Simon's Lady (16 page)

“Was it?”

“Do you doubt the evidence of your eyes?” he chided.

“When you turned the opportunity down, you did not know what you now know.”

“Given what I know now, you would not have been pleased with the situation, I think.”

“It might have proven interesting,” Rosalyn countered.

A pause. Then, “Perhaps, but we wander from the issue. As I was saying, your little scheme—as intriguing as it was— fell far short of its goal. As a result, your failure has made more drastic action necessary.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts,” Valmey replied with a hint of steel beneath the velvet tones, adding slyly, “unless you have had a change of heart, my love.”

“I have not.”

“Well, then, my plan is simple and has the added merit that neither of us needs to raise a hand against him.”

Rosalyn’s next words caused Gwyneth’s heart to jump to her throat. “Very true,” she said, “but a knight’s squires are, as a rule, loyal to their master, particularly to a knight of such great repute.”

“The great repute of a knight does not always mean that he treats his squires … equitably. You should know that I enjoy an easy relationship with Breteuil, to name but one. Then again, there is….”

Gwyneth did not catch the second name. Valmey had either lowered his voice or turned his head away. His next words were muffled by the rustling of their clothing, as if they were about to return to the hall. Her heart fell to her stomach, and she was suddenly anxious that she would be discovered in her hiding place. It was too late for her to do anything now except hold her breath and tug her skirts back out of sight. Fortunately, Rosalyn and Valmey left their alcove without indicating that they were aware they had been overheard.

Gwyneth remained a moment longer, attempting to steady her jumping nerves and absorbing the depths of the treachery of Cedric of Valmey.

She did not know exactly who or what Valmey and Rosalyn had been talking about, but she had more than enough to discuss with Beresford when she returned to his side at the head table a minute later. With genuine interest now, she asked her husband to explain the role of squires on the tourney field.

“I agree with the regulation,” he answered, “that no earl, baron or knight should have more than three squires attending him. I also accept that no one is to assist a fallen knight except his own squires, under penalty of three years imprisoned.” The look in his eyes was unreadable or, at least, ambiguous to Gwyneth, and she thought that he was either challenged or amused by her interest in the unfeminine topic. “However, other than taking every precaution not to permanently injure an opponent,” he continued, “I see no reason to constrain an event that works best with fewest regulations.” He proceeded to outline for her some of the rules to which he was opposed.

She nodded and agreed and encouraged him to elaborate. At one point, she said conversationally, “But let us return to the subject of your squires. Did you say that you are entitled to three on the field? What exactly are their duties?”

Beresford told her how they cared for the knight’s weapons and his horses and provided food and drink between jousts. It was her hope that he would mention his squires’ names, but he did not. So she asked directly, “And which, among your squires, are your favorites?”

“Langley,” he replied without hesitation, “although he still needs practice with the sword and is inclined to whine.” He lapsed into silence.

“No others come to mind?” she prodded.

He shrugged and tossed out a few names haphazardly.

She deftly caught one of them. “Breteuil?” she echoed slowly, trying to form her mouth around the strange vowels. “It is a difficult name for me.”

Beresford’s face relaxed into a faint smile. “You had better get used to it, for it is common enough at court.”

“Indeed?”

“It’s a large family, the Breteuil.”

“But among the young squires are there so many?”

“A half dozen,” he replied indifferently.

Gwyneth made a mental note to discover who among the other knights had a squire named Breteuil. With one part of her mind, she kept up a light conversation with Beresford on the relatively safe topic of squires. With the other part, she bent her thoughts to the troubling problem of the threatening words Valmey had spoken to Rosalyn in the alcove. Thus, she was unprepared for the inevitable moment when Beresford turned to her and said, “It’s time.”

She dared to look at him. She saw a plain-speaking man who insulted her and ignored her and kissed her with unexpected effect. She saw a rough-edged man who had the ready look of an unsheathed sword. She saw a hard and handsome man who did not attempt to disguise his determination or his desire.

