by Anita Mills
“Nay—that ye will try to learn to walk.”
But the boy shook his head. “I swear it.” His pale eyes met Will’s steadily. “And I’ll nae tell Mama until I can do it.”
Later, after William had returned the boy to Arabella, he went again to study his tally sticks. But as the parchment lay before him, ’twas not numbers nor letters that he saw. He’d promised Arabella’s son he’d make him walk—and he knew not how to do it.
For a long time he puzzled, staring at the half-empty parchment. If the twisted leg were longer … if it were straight … if the foot did not turn over . . . But none of that could be helped. The physicians could not lengthen a leg, nor was it likely they could straighten it. And even now the foot would not support the weight of a small boy.
He was almost angry with himself for having promised that which he doubted he could do, but then he remembered the voice. And very carefully he began to consider each aspect of the problem separately. Hours later, when the winter sun had lowered and William was leaving his tiny workroom in the near darkness, Arabella found him there.
“What is it that you do, that you would forget to sup, my lord?” she asked, coming up behind him. Curious, she peered over his shoulder at the parchment that lay open on the table before him. On the first half of it were columns of words with numbers after. And on the bottom he’d drawn pictures.
“Boots?” she asked, mystified. “I’d not think you’d want one like that, for you’d not be able to bend your knee in it.”
“Aye.” He rolled the sheepskin up and laid it aside, then put the stopper in his ink. Rising, he shrugged his shoulders to ease them. “God’s bones, but the arm pains me. Is it time to sup already?”
“Nearly.” She could scarce contain her excitement at the news she brought him. Finally, unable to hold her tongue any longer, she blurted out, “A messenger has come from Dunashie, William: Elizabeth of Rivaux is delivered of two sons! And Count Guy comes to the christening!”
“Two sons?” For a moment William’s expression was blank, then his face broke into a broad grin. “Two sons! Aye, she’s pleased o’er that, I’ll warrant. Two sons! Jesu! Did he say when?”
“But three days ago, as I count it.”
“Did he say they are named?”
“Aye.” It was her turn to smile broadly. “The elder is Guy, and the younger she has called David, for the king. You are to hold the king’s namesake over the font, William.”
“ ’Tis not meet …”
“The man of Dunashie said Elizabeth of Rivaux told him to say she’d have none other.”
“Two sons!” He shook his head. “And ’twas thought she was barren! ’Tis a pity Reyner of Eury did not live to see this. ’Twould have served him, and he did. God’s bones, but I’d write Giles, for I doubt not he is swelled with conceit o’er this. Two sons. Sweet Jesu.”
She came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Jamie has worked his letters ever since you brought him up to me.”
He tensed, wondering if the boy had already betrayed him. “Och, and what makes ye think I had anything to do with that?” he asked her. “Did he tell ye?”
“Nay, but he would scarce look at them before.” She moved behind him and rubbed between his shoulder blades, savoring the feel of his taut muscles. “Mayhap ’tis that the dagger pleases him,” she mused.
“Mayhap.”
“You make him very happy with it. I’ve not thanked you for that,” she added softly.
When he turned around to face her, there was no mistaking the mischief in his hazel eyes. “And ye’d retire early, mistress, I’d let ye do it.” His eyes swept the tiny room, and his mouth quirked into a crooked, almost boyish smile. “When is it that we sup?”
She felt the now familiar excitement course through her, as her whole body went hot with anticipation. “As they set the trestles now, ’tis soon,” she answered lightly.
“Och, and I’d thought to kiss ye, but . . .” His voice trailed off regretfully, but his eyes gleamed still. There was no mistaking his meaning.
“Here?” she said weakly.
He’d moved closer, and she could feel his heat also. She had to close her eyes to hide her desire. His big hand brushed at the tendrils of hair at her temple, smoothing them back, and his breath caressed her face softly as he bent his head to hers. She clasped his arms to steady herself as he kissed her deeply. His lips teased and his tongue probed, tasting of her, as his body pressed against hers. When at last he drew away, she felt disappointment until he answered.
“Aye.”
“There is no bed,” she said, her pulses racing.
