Courtly Love (40 page)

N
ellwyn bustled into the great hall, a mother hen in search of her errant chicks, her color high and her eyes sparkling. "He be here, Lord Gyles, below in the courtyard. These old eyes have never seen such finery—looks like one of them ancient gods me lamb was always reading about. Alan, you come along now, 'tis time ye were back in the nursery. Where be Evan?" Evan's head appeared between his father's legs and he gave a merry gurgle to his old nurse, crawling with amazing dexterity beneath a table when Nellwyn made to pick him up.

"Aye, ye little rascal, ye would choose to play yer games now!" Nellwyn scolded as Alan ducked beneath the table to join his brother. "Ye two will be the end of me—that be what ye wish?"

"See what awaits you?" Bryan grinned down at Catherine from his place behind her chair.

"Leave the boys, Nellwyn," Gyles ordered with a smile. " Twill do no harm. Alan, bring Evan out from there immediately!"

The visitor entered and for a moment no one spoke, and then Catherine sank into a curtsy as Gyles and Bryan bowed. The voice which broke the silence was familiar, a thread of humor coloring the tone.

"Rise, my lords and lady." Henry, youngest son of the royal family, dropped his sword onto a table and strode forward to greet each in turn. "Lord Bryan, you look well. And dear Lady Catherine—ah! my congratulations to you."

Henry turned to Gyles, their eyes clashing in remembrance before Henry smiled and clasped Gyles's forearm. "As ever, Lord Gyles, you appear to enjoy the best of health. From the missive you sent my father, the king, I expected to find Camden a haven for carrion crows. And your lady, Lord Gyles, is she not present?"

Catherine gave a muted cry and Henry looked at her sharply, noting the pallor of her face, which was not caused by the babe she carried.

"We ... I thought word had reached the court," Gyles said in a quiet voice. "My lady was killed September last."

A spasm crossed Henry's face. "We had not heard —my condolences, Lord Gyles. May I ask—"

" Tis the reason I wrote the king." Gyles indicated a chair. "Will you not be seated, Your Highness? 'Tis a long tale and, I fear, a most unpleasant one."

Catherine withdrew as the three men arranged themselves at a table. Bryan spoke first, beginning with the attack upon his riding party that had culminated in Serena's death and his own injury. Richard's part was explained, his murder of Aurelia bringing a pained expression to Bryan's eyes as he remembered his friend dying in his arms.

"Will Balfour be taken from Richard's father?" Bryan asked of Henry. "He has no other heirs—not even a daughter—and he is an old man. Richard's death has broken him, the loss of Balfour would kill him."

"He knew naught of Richard's plan?" At the shake of Bryan's head, Henry sighed. "In that case, I see no reason to bring an innocent man more sorrow. Balfour's lands shall remain intact. Proceed."

Gyles took up the tale, his deep, melodious voice relating the plot Beda had revealed to him. Not sparing his own guilt, Gyles explained Kier's death and his own part in disposing of the body of his brother. His liaison with Beda Gyles kept to himself, for it had only a slight bearing upon the whole. He said only that he was to have wed his brother's wife. Henry said little during the narration, interrupting occasionally to ask a question, but otherwise he silently contemplated the coats-of-arms hanging on the wall.

Justice—his father had sent him to Camden to mete out justice. How could justice be delivered to the dead? William Rufus should have been sent instead; he would one day rule England, not Henry. And he, Henry, was to sit in judgment, for when such wealthy lands were involved, William insisted upon discretion. Land! Henry sighed inwardly when Gyles rested from his narration to take a drink of wine. Two—-no, four, Henry corrected himself—four people sacrificed for a few acres of land. Four lives wasted; offered up on the altar of greed. Wanton destruction: disgusting and unavoidable.

