by Anne O'Brien
‘Your wife…’
‘You will wed me, Rosamund. You have refused me on every occasion that I asked. Now I command it.’
This stole her breath. He commanded it, did he? How in character! She ought to refuse him on principle, except she thought it was impossible to do so.
‘Do you not know that your hands hold my heart?’
‘No.’ A throb of wonder shook her.
‘You do. I sat outside these damned walls, wishing I could detest you, and discovering that you are the source of all my happiness. When you were not there, involved in some devious plotting, I found myself wondering what you might be doing. It’s too uncomfortable to be away from you. They sing of the glories of love. I have found it nothing but an almighty discomfort! But I love you with all my heart.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Did I not tell you last night? For what other reason could a man possibly seek out a woman who questions his every move, disobeys his every order? My authority had never been so undermined as it has since I met you. And you ask me if I love you?’
The laughter in his fierce eyes proved, for Rosamund, a seduction in itself. ‘I have never been loved before, you see, and…I did not think that you could love me. You might want me for your wife…but love is far from that. And what you might have said last night…’
His fingers were surprisingly soft against her lips, silencing her. ‘You thought I might lust after you, but not love you.’
‘Yes. I thought perhaps you merely pitied me.’
‘Pitied Rosamund de Longspey? I have never met a woman less worthy of pity. Since we are into honesty, I fought against it. I failed miserably. You’ll never know how difficult it was for me to turn my back on you, to leave you, when you were so desirable. But with the King’s judgement hanging over my head I had no choice.”
‘Is that why you came back?’
‘I could not lose you. Henry ordered me to take the castle and force you into marriage. I couldn’t do it. I adore you. I was about to give up and go home.’
‘Eleanor said I should lure you back,’ Rosamund admitted. ‘And I did.’
Gervase threw back his head and laughed, enough to cause the crows in the trees by the river to stir into flight. ‘I thought it smacked of an ambush. But I don’t regret it. None of it.’
‘Nor I.’
‘So, as I was saying, my beautiful wilful Rose, you will wed me.’
‘I will wed you,’ she repeated.
Gervase pinned her hands flat against his chest, all laughter wiped from his face. She could feel his heart beating into the palm of her hand. With utmost solemnity, as if in the presence of priest and witnesses, he made the declaration. ‘I take you for my wife, Rosamund de Longspey.’ His kiss on her lips was grave and formal. ‘There, it is done. Say the words, Rose, if you would have it so.’
So she did, careful of the exact wording that would stand before the law. ‘I take you for my husband, Gervase Fitz Osbern.’
With only the wheeling crows to bear witness, it was done.
‘You’ve given me so much, Gervase,’ she whispered, her forehead pressed against his chest as his arms came round her. ‘What can I give you?’
‘You have already given me everything I could desire.’
‘This castle?’ A wry smile.
‘No. Not the castle. Something much more important. Your love and trust. It is a precious thing, far greater than gold or jewels or cold stone. Tell me you love me, Rose.’
‘I love you, Gervase. If I have your heart, you have mine. Until the day I die.’
Standing on her toes, reaching up, she kissed him, and sealed the matter.
Well, that was that. Hugh sucked in a deep breath. Gervase back in control, of both castle and lady, with whom he would no doubt work out his own salvation to their mutual satisfaction. A man and a woman less likely as a compatible match he had never seen, but the spark between them was strong enough to light every torch in the Great Hall. It would be a lively coupling, but a true one. And now he could go home to Hereford. Hugh shivered within the dank walls of his chamber as he pulled on his boots. Every surface seemed to ooze a noxious green slime. Not least the comforts of his town house beckoned. A room without a howling draught, a meal that arrived at the table hot rather than stone cold.
A picture of Nell, chin tilted, stepped neatly into his mind. If he gave her a nudge—a gentle one, of course—she might just step across the line she had drawn, hemming herself in, and for the first time in her life take a decision to please herself. He smiled at the prospect of figuring in Nell’s future. The sentiments he had found himself writing in that damned letter had come from the heart. He had no intention of leaving Clifford without discovering the lady’s reaction. So it had better be now.
