Lord of My Heart (12 page)

Within sight of Rockingham, Aimery called a halt. Geoffrey sighed. From a pouch by his saddle Aimery took out more jewelry. A thicker bracelet with a design in garnet and obsidian went on his left wrist, and two straight bands with bronze inlay went around his upper arms. He clipped a large clasp at the front of his belt. He took his rich blue cloak from Geoffrey and flung it around his shoulders, fastening it on the right shoulder with a magnificent jeweled ring-clasp. Thus adorned as an English nobleman he continued through the village toward the castle. It would warm the cockles of Gyrth’s heart to see him like this.

There had been a stronghold at Rockingham for generations, and the hill had a settled, comfortable look to it, unlike the raw motte at Baddersley. There had been a low stone fort, and William Peverell had built rapidly on it to form a formidable stone castle on the banks of the river Welland, but as yet the palisade was still wood, and so were most of the attendant buildings which cluttered the bailey. Down by the river, the prosperous village was taking the presence of the King of England in its stride.

Aimery and Geoffrey left the men and horses at the sheds set up to handle all the extra mounts and continued on foot across the crowded bailey to the tower.

Aimery paused long enough to buy two pork pies from a stall for Geoffrey and himself. Once they found the king they could be kept waiting for hours, and he was hungry. An alewife also had a stand here, and they quickly downed a flagon. Geoffrey started a promising flirtation with the woman’s daughter, who obviously plied another trade entirely, but Aimery dragged him away.

They climbed the steps to the tower entrance and were admitted by the guards. They found themselves in a great hall filled with William’s court, the male part of William’s court at least. If the queen and her ladies had traveled with the king, they were not in evidence. One of the first people Aimery saw among the crowd of nobles, clerics, and merchants was his cousin Edwin, Earl of Mercia.

One year older than Aimery, Edwin was a little slighter in build and had hair of tawny ginger. He was a handsome young man but had a softly indecisive mouth. Though he had succeeded his father as territorial lord over most of eastern England, he had never managed to make his influence felt. Just after Senlac he had supported the attempt to put Edgar Atheling on the throne, but that had come to nothing, and he had been among the many lords who had then rushed to pay homage to William. Like most, he had been pardoned and confirmed in his titles. Since then he had been kept at court and seemed content to tie his fate to William of Normandy.

As was his way these days, Edwin was dressed in Norman style. He was clean shaven, his hair was cut short, and he sported only modest trimming on his clothes. Once, Aimery remembered, Edwin had been fond of rich, bright clothing and ornament and proud of his flowing hair and thick moustache.

The earl’s lips curled at the sight of Aimery. “Well, cousin. Still trying to be a bit of both, I see. How is Uncle Hereward these days?”

Aimery wasn’t about to be needled by Edwin. “I wouldn’t know. How is life at court?”

“Not bad at all,” said Edwin complacently. “The king’s promised me his daughter Agatha.”

“Congratulations, Edwin. She’s a sweet child, but not ready for marriage yet, surely.”

Edwin looked sour at this reminder of his cousin’s familiarity with William and his family. “She’s thirteen.”

“I suppose she is. I haven’t seen her for, must be three years. Has she filled out? She was a scrawny little thing.”

Edwin’s eyes bulged, and he pulled Aimery into a quiet corner. “Don’t say things like that! You’ll never get on the right side of the king the way you go on.”

Aimery shook his head. “William doesn’t make or break a man for saying pretty things about his daughters. You’ll have to stand up to him one of these days, Edwin.”

Edwin paled at the thought but managed a sneer. “I’ve won his daughter, Aimery. What have you won? In fact, I wonder why William’s summoned you here. He keeps me by his side because I control Mercia. But why you? Been up to something you shouldn’t?” he gibed. “You, Golden Hart, and Hereward?”

Before Aimery could respond, Edwin slipped away. Aimery cursed softly. That reference to Golden Hart set warning signals clamoring. He instinctively placed a hand over his betraying design. He stopped the futile gesture.
Wyrd ben ful araed.
Besides, it had never been wise to take Edwin seriously.

He’d never much liked his cousin, or his twin brother, Morcar. They were weak, tricky men. As a Norman he supposed he should be glad they were so easily bought, but his English half was disgusted by their base self-interest. They were fawning around the king like puppies in the hope of treats, but he knew if they ever saw advantage in turning on William, they’d do it without hesitation. It was people like Edwin who were destroying England—too peevish to settle to Norman rule, and too cowardly to oppose it outright.

