Simon’s Lady

by Julie Tetel Andresen

“I must make time,” Valmey replied gallantly, “and must consider that alerting Adela to possible traitors against Beresford in the castle is my first duty. I feel confident that I can see her and still lead my troops out this afternoon.”

  Gwyneth curtsied. “Then I would be most grateful if you could see her as soon as possible.” She lifted her eyes to him. “And tell her that I will gather my retinue later today and proceed to the Tower, let us say, shortly after vespers. Will you carry that message for me?”

  Valmey bowed deeply and respectfully. “I will be honored to give her that message for you.”

  Gwyneth could not resist asking, “And you, sire, will have left London by vespers, I expect?”

  Another deep bow. “Assuredly.”

  He departed.

  Valmey’s purpose in coming held no mystery for Gwyneth. He had made his dutiful trip to her home for no other reason than to discover her whereabouts for the day. This meant, of course, that she had to get as far away as possible from the house and the Tower as quickly as she could. The morning had advanced, and it was almost the sext. She did not have time to think or to plan. She had time only to act. She had no clothes to prepare, for they had all been burned. However, she did have a little money that she would need, a few coins she had garnered and stashed in the spice cupboard, which had a small lock. So she went first to the solar, as if to survey the destruction. There she found the spice cupboard in shreds, but she was able to recoup many of the valuable pennies from the litter on the floor.

  When Gwyneth had settled with the craftsmen about how to proceed and had established the mode of payment, she knew she would have to leave the house and not return. She dared not tell any of her retainers what she had in mind, for their knowledge of her movements might jeopardize them, as well. She then summoned the serving woman, Swanilda, to accompany her on her neighborhood errands. She added the highly unusual request that the woman bring along two warm shawls, “just in case the sun should go behind the clouds.”

  Gwyneth had to take John the Porter into her confidence. When she and Swanilda were leaving the house, she drew him into the shadows of the gallery and explained quickly what was afoot and what she had to do about it. He was surprised, but agreed to bring two horses with sidesaddles through Aldgate exactly at midday and walk straight into the woods beyond the gate, where she and Swanilda would be waiting for him. She advised him to stay away from the house for the next several days to avoid being questioned by Valmey or his minions.

  Swanilda was equally surprised as she walked with her mistress through the streets of London, listening to Gwyneth’s plan and the reasons for it. She was certainly afraid of the world beyond city walls, but possessed enough acting skills to follow her mistress’s lead by throwing her shawl over her head and playing the old woman to the gatekeeper. Her spirit of adventure was equal to the occasion, as well, which was fortunate.

  The first day and night were the most difficult and dangerous for the two women, for they were still in the vicinity of London. Gwyneth envisioned Valrney’s displeasure upon not finding her party in the streets of London shortly after vespers, for that was surely his prime opportunity for abducting her and doing away with her. She imagined his visit to her home and his arrogant interrogation of all the retainers. She imagined his rush to the Tower and a visit to Adela, posing similar questions, less arrogant, more obsequious, which would similarly yield no clue as to Gwyneth’s whereabouts. She imagined Valmey’s impotent rage, his animal fear and his calculated determination to put his hands around her neck. And he had an army at his disposal.

  But she figured that the army would hinder him in finding her more than it would help him. Although she was headed to the same place as Valmey, she was not taking the same route, and in any case it would be far easier for her to avoid crossing paths with a great many men and horses and equipment than it would be for Valmey to leave his troops and track her down. She only hoped that she could get to Beresford before he did.

  She did not think the task should be very difficult. Not that she had imagined it would be a physically easy one, of course, given the routine hardships of life out in the open, two women traveling alone with little money and Swanilda unaccustomed to riding. However, her strength of purpose—her love for her husband, her loyalty to him and her great sense of debt to him—kept her going.

