Simon's Lady (15 page)

Beresford’s response to this wifely reprimand was a non -committal grunt. His dancing confirmed that his particular grace was better suited to the battlefield. When the dance was over, he would not be persuaded into another, no matter which lady encouraged him. On the other hand, he did not object to any man who applied for the bride’s hand in a dance. The queue for that honor was indeed long. At the head of it stood Lancaster

Much later, she was to realize that the seeming normalcy of Beresford’s behavior toward her since the wedding kiss had dulled her to the subtle signs of change that had been in the air between them now that they were man and wife. At the opening of the dance, when he had turned toward her and they had joined hands, she had felt strong and sure of herself and thought she knew how she would handle him. It was a moment of arrogance and miscalculation, for something inside her had already tilted and her calm had begun to unravel, like thread off a carelessly held spindle. She resisted her attraction to him because she was more comfortable in her anger over his lack of desire to dance with her. Just as she had resisted the effect of his kiss in the chapel, attributing its fearful beauty to the slanting rays of crimson, cobalt and canary that had fallen on him from the stained-glass windows, when his lips had touched hers briefly, but with demand.

During her second dance with Lancaster, she looked around the hall and chanced to see her husband off in a corner, speaking with the three weird women. No, not speaking with them precisely, she realized as she swiveled her head to keep him in view when the dance took him out of her line of vision. Was it possible that he was dancing with them? No, he was not dancing with them, either, she could see, turning her head again. But what were they doing?

Gwyneth saw that the three weird women were dressed in pink and mauve and purple, and they had joined hands to make a circle. In the center of the circle stood Beresford. Instead of appearing awkward or befuddled by the circumstance, he looked perfectly natural there, straight and tall and grounded. Rooted, almost. From the glimpses she could snatch—she did not wish to make her interest in her husband crassly obvious—she put together the oddest picture of the three women closing the circle around him and then expanding it, as a flower unfurling or a pupil dilating to embrace the dark. Once. Twice. Now three times.

Then her own group of dancers drew into a circle, and she had to face into its center, away from Beresford. The next time she looked for him, he was no longer in the corner with the three women. She glanced this way and that, under her lashes, looking for him and feeling a little shameful for doing so. She felt even worse when she spied him at the moment when Rosalyn caught his attention and stopped him. She watched as Beresford responded to the snow-skinned beauty with characteristic brusqueness. She watched as Rosalyn returned some comment with a provocative arch to her eyebrow and a very pretty smile. She watched as he nodded in response, wearing a half smile, and walked on, his parting comment apparently causing Rosalyn’s chill beauty to warm several shades.

Gwyneth was beginning to perceive some new dimension to Beresford. Perhaps it was the look on his face when he had spoken to Lady Chester or the way he had inclined his head toward her, but suddenly Gwyneth became aware that though he might be brusque, he was also deft. It looked as if he had disarmed Rosalyn and slipped under her guard, all without too much trouble. Then he casually presented his back to her, the victor’s prerogative.

“I am so glad you agree with me, my lady,” said the voice at Gwyneth’s side.

Calm and confidence! she admonished herself before turning, with a placid smile to see Geoffrey of Senlis. She did not know how long he had been there or how long he had been speaking to her. Nor did she know to what she had just agreed, and she hoped it had not been either idiotic or improper.

“And why should I not?” Gwyneth replied, thinking this answer safe enough.

When Senlis made some response, Gwyneth answered again at random, for despite her best efforts to concentrate on the man at her side, her thoughts remained on the little scene she had just witnessed. She was wishing dearly that she could see Rosalyn’s face right now in the wake of Beresford’s snub.

Senlis said something else. Gwyneth responded automatically, all the while seriously wondering whether trimmed hair, a decent shave and a clean tunic could really do so much to alter a man.

“You think not?” Senlis asked, with an inflection of surprise.

Gwyneth realized that she had spoken amiss. She tried to recall the statement to which she had just responded, but failed. “Well, I mean, of course, that I rather think so!” she said, striving for a touch of carelessness as she reversed herself.

