Surprised by the intensity of his gaze, she thought it necessary to say something. “I will be visiting you in your home tomorrow, sire,” she said, imagining this to be an acceptable topic of conversation for the meal. “Adela is arranging for my escort.”
He did not say a word to this, but simply continued to stare at her a moment longer. Then he grunted and looked away. She assumed he was not terribly interested in her visit, but at least he had registered the information.
Then the royal sign was given to the servitors to begin the procession of dishes, the lamb first, and fish fresh from the sparkling waters of the Thames. The rest of the company sought their benches at the other tables formed in a U-shape around the room. The serving of the food necessitated some words being exchanged between Beresford and Gwyneth, for it was the gentleman’s role to choose the tender bits for his lady. He was attentive to her, but just ordinarily so, and the conversation they exchanged was equally ordinary.
When they had settled into the rhythm of the meal, Gwyneth’s gaze fell on the three weird women she had noticed earlier. Something prompted her to turn to Beresford and say impulsively, “I pray you, tell me about your sons.”
He had just skewered a bit of meat on his knife when she made her request. He nodded readily and invited, “What would you like to know about them?” He offered her the dainty bit from his knife.
Before accepting it, she said, “You may wish to begin by telling me their names and ages.”
Beresford obliged her. “Elias is fifteen, Laurence is thirteen, Daniel is ten, Benedict eight and Gilbert six.”
She had accepted the meat and was chewing as he spoke. When he was finished, Gwyneth pronounced the meat to be delicious, then said in some puzzlement, “Lady Chester told me you had three sons.”
“Why, no,” he corrected, “I have five.”
She swallowed and said mildly, “Lady Chester is, apparently, misinformed.”
His brow lowered, then cleared. “I have three sons by Roesia, my late wife,” he said. “Perhaps they were the only ones she was counting.” He added as a point of information, “Elias, Laurence and Daniel have long been in training. Laurence and Daniel are under the tutelage of Valentine, Roesia’s brother, while Elias serves already in Fortescue’s household. Benedict and Gilbert still live with me, although Benedict should be leaving soon.”
She had nearly choked. She was hardly shocked that a man would have natural children, only that he would acknowledge them at this particular time and in this particular setting. She felt it like a slap in the face then reconsidered. It was an adjustment for her, this man’s brute honesty that he applied equally to himself and to everyone else. After the feints and lies and dissemblings of Canute, she did not know how best to approach Simon of Beresford to protect herself from his power over her.
Right now, she did not need to protect herself from him, only to maintain conversation and a shred of dignity. Her best course at the moment, she decided, was simply to humor him. If the topic of his sons entertained him, entertain him she would. She calculated that Elias, his oldest son, must be a product of his coming-of-age. She inferred that Laurence and Daniel were two of the legitimate sons by Roesia and decided to take a chance at determining the third. “And Gilbert will also be joining Valentine’s household?” she asked.
Beresford confirmed that this was so, allowing Gwyneth to infer that eight-year-old Benedict was the second natural son.
When the topic of his sons had been rather fully explored, Gwyneth asked, “You have no daughters?”
He looked down at her and said flatly, “One was stillborn and the other died on the day after her birth.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” she managed.
“That is the way of the world,” he said without emotion.
Their eyes locked, and her heart beat faster. His utter indifference shocked her. It was at that moment that the king stood up from his chair. The main dishes had been served, and an appropriate point in the meal had come for announcements.
The king raised his cup to the hall and said, “I have the great pleasure to announce this evening the impending union of Gwyneth of Northumbria to Simon of Beresford.”
Cups were raised in response. Congratulatory comments were called out from the floor. Several rounds of toasts were offered. Enough heavy wine had been drunk for the comments to become suggestive, but conventionally so.
