“I am so glad you agree with me, my lady,” said the voice at Gwyneth’s side.
Calm and confidence! she admonished herself before turning, with a placid smile to see Geoffrey of Senlis. She did not know how long he had been there or how long he had been speaking to her. Nor did she know to what she had just agreed, and she hoped it had not been either idiotic or improper.
“And why should I not?” Gwyneth replied, thinking this answer safe enough.
When Senlis made some response, Gwyneth answered again at random, for despite her best efforts to concentrate on the man at her side, her thoughts remained on the little scene she had just witnessed. She was wishing dearly that she could see Rosalyn’s face right now in the wake of Beresford’s snub.
Senlis said something else. Gwyneth responded automatically, all the while seriously wondering whether trimmed hair, a decent shave and a clean tunic could really do so much to alter a man.
“You think not?” Senlis asked, with an inflection of surprise.
Gwyneth realized that she had spoken amiss. She tried to recall the statement to which she had just responded, but failed. “Well, I mean, of course, that I rather think so!” she said, striving for a touch of carelessness as she reversed herself.
“I understand your confusion,” Senlis said humorously, with a nod toward the head table, “and freely admit that your husband’s glowering expression when he looks at us does not necessarily betoken anger any more readily than it does amusement.”
The words your husband caught her attention, and she was able to focus now fully on Senlis. Because she found herself as Geoffrey of Senlis’s partner in a courtly couples dance, she quickly pieced together the idea that their conversation must have turned on the question of whether Beresford would object to Seniis’s dancing with her. She had no real idea whether he would object, but she was determined not to look over at the table where he was apparently seated and again looking at them.
She recalled dancing with the handsome and most graceful Geoffrey of Senlis earlier, and tried to remember whether this was the second or, perhaps, even third time that she had stood up with him this afternoon. It occurred to her that if this were the third time, Beresford might have true cause to object. She had already decided not to dance a third time with Lancaster, for fear of breaching propriety. Perhaps the question of a third dance had been Senlis’s concern when she had not rightly been attending to him.
The little pang she felt at the thought was not guilt, but defiance. If Beresford would not dance with her at their wedding, he would have to watch her dancing with other men. Unfortunately, and somewhat inexplicably, she was not enjoying the dance as much as she would have liked, although Geoffrey of Senlis was a charming partner and kept the conversation light and amusing.
When the last wistful note of the lute dissipated in the air, Senlis escorted her to the side of the floor. She was surprised to find Beresford there on hand, ready to take her arm in his. He thanked Senlis curtly for having taken such good care of his wife. Then he drew her away without further discussion or explanation.
Gwyneth realized now that the strange and colorful threads of her emotions had fallen off their spindle and were all confused. She did not know whether to be angry or merely vexed by Beresford’s peremptory behavior. Or even, oddly, flattered.
“How do you know that I do not wish to dance again?” she asked her husband.
His gray eyes met hers. “I don’t.”
“Am I to infer that you do not care whether I wish to dance again?” she asked.
“You are,” he said bluntly, but caused her to lose a bit of her anger when he added, “Sit with me.”
It was stated as a command, but Gwyneth, slanting him a speculative glance, was just able to hear it as an invitation. She acknowledged privately that she no longer cared to dance and so could allow herself to accede to his wish because of her own tiredness rather than his uncivil request, if request it was.
“All right, then,” she said. When she heard the grudging acceptance of her own words, she amended, “I will be pleased to sit with you, my lord.”
He confined himself to a nod in response. However, the equally speculative glance he returned to her suggested that if he were a different kind of man, he might have said something flirtatiously ironic.
Gwyneth was fully aware of the change in Beresford, a change similar to the satisfied easiness she had noticed in him the evening before, after the vigorous game of fetch with a castle hound. This evening he had much the same easiness, as if he had just engaged in some satisfying sport. However, to her he had the look of a man who was not yet fully satisfied, one who was still ready for more. The effect struck her now as dangerous. In the split second their eyes met, she thought he looked as dangerous as an unsheathed sword, one that had lately sunk itself deep into human flesh. One that had been wiped clean of blood and that gleamed dully in the satiny afterglow of a whetting by human viscera.
“We’ll go back to the head table,” he directed, as he began to lead her around the edge of the dancers toward their places.
She cleared her head of its violent fancy. “Yes, of course,” she said, drawing a quick breath. “Conversation would be very welcome right now.” His inarticulate response did not encourage her to suppose that he intended entertaining her with dazzling conversation. She added provocatively, “I imagine that you, too, sire, have been absorbed by the most exciting topic of talk today.”
Beresford looked mildly surprised. “The most exciting topic?”
“The Saint Barnabas Day tourney, of course,” she answered. “Have you yourself not been discussing it throughout the afternoon?”
“I have,” he replied, “but I did not imagine that the tourney would serve as a topic of talk, particularly today.”
“Have you never noticed,” she said, “that few topics are more pleasant to discuss at a festive occasion than the prospect of yet another festive occasion?”
