Lord of My Heart

by Jo Beverley

  He called for attention. “The Lady Madeleine will make her decision known in the morning. The betrothal will follow, and then the marriage. Immediately afterward we leave to go north to deal with the Earl of Mercia.”

  There was a renewed burst of conversation and more speculative looks, as men tried to decide from her behavior whom she had chosen.

  “They’re laying bets on it, demoiselle,” said the king. “If you feel mischievous, you could mislead the gullible.” A new platter was presented, and he turned to grasp a piece of tender lamb. He placed it on her trencher, then took some for himself. “Enjoy the feast, demoiselle.”

  The king was the one being mischievous. He guessed she would not choose de Gaillard and was giving himself time to try more tricks. What could he possibly do since he seemed determined to keep to his promise and allow her her choice? She did not know, but the possibilities stole what little appetite her general anxiety had left her.

  She picked at the food and drank heavily from her mead cup until her head began to swim. Odo looked sullen, resigned to the fact that he would not be her choice. Stephen was in high spirits. When he caught her eye, he blew her a kiss, which was noted with cheers of encouragement. Madeleine almost raised her hands to ward off that invisible sign of affection.

  Her eyes found Aimery de Gaillard sitting with his brother and some other men. She saw Leo de Vesin poke his brother, encouraging him to follow Stephen’s example. With a grimace, Aimery looked up at her and gave a slight bow of the head, then returned his somber attention to his meal. She noticed he, too, did not seem to have much appetite.

  Madeleine could not endure more. “May I retire, sire?” she asked. “I am very tired, and tomorrow will be another busy day.”

  He frowned at her, but then grinned, “And tomorrow night a busy night. Sleep well, Lady Madeleine.”

  She rose and left without looking at anyone in the hall. Tomorrow night she would have to allow Stephen de Faix to do as he willed with her body. She would have given herself into his keeping, body and soul, and would have no right to object to anything unless he beat her viciously.

  But why would she even think that way about a man who seemed, if anything, too easy-going? Odo would be the sort to turn vicious, like his father.

  In her room she took off her jewels and the clinging silk-velvet, feeling immediate relief from the heat. As she folded the clothes carefully away in a chest, the shimmering scarlet reminded her of Aimery de Gaillard. Had he, too, put on his most barbaric clothes as a gesture of defiance?

  She sat by the window and opened one of the precious English books Father Cedric had found for her. She tried to concentrate on it and put other concerns away. As the sun set, she came across the poem Aimery de Gaillard had recited for her, The Wanderer:

  Thus speaks the homeless-one,

  haunted by memories of terrible slaughter

  and the death of his friends:

  “Dawn often finds me grieving in solitude,

  for no one still lives

  with whom I dare share

  the truth of my heart.”

  Had he chosen it carelessly, or had it expressed the thoughts of his heart? It seemed to echo hers. They were both, in different ways, cut off from their pasts and alone. She read on through the sad story of a man torn from his place, his loved ones, and his world.

  He thinks of the hall, its bountiful riches,

  his ring-friend’s great feasts in the days of his youth.

  A splendor now past.

  Where is the horse now? Where is the great man?

  Where is the giver of rings?

  Where is the joyous feast?

  Where is the singing?

  Oh, grieve for the flowing mead, grieve the great warriors,

  grieve the proud princes. Swallowed, all swallowed by night’s fatal shadows, leaving no trace for those left alone.

  It seemed to predict the ruin of the English culture.

  Madeleine grieved for that lost England, for with it into the mists of history had gone her own chance of happiness. It was Aimery de Gaillard’s allegiance to the past which stood between them, and she could not follow the poet and resign herself to the workings of fate.

  Tears ran down her cheeks. One day, she supposed, she would be old and shriveled, and all this would seem childish folly. But now, ah now, it hurt like the cleansing fluid she had poured into Aimery’s wound.

  Chapter 11

  In the dead of night Madeleine woke to Dorothy shaking her. A crescent moon shed a little light. “What?” she asked.

