Anita Mills (35 page)

“You never had that of Maman’s confessor, or if you did he said not the same to me.”

“Nay. When I came home to visit once from fostering in Gloucester’s keep, he told me ’tis pious to burn, that it improves the soul. And now I must be paying for a multitude of sins, for when lam abed I can think of naught but Gilly.”

“Did you never think to take another when you are away from her?” she asked curiously, wanting to know how a man really felt on such things.

“Do you?” he countered.

“ ’Tis not the same. You are a man.”

“When I heard that Gilly had wed Simon of Woodstock, in mine anger I tried to take another,” he admitted, “but ’twas not the same. I lay with several, but I felt nothing. And after I knew she’d wed him to give my babe a name other than bastard, I wanted none other. But I asked of Giles of Moray, not me,” he recalled. “I’d know, Liza. Tell me of this man who would make you forget you are Rivaux.”

“What would you have me tell?”

“Anything that will make me like him.”

“But you would not have me tell you he reminds me of you,” she protested, teasing him. Then, realizing he’d sobered again, that he was indeed regarding her seriously, she considered the matter. “Twice he saved my life against Reyner, Richard—twice he fought against greater numbers when he did not know I was Rivaux’s daughter.”

“And yet you took him prisoner here.”

“He pricked my pride.” As was her wont when she would not look at him, when she would seek her thoughts, she drew a circle in the dirt with her toe, looking down on it. “And ’twas wrong that I did, but I am not sorry for it. It kept him here and gained his notice.”

“Did it bother you not that men call him Butcher?” he wanted to know.

“Aye, and it weighs on his soul.” She raised her eyes again to his. “But he is not as you would think, Richard—he is not unkind. Hard, aye—but not unkind. And he has fought for his patrimony when there was none to stand with him.”

“He treats you well?”

The memory of how she’d railed at Giles, the insults she’d flung at him, the anger she’d shown him ere he left came to mind. “He did not beat me when he had the cause,” she answered simply. “He honors me for my birth, and in his house I sit above him.”

“Jesu! Above him, Liza? ’Tis not meet,” he muttered.

“Not knowing if he could love me, I wanted to give him pride in me at the least.” Her gaze dropped again to her feet. “ ’Twas wrong of me also, but I know not how to remedy it now—nor if I will have the chance. Richard, I have cost him everything, and still he would love me.”

The pain in her voice was unmistakable. “Nay,” he said gently, taking her hand again, “let us pray over it.”

“ ’Twill not bring him back from Stephen’s court, nor will it mend the quarrel with King David,” she insisted as he led her inside the chapel. “God aids me not in this.”

They walked past the carved chairs that lined the walls. Above them light filtered through stained glass, casting a pattern of red and blue upon the flagstone floor. Before them candles burned at the altar rail, their flickering lights carrying the prayers of those who’d been there earlier. Richard genuflected before the gilded crucifix behind the altar, then moved to kneel at the feet of the Blessed Virgin. Beneath him, under the stone, lay another Richard, his great-grandsire of Harlowe. Elizabeth, her hand still in his, knelt also over the crypt of Roger, once called the FitzGilbert ere he was acknowledged heir to Earl Richard.

For a time naught was said. Richard leaned forward, his head touching the rail, his eyes closed. Elizabeth tried to compose her thoughts into prayer also, doing as she had been taught in childhood, praying for others ere she asked intercession for herself. Then she was startled by her brother’s words, clearly spoken.

“Holy Mary, Blessed Virgin Mother of God, I ask your intercession in the dissolution of the oath that exists between Elizabeth of Rivaux and our father that I may assume it.”

“Richard—nay!” Elizabeth protested. “You cannot.”

“And I ask you to witness mine own oath to him, that I will be his man in all and everything, that I will defend what is his against every man in his name, so help me God.” Turning to Elizabeth, he said solemnly, “If it be your will
,
I am willing to take your place as our father’s man, absolving you from all responsibility for the defense of Harlowe.”

Tears welled in her eyes, for she knew what it cost him to do this for her. “Richard, I—”

“Say it, Liza.”

“Nay, but—”

His flecked eyes were intent on her face. “Nay, I am not the martyr you think me, sister. And you agree, ’twill be my babe, not yours, who is born at Harlowe.”

