Anita Mills (32 page)

“Nay.” Elizabeth looked across to board at him. “I’d not lay abed and think.”

“Ye’ll make me a rich man,” he teased, resetting the pieces. “ ’Tis muckle gilt ye be losing.”

“Tell me,” she asked abruptly, “how is it that you speak so differently from Giles?”

“Och, ye noted that, eh?” he asked, regarding her with a grin.

“I could scarce help it,” she muttered drily. “Half the time I have but guessed at what you say.”

“I was born Scots, son to a northern woman, and when I was in England I dinna want to fergit it,” he admitted. “ ’Twas my pride, I suppose, fer there was them as would speak as Normans as soon as we crossed the border.”

“Giles?”

“Nay. But ‘twas what he heard, until ’twas my tongue as sounded strange ter him.” His grin broadened. “Now if I was ter have ter, I’d speak like the rest, ye know.” He leaned back. “ ’Tisna the game but the company ye favor, I’m thinking.”

“Aye. I tire of stitching and I tire of the rain.” She looked around the room. “I know not why we are here, Will, for ‘tis a mean place.”

“ ’Tis in England,” he answered simply. “And he quarrels with King David fer ye. His enemies will not think to look fer ye here.”

“Aye.” She rose, stretching her arms behind her to ease her tired back, then moved restlessly again to the window. “It still rains. God’s bones, but I hate this place, Will.”

“It isna Dunashie,” he agreed.

“Are the others like this?” she wondered, curious as to her child’s patrimony. “Do the walls weep everywhere but Dunashie?”

He appeared to consider, then shook his head. “Nay. Well, mayhap Kilburnie, for ’tis seated above a burn as runs into it,” he conceded, “and the clime’s wet there.”

“ ’Tis wet here,” she muttered.

“ ’Tis wetter there. As fer Wraybourn, ’tis smaller than Dunashie, but as it sits high, ’tis dry. And the peel tower is of stone, but the walls and house are timbered and thatched below it. Nay, ’tis Blackleith as ye’d like,” he decided.

“Why?”

“Ere it came ter Giles ’twas Hamon’s, and there’s gardens as blooms with gillyflowers. Aye, and the whole is rock within. If Dunashie hadna been disputed, Hamon would hae lived there, ye know. But it lies too close to Moray itself fer him ter take ye there now.”

Her eyes traveled again over the streaked walls, and she sighed. “And so I am imprisoned here.”

“Ye can give yerself misery anywhere.”

“I could almost wish he had taken me with him to Stephen’s court, even—’twould be better than this.”

“He couldna know what King Stephen might do. Who’s ter say he wouldna try to gain Count Guy’s loyalty with ye?” His eyes met hers soberly. “And I can tell ye there is nae pleasure in England’s court fer a hostage.”

“Stephen of Blois would not dare,” she declared haughtily.

“When a crown’s ter be held, e’en a saft man like Stephen fears not to dare. Aye, he would. And there ye’d be without father nor husband ter hold fer ye.”

“I cannot wait like this, Will—I cannot.”

“And ye canna travel as ye are,” he reminded her. “ ’Tis time ter think on the bairn within ye, ye know. Seems ter me as if yer canna eat, he canna grow.”

“ ’Twill pass. It must.”

She returned to sit again upon the small bench before the board. It did no good to argue with him over what she would do, and she knew it. Instead she reached to move her piece, then looked up at him.

“Tell me: how is it that you are called Wee Willie when you are even bigger than Giles?” she asked guilelessly.

He bent over the board to study what she had done, then moved his own piece before he answered. “I wasna supposed to be like this, ye know. I brought me dam ter her bed ere ’twas her time, and when I came out I was sich a wee thing that the priest dashed the water o’er me ere I was bundled fer fear I’d nae last ter christening.” His smile lit his face and his eyes seemed to dance with the tale. “When he would know how she meant ter call me, she said ’twas Will o’ Dunashie, and he held me up fer me sire the laird ter see, saying, ‘May God keep Wee Willie then,’ and he fair doused me wi’ the Holy Water.”

“And you grew.”

His smile widened. “Aye, I grew until ‘twas a jest, don’t ye see? And the laird who sired me was used to say that by the time he got Giles of his lady, I was in a fair way ter being grown. ‘Ye are a grit muckle knave,’ he’d tell me when he cuffed me.”

“Do you remember him well?”

“Summat. He was hanged when I had but five years on me.”

“I am sorry.”