  “There’s a man here saying the king wants to speak with you, my lady.”

  Madeleine shook off sleep and slipped into her kirtle. What trick was he going to try now? “In his chamber?”

  “Nay. In the stables.”

  Madeleine frowned. “In the stables? Why?”

  “How would I know?” asked the woman testily. “A knight shook me awake and told me to wake you and send you to speak with the king in the stables.”

  The horses, Madeleine thought muzzily. Was there some dreadful disease? But the king would not be there to handle such matters. Thoughts of Odo’s attack returned. Would someone, anyone, try such a trick? “Who was the knight?” she asked.

  “I don’t know his name, but he’s one of them.” Dorothy caught Madeleine’s suspicions. “I’ll come with you, my lady. But let’s go. If it is him, you can’t keep the king waiting.”

  They slipped out a side door to avoid the crowded hall, and Madeleine found herself in a strange place. In the gray-washed light of pre-dawn nothing in the bailey seemed familiar. She stumbled over a bale left on the ground and muttered a curse. A second later she heard Dorothy repeat her actions. As her eyes adjusted she thought she saw shapes which could be sleeping men. She supposed quite a few preferred a spot out here to a cramped corner in the hall.

  She made her way toward the stables carefully, watching each step. The only sounds were quiet voices from the guards on the earthworks and the screech of some night animal become prey.

  Jerked from sleep, her body was chilled and trembling even though the night was warm. She felt all the uneasiness natural to this dead time of night when spirits roamed, and in addition she feared something was about to happen which would not work to her advantage. She was immensely relieved to have Dorothy stumbling along beside her.

  As she came close to the long huts which formed the stables, she heard the soft movements of horses. Then she heard voices and saw the dim glow of a lanthorn. She relaxed. Whatever the problem, it was not a secret trap.

  She turned to Dorothy. “I think it’s all right,” she murmured, “but the king must wish to speak with me privately. You stay here.”

  The wide doors to the wooden building stood open, and she entered slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the different light. The lanthorn was hung in a far stall, set low so all she saw was its reflected light. The voices came from there, a quiet murmur between two people, she thought.

  She walked closer and was about to announce her presence when someone gasped, “Oh, Lord Stephen!” She heard Stephen’s sensuous chuckle.

  Madeleine froze, knowing then what was going on and what trick the king had played. Did he really believe this would change her mind? She turned to leave. As Aimery de Gaillard had pointed out, none of her suitors were virgins.

  But what a way to start a wedding day.

  She heard Stephen’s voice again. “Come on. That’s it. Very nice . . .”

  Madeleine had taken two cautious steps away—the last thing she wanted was to be caught in this place—when there was a sharp cry and the words, “Don’t! I don’t want—” instantly muffled.

  Madeleine froze. Rape?

  Stephen murmured, “You’ll like it. Relax. It won’t hurt. Come on, my angel. Don’t fight the big strong Norman knight . . .”

  My angel. She felt sick. Would he call Madeleine that in their marriage bed? She wanted to flee, but she couldn’t turn her back on a rape.
But could she bear to walk in and interfere when in a few hours she was going to have to marry this man? She wavered, then the sounds changed to gasps and grunts.

  Mating? Or struggling?

  Swallowing, she crept forward, skirts raised so they would not brush against the straw. When she reached the stall, she peeped cautiously over the boards, prepared to take the quickest look and then leave.

  She looked.

  She stared, unable to take in what she was seeing.

  Two half-naked bodies, but there was something wrong. They were wrong way around. Stephen was . . . Madeleine’s mouth fell open. Stephen’s partner was a man, a youth rather. One of the stable boys.

  She backed away, only to kick a wooden bucket next to her foot. She froze, not even breathing. Stephen let out a gasping cry. He rolled the flushed and heavy-lidded lad over and put his mouth—

  Madeleine gathered her skirt up high, checked her footing, and fled. Outside, she grabbed a startled Dorothy and dragged her behind the pigsty, out of sight, signaling wildly to the astonished woman not to make a sound.

