Anita Mills (45 page)

She ducked away, unwilling to let him know what he did to her. Turning her back that he could not see the desire in her eyes, she pulled the gown over her head, then lifted the plain undergown beneath. Her breath caught as his hands slid around her again, this time to cup her breasts in his scar-roughened palms. His thumbs massaged her nipples, hardening them.

“Art bigger than I remember,” he murmured, leaning to nibble at her ear.

The rush of warm breath sent yet another shiver through her. “ ’Tis the babe,” she whispered back.

“Aye.”

Even a simple word such as that, spoken against her ear, made her tremble against him. Closing her eyes, she leaned back, feeling the rise of his desire, and heat spread through her. One rough palm slid lower, gliding over her belly, stopping there. She caught his hand and held it.

“One day I will be fat and ugly with this babe.”

“Never ugly, Elizabeth.” Eluding her grasp, he smoothed the soft skin, dipping lower.

“Not yet—I’d not hurry.”

His hand stopped in the thatch. The other one continued to massage a breast. “Aye—’tis the woman as keeps the gate, but I’d sound the approach.” His mouth moved from her ear to trace a fiery trail of kisses down her neck. She leaned her head back, giving him access to her throat, and a low moan of pleasure escaped her as his lips found the sensitive skin there. His fingers sought the wetness below, touching the fold, then withdrew as he murmured, “I’d test the defense ere the siege begins.”

She swallowed, then forced herself to remind him, “The water awaits, my lord.”

“Aye.” In one swift motion, he leaned her over his arm and pulled the undergown over her head, then he released her to untie his chausses. When she turned around his gaze traveled over her eagerly, giving her a sense of power over him. “Get into the water,” he said thickly, “else you’ll not get a bath.”

The wooden tub was large, with a seat on either side. Next to it a bench had been pulled up to hold soap, ewers of clean water for rinsing, and a stoppered bottle of the scented oil. Taking care to keep her hair over the side that it did not get wet, she eased her body into the warm water and leaned back to savor the smell. “Maman had some of this once,” she murmured dreamily, closing her eyes. “ ’Twas from the East.”

There was a rustle as his chausses fell to the floor, then her eyes flew open with the realization that he was joining her in the tub. “Sweet Mary, but I’ve bathed with none but my sister when we were small.”

“I did not wish to be second in the bath water either,” he said softly, “and ’twill be nothing like bathing with your sister.”

The displaced water sloshed over the side, spilling onto the woven mat beneath. He reached for the bottle and removed the stopper to pour the oil into his hand. Before she knew what he was about, he’d leaned to smooth it over her shoulders and down over her body.

“Stand up.”

“You’ll use it all.”

“Then I will pay for another.” He poured more into his palm and waited for her to rise. Then he rubbed it over her hips, down her thighs, and between.

“Now ’tis my turn.” Bemused but fascinated, she watched him stand to face her. Keeping her eyes averted, she covered him with the oil also, savoring the feel of his strong, hard body beneath her hands. “The waste must surely be a sin,” she managed as her fingers stroked the muscles that outlined his hips. The awareness of his body was almost too much to bear.

“Aye.”

His arms came up to embrace her as they stood in the water, and his mouth sought hers hungrily, eliciting an answering desire that matched his own. She dropped the bottle and clutched his shoulders, pressing her wet body against his as he explored her mouth. His hands slid over her oiled skin, tantalizing the flesh beneath his scarred palms as the heat between them released the exotic scent.

Somewhere in the distance, two hundred monks chanted an ancient prayer while the lord of Dunashie eased his wife down into the tub. The water lapped about them, wetting her hair, but she no longer cared. His hands caressed wet breasts as she arched her back above him, teasing him until his mouth found a nipple, and a new wave of desire flooded through her. This time, when his fingers moved lower, she was ready.

“The gate is open,” she whispered against his mouth.

For answer, he grasped her hips and entered her.

Later, as she sat pressing the oily water from her hair, she looked at the wet floor, then at the empty bottle, and wondered aloud, “Do you think Brother Aumeri will know?”

Her husband lay abed watching her lazily. “Nay,” he reassured her, “thoughts like that would require him to do penance.”

Satisfied she’d gotten most of it, she rose to stare at the flames that glowed on the floating wicks in the cressets, then she bent to snuff them. As she eased her body into the feather mattress, he moved over to make room for her. She snuggled against him, laying her head on his shoulder.