“There is the bench,” he reminded her. “Or the table. And ye choose the latter, ye can ride.” His hands tugged at the laces beneath her arms, loosening them. “Or we can wait until we sup,” he murmured, sliding his hands up her wide sleeves.
“The table,” she decided.
His hands found her breasts as he nuzzled her ear. “And I’d only ask one son of ye, Arabella of Byrum,” he whispered.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Despite her years at the English castle of Woolford, Arabella was unprepared for Dunashie. She’d expected it to be a crude shell keep, like most of the others on the border. But it was as fine a place as she’d ever seen, and she found it difficult to believe that Guy of Rivaux once had not thought it worthy of his daughter. To Arabella, it was as though she came to a palace.
The whole of Dunashie was stone, and instead of one tower Giles of Moray now had three to guard the approaches. And inside, the hall, its walls hung with red-and-black bunting, was spacious enough to hold a royal court. Every table therein was covered with red cloth in honor of Guy of Rivaux, who came to his grandsons’ christening. Even the raised dais was impressive, for in the center was a single, richly carved high-backed chair wide enough for two. It was there that Giles of Moray sat beside his highborn wife to preside at table.
But of all whom Arabella saw at Dunashie, perhaps the most overwhelming was Count Guy’s daughter herself. Elizabeth of Rivaux was taller than most men—some said she stood six English feet from the ground—and she was possessed of the blackest hair and the greenest eyes Arabella had ever seen. Aye, and she was so beautiful that it was difficult to believe she breathed like a mortal woman. ’Twas not a wonder that William’s brother had carried her off: What man could look on Elizabeth of Rivaux and not want her?
Yet when she’d observed as much to William he’d merely grinned, saying most would not stomach Elizabeth’s high temper. But she could tell that even he was not proof against Rivaux’s daughter, for he greeted her warmly, enveloping her in an affectionate embrace. And she’d kissed him full on the mouth, as though she counted him as much a kinsman as those in her own family.
“I make you known to my wife, daughter to Nigel of Byrum,” he’d said, beckoning Arabella forward. “Arabella, ’tis Elizabeth, born of Rivaux.”
Arabella dropped to kneel before the tall woman, both because she was wife to William’s overlord and because she was a count’s daughter, but Elizabeth caught her under the arm and pulled her up. Kissing her lightly on each cheek, she stood back to admire her sister-in-law.
“Arabella, is it? Well, I had hopes he’d find a wife I would not tower over, but at least you are not small.” Incredibly, she smiled. “Aye, and you are lovely: ’Tis no wonder he told me you were as a gilded rose.”
“There are those who count me tall also, Lady Elizabeth.” As soon as the words had escaped her, Arabella felt foolish for having said them.
“Then they have not seen me.” Linking arms with her, Elizabeth turned again to William. “Well, do you stand here gaping—or would you see my strong sons? Come, the both of you—I’d have you see what the barren horse of Rivaux has given her lord.”
“Aye. And your sire—is Count Guy yet arrived?” William wanted to know.
“He rode out forthwith at the news,” Giles answered for
her. “And you seek the cradle, you’ll find him there. There is something about a babe named Guy that pleases him.”
“I’ll warrant there is.”
Elizabeth stopped on the steps. “I’d have named the second son William, I’d have you know, but the day they were born word came that King David had bestowed another manor on Giles. ’Twas decided more politic to recognize him this time, but I give you my word on your knife that the next boy will be our Will o’ Dunashie.” She flashed him another grin. “You still have the knife, do you not?”
“Aye.”
“He made me swear on my soul, my babe’s soul, his knife, and all else he could think of that I’d return to Giles from Harlowe,” she explained to Arabella.
“ ’Tis a wonder the babes were not marked for all the oaths I swore over them.”
“I dinna know ye well then,” William protested.
“And you are not watchful, he’ll have you swearing to everything, Arabella. ’Tis his way of leading you. William is more pious than the rest of us, I fear.”
“ ’Tisna a verra hard thing to be,” he shot back.
“He still prays ere he retires,” Arabella volunteered.
