Simon's Lady (34 page)

The household retainers and hired craftsmen had joined her in the courtyard to mourn their losses. Her first act had been to arrange for the burial of the dead, and the parish priest was already there when she arrived, muttering and shaking his head over the work of the devil. Gwyneth did not think it was the devil who had wrought this destruction. Nor even Loki. She knew human evil when she saw it, although she had largely avoided thinking about how that evil had intended her to be the primary victim. Finally, she could ignore it no longer. If she was to regain a measure of control over the situation, she understood that she would have to face the ugly fact.

Someone wanted her dead. Her enemy had evidently not known that she had spent the night at the Tower. Whoever it was had believed, like everyone else at court, that she was returning to her home. Adela had played a part in saving her, but her life Gwyneth now owed to Beresford. He must have known that evil was conspiring against her. He had insisted that she stay at the Tower. He had even said that it was for her own safety. He must have been the one to tell Adela to keep secret Gwyneth’s presence at the Tower.

It was remarkable now to think that she had attempted to defy her husband on this issue. He had stood his ground implacably, and had thereby guaranteed her safety. It was also remarkable now to think that she had feared an enemy within castle walls last night. She was sorry that, in the rush of her summons from Adela this morning with news of the attack upon her home, she had not had the opportunity to witness the reaction of various courtiers to the news. She would have loved to gauge Rosalyn’s reaction, in particular.

She did not truly need to have seen Lady Chester’s reaction to know whose hand had produced the deaths in her home and the destruction. Almost as if she had conjured him with her thoughts, she turned and saw Cedric of Valmey rush through the main portal and hasten toward her.

Guilty!
was her immediate judgment, despite Valmey’s intense look of concern and the serious, respectful tone of his voice as he greeted her. “My lady Gwyneth! I came as soon as I heard. I was with the reinforcement troops summoned from Wincester, and we were already outside castle walls when word of vandals within the city spread. Are you all right?”

Gwyneth had to accept the grasp of his hand, his respectful bow and the press of his lips against her fingers, along with his earnest concern. “Yes, I am all right,” she replied, “but you did not need to trouble yourself.”

“Ah, but I did! I will be seeing your husband at Tutbury in a matter of days. If advance word of this reaches him and he discovers that I did not assure myself of your safety before leaving London, I might not live to see another day.”

Valmey’s sad smile indicated that his insignificant joke could not counter the magnitude of the surrounding tragedy.

“Do you think my husband will receive advance word of this?” Gwyneth asked.

“Well, as to that, I do not know, my lady,” Valmey replied. “I had simply assumed that reports of such news might well precede my departure.”

“And will those reports leave London attached with the names of the possible perpetrators?”

Valmey looked around him at the shattered ruins and charred remains of sections of the house. His manner was all delicate restraint, as if he were making an effort to stifle his outrage. “Does the work of savage vandals,” he asked with suppressed vehemence, “come with names attached?”

Valmey’s presence had turned Gwyneth’s hot rage to ice. She did not consider whether she was treading a treacherous path when she said, “The destruction looks so … deliberate to me and so—how should I say?—personal. It is surely the work of a person or persons who have names—” her glance soulfully swept the ruins and halted on Valmey “—and faces.”

The baron looked creditably shocked. “Do you think ….? No, surely not … but is it possible that Robert of Breteuil has managed to retaliate against his master? I know that the lad is in prison, but perhaps there are others in league with him who could have wrought such destructive revenge!”

Gwyneth had to admire him. His response sounded so spontaneous and convincing. She matched Valmey’s shock. “Why, yes, I can see that this further treachery must only be the work of … but it is too horrible to discuss!” She put the back of her hand to her forehead in distress. “Adela must know of this.” She removed her hand and nodded with resolution. “I will certainly speak with her.”

“And when might that be?”

“When I return to the Tower tonight.”

Valmey nodded mournfully. “Yes, you must return to the Tower tonight, but I wish you could tell her before then.”

“You see that I have so very much to do here, sire,” Gwyneth said, gesturing to her surroundings.

