Lord of My Heart

by Jo Beverley

  Madeleine’s acceptance at the Abbaye, which had been founded by the duke and duchess themselves, had been one such benefit. It was doubtless true that if spoils of war were to become available in England, the duke would pass some of them to the men of Haute Vironge.

  The convent bell rang for nones, and Madeleine rose to her feet. The two men broke off their squabble.

  “Aye,” said Lord Gilbert, not quite hiding his relief. “It’s time for us to go.” He laid a hand on his daughter’s head. “Pray for us, daughter. You’ll be a full Bride of Christ soon, I daresay.”

  As the two men picked up their fur-lined cloaks, Madeleine grasped her courage. “Father!”

  He turned. “Aye?”

  She could feel her heart racing, and her mouth was suddenly dry. “Father . . . is there any way I can not take my vows?”

  He frowned at her. “What are you saying?”

  Madeleine cast a frantic look at her brother, but he was only curious. “I . . . I am not sure I am meant to be a Bride of Christ.”

  Lord Gilbert’s brows lowered yet more. “What? If you’d been left at home and I brought a man for you, you’d marry him at my word. This is no different. Your mother sent you to take the veil and pray for us all, and here you are.”

  Madeleine fought back weak tears. “But . . . but shouldn’t I feel something, Father?”

  He made a growling noise. “You’re feeling soft clothes against your body and good food in your belly. Be thankful.” But then his expression eased. “You’re pledged here, Maddy. It’d take more money than we have to buy you out, and then what? There’d be poor pickings when it came to husbands. We’re not rich and powerful. Perhaps,” he added without conviction, “if there’s fighting in England and spoils . . .”

  Madeleine cast an appeal at her brother, who had once been such a hero to her. He shrugged. “I wouldn’t like to be a monk, but it’s different for a woman. The sort of husband we could attract these days you’d be better off without.”

  “But I wouldn’t mind just staying home and looking after you both,” Madeleine protested.

  “Staying home?” said Gilbert. “Maddy, in the five years since you came here, Haute Vironge has become a ruin. It’s in the middle of a battlefield.”

  The ache in Madeleine’s chest threatened to consume her. “I have no home?” she whispered.

  “You have a home here,” he countered. “A finer one than you could ever have expected except for the duke’s bounty. The abbess is very pleased with you. You’re a regular scholar, it would appear, all set to be a healer. Who knows? One day you could even become abbess yourself.”

  He was trying so hard to paint a good picture, and every word he said was true. Madeleine managed to give her father a smile. In his way he loved her and would not want to think her unhappy.

  He rewarded her effort with a smile of his own and patted her head. “That’s my girl. This is the best place for you, Maddy, believe me. The world’s a harsh place. God bless you, daughter.”

  Madeleine curtsied. “Godspeed,” she said softly, hopelessly.

  But at the door Marc turned back. “It’s a hard life out there, sister. Are you sure you want it?”

  Sure was a strong word, and Madeleine hesitated, but then she nodded.

  “Hold off your vows, then, for a while. This English business will soon be in hand, I’m sure of it. If we end up with English riches, I’ll come and buy you out.”

  With this careless promise he left. The tears Madeleine had dammed began to fall. Marc’s talk of riches was just a dream; her longing for freedom was a dream, too, and a foolish one, as her father had pointed out.

  Madeleine wiped the tears from her cheeks. But a dream could not be wiped away so easily. She stared at the picture on the wall, silk worked on silk showing Christ in the desert being tempted with worldly delights. As she was tempted.

  She ached to experience all the wonders of life, not just to read of them. She longed to travel to the frozen lands of the white bear, and to the burning sands of the Holy Land. She wanted to dance and gallop a horse. She wanted to see if dragons really flew in the skies above Scotland, and what it felt like when a man touched his lips to a woman’s . . .

  As she left the room and made her way to the chapel for the singing of nones, Madeleine clung to the sliver of hope offered by her brother’s careless words. She would put off her vows and hope that perhaps he would ride up to the Abbaye one day, rich and come to set her free.