She realized belatedly that she had been careless with her courage, for it seemed to have deserted her. “It is?” she managed.

He looked out over the revelers in the hall and knew that he had waited long enough. “It is.” He turned back to her. “The rest of what I have to say about tournament regulations turns on technicalities.”

She took a sip of wine and cleared her throat. Her voice was tight. “What you told me was most useful and interesting.”

He caught a flicker of some emotion in her eyes before she lowered her lashes again, but he could not identify it. Nerves? he wondered. Or modesty? He was dimly aware that a young woman might feel nervous or modest on her wedding night, but since he had no experience with skittish virgins, he suddenly perceived the great advantage of Gwyneth’s widowhood.

“I’ve no wish to dance,” he continued. “And you, my lady?” Her head was lowered now, so he could not read her expression. She shook her head in agreement with him. That much, at least, he could interpret. “No, no dancing,” she said. Her voice was very low and seemed to rasp.

He rose from the bench and took her hands in his. He was pleased that this occasion did not call for subtlety. “If the dancing holds no further appeal, and we’ve exhausted the present topic of conversation,” he said, drawing her to her feet, “I propose we proceed to the next part of the evening.”

She rose with him, unresisting. Good enough, then, that she accepted so easily what was before them. When he placed her hand on his wrist and turned to leave the table, she whispered, “Should we not signal Adela?”

He was never in the mood for trivial courtesies, even less so this evening. “She’ll know where we’ve gone.”

“No,” she said, her voice still soft and ragged, “I mean so that she can arrange the final ceremony of the day.”

He had conveniently forgotten about the bedding. He recalled it now from his marriage to Roesia. He had no objection to the ceremony; he even understood the various reasons for bedding the naked bride and groom in the presence of ladies and gentlemen of suitable rank. The public nudity insured that neither party could later object to some defect or deformity in the other. The presence of a large number of eyewitnesses in the bedchamber reduced the possibility of appeals for annulment, although the couple would certainly perform the actual marriage act alone. The stripping of the sheets in the morning to display the spot of the bride’s blood proved that she had been a virgin. It was a practice that made sense in most cases.

But not in this case. “We don’t need it,” he said. Since he had already determined that the occasion did not call for subtlety, he ran an openly assessing eye over her. “You look to me to be a healthy woman in all respects.” He continued bluntly, “I’ve every intention of consummating this marriage, and as a widow, there is no question of your virginity.” To clinch his arguments, he added, “Since you, my lady, have no family to object to me, I cannot imagine what purpose the bedding would serve for a marriage that was arranged by royal decree.”

He saw the color drain from her face to leave it purest alabaster, then return to tinge her cheeks palest pink. She said nothing, only nodded. He was pleased to think that she found his arguments reasonable and not worth refuting. Then he called to a page, who trotted up and, upon receiving rapid instructions, trotted off to obey them. At that point a thought occurred to him. “Do you need any of your women to attend to you?”

She shook her head.

As they left the hall, he was further pleased that his wife was not a slave to empty ritual and that she did not intend to admit giggling serving women into their chamber on their wedding night. At the same time, he was slightly puzzled by her continuing silence. With her head held high and her eyes fixed straight ahead, he could not determine whether she was reluctant to leave or as happy as he to be quit of the throng. Whatever the state of her emotions, he knew that she was not angry. Her anger he had experienced with great delight in the gardens the evening before, when she had threatened him verbally with knives.

He was curious. When they were near the exit, he asked abruptly, “Did you wish to remain, my lady, at the celebration?”

She shook her head again quickly, glanced at him with a “no” in her eyes then looked away again.

“You’re content to leave?” he pursued. He looked over his shoulder at the revelry in the hall then down at her.

She nodded. “Yes, it is time, as you have said,” she answered, but her voice sounded as if the words came with effort.