“Aye,” he said, sighing. “Stealing brides isna often punished so, but the Moray are overproud, and they dinna want the blood of one who held only Dunashie mixed with hers. In that they were much as the Rivaux.”

It was her chance to make him think. “Willie, my father would listen to me. After Ivo—after my husband died, Papa swore he would not make me take another against my wish.”

“Did he now? Och, but ter nae make ye take one isna the same thing as yer choosing one they canna like.” He looked down to the board. “Do ye move or nae?”

“If I spoke with him, I could make him understand.”

“But ye be here and him God knows where,” he answered. “And if ye willna move, I’ll take yer penny now.”

It was enough that she’d planted the seed, she supposed. On the morrow she would press him further, for she still meant to go to Harlowe. She moved her piece.

He regarded it with disgust. “Och, and I liked ye better when yer mind was straying.”

It was not that Willie wanted to let her go—it was that he was not proof against her wiles. For a week she played subtly on his fear that Giles would lose Dunashie, that her father would kill him, and that King David would confiscate her babe’s patrimony. She would draw him out, asking of how it had been for him and Giles at the English court, reminding him of how much Dunashie had meant to the both of them, and then she would insist that if she could but face her father, she could persuade Guy of Rivaux to accept her choice of a husband. And when Willie maintained stoutly that they had no way of knowing when or if Count Guy in fact did come into England, she changed tactics, reminding him that the Countess Eleanor was a powerful ally who would side with her, who would add her written plea to Elizabeth’s. And he, recalling that the dowager had shown kindness to Giles, wavered.

He knew that Giles’ anger would be unbounded, that he would consider himself betrayed, but Willie weighed the greater good to Dunashie and capitulated, not without what he hoped would be sufficient warranty.

“D’ye swear by the Cross and on the soul of yer bairn ye’ll return ter yer husband?” he asked her.

“Aye.”

“I’d hear ye swear it.”

“You have but to provide me a small escort.”

“Aye, but I’d hear ye swear—I’d have yer oath ere I decide.” Taking the dagger from his belt, he held it up by the blade. The light provided by the stinking pitch torch behind them cast the shadow of the Cross over her.

She placed her fingertips on the dagger’s hilt and spoke clearly: “I, Elizabeth, daughter to Count Guy of Rivaux, do solemnly pledge that I will return to Giles, Lord of Dunashie, my lawful husband, upon the discharge of my oath to defend Harlowe.”

“And that ye will intercede fer Giles with yer lord father,” he prompted, still holding the dagger up.

“And that I will intercede on my husband’s behalf before my father,” she declared.

“You so swear before God?”

“I so swear before God on this symbol of His Cross,” she intoned solemnly.

“At peril of yer and yer bairn’s soul?”

She dropped her hand to her still-flat abdomen, pressing it. “On my soul and his, so help me God.”

Still he hesitated. “But what if Count Guy in his anger holds ye?”

“He will not.”

“Och, but he might in anger,” he persisted. “It touches his pride to think ye’ve wed beneath ye.”

“Sweet Mary!” she snapped in exasperation. “I have sworn on my soul—what more can I promise?” Then, realizing what he risked also, she relented. “Papa gave me the choice in my marriage, Will, and if he protests it, ’tis that he does not believe I have consented. When I am at Harlowe, he will see that I was not forced to wed.” Touching her belly again, she added, “The child I bear is of his blood also, and he’d not deny it.”

“I’d go wi’ ye,” he decided. “I swore I’d have a care fer ye and the bairn, and if aught was to happen, I’d nae be fergiven fer it.” He eyed her dubiously. “ ’Tis ter be hoped ye’ll nae sicken more frae the journey.”

In the end, after leaving but enough men to defend Wycklow, they took ten others and rode for Harlowe. And despite the almost constant nausea she managed to keep to the saddle, arriving before the great castle’s walls on Whitsunday. Even as they drew up at the water they could hear the bells rung before the Mass.

Above, one of two sentries shouted a challenge to them. Before Willie could cup his hands to respond, Elizabeth stood in her stirrups to shout, “ ’Tis I—Elizabeth of Rivaux!”

Both men disappeared, but they could be heard from the other side as they spread the word loudly. The bells stopped abruptly, followed by the appearance of her grandmother at the water gate. And behind Eleanor stood Richard.

“Sweet Jesu!” Elizabeth gasped when she saw him.

