Lord of My Heart

by Jo Beverley

  When they reached the small chamber put to the use of the de Gaillard men, his father merely sighed.

  “Take off those damn decorations.”

  Aimery did so, except for the bracelet on his right wrist and the gold ring. “Normans wear them, too, Father,” he said mildly.

  “On you they have a pointed effect. De Sceine says you only put them on to come to court.”

  “They’re hardly suitable for working the fields . . .” Aimery stilled at the look in his father’s eye.

  “I’m quite happy to bruise the other side of your jaw if you want.”

  Aimery said nothing. He knew it was fear that stirred his father to anger, fear for his youngest child.

  “By your reports from Rolleston,” said Count Guy, “you’re doing well there. But I hear you slip away sometimes. Where do you go? Hereward?”

  “Does everyone think me a traitor? I gave you my word, and I’ve kept it. I haven’t seen Hereward since before Senlac.” He saw his father relax. “I’m half English, Father, and I’ll not deny my English part, but I am true to the king.”

  “You’d better be. If you betray him, he’ll deal harder with you than he would with one he always knew to be his enemy.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, but I am what I am.”

  Guy de Gaillard grabbed his youngest son into a bear-hug. “Take care of yourself, my boy.”

  Aimery relished the encompassing hold, feeling for a brief moment like a child again, safe in his father’s arms. Then he realized he was now taller and broader than his father. Guy de Gaillard was beginning to age while Aimery at twenty-two was in the peak of manhood. He was surprised and disconcerted by a feeling of protectiveness toward his once awesome parent. He hid it by turning away to place his adornments in his chest.

  “Do you know what ‘reward’ the king has in mind for me?” he asked lightly.

  Leo answered. “Perhaps since you’re doing so well at Rolleston, he’ll give you an estate of your own.”

  “Not very likely. He’s surrounded by land-hungry followers with better claim than a half English younger son. And as long as Father lets me run Rolleston, I’m content.”

  “Ha!” exploded Leo. “Wait until you’ve a battalion of hungry sons. You’ll be glad of every little manor.”

  Aimery grinned. “I’m in no mood to marry, Leo, and English heiresses are fought over like marrow bones.”

  Count Guy passed his sons goblets of wine. “I doubt William would let you marry an Englishwoman, Aimery. He dislikes the English influence on you as it is.”

  “There, see,” said Aimery to Leo. “And I consider myself lucky. Have you seen some of those English widows?”

  Leo was always an optimist. “Well, then, perhaps he has a lovely little Norman heiress in mind for you. Hey, perhaps he’s going to give you the Lady Judith!”

  Aimery choked on his wine. “Only if he’s gone mad. That’s a plum to catch much bigger game than me. Did you hear he’s offered Agatha to Edwin? Now that’s the use for a royal lady. Buy the whole east of England.”

  Leo had to accept the argument. “He did say he was going to reward you, though, so you’d better please him. Let’s go find you a lyre, little brother.” He drained the goblet and set it back on the chest. “Come on.”

  And so they started a lighthearted search of the castle and town, gathering in a dozen or so young men as they went. The search for a musical instrument was a strange one and took them through a number of taverns and one brothel. When they staggered back to the castle to change for the evening, Aimery groaned. “After this, you expect me to sing?”

  “You got your lyre, didn’t you?”

  “Hours ago.”

  “And you got to practice, didn’t you?”

  Aimery remembered singing battle songs in the guard room, and bawdy songs in a tavern—and learning some new ones, too. He’d sung pretty, soft songs for the whores, who’d turned sentimental and rewarded him suitably.

  “I think I’m all sung out, Leo,” said Aimery as he slipped on a fresh tunic—a rich red silk with long tight sleeves and trimming of heavy gold braid. After a moment’s hesitation he put on his armbands and extra bracelet.

  “Father’ll have your guts,” said Leo without great concern. All the de Gaillard boys had grown up buffeted, beaten, and loved by their father, and it seemed a fine way to raise sons, which is why he was doing the same with his own little tribe. “Come on, or heaven knows where we’ll end up sitting.”

