Simon's Lady (20 page)

“I wish to know that you are safe here at the Tower,” he said.

“How can I not be safe in my own home?” she returned, looking up at him directly. She did not know how to be coy, and she did not think that coyness would work with a man like Beresford.

“I wish to know where you are.”

She smiled. “But you will know exactly where I am.”

“And how you go along.”

She decided not to respond to that. Instead, she smiled more warmly at him, cocked her head and shrugged prettily.

His eyes left her face to fall on her bared breasts. Then he glanced away, so that his profile was to her. She could not see the expression on his face when he replied neutrally, “You may suit yourself.”

It was likely that he did not truly care where she spent the next several days. Nevertheless, she felt a measure of victory, as if life were returning to her.

Her moment of victory did not last long, for he surprised her by drawing her to him. He placed his lips on hers, and she tasted wine and berry juice, both sweet and tart. The buckle of the belt around his neck pressed against her, and the cold metal stung her warm skin. The sting, his lips, the wine, her surprise and her own feminine strategy prompted her to kiss him back. Knowing that he could not stay at her side, she let her kiss promise and linger, for it would cost her nothing. Feeling his quick response of passion, she did not hesitate to let her kiss linger and promise even more. His grip on her shifted accordingly.

She was still holding her empty goblet, and his rough movement caused her fingers to loosen from the stem. The goblet fell on the bed next to her thigh, and the remaining two drops of wine spilled out onto the sheets. She broke the kiss when she realized she had dropped the cup, and looked down in dismay at the delicate red stain. Before Beresford could see what had happened, she placed her hand over the spots and leaned on her arm, as if she were simply propping herself up. She made it seem as if she had meant to end the kiss, smiling sweetly at him and letting her lids flutter down languorously.

He drew a deep breath then rose from the bed. He looked dazed and had to shake his head once to clear it. He slid his belt from around his neck, secured it deftly at his waist and patted it, feeling for his sword, which was not there. He looked around for the blade and spied it lying before the hearth. He picked it up and held it in his upturned palms, weighing it idly. Then he bowed ever so slightly and said, his voice rough, “Perhaps I shall see you later this morning in the hall, madam, before I leave.”

He left the room, and she fell back upon the pillows, letting her breath out in a whoosh. She felt as if she had kept herself in control and had gotten the better of him with that kiss. Yet the blood red wine spots on the sheet had struck her as a sign that she had lost a particular kind of virginity to him this night, and she knew that she was playing a dangerous game of power with the risky strategy of sexuality.

Later, the same three serving women from the morning before came to her with bowls of fresh water and towels, for which she was grateful. At Adela’s orders, they had brought her her dark blue kirtle and light blue linen bliaut to replace the formal clothing she had worn the previous day. They gathered her wedding finery from its heap on the hearth, helped her wash herself and brushed her greatly tangled hair. They primped and prodded her as they had the day before, giggling now at what must have occurred during the night rather than in anticipation of it. Their chatter was light and inconsequential.

When they caught sight of the spots on the sheet, they turned wide, speculative eyes on her, for everyone knew she was a widow.

“Wine,” she said coolly and nodded at the tray on the floor by the bed.

One of the women felt the opportunity was ripe to ask what they were all dying to know. “So, my lady Gwyneth, tell!”

Gwyneth did not misunderstand, and had the day before prepared her response to such a demand. She smiled and said, “My husband was very kind.” It amazed her to say the words, for they had the unexpected merit of being true.

“Beresford kind?” echoed one.

“How interesting,” said another thoughtfully.

“Very interesting,” exclaimed a third, “to imagine kindness allied to his strength!”

Gwyneth felt a blush creep up her cheeks. No voluntary action on her part could have better convinced the trio of women of the impression she wanted them to have, namely, that she was a well-satisfied wife.

When they had coiffed and dressed her, the women accompanied Gwyneth out of the bedchamber and to the stairway that would take her to the hall where she would break her fast. Before they arrived at the stairs, Gwyneth put a hand on the arm of the serving woman whom she judged to be the most friendly. She said lightly, “Prepare me for the worst, Auncilla. What, in your opinion, am I to encounter below?”

