Anita Mills (30 page)

He stared again at the royal seal before he consigned the letter that pushed him to Stephen’s cause into the fire. And like Guy of Rivaux’s before it, it turned to ashes. Whether he welcomed the idea or not, he’d chosen his English possessions over his Scottish ones for now. Taking up his pen, he wrote out his own call to arms, asking whosoever would follow him to meet with him at Wycklow.

Willie, Hob, Lang Gib, and most of his household knights were speechless when he told them, and when they found their voices, they raised them in protest. They were, they declared hotly, borderers first, Scots second, and English last, and then only for the purpose of eluding the marcher lords who would pursue them. But Giles stood firm.

“We withdraw to Wycklow until we know which vassals join us there. I’d leave but twelve men here to hold Dunashie against King David. As he means to invade England again this summer, I doubt me he will attack.” As he surveyed their incredulous faces, he exhaled heavily. “And if he does, we’ll yield it, for I’d not see it pulled down. I gained it once, and I can do so again.”

“But Wycklow’s English!”

“I expect David to issue his writ declaring my patrimony forfeit, but I do not think he can enforce it ere autumn,” Giles continued, ignoring Hob’s baleful expression. “And if Stephen has turned him back, David of Scotland will be glad enough to welcome me again. The task is to see that Dunashie survives.”

“And yer lady?” Hob wished to know.

“Willie will see that she stays at Wycklow.”

“Nay! Afore God, I’ll not! I’d fight wi’ye!”

Giles shook his head. “If I should fall, I’d have you hold what you can for my son, Will. I’d have you keep her safe.”

“Nay!”

“For the blood we share, Will—for the blood he will share also.” Giles’ black eyes met his half-brother’s. “I ask of you what our sire asked before. I would trust you above all others,” he added soberly.

“Ye’ll come back ter Dunashie,” the big man muttered, looking away. “Wycklow is naught but another keep ter ye.”

“Aye, but for now I have the greater need of you there. Do you stand with me at Wycklow, or do you stay here?” Giles held his gaze. “Do you guard one who comes of our blood?”

Willie’s eyes dropped, and he looked away. “Aarrghhh!” he spat in disgust, before he finally nodded. “I’d nae be there when ye tell her,” he said grudgingly. “ ’Tis the devil’s own temper as will possess her, I’ll be bound.”

“I’ll tell her in mine own time. For now, I’d have you prepare to ride.”

But as he mounted the steps to his wife’s solar, Giles was uncertain of what he would say to her. He’d meant to tell her the night before of her father’s letter, but he hadn’t, fearing she would choose Guy of Rivaux over him. Instead he’d lain in her arms, taking what ease he could of her, saying nothing of what Count Guy had written.

He found her holding her head over a basin held by the woman called Jonnet, whilst Helewise kept her hair from falling into her vomit. He watched helplessly as she retched again and again until it seemed that there could be no more. Finally, she leaned back to let Helewise wipe her face with a wet cloth. Then she saw him.

“You would have a sign, my lord—well, the sickness has come. Jesu, but it has come.”

“I am sorry for it,” he murmured, moving behind her to lay his hands on her shoulders. He rubbed gently, trying to comfort her. “Mayhap ‘tis but what you have eaten.”

“ ‘Tis the babe,” she declared flatly. “And ‘twill pass. Maman said Richard made her sicken more than the rest of us, so I must think it a son.”

“A daughter would be as welcome.”

“ ‘Tis a son,” she insisted. “I’d have a daughter the next time.”

His spirits rose, carried by the promise of what she said.

She clasped his hand where it touched her shoulder, then turned her head to rub her cheek against it. “Sweet Mary, I know not how I will ride to Harlowe if this does not pass.”

It was as though she took away what she had just given him. He sucked in his breath, letting it out slowly, before he spoke. “Nay, Elizabeth, but we are for Wycklow.”

“You do not need to ride with me. I—” She stopped and was suddenly still. “I’d not meant to stop at Wycklow.”

“I’d have you safe there. David invades England, and the borders are like to be burned and soaked with blood on both sides. Wycklow is south enough that ‘twill not be disputed.”

“Harlowe will be safe enough. ’Tis a defensive position.”

“Aye.” His fingers tightened on hers for a moment, then he told her. “Your father comes again into England, so there is no need for you to go there.”

It was as her blood had frozen. “When heard you from my father?” she asked, almost afraid to know.

