Anita Mills (16 page)

And his own calls went out to his vassals, asking them to fill their larders and prepare for war whilst he prayed and examined his conscience in the matter of which sovereign had the better claim to his service. It was nearly a jest, for all of them had long experience with the pragmatic approach to politics on the border: the better claim was always determined to be that of the likely victor.

In the weeks that followed he also began improvements that set his retainers scratching their heads. His cavernous hall was whitewashed and swept clean, the floor was sweetened with lime-water, and new torch rings replaced old ones. But he did not stop there: the lord’s chamber was emptied to the bare walls, new cabinets and chests were made and painted, the bedstead was elevated and a new carved bed ordered and fitted with a goose-feather mattress over stout ropes. With a show of great confidence, he drew out in his own hand a design for bed hangings and dispatched them in haste to the Flemish cloth dealers lately set up under the patronage of the Scottish king.

After hearing much grumbling from the household, Wee Willie could stand it no longer. Possessed of the audacity of one who’d served his lord through exile, who’d shared his lord’s blood and lot willingly, he approached Giles.

“My lord, I’d have speech wi’ ye,” he began, slipping into the room where Giles sat brooding over the tally sticks.

“Aye.”

“I brought ye a flagon o’ mead,” he offered, “and I’d have a drop wi’ ye.”

Giles stood, flexing tired shoulders, and nodded. His mind and his body were strained from the hours of counting the notches, but he’d had to know his worth lest Guy of Rivaux should inquire of him. And the result had not been entirely promising, for while he could reasonably expect the daughter of a lesser baron, he doubted his wealth or his blood would satisfy a belted earl or a Norman count. Too much of what he held was disputed land, too little actual gold filled his coffers, and far too many of his ancestors had fought in household mesnies. Oh he was not poor, by any estimate, but he certainly did not possess what Guy of Rivaux would expect for his daughter.

Willie sat down, taking care not to disturb the sticks, and poured two cups of the sweet mead. Drinking deeply, he smacked his lips, then pushed the other toward Giles.

“There’s them as says yer lordship’s gone daft since ye went to the English court,” he explained. Seeing the lift of one black brow, he hastened to add, “Nae me. I say ’tis but time to clean the hall. God knows, with the Lady Aveline gone, and yer lordship not minding the state of things here, we been lax in the matter.”

“Aye.”

“And ’tis time for a new bed, since ye ain’t had one as fits ye.”

“Overlong,” Giles agreed, sipping from his cup.

“And ’tisna that ye can nae afford new hangings. Aye, ye got the gold t’ do yer will.” When Giles said nothing, the big man stared down at the tally sticks. “I don’t mind the new
sherts,
fer God knows I could make use of them. But it seems ter me ye are wishful of showing yer wealth to those as doubts it.”

“Go on.”

“And there wasna’ a man amongst us as did nae need new mail. As fer the wall, I been prayin’ to St. Andrew for a thicker one, ye know. Aye, and none can deny we were needing a wider, deeper moat.”

“Willie …”

“Thing is, my lord … we all been wondering if ye mean to go t’ war or wed?” he blurted out finally.

“I did not know the matter was of such concern to you,” Giles murmured, laying aside his cup.

“The lord’s lot is our lot, ye know. And what with the blood between us, I’ve got a care fer ye.”

“Then suppose I were to say ’twas both?”

A broad grin split the huge man’s face. “I’d be fair glad of it, my lord. Aye, I’d thought after— Well, I’d feared ye were the last of yer blood at Dunashie.” He lifted his cup to Giles, then drank deeply. “To an new lady: may she prove fruitful to ye.”

“I have asked King David to intercede on my behalf, asking Guy of Rivaux for his daughter.”

Willie strangled, coughing until tears came to his eyes. “Nae!” he protested when he caught his breath. “She’s barren! I’d thought ye’d fergotten her, I swear it.”

“I expect he will dower her well, Willie.”

For a moment, the big man thought Giles jested with him. “If ye get no bairns, ye’ll not keep it. Nae, ye don’t mean it.” Then, recalling Elizabeth of Rivaux, he felt better. “Besides, she’ll nae have ye. Best look to a Scots bride this time.”

“We fight for the overlord who gives her to me.”

