough!” He turned her around and pulled her against him, his mended mail cutting into her skin through her gown. Forcing her head back with fingers tangled in her hair, he bent to kiss her, bruising her mouth. “Nay, Gilliane de Lacey,” he whispered when at last he lifted his head, “the first time I had you, you carried his babe. The next time, you will carry mine.”
“I will not come willingly to you.”
“You will.” He released her then, almost flinging her away. “There will be a time when I am great in your eyes, a time when I am a rich man, Gilliane, and then you will come willingly to me.” He dropped to a bench and pulled off one of his heavy boots. “I’d have you divest me now.”
“Nay.”
He reached out and grasped her arm, twisting it painfully. “I am lord here—aye, and you’ll remember it.”
She flinched from the pain and shook her head. “Release me, else I shall call for aid, and we shall see who rules Beaumaule. I was born to this manor, Simon—would you see whom they’ll follow?”
“I’ll beat you,” he growled.
“And they will turn on you.”
“Whore!”
“And you’ll not taunt me again thus, or I will appeal to Rivaux to have you tried for what you have done to Annys.”
It was an idle threat, one that she dared not attempt, for she’d not see Richard again, but he did not know it. She thought she saw fear in his eyes, and then it was gone.
“I’ll say the wench lies,” he growled.
“And I will say she does not.” She jerked her hand away and went back to the stairs, calling out, “Aldred! To your master! To Woodstock!”
“Nay, I’d rather undress myself,” he decided wearily.
Aldred emerged from the stairwell, but Simon shook his head. “Nay, I have no need of you now—’twas a mistake.” He waited until the man’s steps receded, growing fainter, and then he turned again to Gilliane. “One day you will love me as your husband, and I can wait.” When she did not answer, he dropped the other boot and nodded grudgingly. “Aye, and it shall be as you say about Annys.”
“And you will never again call me whore nor my daughter bastard?”
“I will claim the child.” It pained him to do it, but he knew nothing less would satisfy her. “Aye, I will hold the babe at its christening, giving her name to the priest myself.”
“And you will never again touch Annys or any other unwilling woman in this keep?”
“Nay.”
She moved behind him then and reached to unfasten the hooks of his coif. “I will divest you and see to your bath, Simon. I’d not have either of us shamed further.”
As he felt her fingers work the hooks deftly, he dared hope that she would come to forgive his lapse with the girl. He leaned back to give her better access to his shoulder and closed his eyes to pretend that they were like any other husband and wife. Her touch soothed him now, relieving him of the discomfort of his armor.
“You did not ask of Rivaux.”
Her hands stilled briefly and then grasped his surcoat beneath his arms. “You will have to sit up and raise your arms, else I cannot do this, Simon. And I did not ask because I do not want to know. That part of my life is over.”
He waited until she’d pulled the woolen overgarment over his head and finished unfastening his hauberk. “ ’Twas bitter gall to swear to him, and he did not even have the courtesy to raise me. Aye, one day he will pay for what he has done to me.”
It was idle boasting, but she had no wish to confront him further. Ignoring it, she lifted off the heavy mail, discarded it onto the floor beside her, and unlaced the padded gambeson beneath. This time, he leaned forward when she yanked it over his head.
“Art rough,” he complained.
“No rougher than Aldred, I’ll warrant.”
“The fool thinks I will bring you to Ardwyck when I go for castle-guard in May.”
She’d knelt to unfasten his cross-garters, and her hands trembled on the leather bands. Keeping her head bent and her face averted, she managed to ask, “What fool?”
“Rivaux—Count Guy’s whelp.” He moved his leg impatiently. “He bids me come again in May and tells me to bring you and the babe.”
“Sweet Mary!” she gasped. “You did not tell him of the babe, surely?”
“Nay. Richard of Rivaux would be the last man I’d tell of that,” he muttered.
“I cannot go, Simon. I’d not see him again.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
He relaxed slightly, easing his shoulders forward again. “Well, I do not mean to take you anyway, so you worry for naught.” But it pleased him that she’d not see Lord Richard again. “Nay, ’tis enough—I will finish them myself,” he murmured gruffly, feeling again the intense yearning as he looked down on her copper hair. “If you would mend from the babe, you should rest.” He loosened the chausses as she rose, facing his nakedness.
