Anita Mills (11 page)

Nay, you mistake me, madame, I am Scots born.
He’d said it as though that could explain his lack of manners. At first he’d not given her his name, saying he was but passing that way. Then,
I am christened Giles.
She’d had to pull his birthplace from him. What had he said of himself? That the English called him “Butcher,” that they said he had no soul?

The tug of the tiring woman lifting her hair jarred her from her thoughts. “Tell me,” she asked casually, “what know you of this Giles of Moray?”

The woman let her hair fall. “The Border Butcher? Nay, but I know naught of him, save what is said.”

“Jesu,” Elizabeth muttered at the woman’s stupidity, “and what is that?”

“He murders innocents in their beds, my lady. ’Tis said English land is black from the fires, and the waters run red with blood where he raids. They say he has no soul, for ‘tis given to the devil. ’Tis said he burned his own people at Dunashie.”

“But he holds lands?”

“Aye, he is lord to much, and his purse is full of other men’s gold.”

Then Sir Giles could not be the Butcher of Dunashie, for obviously he was poor. Elizabeth relaxed, leaning back in the scented water. Nay, but there was more than one Giles born at Moray, and this one was not in truth the Butcher.

And now that she was safe at Harlowe she could afford to be generous to the lout. In thanks for his earlier service she’d release him, and send him on his way with a few marks for his trouble. And then she would never have to think of him again.

Her mind thus resolved, she finished her bath, then dressed. ’Twas a pity she was so tall that naught suitable could be found to fit her, she reflected as she stood for the woman to draw one of her grandsire’s long, ankle-length tunics over her head. But as there was not so very great a difference in fashion, she supposed most would not note just whose clothes she wore. Impatient with the tiring woman’s slowness, she turned back the wide sleeves to reveal the crimson undertunic that came down over her wrists. Girding herself with a golden chain, clasping it tightly about her slender waist, she had to be satisfied that she looked presentable.

When at last she emerged from her grandmother’s solar, she crossed the open courtyard toward the tower opposite. She faced the unpleasant task of releasing her prisoner. It went against her pride to do it, but there was enough of her father’s blood in her that she knew ‘twas right. Nay, but she would be distantly courteous to Sir Giles, whoever he was. And by the morrow she’d have him gone, with a few coins in his purse for his trouble.

“Och, look at her, will ye?” Willie said, looking down from the narrow slit.

“Who?” Giles asked, casting his dice aimlessly onto the small, rough table.

“The widow of Eury.”

“The witch, you mean.” Nonetheless, Giles rose to watch her, seeing her black hair spread over the shoulders, shimmering in the winter sun like a great satin mantle. “The witch of Rivaux,” he repeated softly under his breath.

Willie looked over his shoulder. “Aye—I’ve nae seen her like,” he agreed.

She stopped beneath them and glanced up, seeing him. And to Giles, it seemed as though her strange green eyes mocked him. A faint smile curved her mouth, then she looked away.

Giles leaned into the slit farther, watching her disappear directly below them. “Aye,” he admitted grimly, “I’d see the fair Elizabeth beneath me, Willie—and afore God, the day will come when I will, I swear it. Before I am done, she will call me lord.”

“Guy of Rivaux would hang us for yer thoughts, my lord.”

“Mayhap.” Giles pushed away from the narrow opening and swung around. “But he’ll have to come across my lands to get me.”

“Nay, ‘tis best to forget the lying witch,” Willie insisted with the impunity of one who’d long served his lord. “ ’Tis only grief she’d bring ye. And more to the point, she’s barren, Hugh of Liseux tells me.”

A horn sounded beyond the curtain, then repeated, causing a flurry of activity on the walls. This time there was no challenge, as someone shouted recognition. But Giles was no longer attending, his eyes instead on a guard, breathless from climbing the steep, winding stairs, who announced, “The Lady Elizabeth awaits you below, my lord.”

So she’d come to him, had she? Had someone finally recognized him? It did not matter—he’d have her wait ere he saw her. He’d have her know that Giles of Moray was no nithing to be held for naught. He’d show her that he had a pride to match her own.

“Tell her I am unfit to receive her,” he answered.

At first the fellow misunderstood his meaning, for he shook his head. “Nay, she would have you come down to her.”

But Giles merely rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. “Alas, but lacking a blade or a barber, I think it not meet she should come to me ere I am shaved.”

“Nay, but you mistake….”

