Almost Innocent

by Jane Feather

  “Why is your nephew not with you? Is it that he is ill favored, crookbacked, walleyed?”

  De Gervais laughed. “Nay, not so. You will find him well favored enough. But this is a long journey and takes a good week on each side. He has duties and training to attend to. I am here in his stead and will stand proxy for the betrothal, which will take place before you leave this house. Now, what say you?”

  “How is he called?”

  De Gervais stroked his chin. He was clearly going to receive no answer until she had asked her own questions and been satisfied, for all that her answer could only be of one kind.

  “Edmund de Bresse. His sire, my half brother, was the Sieur Jean de Bresse, a liege lord of Picardy; his mother the daughter of the Duke de Guise.”

  “But how is he in your wardship?”

  “He and his mother were taken hostage some four years past, after the death in battle of my brother. The lady died soon after, and the child was placed in my care.”

  Magdalen chewed her bottom lip. There were interesting puzzles there. Why was this lord a vassal of the English king, when his half brother’s family was clearly for France? And why was her father desirous of forming an alliance with one of the great seigneural families of France? He took no active part in this war that had been dragging on between the two lands these last thirty years, being far too busy defending the Welsh border for his king. But she knew nothing of politics. The reasons for the choice could not concern her, and she returned to questions that were of much more moment.

  “How many summers has he?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Of what character is he?”

  “One you may find sympathetic. He is not fond of his lessons and has been often whipped for their neglect.” He smiled at her. “He is more at ease with his companions in sport, tilting, archery, hawking, hunting. But he is not averse to dancing, or to music.”

  “He is a squire?”

  “Aye, in my household, and will receive his spurs in a twelvemonth.”

  “But if the war continues, will he then fight for England or for France?” She was frowning in puzzlement, the problem of such divided loyalties striking her as insurmountable.

  “Such weighty issues are not for the minds of maids,” Guy de Gervais said, deciding it was time to put an end to the catechism which began to grow uncomfortably pointful. “Come now, how do you answer my question? If you can still remember it after such an inquisition as you have subjected me to.”

  She looked stricken at the note of sharpness, as if her trust in him had in somewise been misplaced. “If my questions were impertinent, my lord, I ask your pardon.” Her voice was stiff to disguise her hurt.

  “They were not, just overly numerous,” he replied. “But they were fair questions. Now, must I ask you again for your answer.”

  “Am I to go alone?”

  Lord de Gervais sighed. “The Lady Elinor and your own maids will accompany you, and Lady Elinor will remain until it is seen that you are well established in the care of my lady wife.”

  He would have a wife, of course, although Magdalen strangely found herself rather wishing he had not. “And … and my father?” she continued. “But of course he cannot leave the king’s defense.” She answered her own question. “He will remain here.”

  “Lord Bellair will remain here,” he replied, quietly deliberate in his choice of words. The child’s father would be present at her wedding.

  “When must we leave?”

  “Is that my answer?”

  Magdalen looked out from the battlements, over the bleak, frowning country. She heard the tediously familiar sounds of fortress life rising from the courts beneath. Her father must come to London sometimes to do homage to his liege lord, the king. And she was tired unto death of this dreary place … and a maid must be wed, after all. What would it be like to see London? To live there? She had never left her home before. Her prospective husband sounded pleasant enough … and a maid must be wed, after all.

  She turned a pair of sparkling eyes upon him and a radiant smile, the first he had seen. “I will be ready to go with you, my lord, whenever you wish.”

  He laughed. The smile was delightfully infectious. “Then let us rejoin the company. The betrothal will take place this evening after vespers.”

  A thought struck her as she followed him back down to the court. “Edmund de Bresse, sir—what does he know of me?”

  “Why, that you are comely, wellborn, well dowered,” he responded easily. “He needs to know no more.”