Aimery looked toward the stone stairs leading up to the private room used by the king. He wondered in what state he’d descend them, but there was no hesitation in his step as he wove his way through the crowded hall. He exchanged a greeting here and there but refused all temptation to linger.

At the foot of the stairs, however, a larger, darker man swept forward to pull him into a ferocious hug. “Ho, little brother! Still in one piece?”

Aimery grasped his oldest brother joyfully and endured a massive pounding on his back. “Leo! How long have you been here? Stop breaking my ribs, damn you. Why didn’t you come to Rolleston?”

“The king sent for us.”

“Us?” asked Aimery warily.

“Father’s here.”

Something tightened painfully inside. Aimery had prepared to face King William, but he wasn’t sure he could face his father, whom he hadn’t seen since that confrontation in the Tower over a year ago. Aimery considered what his father might think of the way he was behaving— even if he knew only half of it—and had a base urge to slip off his English accoutrements and get a haircut.

Leo gave his youngest brother a shrewd look. “Exactly what have you been up to?” he asked. Then the indulgent look faded to be replaced by a severe one. “Treason?”

“No,” said Aimery sharply, and his brother nodded. “How are Janetta and the children?” Aimery asked quickly, before his brother thought of more questions.

“Well. We seem to breed rugged little ones. Castle Vesin was visited by sickness in the autumn and five people died. All the children sickened and not one the worst for it. If they go on at this rate, I’ll have a private army of land-hungry warriors.”

“Just don’t send them to England.”

Leo regarded him shrewdly. “This is your home now, isn’t it?”

Aimery nodded. “But I’m still half Norman, brother.”

“Then you’d better come to the king. He gave orders you were to come to him as soon as you arrived.”

“Why?”

Leo at least felt no foreboding. “Perhaps he just loves your pretty green eyes. Come on.”

Aimery tossed his cloak to Geoffrey and followed his brother up the narrow stairs to the guarded oak door.

“Is Roger here, too?” he asked, just for something to say. He was aware of his heart speeding, of the tingle of battle readiness, which was just another name for fear.

“No. He’s happily killing Welshmen and covering himself in glory. Why?”

“I just thought we could have a jolly family gathering. I’m surprised Mother allowed herself to be left at home.”

Leo laughed. “Under protest.” He dropped his voice. “Father put his foot down. I don’t think he’s as sanguine as the king about the stability of things here.”

Or he suspected, or knew, something unpleasant was going to happen. Would William send for an old friend so he could witness his son’s maiming? He might well.

Guards let them pass into a room hung with tapestries and set with rich furniture for the King of England. It was small, though, and the six men in it nearly filled it. There were two clerks working at documents; William’s two closest followers, William Fitz Osbern and Roger de Mortain; the king himself; and Count Guy de Gaillard. An ominously eminent group to greet a younger son.

“Ha. Aimery de Gaillard at last,” said the king in his gruff voice. “You take your time, boy.” William was stocky, with short ginger hair and keen blue eyes. As usual, as this was not a ceremonial occasion, he wore plain clothes—serviceable brown wool, simply ornamented.

Aimery went forward to kneel and kiss his hand. “No one, sire, can match your speed.”

The king looked him over. “You’d travel a sight faster if you weren’t weighed down with gold.”

Aimery didn’t attempt a reply. He was suffering a flood of relief. This greeting couldn’t be a prelude to ruthless justice.

The king gestured, and Count Guy came forward. Aimery kissed his father’s hand, and then was drawn up for a kiss on the cheek. He could see his father was delighted to see him well, and angry at his English appearance. He would say nothing about it here, however.

“How fares your land?” asked the king.

“Well, sire,” said Aimery with a relaxed smile. He’d worry about what
was
behind the king’s summons later. “God granting us fair weather, we should see a good harvest.”

“You are one of the few to say so,” grumbled William. “I suppose your people work for you because you’re English.”

“Half English, liege,” contradicted Aimery firmly, causing a hiss of horror from someone and a flash from the king’s eyes.

But then William grinned. “Impudent rascal. Tell me, then, why do your people work well for you?”

