Lord of My Heart (16 page)

As Aimery took the stool to Madeleine’s right, the king said, “Demoiselle, I present to you Lord Aimery de Gaillard, son of the Count de Gaillard, whom you have met. As you see, he is a very useful young man.”

Madeleine was scarcely paying attention. She was furious and mortified. She had done the best she could for this meal, but months of neglect and, she suspected, deliberate sabotage, could not be undone in a few days. She supposed she should feel grateful to this young man who had competently sorted out the mess so that at least the food could be served, but she found it difficult. Something in the ironic way he had bowed struck her as insulting—not to William, but to her and her household.

Still, she couldn’t ignore his efforts. “Thank you for your assistance, sir,” she said flatly, looking down at the trencher before her.

“I was hungry,” he said coolly, “and that contretemps was holding up the food.”

She flicked her eyes sideways and saw, what? Indifference? Dislike? What reason had he to dislike her? Young Norman lords were supposed to want to please her, and certainly the one she had met thus far had tried hard enough. Stephen de Faix was handsome and charming.

But then, she realized with surprise, this wasn’t a Norman. His shoulder-length blond hair told her that. She had noticed it earlier and wondered. He met her gaze with clear green eyes. She gasped. It wasn’t possible.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Aimery de Gaillard, demoiselle.”

“You are Saxon!”

His fine lips twisted. “Do you fear to be murdered in your bed? I am Norman. My mother is English. She is a lady of Mercia.”

She shook her head at her foolishness as she realized he was speaking in perfect Norman French. He was the youngest son of Count Guy de Gaillard, distant relative and close friend of King William, the son who could tell her about Valhalla. She saw what the count meant. He looked like a Viking barbarian with his flowing yellow hair and gold bracelets, but he clearly could not be a Saxon outlaw.

She wondered if he was married. It would explain his indifference. She had discovered his brother Leo was married and had been a little disappointed. Leo de Vesin appeared to be both kind and trustworthy.

A platter of pork was placed before the king, and he selected a few pieces before waving it on to Madeleine. She took one piece of the meat. “May I help you to some, Lord Aimery?”

Aimery murmured his thanks and let her pick a few choice lumps of meat to place on his bread. For a moment he’d thought she recognized him, but it appeared not to be so. If he could only keep his right hand out of her sight he might avoid detection.

Their goblets were filled and a dish of beans came by, then fine white wastel bread. That appeared to be the sum of their provisions, and he saw Madeleine anxiously watching the dishes progress around the room. Probably some men would end up eating more beans than pork.

The liquid in his cup turned out to be mead. He leaned closer to the heiress. “I hesitate to add to your worries, Lady Madeleine, but the king dislikes mead. If you have no wine, you would do better to offer him ale.”

She flushed and cast him a look that was both worried and annoyed, then beckoned a servant. Within minutes the king was offered a clean goblet and ale. He nodded his thanks.

“Do you have other suggestions?” Madeleine asked, aware that her tone was unfairly tart. She could not explain her antagonism to Aimery de Gaillard. She did not know him and had scarce looked at him since he had sat down beside her, yet she felt as if hedgehog spines were springing up along the side of her body. It must be because she’d developed an antipathy to green eyes.

“Relax,” he said in an indulgent tone that rasped her nerves. “The king’s no glutton or lover of ceremony for its own sake. The food you have is properly prepared and adequate. It is clear matters have not been well run here.”

She gritted her teeth. “I have only just started to take a part in the running of Baddersley, Lord Aimery.”

“Then perhaps you are slow to see your duty, my lady.”

Anger turned her head toward him. “I have only been in the country since April!”

“A place can come to rack and ruin remarkably quickly, can’t it?” he said with an insincere smile, and passed her a basket of nuts. “May I crack one for you, Lady Madeleine?”

“You may crack your head, sir!” Madeleine hissed, then stiffened when the king chuckled.

“By the Blood, Guy, they argue like man and wife already.”

Already? Madeleine looked from the king to Lord Aimery in horror.
This
was to be her husband?

Never.

“Sire,” she blurted, “you promised me a choice!”

She saw the flash of annoyance in the king’s eyes and bit her lip, but any ill-humor was quickly hidden by a smile. “And I am a man of my word, demoiselle. There are three eligible young men present, all unattached, all fit to help you here at Baddersley. You will have your choice. But then you will wed your choice. Unfortunately I have to deprive you of your aunt and uncle. I cannot leave you here unprotected.”

Madeleine felt the blood drain from her face. A chill passed through her. Within days she would be married? To whom?

As if reading her thoughts, the king said, “Your choices are Lord Aimery, Lord Stephen de Faix—the man in blue over there—and Odo de Pouissey whom, of course, you know. Become well acquainted with them, demoiselle. Test them if you will. In two days you will wed your choice.”

The king turned back to Count Guy, and Madeleine became aware that someone was pressing her goblet into her hand. The one with green eyes. She took a deep draft of the mead. She’d once thought she would like to marry a blond Englishman, but that had been before he had so cruelly betrayed her.

So this was to be her choice: Odo, whom she might once have chosen except for his parents; the green-eyed one who didn’t like her and who reminded her all too keenly of a vicious rogue; and the pleasant young man who had flirted with her earlier.

She looked at Stephen de Faix. He was smooth faced, with curly chestnut hair which he wore cut short but not in the extreme fashion Odo favored. Madeleine thought she could categorize her choices by hair—short, medium, or long. She bit her lip on a giggle which was part hysteria.