“Giles?”

“What?”

“If there were no other time for us, if this was all that we had, I should still thank God for it.”

There was a pause, as though he hesitated to breathe, then he sighed. “There is no help for it, Elizabeth—I have to go. If you would have Dunashie for our son—or for our daughter’s husband, if ’tis the will of God—then you will not ask me to deny King David my service.”

“I am Rivaux’s daughter—I know what you must do.” she shifted slightly, trying to see him in the darkness. “But as I have not borne a babe before, I’d see you home when my time comes.” Then, realizing she had not the right to expect him to promise that which he might not be able to keep, she shook her head. “Nay, I should not ask it.”

“Art afraid, Elizabeth?”

“Nay … aye.”

“As am I. Aye, unless there is no possible way, I mean to be there when you are brought to bed.” His hand crept to smooth her hair where it lay over him. “You are dearer than my life to me, you know.”

It was enough that he’d said it. She turned to a much nearer problem than her lying-in. “Will King David forgive you, do you think?”

“If I go to war for him, he will.” Then, not wanting to worry her further, he spoke more lightly. “But I’d not dwell on duty, love—I’d dream of what I will win for this son you say you will give me.”

“ ’Tis a son,” she insisted. “I know it.”

“And if ’tis a daughter?” he teased. “I’d have tall, dark-haired daughters also.”

“If ’tis a daughter, I will love her dearly. But this one is a son, Giles. The daughters will come later.”

It was not until she’d turned over to sleep that she heard him murmur drowsily behind her, “I’d always wanted to do that.”

She roused. “What?”

“The oil.”

The day was warm, even for late August, prompting Elizabeth to sit with Bertrade and Bertrade’s young son in the coolness of the garden. Willie, chafing that he’d been unable to go with Giles, amused himself by carving strange creatures of green ash for the child. It was there that they received first word of King David’s terrible defeat by an English army led by the Archbishop of York.

The laird of Ayrie, fleeing as though hell pursued him, stopped but long enough to tell the awful tale. The Scottish army—a horde of Highland clansmen, mounted knights from nearly every keep in the Lowlands and the Uplands, borderers, and the wild Picts of Galloway—had poured across the English border a month before, laying waste deep into Yorkshire. And the English had fallen back in terror before their savage advance. Families like the mighty Mowbrays and the Percies, upon seeing the small company of knights sent by Stephen, gathered hastily in York to consider terms likely to save themselves from the barbarians. But Old Thurstan, half-blind and so sick he had to be carried in a litter, had stood up, saying he would order every parish priest to lead his congregation into battle, shaming those who would surrender. It was not a matter of Stephen or Mathilda or which had the right to rule, he told them, but rather a holy war against the heathen Scots.

By the time David’s wild army had advanced almost to York, the ailing archbishop had stiffened the barons’ resolve to resist. A hastily-made standard, contrived of a ship’s mast on a wagon, flew the banners of three saints and the minster of York above the pennons of the northern barons. And atop it all, in a silver casket, rode the communion host, symbolizing Christ’s presence there. Amid much praying, singing, and casting of holy water, the old man was carried at the head of the army that went forth to meet King David on the plain beyond Northallerton.

The Scots would have won the day, the laird maintained bitterly, had not the wild Galwegians charged foolishly, then fallen back to impede the mounted assault. Thrown into disarray by the undisciplined Picts, they’d been routed in a battle so bloody that many of Scotland’s finest had fallen.

Elizabeth flinched as he described the terrible retreat, and yet she had to know. “How fared my lord—how fared Dunashie?” she asked with sinking heart.

“I know not. His standard went down—’twas all I could see. The flower of Scotland’s nobility is dead,” he declared.

“And ye canna see much from yer back, can ye?” Willie asked contemptuously. “Nay, begone with ye, fer ye be nae a Scot but a coward ter me.”

She sat still as stone, her hand over her rounding abdomen, feeling the stirring of the son within, thinking the babe could well be all she had of Giles. She did not even hear Willie tell the laird he’d burn Ayrie if the child was marked. The terror she knew then was greater than any before it, even that when she’d been chained to Wycklow’s wall.

“Sweet lady, would you that I took you to your bed?” the gentle Bertrade asked softly.

