by Anne O'Brien
Both might give their attention elsewhere, but both knew that it could not be left like that.
He had a debt of honour to repay for her support.
She had a need to make an apology for her ignorance.
Neither was the King’s work at Clifford, of an astonishingly devious nature, quite done. Not to his surprise, Fitz Osbern found himself manoeuvred into a quiet corner as the royal escort assembled.
‘Do you want my advice, Ger?’ Henry demanded companionably, as if he had not just pronounced his fierce judgement against him.
Fitz Osbern’s face remained set in sardonic lines, instantly suspicious, wondering just what the King had in his cunning mind. ‘I don’t think I do. It might be too expensive. You’ve just robbed me of three of my castles, sire.’
‘Ha! A trivial matter to a man of your wealth and standing. You’ll not notice the loss. Justice must be seen to be done. And it has. It would not do for the King to appear less than chivalrous, now would it? My wife would have some stern words to say if I decided against Lady Rosamund.’
‘So, to please your wife, you blackened my character instead!’
The King’s face shone with the joy of plotting. ‘I knew you’d understand, Ger. Eleanor would have her way and it would be an unwise man to stand against her. But all is not lost. Now, my friend, this is what I would do.’
‘What?’ Flatly uncompromising.
Undeterred Henry laid out his plan. ‘Take your leave tomorrow so the law is satisfied. Then before Lady Rosamund can set up any kind of defence, come back and lay a siege. She’ll not withstand you for long. Open negotiations if you have to, and threaten starvation. That should get her out. Or bribe the commander to open the gates—he looks to be your man rather than hers.’ Henry scowled at Sir Thomas, who was engaged in the difficulty of organising the escort in the small space, looking less than pleased with the final outcome. ‘Take both the castle and the girl in one fast attack. Get the priest from the village up here, and wed her. Tie her to the church door if you have to. Then you’ve got both—castle and wife. She’s not unattractive. I might have considered luring her into my own bed before…’ His eyes cut toward Eleanor who was waiting, not too patiently, for him. ‘You could do a lot worse and you need an heir for your lands.’
Gervase found himself staring at the King, uncomprehending of so outrageous a suggestion.
‘Well?’ Henry demanded. ‘Is it not a good plan?’
Gervase considered the unorthodox approach. ‘I can’t besiege her in her own castle! And she’ll not agree to marriage,’ he stated simply. ‘I’ve already asked her.’
‘I didn’t say to ask her to agree. Just do it. Once the knot is tied, the problem is over. I wager she’ll not find you beyond tolerance.’ Henry guffawed. ‘She leapt to your defence fast enough!’
‘It sounds easy. Somehow I don’t think it is. It’s certainly not chivalrous!’
Henry shrugged, happy now to abandon chivalry. ‘Threaten to send her to Ralph de Morgan if she refuses.’
‘The last time I threatened her, she camped outside my gate and refused to move!’
Henry grinned. ‘Then good fortune to you! I wish I could stay to watch the outcome.’
Gervase turned a full stare on the King. ‘And if I follow your advice, do you return with an army, sire, to crush me for my presumption in retaking Clifford?’
But Henry was already pulling on his gauntlets. ‘All I’ve told you is what I’d do. Action, Ger, that’s the answer. How do you think I won Eleanor when she was set free from Louis’s clutches? I was the least of her suitors in power and prestige. But I wanted her. I swept her off her feet. Don’t let anyone stand in your way and don’t give the lady time to think or she’ll start to find reasons why she should refuse. Besides, I’d rather have your hands on the reins in this central March. So I’ll turn a blind eye, Ger, as long as you keep the peace, I promise you.’
Gervase considered the devious complications. ‘What if I disobey your orders? What if I simply leave her in possession of Clifford, because that is what she wants?’
