Simon's Lady (12 page)

She said, without turning around, “I hope that my couriers did not trouble you too much in your household routine.”

“They did not trouble me, in any event,” he replied, “because I have spent much of my time at the Tower in the past few days, as you may have noticed.”

She paused and said, “I have noticed.”

“And I am to spend the night here tonight.”

She made the mistake of stopping and turning around to look at him. It was a mistake because she was two steps below him and had to look up. She had always used her height to advantage with Canute, with whom she could speak on eye level, but since Beresford was taller by a head to begin with, she felt a double disadvantage at her position on the stairs. He had been about to take the next step down. The muscles of his thigh were flexed in definition below his tunic. The lower edge of the tunic grazed her breast when she turned toward him.

She felt an unexpected spark at this breath of contact. What was Beresford telling her? she wondered. That he was not going to make free with Ermina on the eve of their marriage? She looked into his eyes but did not find any answers in their cool, gray depths. Instead, she felt his strength as he stood above her on the stair and saw a man who could wield a sword with beauty, who could bend gracefully before a little girl and who could obviously satisfy a desiring woman. She felt herself blush, and turned around to continue her descent.

“That will save you much trouble in the morning,” she commented, stepping down and away from him, “to be already here at the Tower.”

“It will save me much trouble this evening as well.”

“Indeed?” she replied. “How so?”

“If I am here, I may see to those items that require my attention,” he answered offhandedly.

“Naturally,” she said then pressed, “Is it some piece of court business that requires your attention now?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Her ears pricked up, but before she could think of the most effective angle from which to respond to this provocative comment, he continued. “And the hall is too crowded for the kind of conversation I want.”

She had arrived at the bottom step. Beresford was just behind her. “It is?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And what kind of conversation do you want?” she dared to ask when he drew even with her.

They walked through the shadowy passage and emerged into the soft twilight of the open yard. Beresford greeted the guards whose paths they crossed. He and Gwyneth began to angle around the White Tower and back to the Wardrobe Tower, behind which lay the gardens.

“A private one, above all,” he replied.

He did not extend his wrist to her, and she guessed that he saw no further need of formality. She was in a mood to excuse him the lapse. She slanted him a glance. “A private one suitable for the pleasance?”

He shrugged. “Not unsuitable for the pleasance, I think.”

She pressed further. “The court business that requires your attention this evening,” she stated in summary, “concerns a private conversation with me that is not unsuitable for the pleasance.”

His tone and his expression registered mild surprise. “Have I not just said so, ma’am?”

She lowered her eyes modestly and sketched a curtsy that was both ironic and coquettish. “I beg your pardon, sire. Lest you think me simple,” she said, yielding to her mood and risking a reference to their very first meeting, “I had reckoned you to be the advocate of plain speaking, and I wished to match you on your own terms.”

He cocked a heavy brow and warded off her delicate thrust with a heavy parry. “If you are willing to match me on my own terms, then I need not fear being unsubtle during our private conversation in the pleasance.”

He stopped then, turned toward her and bowed as he would before an opponent. The spark in the air became a definite charge, as if flint had struck flames against silk. Gwyneth was caught off guard.

To regain her composure, she asked coolly, “Is there a particular topic that you wish to pursue unsubtly and in private?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I wish to pursue a topic we broached at the supper table two nights ago with Fortescue.”

At this tantalizing moment, they were interrupted by a threesome of castle hounds bounding up to them. The dogs dashed around Gwyneth and Beresford several times, barking high, earsplitting notes, and Gwyneth would have been afraid if Beresford had not known just what to do to bring the beasts to order. Once he asserted his authority, Beresford was apparently deemed worthy of receiving a branch that the leader of the pack seemed to want thrown for him. Beresford obligingly laid hold of one end and tried to pull it from the hound’s ferocious jaws. Gwyneth knew a moment of fear when, instead of releasing the branch, the hound threw himself into a tug-of-war with the strong master, growling menacingly and wagging his tail furiously. The next moment, she perceived that Beresford was enjoying himself as much as the hound. Somehow he wrested the branch from between the flashing white teeth and entered into the game as heartily as did the hound.

