“Come here, Lady Gilliane,” he said. Panic seized Gilliane. The deep voice was Adam’s, but the tone was Saer’s. Long experience had taught Gilliane it was useless to run; there was no place to hide. Ashen pale, she came forward. No blow struck her down, however. The bench was pulled out with the same courtesy as ever and gently pushed in behind her.
She knows already that I have seen what she tried to do, Adam thought. For a moment, his resolution faltered. Gilliane’s pallid face and frightened eyes wrung his heart. It was only for a moment, however. If she was so intent upon the matter that discovery could cause this fear and pallor, she would try again if he did not make clear that he would not endure it.
“It is time for us to understand each other,” he said. “I have Tarring and I mean to hold it. I am King Henry’s man, and nothing will make me break my oath of homage.”
Gilliane stared at him, utterly uncomprehending. It was the dearest wish of her heart that Adam should hold Tarring, and what his oath of homage had to do with anything at all was beyond her.
“Do you understand me?” he growled.
“I understand your words, my lord,” Gilliane faltered, “but I do not understand why you address them to me. I yielded Tarring to you in good faith, although you know it may not be mine to yield. As to your oath of homage—what has that to do with me?”
Adam’s lips thinned with frustration even while his admiration for Gilliane grew. Clever witch that she was, she had denied nothing, told no lies, nor yet had she acknowledged anything.
“What has it to do with you? I think you would rather see me Louis’s man than Henry’s. Did you not tell us that de Cercy,” Adam found he could not say “your husband”, “had gone to bring Louis down upon us? Yet Louis has moved in the exact opposite direction, toward my brother Geoffrey’s lands. I wonder if your warning was not a device to fix us here to favor Louis’s action.”
Gilliane’s eyes had been growing wider and wider with surprise. “I told you exactly what Osbert said to me,” she protested, but her voice was faint. It was dawning upon her that the doubt in Adam’s expression the previous day might have had nothing to do with her virtue or lack of virtue.
“What he said to you?” Adam snarled. “You mean, I suppose, what he told you to tell us.”
“I do not know,” Gilliane gasped, shocked at a possibility that had never occurred to her. “I mean, he did not say to tell you what he said, but it is not impossible that he intended that I should tell you. He knows I hate him. I made no secret of it. He knows I would do what I could to spite him. He is so sly, so slimy in his mind, that he might well tell me a lie, guessing I would repeat it.”
Suddenly Adam was feeling much better. It was the word slimy. He could imagine a woman saying she hated a man that she loved to forward his purposes, but he could not imagine calling a beloved person “slimy” for any reason at all. Gilliane might have said “cruel” or “brutal”; such words had power in them. But to think of a man as “slimy” precluded affection.
As he watched her, color flooded into Gilliane’s face, and her lips drew back in as near a snarl as a gentlewoman could achieve. “Filth,” she whispered, more to herself than to Adam. “It was all lies.” Her eyes lifted to Adam. “He said you were a monster and that you would kill me. That was a lie. He said you would slay the men-at-arms and menservants without mercy and throw the women to your troops. That was a lie. It might well be that his saying he would go to Louis was a lie also. He must have known you would not hurt me without cause. He intended I should tell you, and, when it became plain I had misled you, then you would kill me and leave him, my heir, Lord of Tarring.”
With every fiber of his being, Adam desired to believe her. Had he wanted it less, it would have been impossible to doubt Gilliane’s sincerity. It was himself he doubted. Having been once caught, as he believed, Adam was too wary for his own good.
“If that is true,” he said stiffly, “why did he not kill you himself? You cannot befool me a second time, Lady Gilliane. If de Cercy did not intend to appeal to Louis for help, where did he go? And why? Is it not possible he went to summon Neville’s men to try to take back Tarring?”
Gilliane completely missed the sarcasm in Adam’s question. Her angry flush receded; an expression of hope crossed her face. “Oh, do you think he could have been so stupid as that?” she breathed.
