Simon's Lady (7 page)

Not Cedric of Valmey. “Then, perhaps, madam, you accuse me.”

She knew that it was wiser to preserve a respectful silence than to respond.

Valmey sighed with a smile. “Perhaps you know that I led the attack on Castle Norham. It is natural for you to hold it against me, but in sooth, it could have been any knight present who did the deed.” He waved the topic away and continued, still overly solicitous. “Because I wish to give you a much better impression of me, I have come forward with the rest to offer my congratulations to you.”

“I thank you.”

“And to complain,” he continued with a sly, sensuous, teasing smile, “that Simon of Beresford received two remarkable honors today.”

Gwyneth looked at him questioningly.

“The second remarkable honor being, of course, the fact that he is to marry you.”

“And the first?” she demanded.

“He has received the earldom of Northumbria, in addition to your hand and your land,” Valmey informed her.

Gwyneth lowered her lashes. Beresford had not mentioned the earldom, and neither had Adela. Was Valmey telling her this now to suggest that an additional honor had been necessary to overcome Beresford’s obvious reluctance to the marriage? Or was it, rather, that Valmey was jealous, since the land should have been his by right of conquest? She replied, “It seems a proper honor to bestow on him, under the circumstances.”

“Under the circumstances,” Valmey repeated.

“What circumstances?” asked a voice at Gwyneth’s side. She turned to find Geoffrey of Senlis standing there. “But let me guess!” he said.

Gwyneth greeted him and said, “We were just discussing the appointment of Simon of Beresford as Earl of Northumbria.”

Senlis bowed. “An excellent appointment,” he said approvingly, “and unlooked-for on Beresford’s part, I can assure you!” He gazed frankly at Gwyneth as he continued, “Simon has never sought honors.”

Gwyneth perceived the merest hint of tension in Cedric of Valmey and wondered whether Senlis’s comment was less for her benefit and rather more for Valmey’s. “You mean that he is modest,” she said.

“I mean that, too,” Senlis said, his eyes twinkling.

Gwyneth riposted, “I refuse to credit, sire, that as Simon of Beresford’s friend, you are suggesting he is unambitious.”

Senlis laughed. “I did not mean that, my lady!” he disclaimed instantly, stepping back and putting his hand over his heart.

Cedric of Valmey smiled at the good-natured raillery, but the smile did not reach his eyes. When he murmured his excuses, Senlis said affably, but with an undercurrent of challenge, “What, Valmey, you are leaving us?”

With equal affability and challenge, Valmey replied, “I shall return when I may have Gwyneth of Northumbria to myself.”

Gwyneth supposed that she was to feel flattered, but she did not. She had no doubt that Cedric of Valmey was a rat, and not just because of his sacking of Castle Norham. He was a handsome rat, but a rat all the same. She turned to Senlis. He was handsome, too. But he was not, she thought as she looked into his fine eyes, a rat. She felt a kind of relief in his presence that she had not experienced since coming to the Tower. Perhaps it was his blue eyes and blond hair, which made him seem so very familiar to her. For the second time that day, she thought how much easier her life would be if
he
had been the chosen bridegroom.

He extended his arm. She laid her fingertips lightly upon it. He invited her to stroll and she accepted prettily. He spoke easily of this and that. He regaled her with an inconsequential story or two. He sketched for her the foibles of those present in the hall and mapped their family ties to those who would be presently joining the evening’s festivities.

The context thus existed for Gwyneth to ask casually, “And Cedric of Valmey? He is not married?”

Senlis shook his head. “No, my lady.” He smiled charmingly. “Promised, however, I think.”

Gwyneth let the subject pass. “And to whom is that man married—Ah, I believe he is the Earl of Exeter?”

“Very good! You have a head for names, it seems. Exeter is married to Catherine of Kent, and I perceive,” Senlis said, with a glance at her, “that marriage is on your mind.”

She returned his look and admitted, “I suppose that it is.”

“It’s very understandable,” he replied, “but if you are determined to pursue the subject, I think you would find it far more interesting to ask about
my
marriage plans.”