The king recaptured the initiative. He extolled the virtues of Simon of Beresford, which, he stated, were not necessarily seen but always felt, and contrasted Beresford’s invisible virtues to the highly visible ones of Gwyneth of Northumbria. Since this contrast was met with general approval, he went on in this style for some time then finally mentioned the Saint Barnabas Day tourney. After pausing for the raucous reaction to this long-awaited event to die down, he mentioned the difficulties of planning a wedding that might interfere with the tournament, not forgetting the feast of Trinity, which was almost upon them.
He came, at last, to his point and said, “We shall celebrate the marriage of Gwyneth of Northumbria to Simon of Beresford five days hence.”
Five days! Gwyneth’s immediate thought was that her ploy of mentioning to Adela Beresford’s displeasure with the match had worked in reverse. Instead of making her reconsider the marriage—which Gwyneth had not truly thought she would do—she had pushed the wedding as far forward as she could. Gwyneth had to will herself not to look at the king’s consort, for she feared betraying herself with an accusatory look. Instead, she composed her features and turned toward her husband-to-be.
Beresford had swerved his head to her, evidently as dismayed as she was. At his openly uncomplimentary reaction to the imminence of their marriage, she feit a strong feminine pique overcome her own displeasure and her fear of him. She saw many horrible possibilities for her future in the Norman court unfold in her mind’s eye and thought that he might as well beat her in public now, for all the respect she would ever receive if it was clearly seen that he did not want her. She preferred a quick and bloody end to a slow and bloodless death from shame.
She did not flinch from the look in his eyes, but smiled at him agreeably. What she said was at great variance with her serenely beautiful expression, however.
“If you insult me now with a display of displeasure at this match,” she said so low that no one else could hear, “I will kill you, Simon of Beresford.”
Chapter Five
Beresford had no idea what she meant about him insulting her, but ignored it, for here at last came a turn in conversation to which he knew how to respond; and he was unexpectedly charmed by her expression of feminine blood lust. It sounded so different to him from Roesia’s whining and wheedling, designed not to challenge him with her strength but to irritate him with her weakness. By contrast, Gwyneth’s statement was strong and sure, and startling, coming as it did from so delicate a woman.
Although he was not well versed in courtly ways, he did know what to do. He was aware of her and of his audience and could play to both differently. Looking into her eyes, he took her slim hand and weighed it lightly in his palm for a moment, as if testing the balance of a finely wrought dagger. “Would you kill me with poison or a knife, I wonder,” he said for her ears only, “or would it be with your bare hands?”
These words of male challenge tasted strangely appetizing on his lips when said to a woman. Without giving her a chance to respond, he turned her hand over and put his lips to the white skin of her knuckles. Beresford’s gesture, seemingly more affectionate and respectful than it was graceful, brought hushed “oohs” and “aahs” of approval from the hall.
He released her hand and asked, “Shall I live, my lady?”
“For now,” she whispered back.
Next he reached for the horn of wine that sat between them and drank from it. When he handed it to her, he turned the cup so that the part of the rim that had touched his lips was toward her. She was left with no choice but to put her own lips where his had been and to drink
from the cup. He felt the satisfaction of having maneuvered an opponent into a defensive position on the field and was momentarily pleased.
Scattered applause broke out. Along with shouts of congratulations and encouragement came friendly abuse, which he deflected with return comments of a similarly ribald nature. When the moment had passed, he looked down at Gwyneth and saw her lashes lowered and her cheeks tinged with pink. He could not determine whether she was angry, embarrassed, chastened, vexed or merely warm from the wine. When she did not counter him challenge for challenge, it seemed to him that she had gone into a retreat that he did not know how to flush, and his confidence in the turn in conversation ebbed. He felt himself floundering again, as he had moments before when she had spoken to him about his children and he had not known what to say to her, beyond the obvious and uninteresting.
