Anita Mills (31 page)

“Beat me then,” she retorted, her voice as cold as her eyes.

He dragged her roughly across the room and flung her onto the bed. “You await your lord there, Elizabeth—there.”

Drawing off his tunic and his undertunic, he tossed them onto the floor. Then he bent to unfasten the cross-garters that held his chausses smooth against his legs. She rolled over, turning her back to him. He discarded his shoes and chausses, then climbed into bed. The ropes creaked with his weight as he reached for her. It was as though he touched one of the statues in his chapel. Still angry, he forced her shoulder down, turning her onto her back.

“Nay, Elizabeth, I’d lie with you this night,” he told her as she tried to rise. “I’d not be treated thus.”

His eyes glittered above the darkened planes of his face, and for a moment she knew fear. Despite the knotting of her stomach, she forced herself to stare upward at him. His face loomed closer, blotting out the faint light, as he bent his head to hers. She did not move.

He kissed her roughly, forcing her mouth open, and tasted stone. She lay still and unresponsive beneath him. He raised his head and lifted his hand as though he would hit her. “You swore you would lay willing for me—you swore it!”

“You accepted my terms,” she answered evenly. “When you broke the one, you broke the other.”

“Jesu! What manner of woman are you? ’Tis against the will of God to deny your husband!”

“I am Elizabeth of Rivaux.”

“I can take you.”

“And I cannot stop you.”

For a moment she thought he meant to hit her, then he dropped his hand wearily. Rising from the bed, he walked to the window slit much as he had done that first night at Dunashie. But this time, he lay his head against the cold, damp stone. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse.

“I burn for you, Elizabeth, I burn … but I’d not have you like this.”

Despite her own anger, the ache was within her also. She drew up her knees, holding them, to deny it. Despite his betrayal, she knew she would still have him. She had to will herself to silence.

“ ’Tis God’s punishment for me to want that which I cannot have,” he said slowly. “He gives and He takes away that I do not forget.”

Only the distant sounds of revelry below broke the stillness between them. Finally, she could stand it no longer. She spoke across the chasm of silence that separated them.

“If you would have me, I do not deny you.”

At first he did not move. “Nay, Elizabeth. I’d not have your pity.”

“ ’Tis not my pity that I give, Giles. And you do not burn alone.”

The coolness he’d drawn from the stones could not still the heat that coursed through him. He pushed away from the wall and made his way back to his bed. Lying down behind her, he reached around her, and this time she did not resist. But neither did she respond. Holding her closely, he took advantage of her position to woo her, nuzzling her hair, her ear, and her neck even as his hand played upon her body, touching and teasing. He would have her more than willing.

The rush of his warm breath sent a shiver through her. His fingers brushed over her breasts lightly, then returned to rub her nipples as his body molded itself to her back. They hardened beneath his palm. And as angry as she’d been with him, the center of her being was once again under his hand as it moved to explore her possessively, cupping her breasts, tracing her rib cage, smoothing her belly, and dipping to the wetness below. Her legs fell slack, then closed over his fingers, holding them there, and she moaned low.

He rolled her onto her back and covered her body with his own, easing into her. Her arms embraced him as she gave herself up to him. For the moment the bitterness and anger were forgotten, lost in the mindless rhythm of their bodies. And if it was not the same fiery union between them, at least she did not deny him.

He raised himself on his elbows and looked down into her green eyes. “I’d not quarrel with you,” he murmured softly. “Not now. Not ever.”

It would do no good to ask him again to let her go, and she knew it. She turned her head away.

“Ever have I wanted you, Elizabeth—I think even from the first. It angered me that you were given to the Church.” When she said nothing, he groped for words. “I cannot let you go—I cannot.”

“I swore to my father, Giles—I swore to him.”

“You swore to me! When you gave me your oath at the church door, you put me above him, Elizabeth!”

“He had my oath first,” she maintained stubbornly, refusing to look at him.

“I’d have my son born at Dunashie—not Harlowe!” he all but shouted at her. “God’s bones, woman, but you try me!”

“This is not Dunashie!” she yelled back. “ ’Tis but a stinking pile of wet stone! Sweet Jesu, but how is it you think to keep me safe here when you could not there?”

