The great hall was a blur of color and movement. He was as undistracted by the chaos this morning as he had been the day before on the tourney field. This time, however, his transcendent focus was not a heightened result of the prospect of combat, but a numbing realization of love. He knew the requirements of his position and could consult with the king, call together his men and prepare for departure without having to remove Gwyneth from the center of his thoughts and being.
He was just able to discern an odd quirk in Johanna’s behavior, which, if it had not been for her association with his wife, he would have missed.
When he crossed his cousin’s path after breaking his fast, he noted that she was smiling at him rather broadly. He wondered why, in the face of his great pain and confusion, she should be so happy. Then, dully, he realized that she must be pleased with herself for having discovered Gwyneth’s treachery.
“Well, Simon,” Johanna said brightly, “I trust you rested well this night.”
“Do you?” he returned, none too cordially.
She winked saucily. “Not at all!” She laughed. “I hope you did not, in fact, waste your time sleeping!”
He grunted.
Johanna’s mood altered. “But, Simon… ” She put a hand on his sleeve and looked up at him with a mixture of surprise and concern. “Are you vexed with me about yesterday? I assure you, I meant no harm. Quite the opposite!”
He looked down at her hand and felt its intended comfort. Johanna was excusing herself for having meddled in his affairs, but he could see that she had had no choice. Of course, she had meant him no harm. Her warning to Langley had not won the victory for him, but it had given him an edge, lessening his confusion when his lance first broke.
He pulled himself together and looked at his fond cousin. “I should thank you for your help and concern.” He bowed.
Johanna’s mouth hung open one fraction of a second too long. She said, “Simon, I think you may have misunderstood something of what happened yester—” But she was not destined to finish her thought. Beresford’s attention was claimed by Roger Warenne, who drew him rudely aside, on the grounds that what he had to say about the day’s operations was of far greater importance than any feminine silliness.
Beresford felt his heart leap at what he thought Johanna might have been about to say. He made a mental note to seek her out after he had finished with the innumerable particulars involved in moving a great many men and arms over considerable distances. He would have done so had not Gwyneth already descended to the hall by the time he and Warenne came to the end of their consultation.
He turned and saw her. It was otherworldly, he thought, how the simple sight of her could churn the splendid feelings with such aching pleasure in his breast. And it was from his breast and not his lust that these rich emotions sprang. Physical joining with her gave the spiritual feelings body, that was all—or, rather, that was everything, for the otherworldly feelings were in his body, not outside of it, in every part, in every pore, and he was happy that his body could give these feelings expression.
He watched, hovering between fatal sickness and magnificent health, as she moved through the room, pausing to chat with this lady and that knight. She smiled and nodded and gestured and listened and spoke, as he had seen no other woman smile or nod or gesture or listen or speak. She engaged in polite conversation with that dark-haired woman—what was her name?—Rosalyn. Then she moved on and spoke with Geoffrey of Senlis.
Senlis, his greatest friend. Senlis, who had counseled subtlety and had said that Gwyneth was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Senlis, who was handsome and charming and knew what to say to a lady and when to say it. Senlis, who—Simon could see this unmistakably, even from across the room—did not transgress the invisible line with Gwyneth and who did not suggest in stance or expression any feelings for her warmer than courtly respect. Senlis, who, when addressed by a person new to the group, did not favor Gwyneth with lingering glances or quick words, whispered low.
Gwyneth moved on again and did not cast a backward glance at Senlis. Her eyes were already on the next group of ladies to greet, her hand extended to the knights wishing to salute her. Among them was Valmey. Beresford’s interest was spurred. Valmey was, perhaps, even more handsome and charming than Senlis. And now that he came to think of it, was it not Valmey who had been with Gwyneth in the gardens that evening when he had thought Senlis had tricked him? Hot, hateful jealousy flashed through him. Were there other times Valmey had been alone with his wife? And as for Gwyneth, had she ever sought Valmey out?
With blinding insight, he saw that they were a pair, Gwyneth and Valmey. They spoke the same language. They understood court business. They heard the silences. They interpreted the nuances, an ability as foreign to Beresford as setting a stitch. He could wield a sword, not a needle. He began to wonder whether a needle might not, ultimately, inflict more harm.
Gwyneth and Valmey ended their conversation, gracefully, it seemed to him. Gwyneth turned again and saw him. She started forward, smiling a little. Damn her composed serenity! He could not tell from her expression what she thought of the handsome, charming Valmey. Was that slight tinge of color in her cheeks a sign of guilt that she had been watched by her husband as she conversed with Valmey? Or could the flush have been produced by any emotion in the world that might tie her, even lightly, to him?
She approached him, his lovely wife, the woman he loved more than life itself. She spoke. She smiled. She bowed her head. She raised it again and looked at him through limitless violet eyes. She asked a question, he knew not what. He answered at random. They seemed to be speaking of his imminent departure, of the tedious details of his mission. He thought it wise to keep the details from her, but he could not think what to hide and what to expose.