Only a slight lightening of his harsh features indicated that he appreciated her observation. “True,” he admitted, “but I had no idea that anyone save a few of us would care, for instance, about the particulars of the role of squires on the tournament field.”
“Oh, I did not say that talk had run to the particulars,” she replied. “Most people seem interested to know how many jousts there will be and whether the day will be fine.”
Beresford frowned. “To discuss the weather is idle, and there will be the usual number of jousts.” He waved these considerations away with an impatient gesture. “Of greater importance is the nature of the tournament procedures that many of my fainthearted companions wish to see written into the statutes.”
“Do you mean the procedures concerning the role of squires on the tournament field?” she ventured.
“That and other things.”
“Such as….?”
He looked down at her. “It goes without saying that no animal should suffer death or pain, and for even the accidental wounding of a horse, a penalty should be imposed.” His gaze was steady upon her when he continued, “Is this, then, my lady, the kind of talk about the tournament that interests you?”
They had almost arrived at the head table. She had the indefinable sense that he had called her conversational bluff. In any case, she felt that she had just been challenged. It was not the first time that she, who had talked circles around Canute, had not easily gained the upper hand in conversation with Beresford, and she was inclined to refine her opinion of him yet again. She decided that, while he was always plainspoken, he was not always blunt.
She had no interest whatsoever in tournament regulations. However, she answered him with a bright, “That is exactly the kind of talk that interests me,” to salute, in effect, the sword he had raised to her. She then realized that she had left one duty undone during the past several rounds of dancing. Because she felt at a strategic disadvantage, she decided to use the excuse to give her time to regroup her forces. She checked her step, and Ber
esford’s halted accordingly.
She smiled. “Before we can discuss the topic in detail, I find that I must excuse myself from the hall for a short time. If you will pardon me, sire….?”
Beresford’s brow lowered. “Why?”
Gwyneth blinked. He was not that obtuse, surely! If she had been with Geoffrey of Senlis, she would have flashed him a little smile and said, “A preux chevalier does not ask a lady such a question.” Instead, she dared to be as blunt as Beresford. “Because I have consumed much liquid in the past hours, you see, and….” she began, but chose in the end to leave her thought delicately unfinished.
Beresford’s face lightened. He was hardly embarrassed by her reference to body functions, and his response was entirely commonsensical. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
Why not, indeed! Gwyneth wondered to herself as she left the hall to seek the garderobe. Although momentarily amused by him, she wondered how she was going to keep alive her interest in the topic of tournament statutes upon her return to his side. Quite by chance, she was given a disturbing reason to wish to discuss with Beresford tournament regulations, particularly those concerning the role of squires on the field.
It came on her way back to the hall, a few minutes later, when she caught a snatch of low conversation coming from a shadowy alcove by the main staircase. She thought she heard the whispered words the loving bridegroom ironically spoken, but could not have said for a certainty. With her heart beating uncomfortably, she stopped her steps and flattened herself into another scallop in the wall next to the alcove. She did not experience a moment’s qualm about eavesdropping, for she guessed that the woman who had spoken the words was none other than the beautiful, untrustworthy Rosalyn, Lady Chester.
Gwyneth’s guess was confirmed with the woman’s next words. “Do you think it so necessary, then?” Rosalyn asked of the person with whom she was sharing the alcove.
Her companion’s reply was soft and smooth, his voice clearly recognizable. “Indeed, I do,” replied Cedric of Valmey. “You may consider yourself responsible for the necessity of it.”
Upon hearing this gentle reproach, Gwyneth felt the charge in the silence. She could well imagine the arch to Rosalyn’s fine brows when she challenged with sweet skepticism, “You consider me responsible, my love? I was not, after all, the one who threw away the initial opportunity.”
Valmey’s laugh was attractive and evil and unrepentant. “Surely you do not hold against me a decision that was intended to demonstrate my constancy to you.”
“Was it?”
“Do you doubt the evidence of your eyes?” he chided.
“When you turned the opportunity down, you did not know what you now know.”
“Given what I know now, you would not have been pleased with the situation, I think.”
“It might have proven interesting,” Rosalyn countered.
A pause. Then, “Perhaps, but we wander from the issue. As I was saying, your little scheme—as intriguing as it was— fell far short of its goal. As a result, your failure has made more drastic action necessary.”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts,” Valmey replied with a hint of steel beneath the velvet tones, adding slyly, “unless you have had a change of heart, my love.”
“I have not.”
“Well, then, my plan is simple and has the added merit that neither of us needs to raise a hand against him.”
Rosalyn’s next words caused Gwyneth’s heart to jump to her throat. “Very true,” she said, “but a knight’s squires are, as a rule, loyal to their master, particularly to a knight of such great repute.”
“The great repute of a knight does not always mean that he treats his squires … equitably. You should know that I enjoy an easy relationship with Breteuil, to name but one. Then again, there is….”