Cold fire in Henry’s eyes that left Gervase in no doubt of his King’s opinion on that outcome. ‘And leave a border castle in the hands of a woman? That’s not what I wish. I might order you out of Clifford now, for the sake of chivalry and the Queen’s smiles.’ He took up his bridle before making his parting shot ‘But let me put it like this, Fitz Osbern. I shall be more than displeased if the castle is not back in your hands when I return! I don’t take kindly to disobedience, so unless you want a taste of my justice in a royal dungeon…’
Henry clapped Gervase on his shoulder.
‘You don’t seem to be suffused with happiness and victory,’ Eleanor observed.
‘I am, of course,’ Rosamund stated, entirely uncertain.
‘You know my advice, Rose. You must be mad to let him go.’
Rosamund thought about it. ‘The King has ordered him to go. I can’t now beg him to stay, can I? Even if I wished it.’
‘I would!’
I can’t! ‘After tomorrow, I doubt I’ll ever see him again.’
Eleanor leaned conspiratorially. ‘He’ll haunt your dreams, Rose. And I wager you’ll see him again before too long. I notice Henry has been dispensing advice. Always a dangerous situation.’
Rosamund looked startled. ‘You think he will return?’
‘All is not finished between you.’ And Eleanor smiled and turned away.
Leaving Rosamund to acknowledge the truth of it. All was not finished between herself and the Lord of Monmouth.
‘So you are leaving, Lord Hugh. To go with the King.’
Petronilla had dreaded this moment, but being a lady of supreme common sense had forced herself to make her farewells to this man who for some unfathomable reason had wormed his way into her heart. Silently she denied her disappointment that within the hour he would be gone, leaving behind the hollow space in her chest where she presumed that heart might be. So much she wished to say to him, so much she could not find the words to express.
I have no experience of this!
Best keep it calm and matter of fact.
‘Yes, my lady.’ Hugh replied gently as if he saw the conflict within her. ‘He requested it. It is not in my power to refuse.’
‘You must be flattered to have the ear of the King.’ Petronilla kept her chin high. It was more difficult to keep her lips curved in what might pass as a smile. ‘I shall be sorry to see you go, of course.’
‘And I to leave.’
‘You’ll be pleased to return to your home. I doubt that I shall see you again,’ Petronilla found herself saying when she had determined not to.
Hugh enclosed her hands in his calloused fingers, then raised them, first one and then the other, to his lips. There was no smile on his rugged features, only a solemn acceptance of what must be. ‘God keep you, Nell.’
‘And you. Goodbye, Hugh. Safe journey.’
As Hugh took his bridle and swung into the saddle, the bottom promptly fell out of Petronilla’s world. Why could they find nothing to say to each other now, when it mattered so much? When riding beside the Wye or walking the palisade walk, they had found no such difficulty. Why should it hurt so much to watch his broad shoulders move away from her across the bailey? The loneliness that enveloped her was excruciating—but would pass in time, she assured herself. The sudden dampness on her cheeks was merely the effect of the cold wind. She scrubbed surreptitiously with her fingers to remove the evidence. The Dowager Countess of Salisbury must preserve a dignified exterior.
She would soon forget.
He had a debt of honour to repay. She had a need to make an apology. So he came to her that night. She knew he would. And if he had not, then she would have been driven to make her way to the bleak west tower and seek him out. There had been too much left unsaid, entirely incomplete, between them. Too much to be broached in a public domain. Rosamund was not even sure that anything could be said to put m
atters right, or to explain that extraordinary charge of power that danced in the air between them.
What was it that had united them, eye to eye, mind to mind, after Henry’s decision? She did not know, could not put a name to it from anything in her own limited experience, but it could no longer be stepped around. It had been there, a flashing blade between them, even from the very beginning, when those piercingly direct eyes had challenged her right to her property, when those strong arms had caught her up to protect her, and she for that one moment had felt inexplicably safe even as she struggled against him. But it was more than safety, more than physical attraction between her and her Wild Hawk. Had it really taken Eleanor’s prompting for her to realise it? Perhaps it had, for she had no knowledge of love. All she knew was the inner turmoil that robbed her of her appetite and her ability to sleep. That tingled through her blood like so many shards of ice in a frozen puddle smashed underfoot.
