Was that meant to be a slap at him for lack of generosity, Adam wondered. There was nothing in Gilliane’s face to indicate disappointment or irritation. Did she want him to say I will not hold you responsible so that she could hold out a few pieces? Nonsense, why should she tell him there was a list? She could have kept half what was in the chest if she had destroyed the captain’s list. And I am going to destroy myself if I do not stop seeing three meanings in every word she says, Adam warned himself.
“Very well, give them here.”
Adam took the chest and tucked it under his arm. Gilliane smiled, which was the expression most fitting to the feelings she had described. Adam was no better off because his too-fervent desire to believe her left him—in spite of having just warned himself about the dangers of doubt—unwilling to accept the simple truth. He was aware of an odd hollowness in his belly, which was making him very cross, but he would not yield to it and snap at Gilliane just because she had behaved as properly as a pattern piece. He turned to walk away, knowing he would not be able to hold his tongue much longer—and nearly tripped over the small table on which Gilliane had set the bowl of pottage. As soon as the odor assailed his nostrils, Adam began to grin. No wonder he was cross and felt hollow. He had had nothing to eat since the afternoon of the previous day.
“You are a very wise woman, Gilliane,” Adam said, setting the chest down and seizing the bowl. “How did you know I would be starving? Did you forget a spoon? Never mind. I will use the ladle.” He grabbed that from the pot and sat down in the nearest chair.
After a few mouthfuls, he looked up at Gilliane, who was watching him. “Sorry,” he said, swallowing what he was chewing, “you must be hungry, too. It is long past dinnertime. Come here.” He patted his knee. “I will share the ladle with you.” Laughing, Gilliane denied that she was hungry enough to steal food from a starving man, but she went to sit on his lap and, for the pleasure of eating from the same implement Adam was using, took a few mouthfuls. No one was in the antechamber, but the maids’ voices could be heard in the large room outside.
“We are not being very discreet,” Adam sighed as he became aware of the sounds after the bowl had been emptied.
“I think it is a little late for that, my lord,” Gilliane said cheerfully.
Somewhere deep inside she knew she would someday pay for this exquisite joy with equally exquisite pain, but she would not think of that. Not one single spark of happiness would be dulled by foreboding. Until disaster overtook her, Gilliane was going to milk every drop of pleasure from each moment.
“So? Well, if you are content,” Adam remarked, “I have no complaint.” He settled her more comfortably in the hollow of his legs. “Now it is time for business. Have you given any thought to how we should go about convincing your vassals to obey you?”
“I have not had time to think of anything,” Gilliane protested, and gave Adam a précis of the events of the past week. “Between all the people asking me what to do when Joseph’s sheep fouled Mary’s well, or when John fell into Henry’s ditch and squashed a hen and broke a leg—did John need to pay for the dead hen or Henry for the broken leg?—I have not had time properly to oversee the maid’s spinning and weaving, much less think.”
Adam’s shoulders shook. “If you will be a good mistress and a wise one, the people will come to you. Your mistake was doubtless to give a fair judgment the first time. If you had ordered both complainants to be beheaded, you would have heard no more complaints.”
“Likely you are right. It is quite remarkable how quiet people are after their heads are removed, but they are also very slow about planting and reaping,” Gilliane replied tartly, which made Adam laugh harder.
“Let us hope you have good crops to pay for your trouble.” Adam rather expected a sharp There had better be, but Gilliane only smiled, and he was pleased that she was softer of manner than his mother, although he did not doubt Gilliane, too, expected to be paid in an indirect manner for her efforts. “But you had better think of the larger matter now,” he pointed out.
“One thing comes to me,” Gilliane said slowly. “After Saer left, Sir Richard of Glynde was here and I spoke to him of my fear of Osbert. I begged him to come again or to ask some other of Gilbert’s men to come. He told me he was going away—to a daughter’s lying-in—but he must have written to the others of my plea because Sir Philip came from Leith Hill. Sir Philip told me before he left that Sir Andrew also intended to make a visit—but Sir Andrew never came.”