She asked, in her lovely, lilting voice, “And while you are gone, sire, do I have your permission to return to our home and continue with my housecleaning?”
It was an uncomplicated request. He had granted that same request before. Just as, it seemed to him now, he had permitted her every decision and had moved to her every command. He had not questioned or called for household accounts, or laid a hand on her, or ever said a word meant to harm her. Why, he had even spoken the words she had fed him, and that at their very first meeting! She had twisted him—and everyone else at court, no doubt!—around her little finger.
She had unraveled him to the core of his being, stripped him down to his self-respect. He had been vanquished this night and, in his heart, had conceded to her his utter defeat. He knew what he had to do. It was going to be far easier now that he was fully clothed and standing next to her, rather than lying beside her in bed still aglow from the touch of her satin skin.
He shook his head and said, “No.”
Chapter Twenty
Gwyneth was taken aback. “No?” She had made the request only as an excuse to prolong the conversation. She thought she had chosen an uncontroversial topic of mutual concern, not one where his approval had actually been in question.
“No,” he repeated, shaking his head.
“May I ask why not?”
He did not give her an answer.
“The household is in the midst of repairs,” she argued, “and I must be there to oversee them.”
Again he shook his head.
She was confused. “Do you worry that I will engage in activities that extend beyond the household?”
“What activities might those be?” he inquired.
“I don’t know! That is what I am asking you, sire. There must be some reason why you deny my straightforward request to return to our home during your absence.”
“The reason is that I want you here at the Tower in Adela’s care.”
“Her care?” Gwyneth echoed, with a touch of irony. “If you are concerned about my well-being, you could kindly provide me with castle guards again—as protection.”
“It is not for me to provide you with castle guards, it is up to Adela.�
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Gwyneth did not for a moment think that the king’s consort had ordered the guards the first time. Before she could respond, he continued, “Now, I have said that I want you here at the Tower, and my guess is that Adela wants you here, as well. Thus, I see no point in you pursuing the matter with her.”
“Yes, of course. However, I am not interested in Adela’s wishes, sire, but rather your own.”
“And I have told you that I wish you to stay here, at the Tower, during my absence.”
“Yes, but—” she began then stopped, perceiving that further protest was futile.
It seemed to her that the expression in his gray eyes had hardened to resolution. When she had approached him just now, he had looked inviting, almost as if he were glad to see her. She had been happy to see him, as well. She was even surprised by the pleasure she felt at seeing him and at her desire to catch and hold these last few moments with him before he was to leave.
It was strange and wonderful and painful to be next to him like this, apart but together, private but in public. What was even stranger and more wonderful and more painful was the familiarity of the feelings beating in her blood. She recalled how she had felt the first time she had laid eyes on him, across the hall. The only difference between then and now was that now the feelings were stronger and more recognizable.
Of course, she was not afraid of him anymore. She had even imagined, at several pleasurable moments during the past weeks, that she had power over him. Looking into his eyes now, she knew that she had foolishly played and lost this game of power and pleasure. She felt the pleasure-pain of great attachment and profound loss. She knew the word to attach to the feelings suffusing her.
When had she fallen in love with him? Last night, when he had dared her to make him want her? Before, on the tourney field, when he had prevailed so brilliantly over Gunnar Erickson? On their wedding night, when he had repeated to her the story of the hungry wolf, Fenrir? In the chapel, when he had kissed her with gentle force to seal their union? Or even—surely not—at their very first meeting, when he had turned to her and asked her whether she was carrying Canute’s child?
She looked away from him. She would not ask herself the unanswerable question of why she had fallen in love with him. She did not think it was merely that he fit her so well and made her feel so good. She did not think it was simply his strength or his integrity or his blunt grace. Or even the look in his eye, the set of his shoulders or the way he spoke to his fellow knights. It must have been the mix of these elements, unique to him, that combined with an unpredictable alchemy to have affected her so powerfully and irreversibly.
She felt humbled by the realization of her love for him. She felt even, belatedly, submissive. She wished now that she had not consistently opposed him. She wished she had yielded earlier to him and more often, so that he would not have to be so hard with her, so resolute. She wanted him to look warmly upon her, to gather her into his arms and kiss her tenderly in parting. She wanted him to whisper blunt, teasing, arousing words, to tempt her as a man should tempt a woman. To trust her.
Trust. She drew a breath. He did not trust her, nor did he care to hear her acquit herself of wrongdoing. Now she understood why she had wished to lay her heart bare to him last night, awash as she had been with passion and love for him. Now she understood why he did not wish for the gift of her heart, when all he had married was her body. She blinked back a tear. In the face of defeat, she drew her courage around her like a cloak. She had made the error of prideful defiance before, but no longer.
She bowed her head in acquiescence and curtsied before him. “Yes, sire, you wish me to stay here at the Tower during your absence, and I am prepared to obey you.”
“It is not your obedience I want.”
Rising up, she lifted her eyes bravely to his. “No?”
His hard gaze was inscrutable. “I want your safety, as I think should be plain.”