Surely he must feel the same. Surely Gervase must be aware every time they came into each other’s company, that rooms were too small to contain the both of them? Could he not sense the shimmering vibration that hummed between them? But perhaps he could not. Maybe she was the only one to be so afflicted.
Which misguided troubadour at Earl William’s board in Salisbury had sung in honeyed accents that love was sweet, and so had left her yearning for just such a gentle emotion as a young girl? The soft sentiments echoed in her mind.
Love is soft and love is sweet, and speaks with accents fair
Love is utmost ecstasy, and love is keen to dare
Ha! Not for her it wasn’t! A further couple of lines in the troubadour’s song sprang to life.
Love is mighty agony and love is mighty care.
Love is wretched misery: to live with its despair
That was more like it! If Gervase Fitz Osbern was indeed the object of her love. It was all impossibly distressing, impossibly disconcerting.
But now he was leaving her. Had she not wanted this, worked to achieve it? Why should she now be cast into the wretched misery of the ballad? And what could possibly pass between them before he left? Rosamund shivered at her inability to see the future. Only knowing what was in her heart and what she wished for. If she had the courage to grasp it.
And then he was there, come to her as she knew he would, still magnificently clad, the jewelled chain glinting in the light. Still the impressive Lord of Monmouth, uncomfortably forbidding. Rosamund found herself standing slowly to face him, eyes wide and questioning, no words at all coming to her mind as the same connection arced with fire between them as it had in the Great Hall, surrounded by a mass of people, royal and common, all completely unaware of it. But here they were alone.
Gervase held out his hand, she placed hers there as if under some spell from the compelling lustre of his eyes, and his fingers closed around hers. His voice, softer, gentler than she expected, stroked over the nerves that fluttered as a trapped bird in her belly.
‘I leave tomorrow at Henry’s orders.’
When he made no attempt to kiss her fingers in formal farewell, but remained tall and straight before her, she turned her hand so that she might grasp his.
‘Gervase. I didn’t know…your wife…’
‘No.’ His voice took on an edge, but nothing to distress her. ‘Don’t speak of that now.’
It seemed that words and explanations were beyond both of them. With a little movement, he pulled her a step closer, then stretched out his hand to touch her face, she thought because he could do no other, as she too was unable to resist. They were close enough that he might run a finger along the edge of her jaw, trace the delicate outline of her lips with the pad of his thumb. And Rosamund held her breath, shivered as awareness slithered down the length of her spine.
Sensing it, feeling her tremble, he dropped his hand. ‘Are you afraid of me?’
She swallowed the quick bloom of panic. ‘No.’ Wishing her reply was not so husky.
‘There is no need. I don’t know what is between us, but it drives me to do this.’ And he bent his head to kiss her. Gently at first, almost tenderly so that the troubadour’s sweetness, like honey, filled her veins. Then he deepened it, changing the angle, demanding that her lips part beneath his, yet still careful of her. The honey was transformed into bright flames. ‘I wish it had been different.’ It seemed to her that his words, whispered against her mouth, were wrenched from him, his eyes dark with emotion.
And he kissed her again, sliding his hands over her shoulders, smoothly down the length of her arms, circling around her waist, finally pulling her close until she was moulded against him, nothing to separate them. Then suddenly, when she sighed a little and would have rested her forehead against his shoulder, she was free. He stepped back. Rosamund found herself standing alone in a little space, quite bereft. Was this how it would be for her for the rest of her life? Was this it then, the end? Her Wild Hawk to walk out of her life again for ever? Before she could consider either her pride or her dignity, the prospect of loneliness spurred her on. Taking one fateful step, she reached out and tightened her hands into fists on his sleeves so that his brows rose in a question.
‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me this way.’ She heard her plea, was in some way appalled that she should make it. Then held her breath for his reply.
‘Rose…’
‘I know the consequences.’
‘I don’t think you do.’
‘I am inexperienced, but not naïve, Gervase. I know what happens between a man and a woman.’
