Anita Mills (34 page)

They moved away, and those who’d gathered moved with them, ever eager for opportunities to ingratiate themselves with their overgenerous king. Several sidestepped Giles as though his presence there was an offense to them. And as they left the words “Butcher” and “border thief” floated back to him. A sense of loneliness and isolation washed over him, for this time he had not even Willie.

There was that about a siege that made men weary and tempers short from the enforced idleness. Many passed the wait by following Stephen to hunt in the New Forest, but Giles chose to spend his time sharpening his battle skills. Most mornings he and Lang Gib, called Gilbert of Kilburnie by the English, took his weaponry to the field where the squires, for want of much else to do, had set up their quintains. And when Gib complained of it Giles reminded him that there was more to a pitched battle than a border raid.

More used to battle-axe than either sword or lance, they practiced with the latter until both horses and men were lathered. It was not until Giles pulled off his plain overtunic to wipe his face with the linen beneath that he noted they were watched by Reyner of Eury. As Gib dropped down to rest, Giles picked up his axe, tested the edge, and swung it with the skill of a Scot.

The count moved closer as though he would speak to Giles, but the younger man ignored him until Reyner called out, “By the bones of God, but you make yourself scarce to Stephen’s counsel, Giles of Moray! We noted your absence at the hunt this morning.”

“Aye.” Giles pushed back his dripping hair with his arm, then shielded his eyes against the sun. “I had naught of import to say.”

“If you would rise you had best learn to flatter him, for he is a man who would think himself well liked.”

“I rise well enough.”

Reyner stopped before him. “Aye, for you have taken Rivaux’s proud daughter, have you not?” When Giles said nothing, he smiled knowingly. “I’ll warrant you stole her, else she’d not have stomached any but a count. God’s blood, but the witch overvalues herself.”

Giles grunted, and Reyner took it to be agreement.

“What a cup of gall you have given Guy to drink, for she had her pride of him. Aye, they are alike in that. Alas, I envy you not the task of taming her. She vexed my poor Ivo right well.”

“She suits me well enough.”

“I have heard he quarrels with you for it,” he went on, ignoring the set of Giles’ jaw. “And if any knew the truth of it, he’d sit ho higher than you.” His eyes dropped to the axe, and he shook his head. “ ’Tis not a weapon I’d choose, I think.”

“It suits me also. And I care not where he sits.”

Giles’ black eyes were so cold that the count shivered. Thinking that Elizabeth must have what she deserved in this border lout, he still persevered, smiling slyly. “He has much, Count Guy—more than any but Gloucester, mayhap.”

“Mayhap. And I care not for that either.”

“Nay, you mistake me by your manner, Giles of Moray,” Reyner assured him. “If you have wed his daughter, you may yet profit of it.” He waited expectantly and was disappointed. Finally he went on, saying, “When King Stephen wins this war, who is to say that the husband of Elizabeth shall not share in what he takes of Rivaux?”

“You forget that Count Guy has a son.”

“The hawklet? Nay, when I am done, he will not have the right,” he answered cryptically. “And Stephen will bestow his lands where he will. ’Twill be an easy thing to argue with a fool that some of them ought to go to the one who has wed the daughter in good faith.” He leaned so close that Giles had to hold his breath. “Aye, aid me, and I will see ’tis you. What say you—would you have Harlowe? Or even the Condes?”

The hairs prickled at the back of the younger man’s neck. “If I were fool enough to dream of such, I’d ask for Rivaux itself,” he retorted.

“Nay. Rivaux will be mine.”

He knew that Reyner tempted him, but he knew not why. He fingered the sharp blade as though to test its edge again, considering whether to lead on the Count of Eury or to walk away. “You waste your riddles, my lord, for Count Guy will hold his lands,” he said finally.

“When I am done, there’ll be none to stand for him,” Reyner boasted. “When I am done, he will be as hated as his sire. Together, Butcher, we can bring him down.” Again he leaned into Giles’ face. “Would you join me to gain Stephen’s favor? Would you join me to gain Harlowe?”

“Riddles gain me naught, my lord.” He held the axe up before the sun, letting the reflection strike the older man’s eyes. “Nay. And I’d not be called Butcher, my lord,” he added coldly.

Reyner shielded his eyes. “He will come for her. Guy will come for his daughter. Think on it,” he urged. “If he is delivered to Stephen, the reward will be great.”