The question confused Adam almost as much as his first remark had confused Gilliane. “What do you mean, stupid?” he snapped. “Where would a man go for help but to his vassals and castellans?”
“But they hate Osbert,” Gilliane replied. “He was rude and contemptuous of them when they came to visit Gilbert.”
“Oh, was he?” Adam asked suspiciously. “And if they endured it then, why should they now find him unendurable?”
“But Saer was alive then,” Gilliane said. “They never swore to Osbert.”
Her mind, however, was not really on her answer. The expression on Adam’s face was now very nearly exactly the same as it had been the previous day. It was, she realized, political infidelity of which Adam suspected her, not marital infidelity. She very nearly smiled with relief, but had sense enough to restrain the impulse. For all Gilliane cared, the Grand Turk could become King of England. So long as it suited Adam, she would find it an excellent arrangement—only, she realized, Adam must not be allowed to see that she did not care. That would not fit right with his idea of a “proper” woman. Nor could she let him think she had shifted her loyalty from Louis to Henry. But he would never believe her if she said she had always been of Henry’s party—
“Neville’s men accepted Saer’s rule? Why?”
Adam’s voice cut across Gilliane’s thoughts. She brought her mind to his questions with an effort. Her first impulse was to cry, I am a woman. How should I know such a thing? But an answer like that would either make Adam despise her or simply convince him she was lying and therefore had been lying about everything else. Gilliane racked her brains for scraps of conversation she had heard, for the implications of the little Saer and Osbert had said in her presence.
“Saer was strong and the men thought he had the ear of Louis. I cannot be sure, of course, but it seems to me they feared that their lands would be taken from them because their lord was dead and poor Gilbert helpless.”
“They are firm, then, you believe, in their allegiance to Louis?” Adam asked.
This question was quiet, almost indifferent. It might be that Adam did not care or it might be another test. Neither case was important to Gilliane. Sir Richard had been kind to her. Gilliane had no intention of saying anything that could hurt him. She knew one thing for which no man could be blamed that would make Sir Richard’s action acceptable.
“I do not think that at all,” Gilliane denied. “I do not know whom they favor or even if they favor one or the other. Gilbert’s vassals and castellans are good men. They were loyal to their overlord and followed his will.”
As she said it, Gilliane’s own path became clear. Her father had been John’s vassal. She had the perfect reason to be of Henry’s party, even though she did not know England. It did not even matter if Adam did not believe her at first. In fact, it would be better if he did not. That would make him watch her closely—and the closer Adam watched Gilliane, the better she would like it. In the end, he would have to believe she was loyal to his party, for, in truth, whatever party he held to she would support heart and soul.
“So,” Adam snapped, “you know Neville’s men.” She was laying some kind of snare for him, Adam was sure. Her eyes were sparkling bright, and he could see she was restraining a smile with effort.
“Of course I know them—although not all of them. Four came when I was married to Gilbert.”
“But not when you were married to de Cercy?”
The incipient smile and sparkle died. “I do not know,” Gilliane whispered. “I told you I was not myself. Someone held my hand to make my mark on the contracts and, perhaps…I do not reall
y remember, but it seems to me someone pushed my head so that I nodded when it was needful for me to give consent. Oh, I do not think Sir Richard was here. I spoke to him of my fear of Osbert and he saw that Osbert was cruel to poor Gilbert. I cannot believe he would be a party to what he must have seen was a forced marriage.”
“Was that how you were married?” Adam asked in a strangled voice.
“I think so,” Gilliane replied, trying not to sob. “I do not remember, I tell you.”
That was real. Doubts or no doubts, Adam could not believe the emotions Gilliane had displayed in the last half hour were a pretense. She did hate de Cercy and she had been very ill for nearly a week after her first husband’s death. The serving women had been discreetly questioned by Jamie, Tostig, and Alberic so that Adam knew some of the facts surrounding Neville’s death. Gilliane was now looking down at her tightly clasped hands. Without thinking, Adam laid his hand over hers.
