by Anne O'Brien
‘So you rejected me out of hand.’
‘Yes.’
She raised her chin. ‘Perhaps you thought you could look higher than a de Longspey?’
‘Certainly I have no taste for de Longspey arrogance. I could find a more amenable bride in any family in the land.’
‘And you a robber lord?’ She could not resist it as she drove the blade even deeper.
‘Do you think?’ His mouth twisted as if she had finally pierced his armour. ‘At least my word—as you say, the word of a robber lord—stands for honesty and right. Your father was a man without scruple who would break his word, rob and plunder, if it suited him.’
‘William de Longspey was not my father!’ But near enough. She bit down on her lip. Fitz Osbern had given an uncomfortably accurate reading of the Earl.
‘Father by marriage. There’s little difference. I see that living under his protection, the finer points of the de Longspey character have been imprinted on you. You broke your promise to me.’
‘I did not. I never promised to accept your ownership.’
‘A matter of words.’ Now he strode down, was on her level, swooping to catch her forearms before she could step back. And he shook her ‘A lucky escape for me, I think, that you refused my offer.’
‘And for me. All you wanted was a chatelaine for Clifford, someone to hold the fortress whilst you go back to your mercenary lifestyle! And why, in Heaven’s name, do you want Clifford anyway? How can it possibly be so important to you?’
‘That’s not your concern.’ A slash of high colour slanted along his cheekbones. ‘As for a chatelaine—I’ll make do without. I don’t want a treacherous wife.’
‘And I do not want an uncouth lout for a husband.’
‘How fortunate that we agree.’
‘It’s the only thing we agree on.’
‘I threatened to beat you once and lock you in your room. I should have done so. I hope you don’t regret your decision to invite Henry’s long fingers into the pot.’
‘I shall not regret it.’
‘You are too confident, lady.’
‘I am. I will see your defeat, Fitz Osbern.’
The air sparked between them as Gervase once more clawed back on his self-control. Regretting his ungoverned words, he was astonished at his body’s reaction to her. She had rejected him with terrible finality, there was so much turbulent emotion between them from the past, but still he wanted her. A rampaging desire to hold her, kiss her into complete submission, held him mercilessly. Had she been the de Longspey bride? In truth, he had no recollection. The identity of the woman had not been an issue, merely the insensitivity of Earl William in attempting to solve the dispute by dangling a bribe before him.
Yes, he had rejected her without a second look. She had the truth of it. And, knowing that, he realised how it must have hurt her. Nor was he going to tell her that it was his wife, Matilda, who should have been chatelaine at Clifford rather than she. That would hurt her even more and add to his own guilt in allowing Rosamund to steal into his heart, his emotions.
But her jibe about leaving her at Clifford had hit home. That is exactly what he had intended. There she stood before him, courage stamped on every inch of her, jewel-bright defiance sparkling in her eyes. He could not but admire her. To take such a step, and be willing to face him.
Desire to possess that brilliance, to feel its heat, surged through his blood. As he held her, her mouth was so close. And, as if she read his intent, she still defied him.
‘Would you really kiss me when I am in no position to stop you? When you have just finished telling me how much you despise me?’
He bent his head and did what she dared him to do.
So much soft promise, so much sweetness, such delicacy. It overwhelmed him. So he allowed his mouth to take and take again, holding her pressed hard against him, aware of every breath she took. Aware of nothing except that her initial struggle in refusal of his power over her simply melted away. Aware that her hands had moved to lock behind his neck, her fingers to tangle in his hair. Soft and pliant, she was his for that moment, responding to every demand he made on her.
For an instant he drew back to look down at her face. To see her eyes open reluctantly, blind with—what? Astonished desire? A denial of passion? Not outrage, he was sure. Repressing a groan for the uselessness of it all, he kissed her again, because it was what he wanted more than anything in the world.
But it had to end. And Gervase refused to give way to the pleasure it stirred in his heart, through his body. ‘You could have had me,’ he spoke, low and harsh. ‘Me and all my lands. See what you have turned down.’
Pale, shaken, still she could defy him. ‘A robber lord? I think I have not turned down so very much.’