  Westminster, England

  January 1067

  “I’m staying in England.”

  Aimery de Gaillard faced his father unflinchingly, but there was tension in every line of his body.

  “You will do as I say,” replied Count Guy flatly, but his jaw ached with the effort of keeping his voice steady. They had been sidling around this confrontation for two months, ever since the battle at Hastings, the one everyone now called Senlac—the Lake of Blood.

  Harold Godwinson and most of his family were dead. The victorious Normans had marched to London against little opposition, and there William had received the acceptance he was demanding at sword point; the Witan had named him king, and on Christmas Day the Archbishop of York had crowned him in Edward’s magnificent abbey.

  Now it was time for many of the Normans to go home.

  William had granted lands and power to those who had fought for him—Guy had received a fine manor called Rolleston and territory near the Welsh border—and a few great lords would stay to be the cornerstones of the new kingdom. Most, however, only wanted to be back in their own lands before some opportunistic raider moved in on property or wife. It was mainly the hungry younger sons and mercenaries who would stay permanently to snarl over the spoils—and pay for them with military service, putting William’s mark on every corner of the land.

  It was no place for Aimery, already racked by honoring his allegiance to William. In a few short months he had toughened and hardened in a way no father ever wants to see. He’d had a wound, of course, and been close to death . . .

  “No.”

  The word dropped like lead into the fraught silence of the small room. It was the first time Aimery had ever used it to his father in such a way.

  Guy’s fist clenched reflexively. It would be so easy, so comforting, to use it, but there was more at stake here than his absolute authority over his son.

  He turned away, ignoring the negative as if it had never been spoken. “Tomorrow we leave for the coast,” he said briskly. “There is work to do in Normandy since William will be much absent. I will need you at Castle Gaillard while I am assisting the duchess with affairs of state.”

  He glanced back. Aimery was pale and tense. There was nothing to read in that. He’d been pale and tense since the battle, with three notable exceptions. Just after Senlac—weak, in pain, and distraught—he’d wept in his father’s arms; as he recovered he’d twice been violently and bitterly drunk. The healing of his wound had not brought a recovery of health and spirits, and Guy wanted only to get him away from England, home to Normandy and Lucia.

  “You have Roger to help with Gaillard,” Aimery said.

  “I am leaving Roger to look after Rolleston.”

  That set a spark ablaze. “Roger! Does he know a sheep from a wolf?”

  “Does he need to? He’ll keep order.”

  “At sword point. He’ll ruin the place!”

  “All England is at sword point,” Guy countered. “I need you at home.”

  Aimery broke a little and turned away. His hand went to his left shoulder, where he still wore bindings to help the healing of a deep axblow. He’d been lucky not to lose his arm or his life. He looked out through the narrow window over the thatched roofs of the houses of London.

  At last he spoke. “This is my home.”

  “By God it is not!” Guy roared as fear and rage broke free. He swung Aimery against the wall. “You are Norman! Or do you question your paternity?”

  Aimery’s eyes blaz
ed. “I also have a mother!” He moved to twist from his father’s grip. Guy unhesitatingly pressed him to the left until Aimery caught his breath and desisted.

  “You are Norman,” Guy said quietly, inches from his son’s face. “Say it.”

  “I am Norman,” Aimery spat back. “Though whether I’m proud of it is another matter.” He took a deep breath. “The king is making England his home, Father, and he is fully Norman. Though, of course, he claims English blood.”

  Raging terror surged in Guy. “That’s treason, you—” He banged Aimery against the wall.

  Aimery bit back a cry.

  Guy forced himself away from his son before he did serious damage. He kept his eyes on the opposite wall as he struggled for control. William’s claim to England hinged on his blood-link to kings Ethelred and Cnut through his grandmother. Even though she had merely been widow of both kings and thus brought no royal blood to her grandson, it was not a matter open to debate, even by Aimery, who was William’s much-loved godson.

