Almost Innocent (4 page)

They climbed up, and the wind was certainly rough and needle-sharp, but Magdalen seemed unaware of the cold in her heavy velvet dress and wool underdress. She
ran to the parapet, leaning over to look toward the dark forest, visible in the winter gloom only as a lowering shape stretching to the horizon.

“There has not been a raid for nigh on three months,” she said, and de Gervais was certain he could detect a hint of regret in her voice.

“You sound wistful,” he observed, strolling to a stone bench carved into the parapet.

She responded with the semblance of a grin. “At least it is exciting when it happens.”

This was not going to be as awkward as he had feared, de Gervais reflected, if it was excitement she craved. Sitting down, he patted the bench beside him in invitation.

Magdalen regarded the hard stone with disfavor. “I was whipped this past hour.”

“Ah.” Comprehending, he stood up again and resumed his slow pacing. “For what offense?”

Magdalen hesitated. Would this lord be as repulsed by her actions as her father and aunt were? She found that she did not want to disgust him, yet some perverse prod compelled her to test him. “Visiting with mad Jennet,” she said boldly. “And getting a spell from her.”

“A spell to do what?” He sounded neither surprised nor disgusted, interested rather.

“To make something exciting happen,” she replied. There was silence for a minute, and, encouraged, she continued with sudden low fierceness, “How can one be happy when there is nothing to do except study the Psalter with Father Clement, who will never be pleased and always makes bad report of me to my father, or sit with my aunt and sew seams? There is no one to play with, no one to talk with. Sometimes my father says I may accompany him hunting or hawking, but then I offend in some way and I am not permitted to go.” There was an aching loneliness in her voice. “I like to dance and to sing and to play. I wish to ride and shoot with a
bow and arrow and hunt with a hawk, but there is no one to do these things with except the pages, and that is not permitted. It is so cold and dark and drear in this place, and I do not seem to belong to it,” she finished on a note of despairing bewilderment.

When provision had been made for the rearing of this child, no one had given thought to the loneliness she would experience in the wild border land, her only companions a confirmed spinster and a childless widower in his middle years. The concern had simply been for secrecy and the safety of anonymity. She must be given the care necessary to ensure her growth to responsible womanhood, if God willed such growth, but happiness was not adjudged a necessary or even desirable condition of childhood. Guy de Gervais tapped his gloved hands together in front of his mouth, thinking.

He was frowning deeply, staring at the little girl who had fallen silent and looked anxious, as if she had revealed something forbidden. Wisps of brown hair strayed from the cap onto a broad brow; the gray eyes, lashed long and dark, were set wide beneath well-defined eyebrows. Her cheekbones were high, the chin pointed with a deep cleft giving her face a perfect heart shape. Her mouth was her father’s, too wide for traditional beauty in a maid, but de Gervais had not yet seen her smile. Her nose was small and well shaped, her ears lying flat against her head. De Gervais had once seen a portrait of her mother—a portrait kept in the utmost secrecy in the duke’s inner chamber. The similarity was striking, but Isolde de Beauregard had set a land aflame with her beauty and her venom. It was hard to imagine this fierce yet exuberant little girl ever developing the devious skills and knowledge of beauty’s power to—

“I did not mean to speak immoderately, sir.” The anxious words broke into his reverie. “You will not tell my father that I did so?”

He shook his head, smiling. “Nay, I would not
dream of it. Besides, I asked you a question, and you answered in truth. There is no fault in that.”

She sighed with relief and turned back to the parapet. “What is it you wished to talk to me about, sir?”

“How would you like to journey to London with me?” He saw little point in prevaricating.

She spun round to stare at him in astonishment. “For what purpose, sir?”

“Why, to be wed.”

“To
you?”

“Nay, not to me.” He laughed at the absurdity. “To my nephew who is in my wardship.”