“There’s none to look for you here,” he countered, lowering his voice. “ ’Twill be expected I have taken you northward. I still have hopes of taking you back to Dunashie ere the babe comes.”

The now familiar wave of nausea hit her again. “It matters not where he is born.” She swallowed the gorge that rose in her throat and tried not to be sick.

“Aye, it does. A son of mine cannot look to Rivaux or Harlowe for his patrimony. He will have whatever else I can win for him—d’ye hear me? What I give him!”

“I’ve got to get up.”

At first he mistook her meaning, but then she covered her mouth suddenly. He rolled from the bed and got the basin, returning to shove it under her face. He watched helplessly as she retched violently, bringing up almost nothing. With one hand he held the pan, with the other, he steadied her until she stopped.

When at last she looked up, she whispered, “Sweet Mary, but it has got to be a son.” Seeing that he regarded her guiltily now, she remembered how she’d felt with Ivo. “Nay, ’tis not you—’tis the babe.”

He started to take the basin, but she shook her head. “ ‘Tis not meet. Call Helewise.”

Instead he carried it to the slitted window and, throwing open the shutters, emptied the contents into the water below. “God’s bones,” he muttered as the malodorous breeze wafted upward. “On the morrow, I mean to have the ditch drained and the garderobes sweetened. ’Tis not a wonder you sicken.”

“Aye.”

He brought a cloth and sat down to wipe her mouth. “Is it any better?”

“It passes until the next time.” She lay back and closed her eyes. “Maman says it does not last above a month.”

He tossed the cloth onto the floor and lay down beside her. When he would have drawn her into the crook of his arm she stiffened, reminding him again that the dispute still lay between them. She tried to turn away again, saying, “You have the right to lie with me, but I’ll not forgive you for what you do.”

Very deliberately, he pulled her rigid body against him and held her. With his free hand, he brushed the tangled strands of hair back from her damp brow. And she lay against him, her body rigid. For a long time there was no sound between them, and the silence was heavy.

Finally he dozed, reaching the strange netherworld of tangled dreams, where his memory echoed again,
I am ashamed of loving you,
…
ashamed of loving you
…
ashamed of loving you,
until mercifully he slid deeper into sleep.

Beside him, she stared into the darkness. When he went to Stephen, she would go to Harlowe.

Elizabeth sat, her stool pulled as close as she dared to the slitted window without spotting her gown, her attention on the embroidery in her lap. Outside, the rain came down steadily from the grey sky. It seemed, she thought tiredly, as though it had been raining ever since the second day she’d been there.

He stood on the last step of the winding stairs, watching her as though he would commit her forever to his memory. And again he knew there was not another man in Christendom who could boast of having a woman like her. Her black braids, entwined with threads of gold, hung over her shoulders, nearly touching the ground as she bent forward over her work. And the sheen of her green silk gown gave a softness to the picture he would carry of her. She looked up and her smile froze briefly, then faded from her face. The silk she embroidered slid from her lap.

“Nay, do not rise,” he said, stepping into the room.

Her eyes took in the polished mail that gleamed where the black silk of his surcoat fell away at his wrists and his neck, and she knew he’d come to say good-bye. And her throat was. almost too tight for speech.

“I did not hear you,” she whispered.

“I left my boots below. I’d not muddy the room.”

“Aye. I’d thought you meant to wait for the weather to clear.”

“I cannot.”

“You go to Stephen.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Aye. If I delay longer, he will think I do not come.”

He shut the door then crossed the room to her, standing above her. Reaching to touch the shining crown of her hair, he smoothed it with his palm. “I would go with peace between us, Elizabeth.”

She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Nay.”

“And your love.”

She drew in a breath, then exhaled, nodding.

“I’d hear you say it.”

“You’d have me say I love a fool.”

“If ’tis foolish to guard mine own, then I am guilty.” When she said nothing more, he knew he could not bridge the chasm between them. “I know you think me wrong, and mayhap I am, but I see no other way. With your father and King David against me, I cannot hold Dunashie unless Stephen wins.”

She swallowed hard. “I’d not have my father kill you, Giles,” she said softly.