“Before or after, I wonder?” Elizabeth teased him.
Despite her earlier awe of her, Arabella was drawn to the younger Elizabeth. Her own eyes sparkled mischievously as she answered, “The first two days he prayed not at all.”
“Aye—Berta wagered that you would not sit after.”
“Liza …” William growled.
“Berta?” Arabella asked innocently.
“Elizabeth, I’d nae—”
“Dunashie’s whore. She overcharged him, I am told,” Elizabeth answered blithely. She leaned closer, her sparkling eyes on William, and whispered loudly, “When we are alone, Arabella of Byrum, there is no end to the tales I can tell you of him.”
“I am naught but ears.”
“I like her, Will—mayhap when summer comes, you’ll bring her to stay with me. But for now we tarry, when you could be looking on the two bonniest babes on the border.”
If the hall was richly decorated, it was as nothing before Elizabeth of Rivaux’s solar. Every wall was hung with great alternating sheets of red and black silk, and the floors were swept bare beneath mats woven of reeds painted red. And over the red had been drawn the bear of Dunashie. The bed was many curtained, the inner layer being gold-shot baudekin, then black silk, and finally on the outside was crimson velvet embroidered in gold. Even the boxes and cupboards that lined the walls were painted in black and decorated with gold.
“ ’Tis beautiful,” Arabella breathed. “I’ve not seen the like before.” Then, realizing she’d not even mentioned the flames-of-fire fabric that Elizabeth had sent her, she tried to stammer out her thanks. “Your pardon, gracious lady, but I’d forgotten: my thanks for the cloth—’twas my wedding gown.”
“You are most welcome. And ere you leave, I’ve far more than that to give you.” She caught Arabella’s hand, dragging her to where several men sat beside a double cradle. “But for now—behold Guy and David of Dunashie!”
The men rose, and as Arabella looked from Elizabeth to the tallest of them she knew him for Guy, Count of Rivaux, Earl to Harlowe. It was as though her skin turned to gooseflesh as she stared. This then was the man she’d heard of for as long as she could remember. This was the man they sang of at hearths from Paris to Rouen to London to Edinburgh, and all places between. This was the man who’d brought down the evil Count of Belesme. It was like seeing a saint in the flesh.
Smiling, Count Guy addressed William almost familiarly. “So Giles has seen fit to raise you, has he? When I heard it of him, I told him ’twas due you over-long. Nay—no ceremony is due me, for you hold no lands of Rivaux,” he hastened to add, when Will would have gone down on his knee.
“I’d honor ye for Belesme, my lord.”
“ ’Twas long ago.”
As Will took Arabella’s arm, Elizabeth stepped back. “My lord, I’d present Arabella, lady to Blackleith—my lady,” he announced proudly.
Despite what Count Guy had said to her husband, Arabella swept the flowing skirt of her gown behind her and made a low obeisance before him. Looking up though the veil of her lashes, she thought she detected a glimmer of amusement in his strange, flecked eyes. Reddening, she managed to say, “My lord of Rivaux.”
“Sweet Mary, but you’ve got yourself a beauty, William of Dunashie,” Guy murmured as he reached to take her hand. “Lady.”
When she dared to look at him directly, she could see he was older than she’d thought, and it surprised her. Men like Guy of Rivaux were not supposed to be mortal. Yet his black hair was flecked with grey, and small lines of age marked his eyes. But his grip was strong, and his smile for her obviously genuine.
“ ’Tis honored I am to meet you, my lord.”
“Nay, the honor is mine.” He smiled yet again, which set into motion the fine scar that divided his cheek. Releasing her hand, he directed her attention to the double cradle. “My daughter would not forgive me were I to fail to show you the fine grandsons she gives me.” Looking up at William he asked, “What say you? Will either of them wield the Doomslayer, do you think?”
“I think it likely they will fight over it, my lord.”
“Nay, it goes to the firstborn.”
“Papa, it ought to go to Richard,” Elizabeth reminded him.
“He has Belesme’s Hellbringer to give to his son. ’Tis more meet that one called Guy should have my sword, I think.”
