Simon’s Lady

by Julie Tetel Andresen

  Gwyneth could not prevent her surge of interest, but she tried not to betray it. “Oh?” she said, affecting unconcern.

  Johanna did not seem put off by this, if her penetrating gaze into Gwyneth’s eyes was any indication. “Yes,” she said, “and I wondered later whether he might not have realized that you were the one yesterday who originated the alert about the unknown knight. But I told myself that you and Simon must have discussed the matter last night. Now I am wondering again whether or not Simon might not be missing some part of the story.”

  Gwyneth asked as casually as she could, “What makes you think he is missing some part? Was it something he said?”

  “In a way, yes. You see, I thought at first that he was vexed with me for having meddled with his squire at the tourney. When I assured him that I had meant no harm, only help, which would have been obvious to any other normal human being, well, instead of growling his displeasure at me, he… he thanked me! Very formally, in fact. It was very odd!”

  “And what is so odd about….” Gwyneth did not complete the question. She did not need to be told what was odd about Beresford executing formally polite behavior. She managed, at last, the evasive response, “It was very proper of him to thank you.”

  “He should have thanked you, my dear!” Johanna’s eyes narrowed with speculative concern. “And if we are to mention very odd occurrences, let me add that I have never in my life seen a more graceful bow and kiss of the hand than Simon gave you upon parting this morning in the great hall.”

  Gwyneth strained to recall the moment. All she could remember was blinding realization and great pain.

  “He was positively courtly,” Johanna continued. “Why, even Valmey remarked upon it.”

  “He did?”

  “Said he never saw such address and was inclined to think that Simon had taken lessons from Geoffrey of Senlis!”

  “Did he sneer when he said it?”

  Johanna paused. “Is there some reason that you do not like Cedric of Valmey?”

  “Forgive me,” Gwyneth said quickly. “I meant no slur of Sire Valmey.” She attempted to modulate her voice from acidic to sweet. “However, he did suggest to me once that Beresford would be unable to turn a phrase or a hand as easily as he turned his sword against an opponent. So, naturally, I wondered whether Sire Valmey was not, in fact, being ironic.”

  Johanna paused to reconsider the tone of Valmey’s comment.

  “And you will agree with me,” Gwyneth pressed humorously, trying to give the topic a light turn, “that a fellow knight complimenting my husband on courtly address might well be making a joke.”

  Johanna conceded the point with a brief smile. “But it was not a joke in this instance. Valmey seemed serious, even surprised by Simon’s attentions to you, and curiously speculative, although I certainly cannot explain why.”

  Gwyneth registered that information, and was about to inquire more closely into the particulars of Johanna’s conversation with her husband when, as luck would have it, Rosalyn happened upon them.

  Lady Chester’s slim brows arched sensuously. “Are you still here, Gwyneth?” she asked. “I thought you would have left the Tower directly after Simon’s departure.”

  It took all of Gwyneth’s composure to smile and say, “I had an errand to perform for Adela here this afternoon. I am on my way home presently.”

  “Ah.” Rosalyn shrugged prettily. She privileged Johanna with a few words then moved on.

  Gwyneth glanced at the dark beauty’s retreating back. She thought that Rosalyn had seemed both genuinely surprised to see her and convincingly disinterested in her expressed intention to return home. Nevertheless, she wondered whether Rosalyn might not be privy, through Adela, to her altered plans. Something about the way she had asked, “Are you still here?” had made Gwyneth think that she would not sleep comfortably this night, surrounded by her enemies, who might or might not know where and why Adela had hidden her.

  ****

  Beresford leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle and surveyed the terrain spreading out before him. Scanning the Bedford Valley, cut by its river, he mentally reviewed Duke Henry’s movements since arriving in England in January. The Angevin usurper had landed, predictably enough, at Wareham, and from there had marched his small force of one hundred forty knights and three thousand infantry immediately to Devizes in order to join forces with the earls of Cornwall and Hereford, those traitors.

