Lord of My Heart

by Jo Beverley

  “He is a scholar?”

  The younger man laughed. “Aimery’s over-educated perhaps for a Norman, but no cleric. You’ll see when you meet him.” He, too, looked around. “I don’t know where he’s gone. I think I’ll go and find him.” He rose to his feet.

  Dame Celia came scurrying over to take the vacated seat next to Madeleine. “It is so nice to have Odo back home again, isn’t it, Madeleine?”

  “This is hardly his home, Aunt,” retorted Madeleine.

  Dame Celia reached to pinch Madeleine, then drew her hand back. “We won’t have enough food,” she snapped. “You were in charge of food. I don’t know what you’ve been doing, you lazy girl.”

  Leo shared a look with his father and escaped.

  Aimery was making a spurious concern over his horse an excuse to stay well out of the heiress’ way. Let Stephen and Odo fight over her, and then perhaps she wouldn’t take a close look at him. He had little hope that she wouldn’t recognize him if they spent much time together.

  He remembered how she’d appeared, curtsying to the king, radiant in a tunic of rich blue embroidered with red and gold worn over a green kirtle, equally well trimmed. Her long hair had hung loose under a gold circlet, gleaming all the way down to her hips, where it swung against the curve of her bottom as she turned to go into the hall with the king.

  Clearly all Gyrth’s concerns about mistreatment had been nonsense, and he’d worried for no reason. Instead, she was more beautiful than he remembered. Now he just had to remind himself ten or twenty times a day that she was a heartless witch . . . a hundred times a day, perhaps.

  “Well now,” said Leo, coming over to slap him none too gently on the back. Aimery had shed his armor, and the buffet stung. “Don’t you wish you’d snapped her up? A cozy armful.”

  “That depends on her nature,” said Aimery bleakly, and his brother shook his head.

  “Sure you don’t have boils on your behind? You’ve grown more surly with each mile we rode coming here.” Leo looked around. “Not that this run-down place looks all it’s made out to be. I want to get a closer look at the keep.”

  Leo bellowed for his squire and shed his armor, too, pulling on a well-embroidered tunic, then he and Aimery wandered around. Leo poked and prodded everything. “This has been built too fast,” he said, peering at the ten-foot-thick stone base to the wooden keep. “The stones aren’t fitted close enough.”

  At the palisade he pushed at a great log set in the ground and it moved. “Hey you!” he shouted at a laborer nearby. “When was this done?”

  The man looked up, terrified, and gabbled something in English.

  “What did he say?” Leo asked.

  Aimery translated. “He asked, of course, what you said. Doesn’t it occur to anyone to learn the language?” Then he remembered it had occurred to one person.

  “Ask him what I asked him,” said Leo impatiently.

  They soon established that the whole section had been put together in a week. The man said he knew it wasn’t done right, but it was the lord’s command.

  “If you become lord here,” Leo said, “you’ll have to rip this all down and do it again.”

  “And you wonder why I don’t want the task. Let’s look at the stables,” said Aimery. “I’m wondering how our mounts are faring.”

  They found their horses adequately housed, though the squires were having to do more work than usual as the manor seemed short-handed. At one end of the stables was a makeshift mews where crude perches were being hastily knocked together. Aimery was grateful he had no bird with him.

  Leo set again to asking questions, using Aimery as translator, and they soon discovered the Lady Madeleine had put the stables and storehouses in order.

  “Rich and efficient,” Leo approved. “If I were you I’d change into my finest and start dancing attendance. Gift her with some of the bullion that offends Father so. You could buy half the women in England for that lot.”

  “Are you suggesting she’s that kind of woman?” Aimery asked dryly, leaning against the door jamb of a grain-store.

  Leo laughed. “They’re all that kind of woman. They decide how much they’re valued by how much you spend. Give her the bracelet with the blue and garnet inlay.”

  “It’s warrior’s geld. Do you think she’s a fighter?”