“And what would the worst be, my lady?” Auncilla replied.

“You see, it was difficult enough for me, as a foreigner, to be the center of all eyes yesterday and the preceding days, and I would like to avoid being the object of curious attention this morning, if possible.” Gwyneth smiled. “Is it too much to hope that the interests of the court have turned to a subject beyond that of my marriage?”

“Oh, as to that, my lady, yes!” Auncilla chirped happily. “It seems that Duke Henry lost interest in Malmesbury, after all, and instead of heading east toward London, he has turned his forces west and south toward Bristol! It is most unexpected! So King Stephen—but we all know that it is really Adela—called for troops to be raised to meet Henry at Bristol.”

“Simon of Beresford is leading those troops,” Auncilla’s colleague added. “But, of course, you know that.”

“Of course,” Gwyneth said calmly.

“But the
real
news is that reports of a traitor within the castle are circulating!” Auncilla continued with relish. “And a variety of names are being advanced, including—”

Auncilla was promptly nudged to silence by the third serving woman, who had, apparently, a greater sense of propriety than her colleagues. “Repeating idle gossip,” this proper woman said, sniffing in displeasure, “leads only to mischief.”

Gwyneth noted the rumors. For no reason she could name, she thought immediately of Cedric of Valmey. To the proper woman she said, “You are quite right to discourage idle gossip.” The woman accepted her approbation with a superior nod. Gwyneth squeezed Auncilla’s arm sympathetically and said, “But it is so enjoyable to tell stories, is it not?”

Upon arriving in the hall, she was satisfied that Auncilla’s prediction that the courtiers had fresh topics to absorb their attention was, at least in part, true. Only a few curious eyes turned toward her when she entered. She scanned the hall and noted Beresford on the other side, deep in conversation with several knights. He did not look up, and she was not going to make a fool of herself by paying unseemly attention to him. She noticed Geoffrey of Senlis standing not far from Beresford. When her eye met his, he bowed ceremoniously.

She caught her breath at the expression on his face, nodded her head slightly in return and continued to survey the room. Adela was moving calmly but continuously from group to group. Cedric of Valmey was nowhere to be seen, which signified nothing at all, while Rosalyn was holding her own little court near one of the fireplaces, laughing with knights, chatting with ladies and generally dispensing her wintry charm among all.

Just as Gwyneth was completing her study of the hall and wondering what course to take next, Johanna stepped to her side. “You must be hungry, my newest cousin,” she said, smiling at her kindly and gesturing her toward the table, where few people remained at their trenchers. “And so am I, for the length of morning mass always seems to raise my appetite. May I join you?”

Nothing could have pleased Gwyneth better than to see a friendly face just then and to have companionship for the morning meal. A possibly awkward moment had been effortlessly bridged. She accepted Johanna’s offer with pleasure and a trace of relief.

Johanna walked with her to the table, speaking of the most ordinary things imaginable, the daily affairs of castle life. She made no insinuating references to the night before, did not wink suggestively or nudge Gwyneth meaningfully. She did not treat her in any way other than a woman worthy of friendship and respect.

They sat down together, broke their bread and dipped it in the mild broth that was served them. Gwyneth marveled at how Johanna could maintain easy conversation that, nevertheless, carried the more serious message: Don’t worry! You’ll make it through this day, just as you did the previous one!

“Well, then,” Johanna said at one point, “I suppose you must be of two minds about the latest news.”

Gwyneth paused. “Two minds?” she asked, always cautious.

Johanna crinkled her nose. “I am not the least interested in politics, in the general way of things,” she confessed, “but the great affairs of kings and kingdoms can hardly be avoided on certain occasions! Today is certainly one of them, with the Tower so restive and the troops ready to depart.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the king has ordered troops to Bristol.”

“With Simon among them,” Johanna added, “as he’s no doubt told you.”

Gwyneth appreciated the way she said that without irony, although Johanna might have guessed that Beresford had told her nothing. Gwyneth was also aware that she had been provided an opening to learn more information, if she needed it. She was glad that she did not, but if she had, she would not have had to be embarrassed before Johanna.