“It could have been some private matter that prevented him.”
“Yes, perhaps, but I do not think so.” Gilliane’s brow was creased with concentration. She had never thought in this way about such things before, but Adam expected it and she must do it; necessity sharpened her keen wits. “I think either that Sir Richard came home and rode over—Glynde is only five or six miles away—and was told by someone the keep had been taken, or even saw the siege and fled before he was noticed, or that Sir Andrew did come and it happened to him. Either way, I am sure that Neville’s men know Tarring is taken, although they may not know by whom.”
After considering, Adam nodded. “I think you are probably right and the news is out. There is, then, no use in subtlety. What do you wish to do? Do you think I should just march to Glynde, say you have taken me for overlord, and call Sir Richard to duty since Neville’s will makes you his heir? If I do not say anything about—about this forced marriage—”
Gilliane shuddered in Adam’s arms, and he tightened his grip reassuringly, pleased at the sign of distaste. He mistook her reaction, however. As strong as Gilliane’s hatred was for Osbert, it was nothing in comparison to her dread at the thought of Adam assaulting Sir Richard’s keep. She knew nothing of the defenses of Glynde, but thought even a serfs mud hut a fearful obstacle if it was opposed to Adam. However, she had learned that she must not say to Adam that a thing was dangerous. Various conversations with Alberic had made clear to her that the surest way to get Adam to do something was to tell him that it was difficult or dangerous. A warning always affected Adam like a dare.
In addition, Gilliane had been trained all her life to the idea that for a woman to tell a man he should or should not do anything was a sure path to a beating. She did not think of that consciously; she no longer thought that Adam would beat her. Moreover, she would have gladly accepted the beating if it would keep him safe at Tarring. She simply could not answer his question directly and say I want you to forget the whole subject of Neville’s men. Let them rot. Stay here safe with me. Yet somehow she must keep Adam from fighting.
“You know better than I, I am sure,” Gilliane began placatingly, “but, my lord, would it not make you very angry if a man should come with an army and bid you do something—even if it was something that you might have thought it right to do?”
Honesty forbade Adam to say indignantly that he hoped he had more sense than to cut off his nose to spite his face. He admitted that he might, indeed, object to such handling.
“And it is so near, only five miles,” Gilliane hinted.
“Are you suggesting that I should ride over by myself and—”
“No!” Gilliane exclaimed immediately, seeing her lover taken, imprisoned, and tortured, even though she had every reason to believe Sir Richard was a kind and honorable man. She almost said that she would go alone, but realized in time that such a suggestion would be a terrible affront to Adam’s pride. “We must take enough men to be sure Sir Richard could not attack us with impunity—although I do not believe he would do so without cause—but not enough to be a threat to him. And we—”
“We?” Adam repeated.
“But, my lord,” Gilliane pleaded desperately, sure that if she was there, she could do something to keep the men from flying at each other in sheer, unreasonable aggressiveness, “he is my vassal by law…unless he is Osbert’s…”
“Do you think,” Adam began hotly, “that I intend—” But he checked himself, realizing she was right. Whatever
he intended, if she did not go with him and take her vassal’s homage herself, she would be nothing—or, quite reasonably, the vassal might refuse to do homage at all.
“I know that whatever you intend will be for my good,” Gilliane cried. “I only—”
“No, you are quite right,” Adam interrupted curtly, and then, seeing there were tears in her eyes, he laughed and kissed her. “You are right, and I am a fool. If we do as you say, it may well be that Sir Richard will be willing to honor his oath at your wedding without being forced to it. But the question of de Cercy remains. If we conceal the second contract—”
“No, no,” Gilliane insisted. “I think that will be the strongest inducement to Sir Richard to swear to me—or you. He loathed Osbert. Not only must we tell him, but I must bring the contract. We must prove that Gilbert was dead before you ever entered Tarring keep.”
