Simon's Lady (35 page)

By a trick of imagination, he thought he saw Valmey crossing the river quietly in a little boat, heading for a point not far from his screen of water rushes. But, no. It could not be Valmey, because he was traveling from the opposite, enemy side of the Ouse to Stephen’s camp. Beresford blinked, then frowned. The impression remained. The resemblance of the man in the boat to Valmey was remarkable.

The little boat slipped to shore. The man got out. He found a thick root to which he moored the vessel. He moved efficiently and furtively, as if he were doing something slightly wrong. Even though his back was to Beresford, his movements were unmistakably those of Cedric of Valmey. And he had just traveled in the wrong direction across the river.

Beresford’s melancholy slipped from his shoulders like an unfastened cloak. He touched his hand to the hilt of his sword at his side. He stepped out from behind the water rushes into the full, flooding moonlight.

“Have you come with reinforcements, then, Cedric?” His deep voice broke the sleepy peace of the riverbank.

Valmey started reflexively, then turned very slowly. His eyes narrowed against the luminous moonlight bathing Beresford. “Why, yes, I have,” he replied.

“You are a few days late with them,” Beresford noted.

“I experienced a minor delay in London,” Valmey replied then waved the detail away like an annoying fly, “and, of course, we had to chase you chasing the Angevin usurper around the countryside.”

“Which is how you ended up on the wrong side of the river this evening.”

Valmey came forward several paces. “I was interested to determine the size and strength of the Angevin’s forces,” he answered. He stopped just outside of striking distance.

“I could have informed you of the numbers.”

“I preferred to see for myself.”

Beresford grunted. “And the reinforcements? Which side of the river are they on?”

Valmey chuckled pleasantly. He made a friendly gesture, indicating Stephen’s camp. “Behind you, of course, just where they are supposed to be.”

“Tell me, then. How estimate you the Angevin’s chances, based on what you’ve just seen?”

“Fair. He’s had good success of late.”

“Yes. Leicester is in his camp now.” Beresford paused. “Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“Robert, Earl of Leicester.”

Valmey shook his head.

“Or Gloucester?” This produced another shake of Valmey’s head.

“Devon? No? Lincoln or Chester or Worcester?”

Valmey responded with a consistent negative.

“Duke Henry, then,” Beresford stated. “Surely you must have seen Duke Henry.” He wanted to hear Valmey speak.

Valmey’s response was composed. “I did not cross the river with the intention of being seen.”

Beresford showed his teeth. “Evidently not. You could not have imagined that I would have seen you here, for instance.”

Valmey lost his artful composure. He straightened, put his hand on his sword and asked, “And just how am I supposed to take that?”

“Exactly as you think you should take it,” Beresford replied.

Valmey was not yet ready for this contest. He attempted to stall by puffing up angrily, then exhaling on a sputtery laugh. “It will not do, my friend, to have division within the ranks! Think, Simon, think of it!”

“I have thought of it, Cedric.” Beresford took the crucial pace forward, to where a salute of swords was possible. One more step and it would be necessary. “And I now realize there has already been a division in the ranks of which I was previously unaware. But is Stephen’s cause lost because of that? I am not sure. What do you think, Cedric?”

“Surely not, Simon,” Valmey answered cautiously.

“No, surely not. I had been inclined to view Stephen’s chances a bit glumly of late, I admit, but suddenly I feel more optimistic, now that I really know who is on whose side.”

Valmey was silent and watchful.

Beresford continued, “Stephen can still count de Vere, you know, and Lucy, as well as Ypres and Warenne and Senlis and Fortescue, not to mention Lancaster and Northampton.” He took the final, possibly fatal step closer to Valmey. “But he can no longer count on you.”

Valmey answered Beresford’s challenge with one of his own. “Stephen’s chances will be greatly impoverished with the loss of his greatest, most loyal and newest earl.” He drew his sword. The metal sprang to life in the moonlight.

Beresford’s sword was raised and ready before Valmey had finished expressing his murderous intention. The clash of steel against steel rang out. Beresford felt good and strong. He felt purposeful. He felt like killing Valmey.

