Lord of My Heart

by Jo Beverley

  He dressed rapidly in a white shirt and tawny linen ankle-length braies. Over his head he slipped a short-sleeved tunic of blue linen lawn, richly embroidered around the neck, sleeve, and hem by his mother. The wide neck left the fine work on his shirt still visible. He fastened a gilded belt and pulled the cloth of the tunic up around it until the folds hung at his knee to his liking. He settled the table knife and pouch on the belt so they were easy to his hand.

  Instead of the rags which had bound his tattered leggings, he crisscrossed his loose braies ankle to knee with beautifully woven bands of blue shot through with gold, and finished the binding with a complicated ornamental knot. He slipped on low black boots, relishing their fit and comfort after the crude sandals held on with thongs.

  Geoffrey came forward and gave him his leather sword belt. Aimery set it around his waist so that Justesse, his sword, was ready to his hand. It carried a French name, but it was an English sword, given him by Hereward and bearing ancient runes along the blade. Next the squire passed a heavy gold bracelet which was worked in a rich ribbon design and flared to fit to the shape of his arm. He slid it onto his right wrist. These days he always did his best to hide the tattoo.

  Geoffrey’s face was carefully blank as his lord dressed in English style, but Aimery knew he noted it and did not approve.

  There was not much difference in dress between the Normans and the English, yet it was there all the same—a taste in the English for brighter colors, finer fabrics, and more vivid ornamentation. In large part it sprang from the fact that the English were more skilled in producing fine fabrics and beautiful embroidery, but it had become a subtle distinction. Geoffrey was dressed in dark blue with black and white braid for trimming. He wore no gold at all.

  “You know,” said Aimery mischievously as he adjusted the fit of his splendid bracelet, “any Englishman seeing you must think me a wretch of a lord not to have gifted you with geld.”

  Geoffrey stiffened. “I do not serve you for treasure, Lord Aimery.”

  “Nor treasure, nor pleasure . . . If I make you very uncomfortable,” Aimery said seriously, “I will release you to some other, more orderly lord.” If his time was come, he didn’t want Geoffrey entangled in his downfall.

  The young man colored. “I do not want . . . I am happy to serve you, Lord Aimery.”

  “Are you? You don’t look it most of the time.”

  Geoffrey tried to resume a formal tone. “You are a fine fighter and a good administrator. You train me well and I am satisfied.” Abruptly he added, “I worry about you!” He turned fiery red. “I beg your pardon, Lord.”

  Aimery was genuinely touched. “No need. I worry about myself.” He gripped Geoffrey’s arm and said seriously, “I am true to the king and always will be, Geoffrey, but if you perceive anything I do as wrong, go to him and tell him.”

  “That would be dishonorable, Lord.”

  Aimery shook his head. “No. Your first allegiance is always to the king. No man is expected to follow his lord into wrongdoing. Remember that.”

  Uneasy and confused, Geoffrey nodded. Aimery pulled another piece of jewelry from his pouch—Hereward’s ring.

  After a brief hesitation, he pushed it onto the third finger of his right hand. It said he was Hereward’s man, body and soul until death. That wasn’t true. He would wear it, however, until the day when he was compelled to renounce that allegiance.

  As he walked back to the camp he pulled a bone comb through his shoulder-length hair and shook some of the river water from it. Gyrth looked him over and nodded.

  “English enough for you?” Aimery asked.

  Gyrth laughed. “You could do with more jewelry, lad. What sort of man wears only one bracelet? What sort of lord must he serve?” He himself wore bracelets, armbands, and a great bronze-gold clasp to his belt.

  “This lord gives land, not gold.”

  “Englishmen’s land.”

  “Those English who have acknowledged William have kept their land.”

  Gyrth surged to his feet. “They are nithing! They hold their land under Norman barons, Norman earls, a Norman king. You are all no better than slaves, you Normans and those who bow to you. The king gives you land, but it is still his land, not yours. Alfred did not own England, nor did Cnut, or Edward. Harold had just his family land. The Bastard claims to own everything! He bursts open towns that stand against him. He builds castles and puts in his own knights. He destroys the land of those who oppose his tyranny. He establishes his forest where he will. On other men’s land!”

