Yearning Heart (18 page)
“We go to find substance to fill our bellies,” Gerald murmured in her ear. “Hungry?”
“Yes,” Rebecca said. In truth, she was not, but to use her hands for holding food was better than twisting them together in anguish. She followed Gerald through the great hall where they were joined by Margaret and Hugo.
“Do not eat as though thou hast not eaten in weeks, Gerald,” Margaret said. “'Tis not good to fill thou belly before tumbling in front of the queen.”
Gerald's jaw poked out filled with delights the likes of which he could not always have. Roasts, pans of rich gravies, breads and pastries replaced his usual fare of beans and mayhap a rabbit turned on a tree-branch spit—should they be lucky enough that Rebecca would bring one down with her bow and arrow.
“Aye, Margaret,” Gerald said after ridding his mouth of its tasty burden. “Mayhap the chance will not come again, and I must keep my strength, eh?”
Across the table, Rebecca laughed at the two of them as they argued pleasantly. She eyed the feast spread out on table after table and wondered how much more in taxes Stephen would collect from the peasants to pay for such lavish banquets.
Jongleurs, troubadours, mummers all gathered on the grounds assigned to pitch their tents. A chill wind whipped the flaps and spits of snow cut her face when Rebecca stepped outside without a wimple to cover her head. Picking her way to Margaret's tent, she glanced upward and shivered. A pitch-black night, which threatened to turn even worse before morning.
“It is good the festivities will be in the royal great room, Rebecca,” Margaret said, stirring a thick stew in a black kettle. “The chill is indeed bitter.”
Rebecca was not cold. She had other worries.
“Will we be near the queen as we sing, Margaret?”
“What is this? Thou art worried?” Margaret laughed. “Fear not, Rebecca. Thou hast a lovely voice, and Queen Eleanor will be entranced.”
It was not the queen Rebecca thought of. She huddled near the open fire, her arms wrapped beneath the black cloak Margaret loaned her.
“Art thinking of the father of the child?”
Rebecca's heart quickened. “Dost show?”
“Aye, but do not cry over that which is done, Little One. We cannot always love the one we should.”
“I must confess that the truth is I am married. My husband was the father of my child. He did not want the child. Nor me. That is why I left.”
Margaret stopped stirring and looked at her.
“You love him?”
“Yes.”
“If you love him, Cherie, find him and tell him so.”
“To be laughed at? Nay, Margaret, I want to be rid of him, as he wants to be rid of me. It is better so.”
Margaret tended the stew, lines drawing between her eyes in thought. “The great lessener of grief is hope, Rebecca.”
“I have waited years for naught. There is grief without hope. There is something wrong with me that I am not loved. Papa. Peter. My husband. No one has loved me save my brother Richard.”
She sighed and closed her eyes.
“To see him once in two years is not enough to keep even hope alive.” She held out her hands to the fire. “Hast been in love, Margaret?”
“Many times.”
“How so? Love is for once only.”
“You are an innocent. Love of the heart is only in the written pages by men who dream.”
“You know of books?”
“Ah, Rebecca, I was once in school but what can a woman's mind do to improve her lot? I am happier on the road with Hugo.” Margaret laughed. “And we eat well.”
Chapter Twelve
From the great hall and the revelers, Stephen followed King Henry into the room isolated so as to give them privacy. For talk of taxes, courts, separation of the church from the kingdom, the queen, the royal couple's children, and Sir Thomas Becket.
Stephen's arrival came after the introduction of the minstrels and troubadours the queen so enjoyed, and the king, bored by the festivities, dragged Stephen away from the crowds.
Stephen did not care. His mind was not on royal business. He was remembering, instead, the Christmas he had brought Rebecca to London with him, her childish delight in everything they did, the heat of her young body when he made love to her. Memories haunted him and, instead of thinking of Mary's loss as before, he found Rebecca constantly on his mind and in his heart.
The force of his memories staggered him. Indeed, there were times, such as these, when he thought his mind completely gone with the disappearance of his wife.
Stephen faced the king without enthusiasm, recognizing his reddened countenance as the mark of the royal bad temper.