“Stephen would pardon him. He is Guy of Rivaux.”

“Is he?” Reyner asked softly. “Mayhap your right is as great as his. Think on it,” he repeated. “And if you would aid me, we will send for his daughter.”

Giles raised the axe again, and the older man stepped back warily. For a moment Reyner’s eyes betrayed fear as the blade flashed, a slash of silver cutting the air. He blenched visibly at the sound of metal biting wood, and when he dared to look the axehead was imbedded so deeply in a quintain that the post was nearly sundered. Beneath it, the straw slid from the sacking.

“Merciful Jesu! You would have cleaved a man in half!”

“Aye.” Giles reached to retrieve his blade, wrenching it from the splintered wood. “ ’Tis my weapon of choice.” His black eyes met Reyner’s. “And if you would take Guy of Rivaux, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

“I’d thought there was no bond between you,” Reyner said stiffly. “He does not accept you.”

“There is his daughter.”

Giles leaned on his axe, watching Eury leave him, knowing he’d gained an enemy for naught. For a moment he considered sending word to Willie to take Elizabeth elsewhere, but the risk was too great. He looked down to his hands, seeing again the thick scars that lay across his palms. He’d placed those hands between Stephen’s, setting himself against his own sovereign, jeopardizing all he had to keep Rivaux’s green-eyed daughter. The image of her as she was when he left her came to mind, and his ears echoed her earlier words like a refrain:
I am ashamed of loving you
…
ashamed of loving you
…

“My lord, you have dulled your blade,” Lang Gib said behind him.

Giles looked down as though he came from another place, then exhaled heavily. “Aye. We’d best see it sharpened, for I expect to have need of it. And tell the others I’d have none speak of Wycklow here.”

For several weeks Eleanor watched her granddaughter, saying little. Despite the fact that the sickness passed, neither Elizabeth’s appetite nor her spirits improved. Finally the old woman could stand it no longer.

“ ’Tis time that she returned to her lord,” she declared to Richard.

“He is with Stephen,” he reminded her.

“Because we have pushed him there.”

“She and I have both written Papa on it, but I know not if the letters have reached him. Stephen’s queen blockades the ports, that Gloucester and the Empress cannot land.” He swung around to face her. “Despite what she has said of him, I cannot like this Butcher.”

“He is not unlike you, Richard.”

“So she says also, and I can scarce be flattered,” he retorted. “He had not the right to take her.”

“You had not the right to take Gilliane de Lacey,” she said softly. “And Guy had not the right to wed my Cat, nor Roger to wed me.”

“God’s bones, Grandmere, but we are above the lord of Dunashie!”

“Are you?”

His eyes met hers almost defiantly. “If you would speak of Papa’s blood, I’d not have you forget that his sire was born a Norman count, so ’tis not the same.”

“By that measure, Gilliane is beneath you also.”

“What would you have me do? I wrote Papa for Liza, but afore God, I’ll not send her to Stephen’s court! ’Twould be delivering a hostage to him, Grandmere.”

“I’d have you send to her husband—aye, and I’d have you send her where he would have her. She belongs to him. ’Tis to him you should write.”

“I’ve naught to say to him. Besides, she will not go, for she does not forget her oath to Papa.”

“She spoke to you of this?”

“Aye. And I told her that I would hold Harlowe, but she says ’twas she who swore.” But even as he spoke it he knew he could make her go. Had she not as much as admitted that she wished she had not done it—that she wished she were but as other women? I
would be as Gilly … as Catherine of the Condes as Eleanor of Nantes. I
’
d be loved as they have been loved,
she’d said. “I told her to go home and bear her babe at Dunashie.”

“She must be absolved from her oath.”

“Sweet Jesu, but I am not Papa!”

“You can take her place.”

“I told her, but she refused.”

“Did you?” She had to crane her neck to look up at him. “ ’Tis not her place to defend Harlowe, oath or no, Richard. ’Twill be yours, not hers, one day.” She lifted a thin, parchment-skinned hand to touch his cheek, brushing it lovingly. “And there’s none as I’d rather had it, for you give me pride in you. Aye, Guy gave us what we lacked when he made a son in his image.”

“ ’Tis hard to be his son.” Nonetheless he caught her hand and held it against his face, pressing a kiss into the small palm. “ ’Tis fierce blood to be born to, Grandmere.”

