She blinked up at him. “It is?” she said, not understanding his drift. “You mean I should have had some opinion of the military strategy involved in that campaign?”
“No, I mean that I wish to know where your loyalties stand with regard to the rightful King Stephen and the usurper, Henry of Anjou.”
She looked away. The spurt of anger that coursed through her quickly cleared the constriction in her throat. She drew a deep and easy breath and rapidly adjusted to the absurd and unexpected topic. The gate had swung open, and she stepped into the garden, which was fragrant with the herbs that had seasoned their supper: mustard and parsley and cumin, fennel and coriander and anise.
“My loyalties, sire?” she replied lightly, turning down the first path that presented itself. Beresford was behind her. “You know that my late husband was one of Henry’s supporters.”
“But he is dead and you are not—” Beresford began.
“Ah, yes! You promised to avoid subtlety!”
“—And I am more interested in your loyalties,” he continued, “than Canute’s.”
“But you should know the whole of my background. My father was for the empress,” she informed him testily, “who was, as we both know, the Conqueror’s granddaughter, the first Henry’s daughter and Duke Henry’s mother. If there was a usurper to the throne, it was Stephen twenty years ago.”
“This point of contention, of course, is what the squabbling is about,” Beresford said placidly.
Gwyneth did not understand his calm. She was further confused by what she thought was a gleam of humor in his eyes. “Some call it a civil war,” she said with haughty dignity.
“So you consider yourself a supporter of the young Henry,” he said, “despite Stephen’s legitimate claim on the throne these past twenty years.”
She found it strange to be forced into a declaration, for as a powerless Saxon woman in Norman England, she had considered political loyalty to be little more than an expedient of survival. However, if Beresford wished to discuss political principles, she was happy to oblige.
“Because Duke Henry is the lawful heir to the kingdom, I could hardly consider myself anything else!” she replied. In some pique, she added, “And I can hardly imagine any discussion less pertinent on the eve of our marriage!”
At that, he put one hand on her shoulder and turned her toward him. With his other hand, he caught the tips of her fingers and weighed them in his palm. His tone and his words were as blunt as the hilt of a sword. “Since we will soon be sharing a bed, I’d like to know with whom I have to deal.”
Gwyneth felt a thrill of shock down to her toes and surged with a delicious desire to wring his neck. On second thought, she decided she would prefer to draw blood. “You might consider checking me every night for knives,” she said through her teeth.
“I will,” he replied, “so that I may sleep without an itch between my shoulder blades.”
She nearly strangled, this time not in fear but in fury. She was aware of the pungent, bracing combination of herbal scents that surrounded her, of the rough edges of the bristly man who held her. She was aware of his hold on her, which, she was determined, would not arouse her by its very lack of seductive intent.
A truly masterful retort sprang to mind, and she opened her mouth to speak. However, she was never to utter her sublime opinion of his crudeness, which he would have been too oafish to appreciate anyway, because they were interrupted by none other than Geoffrey of Senlis.
“There you are, Simon,” Senlis said, coming upon them where they had stopped, abruptly, in the middle of a pathway. He bowed politely. “And Gwyneth.” He must have perceived some tension in the air or in the way they were facing one another, for he ventured, “But perhaps I come at a bad time?”
“Not at all,” Beresford said, dropping Gwyneth’s hand and moving a step away from her.
Gwyneth murmured, “Sire Senlis,” and left it at that.
With a brow inquisitively arched, Senlis looked from one to the other but wisely did not comment. He said merely what he had come to say. “I’ve been looking for you for some time. The king has asked for you, Simon, and you are to report to him anon.”
“Indeed, Geoffrey?” Beresford replied with heavy irony. “The king wishes to speak to me? At this very moment?” He looked from Senlis to Gwyneth and made no movement to leave the gardens. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest, in rude rejection of his friend’s message.
Gwyneth was angry with Beresford all over again. Although he did not want her, he did not want any other man to be with her—and he was embarrassingly obvious about it. How she would have preferred to stroll in the gardens with the handsome Geoffrey of Senlis!