Henry's well-ordered mind rebelled against the illogical, improbable facts Gyles was so calmly delivering. Was it for this William had crossed the channel? So that innocents could be slaughtered, brave men had fought and died? This was the kind of legacy William Rufus would bestow upon England, Henry thought angrily. His brother would like nothing better than to have families displaced so the crown would fall heir to the lands and their richness. How William would enjoy destroying Serena's husband . . . and son. Oh yes, Serena's son, of that there could be no doubt. Henry studied the babe now playing quietly with his brother, a babe who in a different time and a different place might have been his own. Henry drove that disturbing thought from his mind and returned to his perusal of the coats-of-arms while Gyles concluded his story.

"May I see Lady Beda?" Henry requested when Gyles had finished.

"As you wish, Your Highness, but—" warned Gyles, "—'twill serve no purpose. Lady Beda will not answer any questions you may put to her and she will deny any charges I make."

Gyles led his royal guest through the second level of the castle and up a narrow, winding staircase to a turret chamber on the side of the castle farthest away from the family wing.

"I felt 'twas best," Gyles explained as he lifted the bar from the door. "You can appreciate my plight, I am certain, Your Highness. I have no desire for my children to have any contact with Lady Beda. And 'twas for my own sake as well; had she freedom of my home I believe I would have killed her."

The door swung open to reveal a small but well-appointed chamber, the spring sunlight lying in bright pools on the worn stone floor. Henry stood to one side as Gyles closed the door and leaned back against the panel, placing himself between his prisoner and freedom.

"Beda, I have brought you a visitor." Gyles's voice was cold, the hostility he felt barely concealed.

Beda rose from her seat near a window. "Gyles, I must insist again that you release me immediately! I—" Beda's eyes widened when Henry stepped forward and she fell to her knees. "Your Majesty! How glad I am someone has come to my rescue. I have been kept here by this—this beast against my will."

"On a mere whim?" Henry did not raise Beda to her feet but instead rested a hip negligently upon the table, his eyes hooded.

"No whim, Your Majesty." Beda cast a scornful look at Gyles. "I cannot imagine what he has said that would bring you to Camden, but I pray you, do not leave me to his devices. He bears a hatred of the old lord's family and myself, and I do fear for my very life at his hands." Henry gave no sign that he believed her and Beda felt a moment of uncertainty before rallying her courage. Surely Gyles would not have mentioned Kier's death, for if he did, Gyles would also have to implicate himself. Beda resolutely squared her shoulders and pointed a shaking finger at Gyles. "He is responsible for the death of my husband, Your Highness. I dared not speak before now for he would surely have taken his revenge upon me."

"You were at court two winters ago, were you not, Lady Beda?" Henry asked as he toyed with a goblet. "Why did you not approach the king with this matter?"

"I-I dared not, Your Majesty!" Beda gasped. "He ... I was watched constantly."

Gyles snorted in derision. "No doubt you were, Beda, but undoubtedly by whoever shared your bed, not by me."

Beda's hissed intake of air brought a lifted eyebrow from Gyles and a quickly hidden smile from Henry.

"Your Majesty, must I listen to insults from one such as he?" Beda turned an imploring gaze on Henry. "I appeal to you, Your Majesty—I have no one to turn to in my time of need, save the king's well-known justice."

"And justice you shall have, Lady Beda," Henry told her with a winning smile. "I desire only the truth in this matter and would have your side of the tale I have been told. Please, rise, be seated. I wish you to be comfortable in the telling." Henry deposited Beda in a chair and waited, an expectant look in his eyes.

Beda shifted beneath the prince's direct gaze. What had Gyles told Henry? Had he admitted his part in Kier's death or had Gyles merely laid the blame for Serena's death on her shoulders? Beda glanced nervously at the two men and suddenly wished she had never returned to Camden.

"I ... I do not know what you have been told, Your Majesty," Beda said sullenly. "May I know the charges against me?"

Henry drew back in surprise. "But, Lady Beda, what charges could possibly have been levied against you? You have said you fear for your life at the hands of Lord Gyles—I but wish to know why."

"I saw Gyles murder my husband, Your Majesty," Beda repeated. " Tis because of that he wishes me dead."

"If what you say is true—" Henry gazed thoughtfully at Beda "—in his place I would have killed you also. Immediately. Why do you suppose Lord Gyles waited so long?"