He wanted a few answers first. “Why did you do it, Valmey? Why did you not simply make a clean break with Stephen if you were of a mind to change sides?”

“For the reason that you yourself have noted,” Valmey answered easily. His sword work was far from contemptible and he, too, was in good form this night. “Stephen and Henry are evenly matched. There’s naught to decide who will win in the end.”

Steel met steel repeatedly. The constant ring and echo was punctuated by grunts and the padded shifting of feet on the ground. Valmey had not found his opening.

Beresford was not yet seeking his. He did not yet have all his answers. “And you must be on the winning side?”

“At all costs.”

“At the price of your honor?”

“At all costs.”

“At the price of your life?”

Valmey chuckled again. This time it was an unpleasant sound. “My life? Is my life in danger?”

“You have nothing to live for, Valmey.”

“Unlike yourself?” Valmey jeered in response. Then the scornful expression on his handsome face was replaced by one of craftiness. “But, then, I guess you have not heard of the attack on your home and the burning of the mistress’s bedchamber.”

Beresford’s concentration broke. The next thing he knew, Valmey’s sword bit deep into his right forearm. He felt his own sword wobble in his hand, as if he were about to lose his grip.

The pain in his arm seemed nothing compared to the pain in his heart, and for a moment he was dazed. Valmey advanced to take advantage of his weakness. Beresford put up his sword to ward off the blow, but had no force to counterattack. He felt himself being driven back. He was still able to defend himself, but he was not able to mount an offensive, much less gain any strategic advantage,

Valmey pressed, foolishly perhaps. “Yes, you may never see your beloved Gwyneth again, poor Simon.”

Beresford was not likely to remain victim to a verbal trap any more than he would be long misled by cunning sword work. With supreme effort, he thrust aside the hideous possibility that Gwyneth had been harmed. Still, the lover’s pain in his heart was more ferocious than any physical wound, and he knew that unless he could recover his concentration, he was lost.

“What makes you say that, Valmey?”

“When last I saw your house, the mistress’s chamber had burned to the ground.”

“And when was that?”

“On the day after you left London on this campaign.”

Beresford grinned, but under the stress of wielding his sword and countering Valmey’s blows, his expression looked more of a grimace. Gwyneth must be safe. Before his departure, he had refused her request that she return to the house, and he had made arrangements with Adela that Gwyneth remain closely guarded at the Tower. He began to recognize Valmey’s ploy for the ignoble stratagem it was. He noticed that his arm had begun to throb. Better to focus on Valmey’s ploy and his reasons for it.

“Who was responsible for the fire?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps Robert of Breteuil sent someone to wreak revenge on you.”

The suggestion affected Beresford like a magic tonic. He realized that if Valmey was accusing Breteuil of torching the mistress’s chambers, it would make no sense for Gwyneth to have been conspiring with his former squire. However, he did not have time to understand fully why Valmey’s suggestion caused a weight to lift from his suffering heart. He knew only that the love locked there was set free to course through his body, making it solid and integral to his person, like veins in marble. He felt that not only was Gwyneth within him, giving him breath and muscle, she was also behind him, giving him strength. He focused his love on the wound in his arm. Although the throbbing did not lessen, he knew how to best synchronize it with the rhythm of Valmey’s sword.

Living, breathing and loving. Beresford felt the support of Gwyneth’s love behind him like the sure hands of a beautiful sea siren, turning the defensive tide into an offensive wave of attack, feint and counterattack. Through his wound bad blood was flowing, allowing fresh, clean blood to pump through his body. The sting of the pain kept him sharp, gave him courage, helped him calculate the openings.

So Valmey and Gwyneth were not entirely a pair, as he had earlier perceived when his love had wrenched his heart rather than strengthened it. Where he had once seen similarities between Valmey’s abilities and Gwyneth’s, he now saw only differences: where Valmey was duplicitous, Gwyneth displayed integrity; where Valmey was cowardly, Gwyneth was courageous; where Valmey connived, Gwyneth countered cleverly, but straight.

He was in love with a goddess of beauty and wisdom. He felt ancient; he felt new.

