Anita Mills (26 page)

He dropped the letter onto the small table as though it offended him. “She as much as says there is naught to be done,” he said finally.

“Aye.”

“What do you do? We cannot let this pass, Papa! I’d like to say that once he sees her temper, he’ll send her back, but ’tis not likely. She is worth too much.”

“I’d send you to Harlowe.”

This time there was no question of what Guy meant. Richard looked into his father’s strange, flecked eyes, and knew ’twas not a defensive move. “And if he has wed her?” he asked quietly.

“You have my leave to make her twice a widow.” Guy walked to lift the tent flap, peering out into the steady rain. “I would that I could go, but I cannot. We invade England, and I’d not desert Gloucester now.”

Another time Richard would have argued, but this time he understood what Guy entrusted to him. It was as though he would share the mantle of Rivaux with his son. It was a passing of sorts, a recognition of worth.

“If you should fall into Stephen’s hands, I cannot aid you,” Guy went on. “You will have to wait until he demands a ransom of me.”

“I know.”

Guy swung around to face him, his expression grave, and for once he looked nearly every one in his fifty-one years. “If you would not go I’d understand, my son.”

“Nay, Papa. She is my sister and therefore dear to me.”

“Aye, you were ever alike, you and she. Sometimes I think there is more of my sire in both of you than in me, mayhap because you fear not the blood he gave us.”

“I did not know him.”

“Nay, you did not.”

“It haunts you still.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Aye.” A harsh, derisive laugh escaped Guy. “These fools who would share my blood know not what they ask. This Butcher, no matter what he has done, cannot match the evil in my sire.”

“They see not him, Papa—’tis Guy of Rivaux they see.” Richard walked to face his father. “When would you that I leave?”

“Do you return to Celesin first?”

“Nay. Gilly will understand, for Elizabeth is as her own sister. By your leave, I’d go alone. Where Rivaux of Celesin would be challenged, a poor pilgrim will not.”

“ ’Tis a risk.”

“Less so than I take fifty men that we cannot spare. There are men enough at Harlowe.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Guy smiled. “The Scots are a treacherous lot.”

“And I am Rivaux. Nay, but he’ll not keep her, Papa—not if I have to meet this Butcher in combat.”

“Aye, and there is treachery everywhere. If Reyner of Eury can turn against us, there’s none but Gloucester I’d trust.”

They’d both been surprised by Elizabeth’s earlier letter, Guy more so than his son. For Richard, the greater shock lay not in the fact that Reyner had attacked his sister, but rather that he’d done so openly. He nodded. “I’d not count faces in council, Papa—I’d count those who came arrayed in full mail, ready for battle. ’Tis easy to promise that which will not be given.”

“I’d thought I had a bond of blood with him.”

“The bond was money and died with Ivo.”

They had seldom mentioned Ivo of Eury, for they’d never agreed on him. Elizabeth had returned to Rivaux, loath to speak of her husband to her father, saying only that there was no love between them. And Guy, perceiving that it was painful for her, had fore- borne asking.

“Did she ever speak of him—Ivo, I mean?” he asked suddenly.

“Not overmuch.”

“And yet you brought her home from Eury.”

“All she ever said was that he was no husband to her—nothing more. But she greeted me as though I’d saved her from Hell.” Richard’s mouth twisted downward. “ ’Twas why I could not leave her there. Now I think she feared Reyner.”

“My lord . . .”

Both men looked up as a page lifted the tent flap. The boy hesitated, seeing that Guy was not alone, but Guy encouraged him: “Nay, speak up—’tis my son.”

“My lord of Beaumont bids you come to him, for he has a message from the Scots king.”

Guy nodded, then turned to Richard. “You’d best sleep—you look as though you have ridden from the fiery pit yourself.”

“And you do not mind, I’d hear also. By the looks of it, I may find myself in Scotland ere I am done with the lord of Dunashie.”

When they arrived, the Angevins were already there. One of them looked up and, seeing Guy, broke the news. “Heard you not? David of Scotland invades England when Gloucester lands in the South. The usurper will not know which way to run!” he gloated. “He promises to lay waste to the whole of the North, unleashing his Picts from Galloway even.”

Richard and his father exchanged glances. “Holy Jesu,” Richard muttered.

“Aye,” Guy agreed grimly. “There will be no time to waste.”

