Anita Mills (15 page)

“Mayhap,” he answered noncomittally.

A daughter of one of the lesser lords, sent with many others to Harlowe for the prestige of being in the dowager countess’s household, approached the dais shyly, her eyes on Giles of Moray. “Gracious lady,” she addressed Eleanor of Nantes, “would it displease you if we danced?” Looking downward now, she added, “Gervase and Adela and the others bade me ask.”

“Nay, ’twould not displease me, child.”

It was as though the musicians already knew her answer, for they began anew, this time the more sedate music of the dance of the chaplet. The girl looked up at Giles again, hesitated, then blurted out, “My lord, would you honor me?”

“ ‘Twould surprise me if you knew the dance,” Elizabeth gibed at him.

“Aye.” He rose, towering over them, and bowed at the blushing maid. “The honor is mine.”

As he followed the girl onto the cleared floor, household knights and squires sought out giggling maidens, pulling them after them to form circles of couples. He could hear Elizabeth ask the age of his partner. Eleanor answered she was fourteen and betrothed.

“And overbold for a maid, ’twould seem,” Elizabeth observed acidly.

The girl danced well enough, moving gracefully through the steps across from him, obviously taking great pride in his partnering her. Every time they neared others she smiled, as though she’d been chosen Queen of Tournament. For his part he kept the rhythm of the viols, and managed not to disgrace himself. As the music ended he clasped both of the girl’s hands, pulling her forward for the customary kiss, and the little vixen managed to turn her cheek so that he brushed her lips. The thought crossed his mind that Eleanor of Nantes ought to insist she be wed ere she was disgraced.

He’d just gotten back to the dais as the viols were joined by the castanets, indicating a round. Instead of taking his seat, he reached boldly for Elizabeth of Rivaux’s hand. “You owe me this at least.”

“You’ve had too much wine,” she protested, trying to pull away.

“Afraid?” he taunted, knowing she’d take the challenge.

“Nay.”

It had been years since she’d danced, not since her wedding, and yet his eyes dared her more than his words. She stood, letting her fine velvet mantle slide to her chair, and stepped back. A slow smile curved her mouth.

“I’ve partaken of too much wine also, my lord, else I’d not do it.”

“I’ll not let you fall.”

“ ’Tis the least of my thoughts.”

She cast a hesitant look at her grandmother, but Eleanor of Nantes nodded, drumming out the music with her fingers on the carved arms of her chair. “Aye, I see no harm.”

The floor was already full of couples, their faces flushed from food and drink, dancing in wide circles with the abandon of youth. Taking both of Elizabeth’s hands, he stood opposite her and waited to count out the measure, then he pulled her into one of the sets.

His fingers were warm and strong on hers, and she could not help contrasting them to Ivo’s. And try as she might, she could not quite blot out how it had felt when he’d kissed her. Even now, as his hands held hers, her body grew hot with the memory. She had to will herself to concentrate on the music and her feet.

For one so tall he was surprisingly graceful, managing to avoid treading on the hem of her gown. The tempo increased as he swung her in ever faster circles until they reached the end, then he pulled her beneath the arch of others’ hands whilst those who watched clapped loudly. She had to admit that for the first time in years she was enjoying herself immensely.

She was breathing rapidly from the exertion, and loosened tendrils of her hair clung damply to her temples. Her usually cold green eyes sparkled with pleasure, telling him that for the moment she’d forgotten her antipathy. She was warm, she was alive, and she was far more beautiful than he’d thought any woman could be.

At the urging of the spectators, the musicians never missed a beat as they played out another round. Emboldened by the sight of Guy of Rivaux’s haughty daughter swirling before them with abandon, many took up chanting the chorus of the song whilst they clapped, adding to the excitement of the moment.

Too soon the end came, and as the last notes were drawn out, instead of leaning forward to brush his lips across her cheek, he grasped her by the waist, lifting her high to cheers. And as he brought her down, he let her slide against his body before kissing her full on her lips. The crowd gasped collectively, then the room was silent with unease.

Her face flamed and her body went rigid at the perceived insult. “Were you not leaving, I’d see you cast into the pit and forgotten,” she muttered through clenched teeth as he released her. “As ’tis, I say ’tis a good riddance, my lord.” Turning on her heel, her head held high to hide her acute embarrassment, she walked stiffly back to her seat, leaving him standing there.

He waited for the floor to clear before approaching Eleanor. Bowing before her, he raised his eyes to hers, seeing her disapproval. “Gracious lady, I’d retire that I may make ready for my journey on the morrow.” Then turning to Elizabeth, he favored her with a wry smile. “Alas, much as I would tarry in your exalted company, Lady Elizabeth, I cannot.”

“We wish you godspeed, my lord,” Eleanor murmured, grateful for his departure, for her granddaughter looked as though she’d skewer him with her knife.

At the nod of Walter of Meulan, the jongleurs resumed their play, and a troubadour traveling with them stepped forward to sing an old and well-loved chanson. Eleanor sat back, watching Giles of Moray thread his way through those who stood along the wall.

“I know not what has passed between you and the lord of Dunashie, but I’d tell you what my nurse said to me more than an age ago, Liza. Aye, ‘tempt not where you would not,’ Herleva said, and ’twas good counsel.”

Elizabeth’s eyes followed him, seeing that he stood a full head above all but his giant, feeling again the strength it had taken to lift her. Then, denying the thoughts that came to mind, she shook her head.

“Nay, I’d not dishonor my name and my blood with the lord of Dunashie, Grandmere,” she answered finally.

Eleanor’s eyes swept over her, lingering meaningfully on the finery she’d chosen to wear. “You mistake me,” the old woman murmured. “I’d have you think on Herleva’s words. If you’d not have him, you’d best not entice him. For he will come again to Harlowe.”