“It matters not. You will not go to Harlowe.”

“It matters not?” Her voice rose incredulously. “I am sworn to hold Harlowe, Giles—I am sworn! Unless I am absolved from my oath by him, I’ll go! Nay, I cannot not go!”

“You are my wife.”

She pulled away and rose to face him. “I was Rivaux’s daughter first, Giles.” Seeing the stubborn, almost hard cast to his jaw, she demanded, “What did he write to you? And why was I not given his letter? I can read as well as any, I’ll warrant.”

“Aye. Sweet Jesu, but I cannot let you go, Elizabeth.” He looked again into her strange green eyes, seeing the disbelief there. He shook his head. “He demands your return else he makes you my widow. When he comes, there will not be enough stone left standing at Dunashie for my crypt, and so he has sworn,” he repeated harshly.

“Sweet Mary, nay. Did he not receive our letters?”

“I sent the terms we agreed upon to Rivaux. Whether he had them there or no, I know not.”

“He cannot have known—Giles, he cannot. My father …”

He sucked in his breath, let it out slowly, then gave her the rest of his news. “Aye, and King David would have me send you back, else Dunashie is forfeit.”

“I’ll write again to my father, Giles—I’ll explain how it is that I have wed you. My grandmother—”

“Nay, ‘tis overlate. I have already issued my call to arms, Elizabeth. We are met at Wycklow.”

The significance of what he said was not lost on her. She searched his face, dreading what she saw there. “You fight for Stephen,” she said finally, her voice flat and toneless. “You fight for the usurper.”

“Aye.”

“He has not the right to rule.”

“Think you I care for that? Think you I care who sits on England’s throne? Nay, I do not. I fight for us—and for the son you give me. ‘Tis all that matters to me.”

“If you set yourself against my father and my brother, you cannot win.”

“Guy of Rivaux sets himself against me,” he retorted, stung by her reaction to what he did for her. “If I would keep you, he gives me not the choice.”

“Giles, it does not have to be this way,” she reasoned, trying desperately to sway him. “I will write again to my father. I will tell him … I will make him understand how it is that—”

“Nay, I’d not hear it,” he cut in curtly. “I’d not have you beg for me. I did but come to tell you to order what you would have packed for the journey. I’d leave as soon as I can.”

Unwilling to further the quarrel with her, he turned to leave. Her anger rose with the realization that her oath to her father meant nothing to him. And her voice rose also.

“I’ll not go—d’ye hear me? I’ll not go! Sweet Jesu, but is mine honor as naught to you? You knew when we wed that I was sworn to Papa—aye, and you confirmed it!”

She followed him across the room, grasping his arm to make him listen to her. “So long as I came willing to your bed, you said, Giles! And you cannot say I have not!”

“He will absolve you, for the blame is mine.”

“God’s bones! Is there aught I can say to reason with you? Stephen is the usurper! Jesu, but where is your honor? Is it because you have none that you cannot see mine?” she asked hotly. Angry tears welled in her eyes, burning them. “I have done as we agreed, Giles of Moray—I carry this babe you have got of me! Nay, but I am for Harlowe!”

“I will come back when you are calmer,” he said, pulling away, walking toward the stairs. “Helewise, you will pack for your lady.”

“I do not go!”

“Aye, you will.”

“I am ashamed of loving you!” she flung after him. “D’ye hear me? Ashamed! You have robbed me of mine honor!”

He stopped, but did not turn back to her. “It matters not, Elizabeth. I’d still keep you.”

The journey from Dunashie to Wycklow was a tense one, with Elizabeth riding in bitter silence and the borderers grumbling amongst themselves about what she cost them. Not even the fact that they stopped several times each day whilst she lost everything she ate gained her much sympathy from any but Willie and Giles.

At night, when they took refuge in religious houses along the way, she lay on Giles’ pallet, her rigid back to him, pretending to sleep whilst he burned for want of her. Unable to do anything else, he clung stubbornly to the belief that she would be better once they reached Wycklow. He wanted to think that as the babe grew within her she would become more content.

But in the stony silence he lay awake, unable to blot out the echo of her words in his mind:
I am ashamed of loving you
…
d
’
ye hear me? I am ashamed of loving you.
…
ashamed
…
ashamed
…
ashamed
… Despite the fact that he had wed her, had taken her, had gotten the babe of her, he still felt as nothing to her. Even the memories that set his body afire could not make him forget what she’d said to him. She was ashamed of having wed him.