Brave words, yet he thought there was a shine in her eyes that brought him up short. His blood cooled and he stepped back. Allowed his hands to fall.
‘We have said all that can be said, lady.’
‘No. Not all. What will you do when the King arrives? Refuse him entry?’
She had him there.
Nor did she wait for a reply. She made him a formal curtsy and walked away.
‘Well?’
Rosamund found Petronilla waiting for her when she took refuge in the solar. There was a glint in the maternal eye that did not bode well. If her mother had not caught the end of the conflict, Hugh would have ensured that she know the whole of it, if not the final outcome in the Great Hall. She looked uncommonly stern. If Rosamund had hoped for a sympathetic ear from her mother, she was unsure that she would get it. A price she would have to pay for keeping her mother in the dark over the letter to the King, she supposed. Rosamund sank on to a settle before the fire and rubbed her cold hands over her face.
What had she done? Unleashed a wolf that had pounced and awoken such feelings within her, that had awoken feelings toward Gervase Fitz Osbern that she had suspected but must now acknowledge. She could hardly explain that to her mother.
‘He was so angry,’ she admitted.
‘Gervase? Well, of course he was. What did you expect? To bring the King’s justice down on his head, as you did. Now, if you had asked my advice…’
Rosamund sighed. ‘I didn’t. Too late to repine now.’
‘It was ill considered, Rose.’ Petronilla came to sit beside her, but left a little space between them. A tiny detail that Rosamund was sensitive enough to notice. Her mother would offer no comfort. ‘And now you must both face the consequences,’ she continued, an edge in her usually even tones. ‘Earl William always used to say—and one of his few sensible pronouncements—that life was simpler and more comfortable if you could keep the King at arm’s length. Henry has a tendency to interfere and manage to his own ends. If we find him at our gates, it will be your fault. You’ll be lucky if he does not seize the castle for himself and set himself to find you a husband even less acceptable than Ralph de Morgan.’
‘Is that possible?’ The weight in Rosamund’s chest grew heavier yet. When her mother and Fitz Osbern were in agreement against her, her certainties wavered. Wilful pride had led her to this.
And she had thrown Gervase’s offer back in his face.
‘What else could I do?’
‘Truly, I don’t know,’ Petronilla had the grace to admit.
‘I don’t see why he was so angry with me…’
‘I do. You shamed him, Rose. Hurt his pride, going behind his back as you did to a superior authority. If the King had come himself, it might have been better, but to send a self-important, self-satisfied courier with a permanent sneer—’ Hugh had definitely spoken to her ‘—to issue orders to a man of Fitz Osbern’s temperament…A man has his pride, as you should know by now. Clifford has been in his family’s hand for almost a hundred years. And you were surprised that he was angry!’
Rosamund could find no words of denial. She pressed her hand to where her lips still burned from his furious kisses. And then to her heart, which still throbbed
with a need to repeat the experience, but shocked that she had allowed him, encouraged him, in such intimacies. When his tongue had traced her lower lip, she had been lost. When the pressure of his mouth had forced her lips to part…She shivered in shame at her willing response to her enemy.
‘He offered me marriage.’ A bald statement that told nothing of her utter surrender under the slide of his hands.
‘He did? When?’
‘This morning. Just as Henry’s writ arrived.’
‘Excellent timing!’ Rosamund winced at the heavy irony. ‘And?’
‘All he wanted was a solution to the problem and a chatelaine for Clifford. He did not deny it when I accused him. So I refused.’
‘There! I might have known.’ Petronilla raised her hands in despair. ‘You are both as headstrong as each other.’
No sympathy there! Although she was beginning to suspect she deserved none. ‘Are you suggesting that I should have accepted him? In spite of everything?’ A burst of hot tears took her by surprise.
‘In spite of what? Rose…’ At last her mother shuffled close, enfolded her, stroked her hair. ‘You will go your own way, whatever I say.’
‘I don’t deserve your comfort.’
