Simon's Lady (8 page)

Beresford had no idea what she meant about him insulting her, but ignored it, for here at last came a turn in conversation to which he knew how to respond; and he was unexpectedly charmed by her expression of feminine blood lust. It sounded so different to him from Roesia’s whining and wheedling, designed not to challenge him with her strength but to irritate him with her weakness. By contrast, Gwyneth’s statement was strong and sure, and startling, coming as it did from so delicate a woman.

Although he was not well versed in courtly ways, he did know what to do. He was aware of her and of his audience and could play to both differently. Looking into her eyes, he took her slim hand and weighed it lightly in his palm for a moment, as if testing the balance of a finely wrought dagger. “Would you kill me with poison or a knife, I wonder,” he said for her ears only, “or would it be with your bare hands?”

These words of male challenge tasted strangely appetizing on his lips when said to a woman. Without giving her a chance to respond, he turned her hand over and put his lips to the white skin of her knuckles. Beresford’s gesture, seemingly more affectionate and respectful than it was graceful, brought hushed “oohs” and “aahs” of approval from the hall.

He released her hand and asked, “Shall I live, my lady?”

“For now,” she whispered back.

Next he reached for the horn of wine that sat between them and drank from it. When he handed it to her, he turned the cup so that the part of the rim that had touched his lips was toward her. She was left with no choice but to put her own lips where his had been and to drink from the cup. He felt the satisfaction of having maneuvered an opponent into a defensive position on the field and was momentarily pleased.

Scattered applause broke out. Along with shouts of congratulations and encouragement came friendly abuse, which he deflected with return comments of a similarly ribald nature. When the moment had passed, he looked down at Gwyneth and saw her lashes lowered and her cheeks tinged with pink. He could not determine whether she was angry, embarrassed, chastened, vexed or merely warm from the wine. When she did not counter him challenge for challenge, it seemed to him that she had gone into a retreat that he did not know how to flush, and his confidence in the turn in conversation ebbed. He felt himself floundering again, as he had moments before when she had spoken to him about his children and he had not known what to say to her, beyond the obvious and uninteresting.

The evening had begun badly and was getting worse. Before supper, he had been drawn aside by Adela and given instructions that had puzzled him as much as they had angered him. She had told him that he was not to indicate again to Gwyneth that he did not desire the match, and he was annoyed when she rejected his denial that he had said anything of the kind. To his further irritation, Adela had suggested topics suitable for discussion during the meal, having to do with such inscrutable activities as needlework and household management. However, he had never known Adela herself, or Queen Mathilda before her, to speak of needlework, and so he decided that she had made an incomprehensible attempt at humor.

Thus, even before the meal, he had already been puzzled, angered and irritated. The moment he had sat down next to Gwyneth and really looked at her, he had been struck dumb and had not had the faintest idea what she said to him, thereby aggravating his puzzlement, anger and irritation. To these unsociable emotions was added an increasing clumsiness as he tried to keep in mind Senlis’s earlier recommendation of “Subtlety!” He had realized, once the meal was underway, that he did not have any idea about what Senlis meant. And thinking of Senlis, particularly of him strolling so companionably with Gwyneth before the meal, Beresford was gripped by a violence he could not deny, but was not yet fully prepared to understand.

He was at a loss for a few moments after the applause and congratulations and friendly abuse ended. He looked out over the hall, feeling strange and unpleasant emotions crawl around inside him, until by chance his eyes fastened on the three weird women who had formed themselves into a circle in a far corner.

He turned to the beautiful, confusing creature next to him. “So I am safe from your wrath for now,” he said, and asked idly, “but am I safe from the evil spells of the three crones?”

Gwyneth looked up at him in surprise, and then followed the direction of his gaze. “Yes,” she said slowly, “for I think that you are more protected than threatened by the Norns.”

He frowned. “The Norns?”

“That is what the Danes would call them,” she said, shifting her eyes back to the women. “I do not know the word in Norman, or whether such a word exists.”

Interested, he demanded, “Who—or what—are the Norns?”

