Anita Mills (3 page)

But Elizabeth merely shrugged. “Better to die at Rivaux than elsewhere.”

“Nay, lady, ’tis the lot of a woman to be a wife,” William protested. “And you are yet young enough to—”

“Be a brood sow?” she finished for him contemptuously. “Nay, I think not. Besides, who’s to have a barren wife?”

“Mayhap the fault was Ivo of Eury’s,” he ventured hopefully. “Your father—”

“Gives me choice in the matter.”

“But you mourn overlong, Lady Elizabeth. Ivo died three years and more ago, and—”

“And you think I mourn him?” she demanded with an incredulous lift of one black brow. “Nay, I was glad he died.”

He stared into green eyes that had grown as cold as shards of glass, and a shiver went through him. For a moment he almost believed she meant what she said. She was a strange woman, Elizabeth of Rivaux—like none he’d ever seen. Yet, try as he would, he could not help watching her, drawn to her incredible beauty despite what was said of her.

Deliberately, she turned her attention to the food on their trencher, stabbing at a piece of venison with her knife, ignoring him. He leaned back, and tried to listen to the discussion that raged between two of Rivaux’s liege men over whether the greed of the Empress’s Angevin husband was preferable to Stephen’s misrule.

But he found his attention returning almost immediately to the girl at his side. At twenty-two she ought to have been well past her youth, but she was not. Unlike so many who’d wed at twelve or thirteen, borne babes yearly and thickened, she was still slender and lithe.

And long-limbed. Aye, she was taller than any female of his memory—taller than most men in Normandy. But her features were as fine and straight as her beautiful mother’s, and her hair was as black as Guy of Rivaux’s—as black as a raven’s wing, the bards claimed when they wrote songs of her. Even as he noted it, it shimmered in the torchlight and spilled over her rich gown like a mantle of black silk. It was so beautiful that it did not matter that she wore it unbound like a maiden’s. He drank deeply of his wine and allowed himself to imagine it spilling over a pillow. His eyes traveled lower to where her gown clung to the curve of her breasts, and he wondered if her body was as flawless as her face.

His mouth was so dry he had to drink again, and still he could not tear his eyes from her. And he wondered how she could possibly be barren. Aye, there was the rub. Even if Count Guy would give her, even if she brought gold and land, he’d not be able to keep it if she did not breed. And still he’d have her, for there was none to compare. Besides, Avisa had presented him with two strong sons ere she passed from this earth before her time. So he could afford the gamble.

As if she knew his thoughts, Elizabeth reached for the cup they were supposed to share, and looking over the rim, her green eyes met his. “Do not think to wed with me, my lord,” she told him coldly. “I’d give you grief.” Draining the cup she set it down, then arose, nodding to Richard and Gilliane, saying quite deliberately, “He puts me off my food with his gaping.”

“Your pardon, my lady, but—” William’s breath was wasted, for she’d brushed past him, leaving him to a filled trencher. “Jesu, but what ails her?” he asked her brother.

“She’d not wed again,” Richard answered.

“Yet she is in need of a husband—Count Guy cannot live forever. She should have a man to master that tongue of hers,” William protested.

For a moment, Richard of Rivaux’s strange flecked eyes were more gold than brown. And a slow, lazy smile warmed his face as he turned to watch his sister pass from the great hall. “Elizabeth is not like any other,” he said simply. “She is more Cat than our mother.”

“Still, I’d take her.”

“He will not give her where she is not willing.”

William’s gaze followed his. “Have any asked?” he wanted to know.

“Every widower with a son has approached my father.”

“These are troubled times, my lord,” William reminded him. “Count Guy will have need of allies, and there can be no greater surety than a bond of blood between families.”

“Elizabeth would give you no peace.”

“I’d beat that tongue out of her.”

Richard’s flecked eyes darkened. Very deliberately, he speared a chunk of meat with his knife. “Nay, you would not. Even Ivo dared not beat her.” His gaze held William’s, sending a shiver down his spine. “I’d kill the man who would harm Elizabeth—and so would my father.”

“What think you of William d’Evreux?” Catherine of the Condes asked casually.

Elizabeth looked up guiltily, caught in straining to hear the heated dispute below. “I think him short and stupid,” she answered her mother. “Why?”

“He asks your father for you.”

“Then he is a fool also.”

Catherine viewed her daughter with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. “Liza, one husband is not necessarily like another. If you would have a household and children of your own—”

“What did Papa say?” Elizabeth asked shortly.