  What would Lucia say if she heard Guy had risked a healing wound to assert his will? A lot, and none of it pleasant. But Lucia was too gentle to raise Norman men. See, now that he’d stopped handling the boy like an anxious nurse, there was a spark of life in him. He swung back.

  “I’ll have no son of mine play the traitor!”

  “Fine trust in me you show!” Aimery shouted back. “By the Rood, I killed for the king, didn’t I, like a good Norman vassal? The English came to withstand an invader, and I rode them down. I drove my spear into them. I sliced off arms and heads . . .” His teeth clenched, and he breathed deeply and raggedly, as if he had come straight off that battlefield.

  “And you liked it, did you?” Guy asked maliciously.

  “What?”

  Guy closed the distance between them. “Got a taste for hunting peasants, have you? Why else do you want to stick around, hey? There’ll be lots of chances for that as William shows the English whose hand is on the bridle. Women and children, too, I shouldn’t doubt—”

  He blocked the swung fist, but only just. Aimery was of a height now and strong. God, he was strong. Gripping his son’s wrist, Guy had to fight control where so recently he had won or allowed to win.

  The nature of the struggle changed. Neither of them brought the other hand into play, for that would involve Aimery’s weakened shoulder. Neither tried to maneuver for better torque. Guy’s sword-calloused hand gripped just below his son’s hand, and just above a heavy bracelet. His muscular arm could not prevail against an arm as strong.

  They were deadlocked.

  They were equal.

  Eye to eye, they acknowledged the fact.

  Aimery took a deep breath and relaxed. There was even humor in his expression, a touch of color in his cheeks. “You can let me go, Father,” he said levelly. “I apologize.”

  Guy released him cautiously, easing the ache out of his fingers. Aimery moved away, rubbing absently at the bruised flesh of his wrist. “The truth is,” he said softly, “and it’s very unworthy of a Norman, I’d be happy never to see a drawn sword again. But I can’t run from it. If I’m here, perhaps I can help.”

  “Help? Help who? Hereward?” This was Guy’s greatest fear, that Aimery would join his boyhood mentor. Hereward of Mercia had been out of England at the time of the battle but was rumored to be back now, swearing to throw the Normans into the sea.

  Aimery turned in surprise. “No.”

  “You don’t plan to help him in his resistance to William?”

  There was a bitter laugh. “After all I’ve gone through, you think I’ll turn traitor now?”

  “Whom then?” Guy asked, genuinely puzzled. “Whom do you plan to help? William? I’ve told you what kind of help he’ll want from you.”

  Aimery moved away from the window to roam the room aimlessly. “The people,” he said at last. “I think I can help the English people to adjust to the new ways. There’s something good and fine in this country. It would be a sin to see it trampled under armed feet, especially when they cannot prevail and throw us out. I understand both sides. No one else seems to. The English think the Normans are barbarians. The Normans think the English customs are fanciful nonsense.”

  “And whose mind are you going to change?” Guy asked in exasperation.

  A smile twitched Aimery’s lips as he looked ruefully at his father. “Everyone’s, I suppose.”

  Guy wanted to throttle him. “The only thing they’ll have in common is the desire to take you apart bit by tiny bit.” But that smile had defeated him. It was the first real smile he’d seen on the boy’s face in two months.

  “You can have Rolleston,” he said abruptly.

  Aimery colored with astonishment. “But Roger . . .”

  “I haven’t said anything to him. There’s land over near Wales. He can have that. Unless the Welsh undergo a miraculous change of nature, there’ll be all the fighting he could want on the border.”

  Aimery was dazed and a little suspicious. “Thank you.”

  “Rolleston was Hereward’s,” Guy said gruffly, “so at least you know the place. You should be able to keep it profitable. I’ll have your word, though, that you’ll have nothing to do with that madman.”

  Once, it would have been a command, but now Aimery took time to consider the point. Guy knew he now faced a man. He felt a pang at the loss of his last child and a flame of pride at what he had become. By the Blood but Aimery had courage, the deep kind that was more than the ability to kill and be killed.