  “But how could you know I was comely if you had not seen me? I might be most dreadfully pocked, or crooked of limb, or squint-eyed, or—”

  “But you are none of these things,” he rejoined. “And I was told so by the Lord Bellair in a letter some months past. These matters are not decided in haste.”

  “It is strange it was never mentioned to me before,” she mused, prancing down the stairs at his side. “And I consider it most unjust that I should be whipped on the day of my betrothal. Had I known you were to come, I would have had no need to visit mad Jennet for a spell to make something happen.”

  Lord de Gervais fortunately found the logic impeccable. He managed to murmur a soothing agreement of the injustice while avoiding any discussion of the reasons why she had not been forewarned of the plans made for her.

  All was bustle in the great hall when they returned as preparations were made for the feast in honor of the visitors. Lady Elinor left her supervision of the setting of the high table when she saw them and hurried down the hall.

  “Magdalen, you must go and sit quietly in my parlor. You are to dine in the hall this day, but until you are summoned I would have you keep well out of trouble. My lord, I will have you conducted to the guest chambers. My brother will await you in the south turret when you have refreshed yourself.”

  “Oh, but I will conduct my lord to his chamber,” Magdalen said eagerly, slipping her hand into the enormous one beside her. “I will fetch rosemary from the pleasaunce to lay upon his pillow.”

  Lady Elinor blinked in some startlement and Guy de Gervais laughed. “I’faith, my lady, I would be honored if you would permit her to do so. Such tender consideration for a guest can only be commended.”

  “Indeed, sir, I believe you are right,” Lady Elinor said. “But ’tis somewhat unusual. However, one must not stifle good intention. Go then, niece, but afterward you must go directly to my parlor.”

  Bellair Castle might be designed for defense, not domesticity, but Lord de Gervais could find no fault with the accommodations prepared for him. The sheets to the bed were of finest linen, daintily stitched by the lady of the house and her women. The hangings were thick and draught-proof. Soft skins lay upon the floor, and a fire roared in the chimney. His page was already awaiting him with lavender-scented water and fresh garments.

  De Gervais watched with amusement as his small companion proceeded to take inventory of the chamber, for all the world like an accomplished chatelaine. “It lacks but the rosemary,” she declared. “I will fetch it directly.” She ran off, and the page came forward instantly to help him divest himself of the great swordbelt, the surcote, and the chainmail beneath.

  He was in the process of removing the padded leather gambeson beneath the mailshirt when the door opened again without ceremony and the child reappeared, sprigs of rosemary in her hand. These she laid with some care to artistry upon his pillow and turned to smile at him.

  “There, that is well done, do you not think?”

  De Gervais handed the heavy tunic to his page and stretched mightily in his soft linen shirt with the fine drawn openwork set by his wife at neck and wristbands. “It is well done indeed, damoiselle, and I thank you for your kindness.” The response was in the nature of a dismissal, and he was somewhat disconcerted when she perched on a high stool beside the fire, still bathing him in that radiant smile.

  “I will sit and talk with you while you dress. Then I can show you to the south turr
et to my father’s room.”

  “And how will you explain your truancy when your aunt goes to the parlor and finds you absent?” He took the linen cloth his page had soaked in the warm, scented water and laid it over his face, taking pleasure in the luxurious caress easing into his travel-worn skin.

  “It is customary for the daughter of the house to assist a knightly guest with his armor,” she said innocently, swinging her legs.

  “I do not think such sophistry either should or would save you from the consequences of further disobedience,” he observed, putting his arms into the full sleeves of a particolored tunic of green and gold cloth.

  “But if you asked me to remain—”

  “But I have not.” He fastened the large gold buttons of the knee-length tunic. “Hand me my belt, Edgar.” The heavy, emerald-studded belt with its gold buckle was fastened at his hip.

  The page was grinning in open amusement, and disconsolately Magdalen slipped from the stool. “When I am wed,” she announced, “I shall go where I please.”

