Castle of Dreams (49 page)

“Sir Guy of Adderbury, is it?” The old fellow
looked at him through rheumy eyes. “I remember you when you were a
page. You spent a lot more time than you should have in the
kitchens. A fine, strong lad you were then, with an eye for the
wenches.”

Guy slipped the man a coin.

“Do you remember a girl named Kate, who
worked here when I was a page?” Guy asked, and held his breath
while the man thought, scratching the thin grey hair behind one
ear.

“Kate?”

A pause long enough to make Guy want to shake
the fellow followed. He restrained himself and contemplated handing
over another coin instead. Before he could, the man nodded. “There
was a Kate who married Hugh the armorer. Is that the Kate you
want?”

“I’ll soon find out. Do you know where she
lives?”

“It’s not far from here. Hugh still does work
for the palace. Now let me see.”

The old man’s directions were garbled, and it
took Guy half the afternoon to find the house, but at last he stood
before it. It was well-built and neat, set across a small courtyard
from the armorer’s shop, from which issued the clanging sounds of
hammer on metal. A girl of ten or so accosted Guy as he lifted his
hand to knock at the door of the house. Under her linen scarf the
girl had bright orange-red hair, and freckles splashed across her
snub nose.

“You’ll want my father, sir,” the girl said,
pointing in the direction of the noise coming from the other
building. “He’s over there.”

“I think it’s your mother I should speak to,”
Guy replied. “Is she home?”

“Follow me, sir.” The girl bobbed a curtsey
and set off around the corner of the house, Guy following her. She
led him in the back door to the kitchen, where a plump, middle-aged
woman bent over a table kneading bread, her arms dusted with flour
to the edges of her rolled-up sleeves.

“Here’s a lord to see you, mam,” said the
girl.

“Katie, love, it can’t be for me. Take him to
your father.” The woman turned, brushing a wisp of stray hair off
her face – tarnished brass mixed with grey now, Guy noticed – and
gaped at him, her flour-smudged face filling with surprise. “Master
Guy.”

“Hello, Kate.”

“I mean, Lord Guy. What do you want of
me?”

“Not what I used to want, I assure you. I
only need to ask you a question or two and have an honest answer
from you.” Guy smiled at her in open friendliness, and she
relaxed.

“Go on, Katie,” the older Kate said to her
daughter. “Go sweep the courtyard, and close the door after you.
Will you sit, Lord Guy? Would you like a mug of ale?” Kate snatched
up a cloth and dusted flour off a stool.

“Let me put it by the table, and you can go
on with your work while we talk,” Guy said, picking up the stool.
She gave him a pewter mug of ale, and he sat down and watched her
as she went back to the bread dough, kneading it with strong,
well-muscled arms. She had grown stout, the hair that escaped from
under her linen scarf was grey indeed, and the once-smooth face had
wrinkles about the honest grey eyes. There were still a few
freckles on her pert nose. She looked happy. He guessed she had
made Hugh the armorer a good wife.

“Well,” she asked, “what are your
questions?”

“I need to know,” Guy said, wishing there
were an easier way to do this, “If you ever came to me at
night.”

“What?” She stared at him, her arms deep in
bread dough. “What did you say?”

“Did we ever make love? In the dark, when I
could not see your face?”

“With you, you silly boy? You lout? You,
always trying to put your arms around me? Never!” She slapped at
the dough as if she were slapping the foolish youth he had once
been, before she looked straight at him again, and saw how serious
he was. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I was hoping we had.” Guy’s pain sounded in
his voice, and she heard it.

“If we had, you’d remember it,” she said. She
covered the dough with a clean cloth and then sat down across the
table from him.

“I had no dowry, like a great lady has,” Kate
said. “I had only one gift to bring to the man I married. My
maidenhead. I never had aught to do with any man until the night of
my wedding. I love my Hugh and he loves me. I have never looked at
another man. You and I never made love.”

“I wish it had been you,” Guy said.

“Why me?”

“Because if it was not you who came to me
that night, then it was someone it should not have been,” he
replied.

“It should not have been me, either,” Kate
said firmly. “Did something wrong come of it?”

