Simon's Lady (2 page)

Senlis stayed with the subject at hand. “You set your standards too high for any young knight to meet, Simon,” he chided, glancing at his friend. “How do you expect them to measure up when you apparently have eyes in the back of your head and can block their blows even when they come from behind?”

Beresford’s features lost some of their grimness. He almost smiled. “That was nothing,” he said. “I would have been vastly disappointed if Langley had had no fight in him. You see, I goaded him into it.”

“But your back was turned, my dear friend!” Senlis exclaimed.

“That was to give him opportunity.”

“Well, I did not know that at the time,” Senlis said, “and I own to a moment of unease to have seen his sword raised against you with your back turned. However, you recovered with a speed most remarkable—but I suppose you will tell me that you had it planned that way.”

Beresford was not going to tell him anything of the sort. He was unused to commenting upon his actions, for the simple reason that it seemed entirely unnecessary to say anything about what was visible to all. Instead, he made a rapid analysis of all Langley’s weaknesses and indicated where the young knight needed to improve if he wished to make a name for himself on the field of combat at the Saint Barnabas Day tourney.

They left the commercial avenues and steered their horses toward the protecting wall surrounding the town, which had begun with the Romans. The wall was eight feet thick and twenty-two feet high and had been faced and refaced over the centuries. It had kept out the Danes in six successive sieges, just as it had kept out Earl Godwin more than a century before. However, it had been unable to keep out the great-grandfathers of Simon of Beresford and Geoffrey of Senlis who had sailed with William the Conqueror and put the island kingdom under Norman rule.

As they neared the north bank of the River Thames and the eastern extremity of the perimeter wall, the main bastion of the City of London loomed before them: citadel, castle, palace and prison. Such was the Tower of London.

Above the walls of the fortress rose the central keep, known as the White Tower, its limestone facade blazing candid in the afternoon sun, a potent reminder of the quarry across the Channel from which the stones had come. Beresford and Senlis were greeted expectantly by the gatekeeper and penetrated the fortress’s defenses through a wicket in the principal entrance to the castle. Once in the inner ward, they dismounted and were attended by groomsmen in purple-and-gold livery. The two knights made their way to the central keep on foot.

Their passage was accompanied by the comments of various men-at-arms and peers of the realm who, upon sight of the subject of the latest castle rumor, encouraged helpfully, “The king desires to see you, Simon!” “To the council room, without delay!” and “An honor awaits you, Beresford, if the rumors are true!”

Beresford scowled and muttered, “Damn the wagging tongues!”

Senlis laughed. “I hope it’s an honor that awaits you, dear friend. In all events, I have the true sense that it will be a surprise!”

Simon of Beresford made no response. He was a man whose instincts were entirely suited to the battlefield, where force and physical skill reigned supreme; he had no talent for the sly caprices of the court. He knew of maces and lances and the bright, shining shield of chivalry; he had no patience for the duplicities of political maneuvering. Though he was generally deaf to the subtleties of court life, his reception at the castle thus far was anything but subtle, and he began to feel uneasy. As he trod the broad, cool flagstones of the wide castle hallways with Senlis at his side, he discarded the comfortable notion that the royal summons had anything to do with an event as straightforward as the tournament; and he did not like surprises, even pleasant ones.

When they turned to enter the council room, he was considering the faint possibility that an honor indeed awaited him. That possibility was slain, however, upon crossing the threshold and perceiving the looks of lively curiosity on the faces of the dozen or so assembled barons when they turned to him. Though not a perceptive man, he knew for a certainty that mischief was afoot.

He was at all times a fearless man. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and faced down each baron in turn. He little realized how his stark presence filled the small yet stately room or how appropriate he looked, hands on his hips, his sword at his side, standing strong and proud beneath the purple-and-gold silken banners of King Stephen’s reign, which hung from the beamed ceiling.