While Beresford sparred with the bloodthirsty dog, Gwyneth had a moment to review the various topics discussed two evenings ago at the supper table with Walter Fortescue. She could think of no topic remotely interesting or needful of private discussion.

Since Beresford was so evidently a man of action and not words, she could not imagine why he would wish for a private conversation with her. The thought crossed her mind that he intended no conversation at all. She recalled that Fortescue had had a habit at supper of succumbing to prattle concerning the excellence of the match Adela had arranged. Was it two nights ago that he had pronounced Gwyneth and Beresford to be perfectly suited and insisted that they would enjoy a wonderful, loving relationship?

Her equitable mood was suddenly disturbed by a new emotion. Was Beresford’s purpose in suggesting this private moment together to try a little lovemaking in the gardens? Did he mean to sample in advance something of the nature of the relationship Fortescue had predicted? She indulged her imagination by picturing a tender scene in the gardens, under a leafy arbor, surrounded by flowers, her hand in his. Then she remembered that he had made explicit his intention to be unsubtle, and imagined a more intriguing possibility—Beresford’s arms coming around her, his head bending toward her

She caught these wayward thoughts up short. This was not an intriguing scene, by Odin! It was, however, a reassuring one. She prodded her little fantasy to continue. She realized that she needed reassurance concerning the greater intimacies that he would be allowed on the morrow. She even acknowledged wanting that reassurance now, this evening, while she felt slightly inclined toward him. Well, not
inclined
exactly. Tolerant, perhaps. Curious, too, in a normal sort of way.

Beresford flung the stick wide, sending the hound bounding off and yapping boisterously. He returned to her side. She looked up at him and was startled by a new perception of him as a suitor. She was aware of a change in him, an easiness, as if the vigorous exercise had worked off the rough edges that were often so evident in the great hall. Not that all his rough edges were gone, but those that were left he wore well. They fit him, were a part of him, gave him texture, made him interesting. She lowered her lashes.

“To the pleasance,” he said over his shoulder.

At the sound of his voice, and her image of what might happen in the gardens, her breath caught in her throat. “Oh, yes,” she gasped. She was surprised that she should have such a reaction, since she was feeling so benignly disposed toward him this evening. She wondered whether she still feared him. As they walked toward the bakery and crossed under the pigeon loft, she attempted a painful breath but did not quite succeed.

She knew that her only course now was to confront the possible cause of her fear. “And the topic, sire,” she managed, rasping a little with the effort to speak, “that you wished to pursue? The one that was broached two evenings ago with Sir Walter?”

He nodded. “It concerned the position of Henry’s forces after his defeat against Malmesbury.”

Completely diverted, she was able to take a full breath of air, but her throat still felt tight. She attempted to retrieve the threads of that conversation. “You and Sir Walter were discussing how Duke Henry’s forces had taken the town by assault but had failed to storm the castle.”

“That’s right,” Beresford agreed, “and we mentioned how Henry’s cause was further compromised when Stephen’s forces came to Malmesbury’s aid.”

“In which action you and your men took part, I believe,” Gwyneth commented. “Then, after that, you and Sir Walter spoke of those earls once loyal to Stephen who were transferring their allegiance to Duke Henry or, at least, refusing to fight him more recently at Cirencester.”

“Yes, the traitors Cornwall and Hereford, to be precise.” Beresford looked pointedly at her.

Gwyneth noted his look and was puzzled. She had not commented on Cornwall or Hereford or Duke Henry, for that matter. She said, “As I recall, I did not take much part in that conversation.”

They had passed the beehives and fruit bins and were in front of the gardening sheds. Gwyneth was a half step ahead of Beresford, and at the garden’s portal she halted. Beresford’s left hand went around one side of her to unhook the latch, and his right hand went around the other to push back the iron grille. For a brief second, she was within the circle of his arms.

He said, “And your lack of participation in that conversation is the very topic I wish to discuss.”