  Then, aiming to divert Stephen from the safety of London’s proximity at Wallingford, Duke Henry went west to attack Malmesbury. There, in late April, Stephen had routed the Angevin with Beresford’s help; and with Valmey’s surprisingly successful siege of Castle Norham in early May, Stephen’s position looked good in both the west and the north. Since Duke Henry had no military bases of support in the east or south, and since he had refused to fight at Bristol, Beresford should have felt that Stephen’s throne was more secure than he had thought before leaving London the week before. But he did not.

  Despite Duke Henry’s unopposed progress straight north, from Gloucester to Dudley to Tutbury, where they had just missed him, Beresford knew that Stephen’s troops had been summoned from Northumbria, farther north, to check Duke Henry’s progress in that direction. The original plan had been for the Northumbrian troops to meet Beresford, Warenne, Senlis and Lancaster at Tutbury, with reinforcements to come later, led by Valmey. However, since Beresford and Warenne, who headed this expedition, had learned upon arriving at Tutbury that Duke Henry was already on his way, incomprehensibly, to the south and east toward Leicester, Beresford had had to scatter messengers with urgent counter-orders. This he did not like to do. He had a fair amount of confidence in his messengers, but the slight disarray at the need for counter-orders compounded the larger disarray of Stephen’s strategic resolve. Beresford recognized that getting Duke Henry to fight had already proven to be a problem. Counting on Stephen’s ability to lead an attack seemed of a similar magnitude.

  It was, furthermore, contrary to Beresford’s nature to have to chase Duke Henry around the countryside from Tutbury to Leicester, and the lack of battle there suggested that the Earl of Leicester must have transferred his allegiance to the usurper. Then the Angevin was off to Coventry and Warwick, all without raising a sword, with Beresford in undignified pursuit.

  It pained Beresford, as well, to be at odds with the Church. From the strange and bloodless path Duke Henry was pursuing, Beresford knew that a growing number of magnates were adopting an attitude of neutrality. The Church recommended that the barons and earls remain loyal to Stephen by obeying his summons to the army, but it advised as well that those same barons and earls should refuse to fight against Duke Henry as the lawful heir to the kingdom.

  It was all very frustrating to Beresford, and no good for strengthening Stephen’s military resolve. And it had not taken more than this stop at Bedford for Beresford to realize that Duke Henry’s goal was, first and last, Wallingford, as gateway to London.

  Beresford shifted in his saddle and wished he cared more about the fate of his king and his kingdom.

  Warenne rode abreast and halted his horse next to Beresford. He silently contemplated the terrain a moment before he commented, “Look familiar?”

  Beresford grunted his assent.

  “This might as well be the Avon,” Warenne continued.

  “The only difference being that there has been no rain here of late,” Beresford replied. “Yet you are right that the lay of the land and the troops recalls Bristol, where Duke Henry refused to engage us.”

  The situation at Bedford was in fact, nearly identical to that at Bristol. As before, there was only a river dividing the two armies. As before, Stephen was anxious to decide the issue in one great battle, and for that purpose he had gathered an inexpressibly large army from every part of his kingdom. As before, there were those who insisted that if the battle took place, it could only be to the general harm of the kingdom. However, this time the calls to desist came more
from the king’s side than the duke’s.

  Warenne observed, “The torrential rains did make the Avon impassable, you know.”

  Beresford frowned skeptically. “Or the Angevin could not yet completely trust his own army, which was greatly outnumbered by ours. But if,” he continued, “Duke Henry could not trust the size and loyalty of his troops just a few weeks ago, he has done much to strengthen his position with a peaceful itinerary that is most remarkable.”

  “Leicester’s shift of allegiance is a blow.”

  Again Beresford grunted his assent. “A blow, indeed. And the Angevin has accomplished all so far with words.” He paused at length and repeated, “With words.”