She raised her eyes to him, and he allowed his gaze to be drawn into her violet pools. “They are the wise women who tend the world tree, Yggdrasil, which, according to Norse legend,” she said, “holds our world in place. The Norns also decide the destinies of all creatures, mortals and gods alike.”

“Gods?” he scoffed, with an edge of reprimand in his voice at her blasphemy.

She lowered her eyes modestly and said, “I hope that I am a good Christian, and I assure you that the Northumbrians came to the true religion long ago. However, before the one Christian God was made known to us, there were other gods that ruled heaven and earth, and other creatures, too, that inhabited it.”

“Other creatures?”

“Elves and dwarves and such.”

He waved dismissively. “And the gods?”

“There was Odin,” she said, “who created the earth and sky.”

He shook his head. “The Father of the Trinity was the creator of the universe.”

“Yes, of course,” she acknowledged, “but Odin was different, for he was not part of a trinity. He was the father of all other gods, and he was married to the goddess Frigg.” She seemed to know to fill the silence, and he was pleased to permit her to. “Odin slew a giant and made the earth from his flesh,” she went on, “the mountains and rocks from his bones and teeth and the rivers and seas from his blood. He made the dome of the sky from the giant’s skull and tossed his brains in the air as clouds. He then fashioned the first man from an ash root and named him Ask and took an elm root for his wife, Embla.” She added, “Odin was an Aesir, or warrior god.”

He looked away from her then. “A warrior god,” he repeated, considering. Although he was in no danger of believing a pagan account of the world, he thought Odin’s work a reasonable way to begin a universe. He stretched out his hand to fiddle with the cup of wine, turning it this way and that, keeping his eyes fixed on the play of light on the ruby liquid. His curiosity caught, he asked, “Were there other warrior gods in addition to Odin?”

“Oh, many!” she assured him. “Perhaps the most interesting to you would be Thor, the thunder god, who was Odin’s eldest son. He was huge, even for a god, and incredibly strong. He had wild hair and a beard, and a temper to match. His main weapon was a hammer, and he had a belt that doubled his strength when he buckled it on and iron gauntlets that allowed him to grasp any weapon.”

He was rather entertained by her account of this Thor. He slanted his eyes to Gwyneth. Her cheeks, he noted, had faded to their customary immaculate ivory. He could not interpret her calm any better than he could her flush. He knew only that he wished to hear more.

“Thor sounds a fearsome fellow,” he commented.

“In a way, but he was also trusting and good-natured and the most popular of the gods,” she replied. “His symbol was the oak tree.”

It made sense to him. He nodded approvingly.

“The warrior gods lived in a great hall called Valhalla,” she continued, “the walls of which were made of golden spears and the roof of golden shields. Some of the earthly warriors slain in battle were chosen to join Odin in Valhalla, where they would feast and make merry every evening.”

“But so many men are slain in battle,” he pointed out, still fiddling with his cup as he listened. “How did Odin choose among them?”

“Only the bravest were chosen, but Odin did not select them. That was the work of the Valkyries, the female warriors—”

His eyes cut to hers, his brows raised.

“Yes, female warriors,” she repeated, with the hint of a challenge.

His eyes rested on her a moment longer. He was having difficulty imagining a female warrior who was not beautifully fair and deceptively delicate. With cautious interest, he asked, “What were they like, the Valkyries?”

“They were magnificently strong,” she told him, “and swooped over battlefields on horseback, directing the fighting. They had frightening names like Raging Warrior and Shrieking and Shaker. They chose only the bravest heroes for Valhalla, as I have said, and it was common for a man chosen to die to see a Valkyrie just before the fatal blow.”

He scanned in mental review the decisive moments of battles he had fought and noted with satisfaction that he had never seen a Valkyrie. He was as loyal to his God as he was to his king, but when it came to beliefs that governed his warrior’s life, he was tolerantly eclectic. Since he admired the Norse fighting ethic, which he knew he himself had inherited, he thought their beliefs highly worthy of consideration. As much as the prospect of Valhalla appealed to him, he decided to make every effort in future to elude the grasp of a Valkyrie, should ever he see one coming toward him on the battlefield.