And that he had risen, from a small boy dispossessed of everything, to rule lands on both sides of the border became meaningless. To those who had been born to wealth beyond measure, to those born of the blood of Rivaux, it could not be forgiven him that he was born at but not of Moray. In their eyes, he could not make himself worthy of Elizabeth of Rivaux. And despite the fact that she had lain beneath him, that she had received his seed willingly, she took no pride in him.

They were a day late reaching Wycklow, owing to her sickness, and by the time the tower came into view he could see that already some of his vassals had gathered there. His eyes traveled over the standards that rose above the small encampment outside the wall of his keep. None of them belonged to any of the great families. Like him, those who had come were those who hoped to gain what they had not been born to.

Beside him Elizabeth was very pale, her face ashen and damp, betraying her physical misery. He reached to take her reins from her hands and led her horse across the wooden drawbridge. The dank, foul odor of a moat in need of cleaning wafted upward. For a moment she weaved in her saddle and closed her eyes, swallowing visibly.

“Nay, but we are nearly there,” he murmured in encouragement.

It was as though she would take nothing from him, not even his words, for she straightened, holding herself rigid, and rode into the courtyard. He tossed his reins to a waiting boy, then dismounted to reach for her. She was stiff and unyielding in his arms, sliding to the ground against him. It was as though he lifted a statue. He held her to steady her.

“I am all right,” she said finally, pushing away.

“Helewise, get her to bed,” he ordered curtly, stepping back. “And see if there are any skilled in simples, for I’d have her able to eat.”

Before he bathed, before he rested, he took bread and cheese in the curtained alcove of his hall and sat to write to King Stephen. With brutal frankness, he admitted that he’d taken Elizabeth of Rivaux without Count Guy’s consent, and that he’d quarreled with David of Scotland over her. He was, he wrote, ready to serve Stephen without reservation. He did hope, however, that upon war’s end, he would be rewarded with some of Guy of Rivaux’s confiscated lands. As he dipped his carved ring in the melted wax to form his seal, he reflected that it would be ironic if Stephen should somehow be brought to give him Harlowe. It would not be without precedent to gain a possession through a wife’s blood, but he knew that only extraordinary service would earn him a keep that was the envy of every baron. Still, he’d have it if he could— he’d have it to prove his worth to her.

The rest of the day he spent meeting with his vassals, promising them that whosoever would choose to follow him would share in whatever Stephen bestowed on him. After much posturing and haggling, those who held the bigger fiefs in Scotland left him, whilst those who held disputed lands on the border and south of it elected to ally themselves with the Butcher. As one Acelin de Marais, a distant kinsman, stated it, he’d burn in hell with Black Giles if Stephen paid him enough to do it. It was a telling remark, a reminder of how most viewed Giles of Moray. A Butcher destined for Hell.

They feasted in his hall on hastily slaughtered sheep and cattle, many expressing disappointment that Guy of Rivaux’s daughter did not join them. It was as close as most of them could hope to get to the man whose name was legend even amongst his enemies. To make matters worse, the traveling jongleur tuned his lute and sang not of Roland but rather of how Count Guy had destroyed the Devil of Belesme, saying afterward that he had done it in honor of Giles’ lady. Rising abruptly, Giles tossed him a coin, admonished the others to drink their fill, and made his way wearily up the winding steps to a single bedchamber.

Helewise snored on a pallet inside the door, rousing as he stepped over her. “She would not sleep upon the bed,” she mumbled sleepily.

His eyes traveled to where the bed hangings had been pulled open. The thick tallow candles atop the iron spikes revealed that the covers were still smooth. Tired and heartsore, he felt his own anger rise. Muttering a curse, he strode to where the corner of a pallet could be seen in the small cutout in the damp wall. Her bared shoulder was visible above the woolen blanket.

“Get up!”

Elizabeth rolled over on the hard, straw-filled bag. He stood above her, an angry giant outlined by the faint light from the candles. His shadow filled the space.

When she did not answer him, he reached to pull her up roughly, shaking her until she thought her bones rattled. “Afore God, but I have had enough of this! Would you that I beat sense into you, as is my right?” he demanded angrily. In the semi-darkness her green eyes were as cold, black coals. He shook her again. “Answer me!”