“Prove that Gilbert was dead!” Adam roared. “Do you think I would harm a poor, witless cripple?”
“Dear lord,” Gilliane cried, taking his face between her hands, “I know you would not. No one could be more gentle to the helpless. You have not even chastised me when I well deserved it for stupidity or carelessness. But how could Sir Richard know that?”
“No man of honor would think of such a thing,” Adam said, still indignant, but in a much modified voice.
“Perhaps not, but Sir Richard cannot know and…and you must admit it would be a great temptation, even for a man who was not a monster. Gilbert was not happy or well, poor thing. A man might tell himself it would be a blessed release for Gilbert. I do not know about England, but in France I heard tales enough about the marriage of rich widows to their husband’s slayers.”
“It is true in England also,” Adam replied stiffly, “but I have not married you.”
Gilliane turned her face aside, almost as if he had slapped her, and Adam wished he had bitten his tongue. His next impulse was to assure her that he fully intended to remedy the condition as soon as she was legally as well as morally a widow—whatever suspicions that might arouse in Sir Richard’s mind—but his own suspicion leapt up and seized him by the throat and silenced him. Had she wept, he would have been conquered regardless of suspicion. However, Gilliane had never really had any hope that Adam would marry her, and she recovered quickly from the hurt of hearing him say so.
“You must do as you please, my lord,” Gilliane said quietly. “I am very ignorant. I spoke because you asked me to say what I thought, and it is my duty to obey you.”
Adam could scarcely believe his ears. Gilliane’s voice held no inflection of sarcasm or spite or anger, and when she turned her face back to him, her expression confirmed her tone. She looked a trifle anxious, but not at all angry. Either Gilliane really did have the sweetest temper of any woman born, or she did not care enough about him to be angry. Adam could feel a cold sweat break out on his body. That was ridiculous. She had been so careful of his little hurt, so eager, so passionate abed, she had rushed to greet him when he came—and driven his horse wild. Had Gilliane hoped a chance blow would kill or maim him? Involuntarily, Adam shuddered. Had she disposed of one maimed husband “for his own good,” and now planned to dispose of her conqueror in the same manner?
“You are still cold!” Gilliane exclaimed remorsefully. “Let me get a cloak.”
The eyes turned up to him were dark, luminous pools of love. Great sweetness dwelt in the soft curve of the lips. “No,” Adam murmured, drawing her closer and bending his head to kiss her. “I am not cold. Stay with me.”
He was mad to conceive such an idea, not only because Gilliane was sweet and good, but for much more practical reasons. Whatever she felt for him—whether she loved him or only pretended to love him—there could be no doubt that Gilliane was determined to rule her lands. Her activities the week he had been away—giving help and justice to the people, urging Alberic to take safe and suitable aggressive action, which he never would have done on his own—was one proof. A second proof—which also proved that, at this time, Gilliane certainly wished Adam no harm—was her insistence that she go to claim fealty from her vassal and the advice she had given him concerning Sir Richard. It was wise and sound. If anything could bring Sir Richard willingly to acknowledge Gilliane as his overlady and King Henry as the rightful king for whom he must fight, it was Gilliane’s suggestions.
“Well,” Adam said when he released Gilliane’s lips, “you are right all ways. We will go with one hundred men and ask Sir Richard to come out with the same number and parlay with us. After all, he cannot have many more than that in the keep—I hope.”
“I would not count upon that,” Gilliane warned. “If he knew Tarring to be besieged and yielded three weeks ago, he had time to call up and hire more.”
“It does not matter,” Adam assured her, smiling. The caution certainly indicated that Gilliane was concerned for his safety, not her own. The worst that could happen to her if Sir Richard attacked them and captured her was that Sir Richard would rule the lands in her name. The vassal could not wish to do Gilliane any physical harm. “I will look over the ground tomorrow and choose a place for the parlay where we can see if Sir Richard brings out more men. If he does, we will simply ride away. He cannot have enough to overpower us completely, no matter how many he has hired, and—”
The light in Adam’s eyes and the cheerful good humor of his voice told a clear tale. Adam would not mind a bit if Sir Richard decided to fight He would enjoy the engagement far more than a peaceful yielding. Gilliane looked at him in despair. Men were very peculiar. Even Adam, who was so gentle to her, liked to fight. If she was not careful, Adam might deliberately misunderstand something Sir Richard said or some move he made just for the joy of combat.