  A few minutes passed and nothing occurred. Perhaps Stephen didn’t care who saw him. Perhaps he was blind and deaf when he was . . .

  Madeleine tried to pull her wits together. She had heard of such practices but never quite believed it.

  “Lady Madeleine,” Dorothy whispered, “what on earth is it? Was it a trick? Are you hurt?”

  “A trick? Yes, a trick. Oh, Dorothy. What am I to do now?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  Madeleine felt as if she’d been tortured, but she said, “No. No. And we must go back to our room!” But she clung to Dorothy and trembled as they crept back across the bailey. When she reached her room again she said, “Please, Dorothy, go to the kitchen and bring me some mead. I need something.”

  The woman patted her shoulder anxiously and hurried off. Madeleine pressed her hands to her face briefly, then slipped through the curtain into her room.

  A shadow moved.

  Her scream was cut off by a hard hand.

  “Be quiet,” said Aimery de Gaillard, and slowly let her go.

  Madeleine stared at a gray shape she could scarcely distinguish. “What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I heard you running across the bailey. What are you up to?”

  Madeleine wanted him to hold her, to rescue her again from an intolerable situation, but his tone was suspicious, not concerned. She hugged herself in despair. “Nothing. Go away. I’m safe.”

  “Obviously. Why were you creeping about?”

  “The king sent for me. Go away!”

  “The king wasn’t in the stables.”

  “No.”

  He stood in silence. “It was a trick? To turn you off Stephen no doubt. What did you see? Him with a lover? I told you we’re none of us saints.”

  Madeleine turned away from him and put her hands to her face. “Go away. Please!”

  She heard footsteps. He turned her back and pulled her hands down. She couldn’t help it. She swayed to rest against his broad chest. His arms came around her for a precious moment before he pushed her away. “Stephen is no worse than the rest of us.”

  Madeleine started to laugh hysterically. He hit her, sharp and hard. She put her hand to her stinging cheek.

  A hand brushed against hers, as soft as a breeze, apologetically, then was gone. “Remember your promise,” he said. Then he, too, was gone.

  Dorothy bustled in with a candle and a tankard. “What is it?” she gasped and hurried over. She looked at Madeleine with horror. “Who hit you? The king in the stables?”

  Madeleine felt numb, hopeless. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She walked over to her medicine chest and took out some poppy syrup. She poured it liberally into the drink. She wouldn’t much care if she never woke up.

  But after Madeleine had taken one long swig, Dorothy grabbed the tankard and poured the rest on the floor. She pushed Madeleine onto her bed and covered her. “Sleep. Things are never as bad in the morning.”

  Madeleine laughed at that, then cried herself to sleep.

  When Dorothy woke her, Madeleine’s mouth was sour and her head was as heavy as a boulder. It took a few moments for all her causes of misery to return to her. Then she cursed Dorothy. She cursed the king. She wished she were dead.

  “And that’s a wicked sin,” said Dorothy in a fine fret. “Come on, my lady. The king’s already calling for you. You don’t have much time.”

  “I have all the time in the world,” said Madeleine fatalistically. “I am not going out there. I am not going to marry anyone.”

  Dorothy paled. “Because of last night?” she asked. “Because of that blow? It’s gone. It can’t have been a hard blow. There’s always blows between man and woman, but a tap like that’s nothing to fret over. Come along, do. Wash your face. I have your finest clothes laid out.”

  Madeleine felt strangely calm and found all this fussing unnecessary. “I can’t marry any of them,” she explained. “It’s absolutely impossible. I suppose I’ll have to go back to the convent, but that won’t be so bad.”

  Dorothy threw up her hands and scurried from the room. In a few moments she was back with Count Guy de Gaillard, looking magnificent in a long gown of cream linen, finely worked. With a gesture he dismissed the woman.

  “What is all this, demoiselle?” he asked gently.

  Madeleine looked at him. “Your son hit me.”

