Anita Mills (44 page)

He eased his body from the high saddle, then walked unsteadily to face her. “Reyner of Eury is no more, Elizabeth,” he said quietly. “You have naught to fear of him ever again.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she nodded and stepped into his embrace. She held him, heedless of the hardness of mail or the dampness of the padded gambeson beneath. “I’d go home, Giles,” she whispered. For an awful moment he thought it had all been for naught, and he tensed against her with a greater fear than any in battle. Then she added, “To Dunashie. I’d have my babe born at Dunashie.”

His arms closed around her, pressing her against him, rocking her. “I have to go to King David first,” he murmured, smoothing her hair against her back. “But, aye, ’tis meet that he be born at Dunashie.”

“Och, ’twas a good fight, and me nae able to partake of it,” Willie observed sorrowfully.

“Will!”

Supported by Lang Gib and Hob, the bastard giant wobbled over to his brother. For a long moment he eyed Giles with misgiving. “ ’Tis sorry I am fer taking her to Harlowe, but I could nae stand before her honor.”

With one arm still around Elizabeth, Giles held out the other to Willie. “It matters not now—’tis enough you are safe also.”

“ ’Twas fierce inside, my lord,” Lang Gib admitted. “Six were lost, including Auld Wat and Dickon o’ the Weir, and another five wounded sorely. But,” he added proudly, “there’s nae a man of Eury as don’t know he’s been in a battle, for there are but twenty of them as survived.”

“Jesu.”

“I had the priest shrive all he could ere they were dead,” Bevis of Lyons reported. “But some perished in the flames, and they could not be reached.”

“I will pay for masses for the dead,” Guy offered.

“ ’Tis more meet that I do it,” Giles answered. He looked to the fire that still licked the blackened walls. “ ’Twas in my keep that they perished.”

“Aye, I am sorry for it.” Guy hesitated, then sighed. “I’d help you rebuild it, and you would let me.” When Giles would have refused him, he shook his head. “There is the matter of my daughter’s dowry between us.”

“Papa …”

“But we will speak of that on the morrow. Sweet Jesu, but I am tired. ’Tis ten days since I left Normandy, and not more than one night in the same place.” He flexed his shoulders as though to ease them, then turned back toward the tents.

“My lord …”

He swung around again. “Aye?”

Giles unbuckled the sword belt and held it out to him. “My thanks—’twas an honor to wear it.”

The older man nodded. And as tired as he was he managed to smile. “Give me a strong grandson, and I will save it for him.”

For two days they buried the dead, tended the wounded, and sifted through the rubble of Wycklow, clearing away what could not be saved. What was believed to have once been Reyner’s box was found beneath the collapsed second floor of the tower. A charred parchment case, its contents destroyed, its seal melted, lay under a hasp and lock, all that remained of the wooden box frame. The case disintegrated as Guy of Rivaux lifted it. It was, as Richard observed pithily, the ashes of the Count of Eury’s mad dream.

A stout coffin had been fashioned for Reyner, and after his body was placed within, it was sealed with a thick layer of pitch for the hot journey back to Eury. By agreement ’twas Bevis of Lyons chosen to accompany it, for his wife and son still remained there.

As he packed for the less than welcome task, he wiped the soap from his newly shaved face. He checked a nick on his chin in his crude mirror, and was startled by the reflection there. He turned to face the woman he’d once feared as rival.

“So you depart this morn?” she asked quietly.

“Aye.” He eyed her warily, wondering what it was that she held in her hand. “As much as it pains me, he will be buried next to Ivo.”

“For all the bitterness that was between them, Reyner loved his son.”

He folded the towel and laid it upon his neat stack of clothing. “Love? Is it love to beat a boy for what he cannot be?” he asked bitterly.

“Holy Church teaches ’tis a sin to be like Ivo,” she reminded him.

“And you—are you like the rest?” he demanded savagely. “Could you see no kindness in Ivo? Nay, lady, if he loved you not as you would have it, he came to love you still.” When she said nothing, he shook his head. “Did you think he paid no price for protecting you from Reyner?”

“I have come to accept what he was,” she answered finally, lifting her hand to hold out a leather bag. “I’d have you take this, Bevis.”

