Anita Mills (27 page)

“Nay.” Giles turned away, to stare unseeing toward the water directly below. “You will have to go to Wycklow, Will.”

He spoke quietly, but his words hit Willie as hard as if he’d shouted them. Stunned, Will felt his throat tighten almost unbearably, as though he could not breathe, and his eyes welled with tears.

“I’ll not allow any to gainsay her in mine house,” Giles added quietly. “For the love I bear you, I’d have you stay in my service there.”

The big man swallowed, then shook his head. “Nay… ‘tis more meet that I leave ye.”

“Will …”

“Think ye that ye be the only one as has need of me? Think ye I’d hang on yer purse? Nay, but I’ll go to King David ere that!” Before Giles could block his way, Willie flung himself down the stairs.

“Willie!”

“Nay! When ye have need of aid, send to Rivaux!” he cried. “Ye’ll be fortunate to sit at his table at all!”

All activity in the courtyard below ceased as everyone stared upward, shocked by the giant’s display of defiance to their lord. Heedless of any, Willie strode toward the armorer’s shed.

Giles considered going after him, of stopping him, but as he looked down into the disbelieving faces of his people, he decided against it. Nay, ’twas enough having them think Elizabeth ruled him—he’d not have it said that Willie did also.

Vaguely aware of the tension that seemed to permeate Dunashie, Elizabeth went about her daily tasks: supervising the women at their needles, inspecting the preparation of the afternoon meal, and seeing to the ordering of fresh rush mats for the floors. If those around her seemed more sullen than usual, she tried not to note it. But when one of the seamstresses pinned her rather than the cloth, she boxed her ears soundly. Instead of apologizing abjectly, the girl stared mutinously up at her.

“God’s bones, but what ails everyone?” Elizabeth asked finally. “There is not a smile in this house.”

“Wee Willie leaves,” someone spoke behind her.

“And good enough riddance!” Then, perceiving that somehow this must be the source of their ill will, she sought an explanation. “Why is it that he goes?”

The girl she’d struck dropped her eyes, assuming her earlier sullen pose. As Elizabeth turned to the others, they also looked away.

“Jesu, but has none a tongue?” she demanded. Walking to confront one of the older women, she tapped her foot impatiently and waited. “Well?”

“ ’Tisna right that one of his blood goes,” the woman muttered.

“Whose blood? Can you not speak in aught but riddles? God’s bones, but had you been at Rivaux, my mother would have had you beaten for insolence!”

“ ’Tisna Rivaux,” a seamstress murmured under her breath.

“Nay, of a certes, ‘tis not,” Elizabeth agreed dryly. “At Rivaux, there are none to dispute their lady, for my father would not brook such behavior.” Turning her attention again to the woman before her, she asked more calmly, “Why is it that Willie goes? And what matters it to you?”

“He serves Lord Giles no more.”

“He has not the right to decide that. A man serves where he swears.”

“Willie was born here,” the little seamstress volunteered. “ ’Tisna right that he leaves.”

“If he was born here, he cannot.” Then, recalling that Hob had said Willie was not a villein, and that she’d never been quite certain just what the social order was in this strange keep, she tried again. “What is Willie’s birth?”

“He is of the lord’s blood—the old lord sired both.”

“Willie is Lord Giles’ brother?” Elizabeth asked incredulously. “Surely not.”

“Aye. And when the young lord was sent fer hostage to King Henry’s court, ’twas Willie as went wi’ him.” The woman’s eyes accused Elizabeth. “He was as the young lord’s ain hands before ye came to Dunashie.”

Elizabeth spun to demand of the others, “Is this the truth? Is Willie of Lord Giles’ blood?”

“Aye,” one of them answered, looking away. “And he had a care fer him when there was nae other.”

“Unpin me,” Elizabeth ordered grimly. “And then you are dismissed. I’d have you leave me.”

For the first time that day they worked quickly, the seamstress removing the pins and folding the pieces of the new gown, the others setting the solar in order for the night. Then, one by one, they slipped silently from the room. As the last footsteps sounded on the stone stairs, Elizabeth sank to a bench.

Hob’s words,
Wee Willie is nae
—, cut off before he could finish them, came back to her again.

And what had Giles said of his giant?
Willie and I gathered the malcontents between here and Alnwick,
and in the night, we burned them in their beds. My mother’s kinsman sent me for hostage to the English court, with naught but Willie for company.