“He said the choice was yours.”

“And you think I should like a witless man a full head shorter than I?”

“He is besotted enough to overlook your tongue,” her mother responded, “and that is something, you must admit.”

“I’d not have him.”

“I did not think you would, but I said I would ask you.”

“The fool could do aught but stare,” Elizabeth noted contemptuously. “God’s bones, but he has the manners of a lout, Maman.”

Catherine sighed and laid aside her needlework. “ ’Tis no life for you here, Liza. You ought to have a husband and children. You deserve to be chatelaine in your own lord’s keep.”

“Nay.”

“There may come a time when Guy will have need of an alliance through blood,” Cat continued gently.

Her daughter sat very still, trying not to betray the panic she felt, but Cat knew. “Liza, we face a war beyond that which Normandy and England have seen since the Conqueror joined them. If you would be a dutiful daughter, you will not ask Guy to forgo another marriage for you.”

“Maman …”

“Nay, I’d have you listen to me. When Guy raises his standard beside the Empress his enemies will increase, and there will be those who think to take what we have by siding with Stephen. But we do what we believe to be right, whatever the sacrifice.”

“I will not take William d’Evreux for husband, Maman,” Elizabeth stated flatly. “I’d sooner take the veil. Why can it not be Joanna who must wed? Or Eleanor? I did my duty once,” she reminded her mother.

“As does Isabella, for her husband’s family sides with us in this. And Joanna is to be betrothed to Clifford’s son. Would you have Eleanor given ere her courses are begun?”

“Nay, but—”

“Besides, you are the eldest and therefore the most desirable to many.”

“Tell them I am barren. Surely—”

“There are those whose heirs are secured,” Catherine reminded her. “They can afford the risk for the privilege of calling Guy of Rivaux kinsman. If not Evreux, perhaps William de Tracy—or Bernard d’Aubigny. Both have asked of your father, and neither is too old to please.”

“You
wed where you loved, Maman! Why is it that I must be given where I cannot?” Elizabeth cried. ‘Nay, but I’ll not do it! Ivo was enough!”

“I loved where I wed,” Catherine told her daughter mildly. “And if you had an inclination in the matter, I am sure that Guy—”

“My inclination is to remain unwed!”

Elizabeth rose, letting the rich silk she’d been embroidering slip from her lap. Clasping and unclasping her hands to control the panic that threatened to overwhelm her, she walked to the narrow window and unhooked the shutter. The cold, icy wind hit her face. Turning back, she managed to keep her voice calm.

“For the love Papa bears me, I’d ask to stay here, Maman.”

“For the love you bear Guy, I’d ask you to accept another marriage, Liza.” Cat stood also and moved to stand behind her daughter. Reaching upward to lay a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder, she was silent for a moment, then said softly, “There are those who will waver when the war goes ill, Liza. You could be the difference for Guy. We also serve your father’s cause by our sacrifices.”

“Papa swore—”

“And he will not force you to take another husband,” Cat admitted. “But I am asking you to consider the matter for his sake. Take a strong man, one who will mayhap give you children of your own, for I have never believed you barren, and—”

“Children who will stand below my lord’s other sons,” Elizabeth retorted bitterly. “Nay, I could not bear it.” She pulled away from her mother’s hand. “Nay, I’d not do it.” Swinging around, she dared to face Catherine. “After all, you did not wed Robert of Caen for your sire, did you?”

“If I did not, ‘twas because my father’s overlord gave me to Guy ere ‘twas done. And the result has been a happy one, Liza.”

“Well, mine own marriage was not, and I’d not—”

“What was there about Ivo that gives you such bitterness, daughter? Was he unkind? All you have ever said was that he did not beat you.”

“I’d not speak of him now.” Elizabeth moved past her mother toward the door. “I do not believe Papa would wish this. There must be another, less miserable duty.”

It had not gone as Catherine would have wished, not at all, and yet she had sown the seed, she supposed. “As your father’s daughter, you will do what is asked, Elizabeth. Think on that, I pray you.”

“Elizabeth met her youngest sister on the steep, winding stairs. “What ails you, Liza?” the child complained as she brushed by. “Is Maman … ?”

“You’d best prepare yourself to wed,” Elizabeth snapped, “for I will not.”

Eleanor of Rivaux turned to stare, wide-eyed, as the older girl continued down the steps. “Has Papa found a husband for me?” she called out before Elizabeth disappeared.