“Yes, of course. Well, then, allow me to speak with her first, on your behalf,” Valmey offered graciously.

Gwyneth thought that he was quite predictable. “Do you have time for such an audience? Must you not be moving your troops out behind my husband and the others?”

“I must make time,” Valmey replied gallantly, “and must consider that alerting Adela to possible traitors against Beresford in the castle is my first duty. I feel confident that I can see her and still lead my troops out this afternoon.”

Gwyneth curtsied. “Then I would be most grateful if you could see her as soon as possible.” She lifted her eyes to him. “And tell her that I will gather my retinue later today and proceed to the Tower, let us say, shortly after vespers. Will you carry that message for me?”

Valmey bowed deeply and respectfully. “I will be honored to give her that message for you.”

Gwyneth could not resist asking, “And you, sire, will have left London by vespers, I expect?”

Another deep bow. “Assuredly.”

He departed.

Valmey’s purpose in coming held no mystery for Gwyneth. He had made his dutiful trip to her home for no other reason than to discover her whereabouts for the day. This meant, of course, that she had to get as far away as possible from the house and the Tower as quickly as she could. The morning had advanced, and it was almost the sext. She did not have time to think or to plan. She had time only to act. She had no clothes to prepare, for they had all been burned. However, she did have a little money that she would need, a few coins she had garnered and stashed in the spice cupboard, which had a small lock. So she went first to the solar, as if to survey the destruction. There she found the spice cupboard in shreds, but she was able to recoup many of the valuable pennies from the litter on the floor.

When Gwyneth had settled with the craftsmen about how to proceed and had established the mode of payment, she knew she would have to leave the house and not return. She dared not tell any of her retainers what she had in mind, for their knowledge of her movements might jeopardize them, as well. She then summoned the serving woman, Swanilda, to accompany her on her neighborhood errands. She added the highly unusual request that the woman bring along two warm shawls, “just in case the sun should go behind the clouds.”

Gwyneth had to take John the Porter into her confidence. When she and Swanilda were leaving the house, she drew him into the shadows of the gallery and explained quickly what was afoot and what she had to do about it. He was surprised, but agreed to bring two horses with sidesaddles through Aldgate exactly at midday and walk straight into the woods beyond the gate, where she and Swanilda would be waiting for him. She advised him to stay away from the house for the next several days to avoid being questioned by Valmey or his minions.

Swanilda was equally surprised as she walked with her mistress through the streets of London, listening to Gwyneth’s plan and the reasons for it. She was certainly afraid of the world beyond city walls, but possessed enough acting skills to follow her mistress’s lead by throwing her shawl over her head and playing the old woman to the gatekeeper. Her spirit of adventure was equal to the occasion, as well, which was fortunate.

The first day and night were the most difficult and dangerous for the two women, for they were still in the vicinity of London. Gwyneth envisioned Valrney’s displeasure upon not finding her party in the streets of London shortly after vespers, for that was surely his prime opportunity for abducting her and doing away with her. She imagined his visit to her home and his arrogant interrogation of all the retainers. She imagined his rush to the Tower and a visit to Adela, posing similar questions, less arrogant, more obsequious, which would similarly yield no clue as to Gwyneth’s whereabouts. She imagined Valmey’s impotent rage, his animal fear and his calculated determination to put his hands around her neck. And he had an army at his disposal.

But she figured that the army would hinder him in finding her more than it would help him. Although she was headed to the same place as Valmey, she was not taking the same route, and in any case it would be far easier for her to avoid crossing paths with a great many men and horses and equipment than it would be for Valmey to leave his troops and track her down. She only hoped that she could get to Beresford before he did.

She did not think the task should be very difficult. Not that she had imagined it would be a physically easy one, of course, given the routine hardships of life out in the open, two women traveling alone with little money and Swanilda unaccustomed to riding. However, her strength of purpose—her love for her husband, her loyalty to him and her great sense of debt to him—kept her going.