‘I know. You are impossible.’ She caught a little laugh, unwittingly echoing the furious lord. ‘But you are my daughter and I love you. Don’t weep now for things that are past. That’s my advice, for what it’s worth.’ The laugh disappeared from Petronilla’s face, from her voice, then she shook her head and pressed a kiss to her daughter’s temple. ‘You are too alike to live comfortably together, that’s the problem. A pity…’
‘What is?’ Rosamund blotted her tears with her sleeve.
‘No matter. We must just wait and see what transpires.’
King Henry has an annoying habit of interfering, her mother had warned. So it was no surprise to Rosamund that, hard on the heels of Sir Jasper Griffith’s disgruntled retreat, the King himself made a sortie to descend on Clifford. Accompanied by Queen Eleanor in a magnificent fur-lined mantle and gold filet to anchor her veil, he erupted hot-foot into the bailey in a flurry of escort, banners, a hearty blast on the trumpets and a heavy frown. As the Countess had also seen fit to remark, If we find him at our gates it will be your fault. With a sinking heart Rosamund felt the truth of it. She might want justice, but the King’s presence was all too formidable. And, since he was evidently not pleased, the outcome uncertain.
She hoped the royal displeasure would be directed at Fitz Osbern.
Rosamund wrapped her mantle around her and, Countess Petronilla struggling to keep up with her, strode to the bailey to make her saviour welcome. Unfortunately, Gervase Fitz Osbern and Hugh de Mortimer were already there. King Henry was already swinging down from his stallion. She halted beside Gervase, thoroughly irritated that she could not have been the first to make a good impression on the King as the Lady of Clifford.
‘I suppose you arranged this as well.’ Fitz Osbern’s face was as cold and bleak as his voice. She could feel anger almost vibrate within him and shivered at its intensity, relieved that she did not have to face it alone as she had done the previous day.
‘No.’ She forced herself to meet his hostile stare with a confident smile. ‘I simply asked the King for help.’
‘Then if your luck holds, I’ll be out of your beautiful hair by the end of this day.’
‘Pray God that it’s so.’
But if that was what she wanted, why did it make her feel so low? She shrugged inside the warmth of the heavy cloth. Perhaps it was just the dank cold of the morning that made her feel so out of sorts. Nothing to do with the furious man at her side who would soon be ordered to leave her be, to manage her own affairs. An outcome that should fill her with joy. And if Fitz Osbern chose to turn his back on her and advance toward the King to welcome him, well, that did not matter. She concentrated on listening in on the sharp conversation that must surely ensue between the King and his recalcitrant Marcher lord.
Henry, King of England, all fiery red hair and beard, blue eyes snapping with energy, prowled in the bailey and surveyed it as if he owned it. His russet tunic with its gold embroidery might clash outrageously with his hair, but there was no doubting his presence. Little older than Rosamund herself, solid yet impressively athletic, he already had a reputation, and gave off an aura of unquestionable and confident power, as he bent his keen gaze on the man whose stubbornness had brought him here out of his way. He came to stand before the two men.
‘Fitz Osbern,’ he acknowledged bluntly. ‘And Hugh de Mortimer, I see.’
‘Your Grace.’ Fitz Osbern’s face was still set in mulish lines that did not bode well for the forthcoming exchange as he and Hugh bowed respectfully before the King.
Henry, unceremonious as ever, ignored the respect. ‘You did not come to Ludlow, as I ordered.’ The red brows rose in hauteur.
‘No, your Grace.’ The black ones settled into a bar above the hawkish nose. ‘I did not.’
‘We have a clash of wills here, it seems.’ Mild enough, Rosamund considered in the circumstances.
‘We have no justice here, sire.’
‘No justice?’ Henry delivered a straight-armed blow to Fitz Osbern’s shoulder with a large fist, that the Marcher lord bore with stoicism. That there seemed to be no love lost between them raised Rosamund’s hopes. ‘I sent you royal justice. I would consider you and your claim in Ludlow. You refused to obey my commands, Fitz Osbern.’
‘Commands delivered by a pompous fool, sire.’ A risky response, Rosamund considered. She held her breath. Surely the King would take issue with this.
‘Ha!’ Henry gave a crack of laughter. ‘I wondered what you would think of Sir Jasper.’