“I understand your confusion,” Senlis said humorously, with a nod toward the head table, “and freely admit that your husband’s glowering expression when he looks at us does not necessarily betoken anger any more readily than it does amusement.”

The words
your husband
caught her attention, and she was able to focus now fully on Senlis. Because she found herself as Geoffrey of Senlis’s partner in a courtly couples dance, she quickly pieced together the idea that their conversation must have turned on the question of whether Beresford would object to Seniis’s dancing with her. She had no real idea whether he would object, but she was determined
not
to look over at the table where he was apparently seated and again looking at them.

She recalled dancing with the handsome and most graceful Geoffrey of Senlis earlier, and tried to remember whether this was the second or, perhaps, even third time that she had stood up with him this afternoon. It occurred to her that if this were the third time, Beresford might have true cause to object. She had already decided not to dance a third time with Lancaster, for fear of breaching propriety. Perhaps the question of a third dance had been Senlis’s concern when she had not rightly been attending to him.

The little pang she felt at the thought was not guilt, but defiance. If Beresford would not dance with her at their wedding, he would have to watch her dancing with other men. Unfortunately, and somewhat inexplicably, she was not enjoying the dance as much as she would have liked, although Geoffrey of Senlis was a charming partner and kept the conversation light and amusing.

When the last wistful note of the lute dissipated in the air, Senlis escorted her to the side of the floor. She was surprised to find Beresford there on hand, ready to take her arm in his. He thanked Senlis curtly for having taken such good care of his wife. Then he drew her away without further discussion or explanation.

Gwyneth realized now that the strange and colorful threads of her emotions had fallen off their spindle and were all confused. She did not know whether to be angry or merely vexed by Beresford’s peremptory behavior. Or even, oddly, flattered.

“How do you know that I do not wish to dance again?” she asked her husband.

His gray eyes met hers. “I don’t.”

“Am I to infer that you do not care whether I wish to dance again?” she asked.

“You are,” he said bluntly, but caused her to lose a bit of her anger when he added, “Sit with me.”

It was stated as a command, but Gwyneth, slanting him a speculative glance, was just able to hear it as an invitation. She acknowledged privately that she no longer cared to dance and so could allow herself to accede to his wish because of her own tiredness rather than his uncivil request, if request it was.

“All right, then,” she said. When she heard the grudging acceptance of her own words, she amended, “I will be pleased to sit with you, my lord.”

He confined himself to a nod in response. However, the equally speculative glance he returned to her suggested that if he were a different kind of man, he might have said something flirtatiously ironic.

Gwyneth was fully aware of the change in Beresford, a change similar to the satisfied easiness she had noticed in him the evening before, after the vigorous game of fetch with a castle hound. This evening he had much the same easiness, as if he had just engaged in some satisfying sport. However, to her he had the look of a man who was not yet fully satisfied, one who was still ready for more. The effect struck her now as dangerous. In the split second their eyes met, she thought he looked as dangerous as an unsheathed sword, one that had lately sunk itself deep into human flesh. One that had been wiped clean of blood and that gleamed dully in the satiny afterglow of a whetting by human viscera.

“We’ll go back to the head table,” he directed, as he began to lead her around the edge of the dancers toward their places.

She cleared her head of its violent fancy. “Yes, of course,” she said, drawing a quick breath. “Conversation would be very welcome right now.” His inarticulate response did not encourage her to suppose that he intended entertaining her with dazzling conversation. She added provocatively, “I imagine that you, too, sire, have been absorbed by the most exciting topic of talk today.”

Beresford looked mildly surprised. “The most exciting topic?”

“The Saint Barnabas Day tourney, of course,” she answered. “Have you yourself not been discussing it throughout the afternoon?”

“I have,” he replied, “but I did not imagine that the tourney would serve as a topic of talk, particularly today.”