“The better to hold what we have won,” she murmured softly. “And this Giles is such a one also.”

“You like him?”

“Aye, for he has loved Elizabeth.”

And it was as though he heard his sister’s words again.
Tell me you will not harm one I love as much as you and Papa.
He was silent for a moment, then nodded, sighing. “I will speak to her,” he promised. “I’ll send her back whence she is come.” He released her hand and stepped back, smiling ruefully at the tiny woman before him. “ ’Tis not only the men who are strong-willed in this family. Full half the steel in me comes from the Cat, and I suspect she had it from you.”

“Nay.” She shook her head, smiling back mistily. “ ’Twas from Roger. He showed her a woman’s worth to a man.”

“ ’Twas a lesson well learned.”

He found Elizabeth alone in the garden, her head bent over her embroidery, and closer inspection revealed she worked a fine gown suitable for a babe’s christening. She held up the small garment and surveyed it critically, then she saw him. “Today I would that I had Gilly with me, for she sews better than I. And I’d have him look well when he is named.”

He reached to run a fingertip along the rich embroidery that circled the tiny neck opening. “I’ll warrant Dunashie has never seen anything half so rich, Liza.”

“We are not so poor there as you would think,” she retorted, pulling it back.

“Nay, you mistake me.” He looked about the garden. “Where is your Scots giant?”

“Willie? When last I saw him, he was going to show your squire the proper employment of a battle-axe. It seems the poor fellow was convinced the lance was the superior weapon. Why?”

“If I were this Giles I’d be jealous of him, for he guards you like a mastiff his bone.”

“He fears that if harm comes to me Giles will never let him see Dunashie again.” She folded the small gown neatly in her lap, and smiled up at him. “I have sworn every oath he could think, even on his dagger, that I would return to his brother.” Laying her hand over her stomach, she nodded. “Aye, on my soul and the soul of my babe as well.”

His own face sobered. “Liza, I’d walk to the chapel with you.”

“The chapel? ’Tis the last place I’d think to see you, save at Mass, brother.”

“I pray often, and well you know it.”

“Nay, I do not.”

“Well, I’ll warrant I pray more than your Butcher,” he conceded. “Or is he overly pious?”

“Nay.” She considered the matter briefly, then shook her head. “He has convinced himself his soul is lost, so he prays not at all that I have heard.”

“And you have not been able to instill your piety in him?” he teased, ready to duck should she swing on him.

“He believes my piety to be lacking also,” she answered mildly, rising. “But we hear Mass each morning, so our people will benefit from God’s word. And Dunashie’s confessor is not overly given to penance, so I do not mind it.” One corner of her mouth twitched and her green eyes betrayed her amusement. “Indeed, but when I confessed to lying abed too long, I had only to say one prayer.”

“I should have to confess that every morning when I am with Gilly,” he admitted frankly. “Now I can only say that I burn.”

She looked away, remembering that Giles had said much the same when she had denied him. “Well,” she sighed, “if we are to pray over that, I will confess to it also.”

“We are much alike, Liza,” he decided, reaching to hold the gate for her. “We do nothing with half a heart.”

Still carrying the small dress she made for her babe, she fell into step beside him, feeling this day as though she shared more than her blood with him. They
were
much alike, she conceded, as she measured her shoulder against his. If she’d been born male and given those flecked dark eyes, with another three stone she could have passed for him. And if they’d quarreled and disputed in the years since she’d been born, ’twas that they were both possessed of the same fiery temper.

Halfway across the cobbled yard he reached for her hand, holding it as he walked. And the warm strength in his fingers reminded her of her husband. “Would I like this Giles of Moray?” he asked suddenly, breaking into her reverie.

“I know not,” she admitted frankly, “but I have hoped you would.”

“Well, if you would tell me again that he is much like me, I’d not hear it. I’d hear instead why it is that you have taken him for husband. I’d hear why you have chosen to love him when you could have had a dozen others.”

“In chapel?” A low, throaty chuckle escaped her. “Nay, ’twould not be the place.”

He stopped to lean against the chapel wall, grinning again. “Surely there must be more to him than that.” The gold flecks in his eyes seemed to dance as he faced her. “But you can tell me before we go in. Myself, I have never seen any sin in any of it. I always thought that God did not give us bodies without expecting us to use them.”