Gwyneth entertained the rather attractive thought that Geoffrey of Senlis might be flirting with her. “Well, then, sire,” she said, deciding to oblige him, “what are your marriage plans?”

“I have none!” he answered. “Like Valmey, I am unmarried. Unlike Valmey, I am promised to no one.”

“Oh? You are, perhaps, too particular?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “too poor!”

“Some woman will take such a well-set-up man for preference.”

“It’s a lowering thought to be loved for one’s face.”

“You’d rather be loved for your land?”

Senlis cocked his head and looked down at her. “No,” he said slowly, “you are not at all simple.”

She glanced quickly at Senlis, then away, startled by this reminder of her initial, disastrous encounter with Simon of Beresford. She raised her eyes and was startled again, for suddenly Beresford stood in front of her. She felt a stabbing sensation somewhere in the region of her heart. With the part of her perceptions that were still functioning normally, she noted that he had been cleaned up. Someone had taken a razor to his face with not indifferent results and had tried to bring his hair into order. His tunic, though far from stylish, was clean and in good repair. For all these improvements, he looked not one whit less formidable.

Beresford’s slate glance had struck his friend and stopped. “Geoffrey,” he said pleasantly, but something in his tone sounded distinctly unpleasant to Gwyneth, “thank you for attending to my wife-to-be while I was speaking with Adela.”

“You are most welcome, Simon,” Senlis replied, with an elaborately polite gesture then threw out an appetizing morsel. “We were discussing, in fact, the very subject of marriage.”

Beresford did not bite. He had come to escort Gwyneth to supper and said as much. He took possession of her hand and began to lead her to the head table without so much as a by-your-leave. The maneuver was adroit, and Gwyneth had the notion that he must have relieved many an enemy of his weapon in a similar way. She also saw that his customary rudeness could work to his advantage, for there was nothing in his manner to make her think that he was angry or jealous or otherwise moved by her conversation with Senlis. He was simply being Simon of Beresford.

So why did she feel just the tiniest grain of guilt? There was no reason, of course, for she owed Beresford nothing. She decided that she was merely irritated at having her conversation with a charming, handsome man rudely interrupted. The self-righteous thought gave her courage.

They arrived at the head table and sat down, having exchanged the kind of pleasantries two people would say to one another as they sought their seats. Gwyneth acquainted herself with Walter Fortescue on her left. Beresford withdrew his knife from the leather sheath at his belt and laid it on the table between the trencher and cup that he and Gwyneth would share. They were honored this night to be placed at the table on the dais, which was under the central vault of the hall. They were not, of course, directly next to the king and his consort, but Gwyneth was seated close enough to receive a tasty morsel from Stephen’s knife, if he cared to extend one to her.

She turned back to Beresford at the same moment he turned toward her. It had seemed to her that he had been avoiding looking her way, but now he was staring fixedly at her.

Surprised by the intensity of his gaze, she thought it necessary to say something. “I will be visiting you in your home tomorrow, sire,” she said, imagining this to be an acceptable topic of conversation for the meal. “Adela is arranging for my escort.”

He did not say a word to this, but simply continued to stare at her a moment longer. Then he grunted and looked away. She assumed he was not terribly interested in her visit, but at least he had registered the information.

Then the royal sign was given to the servitors to begin the procession of dishes, the lamb first, and fish fresh from the sparkling waters of the Thames. The rest of the company sought their benches at the other tables formed in a U-shape around the room. The serving of the food necessitated some words being exchanged between Beresford and Gwyneth, for it was the gentleman’s role to choose the tender bits for his lady. He was attentive to her, but just ordinarily so, and the conversation they exchanged was equally ordinary.

When they had settled into the rhythm of the meal, Gwyneth’s gaze fell on the three weird women she had noticed earlier. Something prompted her to turn to Beresford and say impulsively, “I pray you, tell me about your sons.”

He had just skewered a bit of meat on his knife when she made her request. He nodded readily and invited, “What would you like to know about them?” He offered her the dainty bit from his knife.

Before accepting it, she said, “You may wish to begin by telling me their names and ages.”

Beresford obliged her. “Elias is fifteen, Laurence is thirteen, Daniel is ten, Benedict eight and Gilbert six.”