The weight of it surprised him. “ ’Tis money? Nay, I—”

“For Ivo. Sweet Jesu, Bevis, but I know not what God thinks of his sin, but I’d give silver for masses for his soul.” Her smile twisted almost hideously and her eyes welled. “I have come to see there was goodness in him, and I’d not have his soul burn in hell.”

Overwhelmed, he groped for words, speaking haltingly. “He never meant to pain you, lady. If at first he allowed others to taunt you, ’twas his anger at his sire. And later he was sorely sorry for it.”

“Aye.” She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “There are one hundred marks in the bag. Give the priest at Eury half for masses for Ivo, and keep the rest for saving me.”

For a long moment their eyes met, then he looked away. “I would that it had been different for you.”

“It matters not—God gives me Giles and this babe, and I am content. The love between my husband and myself has healed us both, I think.”

He nodded. “Aye. You are blessed.”

She hesitated, then blurted out, “Give my good wishes to Bertrade and to your son.”

“I will.”

“Bevis …”

“Aye?”

“I have spoken naught to any of what was between you and Ivo. I’d ask Giles to give you service if you would have me do it, but …”

He understood. “I’d like that. And if you are feared that you will regret it, I can only say that there was but one Ivo for me.”

“Would you bring Bertrade to me at Dunashie?”

“If you would wish her company.”

“Aye.”

He did not see her again ere he rode out with those that remained of Eury’s men, but Giles bade him farewell in her stead. The lord of Dunashie, his head bared in the summer’s sun, walked to where Bevis sat his horse. “I did not speak to Rivaux for you,” he admitted, “for it does not seem as though there is much chance for advancement there. Count Guy and the lord of Celesin are served by many.” A slow smile curved his mouth, and the black eyes were almost merry. “My lady points out that I, unlike her father and brother, must surely have a place for a captain of some experience.” Bevis’ mouth was almost dry, his breath in abeyance as the borderer nodded. “Aye. If you would return when you are done at Eury, I am more than willing to accept your service.”

“I would bring my wife and son to the Lady Elizabeth at Dunashie.”

“ ’Tis a hard life, for we are borderers first, Scots second, and English only when it serves,” Giles added as his smile widened into a grin.

“You behold a man not unwilling to fight, my lord,” Bevis answered, smiling also.

“So be it, then.”

The slow procession filed from the camp, the horses walking to keep pace with the rumbling cart that carried Reyner of Eury home. Guy shaded his eyes against the sun to watch them disappear over the hill. Behind him the men of Harlowe loaded the tents and prepared to leave.

“So you take my daughter to Dunashie,” he said finally.

“Aye.”

“ ’Tis as well. She has no need of me now, I think, and ’tis as it should be,” he conceded. “A woman belongs to her husband rather than to her father.” He squinted into the sun again. “She is a strong woman, my Liza.”

“She is that,” Giles agreed.

“I know not when I will see her again, if ever.”

“Nay, you must not think it, my lord. The gates of Dunashie or any other keep I hold will always open to Guy of Rivaux or his son.”

“ ’Tis war now.”

“Aye.” Giles’ expression sobered. “I take her to Dunashie, then I go to King David. The next time I am come into England, ‘twill be to fight against Stephen.”

Guy shifted his weight and looked away. “I’d aid you with your overlord—I’d send mine own message to King David. This time, I’d tell him that Elizabeth’s husband pleases me well. I’d tell him that I acknowledge the bond of blood between us.”

Giles’ eyes were hot with unshed tears. “ ’Twould please me greatly.” Then, inexplicably, he found himself saying, “I never had a sire.” And as soon as the words left his mouth he felt the greatest fool in Christendom.

But Guy turned back to him, his own eyes strangely red. “I pray you will think you have one now.” He clasped the younger man by both shoulders and leaned to kiss his cheek. “May you love me even as I learned to love Earl Roger.” One corner of his mouth went down as his eyes sought Giles’. “He was the Guy of Rivaux in my time, you know—’twas he who was the first to fight Robert of Belesme and live. God only knows what the bards will sing ere you are done, my son.”

“Papa, we are nearly ready to leave,” Richard said, interrupting them. “Do you bid farewell to Liza?”

“Aye.”

Giles waited until Guy disappeared into the last tent still standing before he dared to speak to Richard. “I pray you will not mistake my words to him—he has but one true son.”