Gwyneth did not catch the second name. Valmey had either lowered his voice or turned his head away. His next words were muffled by the rustling of their clothing, as if they were about to return to the hall. Her heart fell to her stomach, and she was suddenly anxious that she would be discovered in her hiding place. It was too late for her to do anything now except hold her breath and tug her skirts back out of sight. Fortunately, Rosalyn and Valmey left their alcove without indicating that they were aware they had been overheard.
Gwyneth remained a moment longer, attempting to steady her jumping nerves and absorbing the depths of the treachery of Cedric of Valmey.
She did not know exactly who or what Valmey and Rosalyn had been talking about, but she had more than enough to discuss with Beresford when she returned to his side at the head table a minute later. With genuine interest now, she asked her husband to explain the role of squires on the tourney field.
“I agree with the regulation,” he answered, “that no earl, baron or knight should have more than three squires attending him. I also accept that no one is to assist a fallen knight except his own squires, under penalty of three years imprisoned.” The look in his eyes was unreadable or, at least, ambiguous to Gwyneth, and she thought that he was either challenged or amused by her interest in the unfeminine topic. “However, other than taking every precaution not to permanently injure an opponent,” he continued, “I see no reason to constrain an event that works best with fewest regulations.” He proceeded to outline for her some of the rules to which he was opposed.
She nodded and agreed and encouraged him to elaborate. At one point, she said conversationally, “But let us return to the subject of your squires. Did you say that you are entitled to three on the field? What exactly are their duties?”
Beresford told her how they cared for the knight’s weapons and his horses and provided food and drink between jousts. It was her hope that he would mention his squires’ names, but he did not. So she asked directly, “And which, among your squires, are your favorites?”
“Langley,” he replied without hesitation, “although he still needs practice with the sword and is inclined to whine.” He lapsed into silence.
“No others come to mind?” she prodded.
He shrugged and tossed out a few names haphazardly.
She deftly caught one of them. “Breteuil?” she echoed slowly, trying to form her mouth around the strange vowels. “It is a difficult name for me.”
Beresford’s face relaxed into a faint smile. “You had better get used to it, for it is common enough at court.”
“Indeed?”
“It’s a large family, the Breteuil.”
“But among the young squires are there so many?”
“A half dozen,” he replied indifferently.
Gwyneth made a mental note to discover who among the other knights had a squire named Breteuil. With one part of her mind, she kept up a light conversation with Beresford on the relatively safe topic of squires. With the other part, she bent her thoughts to the troubling problem of the threatening words Valmey had spoken to Rosalyn in the alcove. Thus, she was unprepared for the inevitable moment when Beresford turned to her and said, “It’s time.”
She dared to look at him. She saw a plain-speaking man who insulted her and ignored her and kissed her with unexpected effect. She saw a rough-edged man who had the ready look of an unsheathed sword. She saw a hard and handsome man who did not attempt to disguise his determination or his desire.
She realized belatedly that she had been careless with her courage, for it seemed to have deserted her. “It is?” she managed.
Chapter Ten
He looked out over the revelers in the hall and knew that he had waited long enough. “It is.” He turned back to her. “The rest of what I have to say about tournament regulations turns on technicalities.”
She took a sip of wine and cleared her throat. Her voice was tight. “What you told me was most useful and interesting.”
He caught a flicker of some emotion in her eyes before she lowered her lashes again, but he could not identify it. Nerves? he wondered. Or modesty? He was dimly aware that a y
oung woman might feel nervous or modest on her wedding night, but since he had no experience with skittish virgins, he suddenly perceived the great advantage of Gwyneth’s widowhood.
“I’ve no wish to dance,” he continued. “And you, my lady?” Her head was lowered now, so he could not read her expression. She shook her head in agreement with him. That much, at least, he could interpret. “No, no dancing,” she said. Her voice was very low and seemed to rasp.
He rose from the bench and took her hands in his. He was pleased that this occasion did not call for subtlety. “If the dancing holds no further appeal, and we’ve exhausted the present topic of conversation,” he said, drawing her to her feet, “I propose we proceed to the next part of the evening.”
She rose with him, unresisting. Good enough, then, that she accepted so easily what was before them. When he placed her hand on his wrist and turned to leave the table, she whispered, “Should we not signal Adela?”
He was never in the mood for trivial courtesies, even less so this evening. “She’ll know where we’ve gone.”
“No,” she said, her voice still soft and ragged, “I mean so that she can arrange the final ceremony of the day.”
He had conveniently forgotten about the bedding. He recalled it now from his marriage to Roesia. He had no objection to the ceremony; he even understood the various reasons for bedding the naked bride and groom in the presence of ladies and gentlemen of suitable rank. The public nudity insured that neither party could later object to some defect or deformity in the other. The presence of a large number of eyewitnesses in the bedchamber reduced the possibility of appeals for annulment, although the couple would certainly perform the actual marriage act alone. The stripping of the sheets in the morning to display the spot of the bride’s blood proved that she had been a virgin. It was a practice that made sense in most cases.
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