He grunted meditatively and took a sip of wine. Gwyneth interpreted that as a sign to continue. “The Valkyries also worked as Odin’s servants,” she said, “and served food and drink to the warriors in Valhalla, who returned every evening after a day’s adventure.”

He grunted again, and Gwyneth obliged him by beginning to recount heroic deeds of the Norse gods. As she told him of monsters and magic horses and magic rings, he relaxed on the bench and was lulled by the lilt of her low voice. He listened, caught in the rhythm of her hesitations as she searched for a word in Norman. He listened, hardly conscious of the fact that his gaze had fallen on her right hand, resting on the table next to him.

His ears were full of the death of Odin’s son and of the tricks played by Odin’s blood brother, Loki, the mischievous giant god. His eyes traced the graceful crook of each of her long, white fingers to the curve of their pretty nails, and followed the outline of the back of her hand to her slim wrist, over which fell the soft folds of the finely braided sleeve of her kirtle. It was an exquisite hand, and he decided that the seductively morbid emotions it evoked in him as he contemplated it must be due to the dark and compelling stories she was telling.

She had turned to the tale of the god Tyr, the bravest and most honorable of the warrior gods, the one with the most integrity. Beresford listened in horror to the story of how Tyr lost his hand, and murmured with a fellow feeling of relief over the fact that it had been the left hand lost, not the right.

After a moment, Gwyneth said, “Tyr’s wife was glad, too, that he could still fight.”

“Tyr’s wife?” he queried. He frowned into his wine. “Was she a Valkyrie?”

She laughed gently. “No, she was not a warrior, but from a different race of gods, thus making her a … foreigner to Valhalla. She was not afraid of violence, but did not approve of it. She was not physically strong, but her understanding was great.”

“Why did he marry her?”

“The marriage was arranged by Odin to bring a peaceful element to Valhalla, and he arranged the marriage with one condition: that Tyr was never to raise a hand against her or harm her in any way.” She paused. “Or else.”

He met her gaze. “Or else what?”

“Or else Odin would have the Norns withdraw their protection from him.”

“Did Tyr lose his hand because he did not treat his wife well?”

She smiled. “No, he lost it in an act of great courage, and because of his bravery, the Norns agreed thereafter to protect him. Unless, of course, he did not treat his wife well.”

“And what happened to him?”

Her smile deepened. “Why, nothing. Tyr always treated her well, and the Norns continued to protect him.”

It was a smile she had given him—a very lovely smile, but just a smile, nothing more. Still he felt the effect of it like a deep wound in his breast and had the vague notion that he had been tricked into lowering his sword and shield to receive the thrust of a slender lance. He was momentarily stunned and reinforced himself with a sip of wine. He did not like what had just happened to him, and he would take care that it did not happen again.

He mentally lowered his visor against her. Only then did he dare look at her again. “It is a fascinating tale you tell, my lady,” he said. He glanced over to the corner, now empty, where the three weird women had stood. “The crones are gone,” he said by way of closing the subject, “and so are the Norse gods.” As his gaze traveled over the hall, he saw Cedric of Valmey, who had caught him before the meal and requested a meeting. He added, “There is someone I must see now.”

So saying, he rose from the bench without further excusing himself. As he left her, he had the fanciful thought that he should be ready to fend off a Valkyrie. He looked furtively about him, but saw no signs of warrior women. However, just at the limit of his vision, he perceived a very different image that made no sense to him. It seemed to be a plump baby boy who had wings and could fly. He easily banished this absurd image and continued to stride across the hall toward Valmey, feeling increasingly better the further he was from the table.

Gwyneth watched him walk away. She wasted no time being offended by his abrupt withdrawal. She was rather more interested in evaluating the effect of the risk she had taken by inventing a wife for Tyr—a weak and peaceable wife, no less. Simon of Beresford was blunt, not stupid, and he had not missed her point. She deemed it counterproductive to be overly obvious, and had decided not to declare that Tyr was supposed to be a faithful husband as well as a gentle one. If she had to choose one indignity to protect herself from, it would be from a husband who beat her. She could more easily accept a husband’s roving eye and any natural children that might result, which Beresford seemed to produce with ease.