"He ... he used me most vilely, Your Majesty! He made me his harlot—Lady Mara and Lady Lydia will testify to that."

"Even after his marriage?" Henry glanced incredulously at Gyles. "M'lord, have you no shame? You preferred this—" he waved a hand at Beda, "—to your wife? I fear, Lord Gyles, your many years of warring have left you addlepated. But, Lady Beda, I have it within my power to set aright the injustices done to you." Beda's features brightened only to darken at Henry's next words. "You shall marry Lord Gyles and regain the position you were so shamefully deprived of."

The look in Gyles's eyes stilled Beda's acceptance.
Oh, no
, Beda thought desperately. Where before her plans had centered around once again being the Lady of Camden, Beda now knew that if she agreed to Henry's offer she would be going willingly to her own execution. Gyles would not really kill her, of course, but his face told Beda he would like nothing better than having her at his mercy for the rest of her life. Gyles knew she was in part responsible for Serena's death and Beda would pay dearly for that guilt. Her life was far too precious to be wasted because of one Saxon's death.

"I ... I thank you, Your Majesty, b-but I do not... cannot wed Lord Gyles."

* * *

They returned to the great hall and Gyles calmly poured a goblet of wine for each of them.

"Beda has never repeated her story?" Henry inclined his head in thanks as he accepted the wine.

"Nay." Gyles relaxed in his chair. "Since admitting her guilt she has not uttered another word about the plot."

"And no one else heard her confession?" Gyles shook his head.

"What a coil!" Henry groaned. "A crime such as this should be tried at court."

Gyles contemplated his goblet. "With no witnesses, a woman who refuses to acknowledge any conspiracy as the accused, and a bastard knight? With all respect, Your Highness, do you think that is wise?"

Henry swore and began to pace. "You are right— naught would be gained if we aired this at court. Beda could be punished for Kier's death, but that would entail a scandal I do not believe England should be subjected to at this time, and Richard and Aurelia have already paid with their lives."

Gyles raised his eyes to Henry. "And my sentence, Your Highness? What is my punishment for my part in Kier's death?"

A child's laugh rang out from the nursery.

"You also have paid for your crime. I would not have exacted so cruel a price." Henry returned to his chair. "No one else will know—whoever attacked Bryan's party will not dare to admit to it—though I shall have to tell the king all that has transpired. He will agree with my decision. Tis precisely this my father hoped to avoid; overlord murdering overlord for land can only tear England apart. I shall speak with Bryan and Catherine and you should instruct your sister and her husband thusly: There was no plot, Aurelia was murdered because Richard's crazed mind believed her guilty of Serena's death. Serena, unhappily, fell prey to a band of thieves. Beda has become ill and has returned to Normandy—I shall arrange that myself and see to it she remains there. And Kier's death was purely accidental, his horse dragged him into the river and his body was never found."

"You are most generous, Your Highness."

"Nay, I am not; I am doing only what is best for England."
How glibly you lie,
Henry's mind taunted.
Best for England? Most assuredly, but also best for Serena's son, the son that could have been yours; for you would never forgive yourself if you denied him his inheritance.
"The guilty have found their punishment and the innocent have also suffered enough. Naught can be gained by retelling the story. I bid you good day, Lord Gyles."

Our Lady of Sorrow

T
he cloister of Our Lady Of Sorrow lay cradled amidst the ancient oaks and yews that had witnessed the rites of the druids, the invasion of Roman legions come to subdue the war-like Celts and, as evidenced by the chapel and surrounding buildings, the introduction of Christianity to a heathen England. The cloister had survived for nearly three centuries; far back from any well-traveled road, visitors were a rare occurrence as were thieves, for there was no great wealth in the nunnery. The river from which the member of the convent carried the water for washing, cooking, drinking, and cleaning was too shallow to admit any but the lightest crafts, so Our Lady of Sorrow had been spared the destruction the Vikings and Danes had so carelessly wreaked upon the lands.