The choice was obvious. Stephen de Faix. Her husband.

But the decision did not settle her nerves; it made her uneasy. It was just the stresses of the day, she assured herself, and having the choice forced on her so suddenly. In time she would grow accustomed to the idea.

“Stephen’s a very pleasant fellow,” approved the green-eyed devil to her right. “He’s remarkably courteous for a Norman, competent in war, moderate in drink.”

Madeleine faced him. “Are you not all those things?”

“I’m too courteous for a Norman,” he retorted. “I don’t like war, and I drown my sorrows in a pot.” To prove it he drained his cup and summoned a servant for a refill.

She didn’t believe him, which left only one interpretation. He didn’t want her. She didn’t want him either, but his rejection hurt all the same. “You want me to marry Lord Stephen?”

“I don’t think Odo would suit you,” he said with a shrug. “But then, I don’t know much about you.”

Madeleine fixed a smile on her face.
“You
do not want to wed me and have Baddersley for your own?”

Without apology he shook his head. “I have enough to do running Rolleston for my father.” He cracked a nut with an efficient tap of a very solid gold bracelet and offered her the meat. “It’s in East Anglia. Not the most peaceful spot.”

She took the nut absently. “But Baddersley would be yours alone if we were wed. Does that not appeal?” Why, wondered Madeleine, am I saying these things? It’s as if I’m begging him to woo me.

“In English law the barony is yours by right, Lady Madeleine. Your husband will merely be your defender.” He cracked another nut and popped the flesh into his mouth. He had very strong white teeth.

Just like another man. Madeleine stared. His face had a similar shape . . . No, it was her foolish imagination again, seeing him in every man of that type.

But he was behaving very strangely. Everything about him was strange. She’d never seen a man wear a tunic of such bright green. She’d never in her life seen a man glitter so. He wore a fortune carelessly and far outshone the king.

Perhaps he had been honest when he said he didn’t like war. He was not heavily built, and he had the look of a man who spent more time in his clothes than his armor. Her father and brother would never have wasted money on needlework that could be spent on horse or sword. She certainly would not want to marry a man who couldn’t fight. On the other hand, the notion of being Lady of Baddersley in more than name was startling, but wondrous.

“Are you saying that if I were to wed you, Lord Aimery, you would regard Baddersley as mine? I think perhaps you do wish to marry me, to tempt me so.”

“The idea of having the power here is attractive to you?” he said with a distinct sneer, but Madeleine didn’t care.

“Power.” She rolled the word around her mouth like a honey-cake, savoring it.

Aimery realized he had made a serious mistake. More than one, a whole stream of them. How could this girl scramble his wits when he knew her for what she was? When she looked at him with those heavy-lidded brown eyes, a mist seemed to float over his reason.

For weeks he’d carried a picture of a wicked harpy in his mind, but now it kept slipping away from him to be replaced by Dorothy, sweet and flustered by the river. He’d wanted her to know her position under English law, but now he saw his error. Here she was, true to form, gloating at the thought of being the absolute power at Baddersley, doubtless looking forward to wielding the whip with her own hands.

Aimery had no time to pursue the matter for the king called on him for a song. As he bowed and went to fetch his lyre, Aimery knew sourly that the king was going to do his best to push the girl into choosing him, and he would not be able to refuse the “honor” a second time. He would have to apply himself to becoming unpalatable to the heiress without letting the king or his father suspect what he was doing.

At the same time he must be sure not to give Madeleine de la Haute Vironge opportunity to recognize him or see his tattoo. She didn’t seem to recognize his voice speaking noble French, but it was hard to believe she wouldn’t one day look at him and see Edwald the outlaw.

And there was always the danger of one of the local people letting something slip. Aldreda had already winked at him.

All in all, he thought with a sigh, it was enough to send a man on a pilgrimage, a decades-long pilgrimage.

By the time he returned, the rickety trestles had been dismantled, and men were wandering about draining replenished cups. The windows stood open, and the evening sun lit the room. Madeleine and the king still sat in the big chairs, and it occurred to Aimery that she was the only lady here. Her position was strange, and he suspected the king had manipulated it to be so. She was being given some say in her marriage, but her choice was being skillfully limited.

William was set on the girl choosing Aimery, and he would use every trick to achieve his end. When William of Normandy determined on something, the chances of avoiding it were small indeed. On the other hand, the king had promised the girl a choice, and he would not go back on his word. That was the only hope.

Aimery must direct her firmly toward Stephen de Faix. Stephen was indolent and self-indulgent, and he lacked a necessary streak of ruthlessness. But that, Aimery reminded himself, his wife would supply in full measure.

As he tuned his instrument, Aimery ran quickly through a list of songs, wondering which would appeal least to his proposed bride. He discarded all the lyrical ones about the beauties of the seasons, and also the ones with a romantic tale. He knew they appealed to the ladies. How would she react to a stirring battle saga? She was obviously not softhearted, and so it might appeal.

Nevertheless, it must be one of those, and so he chose the most harsh and bloodthirsty of the lot, an old Norse tale he had himself translated into French at William’s request. It told of Karldig who, trapped by his enemies, fought to the death with all his men around him. The Norse code dictated that no true man could outlive his leader, his ring-giver, and the followers of Karldig adhered to the code with high spirit. The story was told from the enemy’s point of view, for Karldig and all his men perished. The storyteller, though supposedly one of the enemy, gloried in the nobility of it all; he lauded each man sent to Valhalla, related with relish each wound, each lopped limb, each pierced eye.