She had accepted the meat and was chewing as he spoke. When he was finished, Gwyneth pronounced the meat to be delicious, then said in some puzzlement, “Lady Chester told me you had three sons.”

“Why, no,” he corrected, “I have five.”

She swallowed and said mildly, “Lady Chester is, apparently, misinformed.”

His brow lowered, then cleared. “I have three sons by Roesia, my late wife,” he said. “Perhaps they were the only ones she was counting.” He added as a point of information, “Elias, Laurence and Daniel have long been in training. Laurence and Daniel are under the tutelage of Valentine, Roesia’s brother, while Elias serves already in Fortescue’s household. Benedict and Gilbert still live with me, although Benedict should be leaving soon.”

She had nearly choked. She was hardly shocked that a man would have natural children, only that he would acknowledge them at this particular time and in this particular setting. She felt it like a slap in the face then reconsidered. It was an adjustment for her, this man’s brute honesty that he applied equally to himself and to everyone else. After the feints and lies and dissemblings of Canute, she did not know how best to approach Simon of Beresford to protect herself from his power over her.

Right now, she did not need to protect herself from him, only to maintain conversation and a shred of dignity. Her best course at the moment, she decided, was simply to humor him. If the topic of his sons entertained him, entertain him she would. She calculated that Elias, his oldest son, must be a product of his coming-of-age. She inferred that Laurence and Daniel were two of the legitimate sons by Roesia and decided to take a chance at determining the third. “And Gilbert will also be joining Valentine’s household?” she asked.

Beresford confirmed that this was so, allowing Gwyneth to infer that eight-year-old Benedict was the second natural son.

When the topic of his sons had been rather fully explored, Gwyneth asked, “You have no daughters?”

He looked down at her and said flatly, “One was stillborn and the other died on the day after her birth.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” she managed.

“That is the way of the world,” he said without emotion.

Their eyes locked, and her heart beat faster. His utter indifference shocked her. It was at that moment that the king stood up from his chair. The main dishes had been served, and an appropriate point in the meal had come for announcements.

The king raised his cup to the hall and said, “I have the great pleasure to announce this evening the impending union of Gwyneth of Northumbria to Simon of Beresford.”

Cups were raised in response. Congratulatory comments were called out from the floor. Several rounds of toasts were offered. Enough heavy wine had been drunk for the comments to become suggestive, but conventionally so.

The king recaptured the initiative. He extolled the virtues of Simon of Beresford, which, he stated, were not necessarily seen but always felt, and contrasted Beresford’s invisible virtues to the highly visible ones of Gwyneth of Northumbria. Since this contrast was met with general approval, he went on in this style for some time then finally mentioned the Saint Barnabas Day tourney. After pausing for the raucous reaction to this long-awaited event to die down, he mentioned the difficulties of planning a wedding that might interfere with the tournament, not forgetting the feast of Trinity, which was almost upon them.

He came, at last, to his point and said, “We shall celebrate the marriage of Gwyneth of Northumbria to Simon of Beresford five days hence.”

Five days!
Gwyneth’s immediate thought was that her ploy of mentioning to Adela Beresford’s displeasure with the match had worked in reverse. Instead of making her reconsider the marriage—which Gwyneth had not truly thought she would do—she had pushed the wedding as far forward as she could. Gwyneth had to will herself not to look at the king’s consort, for she feared betraying herself with an accusatory look. Instead, she composed her features and turned toward her husband-to-be.

Beresford had swerved his head to her, evidently as dismayed as she was. At his openly uncomplimentary reaction to the imminence of their marriage, she feit a strong feminine pique overcome her own displeasure and her fear of him. She saw many horrible possibilities for her future in the Norman court unfold in her mind’s eye and thought that he might as well beat her in public now, for all the respect she would ever receive if it was clearly seen that he did not want her. She preferred a quick and bloody end to a slow and bloodless death from shame.

She did not flinch from the look in his eyes, but smiled at him agreeably. What she said was at great variance with her serenely beautiful expression, however.

“If you insult me now with a display of displeasure at this match,” she said so low that no one else could hear, “I will kill you, Simon of Beresford.”