Anita Mills (33 page)

“He carried her from here against her will.”

“I did not hear her answer him, but knowing her, I should suppose she provoked him,” she said mildly. “Her temper is uneven.”

That observation elicited a wry smile. “Aye, it is that,” he conceded.

“And there are not many as would suffer it.”

“William d’Evreux promised to beat her tongue from her, as I remember his words.”

“Giles of Moray promised to win her by whatever means it took him.”

“Jesu, but one would think you approved of this Scots Butcher,” he complained. “Do you forget what he is? He cannot match her in blood.”

“Do you forget whence you are come also?” she asked almost softly. “Do you forget the blood you bear?”

It was something that had never been spoken between them, not even after his grandsire of Harlowe had told him. “There’s none to know of that, and none to dispute what Guy of Rivaux is,” he answered tersely.

“It is a burden Guy carries with him with every breath he draws, Richard. Even now he fears the very blood within him.”

“ ’Tis not the same. None calls him Butcher.”

“What do you think men would call him if they knew?”

“He is still Guy of Rivaux, Grandmere,” he answered defensively. “And if his blood is tainted, he bears none of the blame. This Butcher is said to have murdered his own people—do you forget that?”

She looked up at her tall grandson and exhaled heavily. Anything else she would say would only serve to set his opinion further, and yet she wanted to try to make him see that ’twas Elizabeth that Giles must satisfy, not her family. “She did not say he misused her,” she reminded him, rising. “And whether we will it or no, we now share the bond of blood with him. If she is content, then we must be also.”

“She can scarce sit for weakness,” he said almost angrily. “You cannot deny that.”

“From the babe.” Despite her advanced age, she moved unaided. “I’d look on her.”

He could see that she would not be moved to condemn Giles of Moray, and like the rest of his family he valued her highly. He sighed. “Well, she is safe here now, and ’tis as well she comes,” he decided, “for I’d join Papa at Bristol. If the lord of Dunashie fights for Stephen, we will punish him, anyway.”

“God’s bones, Liza, but what ails you? ’Tis two days and more since you are come here, and your face is still pulled to the ground,” Richard chided. “As ’tis the first time you are up from your bed, I’d see you smile.”

“Aye.”

They walked among the neat beds of Eleanor’s herb garden, taking in the late spring air. Above, the sun shone warmly and the breeze was soft, scarce disturbing the leaves of the oak tree that shaded the wooden bench at one end. He bent to pluck a young stalk of pennyroyal and broke the leaves on its top before he handed it to her. She tasted it almost absently, waiting whilst he did the same for himself.

He sucked his, savoring the minty flavor for a moment, then he spat it out. “Are you happy, Liza?” he asked quietly, turning again to her. “I’d see you content above all else.”

“Nay, but not for the reason you would believe.” Aware that his gold-flecked eyes regarded her with sympathy, she looked away. “He did not force me to wed him.”

“He carried you from here against your will.”

“The fault was mine, for I would not go.”

“Jesu, but you make no sense! If you would not go, ’twas against your will. Papa sent me to punish him, you know.”

“And I would that you did not.”

“Because of the child? Liza, he is unworthy of you.”

“Was Gilly worthy of you?” she countered. Then, before he could answer, she met his eyes again.

“Sometimes we do not choose where we would love, Richard. Can you make Papa understand that?”

“If he and I quarreled over Gilly, ’twas that I was not free to wed her. It went against his honor that I made her my leman.”

“I see much of you in Giles,” she said softly.

“There’s been none to call me Butcher,” he retorted. “If anything, they have thought me better than I am, for I am Rivaux’s son.”

Despite the fact that he’d reconciled with their father, his voice still betrayed a trace of the old bitterness. He still bore some small measure of resentment that most saw in him only the reflection of his renowned sire. It was not easy to forget the years of struggle between them, years when Guy had tried to protect his only son.

“Think you there is no pain in being daughter to him?” she demanded. “Think you I was not wed to Ivo for him?”

“Nay, he did not force you. You had but to tell him you would not.”

“ ’Twas not Papa—’twas Reyner, Richard. They did not want me—they wanted my dowry. They wanted to wed one of Guy of Rivaux’s blood. It could have been Joanna or one of the others. It mattered not to them. They lied that they could ally themselves with him.”

“You were overyoung.”