“Yes, I know that my husband is leading those troops,” Gwyneth said smoothly, “which is certainly a pity, when one is so newly married. Given that, I am of one mind only about his departure, not two.”

“The only woman I know to be of one mind only!” Johanna teased.

Gwyneth smiled a self-deprecating smile, then confided, “Except that his departure gives me a chance to adjust to my new circumstances with much breathing room, let us say, and now I will have the opportunity to put his house to rights while he is gone.”

“You will reside at his house in his absence?” Johanna asked, her surprise evident.

“He has given me his permission to do so,” Gwyneth stated.

“And Adela?”

“Why should she object?”

Johanna looked at her directly and said, “Let me be frank about what I meant regarding your two minds. I had imagined that you would find it difficult to decide whether you would side, as loyal wife, with Beresford or, as loyal Northumbrian, with Duke Henry.”

The comment served to remind Gwyneth that she had a conflict of interest on that score. It also put her in mind of the more interesting rumor she had heard from Auncilla. The second consideration seemed the more pressing of the two.

“Which reminds me,” she said with an inflection of interest, meeting Johanna’s direct gaze with one of her own, “I also heard that reports of a traitor within castle walls are being circulated, and that the rumors come attached to several names. What say you to all of this?”

Johanna’s brow furrowed. “I say, first of all, that they are idle, vicious and unfounded.” Her voice was sad. “So you see that you needn’t worry about—” Here she broke off and looked up at the person whose shadow had just fallen across the table.

Gwyneth looked up, too, and was startled to see Beresford standing before them. The way he was looking at her was so very different from the way Canute would look at her, and the way she was reacting to him was so very different from the way she had reacted to Canute. She attempted, from force of habit, to hold Beresford in the familiar and magnificent contempt in which she had held her first husband, but the attempt lacked force and failed. She was angry at herself for not being able to remain emotionally chaste now that Beresford had possessed her body. Instead, she felt a spasm in the region of her heart. She hoped that she was not blushing.

“What is idle, vicious and unfounded?” Beresford asked of his cousin.

“Rumors,” Johanna replied offhandedly.

“And the particular rumors in question?” he asked.

“The usual, you know, Simon,” Johanna said dismissively. “Idle and vicious.”

“Such is the nature of rumors,” he replied. “And for what reason should my wife not worry?”

Johanna’s expression became more troubled, but she managed to keep her voice light. “Because Gwyneth has many friends at court, including myself, and I leave you now so that you may discuss with her, Simon, what is necessary before you depart.” So saying, she rose, made her pretty excuses and left Gwyneth to her husband.

When Johanna had gone, Gwyneth felt a kind of fear, or maybe excitement, to be in Beresford’s presence in public. She said, “Do you join me, sire, as I finish my bread?”

After a meditative pause, Beresford nodded. He came around and settled himself on the bench next to her. She advanced a few innocuous comments, to which he replied with palpable disinterest. Several knights drifted by, posing questions. He answered them curtly. Or, perhaps, Gwyneth decided, it was rather that he answered them efficiently. The knights moved on.

Beresford turned to look at her. “And the rumors?” he asked.

The question was abrupt, but not mysterious, and she saw no reason to evade the subject. “They concern a traitor within castle walls. Have you heard them?”

He continued to regard her. “I’m always the last to hear the gossip, and most of the time I never do.”

Something about the effect of his gray eyes upon her prompted her to rashness. She considered surprising him with the conversation between Valmey and Rosalyn she had overheard the evening before. “I have my theories about who the traitor is.”

Beresford looked both surprised and amused by this. “In sooth?”

“One of the least unlikely men at court.”

His amusement overcame his surprise. “Is it not always the case with traitors?” he mused. “And a man, no less.”

“Well, could it realistically be a woman?”

“Yes.”

Gwyneth looked around the hall. Rosalyn came immediately to mind, but otherwise she drew a blank. “A woman. Well,” she conceded, almost playfully, “I suppose that you might be right.”