  “It is the new way,” said Aimery levelly. “How is the old way better? What does a ring-bearer own but the favor of his lord? If he loses that, he is a man alone in the world.”

  “If he loses that, he deserves nothing,” Gyrth replied. “If he survives battle when his ring-friend dies, he is a man to spit on.” He matched action to word, then suddenly gripped Aimery’s right wrist and raised it. Hereward’s gold ring flashed in the sun; an identical ring flashed on Gyrth’s hand. Geoffrey began to slide his sword from its sheath, but at a look from Aimery he stopped, albeit warily.

  “Whose ring do you wear?” Gyrth asked sternly.

  “Hereward’s,” Aimery replied, relaxed in the other’s tight grip.

  “And who are you?”

  The correct answer was, “Hereward’s man.” Aimery said, “A Norman. Do you want to take the ring back to Hereward?”

  There were tears in Gyrth’s eyes. “The fighting time is coming, lad. If the Bastard asks you to take arms against Hereward, you must refuse, or be nithing.”

  Aimery smoothly twisted his wrist out of Gyrth’s grip. “I have sworn my liege-oath to William. I must fight for him wherever and whenever he says or be damned.” He pulled off the ring and held it out. “Do you wish to take it back to Hereward?”

  Tight-lipped, Gyrth shook his head. Aimery pushed the ring back on his finger and strode out of the clearing.

  An hour west of Baddersley they picked up Aimery’s escort of knights where Geoffrey had left them, at an inn on the Roman road. The rumor had been put about that Aimery slipped off now and then for a loving tryst with a married lady who had a husband who traveled. The guards grinned over it but were careful never to refer to his absences.

  Within sight of Rockingham, Aimery called a halt. Geoffrey sighed. From a pouch by his saddle Aimery took out more jewelry. A thicker bracelet with a design in garnet and obsidian went on his left wrist, and two straight bands with bronze inlay went around his upper arms. He clipped a large clasp at the front of his belt. He took his rich blue cloak from Geoffrey and flung it around his shoulders, fastening it on the right shoulder with a magnificent jeweled ring-clasp. Thus adorned as an English nobleman he continued through the village toward the castle. It would warm the cockles of Gyrth’s heart to see him like this.

  There had been a stronghold at Rockingham for generations, and the hill had a settled, comfortable look to it, unlike the raw motte at Baddersley. There had been a low stone fort, and William Peverell had built rapidly on it to form a formidable stone castle on the banks of the river Welland, but as yet the palisade was still wood, and so were most of the attendant buildings which cluttered the bailey. Down by the river, the prosperous village was taking the presence of the King of England in its stride.

  Aimery and Geoffrey left the men and horses at the sheds set up to handle all the extra mounts and continued on foot across the crowded bailey to the tower.

  Aimery paused long enough to buy two pork pies from a stall for Geoffrey and himself. Once they found the king they could be kept waiting for hours, and he was hungry. An alewife also had a stand here, and they quickly downed a flagon. Geoffrey started a promising flirtation with the woman’s daughter, who obviously plied another trade entirely, but Aimery dragged him away.

  They climbed the steps to the tower entrance and were admitted by the guards. They found themselves in a great hall filled with William’s court, the male part of William’s court at leas
t. If the queen and her ladies had traveled with the king, they were not in evidence. One of the first people Aimery saw among the crowd of nobles, clerics, and merchants was his cousin Edwin, Earl of Mercia.

  One year older than Aimery, Edwin was a little slighter in build and had hair of tawny ginger. He was a handsome young man but had a softly indecisive mouth. Though he had succeeded his father as territorial lord over most of eastern England, he had never managed to make his influence felt. Just after Senlac he had supported the attempt to put Edgar Atheling on the throne, but that had come to nothing, and he had been among the many lords who had then rushed to pay homage to William. Like most, he had been pardoned and confirmed in his titles. Since then he had been kept at court and seemed content to tie his fate to William of Normandy.

