Simon's Lady (5 page)

“Given your inexperience with the Norman tongue,” he observed, “you have a remarkably accurate military vocabulary.”

Gwyneth smiled faintly. “I had much time, during the long journey to London, to hear repeated descriptions of the Norman success, which were recounted, of course, in Norman.”

“Tell me about that journey.”

Her trip to London had been nothing less than terrifying. “Lady Chester has already described the journey to you,” she offered evasively.

He shook his head slightly. “Lady Chester was not there. Tell me in your own words.”

“I was treated with utmost respect,” she said diplomatically, “and a concern for my comfort was at all times evident.”

He let this polite lie pass. “Did you grieve on the journey? You must have lost friends during the storming of the castle.”

She fought against her fear of him, of the powerful size of his neck and shoulders and arms as he strolled next to her. “Of course, I lost many. I lived at Castle Norham for five years.”

“Did you lose any family members?”

“No.”

“You lost your husband.”

She looked away. At mention of Canute and husbandly associations, she felt her courage drain away. “Yes, of course, I lost him.”

“You had no children?”

“No.”

“Are you carrying your husband’s child?”

Her eyes flew back to his. The man was
worse
than a brute. She felt as if she had stumbled painfully, against rock and some other force, less solid, more dangerous. “No.”

“Are you certain?”

She said coldly, “Certain as a woman may be.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied.

The topic caused anger to flare within her again. She had longed for children, it was true, and grieved for the ones she thought she would never have. Yet she was happy to have never borne a child of Canute’s, for he had regarded the act of conceiving a child either with dismal disinterest or as an occasion for brutality. But none of this—her lack of children, her current barren state, her feelings about her late husband or anything else—was the business of this man—this outrageous man, this Simon of Beresford, this
Norman—
next to her. She had suffered enough indignities in the past days and weeks and years. Enough was enough!

With the return of her anger came her courage and all her well-learned skills of turning disadvantage to advantage. She quickly composed her features, relying on her long experience of masking anger with complaisance.

Hardly missing a beat, she said, “Well, sire, you have heard what is most important about me and my life. Now I should like to learn what is most important about you and your life.”

He frowned forbiddingly. “What do you want to know?” he asked in a far-from-encouraging manner.

“Whatever you think is important for me to know about you.” Her voice held the sweet calm she had cultivated over the years.

She imagined that he would mention his sons or his late wife, although she did not know why, in retrospect, she should have made such a conventional assumption. He said instead, looking directly down at her, his voice deep and rough, “You should know that I have just come from an important training exercise on the field and arrived at the castle unsuspecting, I assure you, of what was to be required of me.”

Gwyneth’s mouth nearly dropped open. She did not make the mistake of interpreting this statement as an apology for the disreputable state of his dress. Rather, she thought it ranked as the rudest of his rude comments thus far. First he insulted her intelligence outright, next he asked directly if she was pregnant. Then he had the gall to make no pretense of the fact that he did not want the marriage. This was plain speaking with a vengeance!

Neither did she want the marriage, but she was not so foolish as to say so. Nor was she so foolish as to wear her thoughts on her face, especially given the public nature of this first meeting with her husband-to-be. Ever alert to her surroundings, she was acutely aware that the courtiers in their midst were doing everything possible not to betray their avid interest in what was transpiring between the most conspicuous couple in the hall.

She formed her lips into a smile, as if greatly interested in this news. “And what was the particular training exercise you were engaged in?”

“Broadsword.”

“I see,” she said. “Do I infer correctly that you are devoted to training in various forms of combat?”

“Yes.”

“And spend much time at the practice?”

“Yes.”

She read in his face the impatient question,
Is there anything else you want to know?
Although naturally offended, she had never intended to probe into his personal life, and now turned the conversation to more neutral matters.

“Well, then, since I am new here, you could perhaps help me in identifying some of the people I am to live among. We should be as interested in them as they apparently are in us.”