They sat on crude benches hastily produced from other tents, listening to Beaumont read David of Scotland’s flowery promises of support for his niece, the Empress, hearing with misgiving his boasts of the toll he would take on Stephen’s lands. Finally, when ‘twas done, they rose and left.

Once inside his own tent, Guy wrote to King David himself—and to Giles of Moray. The name of Rivaux still had meaning, and he invoked it forcefully, demanding the return of his daughter and promising retribution. If they did not send her again to Harlowe, he would see the lord of Dunashie dead.

Richard read over his shoulder as his father’s pen scratched across the parchment. “God’s bones, Papa, but you give strong words,” he murmured, smiling.

“Aye, and when Normandy is united beneath the Empress’s banner, I will join you in England,” Guy decided grimly. “I’d see you teach this beggar Scot my daughter’s worth to me.”

For a moment his son felt the old pain. “Nay, Papa, but I can take her back for you.”

“Aye.” The flecked eyes that looked up at him were almost green. “For me, too much depends on Gloucester now. I did but mean I would aid you when I can.”

He watched from the end of the room, thinking she was more than he had ever expected, that she was the most exquisite thing he’d ever possessed. Aye, there was no queen in Christendom more beautiful than this woman he’d claimed for wife. His heart almost ached from the fullness every time he looked on her, and even after nearly two months of lying with her he still could not get his fill of her. It was as though she were as necessary to him as food. To stay with her he’d failed to answer his sovereign’s call to arms, stalling, saying he needed time to raise his levies, risking royal wrath.

If he had any regret at all ’twas only that he did not match her in birth, that she could not compare him to her father or her brother. For despite the nights they shared, despite the passion between them, he suspected that she still longed for the luxury, for the power that was Rivaux.

She sat, her head bent low over the shimmering fabric, listening to the cloth merchant extol its merits. It was of crimson and embroidered in the French style, the Fleming pointed out proudly, and therefore quite dear. Resolutely, she pushed it aside and gestured toward the blue samite.

“I should like ten els of that, I think,” she decided.

Nay, he’d not have her think she gave up too much to live in his house. Giles stepped forward. “She will have ten els of the other.”

She shook her head. “ ’Tis too costly, my lord.”

The way she said it touched his pride. “ ’Twill not beggar me. And the blue also, if she would have it,” he told the fellow.

Recognizing a lord who loved his lady, the merchant turned his attention from Elizabeth to Giles, bobbing obsequiously. “Would your lordship see the gold also? ’Twould trim the crimson finely. And for my lady’s sleeves, there is a piece of flames-of-fire from Byzantium, my lord—as there is not enough for a whole gown, I would part with it for seven English pennies.”

“Done.”

“God’s bones, but ’tis a waste! Nay, I—”

“I promised you bride clothes,” Giles reminded her. “ ’Twas what you asked at Wycklow.”

“Aye, but—”

“I can keep Rivaux’s daughter as befits her.” He bent over the merchant’s packs and picked up a heavy gold chain set with bloodstones. “How much for this?”

“For you”—the fellow calculated how much the borderer might pay—”thirty pennies.”

“Jesu.”

“ ’Tis quite well wrought, my lord. ’Twas sold to me by a London goldsmith last year, and there’s been none comely enough to wear it,” he added slyly.

“He robs you,” Elizabeth protested.

“She will take it also.”

The cloth merchant broke into a black-toothed grin. “He values you right well, lady.”

Giles reached to stroke the glossy black braid that hung down her back. “Get you some baudekin for your veils also.”

“ ’Twill be said Rivaux’s daughter has airs above your station. Already they fault me for what I cost you.”

His hand stilled. “Who faults you?”

“Willie.”

“Nay, he does not.”

“He does, but ‘tis another tale.” She looked again to the merchant. “Have done, ere there are no candles in the hall. I’d see needles and thimbles, rather.”

Satisfied with what he’d bought her, Giles left them

to haggle over the price of Spanish needles and made his way down the stairs from her solar. “Where’s Willie?” he asked Hob curtly.

“Disputing with a boy over the cleaning, of his mail—he said there was nae enough vinegar in. the bag.”

Giles hesitated, then asked, “I’d have you tell me if Willie is disrespectful to my lady,” he said finally.

Hob pursed his wrinkled lips for a moment, then spat onto the ground. “There’s nae a man here as likes it she sits above ye.”