  Beresford had learned the power of words—their power to hurt, their power to please. He knew a woman who was not strong of muscle, but strong of words and wise of ways, and she had power over him like no other human being before her. On the last morning he had seen her, he had refused her request to return to their home merely for the sake of withstanding her power. It was only after he had left her in the great hall that he had conceived another good reason for sequestering her in the Tower. He had gone straight to Adela to insure that Gwyneth’s captivity would remain secret—from absolutely everyone, he insisted—so that no Northumbrian supporters of Duke Henry could seek her out again. Beresford had such belief in Gwyneth’s verbal skill that he was sure she could bring Stephen’s kingdom to its knees with only a shred of information and a few well -placed words.

  “With many words,” Warenne replied. “Do you think Duke Henry means to negotiate a peace?”

  Beresford devoutly hoped that Duke Henry would not be able to maneuver himself into a position where he could negotiate a peace, for negotiation would exclude Stephen’s heir from succession. “Not if I can help it,” he said. “Valmey thinks it impossible.” He shifted in his saddle to look over his shoulder at the men and tents quilting the countryside around the besieged castle of Bedford. “By the way, where is Valmey? He should have caught up with us several days ago.”

  Warenne shook his head. “No doubt lost in the confusion of orders and counter-orders.”

  Beresford grunted yet again, this time gloomily. He looked back over the valley, across the river, at the colorful dots of enemy flags and standards and the occasional minute flash of metal catching the sun. He sensed a trap being set around him. He did not have words to describe the riggings of this trap, but he felt the sensation penetrate his muscles and settle in his bones.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The day after Beresford’s departure, Gwyneth stood in the main courtyard of her house and let her rage rip through her. When the rage passed its most intense surge, a great sense of violation and injustice took its place, followed swiftly by great tremors of true fear. For a while this last emotion masked the bud of a thought that the violence whose evidence surrounded her was not random.

  She looked first, in anger and horror, at the smashed staircase and adjoining balcony, which had showered splinters everywhere, then at the collapsed and charred remains of the master’s and mistress’s bedchambers. Fortunately, the flames had not spread to the rest of the house. Roof tiles lay shattered at odd intervals, along with the scaffolding and carpenter’s horses, upon which rested broken remains of the new shutters. She did not need to see inside the solar to know that the three beautiful new windows lay in shards upon the floor, glittering in the midmorning sun among pieces of broken crockery.

  There was worse damage, not immediately visible. Two of the household servants had died, one of burns, one of a blow from a falling beam, and three more were hurt, one of them seriously. Her most fervent prayers went heavenward in thanks that Benedict and Gilbert remained unharmed. Upon seeing them whole and hale, she had clasped them fiercely to her breast and put them in the care of one of the household women.

  She had then turned her attention to inspecting the devastation. The curious feature of it was, of course, that the master’s and mistress’s chambers had been torched first, and this evidence gave Gwyneth her clue that she had been the intended victim of the fire. Of course, under normal circumstances, the entire house, or a good portion of it, should have burned, thereby obscuring the place of origin of the fire. However, with the plaster of the adjoining walls still wet, the soggy gauze and limestone had effectively blocked the fire long enough for household retainers to establish a bucket chain in the dead of night.

  She attempted a practical thought, wondering whether the windows in the solar might be temporarily replaced by more -affordable oiled parchments. She regretted having been extravagant with the glass in the first place, but had wanted to set the right tone for the household overhaul. She pushed aside her regret, decided on the oiled parchments and felt immediately better for having made such a practical decision. Now if she could set her mind to commanding the cleanup, she might be able to similarly organize the rest of her thoughts.

  The household retainers and hired craftsmen had joined her in the courtyard to mourn their losses. Her first act had been to arrange for the burial of the dead, and the parish priest was already there when she arrived, muttering and shaking his head over the work of the devil. Gwyneth did not think it was the devil who had wrought this destruction. Nor even Loki. She knew human evil when she saw it, although she had largely avoided thinking about how that evil had intended her to be the primary victim. Finally, she could ignore it no longer. If she was to regain a measure of control over the situation, she understood that she would have to face the ugly fact.