“But, my lord,” Gilliane interrupted hastily, before Adam could talk himself into believing that treachery was intended, “I only said that because…because I am silly and I fear even what I know will not happen, for your sake. Truly, Sir Richard seemed to me a most kindly, honest man. I cannot think he would do so dishonorable a thing.”
Checked in his flight of fancy, Adam was a little annoyed, but in a moment he laughed at himself. Cuthbert had also given Sir Richard a clean name as a good master and an honest one. Really, it would be far, far better to come to terms with such a man than to beat him in battle. If he could be brought to swear to Gilliane willingly, he would be a strong influence on the other vassals and castellans. And if they would not come to terms, Sir Richard, who knew their keeps and natures, would be of help in bringing them into subjection.
“Good enough,” Adam agreed. “We will try for peace with soft words and reason. You will have your way in all things. Now, do you reward me for my compliance—”
“Oh, I will,” Gilliane cried, springing off Adam’s lap. “I will provide you with a feast worthy of a great overlord of many rich properties. See how the light has faded, my lord. Dinner must be ready.”
“Dinner was not what was in my mind,” Adam protested, but he was laughing. He really was hungry, and it was plain that Gilliane was deliberately teasing him with talk of food. There would be time enough for love.
Chapter Fourteen
In Louis’s camp around Berkhampsted, love was an emotion conspicuous by its absence. The feeling between English and French grew more strained by the day. Tension had been gravely increased when they had first arrived by an attack from the keep upon the forces of Sir William de Mandeville. Great damage had been done to his men and supplies, and his battle banner itself had been seized and carried away. Sir William complained bitterly that the French contingent nearest him had looked on without the smallest attempt to come to his aid.
Instead of pacifying Sir William by saying that the leader of the French group was absent and the men did not want to act on their own, the Count of Perche—who was a high official of Louis’s court and should have known better—implied that the fault was Sir William’s for not guarding himself better and not resisting the attack more firmly. There might ha
ve been a shred of truth in the first criticism, but the second was completely unfair. Sir William’s men had been attacked while they were in the process of pitching and setting their tents in order, arranging the pickets for the horses, and performing other tasks necessary to making a suitable camp. The men were in confusion, running hither and thither. In fact, considering the disadvantage at which they had been taken, they had defended themselves with fortitude if not with success.
Unfortunately for the harmony among Louis’s supporters, it soon seemed as if the Count of Perche’s nasty implication had much truth in it. Later in the day, while the French knights were sitting at dinner, a large party bearing Sir William de Mandeville’s battle standard fell upon them without warning. Less physical harm came of this second attack than the garrison of Berkhampsted hoped. Far from regarding Sir William’s men as allies and thus remaining quietly at their meal, the French knights had leapt to arms as soon as the banner came in sight and had thus saved themselves from any serious loss.
They could not openly accuse de Mandeville of attacking them because he had already complained of the loss of his banner, but there was a strong suspicion among the French contingent that he might well have lied about that. If he had not, one said to another, why did he not send them warning as soon as he saw men carrying his standard? That he might not have seen the men come out of the castle, that they might have concealed the banner at first, or that, justifiably annoyed, Sir William might have wanted the French to taste the pie they had baked for him—none of these possibilities was mentioned. Another man, irritated by the scattering of a troop of horses, remarked bitterly that he would not be surprised to discover that Sir William had connived in the attack on them. Or even, Osbert offered, the whole thing could have been a conspiracy to add to Sir William’s supplies at French cost by staging a raid on his own camp.
Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four) Page 21