Willie followed her gaze and knew fear. Like most men who did not know Guy of Rivaux, who had listened for most of their lives to the bards sing of him as though he could vanquish the devil, Willie still thought of him as young and invincible. The conviction that he faced the legend made him speechless.

To his dismay, the black-haired man stepped into the barge; and as the canopied flatboat was poled into the water, Willie resisted the urge to flee. But the man who stepped ashore paid him no heed at all. He strode straight for Elizabeth and reached up to her.

“God’s bones, Liza, but I’d thought to come for you at the head of an army,” he said as she leaned into his arms. He lifted her easily, then set her down before him, grinning. “Art a welcome sight, sister.” His grin faded as he took in her white face, and he looked to the man behind her. “Afore God, if she has been harmed, I’ll hang you for it.” His arm circled her protectively, as though he dared Willie to deny any complaint she made.

She turned into his arm and embraced him, holding him. “I’d not thought to find you here,” she murmured in understatement. Then, “Where is Papa?”

“I left him at Beaumont, where he fought with Geoffrey of Anjou against Stephen’s allies there. But now he is with Gloucester and the Empress, preparing to invade.” He hugged her affectionately, then released her. “Had not you heard? Dover, Canterbury, Exeter, Dorchester, Shrewsbury, Ludlow, and Bristol are all declared for her—and that is but to name a few.”

“The war begins?”

“Aye. Already Stephen has abandoned hope of taking Bristol and turned elsewhere. Had you heard naught of this?”

“Nay.” The now familiar sickness washed over her, dizzying her, making her hold his arm for balance. “I know King David means to come from Scotland, and that Stephen has issued his call to arms, but—” She stopped to swallow.

“You look as though the Butcher starved you,” he commented.

“Ye’d best get her inside ere she empties her stomach again,” Willie muttered. “Though how there’s ter be anything in her, I canna ken.”

“Nay, I am all right—’tis but the babe.”

Giving lie to her words, she turned and was heartily sick. Willie caught her and pushed her head away from her gown until she was done.

“The babe? Jesu, Liza!”

“Aye,” she managed, straightening. “And I am sick enough for it to be a son.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the redheaded giant, and for a moment he wondered if this were Moray. “I am come to hang the Butcher,” he said provocatively. “I told Papa I would bring his head back to Rivaux for you.”

“Well, you cannot, for he is with Stephen.” She turned to Willie. “ ’Tis Rivaux of Celesin,” she explained, “my brother.” To Richard she said, “ ’Tis William of Dunashie, my lord husband’s brother. He is called Wee Willie there.”

“Wee Wullie?” Below his lifted brow, his eyes took in the extraordinary size of the man, measuring William of Dunashie’s height and breadth against his own. “I’ll warrant he is not. ’Tis a jest at best.”

Before he could ask more of her, she started for the barge. “I’d see my grandmother ere she goes to chapel, and then I am for my bed. I am tired unto death, Richard.” She let him assist her into the barge, where she sank back against the silk cushions, closing her eyes. “I’d have you welcome Willie, for I’d not have ridden so far without him and the others. I’d have them fed and palleted.”

Worried by her pallor, he dropped down beside her, agreeing, “Aye. Anything else can wait until the morrow. Then I’d hear of this Butcher you have wed.”

“I am come to keep mine oath to Papa, brother.”

“And I am come to kill your husband for you.”

“Nay.” Reluctantly, she opened her eyes long enough to meet his. “He is not what you think him.”

Richard faced Eleanor of Nantes in her solar. “I would write to Papa if I knew what to tell him. Did you have the tale of her?”

She shook her head. “There was naught to do but put her to bed. ’Tis early days, and the babe sits uneasily as yet.”

“If there is any satisfaction to be had of this, ’tis that Reyner was wrong about her barrenness. But then from the time I brought her from Eury, I have thought the fault was Ivo’s.”

“The lord of Dunashie is very different from this Ivo, Richard.” Eleanor, who’d attempted to reason with him from the moment of his arrival two days before, chose her words carefully. “When he came to Harlowe for her, he did not speak of what she would bring him, but rather of what he would give her. He knew, I think, the pain of her barrenness. He said he’d have no other.”

He snorted derisively. “Aye, I’ll warrant he would not. God’s blood, Grandmere, but he aimed high for himself when he took Guy of Rivaux’s daughter.”

“Nay, ’twas more than that. Two things I remember above all else of what he said to me that day. One was that it was not in Elizabeth to fear, and the other was that he would give her what she lacked. He would give her the sons and daughters of her blood that Ivo had not.”