  Someone wanted her dead. Her enemy had evidently not known that she had spent the night at the Tower. Whoever it was had believed, like everyone else at court, that she was returning to her home. Adela had played a part in saving her, but her life Gwyneth now owed to Beresford. He must have known that evil was conspiring against her. He had insisted that she stay at the Tower. He had even said that it was for her own safety. He must have been the one to tell Adela to keep secret Gwyneth’s presence at the Tower.

  It was remarkable now to think that she had attempted to defy her husband on this issue. He had stood his ground implacably, and had thereby guaranteed her safety. It was also remarkable now to think that she had feared an enemy within castle walls last night. She was sorry that, in the rush of her summons from Adela this morning with news of the attack upon her home, she had not had the opportunity to witness the reaction of various courtiers to the news. She would have loved to gauge Rosalyn’s reaction, in particular.

  She did not truly need to have seen Lady Chester’s reaction to know whose hand had produced the deaths in her home and the destruction. Almost as if she had conjured him with her thoughts, she turned and saw Cedric of Valmey rush through the main portal and hasten toward her.

  Guilty! was her immediate judgment, despite Valmey’s intense look of concern and the serious, respectful tone of his voice as he greeted her. “My lady Gwyneth! I came as soon as I heard. I was with the reinforcement troops summoned from Wincester, and we were already outside castle walls when word of vandals within the city spread. Are you all right?”

  Gwyneth had to accept the grasp of his hand, his respectful bow and the press of his lips against her fingers, along with his earnest concern. “Yes, I am all right,” she replied, “but you did not need to trouble yourself.”

  “Ah, but I did! I will be seeing your husband at Tutbury in a matter of days. If advance word of this reaches him and he discovers that I did not assure myself of your safety before leaving London, I might not live to see another day.”

  Valmey’s sad smile indicated that his insignificant joke could not counter the magnitude of the surrounding tragedy.

  “Do you think my husband will receive advance word of this?” Gwyneth asked.

  “Well, as to that, I do not know, my lady,” Valmey replied. “I had simply assumed that reports of such news might well precede my departure.”

  “And will those reports leave London attached with the names of the possible perpetrat
ors?”

  Valmey looked around him at the shattered ruins and charred remains of sections of the house. His manner was all delicate restraint, as if he were making an effort to stifle his outrage. “Does the work of savage vandals,” he asked with suppressed vehemence, “come with names attached?”

  Valmey’s presence had turned Gwyneth’s hot rage to ice. She did not consider whether she was treading a treacherous path when she said, “The destruction looks so … deliberate to me and so—how should I say?—personal. It is surely the work of a person or persons who have names—” her glance soulfully swept the ruins and halted on Valmey “—and faces.”

  The baron looked creditably shocked. “Do you think ….? No, surely not … but is it possible that Robert of Breteuil has managed to retaliate against his master? I know that the lad is in prison, but perhaps there are others in league with him who could have wrought such destructive revenge!”

  Gwyneth had to admire him. His response sounded so spontaneous and convincing. She matched Valmey’s shock. “Why, yes, I can see that this further treachery must only be the work of … but it is too horrible to discuss!” She put the back of her hand to her forehead in distress. “Adela must know of this.” She removed her hand and nodded with resolution. “I will certainly speak with her.”

  “And when might that be?”

  “When I return to the Tower tonight.”

  Valmey nodded mournfully. “Yes, you must return to the Tower tonight, but I wish you could tell her before then.”

  “You see that I have so very much to do here, sire,” Gwyneth said, gesturing to her surroundings.

  “Yes, of course. Well, then, allow me to speak with her first, on your behalf,” Valmey offered graciously.

  Gwyneth thought that he was quite predictable. “Do you have time for such an audience? Must you not be moving your troops out behind my husband and the others?”