  Gwyneth’s sharp wits were able to find kind old couples with whom to break bread, and sweet young peasant families willing to lend a roof to two women traveling alone. She was aiming, more or less, for Tutbury, where she expected to find Beresford, but she had chosen to angle north first, intending to head west after Huntingdon. She knew that Valmey was heading west by way of the Thames, then north around Evesham. Although her way was slightly longer, she was traveling lighter than Valmey. Thus, when she lost a day to Swanilda’s sore buttocks, she did not fret. However, when she lost another to dysentery, caused no doubt by a bad piece of cheese that did not trouble Swanilda’s own digestion, she began to get a little anxious. And when the next day dawned to impassable rain, she began to worry that all her efforts would be in vain.

  She and Swanilda had been gone almost a sennight and were still only in the vicinity of Bedford when they heard stunning news. Gwyneth already knew from Beresford that Duke Henry had proceeded north from Bristol without fighting. At a peasant’s croft she had found for the night in Bedfordshire, she learned that Duke Henry had continued that restraint in the past several weeks; and instead of going north after Tutbury, he had turned east and south, angling back, so one might guess, toward London. Normally, peasants would not be abreast of the latest political news. However, in this case, every living soul in the area knew that Duke Henry was presently camped, with an army that had grown considerably in the past fortnight, on the north side of the Great River Ouse, not five miles away.

  Gwyneth slept on the news and awoke with a plan adjusted by what she perceived as clear developments in Duke Henry’s favor. She cleaned herself and Swanilda as well as conditions would allow, and set off in the early morning for the river, confirming along the way that the Angevin could now count as a supporter Robert, Earl of Leicester. This shift of allegiance lent great respectability to Duke Henry’s cause and added a powerful name to his list of supporters, which included already, Gwyneth knew, the earls of Worcester, Chester, Lincoln, Cornwall, Gloucester and Devon.

  Night was well advanced before Gwyneth, with a combination of courage, persistence and seductive smiles, was where she wanted to be: at the entrance to Duke Henry’s red-and-gold-striped pavilion in the center of his camp. While Swanilda waited outside, Gwyneth was ushered into the round tent with its peaked top and heavy cloth, woven with the lions of Anjou. In the center, standing next to the richly carved center pole, stood a young man of not more than two-and-twenty. His stance, even in repose, was energetic. His unlined, unbearded face wore an expression of eagerness and confidence combined, at the entrance of a lovely young woman, with curiosity.

  Mastering her fear, Gwyneth came forward and curtsied low. “I am Gwyneth Andresdaughter, widow to Canute of Northumbria, wife to Simon of Beresford. I have come, sire, to seek your help.”

  ****

  Beresford wished he could shake his melancholy. It seemed the longer he was apart from Gwyneth, the more he yearned for her. The farther he was away from her, the closer she seemed. So close. Achingly close.

  He had walked down into the valley, angling far from camp. He stopped at the river’s edge. The night was clear, the moon full. He stood in the shadowy screen of tall water rushes, although he was hardly concerned that anyone across the river could see him. He looked up at the milky spill of stars studding the sky, feeling sick with love. He looked across the river to the opposite shore, catching the flicker of campfires here and there, and wondered that his blood did not sing at the possibility of battle. Nor did his stomach knot with the tension necessary to lead the charge, meet the enemy, raise the sword, swing the mace. All of those familiar emotions
were swamped by the unfamiliar thickening of his blood, the throbbing of his heart and the pulsing desire to see Gwyneth.

  Perhaps it was not love that he felt, but doom. Valmey’s reinforcements had not yet arrived and might be wandering anywhere between Tutbury and the gates of paradise. Then, omen upon ill omen, he had just learned that Warwick had, indeed, died from the shock of the news that his countess had surrendered his castle to Duke Henry while he was still in attendance on Stephen. It seemed the vital, young Angevin had only to come calling for all to surrender to him. Beresford saw little hope for military maneuvers to turn the tide of this peaceful march. In fact, a bloody battle might well further undermine Stephen’s position.

  So what was left? Negotiation? Beresford had no taste or skill for it. He might as well die honorably at the end of an enemy sword. He even indulged the gloomy notion that Valmey’s errant reinforcements were increasingly irrelevant.