He glanced back over his shoulder, for he had caught Geoffrey of Senlis’s eye just before he looked at Gwyneth. Senlis had been watching them depart, and when Beresford looked back at him, the baron bowed deeply. Perfectly understanding the message Senlis conveyed to him, Beresford’s eyes narrowed to a gleam of gray, and he smiled.

He was still smiling when he ushered Gwyneth through the passage that led from the hall to the staircase. He was smiling when she removed her fingers from his wrist so that she could grasp the newel post of the staircase with one hand and lift her skirts with the other. He was smiling when his thoughts ran far ahead to riverbanks and bramble bushes and a beautiful woman in his arms.

He had forgotten his initial outrage against this marriage of political convenience. The cramp that had come over him at the very thought of marriage. The strange pain the sight of her always caused him. The invisible bonds around his chest when he had stood in the chapel during the wedding mass. He remembered only the unlacing of those bonds when he had kissed Gwyneth for the first time, drenched in the chill fires of bright stained light.

That was it, then. He had been wanting to kiss her throughout the festivities but had not found a moment alone with her. Certainly he had enjoyed touching her hip and her arm and her shoulder when they danced, but the enjoyment had not been satisfying enough for him to wish to make a fool of himself twice on the dance floor. Besides, he did not know why he should waste his time with such an annoying activity as dancing when what he wanted to do was hold her and kiss her and sink himself into her.

She was ascending the stairs ahead of him, and her hips were at eye level. He admired her movements. Perfect swing. Perfect curves. Perfect opportunity. He reached out and put his hands on her waist, bringing her to a halt. He advanced until he was only one step down from her, and turned her so that she was facing him. He moved with his customary speed, and Gwyneth was caught off guard. In turning, she almost lost her footing on the smooth stone, but he was as steady as he was quick and easily absorbed the force of her full weight against him.

He saw the surprise on her face before he caught her. He liked the flash in her eyes that followed. It was irritation or, perhaps, a dislike of being surprised. It reminded him of the look in the eyes of an unwary opponent he had outmaneuvered.

They were eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, mouth-to-mouth. His hands had come to rest on her hips. One of hers had fallen on his shoulder. The other rested against the newel post for support. She exhaled a tiny gasp.

“That was dangerous,” she chided when she realized that she was not going to fall and that she was secure in his grip.

“Let’s hope,” he said.

Then he placed his lips on hers. He relished the sense of danger in drawing her to him so that she was nestled against him. He delighted in the feel of her breasts against his chest, her hips flush with his. He reveled even more in the fact that she was level with him, their heights equalized. It increased his sense of being engaged with a most worthy opponent, an opponent to challenge, to fear.

When he had set eyes on her for the first time across the great hall, he recalled, he had imagined himself galloping across the tourney field with his lance raised and his charger beneath him. When she had spoken to him of the Norse gods a few evenings ago, he remembered lowering his visor against the effect of her stories and her smile. Now he was happy to strip off his armor and engage in hand-to-hand combat, a gentle art that took skill and perception and an ability to respond move for move, advance for advance, stroke for stroke. He was eager to wrestle her to the ground, to roll with her on the earth, to best her, to have her best him.

He took the hand she held against the newel post and placed it on his shoulder. Now she was holding him as intimately as he was holding her. He moved a hand up to her full breast, which fit his hand much like the hilt of the magic sword, Gungnir, must have fit Odin’s grip, judging from the stories that Gwyneth had told him. He moved his hand back down her body to the curve of her hip. The gesture felt familiar to him, as if he were sliding his palm over the rim of his shield to polish it. Better than a magic sword, better than his shield, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he was holding her hips against his.

With his kiss, he prodded and sought and was initially disappointed. He wanted more from her. He wanted her engagement. He wanted her response. Her anger. Her fire.

He trailed his mouth from her lips to her ear. He spoke as he would to bait a hesitant opponent. “We can always return to the hall to finish our discussion of tournament regulations, if you like.”

She drew her head slightly back to look at him. The glint in her eye was distinctly speculative. “To inform me of the technicalities?”