  As was his way these days, Edwin was dressed in Norman style. He was clean shaven, his hair was cut short, and he sported only modest trimming on his clothes. Once, Aimery remembered, Edwin had been fond of rich, bright clothing and ornament and proud of his flowing hair and thick moustache.

  The earl’s lips curled at the sight of Aimery. “Well, cousin. Still trying to be a bit of both, I see. How is Uncle Hereward these days?”

  Aimery wasn’t about to be needled by Edwin. “I wouldn’t know. How is life at court?”

  “Not bad at all,” said Edwin complacently. “The king’s promised me his daughter Agatha.”

  “Congratulations, Edwin. She’s a sweet child, but not ready for marriage yet, surely.”

  Edwin looked sour at this reminder of his cousin’s familiarity with William and his family. “She’s thirteen.”

  “I suppose she is. I haven’t seen her for, must be three years. Has she filled out? She was a scrawny little thing.”

  Edwin’s eyes bulged, and he pulled Aimery into a quiet corner. “Don’t say things like that! You’ll never get on the right side of the king the way you go on.”

  Aimery shook his head. “William doesn’t make or break a man for saying pretty things about his daughters. You’ll have to stand up to him one of these days, Edwin.”

  Edwin paled at the thought but managed a sneer. “I’ve won his daughter, Aimery. What have you won? In fact, I wonder why William’s summoned you here. He keeps me by his side because I control Mercia. But why you? Been up to something you shouldn’t?” he gibed. “You, Golden Hart, and Hereward?”

  Before Aimery could respond, Edwin slipped away. Aimery cursed softly. That reference to Golden Hart set warning signals clamoring. He instinctively placed a hand over his betraying design. He stopped the futile gesture. Wyrd ben ful araed. Besides, it had never been wise to take Edwin seriously.

  He’d never much liked his cousin, or his twin brother, Morcar. They were weak, tricky men. As a Norman he supposed he should be glad they were so easily bought, but his English half was disgusted by their base self-interest. They were fawning around the king like puppies in the hope of treats, but he knew if they ever saw advantage in turning on William, they’d do it without hesitation. It was people like Edwin who were destroying England—too peevish to settle to Norman rule, and too cowardly to oppose it outright.

  Aimery looked toward the stone stairs leading up to the private room used by the king. He wondered in what state he’d descend them, but there was no hesitation in his step as he wove his way through the crowded hall. He exchanged a greeting here and there but refused all temptation to linger.

  At the foot of the stairs, however, a larger, darker man swept forward to pull him into a ferocious hug. “Ho, little brother! Still in one piece?”

  Aimery grasped his oldest brother joyfully and endured a massive pounding on his back. “Leo! How long have you been here? Stop breaking my ribs, damn you. Why didn’t you come to Rolleston?”

  “The king sent for us.”

  “Us?” asked Aimery warily.

  “Father’s here.”

  Something tightened painfully inside. Aimery had prepared to face King William, but he wasn’t sure he could face his father, whom he hadn’t seen since that confrontation in the Tower over a year ago. Aimery considered what his father might think of the way he was behaving—even if he knew only half of it—and had a base urge to slip off his English accoutrements and get a haircut.

  Leo gave his youngest brother a shrewd look. “Exactly what have you been up to?” he asked. Then the indulgent look faded to be replaced by a severe one. “Treason?”

  “No,” said Aimery sharply, and his brother nodded. “How are Janetta and the children?” Aimery asked quickly, before his brother thought of more questions.

  “Well. We seem to breed rugged little ones. Castle Vesin was visited by sickness in the autumn and five people died. All the children sickened and not one the worst for it. If they go on at this rate, I’ll have a private army of land-hungry warriors.”

  “Just don’t send them to England.”

  Leo regarded him shrewdly. “This is your home now, isn’t it?”

  Aimery nodded. “But I’m still half Norman, brother.”

  “Then you’d better come to the king. He gave orders you were to come to him as soon as you arrived.”

  “Why?”