“William d’Evreux!”

“But he’s short!” the child wailed.

“Tell Maman that!”

For a moment Eleanor appeared ready to cry, then she brightened. “I’ll outlive him, I swear it!”

Elizabeth stopped and looked up. “Nay, lovey, but ‘twas my wicked tongue. You are overyoung to be given to anyone.”

“Well, I don’t want anyone but Papa or Richard,” the little girl decided, relieved.

“Neither do I.”

The tower stairs ended at one corner of Rivaux’s great hall, and as she emerged from them she could see Richard coming out of her father’s council. By the looks of it the meeting was not going well at all. His face was flushed and his dark hair was tousled, as though he’d been running his fingers through it. He’d been arguing, and it appeared he’d lost.

“They do not follow him?” she asked cautiously.

“Most follow him—save me,” he answered, betraying bitterness.

“What? Richard, I would you made sense. I thought you stood with the Empress also.”

“Much good it does me.” His dark eyes met hers. “But you do not appear pleased yourself.”

She started to deny it, but changed her mind. If he were angered also, he would be a formidable ally. “Aye. William d’Evreux has asked Papa for me.”

“ ’Tis not unexpected.”

“And Maman dares to think I should take him. Nay, but I will not!”

Despite her strong words, she looked ready to weep. And when she allowed him to slip a comforting arm about her shoulders, he knew she truly despaired. “Art overwrought, Liza. Papa would never give you where you would not,” he murmured soothingly.

“Maman says ’tis my duty to wed again, if not to d’Evreux, then to another.”

“There is some truth to that, and well you know it.” Nonetheless, he stroked her hair as he was wont to stroke Gilly’s. “Nay, but ’tis not so much she asks, for—”

“Richard!” she fairly shrieked, pulling away.

“Well, he can give Papa one hundred men at arms; and unless Gloucester chooses soon, we shall need every one of them,” he pointed out practically. “Besides, you ought to have a husband: ’tis unnatural to deny what God has made you, Liza. There are many good men who would count themselves fortunate to call you wife.”

“I am not like others,” she retorted. “I cannot be content a chattel in my husband’s house. Ivo was enough for me, brother, and I’d not have another.”

He sighed heavily. “Aye. It matters not to me, I suppose, for I am sent to Harlowe.”

“To Harlowe?” Elizabeth’s voice rose incredulously. “Why? Do we not fight in Normandy also? I’d think we’d stand where the Angevin stands, for is he not an ally to be watched? Methinks he wants Normandy more than he wants England’s crown for his wife.”

“Oh, make no mistake about it, Liza—Papa means to stand here.” His mouth twisted, and his eyes betrayed his disappointment. “He is to conquer whilst I defend. ’Tis the cost of being the only son, is it not? By the time Stephen receives Papa’s renunciation, I am safely behind Harlowe’s walls.”

“But Maman could hold Harlowe,” she protested. “It cannot be taken once preparations are made for siege.”

“Aye, but when he does not go to Stephen’s court on Epiphany, it will be forfeit. He does not fear for Rivaux or the Condes—they are Norman, and much of Normandy will stand against Stephen, he says. But there’s naught but our grandmother to hold Harlowe, Liza,” he answered tiredly. “And she grows old.”

“Brian FitzHenry …”

“Brian holds his own castles, and they are far more vulnerable than Harlowe. When Papa rebels, Brian becomes suspect also. And Papa will not ask him to risk losing his own lands for my inheritance. Think you I have not asked these things, Liza? Jesu, but I’d not do this! ’Tis naught but defense, and so I have argued to no avail, I tell you!”

“But—”

“ ‘Ask me to take my levies into the field—ask me to meet Stephen in battle,’ I said to him, but he would not listen! ’Tis still the same—he would protect me beneath
his
sword and buckler, Liza! So you will not be the only one asked to do that which you would not,” he finished glumly.

“Richard, he’d not ask it if there was anyone else to send. But Harlowe belonged to our grandsire—aye, and to his father before him—and, God be willing, ‘twill be yours also.”

“I am of his blood, Liza—I was born to lead men into battle! Any but a fool could hold Harlowe, and well he knows it!” For a moment, she thought he meant to choke on the injustice of it, but then he went on, “And so I am to sit. Jesu, but who leads the men of Celesin into battle? Or the men of Ardwyck? ’Tis my right to fight beneath mine own standard, is it not?”