His eyes caught the flame from the candle, so they glittered as if lit from within. ‘This is no path for an honourable man with a woman he respects. No path for us.’
‘And if the woman wants it? If I want it?’ She shook her head when it seemed that he would speak in refusal. ‘Stay, Gervase. Let us prove what lies between us, or deny its very existence. I don’t think I can deny it.’
‘Nor can I.’ Now he did kiss her hands, holding them enclosed in his, touching his mouth to her palms, leaving Rosamund to study his bent head and wish more than anything to push her fingers through the dark waves of raven-black hair. But before she could allow herself the luxury, she tugged on his clasp to lead him into her bedchamber, where he closed the door, soft as a whisper and stood before it, hand still on the latch.
‘There’s time to change your mind. I will respect that and leave you, however hard it might be.’
‘I will not.’ A little tilt of her chin.
His smile was gentle, without irony. ‘Then I suppose I have to deal with these laces again.’
‘Ah, Gervase…No need for your knife. I’ll help you.’
And she did, their fingers brushing, making her breath shorten, catch in her throat, until the gown, then the undergown, slipped over her hips to the floor to lie at her feet, until Rosamund stood in her shift and finally quaked at the reality of the consequence of her outspokenness.
Gervase closed the distance between them, to kiss her forehead. ‘Do you want the candle?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Apprehension trickling through her.
So Gervase quenched it before lifting her to set her against the pillows, leaving only the glow from the fire to soften the outlines of her bed and the man who would come to her. But enough for her to see, all burnished in red-gold, the shine of muscled arms and chest, the lean power of thighs as he stripped off tunic and hose and cast them carelessly on to the chest. Enough for her to see the spatter of dark hair on his chest that arrowed over his flat belly to his groin. Enough for her to acknowledge the evidence of his aroused masculinity.
Her breathing was shallow. What had she done? Now was no time for retreat and regrets. Summoning all her courage she held out her hands, her arms open wide in invitation in the dim light. Without hesitation he responded, then for a moment Gervase sat beside her, outlined in gold, the width of his shoulders a dark spread of wings, as the hawk she called him, to block out the fire so that shadows hid her flushed cheeks. ‘I
think this was meant to be, from the beginning,’ he murmured, then leaned to press his lips between her breasts, against the soft linen, where her heart beat wildly. ‘Your heart beats as strongly as mine. I’ll not hurt you, not willingly. Will you trust me, Rosamund?’
‘Yes,’ she managed, her mouth dry with what she had set in play. ‘If you will forgive my lack of knowledge.’
‘It’s of no consequence, lady. I have the knowledge for us both.’
In any other man she would have considered it empty boasting. But not with Gervase Fitz Osbern. And she thanked the Virgin for it, as he began his campaign with his mouth against the soft skin above her shift, whilst his fingers loosed the ribbon fastening.
‘This is not a surrender!’ she found herself stating. An impulsive, entirely necessary statement, in case he should consider her weak.
‘Of course not.’ The soft kisses continued to drift along her collarbone, halting for a moment where the bruising had faded to a mere shadow. ‘I never assumed it was. Rosamund de Longspey would never surrender.’ A little laugh whispered against her breast. ‘Nor is this a conquest on my part.’
‘No. I know it.’ It sent a glow of warmth to her belly.
Then there were no more words. Rosamund was swept along so that it was impossible for her to consider either surrender or retreat, or even conquest, for she had no control over her response to him. For that shadowed hour she belonged to him and would glory in it. It was all sensation for her as he lured, enticed, aroused with clever hands. Without doubt he was experienced, knowing instinctively how to make her heart thunder, her skin heat until she was on fire and slick beneath his caresses. How could she have guessed that those fingers, so calloused from sword and rein, could caress her with such skill, such finesse, seeking out every sensitive place? It shocked her, that she could abandon any shyness, any embarrassment of lying naked in his arms, and shiver without inhibition as his tongue sought and roused her nipples. Sent uncontrollable tremors along her skin.