She blinked up at him. “It is?” she said, not understanding his drift. “You mean I should have had some opinion of the military strategy involved in that campaign?”

“No, I mean that I wish to know where your loyalties stand with regard to the rightful King Stephen and the usurper, Henry of Anjou.”

She looked away. The spurt of anger that coursed through her quickly cleared the constriction in her throat. She drew a deep and easy breath and rapidly adjusted to the absurd and unexpected topic. The gate had swung open, and she stepped into the garden, which was fragrant with the herbs that had seasoned their supper: mustard and parsley and cumin, fennel and coriander and anise.

“My loyalties, sire?” she replied lightly, turning down the first path that presented itself. Beresford was behind her. “You know that my late husband was one of Henry’s supporters.”

“But he is dead and you are not—” Beresford began.

“Ah, yes! You promised to avoid subtlety!”

“—And I am more interested in your loyalties,” he continued, “than Canute’s.”

“But you should know the whole of my background. My father was for the empress,” she informed him testily, “who was, as we both know, the Conqueror’s granddaughter, the first Henry’s daughter and Duke Henry’s mother. If there was a usurper to the throne, it was Stephen twenty years ago.”

“This point of contention, of course, is what the squabbling is about,” Beresford said placidly.

Gwyneth did not understand his calm. She was further confused by what she thought was a gleam of humor in his eyes. “Some call it a civil war,” she said with haughty dignity.

“So you consider yourself a supporter of the young Henry,” he said, “despite Stephen’s legitimate claim on the throne these past twenty years.”

She found it strange to be forced into a declaration, for as a powerless Saxon woman in Norman England, she had considered political loyalty to be little more than an expedient of survival. However, if Beresford wished to discuss political principles, she was happy to oblige.

“Because Duke Henry is the lawful heir to the kingdom, I could hardly consider myself anything else!” she replied. In some pique, she added, “And I can hardly imagine any discussion less pertinent on the eve of our marriage!”

At that, he put one hand on her shoulder and turned her toward him. With his other hand, he caught the tips of her fingers and weighed them in his palm. His tone and his words were as blunt as the hilt of a sword. “Since we will soon be sharing a bed, I’d like to know with whom I have to deal.”

Gwyneth felt a thrill of shock down to her toes and surged with a delicious desire to wring his neck. On second thought, she decided she would prefer to draw blood. “You might consider checking me every night for knives,” she said through her teeth.

“I will,” he replied, “so that I may sleep without an itch between my shoulder blades.”

She nearly strangled, this time not in fear but in fury. She was aware of the pungent, bracing combination of herbal scents that surrounded her, of the rough edges of the bristly man who held her. She was aware of his hold on her, which, she was determined, would not arouse her by its very lack of seductive intent.

A truly masterful retort sprang to mind, and she opened her mouth to speak. However, she was never to utter her sublime opinion of his crudeness, which he would have been too oafish to appreciate anyway, because they were interrupted by none other than Geoffrey of Senlis.

“There you are, Simon,” Senlis said, coming upon them where they had stopped, abruptly, in the middle of a pathway. He bowed politely. “And Gwyneth.” He must have perceived some tension in the air or in the way they were facing one another, for he ventured, “But perhaps I come at a bad time?”

“Not at all,” Beresford said, dropping Gwyneth’s hand and moving a step away from her.

Gwyneth murmured, “Sire Senlis,” and left it at that.

With a brow inquisitively arched, Senlis looked from one to the other but wisely did not comment. He said merely what he had come to say. “I’ve been looking for you for some time. The king has asked for you, Simon, and you are to report to him anon.”

“Indeed, Geoffrey?” Beresford replied with heavy irony. “The king wishes to speak to me? At this very moment?” He looked from Senlis to Gwyneth and made no movement to leave the gardens. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest, in rude rejection of his friend’s message.

Gwyneth was angry with Beresford all over again. Although he did not want her, he did not want any other man to be with her—and he was embarrassingly obvious about it. How she would have preferred to stroll in the gardens with the handsome Geoffrey of Senlis!