Anita Mills (2 page)

“I, Richard of Rivaux, Lord of Celesin, of my own free will take thee, Gilliane de Lacey of Beaumaule, to wife—to have, to hold in joy and adversity so long as we both shall live. I so swear.”

His voice carried richly, strongly throughout the chapel, drowning out the storm that raged without. His flecked brown eyes were warm as they looked upon the girl who stood beside him. Smiling through a mist of tears, she nodded, then responded in kind.

Facing the chaplain just inside the chapel door, she spoke, her voice shaking with suppressed emotion. “I, Gilliane de Lacey, Lady of Beaumaule, take thee, Richard of Rivaux, for my husband, to have and to honor, to love and to keep, until the end of my life. I so swear.”

“Father, I’d ask God’s blessing on this marriage,” Richard murmured, reminding the priest of his duty.

As Father Gervase raised his hands, they knelt at his feet: the tall, splendid young lord, his black hair gleaming beneath the hastily lit candles, and the richly gowned girl, her copper hair spread over her shoulders as though she came to him a maid.

Elizabeth of Rivaux watched them with an uncharacteristic lump in her throat, her own thoughts harkening to another very different wedding years before. While her brother and Gilly wed hastily and without benefit of the banns being cried, she herself had married Ivo, heir to the Count of Eury, with as much pomp and splendor as befitted the daughter of Count Guy of Rivaux. Yet as she witnessed Richard’s and Gilly’s obvious happiness in each other, Elizabeth could not suppress the pang of envy she felt.

Her brother had dared much to wed where he loved, and Gilliane had paid dearly for loving him, more than any beyond their family would ever know. There would be many unable to understand how he, Rivaux of Celesin, heir to one of the wealthiest families in Normandy and England, could have taken a knight’s daughter. By rights, he should have wed into another landholding family as she herself had done.

For a moment Elizabeth dared to wonder what it must be like to be loved like that, what it must be like to have a husband who would defy King and Church to share her bed. And then she dismissed the thought, for it did not bear thinking. It was Eleanor of Nantes or Catherine of the Condes or Gilliane de Lacey who wed where they were loved. Not Elizabeth.

Her own marriage had been so very different—a hell from which she’d escaped gratefully. No, there had been no love between her and Ivo, and his open disgust of her had humiliated her pride, turning her hopes into nothing less than hatred for him and his family. Oh, how Ivo’s father had misled hers in his eagerness for that bond of blood with the family of Rivaux. Aye, he’d been all smiles and flattery to her, allowing her parents to think she’d be as valued at Eury as her mother was at Rivaux. And all the while, he’d known. Even if she could have forgiven all else, she would never forgive that. He’d
known.

Instead, she’d been a homesick fifteen-year-old girl, who’d discovered too late the secret that even now, a full seven years later, she’d been too ashamed to share with anyone. But she had escaped from Eury, thanks to her only brother, for when news had arrived of Ivo’s death Richard had ridden out forthwith to bring her home. And Count Reyner, despite his protests of great affection for his “dear daughter of Rivaux,” had had to let her go. His “dear daughter,” she thought bitterly—’twas a cruel jest at best.

And now she lived in her father’s house a widow, supposedly barren. She was neither wife nor maid, the object of much speculation and, she suspected, more than a little pity. It did not matter, she told herself fiercely—she was Guy of Rivaux’s daughter, and naught could ever change that. In her veins flowed the best blood to be had in Normandy and England, blood good enough to mingle with that of the highest families.

The babe in her lap stirred restlessly, reaching out to where Richard and Gilly now sat listening to their wedding Mass. Elizabeth smoothed the bright copper hair and whispered, “Be still, little one, ‘twill soon be done.”

The child looked up with eyes as green as her own, then turned to pull at Elizabeth’s baudekin veil. Richard ought to have legitimatized this babe born of his love, but Elizabeth knew full well why he did not. To have done so would have brought further shame to Gilliane, and little Amia of Beaumaule already bore another man’s name. Still, it was a pity that the beautiful child could never be fully acknowledged as bearing the blood of Rivaux.

Amia fretted, squirming to be set down, drawing curious stares from those who crowded the small chapel, a host of Normandy’s magnates and Count Guy’s lesser vassals come to his Christmas court and table. What tales they would carry home this time—that Guy had renounced his oath to King Stephen—and that his heir had surprised them all by wedding the widow of a lowly liege man. And there would be those who were not pleased with either choice.

Guy reached for the babe, who squealed in Elizabeth’s arms, but Elizabeth shook her head. Rising, she carried Amia outside. Let her papa savor Richard’s happiness with him, let him celebrate not only the wedding, but also the newfound understanding between father and son. Too soon they would have to leave, to fight, mayhap to die in support of England’s rightful queen. But for now, ‘twas Christmas, and they were all together, a family united at last.

As the cold wind hit their faces, Amia shrieked in protest. “Nay, poppet,” Elizabeth spoke against the babe’s ear, “you and I shall discover a honey cake ere they are all eaten.”

The snow swirled in the courtyard, veiling the villeins who huddled around small, sheltered fires. The wind caught the baudekin veil, whipping it from her head, sending it skimming lightly over the snow. A toothless villein scampered after it, then caught up to her, holding out the shimmering gossamer in his dirty hands.

“My lady …” He dropped to his knees, scarce daring to raise his eyes to her.

Others left their fires to crowd around her, many bending deep in the snow to offer their obeisance. She nodded graciously, taking her veil from the man’s outstretched hands.

“I give you my thanks,” she said, shifting Amia to reach into the pouch that hung from her golden girdle. Taking out a small silver coin, she pressed it into his palm. He kissed the hem of her gown where it brushed over the snow, and a murmur of approval spread through the courtyard.