Senlis must have similarly understood the implications of Beresford’s reaction, for he bent his head toward his friend’s ear. “I am to accompany you to the hall, Simon,” he said in a placating voice. “Gwyneth may stay here, unattended, if she likes, until you are free to return to her side.”
Beresford’s brow cleared, and he nodded. Then he turned on his heels, and without another word, left the gardens with Senlis.
Gwyneth glared at his back, fuming over his manners, his treatment of her and his unsubtle, blunt ways. When she attempted to cool her anger, she discovered that she had no real desire to be calm but rather wished to give her anger room to roam. So Beresford had not envisioned an episode of lovemaking in the gardens, but had wanted to discuss her political loyalties! She should have guessed his intention was to insult her rather than to woo her! She should have guessed he would be looking out for his own safety in bed rather than her pleasure!
Without being aware of it, she had wandered down a path that took her from the neat rows of herbs to the flowers. She did not know how long she had been alone, but it was enough time for the rankling to have smoothed out and for some of her earlier equitable mood to have resurfaced. Yes, she thought, more reasonably now, she should have guessed that Beresford would behave true to form, for the gardens, the hall and his home were all one to him: a field of combat. Staring down at the fragile bud of a rose ready to bloom, she realized that it had been a mistake to allow her pique to be so evident. Not that Beresford was discerning enough to have noticed!
She was calm now, calm enough to handle his eventual return—that is, if he had the courtesy to return to her. When she heard the fall of a foot behind her, she smiled inwardly.
She was doubly glad that she had composed herself when she turned around and saw who was there, bowing before her.
“Cedric of Valrney,” she stated in greeting.
Chapter Eight
She did not like Cedric of Valmey, but made every effort to keep the dislike out of her voice. She felt a trace of apprehension at being alone with him in the gardens. The situation did not occasion fear, but she knew that she would have to tread very, very carefully.
Valmey straightened, took hold of one of her hands and grazed the backs of her fingers with his lips. She resisted the impulse to snatch her hand away and allowed it to rest in his light grip, which lasted a moment longer than was seemly. He gazed at her with liquid brown eyes in whose depth flickered tiny flames that promised more.
“Gwyneth of Northumbria,” he replied languidly.
“Soon to be of Beresford,” she reminded him.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “On the morrow, in fact.” He was hardly put off by her reminder. Instead, he extended his arm in silent invitation that they stroll together.
Gwyneth thought it more dangerous to refuse than to accept. She placed her fingers on his wrist, making sure she touched only the cloth of his sleeve. They were surrounded by the fresh, leafy scent of tight, unbloomed roses and the springtime promise of peonies, lilies, lavender and marigolds. With a wrinkle of irony, she was aware that here was her opportunity for lovemaking, if she so desired it. Her immediate objective, of course, was to find a way to avoid such a scene, without offending Sir Cedric.
She decided to take the offensive. “
The preparations for tomorrow’s wedding have been going forward at such a pace these past few days, sire, that I welcome this moment of evening repose.” She glanced up at him guilelessly. “A moment when no demands are made of me.”
He nodded and said merely, “I am happy to accompany you in this moment of repose.”
“How kind of you,” she said. “Until a few moments ago, it was Beresford’s task to accompany me.” She did not think she was overdoing it to look up at him and to flutter her eyelashes. “Did you know that he was just called from my side?”
At his hesitation, Gwyneth wondered whether he had engineered the request from the king for Beresford and Senlis to return to the hall. Valmey effectively hedged with the statement, “But he is not here now.”
They passed currant and raspberry bushes dotted with hard, green berries. Gwyneth stretched out her free hand to graze their springy tops. “No, he is not here now,” she agreed simply, “but he is due to return at any moment.”
Valmey became bold. “Is that what you wish, my lady?”
Gwyneth remained modest. “Of course, a good wife wishes for her husband.”