  “When you are wed,” Guy de Gervais pronounced with great deliberation, since it seemed to be time to straighten matters out, “you will be lodged beneath my roof until you are both old enough to set up your own establishment. You will not find the discipline in my household any easier than it is here … as Edgar will tell you.”

  The page’s grin widened. “Indeed not, my lord. And the Lady Gwendoline can be most severe on occasion.”

  Magdalen looked suspiciously between them, trying to decide if they were teasing her. Then she heard her name called from the passage outside. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, ’tis my lady aunt. I will hide in the clothes press.”

  “Indeed you will not.” The lord had joined his page in laughter now. He strode to the door, flinging it wide. “Do you look for Magdalen, my lady? She had just returned with the rosemary, and I begged her to bear me company for a few minutes more.” He beckoned her forward.

  Magdalen fell in love with the Lord de Gervais at that moment. She stepped up beside him. “I was just going to the parlor, madam. But who is to escort my lord to the south turret?”

  “Why, Giles, to be sure,” Lady Elinor said, indicating the Lord Bellair’s page, who stood waiting outside the guest chamber. “Hurry along now, child. You must not weary our guests with your chatter.”

  Lord de Gervais smilingly watched the small figure trail off toward the circular stairs leading down to the family quarters on the second floor of the donjon. If Edmund could be persuaded to devote some part of his widely scattered attentions to his bride, they might deal in companionship extremely well. At all events, he was not concerned about this strangeness Lord Bellair sensed in her. The Lord Marcher was not accustomed to children, but Guy de Gervais was. Although his own marriage was childless, he had in his wardship, besides his nephew, two cousins and his young half brothers and sisters, the progeny of his mother’s third and final marriage. He believed he could detect in Isolde de Beauregard’s daughter no more than a nature ill-suited to restraint—and that, it was to be assumed, she had inherited from her dam, if not from her sire. It was, after all, a defining characteristic of the Plantagenets.

  Ten minutes later, attired in his green and gold tunic over emerald-green hose, his marten-trimmed surcote and similarly lined velvet mantle, he followed the lad Giles to a round chamber in the south turret. It was a businesslike room, furnished simply with an oak table and several chairs, the floor bare except for one skin before the hearth. Candles provided bright illumination over the stack of parchments lying on the table. It was Lord Bellair’s administrative office, and his secretary sat hunched over the papers on the table, his quill pen scratching busily.

  “How did your discussion with Magdalen fare?” Bellair set a chair for his guest and instructed Giles to pour wine.

  De Gervais waited until the page had been dismissed before replying. “Without difficulty. She was curious about many things, but in no wise reluctant.”

  “I trust her curiosity was tempered with courtesy,” said Lord Bellair dryly.

  De Gervais smiled. “You need have no fears on that score. Master Secretary is gathering together the necessary documents, I see.”

  “The original document, placing the babe in my charge until such time as the duke would claim her, is here. Master Cullum is drawing up the necessary release of that charge, naming you as my successor in the matter. It will be witnessed under seal.”

  De Gervais nodded. He could well understand Lord Bellair’s desire to have no loose ends. His responsibility must be officially declared completed. With such parentage and the destiny planned for her, Magdalen could well be the focus of some future plot, and a sensible man would want no past ties hanging loose to incriminate him.

  “When is the wedding to take place?”

  De Gervais pulled his chin. “Within six months. There is the matter of legitimacy to be dealt with first, but the duke is working closely with Rome. There are bargains to be struck.” He shrugged as if to say there always are. One could always buy what one needed from the papal court with some kind of currency if one was powerful enough, particularly in these days of the papal schism when competition between the papal courts at Avignon and Rome obscured all spiritual considerations. John of Gaunt would not be remotely interested in spiritual considerations, only in what his power and currency would buy him from one amenable pope—he only needed one, after all.

  “You will wish to discuss with Lady Elinor certain matters, I daresay,” Robert Bellair said directly. “She will know what stage the child has reached in her maturing.” Receiving a nod of agreement, he called for Giles and sent him for Lady Elinor.