“She is Guy of Rivaux’s daughter.”

“Aye, but—”

“I gave her the right to sit according to her rank, Hob. I’d have you tell any who disputes it—even Willie.”

“Aye.”

None of them understood the pride she gave him, and he knew it. None of them could know what it meant to lie beside the daughter of Rivaux, to have her return his passion, to hold her against the dreams that had plagued him for the past ten years. They could see only the airs and tempers that came with her birth. To Scots borderers used to rough keeps and the hard life of continual warfare, to rising and falling fortunes, Elizabeth of Rivaux had no more value than any other he could have taken. And from the beginning Willie had said as much, complaining that she cost him more than he could afford.

He found Willie in the rough armorer’s shed that leaned within the inner wall. While a sullen boy looked on, the big man shook the leather bag with vigor, making it sound more like a hundred coins clinking together than like mail and sand. When he saw Giles he stopped, grinning.

“The fool put but a cup to the sand, my lord, and I’d show him how ’twas done ere it came to yours.” Cuffing the boy affectionately, he handed him the heavy bag. “Here now—’tis ready to be rinsed and brushed off.” Looking across at Giles, he perceived something was wrong, and his grin faded. “Och, ‘tis vexed ye are wi’ me.”

“Aye.”

Willie nodded. “Your lady complains of me.”

“I’d walk the wall with you—I’d not speak before others.”

Giles ducked through the tattered leather that covered the doorway and waited. The big man followed, his red hair gleaming in the spring sun. He straightened, squaring his shoulders, knowing what would come, then followed Giles along the base of the wall to the wooden steps that rose up the side. Wordlessly, they climbed to stand above Dunashie. The wind blew, whipping the golden bear that paced over them, while the land beneath them lay in neat, hedge-bound fields of green. There was a peace that belied the many battles fought over the land.

Giles sucked in the fresh, raw air, letting it fill his lungs, then exhaled fully. Willie waited warily. Finally, he could stand it no longer.

“What tales does she carry to you?” he asked.

“I’d hear from you.”

The big man nodded, then looked downward, staring into distant, sheep-dotted hills. Clearing his throat, he tried to put into words what he felt. “Twenty-six years I have served ye, as exile in another land and here. And when we were come home again, I fought beside ye to gain what was yours.”

“And I would have rewarded you for it,” Giles reminded him.

“Nay, but I did it fer the blood I shared wi’ ye. I canna be a laird like ye, fer me dam was but a village lass, and I’ve nae begrudged ye fer it,” Willie protested.

“I know.”

“ ’Tis pride I have in ye, knowing I have aided ye to rise to yer own, but”—he stopped, groping for the words that would not anger Giles, then plunged on— “but a man who canna rule his wife canna rule his men.”

“There’s none to say I have led you where we have lost, Will,” Giles retorted. “And if there’s any as would seek another lord, he may.”

“ ’Tisna right that she sits above ye at yer own table—aye, and there’s many as thinks it, e’en if none dare to say.”

“She is Elizabeth of Rivaux.”

“And ye be lord of Dunashie! Sweet Jesu, but we are no Norman keep!” Then, perceiving that Giles’ face had darkened, he tried again to explain. “Ye’ve wed one as brings us naught but a saddle fer our backs—’tis her consequence rather than ye or Dunashie she has a care fer. Aye, she came wi’out a dowry e’en.” Meeting Giles’ eyes almost defiantly, he dared to unburden himself of his resentment. “And if she nae breeds, ye’ll be the last of yer blood here. ’Tis bewitched ye are.”

“Aye.”

He’d not expected his lord to admit it, and for a moment Willie stared. “Ye’ve not yet heard of Count Guy, have ye? And what if he comes fer her?” When Giles said nothing, he answered himself. “She’ll cost ye Dunashie.”

“I wed her, Will—not even Guy of Rivaux can change that.”

“Nay, but he can put yer head on yon pike—he can reduce Dunashie to naught but rubble and ashes! And if he comes fer her, there’s naught to say she’d choose ye over him, is there?” Willie argued. “Seems ter me as her pride is Rivaux—not Dunashie!”

His words touched a rawness within Giles, for far too often Giles himself had wondered if he could in truth hold her against her father. The big man saw and nodded. “Aye, and fool that ye be, ye think she’ll come back from Harlowe to ye, and ye’ll let her go. I say let her, and we’ll see.”