“I try to hold to their traditions and their laws, sire.”

“By the splendor of God, so do I!” exploded the king.

Aimery knew, to an extent, that this was true and tried to appease the angry monarch. “As you say, sire, it must be because I am part English.”

He knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were out. The room became as silent as if there were but the two of them in it.

“Kneel,” the king said, frighteningly quiet, and Aimery fell submissively to his knees.

The king’s open-handed blow rocked him and made his head ring, but it was relief which made him dizzy. This was fatherly discipline, not regal.

“Have I not English blood?” asked the king.

“Yes, sire. Through Queen Emma.” It wasn’t strictly true. Emma of Normandy, William’s grandmother, had been mother to King Edward and widow of two English kings before she wed the duke of Normandy, but that did not give William English royal blood. It was part of the king’s claim to the English throne, however, and not open to question.

The king nodded and held Aimery’s eyes. There was more to this than an unwary word and regal anger. The underlying message was clear. Step beyond the line and you will be punished, beloved godson or no; punished exactly as your crime deserves.

Wariness returned. How much did William know?

Aimery again raised the king’s hand, the hand which had delivered the blow, to his lips for the kiss of allegiance.

“Oh, get up!” said the king in irritation, which poorly covered fondness. “You’re a tiresome cub and if I’d any sense ... As it is, I’ve brought you here with a mind to rewarding you, so watch yourself. Now go with your family. You’ve a room here somewhere. Have you brought your lyre?”

“No, sir.”

“Fool. Find one. Tonight you play for us.”

Aimery bowed himself out of the room with his father and brother, wondering whether his aching jaw was going to be belabored again by his tight-lipped parent.

“Take off those damn decorations.”

Aimery did so, except for the bracelet on his right wrist and the gold ring. “Normans wear them, too, Father,” he said mildly.

“On you they have a pointed effect. De Sceine says you only put them on to come to court.”

“They’re hardly suitable for working the fields . . .” Aimery stilled at the look in his father’s eye.

“I’m quite happy to bruise the other side of your jaw if you want.”

Aimery said nothing. He knew it was fear that stirred his father to anger, fear for his youngest child.

“By your reports from Rolleston,” said Count Guy, “you’re doing well there. But I hear you slip away sometimes. Where do you go? Hereward?”

“Does everyone think me a traitor? I gave you my word, and I’ve kept it. I haven’t seen Hereward since before Senlac.” He saw his father relax. “I’m half English, Father, and I’ll not deny my English part, but I am true to the king.”

“You’d better be. If you betray him, he’ll deal harder with you than he would with one he always knew to be his enemy.”

“I’m sorry, Father, but I am what I am.”

Guy de Gaillard grabbed his youngest son into a bear-hug. “Take care of yourself, my boy.”

Aimery relished the encompassing hold, feeling for a brief moment like a child again, safe in his father’s arms. Then he realized he was now taller and broader than his father. Guy de Gaillard was beginning to age while Aimery at twenty-two was in the peak of manhood. He was surprised and disconcerted by a feeling of protectiveness toward his once awesome parent. He hid it by turning away to place his adornments in his chest.

“Do you know what ‘reward’ the king has in mind for me?” he asked lightly.

Leo answered. “Perhaps since you’re doing so well at Rolleston, he’ll give you an estate of your own.”

“Not very likely. He’s surrounded by land-hungry followers with better claim than a half English younger son. And as long as Father lets me run Rolleston, I’m content.”

“Ha!” exploded Leo. “Wait until you’ve a battalion of hungry sons. You’ll be glad of every little manor.”

Aimery grinned. “I’m in no mood to marry, Leo, and English heiresses are fought over like marrow bones.”

Count Guy passed his sons goblets of wine. “I doubt William would let you marry an Englishwoman, Aimery. He dislikes the English influence on you as it is.”

“There, see,” said Aimery to Leo. “And I consider myself lucky. Have you
seen
some of those English widows?”

Leo was always an optimist. “Well, then, perhaps he has a lovely little Norman heiress in mind for you. Hey, perhaps he’s going to give you the Lady Judith!”

Aimery choked on his wine. “Only if he’s gone mad. That’s a plum to catch much bigger game than me. Did you hear he’s offered Agatha to Edwin? Now that’s the use for a royal lady. Buy the whole east of England.”