  The hall was a fair size but could barely hold the court. People jostled and fought for seats at the tables around the room. At the head table sat the king and queen, Fitz Osbern, de Mortain, Peverell, Lady Judith, and Lady Agatha. There were only a handful of other ladies present.

  Agatha had filled out, Aimery noticed, but not a lot. She was fine-boned and young for her age but would improve in time. She saw him, giggled, and waved. Aimery blew her a kiss.

  He did not know the Lady Judith, for she was the daughter of William’s sister and had been raised in Lens. She was definitely well-filled out, a curvaceous beauty with long red-gold plaits and sparkling eyes. All that and Huntingdon, too, he reflected.

  He saw the Lady Judith catch his admiration. She dimpled with interest and flashed him an unmistakable look. Aimery winked at her. The man who received her would be getting a handful. A delightful handful, but a handful nevertheless.

  As Leo had predicted, they had to squeeze a place where they could, but Aimery didn’t mind. He found himself among friends, sharing memories and catching up on the news, both personal and martial.

  “Seeing the luscious Lady Judith,” said one young man, “reminds me of that heiress, the Baddersley one. I keep hoping my path might take me that way, but I’m jiggered if I even know where the place is.”

  “It’s not that far from here,” supplied Aimery. “A bit south of Huntingdon.” This caused a small uproar.

  “Don’t say you’ve stolen a march on us, de Gaillard!”

  “I just know my way about Mercia.”

  “Only too well,” sneered a voice. “Full of nasty Saxon relatives, isn’t it?”

  Aimery looked up to meet the hot, dark eyes of Odo de Pouissey, who was squeezing into a seat opposite. Aimery had never liked the man, and now his feelings were deepened by what he had witnessed. This was the man who’d tried to rape Madeleine de la Haute Vironge, and though he hated her, the thought of de Pouissey pawing at her made him want to gut the man.

  Aimery’s hand tightened on his goblet. “Full of nasty Norman relatives, too. The heiress is your cousin, isn’t she?”

  Odo flushed with anger. “My father’s stepdaughter only. And, by the Grail, what are you implying about Madeleine?”

  Aimery took a grip on himself. The king would string them up for fighting at his table, especially over Saxons and Normans. To distract everyone, he said, “So, who wants a map to Baddersley to go heiress hunting?”

  “The king’ll have the giving of her,” said one man whom the wine had pushed into sullenness. “Don’t suppose it would matter if she grew devoted to me, so what’s the point?”

  “True enough.” Mischievously, Aimery added, “And it might be hard to play sweetly on her if you find she squints and has the temper of a harpy.”

  It did not markedly lessen her appeal.

  “I could play sweetly on a monster for a fine barony,” declared Stephen de Faix to a chorus of agreement. Stephen was a handsome, popular young man with a lighthearted approach to life and a taste for hedonism which often got in the way of his ambitions. He’d very much like an heiress bride. “Tell us, Odo,” he commanded. “How bad is she?”

  “Madeleine has a temper,” said Odo. “But any woman can be managed. Gag her in bed. Ignore her the rest of the time.”

  “By the Rood,” said another man, “I’d wed the veriest hag for some land of my own. There’s always a pretty wench around for amusement. But tell us just how dreadful she is.”

  Odo clearly realized the
advantage of painting an unattractive picture of the Baddersley heiress and dropped hints to swell the tale of horror. By the end of the meal everyone was convinced she was ugly, crippled, and foulmouthed, and that was why the king had her hidden away.

  They all would still jump at the chance to wed her.

  Aimery felt a twinge of compassion for the girl. He remembered fine eyes, dark and flashing, and a shapely, fluid body. In his company she had always been moderate in speech, even when angry.

  He pushed his kinder feelings down. She was doing it again, bewitching him even at a distance. He knew her to be cruel and rapacious. If one of these men became her husband, he’d know what to expect and not be swayed by a shapely body and fine eyes. So much the better.

  Aimery was dragged out of his musings by the king commanding him to play. He went into the central space, knowing the flaring torches would highlight his golden hair and ornaments. He saw his father’s frown in passing. Perhaps that was why he was more cautious than he had intended. Instead of English songs he sang the favorite Norman ones.