“You need fear de Cercy no longer,” he said softly. “He will never come near you again—that I promise you.”
Gilliane looked up, her eyes magnified by the tears in them. Her lips trembled. Irresistibly drawn, Adam leaned forward. Gilliane’s lips parted; she lifted her face to him. Then, realizing where they were and what they were about to do, she gasped and turned away.
“How can you promise that?” she asked, her voice shaking. “You are here now, but I am not such a fool that I do not know you have other lands and other duties…to King Henry, for example. Sooner or later, even if no private matter arises, the king will summon you and you will go. Perhaps you will try to leave me in safe hands, but so long as I am Osbert’s wife…”
“I do not make idle promises,” Adam said, but his voice was very cold.
“Why are you angry?” Gilliane cried, too startled by the change in tone and manner to be careful.
“It must be plain to you that I am a fool,” Adam snarled, “for you have twice tricked me into wagging my tongue when I should have been still, but do you think I am so much a fool that I do not know when I have been caught in a clever trap? Do not be too quick to rejoice. You will not get the good you expect of this. You will not bind me by my promise to you to violate my oath of fealty.”
Gilliane had been staring at him with frightened bewilderment. “I would never think of such a thing,” she protested when she understood what Adam thought she had done. “It is you who keep saying I am of Louis’s party. Why do you not ask me? I care nothing for Louis. I have done him no homage. I owe him nothing.”
“Saer de Cercy was his man.”
“Saer killed my father, and I was given to him as ward. Do you think I have any reason to love Saer?” Gilliane spat, the bitter rage of years taking hold of her. “He kept me unwed to wring dry what had been my father’s lands. Then he brought me here and married me to a witless cripple.” Her anger faltered; her eyes filled with tears again. “Poor Gilbert. He, at least, was gentle to me.” The tears did not fall. Renewed rage drew them back to their source. “But Saer did not know that. He would not have cared if Gilbert had been a raving madman and had torn the flesh from my bones. What should I feel about Saer, except glad that he is dead? What should I care for his oaths or loyalties?”
Adam was staring at her. The heat of her rage glowed through her. There was a red light in her dark eyes, and Adam had the feeling that if he touched her flesh his fingers would be burnt. He had considerable experience of angry women, his mother having a quick and violent temper, but Gilliane’s anger was different from Alinor’s. It was not all flash and sparkle, like dry twigs that would burn themselves out in a little time. This was like the heart of the fire in the hearth, deep and glowing, long-burning, almost impossible to quench. Gilliane did not shriek and wave her arms. Her voice was low but hot, like the hate in her eyes.
“I know nothing of Louis and less of Henry,” she continued, less passionately, “but my father was vassal to King John.”
“John?” Adam repeated. “Where were your father’s lands?”
“Near Chaunay. I do not know exactly. Saer was careful I should not know what was mine.”
That was very likely true, but what was more significant was how Gilliane had spoken of the lands. Saer “kept her unwed to wring them dry”; Saer was “careful she should not know what was hers.” Then, if she did not care for Osbert—and Adam was almost certain that was true—and she had no bond to Louis—that was more doubtful, but possible—clearly she had set trap after trap for him because of the lands. Adam was delighted! He had no quarrel with a woman’s love of property. It seemed right and reasonable to him, because of the attitude of his mother and sister.
All that puzzled Adam was why Gilliane felt the need to lay traps for him. He could not own her property except by killing her and de Cercy, and plainly she did not suspect him of any intention of harming her, He would take from Tarring enough to pay the costs of the damage Saer had done to his town and people and to pay the cost of this expedition, but he was in no immediate need of funds and that indemnity could be arranged so that it did no injury to Gilliane’s property.