Leo had to accept the argument. “He did say he was going to reward you, though, so you’d better please him. Let’s go find you a lyre, little brother.” He drained the goblet and set it back on the chest. “Come on.”

And so they started a lighthearted search of the castle and town, gathering in a dozen or so young men as they went. The search for a musical instrument was a strange one and took them through a number of taverns and one brothel. When they staggered back to the castle to change for the evening, Aimery groaned. “After this, you expect me to sing?”

“You got your lyre, didn’t you?”

“Hours ago.”

“And you got to practice, didn’t you?”

Aimery remembered singing battle songs in the guard room, and bawdy songs in a tavern—and learning some new ones, too. He’d sung pretty, soft songs for the whores, who’d turned sentimental and rewarded him suitably.

“I think I’m all sung out, Leo,” said Aimery as he slipped on a fresh tunic—a rich red silk with long tight sleeves and trimming of heavy gold braid. After a moment’s hesitation he put on his armbands and extra bracelet.

“Father’ll have your guts,” said Leo without great concern. All the de Gaillard boys had grown up buffeted, beaten, and loved by their father, and it seemed a fine way to raise sons, which is why he was doing the same with his own little tribe. “Come on, or heaven knows where we’ll end up sitting.”

The hall was a fair size but could barely hold the court. People jostled and fought for seats at the tables around the room. At the head table sat the king and queen, Fitz Osbern, de Mortain, Peverell, Lady Judith, and Lady Agatha. There were only a handful of other ladies present.

Agatha had filled out, Aimery noticed, but not a lot. She was fine-boned and young for her age but would improve in time. She saw him, giggled, and waved. Aimery blew her a kiss.

He did not know the Lady Judith, for she was the daughter of William’s sister and had been raised in Lens. She was definitely well-filled out, a curvaceous beauty with long red-gold plaits and sparkling eyes. All that and Huntingdon, too, he reflected.

He saw the Lady Judith catch his admiration. She dimpled with interest and flashed him an unmistakable look. Aimery winked at her. The man who received her would be getting a handful. A delightful handful, but a handful nevertheless.

As Leo had predicted, they had to squeeze a place where they could, but Aimery didn’t mind. He found himself among friends, sharing memories and catching up on the news, both personal and martial.

“Seeing the luscious Lady Judith,” said one young man, “reminds me of that heiress, the Baddersley one. I keep hoping my path might take me that way, but I’m jiggered if I even know where the place is.”

“It’s not that far from here,” supplied Aimery. “A bit south of Huntingdon.” This caused a small uproar.

“Don’t say you’ve stolen a march on us, de Gaillard!”

“I just know my way about Mercia.”

“Only too well,” sneered a voice. “Full of nasty Saxon relatives, isn’t it?”

Aimery looked up to meet the hot, dark eyes of Odo de Pouissey, who was squeezing into a seat opposite. Aimery had never liked the man, and now his feelings were deepened by what he had witnessed. This was the man who’d tried to rape Madeleine de la Haute Vironge, and though he hated her, the thought of de Pouissey pawing at her made him want to gut the man.

Aimery’s hand tightened on his goblet. “Full of nasty Norman relatives, too. The heiress is your cousin, isn’t she?”

Odo flushed with anger. “My father’s stepdaughter only. And, by the Grail, what are you implying about Madeleine?”

Aimery took a grip on himself. The king would string them up for fighting at his table, especially over Saxons and Normans. To distract everyone, he said, “So, who wants a map to Baddersley to go heiress hunting?”

“The king’ll have the giving of her,” said one man whom the wine had pushed into sullenness. “Don’t suppose it would matter if she grew devoted to me, so what’s the point?”

“True enough.” Mischievously, Aimery added, “And it might be hard to play sweetly on her if you find she squints and has the temper of a harpy.”

It did not markedly lessen her appeal.

“I could play sweetly on a monster for a fine barony,” declared Stephen de Faix to a chorus of agreement. Stephen was a handsome, popular young man with a light-hearted approach to life and a taste for hedonism which often got in the way of his ambitions. He’d very much like an heiress bride. “Tell us, Odo,” he commanded. “How bad is she?”

“Madeleine has a temper,” said Odo. “But any woman can be managed. Gag her in bed. Ignore her the rest of the time.”