  The queen requested a humorous song about a fish and an apple, then the Lady Judith leaned forward. “Lord Aimery, do you know the song about Lord Tristan and Lady Yseault?”

  Aimery saw the gleam in her eye and kept his expression politely distant as he replied, “Yes, Lady. I’ll play it for you.” He knew Lady Judith’s type and had enough troubles without engaging the interest of one of the king’s prizes. It was as well she seemed to have a taste for the English style, however, since that was doubtless her destiny.

  As he sang he ran over the possible candidates. Edwin was the prime one, but he had apparently been offered Agatha. The Atheling Edgar was the only male of the English royal bloodline, but he was a boy with no power and never likely to have any. Edwin’s twin, Morcar, could be of importance, but he hadn’t achieved anything yet. Gospatric, Earl of Northumbria, was married.

  Waltheof.

  Waltheof, son of Siward of Northumbria, had only a few manors, but by heredity he was one of the great men of England. He had a sound claim to the earldom of Northumbria, but it was his personal strengths which set him apart. There was something about Waltheof. Even though he was only two years older than Aimery, he drew men to him as if with golden thread. People remembered the stories that told of his grandfather marrying a woman who was half faery, half bear.

  If William was shrewd, and William was undoubtedly shrewd, he would bind Waltheof Siwardson to him.

  Aimery picked out Waltheof, listening attentively, a smile on his long, handsome face. There was an air of elegance to him, but no one who had ever seen him fight thought him weak. His dress and decoration were almost as richly English as Aimery’s except that he favored darker colors. Waltheof’s strange amber eyes moved and Aimery followed the gaze to Judith, who was listening to the song with rapt attention.

  So, Waltheof guessed. Perhaps it was already settled. My Lady Judith, he thought, you have an interesting wyrd.

  Continuing to sing, he let his eyes travel around the room. His gaze halted and he fumbled a note. New arrivals were entering the hall. Robert d’Oilly and a soldier Aimery feared was the survivor of a certain escape from bondage.

  He forced his eyes onward, hoping he had not missed a whole verse or repeated one. The less attention he attracted the better. The whole notion was ridiculous, however, when he was sitting alone in the central space in scarlet and gold. He could only hope the contrast between his splendor and a ragged, dirty outlaw was enough to prevent identification.

  As soon as Tristan and Yseault met their sad end, d’Oilly surged forward. “My Lord King!” he boomed. “I come with a tale of violence and mayhem!”

  “More entertainment?” queried William. “Be welcome, Lord Robert. Have you eaten?”

  D’Oilly moved to stand close to Aimery, who occupied himself in tuning his lyre. D’Oilly was a heavily built man of middle years, strong, hard, and of limited intelligence.

  “Nay, sire, and I will not eat just yet,” d’Oilly said. “We have a dangerous miscreant in our midst, sire.”

  The king looked around. “Dozens of them, Lord Robert,” he said dryly. “But come, tell us your tale.”

  With a wave of his hand, d’Oilly summoned his guard forward. “This man can tell it better, for he was there. He is the sole survivor of a massacre.”

  Aimery decided his position had advantages. The man was clearly over-awed and had eyes only for the king. He would pay little attention to someone close to his side.

  “Sire,” the man said nervously, “I and four fellows were set upon by a giant, and all but me were slain.”

  The king looked at him. “Come, man. That’s intriguing but not much of a story. Can you not do better? What kind of giant? How many heads did it have?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “One, sire. It . . . he was just a man, sire. But a tall one.”

  “Ah. And he killed four soldiers. With his bare hands?” he queried humorously. “Sounds like that damned Golden Hart again.”

  “Yes, sire,” said the man.

  The king regarded him more seriously. “It was this creature calling itself Golden Hart?”

  The man shook his head frantically. “N-no, sire. But it . . . he killed with his bare hands. Or at l-least,” the man stuttered, clearly wishing the floor would open and swallow him, “at first he did. He was building the bridge, you see, sire. Then he killed Pierre with his bare hands and took his sword. Then he cut off Loudin’s head. Then he ran Charlot through. Gregoire was killed by the other.”