He had stepped into the oblong of light that streamed in from one of the long, arched, mullioned windows that broke the masonry walls at harmonious intervals. The summer sunlight, gilding the deep oak planking of the floor and glancing off the aged ash table that occupied center place in the room, fell on Beresford as well. It created a bright aureole around the man who had come to court straight from the field, with his sun-lightened, shoulder-length curls uncombed, his tunic and chausses alive with the honest dirt of physical labor that mingled with the glittering motes of dust dancing around his head and above his shoulders.

His hard gray eyes came to rest on the king and his mistress at the head, opposite him, seated on chairs that were slightly raised on a dais.

Adela said to him, “I am pleased that you were able to come so readily, my lord.” She murmured as well her thanks to Geoffrey of Senlis, who had slipped into his seat at the table while all eyes were on Beresford.

Beresford knelt then rose. “I am always ready to serve you, madam,” he said, his deep voice resonant and respectful, “and the king, my liege.”

“That, too, pleases me,” she said and invited him to take his chair, the vacant one at the foot of the table.

He did so, with a heightened sense of unease at Adela’s graciousness, insensibly increased by the sight of the table ceremoniously set with two impressive silver ewers and weighty silver chalices, heavily embossed and chased, one for each person at the table.

Stephen of Blois, King of England, slumped in his chair, was a handsome man turned heavy whose one act of decisive courage had won him the throne twenty years before. The king had one or two innocuous words to say to his most loyal knight, then returned the initiative to his capable mistress, Adela of Chartres, seated on his left, who was plainly in charge of the proceedings.

Adela was dark haired and even a little dowdy, despite the grandeur of her raiment, but as canny a politician as Queen Mathilda, who had died the year before. Upon Mathilda’s death, it had been widely feared that Stephen would lapse into an inactivity that would surely lead to the Angevin duke Henry’s usurping of the throne. However, when Adela stepped in to strengthen Stephen’s resolve, her position as surrogate queen in Stephen’s court was met with acceptance and even approval.

Adela began to speak to the man she had summoned, yet was able to include all the barons in her gentle conversation. It seemed a disjointed discourse at first, though mellifluous in its delivery, wandering at random over a review of the loyal services that Simon of Beresford had performed for his king.

Beresford let her words wash over him for the first minute or two, nodding, listening, even drifting away for a moment as he tried to imagine the nature of Adela’s intentions.

Then he heard her say unmistakably, “And that is why, my lord, I have grown concerned about the loneliness of your present state.”

His attention snapped back. “My loneliness?” he repeated, astonished. “I am hardly lonely, madam, I assure you! I live in a very full household, as you must know.”

“Ah, but you have been a widower some five years already,” she said softly.

“That is true,” Beresford answered. “But I fail to see the trend of your argument.”

Adela smiled a woman’s smile. “You have grieved your dear, departed Roesia long enough—”

“Never a day of it!” Beresford interpolated bluntly, hastening to correct her misimpression.

A titter of laughter went around the table, but Adela admirably kept her composure. She continued smoothly, “—and so bravely. You have been raising your sons without a mother, trying vainly to keep a household in order—”

“My household is in excellent order,” he objected, rudely interrupting her again in his continuing astonishment.

“—Managing your many estates alone under great duress. For these reasons, my lord, and principally that of your personal happiness, I am delighted to inform you that we—King Stephen and I—have found you the perfect wife.”

Beresford was momentarily stunned, as if he had taken a physical blow. Then, without another thought, he thrust back his chair, causing it to stutter against the floor. Rising, he ejaculated a fiery,
“What?”
He nearly choked in his surprise and anger. He did not bother to address Adela but turned directly to Stephen. “A wife? For
what,
pray? My personal happiness? Tell me that you are joking, sire, and I will forget this outrage!”

A moment of silence fell, as the very room held its breath at the unprecedented insult of a knight to his king. Had these words been uttered by any man other than Simon of Beresford, calls of treason would have been hurled down on his head. Under the circumstances, however, not a baron was disappointed, and they eagerly awaited more.

Adela raised a calm hand and smiled at this trusted knight’s outburst, thereby excusing him. “Her name is Gwyneth of Northumbria,” she continued, “and she has been recently widowed. Since you are a widower and have experience with both the bliss of the married state and the great loss of it, you are the perfect man to comfort her in her grief.”