  “I give you my word that I will do nothing against the king,” Aimery said at last. “But if I can influence Hereward to make peace with William, I will.”

  Exasperation returned. Were they going to start all over again? “He’s a man with power over men, Aimery,” Guy warned. “Get within his orbit, and you could find yourself doing more than you intend.”

  “You don’t have much faith in me, do you?”

  “I’ve met the man,” said Guy flatly, “He’s mad, but it’s a special kind of madness that burns like a beacon in the dark. If he’s set his hand to opposing William, he’ll hold to it to the death. God knows how many others he’ll take to hell with him. I want your word you’ll not seek him out unless it’s to make peace with William. It’s either your oath on that or you go home in chains.”

  His son walked the room again.

  “I will do it, Aimery.”

  “I know,” said Aimery casually. “Mother has often remarked how much I take after you.”

  A bark of infuriated amusement escaped Guy. The urge to knock the cub silly was overwhelming, even if he might have to call in a half dozen guards to get the job done.

  Aimery faced him, and that humor was back to warm Guy’s heart. “You have my word, Father.”

  Guy was taking no chances. He took out a small ivory reliquary from the pouch at his belt and opened it to expose the fragment of the true cross it contained. “On this.”

  With only a quizzical look, Aimery placed his hand on the box. “By the Holy Rood,” he said without hesitation, “I swear I will not contact Hereward or seek a meeting with him unless it be to bring him to William for pardon.”

  Guy nodded and put the reliquary away. His hand moved to the heavy gold band on the third finger of Aimery’s right hand. “You had best give me the ring.”

  Aimery pulled his hand away. “No.” He immediately softened his tone. “I’m sorry, Father, but I cannot give it up like that. I’m not Hereward’s man as a ring-friend should be, but I hope to be able to do well for both him and the king. If the day comes when I cannot, I’ll return the ring to Hereward.”

  “But not in person.”

  “But not in person,” Aimery agreed.

  Guy took a grip on his son’s shoulders, but gently. “I still think it would be wiser to knock you down and drag you home.”

  Aimery shrugged slightly. “Wyrd ben ful araed.”

  “And what does that mean?” Guy asked tightly. The last thing h
e needed was a reminder of his son’s split heritage.

  “Fate cannot be changed,” Aimery supplied. “And my wyrd, I think, is in England, Father.”

  Guy let go of him before he gave in to the temptation to drive his fist into Aimery’s bandaged shoulder. “By the Hounds of Hell, I wish I’d never given in to your mother’s silly idea of sending you to this cursed land!”

  “Well,” said Aimery lightly, “sometimes so do I. But it’s too late now to change anything.”

  Before his father could respond to that, he was gone.

  Abbaye des Dames, Caen, Normandy

  March 1068

  Madeleine hurried along to the abbess’ chamber, raising the skirts of her habit to run the last little way. She had been in the herb garden instead of the scriptorium and so had not been easily found. There would be penance to do for that.

  She would be in trouble for running, too, of course, but hopefully there was no one around to see the misdeed.

  She took a moment to catch her breath and straighten her veil, then knocked on the oak door. At the command, she entered, and halted in surprise. Waiting for her was not the abbess, but Matilda, Duchess of Normandy. She was, Madeleine remembered, now uncrowned Queen of England as well.

  “Come in, Sister Madeleine,” said Matilda.

  Madeleine’s first alarmed thought was that the abbess had despaired of teaching her decorum and had brought in the governor of the duchy to discipline her. Or even worse, to force her to take her vows. Madeleine was delaying the matter. There had been fighting in England; her father and brother had been richly rewarded; there was still hope . . .

  But surely such personal matters could be of no interest to the duchess.

  Madeleine was gestured to sit on a small stool close to the duchess’ chair. As she did so she surreptitiously studied the lady. The duchess was the patroness of the Abbaye and therefore not unknown to her, but Madeleine had never been so close to her before. She was tiny and delicately made. It was hard to believe she was married to the frightening duke and had borne him six children, but she had a determined nose and chin, and very shrewd dark eyes.