Hugh ordered the saddling of his horse, for his men-at-arms to be ready within the hour, before going in search of Petronilla. To find her stepping into the stable, coming to look for him.
‘Hugh…’ She seemed breathless. ‘You’re leaving.’
‘Nell.’ He bowed, keen-eyed. ‘Within the hour.’
‘You’ll be pleased to be back with your family.’
She would prevaricate, he knew, with no explanation of why she should have found a need to come to the stables at all. She was good at that. But he knew that there was more than a cool, polite response behind the lines of that sleekly fitting robe. If there wasn’t, he’d been wrong from the beginning, and he didn’t think so. So, because time was of the essence and he was essentially a man of action, he thrust out a hand, grasped the material of her over-sleeve, and pulled her deeper into the stable, into the relative privacy of the stall that housed his stallion.
‘Lord Hugh!’
‘Some plain speaking here, Nell.’ Transferring his hold from cloth to hands, he held tight, even when she struggled for release. ‘What do you do now? Shall I tell you what I see, if you’re not careful?’ She stopped struggling. Rather her hands clung to his in momentary panic. ‘You’ll remain here at Clifford. Ger and your daughter will make their own lives together, as you would wish it, but both are as strong willed as be-damned. And you will be caught in the middle. All the decisions will be made around you and over your head, with you as witness to the inevitable clashes of temper and the soft reconciliations of love. You’ll find yourself watching the mummer’s play from the sidelines, with no role for yourself. Is that what you want?’ Petronilla, much struck, blinked. ‘Well?’
‘No.’ Petronilla rallied bravely. ‘I’ll go to Lower Broadheath, of course.’
‘To live alone.’
‘Edith will be with me.’
Now, to his satisfaction, a little frown had appeared on his stubborn love’s brow. This was going just as Hugh had hoped, and he would not soften his attack. ‘Edith will give you company and conversation? That will be enough for you to stave off loneliness?’
‘I can travel and visit and—’
‘No. I’ll tell you what you can do, Nell.’ Startled, her lips parted, far too invitingly. ‘In fact, I’ll show you.’ And Hugh caught her to him and kissed her soundly, savouring those lips that melted, soft as rose-petals, beneath his.
‘Hugh!’ she gasped when she could, her hands tight-locked in the folds of his tunic as if she would never let go.
‘Petronilla!’ he mocked, very gently. ‘Tell me you didn’t enjoy it.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Well, then.’ He kissed her again. Then simply held her close, his cheek against her temple, his arms strong and protective around her. He thought he would like to stay like this for ever, until his stallion abandoned the bag of oats to investigate, and caused them to move aside. But not far. Hugh pulled Petronilla to sit on the low window ledge. In case she should still be in any doubt, he had not finished mapping out the future for his love. He twisted to face her, holding her shoulders firmly.
‘Now look at me and listen. This is what you will do. You’ll come to Hereford with me. Stay in my home for
a day or two, meet my sons and their families. Then I’ll escort you to Lower Broadheath. From there you can make your own decision. You can stay there in your own property, and ultimately hate the loneliness of it. Or you can consider me as an alternative.’ And he prayed that she would make the decision he found himself yearning for.
Her eyes widened with a positive sparkle. ‘Are you offering me a refuge from the dreary increase of years, dear Hugh?’ Petronilla smiled at him with such sweetness, such trust, that he had no hesitation.
‘I am offering you my heart and my love, lady. As well as a town house in Hereford that will be more to your taste than this place.’
‘I always wanted a town house in Hereford.’ Smiling, with only the glimmer of tears in her eyes, she sighed as if a weight had been taken from her mind. ‘And would you perhaps take my heart in return?’
‘Yes,’ he replied promptly and crowed with laughter. ‘But if I do, you must wed me. Even if I am nought but a plain Marcher lord.’ There, he had said it, with great joy.