“Have you never noticed,” she said, “that few topics are more pleasant to discuss at a festive occasion than the prospect of yet another festive occasion?”

Only a slight lightening of his harsh features indicated that he appreciated her observation. “True,” he admitted, “but I had no idea that anyone save a few of us would care, for instance, about the particulars of the role of squires on the tournament field.”

“Oh, I did not say that talk had run to the particulars,” she replied. “Most people seem interested to know how many jousts there will be and whether the day will be fine.”

Beresford frowned. “To discuss the weather is idle, and there will be the usual number of jousts.” He waved these considerations away with an impatient gesture. “Of greater importance is the nature of the tournament procedures that many of my fainthearted companions wish to see written into the statutes.”

“Do you mean the procedures concerning the role of squires on the tournament field?” she ventured.

“That and other things.”

“Such as….?”

He looked down at her. “It goes without saying that no animal should suffer death or pain, and for even the accidental wounding of a horse, a penalty should be imposed.” His gaze was steady upon her when he continued, “Is this, then, my lady, the kind of talk about the tournament that interests you?”

They had almost arrived at the head table. She had the indefinable sense that he had called her conversational bluff. In any case, she felt that she had just been challenged. It was not the first time that she, who had talked circles around Canute, had not easily gained the upper hand in conversation with Beresford, and she was inclined to refine her opinion of him yet again. She decided that, while he was always plainspoken, he was not always blunt.

She had no interest whatsoever in tournament regulations. However, she answered him with a bright, “That is exactly the kind of talk that interests me,” to salute, in effect, the sword he had raised to her. She then realized that she had left one duty undone during the past several rounds of dancing. Because she felt at a strategic disadvantage, she decided to use the excuse to give her time to regroup her forces. She checked her step, and Beresford’s halted accordingly.

She smiled. “Before we can discuss the topic in detail, I find that I must excuse myself from the hall for a short time. If you will pardon me, sire….?”

Beresford’s brow lowered. “Why?”

Gwyneth blinked. He was not
that
obtuse, surely! If she had been with Geoffrey of Senlis, she would have flashed him a little smile and said,
“
A
preux chevalier
does not ask a lady such a question.” Instead, she dared to be as blunt as Beresford. “Because I have consumed much liquid in the past hours, you see, and….” she began, but chose in the end to leave her thought delicately unfinished.

Beresford’s face lightened. He was hardly embarrassed by her reference to body functions, and his response was entirely commonsensical. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

Why not, indeed! Gwyneth wondered to herself as she left the hall to seek the garderobe. Although momentarily amused by him, she wondered how she was going to keep alive her interest in the topic of tournament statutes upon her return to his side. Quite by chance, she was given a disturbing reason to wish to discuss with Beresford tournament regulations, particularly those concerning the role of squires on the field.

It came on her way back to the hall, a few minutes later, when she caught a snatch of low conversation coming from a shadowy alcove by the main staircase. She thought she heard the whispered words
the loving bridegroom
ironically spoken, but could not have said for a certainty. With her heart beating uncomfortably, she stopped her steps and flattened herself into another scallop in the wall next to the alcove. She did not experience a moment’s qualm about eavesdropping, for she guessed that the woman who had spoken the words was none other than the beautiful, untrustworthy Rosalyn, Lady Chester.

Gwyneth’s guess was confirmed with the woman’s next words. “Do you think it so necessary, then?” Rosalyn asked of the person with whom she was sharing the alcove.

Her companion’s reply was soft and smooth, his voice clearly recognizable. “Indeed, I do,” replied Cedric of Valmey. “You may consider yourself responsible for the necessity of it.”

Upon hearing this gentle reproach, Gwyneth felt the charge in the silence. She could well imagine the arch to Rosalyn’s fine brows when she challenged with sweet skepticism, “You consider me responsible, my love? I was not, after all, the one who threw away the initial opportunity.”

Valmey’s laugh was attractive and evil and unrepentant. “Surely you do not hold against me a decision that was intended to demonstrate my constancy to you.”