It suddenly seemed right that he who would one day rule this great keep should have a son born there. And she felt as great a certainty that her own child should come forth at Dunashie. To each his own patrimony. Her fingers tightened in her brother’s stronger ones.

“I ask God for deliverance of my vow to Guy of Rivaux,” she said clearly, “that I may cede responsibility for the defense of Harlowe to Richard of Rivaux, who will keep mine oath for me in our father’s name against every man.” Her eyes moved from him to the statue above. “As Mary who was without sin is my witness.”

“So be it then.”

She dropped her head to pray. “Merciful Father, I ask your blessing on me and all of mine house, but most of all I’d have peace between my husband and my father. Amen.”

“Amen,” he repeated. Rising, he pulled her up after him. With his free hand he tucked an errant strand of blue-black hair beneath her baudekin veil. “Ever would I stand for you, Liza—ever.”

They emerged again into the June sun. “All of the rest of my days, I will remember what you do for me, Richard,” she said, smiling through a mist of tears.

“Before you think me overgenerous, I did it for myself also. If ’tis possible, I mean to bring Gilly here.”

“Through the Queen’s blockade?”

“Nay, I’d bring her through Wales. Then, even if I join Papa, she will be here and I will know she is safe. She will be company for Grandmere also, and no matter where I am, here or elsewhere in England, the distance will not be great.”

“Aye.”

“You are freed to go or stay, Liza.”

She nodded. “I return to Wycklow, and when Papa can be persuaded to intercede with King David I will go again to Dunashie.” Her chin quivered dangerously. “Aye, you will like Giles—I know it.”

He raised her chin with his knuckle. “If he treats you well, I am satisfied. Go with God, Liza.”

She nodded. “My greatest prayer, Richard, is that neither you nor Papa will have to meet my husband over your buckler. I’d have no quarrel between you.”

“Nay, ’twill not come to that,” he promised.

Despite King Stephen’s pleasantness to him, Giles knew his loyalty was suspect to the English barons. And he knew that they did not like him overmuch, for he was seldom consulted for his opinion on anything, and when he gave it it was usually greeted with thinly veiled disdain. He began to feel that his presence there was more political than military, but he kept his own counsel and waited for an opportunity to gain the English king’s gratitude.

Stephen, he observed, was more than willing to bestow the lands of rebellious barons on his own allies. It was, however, left to the fortunate recipient to claim his new possession from the former owner, which made some of his gifts dependent on the final success of the war. Still, Giles had hopes of being able to rise above Guy of Rivaux’s contempt for him.

It was not an easy thing that he did. By day, he watched the king attempt to be all things to all men, and he lost most of the respect he’d held for Stephen. As much as he had hated King Henry, as much as he would not be ruled by Henry’s daughter, Giles reached the conclusion that the king he’d chosen was unfit to rule. Indeed, of all he’d seen, he felt that both Henry’s illegitimate son, Robert of Gloucester, and Stephen’s queen, Mathilda of Boulogne, were better suited than those they supported. But it mattered not, Giles told himself. For good or ill he’d placed his hands and his uncertain future in King Stephen’s.

Yet the fact that his choice was one of expedience rather than honor weighed heavily on him, and far too often, when alone on his pallet, he had his doubts as to whether his wife would ever forgive him. There the words she’d said in anger haunted him, and he heard again
I am ashamed of loving you
…
ashamed of loving you
…
you
’
d have me say I love a fool… a fool… a fool… you fight for the usurper … he has not the right to rule
…
then you have no honor
… until he could not stand it. To one born of the blood of Rivaux, honor was everything. There was none to say that Guy of Rivaux had no honor.

The night was hot, the tent close, and this once Giles could not cross beyond the tortured meanderings of his troubled mind to the peace of sleep. He lay there, forcing himself to hear instead the steady, rhythmic snoring of Hob and Lang Gib, until he could stand it no longer. Pulling on his chausses and his overtunic, he went out for air.

The camp was silent save for the occasional challenge of a sentry. In the distance birds called and answered each other. He walked aimlessly, unwilling to think anymore, unwilling to reason within. The only thing he wanted was to live with Elizabeth in peace.

He knew not how far he walked nor where until he was brought out of his thought by voices. Beyond an opened tent flap he heard the word “Rivaux.” He stopped, standing silently without, and listened.