Willie had been freeborn, as freeborn as a bastard could be, anyway, and he’d followed his brother into a hostile place, serving him from youth to manhood. And by the looks of it, he’d asked little for himself. He was Giles’ brother. It explained so many things she’d scarce thought on. But most of all, it explained his attitude toward her. He saw her not so much as Giles’ lady, but rather as the high-tempered daughter of Guy of Rivaux. And he perceived her as a threat not to himself, but to Giles. That she sat above Giles was to him an affront against his blood. As one born of the blood of Rivaux, she gloried in what her family was. Why should Willie, bastard or no, take less pride in his?

And finally she understood. For a long moment she sat, chewing absently at her thumbnail, pondering what she ought to do. At Rivaux, a bastard, had her father had any, would have been treated well, she was certain of that. Aye, he’d welcomed little Amia as a cherished granddaughter, never faulting her or her mother for the fact that Gilly had borne her out of wedlock. It was enough that Amia was born of his blood. And so it ought to be for Willie at Dunashie.

She rose quickly and made her way down the narrow, winding stone steps. “Where’s Willie?” she demanded of the first man she saw, using the soft “Wullie” of the Scots. He looked up in surprise, then his eyes were guarded.

“He is nae here.”

“Has he ridden from Dunashie?” she asked with sinking heart. “Has he left?”

“Nay.” The fellow shifted from one foot to the other uneasily, uncertain whether she meant to punish Willie or not. “Nay,” he repeated.

“Then where is he?” Seeing that the man looked away, she snapped impatiently, “Out with it—I’d know that I may speak with him ere he leaves.” It was as though he also meant to defy her. Goaded, she grasped his arm and pulled him back to face her. “Sweet Mary, but what is wrong with the lot of you? I am your lady!”

He stared sullenly, much in the manner of her women earlier. She raised her hand to slap him, then let it drop.

“Lady Elizabeth.”

She turned to face the red-haired giant, seeing that he carried his bow and his leather pack over his shoulder. Already in mail and traveling cloak, he appeared ready to ride. Inexplicably, tears of relief welled in her eyes. He looked past her to the man behind her.

“Fer shame, Fairlie!” he scolded. “ ’Tisna yer place to deny yer lady!”

“Willie …”

“Nay.” He stepped past her to deliver a resounding cuff that sent the fellow sprawling. “Be thankful ’tis me as heard ye, fer when ’tis yer lord, he’ll have yer head fer it.” He stood over the cowering man, his anger evident. “Now, get ye up and make yer obeisance ter yer lady, Fairlie, else I tell ’im meself.” His eyes traveled over those who watched silently. “What did Lord Giles tell ye the day he brought her here?” he demanded of them. “ ‘I give ye yer lady,’ he said, ‘her honor is mine own!’ did he not?”

“Aye, but—”

“Nay, I’ll not hear it!” He turned again to Elizabeth. “Yer ladyship was wishful o’ speaking ter me?”

Elizabeth’s throat ached and the tears burned in her eyes, but she managed to nod as she whispered, “Aye.”

“Then ye’d best walk apart wi’ me, fer I’d not have any listen.” He stood back respectfully to let her pass.

The small crowd parted for her, and she walked through their midst, looking at each in turn. They dropped their eyes and stood silently. It seemed as though she crossed the length of the inner bailey, when in truth ’twas but a short distance to the walled inner garden. He closed the wooden gate behind them and waited.

“You have my thanks for that, Willie,” she said, looking up at him.

“I didna do it fer ye,” he admitted candidly. “ ’Twas fer Lord Giles.”

“Willie …” Again, she said it as “Wullie,” hoping he’d note it. “I—I’d have you stay.” The big man stared long, surprised by the tears that swam in her eyes. She swallowed and nodded. “Aye.”

He exhaled heavily, then turned away. “ ’Tisna yer place to ask, my lady.”

“You belong here, Willie—more than I, you belong at Dunashie.”

“Did he ask ye ter come ter me?”

“Nay. I ask for myself.” She reached a tentative hand to touch the wide shoulder. “You are born of the blood of Dunashie, Willie—you have the right to be here, to sit at Giles’ table.”

It was as though he did not hear her, for he spoke again low. “Ye be born of the blood of Rivaux, and ye canna ken ’tis different here, I suppose. Here a man rules as much by what he takes as by who he is born. Fer six and twenty years I have served his lordship as I was bidden.” He swung around to face her, his eyes troubled. “He was breeched into this world wi’out so much as a father’s promise, Lady Elizabeth, born to the scorn of his dam’s kinsmen, fer ter them the lord of Dunashie was as naught.”