  Leo at least felt no foreboding. “Perhaps he just loves your pretty green eyes. Come on.”

  Aimery tossed his cloak to Geoffrey and followed his brother up the narrow stairs to the guarded oak door.

  “Is Roger here, too?” he asked, just for something to say. He was aware of his heart speeding, of the tingle of battle readiness, which was just another name for fear.

  “No. He’s happily killing Welshmen and covering himself in glory. Why?”

  “I just thought we could have a jolly family gathering. I’m surprised Mother allowed herself to be left at home.”

  Leo laughed. “Under protest.” He dropped his voice. “Father put his foot down. I don’t think he’s as sanguine as the king about the stability of things here.”

  Or he suspected, or knew, something unpleasant was going to happen. Would William send for an old friend so he could witness his son’s maiming? He might well.

  Guards let them pass into a room hung with tapestries and set with rich furniture for the King of England. It was small, though, and the six men in it nearly filled it. There were two clerks working at documents; William’s two closest followers, William Fitz Osbern and Roger de Mortain; the king himself; and Count Guy de Gaillard. An ominously eminent group to greet a younger son.

  “Ha. Aimery de Gaillard at last,” said the king in his gruff voice. “You take your time, boy.” William was stocky, with short ginger hair and keen blue eyes. As usual, as this was not a ceremonial occasion, he wore plain clothes—serviceable brown wool, simply ornamented.

  Aimery went forward to kneel and kiss his hand. “No one, sire, can match your speed.”

  The king looked him over. “You’d travel a sight faster if you weren’t weighed down with gold.”

  Aimery didn’t attempt a reply. He was suffering a flood of relief. This greeting couldn’t be a prelude to ruthless justice.

  The king gestured, and Count Guy came forward. Aimery kissed his father’s hand, and then was drawn up for a kiss on the cheek. He could see his father was delighted to see him well, and angry at his English appearance. He would say nothing about it here, however.

  “How fares your land?” asked the king.

  “Well, sire,” said Aimery with a relaxed smile. He’d worry about what was behind the king’s summons later. “God granting us fair weather, we should see a good harvest.”

  “You are one of the few to say so,” grumbled William. “I suppose your people work for you because you’re English.”

  “Half English, liege,” contradicted Aimery firmly, causing a hiss of horror from someone and a flash from the king’s eyes.

  But then William grinned. “Impudent rascal. Tell me, then, why do your people work well for you?”

  “I try to hold to their traditions and their laws, sire.”

  �
�By the splendor of God, so do I!” exploded the king.

  Aimery knew, to an extent, that this was true and tried to appease the angry monarch. “As you say, sire, it must be because I am part English.”

  He knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were out. The room became as silent as if there were but the two of them in it.

  “Kneel,” the king said, frighteningly quiet, and Aimery fell submissively to his knees.

  The king’s open-handed blow rocked him and made his head ring, but it was relief which made him dizzy. This was fatherly discipline, not regal.

  “Have I not English blood?” asked the king.

  “Yes, sire. Through Queen Emma.” It wasn’t strictly true. Emma of Normandy, William’s grandmother, had been mother to King Edward and widow of two English kings before she wed the duke of Normandy, but that did not give William English royal blood. It was part of the king’s claim to the English throne, however, and not open to question.

  The king nodded and held Aimery’s eyes. There was more to this than an unwary word and regal anger. The underlying message was clear. Step beyond the line and you will be punished, beloved godson or no; punished exactly as your crime deserves.

  Wariness returned. How much did William know?

  Aimery again raised the king’s hand, the hand which had delivered the blow, to his lips for the kiss of allegiance.

  “Oh, get up!” said the king in irritation, which poorly covered fondness. “You’re a tiresome cub and if I’d any sense . . . As it is, I’ve brought you here with a mind to rewarding you, so watch yourself. Now go with your family. You’ve a room here somewhere. Have you brought your lyre?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Fool. Find one. Tonight you play for us.”

  Aimery bowed himself out of the room with his father and brother, wondering whether his aching jaw was going to be belabored again by his tight-lipped parent.

  Chapter 6