The evening had begun badly and was getting worse. Before supper, he had been drawn aside by Adela and given instructions that had puzzled him as much as they had angered him. She had told him that he was not to indicate again to Gwyneth that he did not desire the match, and he was annoyed when she rejected his denial that he had said anything of the kind. To his further irritation, Adela had suggested topics suitable for discussion during the meal, having to do with such inscrutable activities as needlework and household management. However, he had never known Adela herself, or Queen Mathilda before her, to speak of needlework, and so he decided that she had made an incomprehensible attempt at humor.
Thus, even before the meal, he had already been puzzled, angered and irritated. The moment he had sat down next to Gwyneth and really looked at her, he had been struck dumb and had not had the faintest idea what she said to him, thereby aggravating his puzzlement, anger and irritation. To these unsociable emotions was added an increasing clumsiness as he tried to keep in mind Senlis’s earlier recommendation of “Subtlety!” He had realized, once the meal was underway, that he did not have any idea about what Senlis meant. And thinking of Senlis, particularly of him strolling so companionably with Gwyneth before the meal, Beresford was gripped by a violence he could not deny, but was not yet fully prepared to understand.
He was at a loss for a few moments after the applause and congratulations and friendly abuse ended. He looked out over the hall, feeling strange and unpleasant emotions crawl around inside him, until by chance his eyes fastened on the three weird women who had formed themselves into a circle in a far corner.
He turned to the beautiful, confusing creature next to him. “So I am safe from your wrath for now,” he said, and asked idly, “but am I safe from the evil spells of the three crones?”
Gwyneth looked up at him in surprise, and then followed the direction of his gaze. “Yes,” she said slowly, “for I think that you are more protected than threatened by the Norns.”
He frowned. “The Norns?”
“That is what the Danes would call them,” she said, shifting her eyes back to the women. “I do not know the word in Norman, or whether such a word exists.”
Interested, he demanded, “Who—or what—are the Norns?”
She raised her eyes to him, and he allowed his gaze to be drawn into her violet pools. “They are the wise women who tend the world tree, Yggdrasil, which, according to Norse legend,” she said, “holds our world in place. The Norns also decide the destinies of all creatures, mortals and gods alike.”
“Gods?” he scoffed, with an edge of reprimand in his voice at her blasphemy.
She lowered her eyes modestly and said, “I hope that I am a good Christian, and I assure you that the Northumbrians came to the true religion long ago. However, before the one Christian God was made known to us, there were other gods that ruled heaven and earth, and other creatures, too, that inhabited it.”
“Other creatures?”
“Elves and dwarves and such.”
He waved dismissively. “And the gods?”
“There was Odin,” she said, “who created the earth and sky.”
He shook his head. “The Father of the Trinity was the creator of the universe.”
“Yes, of course,” she acknowledged, “but Odin was different, for he was not part of a trinity. He was the father of all other gods, and he was married to the goddess Frigg.” She seemed to know to fill the silence, and he was pleased to permit her to. “Odin slew a giant and made the earth from his flesh,” she went on, “the mountains and rocks from his bones and teeth and the rivers and seas from his blood. He made the dome of the sky from the giant’s skull and tossed his brains in the air as clouds. He then fashioned the first man from an ash root and named him Ask and took an elm root for his wife, Embla.” She added, “Odin was an Aesir, or warrior god.”
He looked away from her then. “A warrior god,” he repeated, considering. Although he was in no danger of believing a pagan account of the world, he thought Odin’s work a reasonable way to begin a universe. He stretched out his hand to fiddle with the cup of wine, turning it this way and that, keeping his eyes fixed on the play of light on the ruby liquid. His curiosity caught, he asked, “Were there other warrior gods in addition to Odin?”
“Oh, many!” she assured him. “Perhaps the most interesting to you would be Thor, the thunder god, who was Odin’s eldest son. He was huge, even for a god, and incredibly strong. He had wild hair and a beard, and a temper to match. His main weapon was a hammer, and he had a belt that doubled his strength when he buckled it on and iron gauntlets that allowed him to grasp any weapon.”