  “Another giant?” The king affected astonishment, but Aimery could see how shrewdly he was sorting all this out.

  “No, sire. Another slave. He slit Gregoire’s throat.”

  Aimery saw the grimace that passed over d’Oilly’s face at the word slave and smiled. The man must have been under orders not to mention the circumstances. Well, d’Oilly was known for thick-headedness, and he was showing it.

  “Slave,” repeated the king thoughtfully. “How came you by slaves, Lord Robert? The practice of enslaving people for crimes has been out of favor for decades.”

  Sweat broke out on d’Oilly’s brow. “Er . . . not exactly slaves, sire. Laborers. We needed people to build the castle and the bridge.”

  “These were tenants doing their day-labor, were they?”

  “Er . . . no, sire. We needed extra work and so we . . . They would have been paid when the work was done, sire.”

  “Would they?” queried the king. “And this giant objected to the delay in payment, perhaps, and killed four guards.” He leaned forward, amusement gone. “You were rightly served. You will treat my subjects fairly or feel my wrath.”

  Robert d’Oilly went pale, and there was an uneasy shuffling throughout the room as others decided to change their hiring practices.

  After a moment, the king eased back in his seat. “I would dearly like to know how this giant did it, though. Perhaps your guards need to improve their skills.”

  “He fought like a demon!” protested d’Oilly and poked at his man. “Tell the king!”

  “Aye, sire,” said the terrified man. “He used his sword like a warrior trained. I reckon few men in this room could have stood against him. He threw it after me as I ran and almost speared me.”

  The king’s brows drew together, and he sat in thought. When he spoke, however, it was merely to say, “Lord Robert, I commiserate with you on the loss of your men, but you were breaking my law. Let all take heed that my people shall not be enslaved. A lord is entitled to his due labor and no more without consent and payment. We will put this matter aside as finished. There is no question, of course, of punishment of those who were enslaved. Or of murdrum fines, or wergild.”

  After a bitter moment, Robert d’Oilly bowed his acceptance. As he turned to find a seat, the king spoke again. “If you come across this warrior giant, however, Lord Robert, I would be most interested in meeting him. Do your people not know who he was?”

&
nbsp; “No, sire. He was merely a packman traveling through. Some even say he was a lack-wit used as a beast of burden by his master. There’s no making sense of these people.”

  “Hmm. I certainly doubt he was lacking all his wits or your guards must have been a sorry lot indeed.” Then the king smiled in the charming way he could on occasion, and which made those who knew him particularly wary. “But come now, take a place and eat your fill. And let your man come sit by me here and tell me more of this wondrous tale.”

  D’Oilly found himself shepherded off to a table and food; the man-at-arms would have a clear view of Aimery de Gaillard pinned in the center of the hall with attention focused on him. Aimery smiled and began a cheerful tune.

  Nothing untoward happened. The man-at-arms scarcely glanced at the musician and was soon dismissed by the king. He seemed shakenly grateful to escape the royal presence intact. Aimery could understand that.

  The king then called on another to provide entertainment and directed Aimery to sit on the stool by his knee. His smile was bland. “You haven’t lost your skills, Aimery.”

  “I hope not, sire, since they please you.”

  “They please me. Tomorrow I have ordered an archery contest. How are your skills there?”

  “Not rusty, sire. But it isn’t my strongest point.”

  “Riding at the quintain?”

  “There I should be a credit to my masters.”

  “Fighting with the sword?”

  Aimery met the king’s eye. Was there extra significance in that question? “I believe my swordfighting to be good, sire.”

  The king nodded thoughtfully, then his eyes slid over Aimery’s finery. “If ever I find the treasury low, I’ll throw you in the fire and melt you down. Here, since you have a taste for such things.” The king pulled off a ring made of twisted golden wire. It was unusual in design, perhaps Saracen work or from the dark lands beyond. One thing it wasn’t was English. William pushed it onto the third finger of Aimery’s left hand. “A reward, Aimery. Wear it.”

  Did William know the significance of the ring? That to be ring-giver meant to be a great lord; to be a ring-bearer meant to be that lord’s man to death and beyond? Almost certainly he did.