  By a trick of imagination, he thought he saw Valmey crossing the river quietly in a little boat, heading for a point not far from his screen of water rushes. But, no. It could not be Valmey, because he was traveling from the opposite, enemy side of the Ouse to Stephen’s camp. Beresford blinked, then frowned. The impression remained. The resemblance of the man in the boat to Valmey was remarkable.

  The little boat slipped to shore. The man got out. He found a thick root to which he moored the vessel. He moved efficiently and furtively, as if he were doing something slightly wrong. Even though his back was to Beresford, his movements were unmistakably those of Cedric of Valmey. And he had just traveled in the wrong direction across the river.

  Beresford’s melancholy slipped from his shoulders like an unfastened cloak. He touched his hand to the hilt of his sword at his side. He stepped out from behind the water rushes into the full, flooding moonlight.

  “Have you come with reinforcements, then, Cedric?” His deep voice broke the sleepy peace of the riverbank.

  Valmey started reflexively, then turned very slowly. His eyes narrowed against the luminous moonlight bathing Beresford. “Why, yes, I have,” he replied.

  “You are a few days late with them,” Beresford noted.

  “I experienced a minor delay in London,” Valmey replied then waved the detail away like an annoying fly, “and, of course, we had to chase you chasing the Angevin usurper around the countryside.”

  “Which is how you ended up on the wrong side of the river this evening.”

  Valmey came forward several paces. “I was interested to determine the size and strength of the Angevin’s forces,” he answered. He stopped just outside of striking distance.

  “I could have informed you of the numbers.”

  “I preferred to see for myself.”

  Beresford grunted. “And the reinforcements? Which side of the river are they on?”

  Valmey chuckled pleasantly. He made a friendly gesture, indicating Stephen’s camp. “Behind you, of course, just where they are supposed to be.”

  “Tell me, then. How estimate you the Angevin’s chances, based on what you’ve just seen?”

  “Fair. He’s had good success of late.”

  “Yes. Leicester is in his camp now.” Beresford paused. “Did you see him?”

  “Who?”

  “Robert, Earl of Leicester.”

  Valmey shook his head.

  “Or Gloucester?” This produced another shake of Valmey’s head.

  “Devon? No? Lincoln or Chester or Worcester?”

  Valmey responded with a consistent negative.

  “Duke Henry, then,” Beresford stated. “Surely you must have seen Duke Henry.” He wanted to hear Valmey speak.

  Valmey’s response was composed. “I did not cross the river with the intention of being seen.”

  Beresford showed his teeth. “Evidently not. You could not have imagined that I would have seen you here, for instance.”

  Valmey lost his artful composure. He straightened, put his hand on his sword and asked, “And just how am I supposed to take that?”

  “Exactly as you think you should take it,” Beresford replied.

  Valmey was not yet ready for this contest. He attempted to stall by puffing up angrily, then exhaling on a sputtery laugh. “It will not do, my friend, to have division within the ranks! Think, Simon, think of it!”

  “I have thought of it, Cedric.” Beresford took the crucial pace forward, to where a salute of swords was possible. One more step and it would be necessary. “And I now realize there has already been a division in the ranks of which I was previously unaware. But is Stephen’s cause lost because of that? I am not sure. What do you think, Cedric?”

  “Surely not, Simon,” Valmey answered cautiously.

  “No, surely not. I had been inclined to view Stephen’s chances a bit glumly of late, I admit, but suddenly I feel more optimistic, now that I really know who is on whose side.”

  Valmey was silent and watchful.

  Beresford continued, “Stephen can still count de Vere, you know, and Lucy, as well as Ypres and Warenne and Senlis and Fortescue, not to mention Lancaster and Northampton.” He took the final, possibly fatal step closer to Valmey. “But he can no longer count on you.”

  Valmey answered Beresford’s challenge with one of his own. “Stephen’s chances will be greatly impoverished with the loss of his greatest, most loyal and newest earl.” He drew his sword. The metal sprang to life in the moonlight.

  Beresford’s sword was raised and ready before Valmey had finished expressing his murderous intention. The clash of steel against steel rang out. Beresford felt good and strong. He felt purposeful. He felt like killing Valmey.