“Yes.” Guy put both his hands on the table,
heaving himself to his feet. He felt ancient, weighted down by sin
and self-disgust and helpless anger at Isabel. How like her to
carelessly use him to get what she wanted and never stop to think
what his feelings might be if he ever found out what she and he had
done. In that moment he knew surely and certainly that Thomas was
his own son. He had been a fool to doubt it. One need only look at
the boy to see it.

“If you did not know who the woman was, you
can’t be blamed,” Kate said, still sitting at the table.

“I participated.” The words were filled with
self-loathing.

“I’m sure you did.” Kate chuckled. “You
always were a randy boy. How old were you?”

“Fourteen and a half.”

“So young? Well, I wouldn’t worry about it
now, especially if it only happened the once. I think you don’t
like the woman in this, and you’re not planning to do it
again?”

“No. Never.”

“D’you want my advice?”

He looked at her over the rim of the pewter
mug. It was good ale. Hugh the armorer had done well for himself.
Married well, too. Good, sensible, honest Kate. She was treating
him like an equal, not like a noble. She had always treated him
that way. She’d never said
my lord.
It was one of the
reasons he had loved her.

“Find a priest,” Kate said, “Make your
confession, do your penance. Get it off your soul and then forget
about it.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“You nobles.” Kate made an impatient gesture.
“No common sense at all.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” He put down the empty
mug.

“I know I am. Don’t look back, I say. Look to
the future.”

“The future.” He pulled out a packet and
handed it to her. He had known she would never accept money, but
this gift she would like. He watched her open it and hold the
narrow rolls of brown bark in her plump, flour-covered fingers.

“Cinnamon. It’s very dear.” She rose and made
as if to hand the spice back to him. He curled her fingers over the
bundle.

“So are you dear, Kate.” He kissed her cheek
and went out of the warm, fragrant kitchen, into the courtyard. He
came face to face with the leather-aproned Hugh. The armorer had
brown eyes and hair, a ruddy, open face, A good man, by the look of
him. Lucky Kate. And the girl beside her father who would soon be
as pretty as her mother had once been.

“Good day to you, my lord,” Hugh said,
obviously puzzled.

“And to you, sir.” Let Kate explain whatever
she wanted. Guy left.

He had the truth at last, and it ought to
have made him miserable. Instead, though he wasn’t sure how, Kate
had cleansed him.
Find a priest,
she had said. He took her
advice, and after telling the whole story was surprised at the mild
penance he was given. He made a sizable donation to the church, not
out of any residual guilt but simply because it pleased him to do
so.

He had a son. He could not acknowledge
Thomas, for it would hurt the boy too much to learn the truth, but
he could see to it that Thomas was well provided for, and if he
never had another son, he could leave all he had to Thomas with a
mind free from doubt. It was with the lightest of hearts that he
went to see the king.

“So you let that traitor Walter fitz Alan
live, did you?” King Henry said as Guy finished the long story of
treachery and death. “You set a bad example there, Guy.”

“I think not, my lord. Walter’s brother,
Baldwin, is so angry that Walter has disgraced their family that he
will make an excellent gaoler, at no expense to you.” Guy saw a
twinkle in Henry’s eye at that idea and hastened to add, “Any man
of Walter’s pride would prefer death to unknighting. You gave me
leave to punish Walter in any way I saw fit, and this was the worst
sentence I could think of, knowing your dislike of wasteful
violence.”

“Aye, you are right about that. And as for
Lady Isabel,” here Henry began to chuckle and then to laugh
heartily as the full implication of Guy’s sentence on Walter
finally dawned on him. “Oh, you are clever, my friend. This
punishes her, too, without need of my royal word for it. Given
Isabel’s high ambition, to be forced to spend the rest of her life
in some cramped lodge in Brittany, with no hope of advancement in
her status, no money to spend on clothes, and no one to see her
wear them even if she had them, I can’t think of a worse fate for
her. And as for Walter, unknighted, burdened with Isabel and her
reproaches for the rest of his life, that is vengeance of a high
order. Your time in the East was well spent, Guy. You learned
subtlety from the infidels.” Henry went off into laughter again.
Some time passed before he wiped his eyes and sobered, then
continued.

