Anita Mills (14 page)

He’d felt as fine as the peacock before him until he’d seen her, and now the tunic that he’d thought rich enough for Stephen’s court seemed poor. But Eleanor of Nantes did not appear to note his lack. She leaned past Elizabeth to murmur to him, “I’d not have you leave Harlowe on an empty stomach, my lord. Indeed, but I have ordered food for you to carry with you on the morrow.”

“My thanks, gentle lady,” he managed to respond graciously, scarce able to tear his eyes from her granddaughter.

“ ’Tis little enough for the service you have given us, my lord. Aye, and I’d offer our amends for the manner of your arrival.”

Even though his shoulder was several inches from hers, he could feel Elizabeth of Rivaux stiffen. Aye, how it must gall her overweening pride to hear her grandmother apologize yet again for what she’d done.

Harlowe’s chaplain, a stout fellow in white silk robes, rose and extended his hands to bless the assemblage. From the countess to the lowest serving boy heads bowed as he spoke, but Giles could not help stealing yet another glance at the woman beside him. There was no sign of the Elizabeth who’d stood trembling against him, who’d fought her desire and won. Aye, she was a strong woman, cold and arrogant, and yet beneath all her finery, beneath that perfect, almost alabaster skin, he still knew she hid fire. Too many times he’d felt that same awakening tremble in a woman not to recognize it. He’d been right: it had been too long since Elizabeth of Rivaux had lain with a man.

“You gape as though you’d never seen a woman, Sir Scot,” she hissed angrily. “Is Dunashie naught but men?”

Before he could answer, a low murmur of appreciation spread through the crowd as the priest ended grace and the food procession began. The pantler, the butler, and a host of serving boys approached the high table bearing first the bread and butter, then the wine, followed by the stews, pasties, joints, and vegetables. Each dish was presented on bended knee to the dowager countess for approval, whilst Walter of Meulan stood behind her, ready to order anything she did not like back to the kitchen.

As the steaming plates and bowls were then placed on the linen tablecloth, pages brought forth silver bowls filled with scented water, setting one before each person. Ignoring Giles, Elizabeth dipped her fingers, rinsing them, then took the small linen towel to dry them. Giles followed suit and handed the towel back to the boy who hovered behind him.

“Nay, keep it until you are done,” Elizabeth muttered. “I’d not have your greasy fingers in my trencher. We are civilized here.”

His jaw tightened, but he retrieved the towel. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that her worst fears were unfounded: his hands were still clean, his nails neatly pared. They were strong, sinewy hands, not overlarge, with long fingers. A healing slash still puckered red against his wrist, reminding her of the scars on his palm, and again she wondered how he’d gotten them. Once more, she stifled the desire to ask.

As before, she was acutely aware of his size, for not since she’d shared a trencher with Richard had she been next to anyone whose shoulder rose above hers. Aye, he was one of the few men she’d met who stood taller than she. For a moment the memory of his arms holding her, of his lips on hers, washed over her, flooding her with embarrassment. She closed her eyes to still the sudden rush of blood. When she opened them again she realized he watched her yet.

“ ’Twould have been a pity had you taken the veil,” he observed lazily. “Aye, ’tis lovely you are in your finery.”

“Nay, I did not consider it,” she answered coldly, deliberately turning her shoulder to him. “And the clothes were my grandsire’s—I did but lace them more tightly.”

“Two and twenty is overyoung to wither,” he reminded her again.

“I am content,” she managed between clenched teeth. “And if you do not mean to carve, we shall starve,” she added pointedly.

“I’d thought mayhap I put you off your food.”

“You do, but I’d not have my grandmother know of it, for then she would ask why.”

It was a hearty repast, much like Stephen’s banquet at Windsor, with more to choose from than he’d expected. Reluctantly, he turned his attention to the haunch of venison, the boar’s head in herb sauce, the legs of mutton, the roasted rabbit, and the elaborately bedecked peacock, wondering where she would have him begin.

“What pleases you?” he asked politely.

“The stag.”

He cut it expertly, slicing it and carrying it to the trencher they shared. In keeping with custom he divided it, holding it by two fingers and a thumb as he plied his knife, and he placed the best piece on her side. At his elbow a server poured hippocras into the goblet. Elizabeth sipped as Giles continued choosing and carving from the different meats, always giving her the choicest part.