“Aye, Stephen’s spies bring word Count Guy has landed.”

“Jesu! Can they be sure?”

“Aye, but he eluded the Queen’s blockade, coming into Pevensey rather than Dover. He spent the night at Lewes with but thirty men, then escaped ere he could be arrested.”

“I’d thought him with Gloucester.”

“If Rivaux is come, can Gloucester be far behind?” a third voice asked.

“Nay. They say he is come for his daughter.”

“The one stolen by the Scot?”

“Aye.”

“What said Eury to the news?”

“Count Reyner departed in secret this morning with Stephen’s blessing, saying that he had the means to bring Rivaux down. He goes for Rivaux’s daughter.”

“And the Butcher does not know of it?”

“Nay, ’twas done whilst he yet slept. Eury’s tent stands that none will suspect he is gone.”

“Where?”

There was a derisive snort. “A mean place in the north, I am told. Reyner’s squire overheard one of the Butcher’s men speak to another of Wycklow, saying she is there, that he leaves her there that none will know it.”

Despite the heat of the night, Giles’ blood ran cold. Turning on his heel, he walked back through the camp, heedless of all else. And as surely as he’d heard it, he found Reyner’s bright tent standing empty. Lifting the flap, he saw that nothing remained inside but the blackened pit that had held the fire.

This time, it was not Elizabeth’s voice that haunted him.
Rivaux will be mine. … If you would aid me, we will send for his daughter.
He swore long and profanely, taking no satisfaction from the blasphemous words. Cursing himself for a fool, he realized he’d been duped by Reyner and by Stephen. The coldness spread, filling his body with foreboding as he considered the distance the Count of Eury already would have traveled. Morning was many hours ago.

With haste he sought his own tent again, roused Lang and Gib and Hob, then sent them in secret to the others who slept apart on pallets dragged into fields just beyond the encampment. For a brief time he considered taking all he’d brought to Stephen, but then decided the withdrawal of his entire levy would rouse the camp. In the end he took only the Scots he’d brought with him from Dunashie. Leaving his own tent standing also, he and his men moved with stealth through the sleeping camp, subduing sentries who would challenge them until, armed and mounted, they were spurring their horses and riding as though they fled hell.

It was not until the sun waxed high the next morning that Hob gave voice to their fears. “Nay, but Wycklow canna hold against him, d’ye think? A good battering will bring down the far wall easily enough, and we are too few to stop him. Aye, and I canna like all the timber where ye’d been rebuilding yer wall.”

It was a fact that Giles had faced ever since he knew Reyner went there. And it did no good to tell himself that he’d been too sure that none would count it worth the effort, for Elizabeth of Rivaux’s presence had changed that. He’d not expected any to know she was there.

“Aye,” Giles agreed grimly. “But if he takes her, I will see him punished. If it costs me all, I’ll see him punished,” he repeated.

“Nay, but it canna come to that,” Lang Gib protested. “Willie will nae give her up.”

“Och, but Will is but one man,” said Hob, looking sideways to his master’s set face. “D’ye send to Harlowe for aid?” he asked. “Whether they like ye or nae, the countess will nae want harm to come to Rivaux’s daughter.”

“Nay. Guy of Rivaux comes into England.”

“Merciful Mary. Then God aid us all.”

And as was his wont when any invoked God, Giles looked down to where his scarred hands held his reins. Aid him? Nay, but God punished him. For Aveline. For the souls that had perished unshriven at Dunashie. And he’d been a fool to hope otherwise. If God had given him Elizabeth, ’twas but so He could take her away.

For a moment Lang Gib glimpsed the pain in the black eyes. “I will pray for you, my lord.”

Giles’ jaw tightened and his eyes went hard and cold. “Save your words for yourself, Gilbert of Kilburnie,” he said shortly.

“Och, but the priests say ye have but to ask.”

“It matters not what the priests say, for they lie.”

They exchanged glances behind him, then Gib made the sign of the Cross furtively over his breast. “Then I pray for your lady.”

Hob, who blamed Elizabeth for much of the ill that had befallen them, nodded. “And while ye be about it, pray to mend her tongue, will ye? Say ye’d have her safe but a wee bit safter.” He stole a glance again, but Giles appeared not to have heard him. “And ask for a son for Dunashie.”