“We are recalling the students home from France, Stephen. The presence of Sir Thomas there is hindering my influence.”
“Did you not make peace with Sir Thomas when you met in the summer, Your Highness?” Stephen knew strained feelings even now built daily between the two. Neither stubborn man would yield.
The king ran freckled fingers through thinning red hair.
“Aye, ‘tis supposedly so, but ‘tis an uneasy peace. I do not trust Sir Thomas.” He grunted and swung beefy arms about. “Nor does he trust me. By God's eye, I could wish I'd never let love for that scoundrel visit such a bad decision on me. My subjects even now object to paying what must be collected in order to support their kingdom. Sir Thomas is the cause of much unrest and brazenly embarrasses the papacy by absolute insistence on property rights of the church while the pope seeks an amiable compromise.”
King Henry's face turned an ugly red, contrasting with fading red of his hair.
“What sluggish knaves I have brought up in my kingdom! Is there not one who will rid me of this turbulent priest?”
Stephen did not contradict the king, nor did he remind Henry how many times he had been warned of the folly of appointing his friend as archbishop. The king did not wish to hear such things.
“Mayhap a lowering of public taxes would bring sympathy from your subjects, my lord,” Stephen said into the silence. “In my travels of late there is a reluctance to give freely as before. It is thought less royal luxuries would require less taxing of the peasants.”
“Peasants do not know the costs of running a kingdom. It is of great import that they give full support.”
Stephen leaned forward.
“Insurance and ransom monies could be greatly reduced, Your Highness, if you and the queen will but remain at castle instead of journeying to unfriendly territory. Mayhap...”
He was beyond his position, Stephen knew, in speaking thusly, a direct chastisement of the king.
The king did not take offense but shook his head.
“Even now the queen prepares to journey to Poitiers. That is why her troubadours and minstrels and silly clowns are tumbling around the castle grounds now instead of the usual Christmas foolishness. So she can be gone once more. You cannot keep her at home even the Yuletide season for families to enjoy together.” He pounded one fist into the other. “It is your duty to see that the taxes are collected from royal subjects.”
Stephen bowed his head, too tired to argue, knowing it useless.
The king stared at the man in front of him.
“There has been no word of Lady Rebecca?”
“None, your majesty.”
Stephen blocked out the sudden pain that accompanied questions of Rebecca. He did not share his sorrow with others—especially did he not wish to burden the king who had enough troubles of his own.
“You think her kidnapped?”
“There has been no ransom demand, your majesty.”
In these troubling times of kidnappings and violent attacks by rogues and highwaymen, almost certainly someone would have demanded money for Rebecca. If she were still alive.
Stephen shuddered.
“Ah.” The king frowned at his pudgy hands. “Perhaps another suitor took her?”
“There was not another man in her company, Sire.”
Stephen had wondered the same in his unhappy rages following Rebecca's departure, but he could think of no acquaintance who would have taken her. No one he knew disappeared at the same time as Rebecca. She had vanished, leaving him with no one to blame or on which to vent his anger. Save himself.
King Henry sighed.
“Go to the celebration, Stephen. Mayhap a young beauty awaits your request to bed her.”
“Sire.”
Stephen bowed low and left the king. He had no intention of searching for another woman. Had he not enough trouble without adding feminine wiles to them? Even with no woman in his bed since Rebecca, he did not hunger for such.
Tired and feeling anger again after its brief absence, Stephen sought a servant with a tray of bread and meat. He sat at a long table near the end of the great hall, watching the cavorting of the jongleurs as he chewed on his first solid substance of the day.
Queen Eleanor loved minstrels and troubadours and often housed them in royal chambers during festivities of Christmas while they performed for her. For this group, a special courtyard had been prepared where tents were assembled because it was October and the weather not overly severe. Too, the royal suites were being cleaned and prepared for the Queen's absence.
Stephen watched as a tall couple danced to music supplied by someone playing a harp and the thin accompaniment of a sad wailing flute.
Behind the couple came the jongleur, tossing balls and colorful articles into the air, bounding to catch them, somersaulting and coming upright to grab swords appearing above him. The merry crowds cheered as the next minstrel appeared.