She looked at his lean, hard, battle-scarred body and felt nothing. “Wrap yourself in a blanket whilst I have them fill the washing tub.”
He stretched and scratched before her, flexing his tired muscles, and then reached for the folded blanket in the cabinet. She turned away, wondering how one man’s body could inflame and another chill her, when all men were more or less alike in that. And the old, familiar longing washed over her, the ache that Simon of Woodstock could not ease.
34
By the time spring thaws came, Gilliane was glad of them, for then Simon occupied himself with hunting and planting and managing his small manor. The winter months had been a strain between them, with him waxing surly one day and pleasant the next, depending on whether the babe took her time or whether he thought to lie with her. And despite her threats, she did lie with him, for the priest had intervened, saying a woman could not deny her husband. But she suspected he got as little satisfaction as she did from it.
But spring had eased the tension somewhat—except where the babe was concerned. Once he’d held the screaming child for her christening, he’d considered his duty done, and now he carped frequently that Amia was overindulged, that she should have a wet nurse, and that Alwina should tend her. Now, more often than not, he made oblique suggestions that perhaps the babe should be reared for the Church, or, failing that, then perhaps she should be sent away to another house to learn to be a lady as soon as she was old enough. Gilliane rejected both ideas flatly, declaring that Amia was heiress to whatever she had and would learn to be mistress of Beaumaule when the time came.
Already the infant showed promise of beauty, something that even Simon could not deny. The soft, fuzzy red down had turned to a rich, deep red, and the slate-blue eyes were fading to a green that reminded Gilliane of Elizabeth of Rivaux’s. And, much as Simon could have wished it otherwise, the babe was bright and healthy.
Gilliane finished tying the laces of Amia’s exquisite gown and set her, propped on pillows, on a blanket near the brazier’s small fire, handing her the great ring of keys to occupy her attention. As usual, Amia jingled them and gurgled happily. Gilliane settled onto a bench and prepared to sew a new tunic for her husband, something to take when Rivaux called him to service.
Despite the muddiness of his boots, Simon entered the solar and handed Gilliane a sealed message bearing the imprint of Richard’s signet in the wax. “Read it,” he ordered curtly. And then he unbent enough to explain, “Father Gerbod is with a villein named Dedric, whose beast has trampled him in the field.”
“Aye.” Despite
the fact that it had been ten months since last she’d seen Richard of Rivaux, her whole body trembled as she broke the seal and drew out the letter. But Simon, pacing before the small fire that kept the babe from chilling, failed to note it. Gilliane cleared her throat of its sudden hoarseness and began to read:
To Simon of Woodstock, liegeman, greetings. Be advised that your suzerain returns to Ardwyck this day, 20 April 1137, and orders your castle-guard for the three months beginning 1 May of this same year. You will bring with you two knights, your wife, and one body servant in fulfillment of your obligation to me. Richard, lord of Celesin, Ancennes, Ardwyck, and lesser possessions, overlord to Beaumaule, as witnessed by his seal.
“Jesu!” Simon exploded. “ ’Tis all he said? Just that I am to come to Ardwyck in less than ten days?”
“ ’Tis all.” Gilliane slid the parchment back into the case and held it out to him. “I’d not go, Simon.” “Aye. ’Tis no place for you—he’d have us bed in a common room, no doubt.”
“I’d have you tell him I am unwell and cannot travel—anything.”
“You’ve really no wish to go?”
“Nay.”
“You are content to remain here?”
She could not tell him that she’d be grateful to see him gone. Instead, she nodded. “Aye—there is much to do, and I’d not leave. One of us should remain to command what garrison is left here.”
“Aye.”
She could see his relief. He reached to brush back her hair, much as Richard had been wont to do, and she had to choke back tears. His blue eyes were sober as they searched her face, and then he clasped her to him, crossing his arms at her back. “I’d not have you cry for me, Gilliane,” he murmured over the crown of her hair. “Nay, it may not be three months even ere I am home.”
“I am all right,” she managed.
“ ’Tis not like you to weep.” He held her back and looked into her eyes. “You do not think you could be … ?” he started to ask hopefully.
“Nay.”
“I hope the First babe has not made you barren.” He glanced down then to where Amia sat propped amid pillows on a blanket, and he frowned. “Mayhap if you got her a wet nurse—I have heard ’tis harder to conceive while you give suck.”