  Leo at last caught the resistance in his brother’s tone and studied him, puzzled. “You still don’t want her? What is it? You’ve a true love somewhere? Marry her. If you can’t, marry the heiress and keep the other for variety.”

  Aimery laughed. “If you have a little variety tucked away back home, I don’t know Janetta.”

  Leo acknowledged the truth with a humorous grimace, but any further comment was cut off by the horn, summoning everyone to the evening meal. They made haste toward the manor house.

  The great hall of Baddersley manor was fine in its own way with carved rafters and paneling. Perhaps only Aimery, who had visited here in better times, missed the handsome hangings, the massed arrays of gleaming weapons, and the carved and gilded furniture.

  The high table was well laid, with a brightly embroidered frontal to hang down and conceal the diners’ legs, and snowy covering cloths. The two great chairs stood behind, and the king and Madeleine were already sitting in them. To Madeleine’s right sat Paul de Pouissey, looking sullen and frightened. To the king’s left sat Dame Celia, looking frantic. On her other side Count Guy was attempting some kind of rational conversation. He looked up to see his sons and made a quick expression of despair.

  Trestle tables of irregular sizes and heights crammed around the walls of the rest of the hall so it was difficult to work through to a seat. The tables were covered by a hotchpotch of cloths, some with ragged edges, showing how hastily the room had been prepared. When Aimery and Leo found a place, they eyed the cracked bench with misgiving. As they gingerly lowered themselves, it swayed and creaked. Two other men came to join them.

  “Sit carefully, friends,” boomed Leo, “and there’s a chance we’ll survive the meal upright.”

  Aimery saw the heiress color and cast a swift, angry look at his brother. Her gaze passed over Aimery, then flicked back. She frowned thoughtfully, but then a great crack and a shout turned her attention elsewhere. Either other diners had been less cautious, or their bench had been even more decrepit. Across the room a line of sitting men disappeared from view.

  For a moment, nothing could be seen except a waving arm and then, unfortunately, a flailing leg kicked the table and sent it flying to partially demolish the one next to it.

  Aimery saw Madeleine half rise, then look anxiously at the king beside her. William was guffawing with laughter. A wild screech rent the air, causing the king to turn, mouth still wide, to look at the lady on his left. Dame Celia was shrieking something and pointing at Madeleine. Count Guy was attempting to control her. The lady’s wimple slid half over her face, and she clawed at it, finally dragging it off to reveal a nest of messy gray hair.

  Madeleine said something, though from where Aimery sat her words were drowned by laughter and the curses of the downed men. Dame Celia hurled her headcloth at the girl. It hit the king full in the face.

  Silence fell.

  The king pulled the cloth off, looking with astonishment from the boggle-eyed lady to her husband. Paul turned red, then white, and leaped to his feet. He crossed to his wife and swung a hand to deliver a mighty blow. His arm was gripped and stopped dead by a stern-faced Count Guy.

  The tableau held for breathless moments. Then the king said into the silence, “I hardly think that would effect a cure, Lord Paul. Your wife clearly needs rest. Tomorrow you had best leave here and take her back to her homeland. I suggest you may wish to give her into the care of a convent for some time to recover her wits. I vow, this England is enough to drive anyone demented. Perhaps you had best take her apart now and care for her.”

  Stiffly, Paul recovered his hand from the count and took his wife’s arm. As they left the room
, the king’s voice went after them. “Care for her gently, Lord Paul.”

  Conversation started again with a murmur and rapidly grew to bedlam. Aimery returned his attention to the fallen table and found little was being achieved. The servants were being dull-witted or deliberately obstructive, and those gentlemen nearby were finding great amusement in pinning the fallen down and trying to get the boards on top of them.

  Exasperated, he said, “Watch the bench, my friends, I’m going to stand on it.” Having accomplished this, he took his life in his hands and leaped over the table to the central floor and crossed to the tangled mess. Giving crisp instructions in French and English, and using force on one mischievous knight, he got the diners up and the table set on its legs again. A brief discussion with the groom of the pantry brought two chests to take the place of the splintered bench.