‘Very little, sire.’
‘He has his uses.’ Henry’s broad freckled face broke into a grin, then settled once more into stern lines. ‘But my written word and my seals should speak for themselves.’
Gervase’s lips acquired a saturnine curl. ‘I have to admit to a hasty temper, sire.’
‘Then you haven’t changed.’
‘I think the years in the March have brought me some good sense, sire.’
‘Good sense? I remember you once taking on a good half-dozen men in Anjou, all armed to the teeth, to save my life. That was no good sense. It was a miracle I was there to give you a helping hand.’
‘A miracle indeed. As I said, sire, maturity brings better counsel. And to you too, I hope, since you were foolish enough to lay yourself open to such dangers of attack from a parcel of thieves in the first place.’
Henry laughed aloud, repeated the punch, then grasped Fitz Osbern’s hand in his, a warm clasp. ‘Well said. I was always too headstrong for my own good. I enjoyed our campaigning together. I value both your courage in battle and your good counsel, Ger. And your loyalty.’
‘My loyalty to you is without question, sire.’
At which Rosamund, to her astonishment trying to follow the subtle change in this conversation, saw Fitz Osbern’s face break into a smile. It warmed his eyes, smoothed the lines that bracketed his mouth, softened his harsh features so that she could not look away. It made him look positively approachable, causing her heart to pick up its beat. Until the direction of the exchange was driven home to her. This was not as she had expected, the King taking his disobedient subject to task. Henry had addressed him by his given name. They knew each other. They had a past history of camaraderie and fighting together. The King owed his life to Fitz Osbern at some time in the past. Was that good or bad for her situation? The answer was writ clearly. Reminded of his friendship and debt to Ger, would Henry be swayed in his direction?
Meanwhile, the King took Fitz Osbern’s arm in a friendly gesture. ‘What are you about, Ger?’ Henry asked. ‘The lady’s case is plain enough.’
The approachable smile vanished. ‘It’s based on thievery and malpractice.’
‘Hmm. And the lady? Can you make no headway with her? Persuade her?’
<
br /> ‘Ah…no.’
‘What’s wrong with her, then? Is she as ugly as sin? Old enough to be your grandmother? There must be some reason you can’t charm her. De Longspey, I think she said. I know Earl Gilbert, but I couldn’t place Lady Rosamund…If she’s as whey-faced and stubborn as Earl William’s daughter who married into the Bohun family, I can understand your reluctance to get close to her. Bad tempered and…’
Fitz Osbern cleared his throat uncomfortably. Henry’s words died on his lips as his eyes slid uncomfortably on an angle. They came to a halt on the two female figures. Rosamund leapt smartly into the simmering silence, to her own defence.
‘I am Rosamund de Longspey. I am here, sire, as you see.’ Sinking into a deep curtsy, Rosamund enjoyed the look of horror that froze his lively face. Enjoyed the hastily hidden grin as Hugh raised his hand to his face. Fitz Osbern remained infuriatingly unmoved. Then Henry was bowing before her, taking her hand in his huge clasp, and she was swept along by the sheer vitality of his personality. He smiled, eyes sparkling with admiration and humour.
‘My lady. I ask your pardon a thousand times, even if I don’t deserve it. I see that my remarks were far from the truth. I deserve to be whipped for my impertinence.’
‘I am Earl William’s adopted daughter, sire,’ she explained gracefully, fully conscious that his smile could charm the birds from the trees. ‘This is my mother, Countess Petronilla.’ Henry bowed again. The ladies smiled. It was impossible not to. ‘I value your decision to come here, sire, to listen to my petition for justice.’
‘My pleasure, my lady. Now, if you would feed me, I will hold my own court and enforce my decision in person.’
‘Hold a court?’ Gervase’s eyes sharpened.
‘Why not? It will settle the matter once and for all.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon. I want to be in Hereford before tomorrow. I’ve no time to spend on petty disputes.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Smugly, Rosamund dared not look across at her adversary. Knew those fierce eyes were fixed on her. But any relief that it might soon be over was short lived.