“And you are a good wife?”
“I mean to be.”
Valmey switched tactics and played into her statement, rather than against it. “You must be well pleased to be marrying a man of such riches and renown.”
“I am.”
“One so accomplished on the battlefield.”
“It is a comfort.”
“One so constant.”
“Above all.”
“And so compassionate.”
“A true knight,” she said. “I do not ask for more.”
Valrney paused. When he spoke again, his voice teased her on the edge of flirtation. “I confess, my lady, to an envy of Simon of Beresford.”
“You have confessed that once to me already, Sir Cedric.”
He paused again and his brows rose, not in inquiry but in slightly exaggerated surprise. Then he smiled. He shook his head. “No, my lady,” he contradicted, “on the previous occasion, I merely registered a complaint that Simon of Beresford had received two remarkable honors in one day.”
She felt the check. Valmey was not, apparently, a man who repeated himself. “Now you come to confess to me your envy. Is it because of Beresford’s elevation to the earldom?” she asked. She had not forgotten the possibility of Valmey’s jealousy.
The baron’s smile was intimate, even secretive. “I’ve riches and titles enough, so I do not begrudge Beresford his earldom, my lady.”
She had not been fishing for compliments. She did not want one now. She turned to face him. Her expression was direct. “It is good for you to recognize the sin of envy— whatever the reason—so that you may confess it and exorcise it from your immortal soul.”
She saw Valmey’s seductive brown eyes narrow slightly, but he recovered nicely. “I thank you, my lady, for considering the heavenly fate of my immortal soul.”
“You are most welcome.”
Valmey smiled graciously. He knew when to retreat.
They had come upon the tiny orchard. Songbirds fluttered from pear to apple to medlar tree. Arching between the higher branches of two leafy trunks, grapevines had met and married, creating a filigreed canopy that shaded a pretty stone bench beneath.
“I cannot help but wonder,” he said, coming to a stop under the arbor, “whether, among all the qualities we have just enumerated for Simon of Beresford, a knowledge of the gentler arts is included.”
Gwyneth was turned so that the backs of her knees were against the stone bench. She did not immediately respond and, in fact, knew not what to say that would be neither transparently false nor patently silly.
Valmey pressed his advantage. “I wonder whether he can turn a phrase—” here he picked up her hand and turned it, tender palm up, in his “—as easily as he can turn his sword against an opponent.”
Gwyneth had no doubt about Valmey’s present intentions, although she was not sure of his overall purpose. Did he wish to enthrall her or embarrass her? Did he wish to seduce her or merely arouse her desire for him? Was he motivated by an amour propre that would not allow any woman to escape his spell, or was this little scene intended to do some kind of damage to Beresford? And what was his relationship to Rosalyn, Lady Chester? Was he in love with her, or was it simply connivance between them?
She strained away from him, a little awkwardly, for her knees threatened to buckle against the bench. She turned her head and softened her gesture with diffidence. These tactics gave her just enough time to formulate the perfect reply that would keep Valmey guessing and at a distance.
“Sir Cedric… ” she began in a tone mixing modesty and mild reprimand.
****
Beresford had listened to the king’s request with puzzlement. He was being sent to the Bowyer Tower in the outer ward, on the opposite end of the grounds from the queen’s gardens. He was to discuss with the castle bow maker the various weapons that would be needed for the Saint Barnabas Day tournament. Because he was not in the habit of questioning the usual royal commands—only the unusual ones that concerned, for example, his marital status—he did not say that he had spent a good deal of time lately with Master Bowman discussing precisely that. Causing Beresford further puzzlement was the king’s request that Senlis go to the Flint Tower, the most dank and noisome dungeon in the entire fortress, for some equally frivolous errand.
It was not until Beresford had left the White Tower for the second time in an hour, crossed before the lieutenant’s lodgings and greeted his cronies that the wiliness of the scheme dawned on him. Senlis, you clever dog! was his immediate thought. You must think your old friend Simon is stupid!