  “And be grateful,” he said tersely as the men sat down. “You probably have the most solid seats in the place.”

  As he turned to go back to his place, he gave the high table a deep, ironic bow.

  “My thanks to you, Aimery,” said the king. “But I cannot allow you to risk yourself by vaulting over the table again. See, there is a vacant seat here beside the demoiselle. Come, take it.”

  Chapter 8

  Aimery obeyed, cursing his habit of trying always to put things right. Now he’d brought himself to everyone’s attention, including the village people ordered in to supplement the hall servants, and the heiress, of course. Then again, a meeting with her could not be put off indefinitely.

  As Aimery took the stool to Madeleine’s right, the king said, “Demoiselle, I present to you Lord Aimery de Gaillard, son of the Count de Gaillard, whom you have met. As you see, he is a very useful young man.”

  Madeleine was scarcely paying attention. She was furious and mortified. She had done the best she could for this meal, but months of neglect and, she suspected, deliberate sabotage, could not be undone in a few days. She supposed she should feel grateful to this young man who had competently sorted out the mess so that at least the food could be served, but she found it difficult. Something in the ironic way he had bowed struck her as insulting—not to William, but to her and her household.

  Still, she couldn’t ignore his efforts. “Thank you for your assistance, sir,” she said flatly, looking down at the trencher before her.

  “I was hungry,” he said coolly, “and that contretemps was holding up the food.”

  She flicked her eyes sideways and saw, what? Indifference? Dislike? What reason had he to dislike her? Young Norman lords were supposed to want to please her, and certainly the one she had met thus far had tried hard enough. Stephen de Faix was handsome and charming.

  But then, she realized with surprise, this wasn’t a Norman. His shoulder-length blond hair told her that. She had noticed it earlier and wondered. He met her gaze with clear green eyes. She gasped. It wasn’t possible.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “Aimery de Gaillard, demoiselle.”

  “You are Saxon!”

  His fine lips twisted. “Do you fear to be murdered in your bed? I am Norman. My mother is English. She is a lady of Mercia.”

  She shook her head at her foolishness as she realized he was speaking in perfect Norman French. He was the youngest son of Count Guy de Gaillard, distant relative and close friend of King William, the son who could tell her about Valhalla. She saw what the count meant. He looked like a Viking barbarian with his flowing yellow hair and gold bracelets, but he clearly could not be a Saxon outlaw.

  She wondered if he was married. It would explain his indifference. She had discovered his brother Leo was married and had been a little disappointed. Leo de Vesin appeared to be both kind and trustworthy.

  A platter of pork was placed before the king, and he selected a few pieces before waving it on to Madeleine. She took one piece of the meat. “May I help you to some, Lord Aimery?”

  Aimery murmured his thanks and let her pick a few choice lumps of meat to place on his bread. For a moment he’d thought she recognized him, but it appeared not to be so. If he could only keep his right hand out of her sight he might avoid detection.

  Their goblets were filled and a dish of beans came by, then fine white wastel bread. That appeared to be the sum of their provisions, and he saw Madeleine anxiously watching the dishes progress around the room. Probably some men would end up eating more beans than pork.

  The liquid in his cup turned out to be mead. He leaned closer to the heiress. “I hesitate to add to your worries, Lady Madeleine, but the king dislikes mead. If you have no wine, you would do better to offer him ale.”

  She flushed and cast him a look that was both worried and annoyed, then beckoned a servant. Within minutes the king was offered a clean goblet and ale. He nodded his thanks.

  “Do you have other suggestions?” Madeleine asked, aware that her tone was unfairly tart. She could not explain her antagonism to Aimery de Gaillard. She did not know him and had scarce looked at him since he had sat down beside her, yet she felt as if hedgehog spines were springing up along the side of her body. It must be because she’d developed an antipathy to green eyes.

  “Relax,” he said in an indulgent tone that rasped her nerves. “The king’s no glutton or lover of ceremony for its own sake. The food you have is properly prepared and adequate. It is clear matters have not been well run here.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I have only just started to take a part in the running of Baddersley, Lord Aimery.”