  A brow twitched, but he merely said, “Then marry Stephen, but don’t think he won’t raise his hand to you.”

  Madeleine just shook her head.

  “Odo de Pouissey?” Count Guy queried.

  Madeleine shook her head again.

  “You are going to marry Aimery?” said the count, surprised but pleased.

  “I’m not going to marry any of them,” explained Madeleine. “The king will just have to provide another batch or send me back to the Abbaye. I think I prefer the latter.”

  Count Guy strode forward and sat down on her bed. When she tried to look away, he took her chin in a hard grip so that she was forced to face his green eyes. “Enough of this. You gained the privilege of a choice. You will make it. The king has no desire to have you take the veil and no more time to waste on your silly dithers.”

  She tried to pull free, and he raised his hand. “I am not averse to hitting you either, demoiselle.” Madeleine saw he was speaking the plain truth.

  “The king just wants me to marry your son,” she spat.

  “Then it might occur to you to do as your sovereign wishes. But he has given you your choice and he will not rescind it. Use it.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered, tears beginning to trickle.

  He flipped her over and landed a full-power blow on her behind. Madeleine let out a cry and lay there stunned, rubbing the sting. She rolled over and looked up at his stern face.

  “I am under orders to bring you out, decision made, within the hour, Lady Madeleine. And I follow my monarch’s orders. That is a taste, but if we are to settle for beating sense into you, I’ll call for a switch and save my hand.”

  “Aimery doesn’t want to marry me,” she protested.

  “If he refuses, I’ll beat him into reason, too. Now, do I send for a switch or do you dress and come out to your betrothal?”

  He was like rock. She knew he would do just as he said and would beat her bloody if necessary on the orders of the king. And he was right in one thing. She did have a duty to the king. “You must be a horrible father,” she muttered as she rose from the bed and winced.

  “If you become my daughter, you may discuss the subject at length with my other children.” He went to the doorway and summoned Dorothy, who bustled in anxiously.

  “She is ready,” he said. He turned his back to Madeleine. “If you are not in the hall shortly I will return, armed.”

  Dorothy’s eyes widened as she looked between them.

  “I will be there,” Madeleine said grimly. “Ju
st remember in the future that this was your doing.”

  He didn’t look daunted and smiled before he left.

  At the king’s orders, Aimery stood with Odo and Stephen. Odo obviously had little hope and was into his second goblet of the fine wine which had suddenly appeared. Stephen was acting the part of the modest, gracious victor.

  Aimery had a strong desire to wipe the smug smile from Stephen’s face but told himself it was all turning out as he wished. Madeleine would choose Stephen. The marriage would take place. Everyone would leave to chastise Edwin, but he, in view of his wound, would be allowed to return to Rolleston and be miserable in peace.

  He had not slept the night before and had spent the long hours fighting an almost overwhelming need to claim her. He knew—had known perhaps from that day by the river—that she was made for him. Every time they met the feeling grew stronger. His body reacted to her like a hound on the scent. It was just lust, he told himself. It would pass. It would have to if he was to keep his sanity.

  Worse than lust, there was liking stirring in him. He was beginning to think her evil reputation must be a mistake. Could a woman who had practically wept as she sewed his wound take pleasure from the whipping of infants?

  But—he reminded himself for the hundredth time—he had witnessed her with his own eyes, there at the window, watching. What could cause a lady to watch such a thing through to the last agonizing moment except a twisted taste for cruelty?

  Her power over him was animal. He must fight it. He wished to hell she would come out, pick Stephen, and get it over with.

  William was clearly as impatient as Aimery. In fact the king was beginning to grow angry, and body parts were likely to be lost when William of Normandy lost his temper.

  With Edwin’s rebellion and its repercussions William had no time to humor Madeleine. The latest news was that Gospatric, Earl of Northumbria, had also fled the court for his northern lands, and there were rumors of Welsh raids. It was just possible the English lords were finally going to pull together, God damn them all.