It was then that Willie knew he meant what he said. He stared morosely into the dregs in his cup, shaking his head. “Ye’ll want her strangled within the year, my lord. Ye’d be better advised to take Dunster’s daughter—aye, or Kinnock’s. God’s bones, but what can Elizabeth of Rivaux give ye but an end to yer peace?”

“Willie …” The warning in Giles’ voice was unmistakable. “I believe the choice is mine own.”

“Och, take her then. ’Tis but that—”

“I’d have her and none other.”

The big man made a silent promise to redouble his prayers not only to St. Andrew, but to the Blessed Virgin also, begging that Count Guy would not give his daughter. There’d be not a man nor woman in Dunashie as could stomach Elizabeth of Rivaux, he was sure of that. Aloud, he sighed heavily. “If it be yer lordship’s will, then—”

“It is.”

“ ’Tis not my right to ask,” Willie admitted, “but why the Lady Elizabeth? Unless they be too fat or too thin, ye can nae tell one from the other in the dark. Forgive the insolence, my lord, but revenge is nae a good reason to wed, I’m thinking.”

“ ’Tis enough that I would have her, Will. Jesu, art so blind you cannot see the fierce sons she’d give me?”

“If she gives you any,” the big man muttered. “Aye, they’d be fierce if she bore them, I’ll warrant—the kind as rises against their sire,” he predicted grimly. “God’s blood, my lord, but”—he shivered visibly, remembering her strange, cold eyes—”I’d not want to see
what
she’d give you.”

“Think you I cannot be master in mine own house?” Giles asked softly.

For a moment Willie dared meet his eyes, then he had to look away. In the twenty-six years since Giles’ birth, he’d seen him rise above every enemy, finally destroying those who would destroy him. Not one of those who’d sought his life yet lived. “Aye, I’ll not doubt ye,” he conceded. “But that’s nae to say she’d make ye happy.”

“I want no more weak women, Willie—I’d not have another with water in her veins. I’d not have another to weep and cringe when I seek her bed.”

“ ’Twas that the Lady Aveline was small, my lord. She feared ye, and she could nae help it.”

“ ’Twas that she could not forget what I’d done,” Giles countered. “Well, Elizabeth of Rivaux is neither small nor afraid of me—not like that.”

“My lord”—The timid voice was accompanied by a knock upon the chamber door— “there comes a messenger from the king.”

Giles did not bother asking which king. His pulse racing in anticipation, he rose from the counting table and took the stairs two at a time, striding across the windswept courtyard with an eagerness that made Willie pray as he hurried after him. The spray of rain spattered the roofs of the sheds like hail, and the big man took that for an ill omen. “ ’Tis for his own good and the good of all that I ask ye ter deny him, Father in Heaven, for she’ll cut up his peace and ours,” he whispered desperately as they reached the hall.

The waiting rider went down on bended knee, holding out the parchment case. There was no need to ask: as Giles took the cylinder, he saw from the seal that it had come from King David. Not waiting for a knife, Giles broke the wax with his thumbnail, pulled out the letter and began to read, scanning until he reached the part that he’d awaited.

So David thought he’d dangled a small bit of hope with the word “now,” did he? Giles’ jaw tightened as he held back the angry words that came to mind. How many times had he fought willingly for his king—and after David had denied him Dunashie until ’twas done? And yet David would not support him in this. He looked down at his scarred hands, remembering another time when his king had nearly failed him, when he’d had to prove his innocence by ordeal.

“Leave us that I may consider my answer,” he ordered the messenger curtly.

“ ’Tis nae what ye wished, my lord?” Willie asked, trying hard to hide the surge of elation he felt. “Mayhap King Stephen …” he offered in consolation.

“Stephen of Blois is more cowardly than David of Scotland!” Giles snapped.

“Och, ’tis sorry I am, but—”

“Nay. We ride for Harlowe, and this time we do not go like beggars. I want fifty mounted men in the best mail to be found—aye, and in silk surcoats all alike. This time, when I go into England, I care not what Stephen of Blois thinks! My levies are already determined—he cannot demand more of me now.” He rose, pacing the newly limed boards, his mind racing.

“Ye’ll need an army if ye cross again into England, my lord,” Willie reminded him. “There’s them as remembers Wycklow, and ye’ve not answered King Stephen aye yet.”

“We ride beneath my pennon, mine enemies be damned!”