This was what it meant to be born of the blood of Rivaux—this was the due of her birthright. There was not a man in all of Normandy who did not love, admire, or fear Guy of Rivaux. Even those who thought he’d grown too powerful still acknowledged the greatness of what he had done, for had not he been the one to capture the hated Robert of Belesme? And although it had been a quarter of a century since, they still honored Count Guy and his family for the deed.

Shivering against the cold, she held Amia closer and made her way to the hall. Like the courtyard, it too was crowded with those who came to share Christmas with their overlord. It was, Elizabeth reflected, as though they sensed ’twould perhaps be the last one of any peace in Stephen’s troubled lands.

Once inside, she set the child down whilst she stamped her feet and shook the snow from her rich, deep-blue samite gown. It was then that she noted Count Reyner watching her, his eyes taking in the gold and jewelry she wore, and a chill of apprehension sliced through her. Reminding herself that she was at Rivaux rather than Eury, she stopped to scoop Amia into her arms, then with head held high, she sought to pass him without so much as a nod.

He stepped in front of her, making it impossible to ignore him. “Would you not acknowledge your father by marriage?” he demanded. “Here now—how’s this? A kiss of peace at the least, daughter.”

“The bond of blood between us died with Ivo, my lord,” she answered coldly.

“Nay, but I’d not think it so. Four years you spent in my house, Elizabeth.”

He spoke for the benefit of those around them, and she knew it. Even now, there was a certain malevolence in his eyes that gave the lie to his words. Yet as tempted as she was to speak her mind, she somehow managed to hold her tongue. He was, after all, much to her displeasure, a guest at Rivaux. And he was also a count of Normandy, and the Empress would need a levy of him also.

“Alas, my lord, but you find me surprised you are come here,” she answered.

“The alliance between our families is of long standing, my lady, and if Guy has need of me, I do not mean to let past differences divide us.”

The past differences were her dowry and her return to Rivaux. After the four years of her marriage to his son, he’d been able to keep nothing of the dowry, not that he had not tried. Ivo had not been laid beneath the chapel floor ere he’d tried to push her into his nephew’s arms.

“You will fight for the Empress?” she asked with chill politeness.

“As to that, I am uncertain.” He bent his grizzled head closer and smiled to reveal blackened teeth. “My nephew Ralph sends his greetings, saying he would see you again at Eury. I’d support a dispensation and affirm the bond of blood again between us.”

“Nay, I am content here.”

For a moment his light brown eyes were almost yellow, reminding her of an old but still dangerous wolf. Amia looked at him, then tightened her arms about Elizabeth’s neck. He stepped back, smiling still. “Then ’tis our task to persuade your father, is it not?”

“I do not wed again, my lord,” she responded stiffly. “You forget we are agreed that I am barren.”

His smile faded quickly. “I forget nothing, Elizabeth. Nothing.”

It was not until she was well past him that she realized her palms were damp. Shivering from more than the cold, she hastened toward the tower stairs. And as she reached them, she could hear him confide to someone in a much lower voice, “My son was wont to say she was as useless as a gelding for breeding: overtall, overweening, ill-tempered—and fruitless withall.”

Years of bitterness made the bile rise into her throat. Holding Amia more closely, she forced herself to continue up the stairs. If Reyner of Eury did not hold his tongue, his would not be the only one to wag, she promised herself. But even as she thought it, she knew it was not true. If she could not even bring herself to confess her shame to a priest, she did not think she could tell anyone of Ivo.

It was a strange Christmas feast, remarkable both for those who stayed away and for those who came. Some of the greatest magnates in Normandy, those who’d broken their oaths to Mathilda rather than stomach her Angevin husband, now stood ready to take up her standard. And full half of those in attendance at Rivaux came to plot rebellion against the usurper who sat on England’s throne. But for now the given reason for the company, should Stephen hear of it, would be Richard’s rather hasty wedding.

Elizabeth shared a trencher with William d’Evreux, a short, solidly built man, who was obviously very much in awe of her, for he stared openly. She retaliated by ignoring him, turning her attention instead to her brother.

“Do you take Gilly to Celesin?”

Richard shook his head. “Nay, I’d leave her here with Maman, for Rivaux is the stronger keep.” Even as he spoke, his hand stroked his wife’s copper hair. “When it becomes known I have renounced Stephen, there will be many to challenge me.”

“Aye.”

For a moment Gilliane’s eyes betrayed her fear, then she turned away. “I’d speak not of war on my wedding day, Richard.”

Instantly, Elizabeth was sorry she’d reminded either of them of the coming conflict. ‘Twas a time for rejoicing rather than sadness, after all, for he’d arrived home but that morning. Instead, she leaned in front of her brother to speak to Gilly, teasing her.

“There’ll be no need for mulled wine to warm your blood this night, I’ll warrant.”

The younger girl blushed.

“Liza …”

“Well, you have not been kept awake whilst she turns, Richard. I vow she has scarce slept for a fortnight, first because she thought you’d come, then because she feared you would not.” Elizabeth’s green eyes warmed as she smiled. “Aye—’twill be the first rest I have had since Papa rode in without you this last time.”

On the other side of William d’Evreux, Joanna looked up hopefully. “Maman said I could share your bed if Gilly left it.”

“Well, Maman did not have the right of that,” Elizabeth retorted. “Tonight I sleep alone.”

“But Maman—”

“Nay.”

“But Eleanor is all elbows!” the girl wailed. “And she makes noise when she sleeps.”

“When you are the eldest left at home, then you may have a bed to yourself.”

“As if ’twill ever happen! Hawise says you will shrivel and die here.” Joanna’s hand flew to her mouth as she realized what she’d said. “Your pardon, Liza … I did not mean …”