“Holy Jesu, but what maudlin men we are ere we part,” Elizabeth’s brother chided, grinning. “Nay, but I welcome you, for now I am not the only one who must please him.” Abruptly, the grin faded. “He casts a long enough shadow to cover both of us, you know. Men will treat you differently for what you are to Rivaux.”

“Mayhap in Normandy and in England,” Giles admitted, “but probably not in Scotland.”

“Nay? Wait and see, brother, for you gain the love of those who love him and the hatred of those who do not. Unless you make your own mark before the world, you are judged by what you are to him.” His gaze caught his father and sister emerging from the tent. “Ask Liza. ’Tis a bittersweet burden you will share with us.”

“So, brother, we are parted again,” Elizabeth murmured, leaning to kiss Richard.

His arms closed, clasping her tightly for a moment, then he released her. “I will send to you when Gilly is delivered, Liza, and I’d have word of you also. May God keep you and your fierce Scot.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Name your son anything but Roger, for I’ve a mind to call mine after our grandsire of Harlowe.”

“Aye.”

Giles got his first taste of Richard’s prophetic words when they broke their northward journey at St. Olaf’s. When the fat abbot had protested before the weary, dust-covered mesnie that he had little room, Elizabeth had risen imperiously in her saddle to announce, “You behold before you the lord of Dunashie, son-in-law to Guy of Rivaux, who carries his wounded brother home. Would you have it said you turned him away?”

There was but a brief hesitation as the abbot counted, then he capitulated. “The men will have to sleep in a common room, my lady, but you are most welcome to partake of our humble hospitality.”

Humble indeed. While the others shared ale and bread and cheese in the dormitory hall, Elizabeth and Giles were feted at the abbot’s own table, dining on fish, venison, partridge, lampreys, and half a dozen other dishes, all washed down by the sweet wine of Aquitaine.

A bath was drawn in the abbot’s own chamber “to ease your bones of the ride,” he explained, leading them there. “You have but to summon your body servant to tend you. And if your lordship should not mind it, would you have a care and not put your boots upon my mattress?” he added as he showed them his great curtained bed.

“Jesu, but I am tired,” she muttered after he left them.

“ ’Tis rather fine for a churchman,” Giles observed, admiring the rich hangings that covered the stone walls.

“Nay, there are many like this, save the Cistercians—for full half and more are ruled by noble sons.” She pulled off her veil and lay down upon the feather mattress for a moment.

“I thought you would not be second into the bath water,” he teased.

She turned onto her stomach and parted the bed curtains to watch him undress. His eyes met hers, and what she saw there sent a shiver that had naught to do with cold down her spine. He favored her with a lopsided grin. “Aye,” he said softly, “ ’tis the first time we are alone since I went to Stephen. And there are not a dozen men-at-arms snoring about us this time.” As he spoke, he removed his boots.

It was a reminder that sent a flush to her face, for in the two nights past they’d lain together on his pallet, covered thickly despite the heat, and explored each other’s bodies silently lest they waken those about them. And while no coupling between them had ever been distasteful, she could not say she’d had full enjoyment of what they’d done then. Knowing that most never had any more privacy than that did not lessen her embarrassment. This time was going to be different. Already she could hear the bells ringing, calling the brothers to prayer. Across the way, in the chapter house, they would be assembling to form the procession to the chapel, where they would chant Complines. There’d be none to hear her moan and cry out with abandon.

He pulled his tunic and overtunic over his head and turned to fold them together neatly. The muscles of his back and shoulders gleamed in the light from the two cresset lamps on a low table. Sweet Mary, but he was a well-formed man.

“Well, do you go first—or do I?”

“Aye.” She rolled from the bed and stood to unhook the girdle at her waist.

He came up behind her and slid the silk cases from her plaits, freeing them, then combed the loosening braids with his fingers. Her hair fell over her shoulders and cascaded in ripples past her waist. The soft smell of the crushed flowers she’d used when she’d washed the soot and moat water from her hair floated up. His hands moved beneath her arms to work the laces that gave the fit to her gown, and already she thought she would break into pieces beneath his touch.

She stood very still, not wanting to play the wanton yet. The gown came loose.

“Is the water hot or cold?” she asked weakly.

“Warm and perfumed with oil,” he whispered, bending to kiss her neck where her hair fell away at the center.