The hall took on a festive air, much like Dunashie during the Christmas feasts, with jongleurs playing and singing whilst the meal was served. Conversation lulled as knives and spoons were plied eagerly. Even Elizabeth appeared to ease her wary posture as she began to eat.

Giles picked up the goblet, turning it to where the spiced wine still beaded and trickled. Deliberately, he drank from the same place in the manner of a lover. She ignored the gesture.

“ ’Tis custom to entertain one’s guest with speech,” he chided after wiping his lips.

“If you would be amused, you have but to listen to the jongleurs,” she retorted. “Or you may wait to see the tumblers. I’m told there is one amongst them who walks on her hands, showing her legs to all. Mayhap if she sees you in your finery, you can entice her to your pallet.” Her cold green eyes met his as she added, “She might not be above lying with a Scot, if you have enough money.”

She was taunting him, and he knew it. “Do you always hide your mistakes with your tongue?” he asked, stabbing at a chunk of venison with his knife. “Had I been Ivo of Eury, you’d have learned to hold it else you’d have starved.”

“Is that what happened to your lady?”

Eleanor choked on a bite of pasty. “Liza!”

“He is a widower, Grandmere—I did but inquire,” Elizabeth protested innocently. “He spoke of Ivo and I spoke of his wife. ’Twas fair exchange, I think.”

“Aveline de Guelle died at Eastertide some three years past, Lady Elizabeth. She took a fever and with it an inflammation of the stomach from which she did not recover,” he answered evenly. “Three times those who call themselves physicians bled her, but to no avail.”

“And her family thought you poisoned her,” she recalled.

“Elizabeth …” The old woman cast her a warning look, but said no more.

“Aye. Giffard de Guelle accused me to King David and was denied recompense.”

Scarce able to believe her granddaughter’s rudeness, Eleanor cast about for the means to divert him. “Would you partake of the roasted apples, my lord? We make a sauce of sorrel and honey here that was much favored by my husband.”

But Elizabeth was not done. “And so he kept her dowry? Could not one of the Butcher’s reputation have taken it?”

The muscles in his jaws tightened visibly and his fingers tensed on his knife. Stabbing viciously at the last piece of venison remaining on the trencher, he looked into her eyes. “Nay. He loved his gold more than his life.”

Hiding the shiver that ran down her spine, she appeared to toy with their cup. “What was she like—this Aveline de Guelle, I mean?”

He carried the meat to his mouth and chewed it, his gaze still on her. Swallowing, he reached for the goblet. “She was too weak to live. Water flowed in her veins.”

She felt a pity for the helpless girl, obviously unloved by her fierce husband, and yet she could not help asking, “Was she comely?”

The goblet paused in midair for a moment, then he took a sip without answering her at first. And when he finally spoke he stared unseeing across the crowded hall. “Aye, I thought her comely when we wed.”

“Did you beat her?”

“Elizabeth, ’tis enough,” Eleanor interrupted her firmly. “My lord, do you play the lute?”

“Nay.” He looked down upon his scarred palms and shook his head. “My fingers move not so easily since …” His voice trailed off as Elizabeth strained to hear more. “Nay,” he finished abruptly, “I am too clumsy for the strings.” Lifting the cup again, he turned back to the younger woman. “Like Ivo of Eury, I beat her not enough.”

Ignoring the barb, Elizabeth persisted. “Was she fair or dark?”

“If he would not speak of her …” Eleanor began, becoming even more ill-at-ease at the barbs cast between them. “Nay, Liza, have done.”

He set down the cup and picked up his knife, balancing it across the puckered lines on his palm. “Aveline de Guelle was small and fair, with hair of gold and eyes the color of a summer sky.” Flipping the blade over with a quickness that belied his earlier words about his hands, he drove it into the trencher with such force that the knife stood, vibrating. “Mayhap she deserved better than she got of me.”

“You were a hard husband.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Aye. But not as you would think.”

Again, the firelight reflected in his black eyes, giving them an eeriness that made her look away. “She has my pity,” she said low.

“She is beyond the pity of any, Lady Elizabeth. And now ’tis my turn, my lady—I’d hear of Lord Ivo.”

“I’d not—”

“Nay, if you would pry, you will answer.” The edge in his voice was unmistakable.