Beresford seemed surprised. “They are?”

“And making such worthy attempts to hide their interest!”

Beresford glanced around the hall. Heads quickly turned away. His already scowling expression deepened, and he muttered something to the effect that people should mind their own affairs and leave his life to him.

“Oh, I agree,” she said lightly, “but the interest in us is, unfortunately, most understandable, don’t you think? And it’s all the more reason for us to take advantage of looking at them, while they are looking at us. So, then, sire, who might that man be? There, across the hall from us.”

“That’s Walter Fortescue.”

“What should I know about him, pray?”

“That he’s too old for the tourney field.”

“I can see that, sire,” she said. When no further description of Fortescue was forthcoming, she shifted her gaze and asked, “The man to Sir Walter’s right? Is he known to you?”

“Roger Warenne.”

“Roger Warenne,” she repeated, committing the name to memory. “And what should I know about him?”

“He’s an indifferent swordsman,” Beresford replied. After further consideration, he added, “He’s married to a woman named Felicia.”

“Ah! I shall look forward to meeting her.” She bit her lip. Her eye next fell on the man she had earlier decided must be a clever one. He was not looking at them at the moment, but she recalled that just before Beresford’s arrival, he had surveyed her through narrowed eyes. “Who is that?” she asked. “The handsomely dressed man standing by the far door? I saw him earlier, just before you arrived.”

Beresford frowned. “That is Cedric of Valmey.”

She had to swallow her gasp of dismay. She knew Valmey’s name from the siege of Castle Norham, but she had never seen the man responsible for destroying her life, for he had left to his men the task of gathering the spoils, of which she was a part.

“What should I know of Cedric of Valmey?” she asked calmly. When her question yielded nothing but silence, she added, with a touch of irony, “And how is he on the tourney field?”

“Well enough.”

She interpreted that as high praise. Since she did not think further inquiries about male members of the peerage would produce any comment beyond an assessment of their marshal abilities, she turned her interest to the ladies.

With her eyes roving, she remarked, “I know, of course, Lady Chester. Yes, there she is. She told me that her husband is very ill. Do you know anything about his condition, sire?”

Beresford looked as if he were having difficulty remembering her husband. “I believe you must be speaking of Godfrey,” he said at last. “I have not seen him in an age.”

“Was he not at the feast of Ascension with his wife, the occasion she mentioned to you?”

The vagueness of his response to this did not encourage her to pursue the question. She said, “Well, I am very sorry for her. Ah, she has just joined Sir Cedric, and they are speaking most intensely! There, you see, I am already becoming familiar with the court. Now, next to them, sire, off to the left, can you tell me who is the woman with the dark hair and green bliaut?”

Beresford considered her. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Well, then, the woman to whom she is speaking— Do you know her?”

“She looks familiar,” Beresford admitted.

She tried several more ladies before she received a positive identification. “Oh, that’s Johanna,” he said. “She’s been around forever.”

Gwyneth laughed, for Johanna was a young and lovely woman. “She is not old enough, I think, sire, to have been around forever,” she said.

She glanced up at him, and caught an interesting angle of his face. She followed the thick column of his neck up the sharp plane of his jaw to his nose, which was surprisingly straight and well defined in profile, and down to his lips, finely cut but held hard and uncompromising. She wondered fleetingly how he might look with a shave and his hair trimmed. Or even a smile? The thought intrigued her.

She decided to take a chance. “I have commended you for your plain speaking, sire, and I am sincere,” she said. Her tone and expression artfully blended admiration and teasing. “However, the point of plain speaking is to be always truthful! In the case of Johanna, you have not been truthful, merely rude.”

The expression in his eyes slew any possibility that his looks would improve with trim hair and a shave. She doubted even that his lips knew how to curve into a smile. Her heart beat spasmodically in anticipation of what he might do in response to her impudence. She braced herself, but did not flinch.