Magdalen continued to stare at him. It was not as if the idea of marriage was a novel one. She knew that by twelve years of age she would be considered marriageable, just as she knew that her father would choose her bridegroom for what benefits of alliance, power, land, or money would accrue therefrom. Marriage was the woof and warp of diplomacy, an incident in the system of barter and allegiance among families and nations, and it did not occur to her to question the decision that had been made for her. The Lords Marcher were powerful barons, vassals of the king and of no other, so she could expect the match made for her to be an important one. But there was something abrupt and overhasty about its presentation. Why must it bring seven knights to her father’s castle? Why was he not telling her of his decision, but leaving the matter to this lord? Oh, she liked the lord and felt a trust for him, but something did not sit aright, and Magdalen was quick to nose out matters that did not sit aright.

“Well, what say you?” De Gervais leaned against the parapet, watching her carefully.

“Why is your nephew not with you? Is it that he is ill favored, crookbacked, walleyed?”

De Gervais laughed. “Nay, not so. You will find him well favored enough. But this is a long journey and
takes a good week on each side. He has duties and training to attend to. I am here in his stead and will stand proxy for the betrothal, which will take place before you leave this house. Now, what say you?”

“How is he called?”

De Gervais stroked his chin. He was clearly going to receive no answer until she had asked her own questions and been satisfied, for all that her answer could only be of one kind.

“Edmund de Bresse. His sire, my half brother, was the Sieur Jean de Bresse, a liege lord of Picardy; his mother the daughter of the Duke de Guise.”

“But how is he in your wardship?”

“He and his mother were taken hostage some four years past, after the death in battle of my brother. The lady died soon after, and the child was placed in my care.”

Magdalen chewed her bottom lip. There were interesting puzzles there. Why was this lord a vassal of the English king, when his half brother’s family was clearly for France? And why was her father desirous of forming an alliance with one of the great seigneural families of France? He took no active part in this war that had been dragging on between the two lands these last thirty years, being far too busy defending the Welsh border for his king. But she knew nothing of politics. The reasons for the choice could not concern her, and she returned to questions that were of much more moment.

“How many summers has he?”

“Fourteen.”

“Of what character is he?”

“One you may find sympathetic. He is not fond of his lessons and has been often whipped for their neglect.” He smiled at her. “He is more at ease with his companions in sport, tilting, archery, hawking, hunting. But he is not averse to dancing, or to music.”

“He is a squire?”

“Aye, in my household, and will receive his spurs in a twelvemonth.”

“But if the war continues, will he then fight for England or for France?” She was frowning in puzzlement, the problem of such divided loyalties striking her as insurmountable.

“Such weighty issues are not for the minds of maids,” Guy de Gervais said, deciding it was time to put an end to the catechism which began to grow uncomfortably pointful. “Come now, how do you answer
my
question? If you can still remember it after such an inquisition as you have subjected me to.”

She looked stricken at the note of sharpness, as if her trust in him had in somewise been misplaced. “If my questions were impertinent, my lord, I ask your pardon.” Her voice was stiff to disguise her hurt.

“They were not, just overly numerous,” he replied. “But they were fair questions. Now, must I ask you again for your answer.”

“Am I to go alone?”

Lord de Gervais sighed. “The Lady Elinor and your own maids will accompany you, and Lady Elinor will remain until it is seen that you are well established in the care of my lady wife.”

He would have a wife, of course, although Magdalen strangely found herself rather wishing he had not. “And . . . and my father?” she continued. “But of course he cannot leave the king’s defense.” She answered her own question. “He will remain here.”

“Lord Bellair will remain here,” he replied, quietly deliberate in his choice of words. The child’s father would be present at her wedding.

“When must we leave?”

“Is that my answer?”

Magdalen looked out from the battlements, over the bleak, frowning country. She heard the tediously familiar sounds of fortress life rising from the courts beneath.
Her father must come to London sometimes to do homage to his liege lord, the king. And she was tired unto death of this dreary place . . . and a maid must be wed, after all. What would it be like to see London? To live there? She had never left her home before. Her prospective husband sounded pleasant enough . . . and a maid must be wed, after all.

She turned a pair of sparkling eyes upon him and a radiant smile, the first he had seen. “I will be ready to go with you, my lord, whenever you wish.”