“But if it is only my safety—” She did not continue. From force of habit, she had been about to protest, to challenge, to oppose. “Yes, of course, you want my safety,” she said, reversing herself. “I will stay here willingly.” Then, quickly, “Do you leave on the moment?”
“Not for several more hours.”
Her heart leapt. “Then I will see you again.”
He shook his head. “No. I will be engaged with my men. I won’t see you again.”
Her heart sank. She hated the finality of that statement. “Until you return, that is.”
“Until I return,” he repeated slowly.
Their glances crossed and locked. Her heart—miserable, unstable organ—turned over. “So,” she said. The word sounded idiotic when nothing followed it.
“So,” he repeated, with that same horrible, ringing note of finality.
“So, I wish you a safe and swift return.”
“You do?”
Her heart leapt again at some note she caught in his voice. “Yes,” she said breathlessly.
She searched his eyes for an echo of the longing she thought she had heard in his voice. She felt desperate. Finding nothing, she felt anguished. So this was the humiliation Canute had never been capable of meting out to her, try as he might. This was the humiliation she had feared from Beresford. Of course, it was not physically hurtful, for he could never have humiliated her through violence. This was the humiliation of her pride, of the folly of thinking herself invulnerable.
Yet it was not quite humiliation that she felt, but more like humility, because he, with his uncompromising honesty and unquestioned courage, was so worthy of her love.
“Then I will make an effort to return safely and swiftly to you,” he said for the sake of form.
“Oh, yes,” she said. She could think of nothing clever to say. Nothing witty, enticing, magical. Nothing that would force him into a declaration. Nothing that would ward off the cramp she was sure to feel when he turned and strode out of the room.
He bowed.
She curtsied.
He took her hand in his strong fingers and brought it to his lips, but did not kiss it.
What she had earlier perceived as rough edges, she now sensed as warmth, strength, life. The vitality that was all his own radiated around him, engulfed her and intoxicated her more thoroughly than one of his kisses. She had to summon all her will to let her hand remain, unresisting, in his, and not to clutch at him. She feared that her grasp would plead with him in a way her words would not. So she let her hand rest in his that uncounted second of chaste and cherished joining and hoped that it would never end.
He released her hand. He nodded in valediction. He turned on his heels.
She watched him retreat. Then, realizing that her expression must be as naked as her emotions, she tried to shake off the effect of this bittersweet parting. She partially succeeded in bringing to order her scattered thoughts, but was never able afterwards to remember who she spoke to next or what about.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully for Gwyneth, since she did not consider being summoned to Adela’s solar for an unprecedented second private audience particularly eventful when compared to the stunning realization of her newfound love for her husband.
What Adela had to say to her could be summed up in one sentence, namely that Gwyneth’s presence at the Tower during Beresford’s absence was to be kept a secret for the next day or two. It took Adela a full half hour to frame that idea, as if she did not want Gwyneth to sift this tiny, essential nugget from the weight of the surrounding ore. Gwyneth was given to understand further that if the courtiers thought she was removing immediately to her home in town, she was under no obligation to inform them otherwise. Adela gave her some tasks to do for the day in a removed corner of the castle, and let her go.
Gwyneth left the solar, turning the bit of information over in her mind. It was curious and not immediately interpretable, but surely a sign of intrigue, if ever there was one. She was not certain whether Adela had planned this move, but she had the uneasy fee
ling that her personal safety was threatened. Throughout the day, her longings and love warred with an ill-defined fear for her life, making both experiences all the more unpleasant.
The only relatively bright spot was her encounter with Johanna, who was, predictably, surprised to see her still at the Tower. When Gwyneth had moped over her tasks long enough, she decided to circulate deliberately in the castle to see whether she could bring her vague sense of personal peril into definition. She was traveling an out-of-the-way corridor toward the end of the afternoon when she crossed Johanna’s path.
“Oh, yes, I am still here,” Gwyneth said to Johanna’s opening comment, “although I plan to return home before too much longer, once I am through with what Adela has asked me to do. I am unusually clumsy today, it seems, for I should have been done long ago and gone home.” She held up her hands. “But so it is!”
When Johanna smiled sympathetically, Gwyneth hated, even for a space of a heartbeat, to have to wonder whether she was the one within castle walls who was the source of threat.
“Well, I am sure you are anxious to return home and continue with your household repairs. But as for feeling clumsy, I suppose that must be excused as your natural feelings at Simon’s departure!”
Johanna’s comment was meant as harmless, Gwyneth could see, but she was unprepared for it. She must not have properly schooled her expression, for Johanna laid a concerned hand on her arm and said quickly and quietly, “What’s wrong, Gwyneth?”
“Noth—”
“And don’t say nothing, for I am certain that something is not right between you and Simon.”
Gwyneth drew a steadying breath and countered, “What could be wrong?”
Johanna arched a brow. “Fencing with me, are you? So was Simon earlier. And speaking of which, I was not quite satisfied by my conversation with him this morning.”
Simon’s Lady Page 25