“Willie …”

“Nay, I’d speak fer oncet. The crows was pickin’ out his sire’s eyes whilst she bore him, and—”

“He was your sire also,” she reminded him softly.

“Aye.” His gaze grew distant, as though he could see across the intervening years. “Aye. Five I was when she birthed him, and my sire’s last words ter me was ter have a care fer the babe. He died not knowin’ ’twas a son she carried fer him, ye know.” He settled his huge shoulders, then straightened before her. “And afore God, I swear I have tried, Lady Elizabeth. I swear it.”

He said it as though he expected her to challenge him. Instead, she looked up through misted eyes. “I know.”

“ ’Twas hard fer a boy sent ter King Henry, but we managed to survive. And when the old earl raided, ‘twas a near thing my lord was not blinded fer it.”

“It must have been terrible for both of you.”

“Terrible?” He snorted derisively. “Aye, but it tempered him as surely as the craftsmen of Toledo temper the blades. We dinna see Scotland again ere he had fourteen years, and then we came home ter naught.” His eyes grew distant again, seeing what she could not see. “We had to sue fer Dunashie, ye know, fer it had been given to another.”

“Hamon of Blackleith.”

“Aye. And hell would hae frozen ere we got it back, but we took it, anyways. Burned it and all of them as was within.”

“He told me.”

“And did he tell ye he hears ’em cry out still? God’s bones, but ’twas his, Elizabeth of Rivaux—his! More’s the times I have awakened ter find him on his knees than I can count, and d’ye know why? Fer them! If them as calls him Butcher could see what I have seen …”

“You love him, do you not?” she asked quietly.

“Too much ter see him brought down.”

“Stay, Willie.”

He shook his head. “I saw what the Lady Aveline did ter him with her sniveling, weak ways. If he thought himself damned before, she confirmed it, fer she couldna bear the sight o’him. But he dinna kill her—he dinna.”

“Of course he did not.”

“Aye, but who’s ter tell him so? The Church and King David absolved him, ye know, but it dinna make nae difference to him.”

“Willie, you do not have to tell me this.”

“Aye, I do, fer how else can ye ken what ’tis as ails him?” he asked sadly. “The hands festered, ye know. ‘God damns me fer what I could nae be ter her,’ he says ter me. ‘Nay,’ I tell him, ‘ ’tisna so. ’Twas the woman’s own foolishness as killed her,’ but he nae listened ter me.” He met her eyes soberly, shaking his head. “He would have it as the Lady Aveline was God’s punishment fer burning Dunashie.”

She was silent for a moment, then she spoke softly. “I would make him forget her, Willie.”

“Would ye now? And who’s ter make him ferget ye?” He flexed his arms and shoulders beneath his mail. “Got leagues to ride to King David’s town,” he muttered, turning away.

“I’d put you at his table,” she offered. “I’d honor you for the blood you bear.”

He swung back around at that. “ ’Tis nae where I sit as makes the difference ter me, Lady Elizabeth. I canna watch ye sit above him, don’t ye see? A man as canna rule his wife canna rule his men” he repeated for her.

“He agreed to seat me by my rank,” she retorted defensively.

“Because he would have ye! His head was ruled by his nether parts, if ye want the truth of it.” He raised his hand, then let it fall. “Aarrghhh! There be no talking ter ye. Ye be born of the blood of Rivaux, and that’s the end to it.”

“My son will be lord of Dunashie.”

“Born at Harlowe! God’s bones, but ye would tell us all as Dunashie isna good enough fer ye!” Again, he looked away, muttering, “If there be a son, anyways.” Resolutely, he moved toward the gate. “God grant ye joy of yer exalted place, Lady Elizabeth.”

“There will be a son, Willie.”

He stopped, not daring to turn back again. “Nay, ye canna know it.”

“I know.” She walked to stand before him, blocking the gate. “I am not barren.” Meeting his incredulous gaze, she nodded. “ ’Tis early days, but I know.” She could see him figuring the weeks she’d been there. “I have missed the flow.”

“Still… ”

“ ’Tis the first time ever.” She watched as the possibility took root in his mind, then pressed her advantage. “I’d have you be to him what you have been to Giles. I’d have you love him also.”

“Does Lord Giles know?” he asked suspiciously.

“Nay.” She clasped her hands before her. “I am sworn to my father, Willie, yet I’d not go—not yet. I do not mean to tell Giles until I have missed my second course.”

“A woman hasna the right to keep such from a man.”

“I don’t want to leave him yet,” she answered simply. “I would be sure beyond doubt. Willie—”