“And ye can nae refuse to answer King David, can ye? What do ye tell him, I ask ye?”

For a moment, Giles stopped. “Aye. I send word to my sovereign lord that I mean to wed. If he will not aid me in getting her, we will see if he will help me keep her.”

“They’ll not let us in Harlowe again, my lord—not if ’tis Rivaux’s daughter as decides.”

“Aye, they will.” A tight smile twisted Giles’ mouth. “We come in peace to ask of the Lady Elizabeth herself.”

“And ye think she will take ye?” Willie demanded incredulously. “Nay, I’d not believe it.”

“It matters not. She’ll come if I have to drag her from there.” Turning to the household officials who hovered curiously a few feet away, he ordered Alan of Roxwell, his seneschal, “Lay in enough beyond what we need: I’ll hold a wedding feast with my vassals ere they go to join King David.”

To his credit, Alan did not even blink. “When would you have them come, my lord?”

“David asks their presence by mid-month. I’d see them here on”—Giles calculated the time it would take him to reach Harlowe and return, then added an extra day for persuasion—”on the sixth. Aye, I’d let them carry the tale with them when they join King David.”

“Begging yer lordship’s pardon for asking, but for whom is it that the men of Dunashie will fight?” Willie asked.

“We fight for ourselves.”

The big man exhaled heavily, then turned to Alan. “Whilst ye be a-laying in the feast, ye’d best be salting down a fair number of beasts for the siege, I’m thinking.”

“One day, Will, you will go too far,” Giles predicted grimly.

“Och, but ye mistake me!” Willie protested. “I’ll give me last breath in yer service, and well ye know it. When all’s said, I’ll not ferget my sire’s charge to have a care fer ye.”

Brought to Harlowe’s walls by the sound of the horn, Elizabeth strained to make out the pennons of the approaching mesnie. The black silk unfurled and flapped in the raw wind and still she could not tell who came. But the size of the escort marked it for a person of some import, for she’d counted more than thirty, and still they rode over the hill, the steel of their helmets and mail shining in the rare sunshine.

“My lady, there are at least fifty,” Walter of Meulan guessed.

“Think you they come in peace?”

Now that it had become known that Gloucester and Rivaux had repudiated their oaths to Stephen, it was a fair question. Walter shook his head. “I know not.”

“Then I’d have the archers in place ere they are into range. Aye, and the pitch vats readied also.”

“They are too few to attempt an assault. If they come not in peace, they come for siege.”

“Nay. I see no pack animals. And they are not equipped to wait,” she murmured, studying the distant train. “Still, I’d have you give my grandmother word that someone comes.”

“They could but await others,” Walter reminded her. “They could be but the first.”

She studied the moving mesnie for a moment, then shook her head. “If so, then ’tis vanity, for they are fitted too fine for fighting. ’Tis more like they travel to Stephen.” Turning back to Meulan, she added, “But we must be wary, for now ’tis known my father chooses the Empress. No matter what their reason for coming, even if they cry peace, none carries any weapon inside.” Her eyes traveled up the corner tower appreciatively. “We have only to fear treachery, Walter, for we are readied for siege.”

In the two months she’d been at Harlowe, the seneschal had gained considerable respect for her. Where he’d once thought that Guy had merely sent her for company to the dowager, he now realized Rivaux had truly entrusted the defense of this, his greatest English possession, to her.

And despite her uneven temper she’d set about the task efficiently. The storehouses were filled, the sheep pens stocked, the garderobes cleaned and their discharge pipes grated on the inside to prevent entry from below, and the well covered to prevent poisoning by a dead animal catapulted over the walls. In her desire to be prepared, there was not a weapon in all of Harlowe that she had not inspected for repair. And despite their grumbling, the armorer and his assistants had worked long hours under her direction, while the smith had kept his forge burning to turn out barrels full of barbs for arrows. Under her orders, ten men had had to cut ash shafts for them.

Sometimes, when she walked the walls with him, speaking knowledgeably of such diverse things as siege machines, earthworks, quicklime for blinding besiegers, and the need to make sure that the river flow did not undermine the south tower and weaken its foundation, he forgot she was a woman. Nay, he told those who still doubted, Elizabeth of Rivaux had the mind of a master builder combined with that of a warrior. ’Twas the blood of Guy of Rivaux that gave her strength above her sex, he supposed.