“Lord Richard’s wife is delivered also?” Will asked, peering over the cradle at the two babes.
Guy smiled. “Aye. Gilliane de Lacey gave him Roger of Harlowe ere Christmas, but the birth was a hard one, so he does not come. He sends one hundred silver pennies to each babe instead. You’d admire the babe, William, for his hair is as red as yours.”
“Nay, then I’d pity him for it.”
One hundred silver pennies each. Two hundred silver pennies. ’Twas as much as Arabella’s entire dowry that Elizabeth’s brother gave as birth presents for two babes. And Guy of Rivaux spoke of it as though ’twas to be expected. Arabella looked down on her woolen traveling gown and felt as though she were little more than a serving maid to them.
One of the men who’d been seated with Count Guy rose to speak to her. “Art Byrum’s daughter, as was wed to Elias of Woolford ere he died?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“My son served there then.” He moved closer. “Aye, he said you were a pretty girl—too pretty for the likes of Woolford. He spoke of you often.”
“Your son?”
William, who had been standing behind her, laid his hands on her shoulders. “ ’Tis Duncan of Ayrie,” he whispered tersely. Speaking more loudly to the other man, he said almost defensively, “She is lady to Blackleith now.”
“ ’Tis as well. Aidan would have it that Elias was a hard man, and ‘tis said Donald is much like him.” Duncan favored her with a smile. “He will be pleased to renew your acquaintaince.”
“Aidan?” she asked cautiously, hoping he did not mean Donald. She’d not have Elias’ son accuse her again before her husband. “ ’Tis Aidan as comes here?”
“Aye.”
William’s grip on her shoulders tightened almost painfully. “I hope he is well, my lord,” was all she could think of to say. “It has been many years since last we were met.”
“He is.”
“For shame—all of you!” Elizabeth chided. “You stand over my babes, and speak of all else. Will, I’d have you tell me they have as much promise as Giles.”
He released Arabella and peered into the cradles, looking from one to the other. “I dinna remember him being so little,” he teased.
“Fie on you, Will of Dunashie! Arabella, tell him that all babes save he come into this world like this.” Elizabeth bent over them and lifted the one closest to her. As she nuzzled the sma
ll, red face, there was no mistaking her pride. “Your godson,” she murmured, handing the babe to him.
He held it up gingerly, peering into the slate-grey eyes. “David of Dunashie,” he said softly. “May ye grow half so great as your sire—aye, and may you be possessed of a tenth of your grandsire of Rivaux’s honor. ’Tis all I’d ask for ye.”
“Give him over—’tis no way to hold a babe.” Arabella reached to lift Elizabeth’s second son from him. “Ah, he is a big one.” She looked at him, then at the one still in the cradle. “In truth, I think this one bigger than the other.”
“He is.”
“Art a fine, bonny fellow, Davy o’ Dunashie,” she crooned. “For shame, Will—naught’s amiss with this babe.” She hugged him closer for a moment, then laid him again in his cradle. “And you—you are a fine fellow also, aren’t you?” she murmured, picking up the other. “Aye—Guy, is it? My, what a name you are given—God grant you are like the other who bears it.”
“They are so alike that we have put beads on their ankles to tell them apart—red on Guy and black on David,” Guy pointed out. Briefly, his expression clouded. “I would that Cat were here to see them— aye, and Red Roger also. Three grandsons born within a month.”
“My mother,” Elizabeth explained. “She remains at Rivaux, that those who choose Stephen do not take it.” She leaned over to pick up the infant David. “And you do not mind it I’d sit apart with you, Bella. Nay— bring him. Men,” she said pointedly, “are easily made tired of babes.” As she crossed the room to where silk-covered cushions lined the wall, she half turned back to Arabella. “You have a son also, do you not?”
“Aye.”
“I’d hear of him.”
Arabella looked down on the small, perfect head and the round, plump body she held against her shoulder, and she felt as though she herself had been cheated in her firstborn son. “He is lame, my lady,” she said simply.
“Then God aid him.” Elizabeth’s green eyes softened perceptibly. “Bella, I would that you called me Liza—mine own sisters do.”