“The manor of Tynant, which was given to
Walter by the Earl of Chester, has just been presented to me as a
gift from my friend the earl. A sign of his loyalty, he said. Dear
Chester, always so thoughtful. He never mentioned that he doesn’t
hold Tynant since you took it from Walter.” Henry grinned. “I am
awarding the manor to you, Guy. You have earned it.”

“I thank you, my lord.” It would make a good
holding for Geoffrey, who deserved it equally, Guy thought.

“Now,” Henry went on, “as to your own future.
I understand you have taken as mistress a woman who should by
rights be my ward.”

“I beg your pardon?” Guy knew Reynaud had
always written his own confidential reports to the king. He had
expected it would be so, and since he had never done anything that
might anger the king or cause Henry to distrust him in any way, it
had not disturbed him. Now he realized that Reynaud must have told
the king about Meredith.

“Meredith of Kelsey, in Mercia,” Henry said,
“Only child of Lord Ranaulf of Kelsey, now deceased.”

“I know Meredith is illegitimate,” Guy said.
Yes, this was surely Reynaud’s doing. He must have suggested that
Henry have some investigation made into Meredith’s past. “Her
father exercised his lordly rights over her mother, but never
acknowledged the child. How could she become your ward?”

“I assume she has told you something of her
history.” When Guy assented, Henry went on. “The Lady Branwen, a
Welsh noblewoman, I believe, took Meredith away from Lord Ranaulf’s
domain, which was against the law. Meredith belonged to Ranaulf, as
did Branwen, through her marriage to one Alfric, a villein of
Kelsey. When Ranaulf returned to Kelsey and discovered what had
happened in his absence, he sent out searchers to look for them,
stating before witnesses that not only was the older woman his
villein, the younger woman was his daughter and he wanted her back.
It seems he had some idea of marrying the girl to one of his
friends. But the search came too late. The pair had vanished by
then and were never seen again. It was believed they were both
dead. Lord Ranaulf thought no more of the matter. He died two years
ago, leaving no legitimate heirs, and so far as my agents can
discover, no living bastards, save Meredith. At Ranaulf s death,
his lands escheated to the crown.”

“Most noblemen have illegitimate children,
and this Lord Ranaulf apparently was of no great importance,” Guy
said, unable to discern where Henry was leading with all of this.
“What are you suggesting, sire?”

“Do you not think Meredith deserves some
recompense for all she has suffered because of Walter fitz Alan?
Some repayment for her rescue of Thomas?”

“Indeed, yes. But I still do not fully
understand your intentions, my lord.”

“Do you not?” Henry had an odd look on his
face, half humorous, half sly. “It seems to me only fair that Lord
Ranaulf’s lands should be attached to Meredith’s person as a dowry.
An ample reward, don’t you agree? And an appropriate one. Then, I
feel it will be my duty as her legal guardian to find her a good
husband to hold those lands for her.”

A husband for Meredith? One of Henry’s
nobles? No, Meredith belonged with him, in Wales, at Afoncaer.

“You will have trouble finding a Norman to
marry her, my lord. She is half Saxon.” Guy did not add that his
open relationship with Meredith would also prevent her from finding
a Norman husband. He hoped Henry never found her a husband.

“My own queen is half Saxon,” Henry reminded
him serenely.

“Her Majesty is also the daughter of the king
of Scotland,” Guy replied. “Your marriage, as all royal marriages
must be, was a political arrangement.”

“Not entirely.” Henry smiled, “I saw the
advantages in mingling Norman blood with Saxon. It must happen if
we are to hold this kingdom securely. But I also saw the woman,
good and kind and loving. Matilda is the best of wives. Would not
your Meredith be the same? In appreciation of your recent efforts
in my behalf, I would even consider remitting the marriage tax in
your case.”

“My lord, I do not under-”

“Marry her, Guy.” There could be no mistaking
Henry’s tone. This was no request or suggestion, it was a royal
command. Guy did not know whether to bless or curse Reynaud, who
surely was the source of this decision of Henry’s. Guy did not want
to marry, not ever, but Meredith…Meredith was his. She would not be
wed to some unknown Norman noble. She would not leave Afoncaer. Guy
knelt before his king, concealing his sudden excitement as best he
could. “Yes, my lord,” he said humbly.