“By the Rood,” said another man, “I’d wed the veriest hag for some land of my own. There’s always a pretty wench around for amusement. But tell us just how dreadful she is.”

Odo clearly realized the advantage of painting an unattractive picture of the Baddersley heiress and dropped hints to swell the tale of horror. By the end of the meal everyone was convinced she was ugly, crippled, and foul-mouthed, and that was why the king had her hidden away.

They all would still jump at the chance to wed her.

Aimery felt a twinge of compassion for the girl. He remembered fine eyes, dark and flashing, and a shapely, fluid body. In his company she had always been moderate in speech, even when angry.

He pushed his kinder feelings down. She was doing it again, bewitching him even at a distance. He knew her to be cruel and rapacious. If one of these men became her husband, he’d know what to expect and not be swayed by a shapely body and fine eyes. So much the better.

Aimery was dragged out of his musings by the king commanding him to play. He went into the central space, knowing the flaring torches would highlight his golden hair and ornaments. He saw his father’s frown in passing.

Perhaps that was why he was more cautious than he had intended. Instead of English songs he sang the favorite Norman ones.

The queen requested a humorous song about a fish and an apple, then the Lady Judith leaned forward. “Lord Aimery, do you know the song about Lord Tristan and Lady Yseault?”

Aimery saw the gleam in her eye and kept his expression politely distant as he replied, “Yes, Lady. I’ll play it for you.” He knew Lady Judith’s type and had enough troubles without engaging the interest of one of the king’s prizes. It was as well she seemed to have a taste for the English style, however, since that was doubtless her destiny.

As he sang he ran over the possible candidates. Edwin was the prime one, but he had apparently been offered Agatha. The Atheling Edgar was the only male of the English royal bloodline, but he was a boy with no power and never likely to have any. Edwin’s twin, Morcar, could be of importance, but he hadn’t achieved anything yet. Gospatric, Earl of Northumbria, was married.

Waltheof.

Waltheof, son of Siward of Northumbria, had only a few manors, but by heredity he was one of the great men of England. He had a sound claim to the earldom of Northumbria, but it was his personal strengths which set him apart. There was something about Waltheof. Even though he was only two years older than Aimery, he drew men to him as if with golden thread. People remembered the stories that told of his grandfather marrying a woman who was half faery, half bear.

If William was shrewd, and William was undoubtedly shrewd, he would bind Waltheof Siwardson to him.

Aimery picked out Waltheof, listening attentively, a smile on his long, handsome face. There was an air of elegance to him, but no one who had ever seen him fight thought him weak. His dress and decoration were almost as richly English as Aimery’s except that he favored darker colors. Waltheof’s strange amber eyes moved and Aimery followed the gaze to Judith, who was listening to the song with rapt attention.

So, Waltheof guessed. Perhaps it was already settled. My Lady Judith, he thought, you have an interesting
wyrd.

Continuing to sing, he let his eyes travel around the room. His gaze halted and he fumbled a note. New arrivals were entering the hall. Robert d’Oilly and a soldier Aimery feared was the survivor of a certain escape from bondage.

He forced his eyes onward, hoping he had not missed a whole verse or repeated one. The less attention he attracted the better. The whole notion was ridiculous, however, when he was sitting alone in the central space in scarlet and gold. He could only hope the contrast between his splendor and a ragged, dirty outlaw was enough to prevent identification.

As soon as Tristan and Yseault met their sad end, d’Oilly surged forward. “My Lord King!” he boomed. “I come with a tale of violence and mayhem!”

“More entertainment?” queried William. “Be welcome, Lord Robert. Have you eaten?”

D’Oilly moved to stand close to Aimery, who occupied himself in tuning his lyre. D’Oilly was a heavily built man of middle years, strong, hard, and of limited intelligence.

“Nay, sire, and I will not eat just yet,” d’Oilly said. “We have a dangerous miscreant in our midst, sire.”

The king looked around. “Dozens of them, Lord Robert,” he said dryly. “But come, tell us your tale.”

With a wave of his hand, d’Oilly summoned his guard forward. “This man can tell it better, for he was there. He is the sole survivor of a massacre.”

Aimery decided his position had advantages. The man was clearly over-awed and had eyes only for the king. He would pay little attention to someone close to his side.