Stephen remembered this one. A small figure in sequined gold, curtsying before the queen in the anteroom before his meeting with the king. He watched with interest as the dancer ran gracefully around the jongleur, dodging his outstretched hands, tumbling feet over head, to escape capture.
Finally, she missed a tumble and ended up as prisoner in the jongleur's arms. In pantomime, she pleaded for release, but to no avail.
“You will sing for me, my pretty,” the voice behind the jongleur mask commanded.
“Thou must release me ere I sing, kind sir,” the soft voice answered.
Stephen leaned forward, frowning. He had heard the voice before this time. Ah, yes, when she gave the queen her greetings. He listened as the lilting notes rang into the quiet hall.
Rebecca had no wish to sing a romantic ballad. Queen Eleanor, she knew from court gossip, was unhappy. She had seen the king's wandering eye, too. She would sing something to cheer the queen during this unscheduled appearance of the minstrels. There was one song she thought might be the one to help.
She backed away from Hugo and curtsied toward the throne, then sang a comical verse, accompanying her words with pantomime.
“Take a look and you will see
What betakes a bite of me.”
Rebecca pulled up the full material of her jongleur suit, showing a tiny bit of her leg. There was a murmur of laughter at this show of bawdiness.
“So what do I do? I flee the flea.”
Rebecca whirled and picked up a braided rug from beneath her feet.
“But in the warmth he hath dug
To wrap up in the woolen rug.
To rid him of his powerful bite
I'll smother him to death tonight!”
She flapped the rug, then rolled it into a tight ball and sat on it.
The crowd went wild as Rebecca cavorted around Hugo's dignified figure. Stephen looked at Eleanor to see her applauding, a look of delight on her royal countenance. His eyes sought out the small minstrel once more, but she had disappeared.
Finished her part in the evening's entertainment, Rebecca slipped from Hugo's hands, curtsied in four directions, and bowed her way to the edge of the crowd. Familiar nausea filled her stomach.
Stephen was seated at a table at the back of the large hall, his eyes fastened on the performers.
Beloved Stephen. His shaggy blond head was held straight, the darker beard neatly trimmed against the chainse of black. Stephen was one of few men who could wear black well. Rebecca had always known this, but tonight, his face was even more eloquently handsome. Wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands resting on his thighs. He had not changed.
Did she expect him to change? Did she think he would mourn her? That he would sorrow and pine away for a plain child bride who could not even carry his seed till birth? Had he found another wife? Did he end their marriage and find another to warm his bed? Or did he satisfy his body with Malvina?
Chilling desolation settled against her spine, and Rebecca straightened. Inclining her head slightly toward the royal audience, she left the stage. As she turned away, her eyes strayed across the crowds to the door where Stephen had escorted her from the dance that faraway Christmas, up the stairs to the room set aside for them in the castle.
She stumbled, righted herself, and walked on.
“What sayst thou, Rebecca? Art ill?”
Hugo questioned her because he had seen her steps falter as they left the royal presence.
“Nay, ‘tis only that I bowed too quickly and was dizzy. It has passed.”
“The queen was entranced, Rebecca. Come, let us celebrate as well.” He took Rebecca's hand. It was cold and damp.
* * * *
Stephen took the queen's hand and bowed over it.
“My lady, you grow lovelier with each passing year.”
Eleanor laughed.
“Ah, Stephen, my very favorite subject. I adore flattery though I recognize it as such.”
Stephen smiled. Eleanor is lovely, he was thinking. Having six children and King Henry as husband is a heavy cross to bear, and she bears it well.
“ ‘Tis not flattery, Your Highness, but the truth.”
The queen motioned him to sit on her right and, gratefully, Stephen rested.
“Did you enjoy the performance?”
“Aye. They are not the same as last year's minstrels. Who is the small one with the delightful voice?”
“The troupe is lately from France by way of St. David's,” the queen said. “The leader is Hugo Benet, but I have not heard the one in gold ere this time.” Lively gray eyes watched Stephen, and the queen admitted a small twinge of jealousy of her husband's reeve. She changed the subject.