She looked at him, clear eyed for a long moment, before stating her case. ‘I vowed never to wed again.’ To his delight she lifted his calloused fingers to brush them with her own lips. ‘I have decided to break my vow. Yes, dear Hugh. I have discovered that Marcher lords have much to recommend them. I will wed you.’
So they sat together, hands clasped, the dust motes spiralling round them in a shaft of sunlight, both entirely pleased with each other.
‘What about Rosamund? I wonder what she’ll say,’ Petronilla finally remarked, but not as if she cared greatly at that moment.
‘Rosamund is drowning in love and will not notice what you do. Nor will she object. Does my plan please you?’
‘Yes.’
The best, the most simple of answers. Hugh made no attempt to hide his triumph and his face broke into a broad smile. ‘Anything else that I can do to ease your mind, dear heart? Can you be ready in an hour?’
‘I can. One thing more, Hugh…’
‘What’s that?’
‘Kiss me again.’
Epilogue
H ugh and Petronilla had gone. But still the bustle in the bailey showed no signs of abating. Men-at-arms loaded weapons and equipment into wagons, horses were being led out, harnessed. It was a scene such as Rosamund had seen many times before.
No!
It came to Rosamund, as unexpected and terrifying as a thunderbolt. The Fitz Osbern troops were preparing to go. Gervase was leaving her. Not an hour after he had spoken of his love. After he had commanded that she should be his wife.
Now he was leaving her.
Icily composed, forcing her mind to grasp that one desperate thought, Rosamund watched the organised turmoil around her with the sense of being at the eye of a storm, the still, cool, centre, when all about her was heat and chaos. It was as if she stood divorced from all reality, as if nothing could break through the shattering pain. No one watching her would guess the sheer fright, the utter sense of loss, that compacted her heart in a physical agony.
He had said he loved her. That he would wed her, and she had never doubted him. But his departure from Clifford was well under way. Is this what her future would hold? Had she been so naïve as to believe that if he loved her he would remain with her, always at her side? That she would sit by him, rule the Marcher lands with him, travel with him? As Eleanor did with Henry. Perhaps love, for Gervase, was a practical thing above all. Yes, that was it. Gervase would go back to Monmouth or Anjou or wherever business took him, and leave her to rule Clifford under his authority.
At that moment she positively hated Clifford.
Well, it was an eminently practical move. Rosamund sought and found Gervase in the general mêlée, buckling on his sword as he exchanged a brief word with Watkins. How could she possibly live without him now? It would not be for ever, she admonished herself severely. He would come and visit her when he patrolled his lands. She would be the perfect chatelaine, fulfilling the role he required of her. Why did she feel as if her secure foothold had just been eroded from her world, leaving her struggling helplessly in some bottomless abyss?
He has stolen my heart. How can I bear for him to abandon me now?
Would he really go, only minutes after wooing her all over again, with gifts and kisses? But, of course, he had hardly hidden his intentions, had he? As she now realised, he had been dressed for travel when he had asked her to meet him on the battlements. If she had not been so preoccupied, she would have seen it at once. Now she must accept the pain and make her farewells with pride, showing nothing of her true feelings.
Am I not good at that?
Rosamund walked slowly to his side, dignity heavy on her shoulders. It felt as if her face had frozen into an impenetrable mask. He must never know her loss.
‘You are leaving soon.’ She was proud of the calmness of her voice.
‘Yes. I need to hold court in Monmouth before the end of the month.’ Gervase continued to watch the loading of a heavy wagon, raising his voice to attract attention to an animal’s loose harness.
Rosamund’s heart sank lower, heavier, with every word.
Take me with you. Don’t leave me.
How difficult it was not to cry out. Her heart urged her to cling to his sleeve, to plead her case. Her head refused, bleakly fearful of his compassion. She would rather be alone than an object of sympathy. If a love was keen enough, it could exist at a distance. Could thrive on infrequent meetings, intense and passionate, but with long intervals stretching between. Was that truly possible? Rosamund’s mind shrieked with the horror of it. Of course she could accept it, if that is what he wanted. It would never stop her loving him.
When shall I see you again?