A broad grin of understanding spread over Wee Willie’s face. “Art deaf, knave? The lord of Dunashie will nae see her.” Moving to tower over the guard, he hooked his thumbs in his belt. “When he is barbered she may come up, but nae before.”

“Aye, and I’d have a proper bath rather than those buckets you give the squires,” Giles added with a straight face. “ ’Tis my right to be attended at the tub by the chatelaine also. I’d be bathed by gentler hands than those of a kitchen knave.”

“But the Lady Eleanor . . . Nay, my lord, but—”

“Out wi’ ye, dolt! He’ll nae see her, I tell ye!”

Despite the fact that he was armed and the big Scot was not, the guard backed onto the stairs. Looking past Willie, he appealed to Giles. “My Lord, she’ll not be pleased.…”

“Out! God’s bones, yer lor’ship, but the men of Harlowe be daft and deaf!” Willie roared to Giles. Reaching out, he jabbed thick fingers into the fellow’s red overtunic. “Aye, and tell ’er the lord of Dunashie’d have clean linen for his bath and his bed! He demands the due of his rank!”

Mumbling something to the effect that Lady Elizabeth would have them all in chains, the guard disappeared into the deep tower stairwell.

Below, she waited, composing what she would say to the Scot. She even toyed with saying she’d been mistaken, that ‘twas her accursed temper that made her less than properly grateful for the service he’d given her. But she was not sure she could say that. Mayhap she simply ought to tell him he could go. Later, after they’d supped, she’d give him fifty marks and wish him godspeed on the morrow. Noting that the points of her shoes were slightly crooked, she bent to adjust them.

As she straightened the guard returned, pausing hesitantly on the lower steps. “My lady, he does not come down to you.”

“Did you tell him I bade him attend me?” she demanded in disbelief.

Having already heard Rannulf de Coucy’s tales of her temper, the fellow looked away. “I did as you asked, gracious lady.”

“And what did he answer?”

He shifted his weight uneasily, wondering how much he ought to repeat, then blurted out, “He says he is unfit to receive you.”

For a moment she was not certain she’d heard him aright. “To receive me? You were to bring him down to me, and well you knew it. ’Tis I who receives him.”

“Aye, but he would not come.”

“He had not the choice!” she retorted. “God’s bones, but he is the prisoner! If he would—” She stopped, recalling her intent to be done with the Scot. “Nay, but you will tell him again.”

Fearing her anger would be directed at him, the guard hastened to assure her, “So I told him, my lady, but he denied me. He said until he was shaved and bathed, he’d not receive you.”

“Jesu! He had the bath he asked, did he not?”

“Aye. Gerbod took him to the stalls beyond the kitchens, and Helewise gave him soap.” He dared to look up momentarily. “He says ’tis his right to be attended at the tub by the chatelaine, my lady. He said he was entitled to more than the buckets.”

She stared, unable to believe the arrogance of Moray’s words. “Whoreson bastard!” she swore under her breath. “As if I’d bathe a Scots dog!” She started to brush past him, then realized what she did. Nay, but Moray would come to her. “How are you called?” she asked suddenly, turning back to face the guard.

“Gervase, my lady.”

“Gervase. So he would have more water, would he?” She tapped the curled toe of her shoe against the stone floor, trying to control her anger. “Well, he shall have it, then. Gervase, you will see he is thrown into the river—aye, and the soap after him.” Her mouth curved into a smile that warmed neither her eyes nor her face. “Aye, and when he is dried, bring him into my presence.”

“ ’Tis winter!” the guard protested. “And what if he should prove to be the Butcher of Dunashie? Nay, but—”

One black eyebrow lifted. “In either case he is Scots, is he not? I am told they are used to the cold.”

“Aye, but—”

“Gervase, I will not be gainsaid in my father’s keep.”

They were interrupted by excited pounding on the tower door. “My lady,” someone shouted, “ ’tis the Countess Eleanor come home!”

“Sweet Mary—now?”

“Aye, they cross the bridge.”

“Then God be praised she is returned safe.”

The vexatious Scot momentarily forgotten, Elizabeth hastened eagerly into the open courtyard to greet the grandmother she’d not seen since her marriage to Ivo. As she emerged into the chill, damp air, the silk-hung barge glided into land. Pages still wearing Roger de Brione’s blue and grey scurried to unroll the woven reed carpet, covering the muddy ground between the dock and the cobbled courtyard.