He reversed his steps and headed back toward the pleasance, fully expecting to find that Senlis had stolen the march on him. He was not about to be outfoxed by Geoffrey at this stage of the game. Oh, no! Not when he had arrived at so interesting a point with Gwyneth!
For it had been interesting, that moment when he had understood that the light, tight tone in her voice and the pink flushing her cheeks bespoke anger. Yes, she had been angry at him, angry enough to threaten him—verbally!— with knives. In the context of their bed, too. He had really enjoyed that. It had made him want to take Gwyneth and leave the bland confines of the gardens to find some wilder place to explore the possibilities of his enjoyment. The riverbank, perhaps, just beyond the Iron Gate and below the pile of stones that made the outer wall. He knew a place, deep in a tangle of bramble bushes rampant with wild honeysuckle, where earth slipped down to slick stones. It was an inspiring thought: rock above, rock below, thorny green branches trailing above, female flesh around him and indulging in his most favorite and inventive position. It was an inspiring thought, especially imagining himself surrounded by the flesh of a woman who had threatened him with knives.
As for that threat, he could not have said for a certainty, but he was almost sure that she did not care about politics. Of course, she was a supporter of the Angevin duke. As she herself had said, how could she be anything other? But she had not taken a real interest, a man’s interest in the issue. That was it—she had acted like a woman. Huffy, sort of. Cattish. He had found her behavior rather amusing.
And most reassuring. He had not intended to pursue the subject of politics when he had invited her to leave the hall after supper. He had not intended anything in particular, in fact, until they had been making their way through the throng of extremely tiresome well-wishers. One moment he had been looking down at Gwyneth, seeing her smiling at his cousin. The next moment he had looked up unwarily and seen, just at the limit of his vision. There it was again; the ridiculous image of the plump baby boy with wings that had hovered before his eyes several evenings before, when he had been on the lookout for a Valkyrie.
He did not understand it at all, for he was never given to fanciful imaginings. It was a most harmless image, the most harmless imaginable! And yet he had felt threatened and
somehow a target of it, as if the baby boy were carrying a bow and arrow. He had felt unwontedly weak, and he had been shaken by the notion that he might, for the first time in his life, succumb to the ague. Then he decided, more plausibly, that a Valkyrie had disguised herself and was warning him about something—he figured, given his reputation, that the female warriors would be disposed to treating him specially. He had no idea what that warning might be, but it occurred to him that a reasonable man would make sure that he was not marrying an agent of death.
Well, he was not going to worry about an open threat with knives. Not from Gwyneth, at any rate. He was a man who knew what and what not to fear.
On the other hand, and more to the immediate point, the passage in the garden had made Gwyneth seem less fragile, more physical. Less ethereal. More of flesh and blood. More of the riverbank.
He arrived back at the gardens and found his way through the herbs and flowers to the orchard. Through some branches, he saw Gwyneth’s skirt. He approached just as she leaned away, her head held to one side. He saw Senlis from the back, bowing low over her hand, so that his head was blocked from Beresford’s vision.
Too many impressions came to him at once for him to be able to sort them out completely. He saw that the expression on Gwyneth’s face and the lines of her body suggested maidenly modesty, but he was aware that on some other level she was displeased. He heard her say, “Sir Cedric,” with an inflection that warned of trouble, but that interesting perception of her tone was obscured when the name itself registered in his brain, causing him to frown. At the same time, Gwyneih glanced up, apparently hearing his approach. He thought she looked rather relieved to see him, but his thoughts ware still preoccupied. He had been expecting Senlis. Could the man instead be Valmey?
He asked aloud, his surprise evident, “Valmey?”
The man’s head came up and around, and Beresford was indeed looking into a pair of dark eyes that did not belong to Geoffrey of Senlis.
“Simon,” Valmey soothed. He released Gwyneth’s hand, but none too quickly. “You have returned, as your bride predicted.”
Simon’s Lady Page 10