“Nay, leave her be.” Willie walked to stand behind her, and his big hand closed over her shoulder, holding it. “Och, but ye know ’twill take more than a few priests playing soldier to harm him, don’t ye?” Then, “I wish I’d ha’ been there to have a care fer him, ye know.”

“Aye,” she whispered, turning into him. Her arms slid around his legs, holding him, and she buried her head against his fine linen tunic. His hand smoothed the shimmering baudekin veil over her hair awkwardly.

“Whether he is well or no, ye got ter think on yer babe,” he reminded her. “There’s time enow ter weep when we know, and none before.”

The small, fair-haired boy climbed onto her knee, and sticking his thumb in his mouth, stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Here now,” Willie growled at him, “get ye down ere I skelp ye.”

She straightened up and drew in a deep breath. Her arm dropped to cradle the child against her swelling belly. “Nay, he is all right,” she said. For a long moment she looked down on the small, curl-covered head of the boy named for another Ivo. “And you are right—’twill take more than the English to kill him.” She stood awkwardly, shifting the child onto her shoulder. “What say you, little one—would you look on the flowers with me?”

He giggled happily, unaware of the awful dread in those around him, and leaned in her arms to wave at the stand of gillyflowers that lined the garden wall. She let him down to pull some, then took his hand and walked the length of the bed. But despite the boy’s determined tugging, she could not blot the image of Giles as last she’d seen him from her mind.

She’d armed him herself when he’d ridden to King David, and still she could feel the broad shoulders she’d laced into the linen
shert,
the padded gambeson, the stiffened leather
cuir bouilli,
and the mail hauberk and coif. Sweet Mary, but despite the heat, he’d even worn the mail chausses to protect his powerful thighs, for his enemies were many on both sides of the border and there was no certain welcome in Edinburgh.

Nay, he was too alive, too full of love and hope, this son of the border, to be gone from this world. And yet Duncan of Ayrie’s words rang in her ears.
His standard went down—’twas all I could see …. the flower of Scottish nobility is dead … his standard went down … his standard went down …

’Twas Hob’s saddle that carried it—did that mean Hob had perished also? Nay, not also, she told herself fiercely. Mayhap poor Hob had gone down alone. Heedless that the child’s small feet trampled her flowers, she leaned her head against the coolness of the wall and wept for Giles’ faithful toothless one. And she never noted when Bertrade gently led away little Ivo.

Willie pulled her away from the wall and put his arms about her. “I’d pray fer his safety, Elizabeth,” he said gruffly. “Would ye join me?”

“Aye.” She straightened and wiped at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. Sniffling, she managed a weak smile. “Jesu, I know not what ails me— it must be the babe. I am not usually overgiven to weeping, Will.”

Glaring at any who dared to raise an eyebrow, he held her hand as they walked the courtyard to Dunashie’s chapel. It was cooler inside, but possessed of the musty smell of closeness. The blue and gold window above admitted a peaceful light. Moving to the altar rail, he reached to the box that held lint, tinder, and flint, and while she watched he sparked the lint, then lit a fine wax candle to place beneath the statue of Mary and the infant Christ. The two of them knelt before the altar, its richly embroidered satin cloth gleaming beneath the golden chalice, reflecting some of the blue of the precious window that had been Aveline de Guelle’s pride.

He lifted his eyes to the Virgin, praying, “Mother of Heaven, I’d ask ye ter have a care fer the lord of Dunashie, ter watch o’er him, and see him safely home. ’Tisna right fer him ter perish, not when he’s paid fer his sins and is deserving of better. And being as ye be a mother yerself, I pray ye will look on the Lady Elizabeth, who bears Dunashie’s child, and have mercy upon her now.” His great shoulders shook momentarily, then he regained his composure. “ ’Tis all I’d ask o’ ye this year,” he promised solemnly. “And the next,” he added.

But Elizabeth could not give voice to her prayers. Leaning her forehead against the rail, she clasped her hands tightly before her breasts as her mind repeated over and over,
Holy Mary, Blessed Virgin Mother, deliver my husband safely again to me. This love I have found is dearer to me than my life.
Finally, when she could stand it no longer, she raised her eyes to the statue, scanning the carved face for some sign. And the painted eyes seemed soft, the painted smile more gentle. She felt a surge of hope on this, the twenty-seventh day of August in the year 1138, the day that Giles, wherever he was, turned twenty-seven.