There was no mistaking Eleanor of Nantes. Aided by two of her tiring women, the tiny woman rose and waited patiently for the boys to finish their task. Her dark eyes scanned the assembled household briefly, then came to rest on Elizabeth. For a long moment they stared at each other, then Eleanor smiled, opening her arms.

“Art even comelier than my memory of you. Come give me a kiss of welcome, child.”

It was as though the intervening years had rolled away, and Elizabeth was once again the small girl come to visit Harlowe. They hugged each other, Elizabeth clasping the frail woman tightly against her breast, feeling both an intense love and a sadness, for it was obvious that age now weighed heavily on Eleanor of Nantes. The reality that she carried more than sixty-four years on her delicate bones whilst far sturdier women seldom lived past fifty came home to Elizabeth as she held her.

“You are well, Grandmere?” she asked anxiously.

“Aye.” The old woman’s face clouded as she nodded. “God keeps me here alone. I’d not expected it, you know.”

“Aye, I miss him also,” Elizabeth murmured. “Papa can scarce bear to come here now that he is gone.”

Eleanor stepped back and forced a smile. “Nay, but he is earl to Harlowe now. God willing, the house of Rivaux will rule here long after we are both gone from this earth.”

“God willing,” Elizabeth agreed.

“And so they are both well? Guy and my Cat?”

“Aye. Maman would have come, but she must hold Rivaux and the Condes both in Papa’s name.”

“And Richard—he is in truth wed?”

“To Gilliane de Lacey.”

“Aye,” Eleanor sighed. “Guy told me he would have no other, so ’tis well. God grant him sons to hold all he will have.”

“God grant that we keep it for them,” Elizabeth amended fervently. “ ’Tis why I am come—Papa would have me hold Harlowe should Stephen declare it forfeit.”

“ ’Tis war then?”

“Of a certainty. Papa did not renew his oath, and ’tis said Gloucester means to repudiate Stephen also. All Normandy waits for the Empress to move.”

“Does Anjou support her?”

“Count Geoffrey raids in Normandy, taking what he can, but whether ’tis in her cause or his own is not yet known. Papa meets with Anjou even now.”

Eleanor sighed unhappily. “ ’Twill be a bloody contest, I fear, but there is no help for it. I’d see Henry’s daughter crowned ere I die.”

A tiring woman moved forward, holding one of Eleanor’s lap robes. “My lady, you must not tarry in the cold.”

“Oh, aye.” Elizabeth moved back guiltily. “I’d not have you sicken whilst I am here.” Then, remembering where Eleanor had been, she remembered to ask, “And how left you my aunt and uncle?”

“Linn is well, and Brian recovers from his fever. The physician would have it he partook of too many herring, and a purge was prescribed. He is weak, but he is able to sit his horse again.” Clasping Elizabeth’s arm, she began walking toward the main house. “Tell me,” she asked almost casually, “is the lord of Dunashie in truth here?”

Elizabeth stopped guiltily. “Where had you that?”

“It does not matter, Liza—I’d know if ’tis he.”

“I know not.” She met Eleanor’s dark eyes briefly, then looked away, sighing heavily. “In my anger, I have taken a mercenary, Grandmere, holding him for words that stung my pride rather than my honor.”

Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. “Then ’tis not the one who is lord to Dunashie?”

“He says he is,” Elizabeth answered truthfully. “But surely there must be another, for his mail is mended, his tunic plain and mean, and his mesnie fares worse than he.”

“But you are uncertain?”

“Nay.” Perceiving displeasure in the way her grandmother questioned her, Elizabeth grew defensive. “It matters not, does it?”

Eleanor appeared to consider, then sighed again, this time in resignation. “It matters not who he is now, I suppose. If he came in war, you are right to hold him—but if he came in peace, he must be released. ’Tis a matter of Roger’s honor and mine own,” she declared flatly. “We can hope ’tis not the one as is called Butcher of Dunashie.”

“Even if he is, I fear him not.”

Eleanor gazed up at her tall granddaughter, seeing in her green eyes that which she’d nearly forgotten. “Aye, you are too like your grandsire for your own peace,” she said low, looking away.

“I am proud to be born of Roger de Brione’s blood,” Elizabeth answered.

“Nay, ’twas the other one I meant. But there is no help for that, after all.” The old woman squared her shoulders resolutely. “So—would you tell this Sir Giles that he is free, or would you that I did so?”

“Nay, I’d not see him—he puts me out of temper with his unwarranted arrogance.”