“ ’Twas more than that,” she responded bitterly. “They lied about Ivo.”

“You have said he was no husband to you,” he acknowledged, ducking beneath a low branch, then turning to hold it for her. “But it matters not now, for he is dead.”

“They made me think the fault was mine. God forgive them, for I cannot, Richard. For six years and more I believed I was not as other women, that I was unworthy to be loved.”

“Jesu, Liza! You are Guy of Rivaux’s daughter! What nonsense is this? If you were not loved, ’twas because of your accurst tongue.”

“ ’Twas easier to believe that than the truth,” she said simply. “But now I know ’twas that I was not a man. He would have loved you better than me.”

“What?” He stopped still. “ ’Tis the first you have said of this, and I cannot—”

“I thought the fault was mine,” she repeated. “I thought if he could not love me, ’twas that I failed him. He would not lie with me. It was not until later that I knew he lay with no other woman either.”

He started to dispute her, but there was that in her green eyes that made him believe her. “Why did you not tell Papa? Why did you not tell me? By the Blessed Virgin, I would have slain him for it.”

“I was ashamed that I could not make him have a care for me.” She looked down, marking a circle in the dirt with the soft toe of her leather slipper. “And in the end I think he cared a little, for he warned me of Reyner. He sent me to chapel one night that Reyner would not lie with me to get a child for Eury.”

“Holy Jesu!”

“They called me the mare of Rivaux, Richard—Count Guy’s overtall daughter. I was naught—naught to any at Eury, and I thought I had failed. They whispered of me, saying I was barren, telling any who would listen that I was Rivaux’s useless daughter.”

“Nay, Liza, but we loved you.”

“You were not there!” She breathed deeply, sucking in the fragrant air, letting it go slowly, before she could find the words to tell him what her husband meant to her. “And when Giles of Moray came to me, I was afraid of him. I was afraid that he would say I was useless also.”

“Liza, you do not have to tell me this.”

“Aye, I do. For he would not have nay for his answer, and so I went to him.” Again she lifted her green eyes to meet his. “And naught’s wrong with me, Richard. And naught’s wrong with him, for we pleased each other right well.” She touched her stomach. “It matters not to me now that my babe will not rule as much as Papa has. ’Tis enough that he will have Dunashie and whatever else Giles can win for him.”

“You would live with this Butcher?”

“He is no more Butcher than Papa, for he has but fought for his own patrimony. And, aye, I would.”

“ ’Tis said he killed his wife, Liza.”

“She was small and feared to bear his babe. She killed herself with her own simples.”

“Art certain?”

“Aye. I do not wish to be Rivaux’s proud daughter, not because I do not love Papa, but because I’d be Dunashie’s lady,” she said suddenly. “I would be as Gilly … as Catherine of the Condes … as Eleanor of Nantes. I’d be loved as they have been loved. Can you not understand that? I’d bear sons and daughters for Dunashie.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and the change within her truly surprised him. And for the first time since she’d come home from Eury, he thought he understood her. “Then ’tis what you should do,” he decided finally. “You should go home and bear your babe at this Dunashie.”

She shook her head. “I gave mine oath to Papa, Richard. I cannot—I swore to him.”

“Nay, I am here now.”

“But you have no wish to be.”

It was the truth, and he could not deny it. “It matters not, for the war will be here also. ’Tis meet that I defend Harlowe, for one day ‘twill come to my son.” A reluctant smile warmed his eyes, lightening them almost to gold. “Aye, you are not the only one who has hopes of giving her lord a son, Liza.”

“Gilly?”

He nodded. “Before St. Cecilia’s feast in September.”

“ ’Tis well. I am pleased for you. But I cannot go to Dunashie, for King David has called Giles to answer for taking me without Papa’s consent. ’Tis why Giles fights for Stephen.” Her gaze traveled up the stone walls that rose above the garden. “Nay, for good or ill, I am here now. All I ask of Papa is that he rescind his complaint to King David. I’d not have my son lose his patrimony.”

“And your lord accepts this?”

“Nay, but he is at Stephen’s court, and we have quarreled on it.” She reached to pick a small rose from the bush that clung to the rough stones. “ ’Tis enough that Papa forgives Giles.”

“And if he does?”