  He wanted a few answers first. “Why did you do it, Valmey? Why did you not simply make a clean break with Stephen if you were of a mind to change sides?”

  “For the reason that you yourself have noted,” Valmey answered easily. His sword work was far from contemptible and he, too, was in good form this night. “Stephen and Henry are evenly matched. There’s naught to decide who will win in the end.”

  Steel met steel repeatedly. The constant ring and echo was punctuated by grunts and the padded shifting of feet on the ground. Valmey had not found his opening.

  Beresford was not yet seeking his. He did not yet have all his answers. “And you must be on the winning side?”

  “At all costs.”

  “At the price of your honor?”

  “At all costs.”

  “At the price of your life?”

  Valmey chuckled again. This time it was an unpleasant sound. “My life? Is my life in danger?”

  “You have nothing to live for, Valmey.”

  “Unlike yourself?” Valmey jeered in response. Then the scornful expression on his handsome face was replaced by one of craftiness. “But, then, I guess you have not heard of the attack on your home and the burning of the mistress’s bedchamber.”

  Beresford’s concentration broke. The next thing he knew, Valmey’s sword bit deep into his right forearm. He felt his own sword wobble in his hand, as if he were about to lose his grip.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The pain in his arm seemed nothing compared to the pain in his heart, and for a moment he was dazed. Valmey advanced to take advantage of his weakness. Beresford put up his sword to ward off the blow, but had no force to counterattack. He felt himself being driven back. He was still able to defend himself, but he was not able to mount an offensive, much less gain any strategic advantage,

  Valmey pressed, foolishly perhaps. “Yes, you may never see your beloved Gwyneth again, poor Simon.”

  Beresford was not likely to remain victim to a verbal trap any more than he would be long misled by cunning sword work. With supreme effort, he thrust aside the hideous possibility that Gwyneth had been harmed. Still, the lover’s pain in his heart was more ferocious than any physical wound, and he knew that unless he could recover his concentration, he was lost.

  “What makes you say that, Valmey?”

  “When last I
saw your house, the mistress’s chamber had burned to the ground.”

  “And when was that?”

  “On the day after you left London on this campaign.”

  Beresford grinned, but under the stress of wielding his sword and countering Valmey’s blows, his expression looked more of a grimace. Gwyneth must be safe. Before his departure, he had refused her request that she return to the house, and he had made arrangements with Adela that Gwyneth remain closely guarded at the Tower. He began to recognize Valmey’s ploy for the ignoble stratagem it was. He noticed that his arm had begun to throb. Better to focus on Valmey’s ploy and his reasons for it.

  “Who was responsible for the fire?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps Robert of Breteuil sent someone to wreak revenge on you.”

  The suggestion affected Beresford like a magic tonic. He realized that if Valmey was accusing Breteuil of torching the mistress’s chambers, it would make no sense for Gwyneth to have been conspiring with his former squire. However, he did not have time to understand fully why Valmey’s suggestion caused a weight to lift from his suffering heart. He knew only that the love locked there was set free to course through his body, making it solid and integral to his person, like veins in marble. He felt that not only was Gwyneth within him, giving him breath and muscle, she was also behind him, giving him strength. He focused his love on the wound in his arm. Although the throbbing did not lessen, he knew how to best synchronize it with the rhythm of Valmey’s sword.

  Living, breathing and loving. Beresford felt the support of Gwyneth’s love behind him like the sure hands of a beautiful sea siren, turning the defensive tide into an offensive wave of attack, feint and counterattack. Through his wound bad blood was flowing, allowing fresh, clean blood to pump through his body. The sting of the pain kept him sharp, gave him courage, helped him calculate the openings.

  So Valmey and Gwyneth were not entirely a pair, as he had earlier perceived when his love had wrenched his heart rather than strengthened it. Where he had once seen similarities between Valmey’s abilities and Gwyneth’s, he now saw only differences: where Valmey was duplicitous, Gwyneth displayed integrity; where Valmey was cowardly, Gwyneth was courageous; where Valmey connived, Gwyneth countered cleverly, but straight.