For a moment, Elizabeth gaped at her. “Nay, he’d not dare think I’d have him—he’d not dare!” But even as she said it, she was not certain ’twas the truth. “He’d not dare look so high as Rivaux,” she repeated, this time to convince herself.

“A strong man dares anything,” Eleanor declared, looking again to where he’d disappeared. “Aye, he would.”

Later, after Eleanor had retired to her solar, after her snowy hair had been brushed until it shimmered, after her tiring women had taken to their pallets, she sat alone, staring into the blaze in the brazier. Only the occasional pop of burning sap broke the silence, and yet she still felt his presence.

“Ah, Roger,” she whispered sadly, “there is too much of Robert in her, I fear. For all we’d not wish it, she has his pride.” Then, as she continued to watch the flickering flames, she took more comfort. “But she has not his madness, and for that I give thanks.” For a time she closed her eyes, her thoughts gone back to another time, and she saw again Robert of Belesme’s strange green eyes. “Sweet Mary, but this Giles of Moray reminds me of him also, Roger. I am afraid for her, for they are both strong-willed, and I believe he means to have her.”

He did not answer, but in her heart she knew he heard. In this, as in all things that had passed before, she’d shared her thoughts with him. Feeling somehow unburdened of fears she dared not confide to another, she rose and moved slowly to her bed.

Upon his return to Dunashie, it took Giles less than a fortnight of threatening his neighbors to gain back the stock his peasants had lost in his absence, but slowly all his sheep and cattle that had not been roasted trickled back onto his lands. And as word of the return of the Butcher spread through the border, his vassals hastened to assure him of their continuing loyalty with gifts and messages of goodwill. And the English, ever wary of him, restocked their larders and brought their own animals closer to their castle walls. That he had sworn to Stephen had little meaning for them, for did he not sit on land he’d soaked with English blood? Whether his claim to his castle and manors in England was upheld by royal writ or no, they’d not trust him. Too many were still ready to repeat the tale of how he’d retaken his own keep at Dunashie.

Neither the approbation nor the fear of his neighbors made any difference to him now, for his attention was taken with the matter of Elizabeth of Rivaux. Once his house was in order he traveled to his other possessions, studying the records his bailiffs kept, figuring his worth. Despite what the Lady Elizabeth had thought him, he considered himself wealthy enough to cast his eyes where he would; and despite the cloud of Aveline’s death, more than one father had tried to gain his interest by dangling a goodly dowry and a comely lass his way. But until now, there was none he would have.

Surveying his lands with the pride of one who’d won them, he could almost laugh at the contempt she’d shown him—almost. But the way she’d spoken to him, the treachery she’d used in taking him, still rankled. And sometimes he wondered if his reason for wanting her was revenge, or if ’twas because she was Guy of Rivaux’s daughter. But then he’d see her in the memories he carried of her, he’d see again her extraordinary beauty, and he’d remember the feel of her in his arms. And his desire to punish would fade in the face of his desire to possess her.

The late February rains came, drenching the winter-weary fields, flooding the burns, and making the roads treacherous, but King David’s messenger managed to catch Giles shortly after he returned to Dunashie. Sitting on his own high chair in his three-storied hall, Giles broke the sealing wax on the case and withdrew the parchment. The summons was not unexpected, for all of England and Scotland acknowledged ’twas but a matter of time until the Empress’s adherents rose up in revolt against Stephen.

According to David’s writ of attendance, that time had come. “We bid you in all haste to meet with us that we may determine your obligation to us in the matter of England.” Jesu, but David himself held the earldom of Huntingdon and claimed Northumberland of Stephen, not to mention the dozen or so English villages that paid him taxes. Did he fault his liege man for swearing fealty to Stephen as he himself had done? And despite his oath, had not David laid his hands on every English border castle except Bamborough? Did he think Giles’ oath made him any less willing to defend his keeps?

In late January, whilst Giles had been at Harlowe, there had been skirmishes and much blustering between the two sovereigns but little had come of it. Stephen had retired southward to deal with his own anarchy, and Scotland was left unharmed. But the peace, such as it was, was going to be of short duration. Frowning, Giles read on.

No matter what words he used to couch it, the message was that David meant to go again to war, and that meant an invasion. As Giles finished the king’s writ, he saw a very real possibility that his response could gain him Elizabeth of Rivaux. Saying he would respond by letter, he sent David’s messenger back to Glasgow. Then he considered how best to pressure King David.

Less than two days later word came from the crowned king of England, asking for his levies against a reported Angevin invasion, verifying David’s intelligence. Giles looked over the table of tallies before him, knowing he was in a new position of power. One of the two monarchs might well be persuaded to give him Rivaux’s daughter.

Choosing his words carefully, he wrote to David first, assuring him of his loyalty “in all matters Scots.” Then, with a boldness that surprised even himself, he went on to ask for David’s intercession with Guy of Rivaux,

This he sealed and dispatched to Glasgow first, then he turned his attention to Stephen, penning an acknowledgment of the call to arms, but hedging, saying,

Dipping his quill again, for he’d not have anyone else see what he wrote, he continued,

What he did not write was more speaking than the words on the parchment: he was letting Stephen think that he could be bought with Elizabeth. And the message would not be lost on the English king, he was certain. Wedding Elizabeth of Rivaux without her father’s consent would put Giles firmly in Stephen’s camp, and then there could be no more reluctance to lead his own troops into battle.

The two letters left Dunashie but hours apart, leaving Giles to await answers. But even as he bided his time, he was not idle. Dunashie’s moat was widened and the peel tower walls were fortified with a three-foot-thick addition of crushed stone on the inside. His eight-foot-high barmekin he ordered raised to ten feet, despite the grumbling of those who saw it as unnecessary.