He laughed. The smile was delightfully infectious. “Then let us rejoin the company. The betrothal will take place this evening after vespers.”

A thought struck her as she followed him back down to the court. “Edmund de Bresse, sir—what does he know of me?”

“Why, that you are comely, wellborn, well dowered,” he responded easily. “He needs to know no more.”

“But how could you know I was comely if you had not seen me? I might be most dreadfully pocked, or crooked of limb, or squint-eyed, or—”

“But you are none of these things,” he rejoined. “And I was told so by the Lord Bellair in a letter some months past. These matters are not decided in haste.”

“It is strange it was never mentioned to me before,” she mused, prancing down the stairs at his side. “And I consider it most unjust that I should be whipped on the day of my betrothal. Had I known you were to come, I would have had no need to visit mad Jennet for a spell to make something happen.”

Lord de Gervais fortunately found the logic impeccable. He managed to murmur a soothing agreement of the injustice while avoiding any discussion of the reasons why she had not been forewarned of the plans made for her.

All was bustle in the great hall when they returned as preparations were made for the feast in honor of the
visitors. Lady Elinor left her supervision of the setting of the high table when she saw them and hurried down the hall.

“Magdalen, you must go and sit quietly in my parlor. You are to dine in the hall this day, but until you are summoned I would have you keep well out of trouble. My lord, I will have you conducted to the guest chambers. My brother will await you in the south turret when you have refreshed yourself.”

“Oh, but I will conduct my lord to his chamber,” Magdalen said eagerly, slipping her hand into the enormous one beside her. “I will fetch rosemary from the pleasaunce to lay upon his pillow.”

Lady Elinor blinked in some startlement and Guy de Gervais laughed. “I’faith, my lady, I would be honored if you would permit her to do so. Such tender consideration for a guest can only be commended.”

“Indeed, sir, I believe you are right,” Lady Elinor said. “But ’tis somewhat unusual. However, one must not stifle good intention. Go then, niece, but afterward you must go directly to my parlor.”

B
ELLAIR
C
ASTLE MIGHT
be designed for defense, not domesticity, but Lord de Gervais could find no fault with the accommodations prepared for him. The sheets to the bed were of finest linen, daintily stitched by the lady of the house and her women. The hangings were thick and draught-proof. Soft skins lay upon the floor, and a fire roared in the chimney. His page was already awaiting him with lavender-scented water and fresh garments.

De Gervais watched with amusement as his small companion proceeded to take inventory of the chamber, for all the world like an accomplished chatelaine. “It lacks but the rosemary,” she declared. “I will fetch it directly.” She ran off, and the page came forward instantly to help him divest himself of the great sword-belt, the surcote, and the chainmail beneath.

He was in the process of removing the padded leather gambeson beneath the mailshirt when the door opened again without ceremony and the child reappeared, sprigs of rosemary in her hand. These she laid with some care to artistry upon his pillow and turned to smile at him.

“There, that is well done, do you not think?”

De Gervais handed the heavy tunic to his page and stretched mightily in his soft linen shirt with the fine drawn openwork set by his wife at neck and wristbands. “It is well done indeed,
damoiselle
, and I thank you for your kindness.” The response was in the nature of a dismissal, and he was somewhat disconcerted when she perched on a high stool beside the fire, still bathing him in that radiant smile.

“I will sit and talk with you while you dress. Then I can show you to the south turret to my father’s room.”

“And how will you explain your truancy when your aunt goes to the parlor and finds you absent?” He took the linen cloth his page had soaked in the warm, scented water and laid it over his face, taking pleasure in the luxurious caress easing into his travel-worn skin.

“It is customary for the daughter of the house to assist a knightly guest with his armor,” she said innocently, swinging her legs.

“I do not think such sophistry either should or would save you from the consequences of further disobedience,” he observed, putting his arms into the full sleeves of a particolored tunic of green and gold cloth.

“But if you asked me to remain—”

“But I have not.” He fastened the large gold buttons of the knee-length tunic. “Hand me my belt, Edgar.” The heavy, emerald-studded belt with its gold buckle was fastened at his hip.