He felt his second wind. He was beginning to enjoy himself. He saw no reason to make quick work of the encounter, for Valmey had much to pay for, much more than Beresford could identify at the moment. He felt almost joyful, too, exercising his craft like a mythical master smith working in reverse, unforging the object at the end of his steel. Valmey might have begun the encounter as a man; by the end of it, Beresford was determined that his opponent would be reduced to shapeless, molten metal.

“If you’re … not careful, you’ll … slip in your … blood,” Valmey managed.

Beresford did not bother to answer with words. He swung his sword with purpose and found the opening at Valmey’s left side, making contact with his body with a force and angle that not only brought blood but also cracked several ribs. For good measure, Beresford exhaled heartily. Like a bellows, his breath made Valmey’s vital flame flicker uncertainly rather than glow hotter.

“Why did you do it?” Beresford demanded. He pressed forward.

Valmey fell back. “What?”

“Play the double game.”

“I’ve … told you.”

Beresford shook his head, sprinkling his shoulders and hair with the sweat of his brow. “Because you cannot predict who will win?” He shook his head harder. “Your reason is not good enough.”

“It’s … good enough … for … you.”

“Why me, after all?”

“Too much … You have … too much.”

Beresford’s contempt for his disintegrating opponent left no room for compassion and understanding. He could not see his motivations in terms of any recognizable human failing, such as jealousy or greed or the will to survive. Rather, he saw Valmey as the embodiment of evil. A man who had set himself up to determine how much another man could and could not have. A man who dared godlike judgments. A man who would kill and destroy for no reason other than personal gain. A schemer without good purpose.

“I have what I have,” Beresford replied, “and you don’t like it.”

“I like to … win,” Valmey panted.

Beresford would let the melting mass of humanity before him wind himself all he wanted. Beresford had nothing to say, and let his sword do the talking. It spoke as bluntly as he ever had, fiercely and mercilessly. The end was near, and the result was clear. Valmey’s minutes on this earth were numbered.

For his final act of evil, Valmey sputtered, “And how … will … you explain … my death … by … your sword …. to … Stephen? Valmey … most loyal supporter … of the … king? Greater even … than yourself?”

“I’ll gladly accept the consequences.”

“With … me gone … and you … discredited,” Valmey continued venomously, “Henry … will … prevail.” Sweat was rolling off of his head and face. It soaked his shirt and tunic and merged with the blood flowing from his side. He was panting for breath, for life. His footwork was shaky. His sword arm had become sloppy. “What … then … do you say … to … Henry … having … killed … a … most valued … man?”

Even without Valmey’s comments, Beresford had already perceived that he was in a dilemma. If he could have undone this encounter, he would have.

But he could not. Nor could he turn back from what he had to do to end it. “If I’m to hang, one way or the other, as a result of your duplicity, then my death will be the only satisfaction you’ll have as you roast in hell.” He knocked Valmey’s feet out from under him and the sword from his hand. Then he was kneeling over him. His blade glinted at Valmey’s throat. “But I’ll not see you there, Cedric. No dishonor damns me.”

Valmey’s eyes saw death. “My … death as … your fellow … knight … will stain … your … immortal … soul … nevertheless.”

Beresford knew it, but bent to his bloody task. Before he could do the final deed that would seal both Valmey’s fate and his own, a harsh and commanding “Halt!” rang out from behind.

Beresford stayed his hand. He looked up and over his shoulder.

****

As he looked upon the beautiful young woman, Duke Henry’s expression was bemused and intrigued and, most importantly, indulgent.

However, Gwyneth was too anxious to be able to read the youthful duke’s face properly. Too much was at stake for her to have confidence in her actions, for her to believe that she had spoken convincingly, or to hope that Duke Henry would be sympathetic to her request. Now that she was finished with her speech, her courage collapsed. She regretted having foolishly, impetuously come to plead her husband’s case, but she forced herself to stand straight and unflinching, to accept his judgment.

At last Duke Henry said, “I will think about what you have just revealed, madam.”

Was that a gleam in his eye, she wondered, or the tug of a smile at his lips? He nodded and turned away from her before she could decide. She understood that she had been dismissed. She turned to go and was ushered out of the pavilion by a guard at the door, who held aside the curtain for her exit.