Suddenly, light dawned on him. Gilliane wanted him to make sure Neville’s men would obey her. Adam had not thought of it at first because neither his mother nor Joanna needed help in obtaining obedience from their vassals, but Gilliane’s situation was different. The estates were not hers by blood. She was a stranger married to the rightful heir, and without even a child of the true bloodline to bind loyalty. To add to her difficulties, small holders in these times wanted the assurance of a strong overlord who could bring an army to protect them among the changing fortunes of civil war. Gilliane understood that. She had pointed it out to him when she explained why Neville’s men had accepted Saer’s management.
The glare Adam turned on Gilliane was extinguished almost immediately by amusement and admiration. A few smiles and sweet words, a kiss or two, perhaps even more—but that was a cheap price for the use of his men and his strength to cow her vassals and castellans. After all, she was a wife already and had nothing to lose. Adam choked trying to restrain his laughter. His mother would have approved highly of Gilliane’s maneuver. He could not even fault Gilliane for being a miser. Poor girl, between the elder de Cercy’s hiring of men for an army to attack Kemp and the younger stripping away what was left, she had not a mill in money nor even a cheap ring to sell to offer payment.
“Enough of this fencing,” Adam said briskly. “I will believe that you had and have no love for the de Cercys, father or son. I tell you, too, that nothing will make me go into France to try to reclaim those lands for you, and also that if I am summoned by the king I will go—no matter what you say or do. However, I will keep the promise I made to you. Moreover, I am perfectly willing to make sure that Neville’s men acknowledge you as their liege lady.”
“Acknowledge me?” Gilliane gasped, her eyes as wide as they could get. “But—”
“I tell you that you need not act the innocent with me on this matter,” Adam exclaimed, a trifle irritably. “I think it perfectly reasonable that, since the lands were left to you and there is no other heir, you should wish to rule them. We will get along much better if you say outright what you desire of me rather than leading me to believe…well, never mind that.”
If Adam thought it reasonable that she should rule the lands, Gilliane resolved that she would rule them if it killed her. But there were a few practical difficulties that he had not touched upon. “There is a little problem,” Gilliane suggested as steadily as she could. “The men desire a strong leader. Tarring is stripped clean, as you know. I cannot buy a good captain. You do not think I can don armor and lead the men, do you?”
The last question was perfectly serious, and Gilliane’s voice trembled a little as she asked it. It was quite mad that Adam should think such a thing, but no more mad to Gilliane than that he believed she had expected to own and rule Gilbert’s estates. In fact, she had not so far thought about a future for herself. She thought only of each da
y, hoping Adam would stay at Tarring, unable even to guess what would be done with her when he must go.
“There is no need to be sarcastic,” Adam snapped. “I know my mother once led an army into Wales, but even she did not think of donning armor and engaging in battle. I understand that if I demand the men swear to you, I must offer them my protection and that of my family.”
It was possible, Gilliane realized suddenly, really possible, that there would be a future, not just these few days. If Adam bound Gilbert’s men to protect her and obey her and they did not, he would come to punish them. They would understand that. Also, if anyone came and threatened her, Adam would come to drive the attacker away. In any case, the central fact remained: Adam would come!
“How can I thank you?” Gilliane faltered. “I have nothing…nothing.”
“I do not do it for you,” Adam said severely—and most untruthfully. “I do it for a reason you may not like but must accept. If I offer to lead and to protect Neville’s men, they must return to their allegiance to King Henry. I will require that you swear homage to me and, through me, to the king for the keeping of your lands, and acknowledge that Henry, not Louis, gives and confirms your charter to these lands. If Louis marches into this area, your vassals and castellans must resist him—but they will not stand alone. They will have good and sufficient help.”
Gilliane would have sworn homage to the devil on Adam’s order. “For myself I accept,” she said eagerly, her eyes bright, her cheeks delicately flushed with hope and enthusiasm. Then her color began to fade and apprehension showed in her eyes. “But is it my right?” she asked anxiously. “In the marriage contract, my rights are ceded to Osbert.”
Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four) Page 13