Beresford’s mouth dropped open. It was hardly necessary to remind anyone present that he had been unhappily married for eight years to an infamous shrew. He had not wished for Roesia’s death, but neither had he, in truth, missed her a day since she had died. In fact, he had known a great contentment during these past five years of his unmarried state, a contentment he had not fully realized until this moment. So hapless and befuddled was his expression that several of the barons could not contain their merriment.

Adela took advantage of Beresford’s momentary speechlessness by inviting him, in soothing tones, to be seated.

Beresford sat back down but did not bother to rein in his anger. “I am very far from being the perfect man to comfort any woman in her grief!”

“And she is, furthermore, very beautiful,” Adela added.

“Then give her to Lancaster,” Simon fired back, gesturing to the baron on his left, a noted ladies’ man.

Adela averted what could have been hearty laughter with her quick response, “Lancaster is having difficulties just now on his estates, which are in the quarrelsome west. Your Gwyneth comes with a vast tract of land in the north that will need to be managed by a steady and undistracted hand such as yours.”

Beresford’s brows snapped together fiercely. “Then she must be Canute’s widow,” he said. Canute had been a northern supporter of Henry, whose followers Stephen’s forces had, almost by accident, recently defeated. Beresford saw the trend, and his analysis was blunt. “You want my well-trained vassals to do the work of subduing the remaining rebels.” After a brief pause, he continued, “My loyalty to you, madam, and to the king are well known, and I am happy to put all my men at your disposal—on the instant!—for the task in Northumbria. It is not necessary to bind me in marriage to assure yourself of my willing help.”

Only by a slight compression of her lips did Adela betray that she misliked having to state her case so openly. “It is not your loyalty that concerns me, my lord. Rather it is necessary to bind Gwyneth in proper alliance, so that Canute’s men can be made to shift their loyalty—” she glanced to her right “—to King Stephen.”

“Have her wed Fortescue then,” Beresford said, flicking his hand toward another baron at the table. “He’s a widower with more vassals at his disposal than I have.”

Adela’s mouth turned down. She said delicately, “The lovely Gwyneth needs a man more in the vigor of his youth, in order to provide her with children, since she is childless.” She nodded to Fortescue. “With all due respect to Sir Walter, who has served the king long and well, I wish to honor his long-stated desire to devote more time to his grandchildren.”

“What about Northampton?” Beresford said. He tried to call to mind every widowed man of his acquaintance with sizable estates and ample ranks of vassals.

Adela’s frown deepened. “It is fortunate,” she said, her pleasant tones overlaid with a hint of displeasure, “that Bernard of Northampton is not here this afternoon, my good lord, for it would pain him to hear me remind you that he has been twice married and still has no children to his name.”

“And Valmey?” Beresford shifted his eyes around the table and pointed to the man next to the queen. “Everyone knows that he has sired a passel of bastards, and he’s not married.”

The muffled laughter at this bald comment was not entirely masked by Adela’s sedate response. “He is promised elsewhere.”

Beresford wished that he had paid more attention to court gossip, for he could have sworn that Cedric of Valmey was currently in an adulterous relationship with one of Adela’s favorite ladies. However, since he was beginning to perceive that he was in a losing battle, he did not think it wise to challenge Adela on this tricky point. Even he knew some limits.

Beresford was desperate now to find an acceptable substitute husband for Gwyneth of Northumbria. “Warenne, then,” he suggested, flinging an arm at the man next to him, who ducked in self-defense.

The laughter was open this time. “Warenne’s wife, Felicia, might object,” Adela said, having to bite her lip to contain her own laughter.

Because Felicia Warenne was such a mousy woman, Beresford had forgotten that she existed. His initial thought was “She wouldn’t object!” but the general hilarity at the table had put him at a disadvantage. “I beg your pardon, Roger,” he said gruffly.

Seizing the moment, Adela said swiftly, “Let us toast your impending happiness then, Simon of Beresford.”

The wine was poured and the chalices raised.