It was as though she did not believe he could win. He felt bitter disappointment. “Mine enemies can tell you I do not die easily. If you would fear for one, fear for him.” Almost as soon as he said the words, he wished them back. “Nay, Elizabeth, I pray ‘twill not come to that.”

“He took Belesme.”

“ ’Twas years ago. But I did not come to dispute with you, and well you know it.” His hand dropped to her shoulder, squeezing it. “I’d have you smile for me ere I go.” When she did not look up, he chided, “I know not when I am come home again.”

“Godspeed you then.”

“Jesu! You cannot make this easier, can you?” he demanded angrily. “I’d have something more than coldness of you ere I go! Give me your embrace at least!”

She slid her arms around his legs and held him tightly for a moment, feeling the links of his mail press into her cheek through the silk. And then she let him go. “You have my prayers, my lord.”

It was not a satisfactory leave-taking, but there seemed to be nothing else he could do. “And you have mine. Have a care for yourself and for the babe.” He released her and started for the door, stopping ere he reached it. “If aught should happen, you have my leave to name the child what you will.”

Despite her bitterness, she was afraid to see him go. “Giles …” She rose, wishing she could tell him she loved him still, but her pride would not let her. “Nay, you will come back,” she said lamely as he turned briefly back to her.

He nodded, his black eyes bleak. “Aye, I will. Until we are meet again, Elizabeth.”

She listened to his muffled footsteps in the stairwell, heard him stop to pull on his boots below, and then the tower door closed behind him. Heedless of the driving rain, she threw open the shutters wider and leaned into the deep slit to watch him cross the courtyard. The black silk clung wetly to his broad shoulders even before he swung up into his saddle. It would be ruined long ere he reached Winchester, but it did not matter. He took his helmet from Lang Gib and jammed it onto his head, adjusting the nasal. He looked up, raising his hand in one last salute. And then he was gone.

The pain in her breast was almost too much to bear. She lifted her hand to wave to his back. Despite everything, despite all she’d said to him, he’d gone to Stephen. A sense of utter desolation overwhelmed her. Always before, she’d been certain that the men of her family would come home, but not now. If Stephen won, the lives of Guy of Rivaux and his son would be forfeit. And if ‘twas the Empress who prevailed, Giles of Moray would die. Either way, someone she loved would fall in battle or be judged for treason.

She leaned her head into the wet arrow slit, and the rain mingled with the tears that rolled down her face.

“Here now—he’d nae have ye weep fer him yet.”

She spun around, surprised to see Willie there. “He’ll die in Stephen’s cause, Will—I know it.”

The big man shook his head. “All of his life I have served him, and he’s nae fallen once. Ye canna think like that, else ye’ll mark yer bairn.” He moved into the room, coming up behind her to watch as the blue- shirted men seemed to disappear into the low-hanging clouds, their helms blending into the greyness. “Ever have his enemies thought to kill him, and still he lives, Lady Elizabeth. Aye, but he’s climbed out o’ towers higher’n this one, and crossed the Cheviots wi’out so much as a horse ter carry him, and them as was looking fer him dinna find him.”

“I would you were with him.”

It was a sore point with him, for he wished much the same. Nonetheless, he’d not dwell on his disappointment. “He’ll come back ter ye,” he promised. “He disna need me ter live.”

He bent down to pick up the silk she’d been working and folded it clumsily. “Now, do ye wish fer Jon-net or Helewise?”

“Nay.” She looked again into the driving rain. “Sweet Mary, but I cannot stand this.”

“Ye’ll stand it as yer dam afore ye. ’Tis the lot of women ter wait.” He turned to leave. “I did but want ye ter know I am here fer ye.”

But as the loneliness settled over her, she did not wish to let him go. “Do you play chess, Will?”

“But poorly.” Then he relented. “Aye—I learned at King Henry’s court.” He swung back to face her. “Did yer want ter stand me?”

“There’s naught else to do.”

“I canna afford to lose much. Three pennies at most.”

“You have more than three pennies, and well I know it.”

“Aye, but I’d nae lose them. I am not Rivaux’s daughter.” But even as he said it, he smiled almost slyly.

In the end it was her mind that strayed too often from the game, and she owed him six silver pennies. After nearly two hours he pushed away from the table, telling Helewise, “Ye’d best see as she rests.”