Gwyneth’s sharp wits were able to find kind old couples with whom to break bread, and sweet young peasant families willing to lend a roof to two women traveling alone. She was aiming, more or less, for Tutbury, where she expected to find Beresford, but she had chosen to angle north first, intending to head west after Huntingdon. She knew that Valmey was heading west by way of the Thames, then north around Evesham. Although her way was slightly longer, she was traveling lighter than Valmey. Thus, when she lost a day to Swanilda’s sore buttocks, she did not fret. However, when she lost another to dysentery, caused no doubt by a bad piece of cheese that did not trouble Swanilda’s own digestion, she began to get a little anxious. And when the next day dawned to impassable rain, she began to worry that all her efforts would be in vain.

She and Swanilda had been gone almost a sennight and were still only in the vicinity of Bedford when they heard stunning news. Gwyneth already knew from Beresford that Duke Henry had proceeded north from Bristol without fighting. At a peasant’s croft she had found for the night in Bedfordshire, she learned that Duke Henry had continued that restraint in the past several weeks; and instead of going north after Tutbury, he had turned east and south, angling back, so one might guess, toward London. Normally, peasants would not be abreast of the latest political news. However, in this case, every living soul in the area knew that Duke Henry was presently camped, with an army that had grown considerably in the past fortnight, on the north side of the Great River Ouse, not five miles away.

Gwyneth slept on the news and awoke with a plan adjusted by what she perceived as clear developments in Duke Henry’s favor. She cleaned herself and Swanilda as well as conditions would allow, and set off in the early morning for the river, confirming along the way that the Angevin could now count as a supporter Robert, Earl of Leicester. This shift of allegiance lent great respectability to Duke Henry’s cause and added a powerful name to his list of supporters, which included already, Gwyneth knew, the earls of Worcester, Chester, Lincoln, Cornwall, Gloucester and Devon.

Night was well advanced before Gwyneth, with a combination of courage, persistence and seductive smiles, was where she wanted to be: at the entrance to Duke Henry’s red-and-gold-striped pavilion in the center of his camp. While Swanilda waited outside, Gwyneth was ushered into the round tent with its peaked top and heavy cloth, woven with the lions of Anjou. In the center, standing next to the richly carved center pole, stood a young man of not more than two-and-twenty. His stance, even in repose, was energetic. His unlined, unbearded face wore an expression of eagerness and confidence combined, at the entrance of a lovely young woman, with curiosity.

Mastering her fear, Gwyneth came forward and curtsied low. “I am Gwyneth Andresdaughter, widow to Canute of Northumbria, wife to Simon of Beresford. I have come, sire, to seek your help.”

****

Beresford wished he could shake his melancholy. It seemed the longer he was apart from Gwyneth, the more he yearned for her. The farther he was away from her, the closer she seemed. So close. Achingly close.

He had walked down into the valley, angling far from camp. He stopped at the river’s edge. The night was clear, the moon full. He stood in the shadowy screen of tall water rushes, although he was hardly concerned that anyone across the river could see him. He looked up at the milky spill of stars studding the sky, feeling sick with love. He looked across the river to the opposite shore, catching the flicker of campfires here and there, and wondered that his blood did not sing at the possibility of battle. Nor did his stomach knot with the tension necessary to lead the charge, meet the enemy, raise the sword, swing the mace. All of those familiar emotions were swamped by the unfamiliar thickening of his blood, the throbbing of his heart and the pulsing desire to see Gwyneth.

Perhaps it was not love that he felt, but doom. Valmey’s reinforcements had not yet arrived and might be wandering anywhere between Tutbury and the gates of paradise. Then, omen upon ill omen, he had just learned that Warwick had, indeed, died from the shock of the news that his countess had surrendered his castle to Duke Henry while he was still in attendance on Stephen. It seemed the vital, young Angevin had only to come calling for all to surrender to him. Beresford saw little hope for military maneuvers to turn the tide of this peaceful march. In fact, a bloody battle might well further undermine Stephen’s position.

So what was left? Negotiation? Beresford had no taste or skill for it. He might as well die honorably at the end of an enemy sword. He even indulged the gloomy notion that Valmey’s errant reinforcements were increasingly irrelevant.