  “Then perhaps you are slow to see your duty, my lady.”

  Anger turned her head toward him. “I have only been in the country since April!”

  “A place can come to rack and ruin remarkably quickly, can’t it?” he said with an insincere smile, and passed her a basket of nuts. “May I crack one for you, Lady Madeleine?”

  “You may crack your head, sir!” Madeleine hissed, then stiffened when the king chuckled.

  “By the Blood, Guy, they argue like man and wife already.”

  Already? Madeleine looked from the king to Lord Aimery in horror. This was to be her husband?

  Never.

  “Sire,” she blurted, “you promised me a choice!”

  She saw the flash of annoyance in the king’s eyes and bit her lip, but any ill-humor was quickly hidden by a smile. “And I am a man of my word, demoiselle. There are three eligible young men present, all unattached, all fit to help you here at Baddersley. You will have your choice. But then you will wed your choice. Unfortunately I have to deprive you of your aunt and uncle. I cannot leave you here unprotected.”

  Madeleine felt the blood drain from her face. A chill passed through her. Within days she would be married? To whom?

  As if reading her thoughts, the king said, “Your choices are Lord Aimery, Lord Stephen de Faix—the man in blue over there—and Odo de Pouissey whom, of course, you know. Become well acquainted with them, demoiselle. Test them if you will. In two days you will wed your choice.”

  The king turned back to Count Guy, and Madeleine became aware that someone was pressing her goblet into her hand. The one with green eyes. She took a deep draft of the mead. She’d once thought she would like to marry a blond Englishman, but that had been before he had so cruelly betrayed her.

  So this was to be her choice: Odo, whom she might once have chosen except for his parents; the green-eyed one who didn’t like her and who reminded her all too keenly of a vicious rogue; and the pleasant young man who had flirted with her earlier.

  She looked at Stephen de Faix. He was smooth faced, with curly chestnut hair which he wore cut short but not in the extreme fashion Odo favored. Madeleine thought she could categorize her choices by hair—short, medium, or long. She bit her lip on a giggle which was part hysteria.

  The choice was obvious. Stephen de Faix. Her husband.

  But the decision did not settle her nerves; it made her uneasy. It was just the stresses of the day, she assured herself, and having the
choice forced on her so suddenly. In time she would grow accustomed to the idea.

  “Stephen’s a very pleasant fellow,” approved the green-eyed devil to her right. “He’s remarkably courteous for a Norman, competent in war, moderate in drink.”

  Madeleine faced him. “Are you not all those things?”

  “I’m too courteous for a Norman,” he retorted. “I don’t like war, and I drown my sorrows in a pot.” To prove it he drained his cup and summoned a servant for a refill.

  She didn’t believe him, which left only one interpretation. He didn’t want her. She didn’t want him either, but his rejection hurt all the same. “You want me to marry Lord Stephen?”

  “I don’t think Odo would suit you,” he said with a shrug. “But then, I don’t know much about you.”

  Madeleine fixed a smile on her face. “You do not want to wed me and have Baddersley for your own?”

  Without apology he shook his head. “I have enough to do running Rolleston for my father.” He cracked a nut with an efficient tap of a very solid gold bracelet and offered her the meat. “It’s in East Anglia. Not the most peaceful spot.”

  She took the nut absently. “But Baddersley would be yours alone if we were wed. Does that not appeal?” Why, wondered Madeleine, am I saying these things? It’s as if I’m begging him to woo me.

  “In English law the barony is yours by right, Lady Madeleine. Your husband will merely be your defender.” He cracked another nut and popped the flesh into his mouth. He had very strong white teeth.

  Just like another man. Madeleine stared. His face had a similar shape . . . No, it was her foolish imagination again, seeing him in every man of that type.

  But he was behaving very strangely. Everything about him was strange. She’d never seen a man wear a tunic of such bright green. She’d never in her life seen a man glitter so. He wore a fortune carelessly and far outshone the king.