He was rather entertained by her account of this Thor. He slanted his eyes to Gwyneth. Her cheeks, he noted, had faded to their customary immaculate ivory. He could not interpret her calm any better than he could her flush. He knew only that he wished to hear more.
“Thor sounds a fearsome fellow,” he commented.
“In a way, but he was also trusting and good-natured and the most popular of the gods,” she replied. “His symbol was the oak tree.”
It made sense to him. He nodded approvingly.
“The warrior gods lived in a great hall called Valhalla,” she continued, “the walls of which were made of golden spears and the roof of golden shields. Some of the earthly warriors slain in battle were chosen to join Odin in Valhalla, where they would feast and make merry every evening.”
“But so many men are slain in battle,” he pointed out, still fiddling with his cup as he listened. “How did Odin choose among them?”
“Only the bravest were chosen, but Odin did not select them. That was the work of the Valkyries, the female warriors—”
His eyes cut to hers, his brows raised.
“Yes, female warriors,” she repeated, with the hint of a challenge.
His eyes rested on her a moment longer. He was having difficulty imagining a female warrior who was not beautifully fair and deceptively delicate. With cautious interest, he asked, “What were they like, the Valkyries?”
“They were magnificently strong,” she told him, “and swooped over battlefields on horseback, directing the fighting. They had frightening names like Raging Warrior and Shrieking and Shaker. They chose only the bravest heroes for Valhalla, as I have said, and it was common for a man chosen to die to see a Valkyrie just before the fatal blow.”
He scanned in mental review the decisive moments of battles he had fought and noted with satisfaction that he had never seen a Valkyrie. He was as loyal to his God as he was to his king, but when it came to beliefs that governed his warrior’s life, he was tolerantly eclectic. Since he admired the Norse fighting ethic, which he knew he himself had inherited, he thought their beliefs highly worthy of consideration. As much as the prospect of Valhalla appealed to him, he decided to make every effort in future to elude the grasp of a Valkyrie, should ever he see one coming toward him on the battlefield.
He grunted meditatively and took a sip of wine. Gwyneth interpreted that as a sign to continue. “The Valkyries also worked as Odin’s servants,” she said, “and served food and drink to the warriors in Valhalla, who re
turned every evening after a day’s adventure.”
He grunted again, and Gwyneth obliged him by beginning to recount heroic deeds of the Norse gods. As she told him of monsters and magic horses and magic rings, he relaxed on the bench and was lulled by the lilt of her low voice. He listened, caught in the rhythm of her hesitations as she searched for a word in Norman. He listened, hardly conscious of the fact that his gaze had fallen on her right hand, resting on the table next to him.
His ears were full of the death of Odin’s son and of the tricks played by Odin’s blood brother, Loki, the mischievous giant god. His eyes traced the graceful crook of each of her long, white fingers to the curve of their pretty nails, and followed the outline of the back of her hand to her slim wrist, over which fell the soft folds of the finely braided sleeve of her kirtle. It was an exquisite hand, and he decided that the seductively morbid emotions it evoked in him as he contemplated it must be due to the dark and compelling stories she was telling.
She had turned to the tale of the god Tyr, the bravest and most honorable of the warrior gods, the one with the most integrity. Beresford listened in horror to the story of how Tyr lost his hand, and murmured with a fellow feeling of relief over the fact that it had been the left hand lost, not the right.
After a moment, Gwyneth said, “Tyr’s wife was glad, too, that he could still fight.”
“Tyr’s wife?” he queried. He frowned into his wine. “Was she a Valkyrie?”
She laughed gently. “No, she was not a warrior, but from a different race of gods, thus making her a … foreigner to Valhalla. She was not afraid of violence, but did not approve of it. She was not physically strong, but her understanding was great.”
“Why did he marry her?”
“The marriage was arranged by Odin to bring a peaceful element to Valhalla, and he arranged the marriage with one condition: that Tyr was never to raise a hand against her or harm her in any way.” She paused. “Or else.”
He met her gaze. “Or else what?”
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