“Then once this accurst war is done, I shall go to my husband. Until then, I can only pray he lives.” Turning to tuck it into the neck of his tunic, she forced a smile. “Tell me you will not harm one I love as much as you and Papa.”

“Aye.”

Above them Willie walked the wall with a man of Harlowe, commiserating over the lot of those who must sit, waiting to defend. When he looked down into the neatly laid garden he saw Elizabeth and her brother embrace, and he knew it was right that they had come. Despite Richard of Rivaux’s noted fierceness, there could not be any who did not know he loved his sister.

As news came each day of the disaffection and desertion of those who’d put Stephen on the throne, the arrival of Giles of Moray into his camp was welcome. They met, and Giles received the royal embrace beneath the shadow of Dorchester castle. And as was his custom, the beleaguered king presented his lately arrived liege man with a finely embroidered tunic of green sendal. It was the color Elizabeth favored.

“So you have wed the widow of Lord Ivo?” Stephen commented.

“Aye.”

“I would that you had brought her as surety against her father, for he has repudiated his oath to me.” He turned to one who stood beneath a spreading tree. “My lord of Eury,” he called out loudly, “we would have you greet the husband of Rivaux’s daughter.”

The man to whom he spoke looked up, then made his way to them, favoring Giles with a smile that did not warm his eyes. “Art he who calls himself of Moray?” he asked. Then, before Giles could answer, he added, “ ’Tis little joy you will have of her, my lord, and you have my pity for it.”

“ ’Tis Rivaux’s daughter,” a companion reminded him. “The one as was wed to Ivo.”

“She gave my son naught,” Reyner of Eury snapped. “She was worthless to us.” To Giles he smiled again, revealing blackened teeth. “Alas, but you’ll have no hope for her dowry, for the girl is barren.”

There was a malevolence in the older man’s voice that could not be missed. Giles fought the urge to tell him that Elizabeth would bear an heir for Dunashie ere Christmas, that he wronged her. Instead he merely said, “I have taken her dowerless, and I have hopes you are mistaken.”

“Mistaken!” Eury snorted. “Four years she was wed to my son, and there was not even a stillbirth to show for it.” He looked around for a moment. “Do you bring her?”

“She is safe elsewhere.”

“Another pity, for ’twould have kept Rivaux from joining the Empress,” the older man said sourly. “Aye, I would have written him myself had you brought her.” He turned to Stephen. “Your Grace, ’tis not too late. You have but to send escort for her.”

“Nay, but she is unwell,” Giles said hastily. “She cannot travel yet. A complaint of the bones from the clime.”

“Still …”

“And I’d not have her in an army’s train.”

“ ’Tis enough that he holds her,” Stephen decided. “If the need arises, we will send for her.”

“Aye.” Again, the Count of Eury’s pale brown eyes rested on Giles. “But art sure you can hold her? If Count Guy should come for her, you’ll need her safe.”

“She is.”

“This keep is well defended, I trust?”

There was a discernible contempt, a manner designed to make Giles feel as naught before him. Instead he felt angered. “Well enough,” he answered curtly.

“Have done, Reyner,” Stephen murmured, interceding between them. “I have said ’tis enough that he has her. When the lord of Dunashie’s loyalty to me is known, Count Guy must consider it.”

“We know not even where she is,” Reyner protested. “And David of Scotland threatens already.”

“My wife’s safety is for me to determine,” Giles told Stephen.

Reyner’s manner changed abruptly, and he faced Stephen again. “Your Grace, I did but ask out of concern for her, for despite my disappointment in her, I’d not forget what she was to Eury.” Clasping his hands before him, he continued smoothly, “There was the bond of blood between us. By your leave, I’d offer mine own keep at Halford, that she may recover from her sickness in greater comfort there.”

Before Giles could lose his temper, the king shook his head. “Nay, she belongs to the lord of Dunashie and is his to do with as he will.”

“She is content where she is,” Giles growled.

Reyner’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then his expression cleared. “When the clerk writes to her for you, I pray you will give her mine greetings and tell her that she is not forgotten at Eury.”

“I have no need of a clerk—nine years I spent in King Henry’s household.”

Stephen, unwilling to further any dispute between his dwindling vassals, clapped the count on his shoulder, saying, “We would have you come that we may show you the gerfalcon Arnulph of Alton sent us when he made his submission to our queen.”