She looked again to his hands, fixing her gaze on the still-angry scar at his wrist. For a moment it was as though the world had gone silent about her while he waited. “I despised him for his weaknesses, my lord,” she answered simply. “He was no husband to me.”

He’d meant to bait her, to probe as she had done, but he could tell he touched a wound that still festered. “Have done, Lady Elizabeth. Unlike you, I’d know no more.”

They lapsed into silence as servants moved amongst the lower tables to take the soaked bread trenchers for distribution to the poor. The empty trestles were then stood on end along the walls and the benches moved to the edges of the room. As the high table was cleared and the wooden dishes removed, Giles poured himself more of the spiced wine. The music, which had been soft, grew louder amid shouts for the acrobats. Eleanor, grateful the meal had ended, nodded to Walter of Meulan, signaling for the entertainment to begin. Elizabeth rinsed her hands in the silver bowl and wiped them on a fresh towel. Half the candles were doused, throwing much of the room into shadows, while great iron braces holding thick tallow pillars were moved to ring the cleared area. Six boys with brooms hastened to sweep the rushes to one side, then scampered to seats along the wall.

With a flourish of trumpets, tumblers cartwheeled across the now-bare floor and presented themselves before the high table. As Eleanor acknowledged them, Elizabeth selected an apple and leaned back.

They were as good a troupe as Giles had ever seen. Lithe, long-limbed boys somersaulted and vaulted into pyramids, then dropped again, rolling like human balls in rhythm. Household knights threw King Henry’s pennies in approval when they were done, whilst pages and squires cheered in hopes they’d do it all again.

Then the flutes began to play, accompanied by the clash of cymbals and the rhythmic clatter of castanets, as a slim girl, her body barely concealed in layers of silver-shot baudekin, twirled across the floor, her swirling veils floating like shining clouds about her head. Dancing the famed dance of Salomé, she whirled feverishly around the room, enticing the men by drawing the gossamer veils across their faces while-arching her body before them. A drunken knight tried to follow her but was pulled back by his fellows.

Elizabeth stole a glance at the man beside her and was disconcerted to discover that he still watched her instead of the girl. Again she turned her back on him, but she could not escape the feel of his eyes on her. God’s bones, but he was bold beyond his station. Did he not know that if there’d been any barons present, he’d have sat below them? And yet, try as she might to deny it, this savage border lord’s admiration intrigued her, for it gave her a sense of power over him.

In the subdued light she was like a shimmering shadow, her pale, creamy skin shining like alabaster against the darkness, her proud profile as finely chiseled as if it had been done by a master sculptor. But it was more than her beauty that drew him, and he knew it. It was her strength, it was her pride that made her different from any other. It was that she was Guy of Rivaux’s daughter—not the wealth and power of Rivaux, but the blood. ’Twas her blood that made her what she was. A woman like her would bring forth strong sons, he was sure of that, no matter what she said about barrenness. Aye, she could give a man sons able to hold whatever could be won for them. She’d be no Aveline de Guelle.

And what fire there would be in the coupling. Even looking at her, he could see ’twould be very different from the weeping duty he’d had of Aveline. Elizabeth of Rivaux would do nothing half-heartedly, whether she loved or she fought. Aye, she was a woman a man could be proud of. With as much certainty as he’d sworn over Aveline’s grave that he’d take no other wife, he knew now that he wanted Count Guy’s daughter, that he wanted her blood in his sons.

But the very things that made him want her made her unattainable. She
was
Elizabeth of Rivaux, daughter to a Norman count and a belted earl, granddaughter to Roger de Brione. Her blood was the best to be had amongst the nobility of Normandy and England. And no matter how many lands nor how much wealth he possessed, he could not match her in that. To her—and to her family—he’d be naught but a borderer, useful in war, despised in peace. Nay, Count Guy would deny him, and she would laugh in his face. But he knew also that he would prevail.

Reluctantly, he turned his attention to the dancing girl whirling seductively before him. The scent of perfumed oil, warmed by the heat of her body, floated over him with her veil. As the music ended, she thrust her body forward, giving him a fair view of her breasts, and then she slid gracefully to the floor, bowing low at his feet.

“ ’Twould seem your Scots blood matters not at all to her,” Elizabeth muttered dryly. “You won’t even need the money. Then mayhap you will cease looking like a rutting boar.”