Nor would she ask that. She stared hard at Owen saddling Gervase’s stallion, to prevent the imminent tears.
‘Will…will you go back to Anjou this spring?’ At least it would give her a pattern to his movements.
‘Possibly.’ A short answer. Gervase took his mantle from the squire, then, finally, focused on her. ‘Now, are you going to stand there all day and exchange idle conversation?’
‘I know you must be in a hurry…’
‘I am in a hurry. To get to Monmouth before nightfall. Not some time next week.’
‘Then you must go.’ More harshly than she had intended.
‘Well, I’m ready, lady. The mare is saddled and bridled, waiting for you.’ His hawk’s eyes travelled over her, a frown in their depths. Or perhaps it was uncertainty. ‘And you’re still standing here. Have you changed your mind? As I see it, you can’t. The words were spoken between us and can’t be undone.’
‘Changed my mind?’
He sighed in exasperation. ‘Edith has packed your belongings. They’re in the wagon. All I don’t seem to have is you!’
‘I’m coming with you?’
‘What did you think?’
‘That you would leave me there as chatelaine.’
‘Rosamund! My love!’ His smile softened his face as understanding came. ‘Do you want to stay here? Do you want to be rid of me already?’
‘No…but I thought…I thought you did not want me with you. You did not say—’
Rosamund got no further. Swooping with startling speed, Gervase clipped her round her waist, drawing her fast against him, one hand beneath her chin to force her to look up and concentrate on his words, regardless of the mêlée of horses and men around them all but brushing her skirts. ‘I did not think I had to say, lady. But if you wish it spelled out, I am taking you to Monmouth—immediately. Did you think I would abandon you here? You can curtsy to my mother, who will fall on your neck with gratitude if you will wed me and give her grandchildren. You will discuss gowns and veils endlessly with my sister. You will wed me in Monmouth, before a priest, with all due rank as the Lady of Monmouth, and appropriate festivity.’ The pressure of his mouth on hers was hard, entirely masterful. Then he sighed and lowered his voice as he lifted his head and caught her qui
zzical expression. ‘If that is your wish, lady.’
‘I thought you would come back here eventually—and send for Father Stephen.’ Trapped in his brilliant gaze, she was aware only of the melting of the cold lump of ice in her breast.
‘And wed you here? With draughts and vermin and cold food to celebrate our marriage? Not to mention the persistent problem of the midden…No. We’ll wed at Monmouth. The rats are smaller. Sir Thomas will enjoy ruling the roost here.’ The fine lines beside his eyes deepened, his lips curved as he used his cuff, most efficiently, to mop up the suspicion of tears that sparkled on her cheeks. ‘I’ll not leave you, Rose. Did you think it? You are in my mind and heart. We will live together.’
‘At Monmouth?’
He read her unspoken concern. She saw his lips indent at the corners as if he would laugh, but thought better of it. ‘I doubt you’ll find it comfortable to live with my mother.’ Gervase’s smile widened to a grin. ‘Nor she with you, I dare say. Lady Maude’s of a different cut of cloth from your mother.’ With remarkable tact he tucked her hand under his arm and led her across the bailey. ‘You can have the pick of any of my castles.’
Rosamund made a little play of considering the offer, but did not need to. Her joy was so great she could barely contain it. His consideration for her was as soft as a velvet mantle, all-encompassing. She nodded. ‘And can I travel with you, when you go to Anjou?’
‘Yes. To the ends of the earth, if you wish it.’ He settled her fur collar more closely beneath her chin, tucked the fullness of her veiling securely against the wind. Kissed her, the most tender of caresses to her temple, then nudged her forward toward the mare. ‘Your belongings are packed. Get on the mare, Rose. You have my word on it. I came back for you because I could not live without you. Now I’ll take you with me.’ His hands were firm, secure around her waist. ‘I’ll not lie apart from the woman I love.’
Rosamund stretched up on her toes to brush his cheek with her lips before allowing herself to obey her lord, to be lifted on to the mare without further argument, and with a light heart. The Wild Hawk was hers, and she was his.