“I have known her for most of my life,” was Beresford’s rather mild response to her remark. “Johanna is kin to me, related through my father.”

Gwyneth breathed a sigh of relief. “Which does not translate, you will agree, sire,” she continued, bravely staying her course, “into her having been around forever. Say better, ‘I have enjoyed her acquaintance for some years.’”

“I have enjoyed her acquaintance for some years,” Beresford repeated, rather more, she believed, from astonishment at her instruction than from obedience.

“Very good!” she approved, impudent still.

His eyes held hers, assessing this time, as she imagined he might size up an opponent across the field of tournament. “I will remember your advice, ma’am,” he said slowly.

She felt breathless again. Since she could not easily read his tone or his expression, she thought it prudent to move along. “And those ladies?” she asked.

She nodded toward the far end of the hall, toward a group of three old women. They were standing off by themselves, and their rather strange figures, darkly clad, were framed half in the light of the hall’s high windows, half in shadows, lending them an eerie aspect.

“The three crones?” he queried. Cutting his gray eyes back to her, he added, his heavy brows lifting slightly, “If you will permit me the term.”

Gwyneth nodded graciously. “I will certainly permit you the term,” she said, “and will license you to say that the
y,
at least, have been around forever. They might well demand that you venerate them, for if you do not, they may withdraw their protection and cast an evil spell on you.”

Beresford’s brows rose higher. “What makes you say that?”

Gwyneth gave her head a tiny shake. “No reason. It just came to me, that’s all.”

It was just as well that a courtier made so bold as to accost them then, introducing himself to Gwyneth and congratulating Beresford. Others, having stayed away for as long as they could possibly contain themselves, came too, eager to see close up the titillating mismatch of the beautiful captive and the ugly bear. Soon Gwyneth and Beresford were swamped with wellwishers. Thus was she relieved of the effort of maintaining difficult conversation with him, although she was now confronted with the equally difficult task of sorting through all the new names and faces.

Gwyneth did not again notice Beresford until the moment he abruptly quit her side, with the minimum of a bow and no words of valediction. As she briefly watched his exit, she felt an angry satisfaction that, even in retreat, he had given her no cause to soften her opinion of the rude, rough oaf, senseless chunk of a man she was to wed.

****

Senlis was lying in wait for Beresford when the latter strode out of the hall, and he fell easily into step beside him. As they proceeded down a long passage, he informed his friend, “Adela has requested that I take you to the vestiary to find you a suitable tunic to wear at this evening’s supper. She thinks there is not enough time for you to return to your house now.”

Beresford looked at his friend skeptically. “Did you drop a word in her ear about the state of my clothing, my dear Geoffrey?”

Senlis held up his hand, as if taking an oath. “No, I did not, Simon. May I say that it was not necessary to do so! In any case, Adela was the one who insisted that you be presentable when the toasts are made.” He let drop this triviality and came straight to his point. “Ever the reluctant bridegroom?”

Beresford had a succinct answer to that. “Bah!”

Senlis regarded his friend with surprise. “What was the problem?”

“Too many people,” Beresford complained. “A man could suffocate in such a crowd.”

“Ah, no, I mean before the well-wishers accosted you. Your exchange with Gwyneth looked to be going rather well, from what I could see. She wore no look of undisguised horror.”

Beresford grunted. “I suppose I said all the wrong things to her after you left.”

“No, no, no, Simon!” Senlis reassured him. “You said all the wrong things to her
before
I left! You certainly could not have become more tactless afterwards.” At his companion’s silence, Senlis checked his step.
“Could
you have become more tactless? God’s blood, Simon, what did you say to her?”

Beresford scowled. He latched onto the defining moment in their exchange, during which something seemed to have hung in the balance, but he did not know what. “She did not like what I had to say about Johanna.”

“What on earth could you have said about your cousin?”

“That she has been around forever.”

“And what did Gwyneth object to in that remark?”

“She said that Johanna was not old enough to have been around forever.”