  The lady had been expecting the summons and addressed the subject with the same directness as her brother. “There are as yet few indications of womanhood, Lord de Gervais. She is, I believe, somewhat behind in her developing. I have known other girls at eleven who could be bedded within a short time after their twelfth birthdays, but I believe that in Magdalen’s case it will be more than a twelvemonth before her terms come. Her body is still unformed.”

  “There will be no hurry for consummation,” the lord said. “Once the alliance is formalized, the rest may take its time. The duke is besides concerned that her breeding ability be not overtaxed, as so often happens if maids are bedded too young. But I am glad to have your opinion, my lady. You will remain with her for a few months at Hampton, I trust, and will be able to pass on your knowledge of the child to my wife, the Lady Gwendoline.”

  “I will be happy to be of what service I can to your lady. But my brother will have need of me before the spring forays, and I would return by Easter.”

  Lord de Gervais recognized that the brother and sister felt their duty to be done, and he understood this. For eleven years they had fulfilled a responsibility, knowing always that the duty would end within twelve years. They had affection for the girl, but the affection would have been tempered with the knowledge of the impermanence of the relationship—a knowledge that the child had not had to aid her through her confused sense that in essence she did not belong in this place with these people. But then childhood was a time of confusion, was it not? If it were not, then grown men would be ill prepared to deal with their world.

  “Indeed, madame, whatever time you feel able to spare will be most welcome.”

  Lady Elinor curtsied in acknowledgment. “When will you wish to go in to dinner, brother?”

  “Whenever we are summoned,” Robert said heartily. “I believe my Lord de Gervais and I are concluded with our business. There is but the betrothal. Father Clement will officiate, and it should take place in the chapel after vespers. Magdalen understands that Lord de Gervais will stand proxy for his nephew?”

  “I have explained it to her,” de Gervais said. “Would you permit her to sit beside me at dinner, Lord Bellair? I would further our acquaintance. It may make matters run more smoothly.”

  Robert Bellair offered a small smile, tapping the doc
ument now handed to him by his secretary. “By the words here written, Lord de Gervais, you make what disposition you see fit for the person of one Magdalen, daughter of his grace, the Duke of Lancaster, and Isolde de Beauregard.”

  “But I would not have her aware of that,” the other said sharply. “She must believe, until his grace decrees otherwise, that you still hold a father’s authority over her.”

  “We will proceed in that fashion,” the Lord Marcher acceded. “Let us repair to the hall.”

  That evening, Magdalen stood beside Lord de Gervais before the altar in the castle chapel, feeling both important and excited. “What am I to do?” she asked, blinking her eyes, which stung from the censer smoke.

  “I will put a ring upon your finger and plight you my troth in Edmund’s name, then you are to say, ‘I, Magdalen, plight thee, Guy, proxy for Edmund de Bresse, my troth, as God is my witness.’ Then you will give me a ring.”

  Lord Bellair was standing beside her and now handed her a plain gold band, advising in accustomed fashion, “Do not drop it.”

  “Of course I will not, sir,” she responded, injured.

  It was as simple as she had been told. Questions were asked; Lord de Gervais and Lord Bellair answered them all. Guy de Gervais slipped a thin gold ring on her middle finger, and she spoke as she had been bidden, giving her own ring to de Gervais, who slipped it into his pocket.

  At dawn the following morning, Magdalen hastened downstairs in search of Lord de Gervais. She did not bother to examine why she wished to see him, but since he was her betrothed, even if only as proxy, she considered she had a right to his company. She was most disconcerted to be told that he and his knights had gone stag hunting with their host.

  Reflecting that it showed a fine want of feeling to abandon the main player in this present drama as if her affairs were of no further concern, the child trailed disconsolately back to the women’s wing, where she was pounced upon by her aunt and obliged to participate in the preparations for departure.