Almost Innocent (5 page)

The page was grinning in open amusement, and disconsolately Magdalen slipped from the stool. “When I am wed,” she announced, “I shall go where I please.”

“When you are wed,” Guy de Gervais pronounced with great deliberation, since it seemed to be time to straighten matters out, “you will be lodged beneath my roof until you are both old enough to set up your own establishment. You will not find the discipline in my household any easier than it is here . . . as Edgar will tell you.”

The page’s grin widened. “Indeed not, my lord. And the Lady Gwendoline can be most severe on occasion.”

Magdalen looked suspiciously between them, trying to decide if they were teasing her. Then she heard her name called from the passage outside. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, ’tis my lady aunt. I will hide in the clothes press.”

“Indeed you will not.” The lord had joined his page in laughter now. He strode to the door, flinging it wide. “Do you look for Magdalen, my lady? She had just returned with the rosemary, and I begged her to bear me company for a few minutes more.” He beckoned her forward.

Magdalen fell in love with the Lord de Gervais at that moment. She stepped up beside him. “I was just going to the parlor, madam. But who is to escort my lord to the south turret?”

“Why, Giles, to be sure,” Lady Elinor said, indicating the Lord Bellair’s page, who stood waiting outside the guest chamber. “Hurry along now, child. You must not weary our guests with your chatter.”

Lord de Gervais smilingly watched the small figure trail off toward the circular stairs leading down to the family quarters on the second floor of the donjon. If Edmund could be persuaded to devote some part of his widely scattered attentions to his bride, they might deal in companionship extremely well. At all events, he was not concerned about this strangeness Lord Bellair sensed in her. The Lord Marcher was not accustomed to children, but Guy de Gervais was. Although his own
marriage was childless, he had in his wardship, besides his nephew, two cousins and his young half brothers and sisters, the progeny of his mother’s third and final marriage. He believed he could detect in Isolde de Beauregard’s daughter no more than a nature ill-suited to restraint—and that, it was to be assumed, she had inherited from her dam, if not from her sire. It was, after all, a defining characteristic of the Plantagenets.

Ten minutes later, attired in his green and gold tunic over emerald-green hose, his marten-trimmed surcote and similarly lined velvet mantle, he followed the lad Giles to a round chamber in the south turret. It was a businesslike room, furnished simply with an oak table and several chairs, the floor bare except for one skin before the hearth. Candles provided bright illumination over the stack of parchments lying on the table. It was Lord Bellair’s administrative office, and his secretary sat hunched over the papers on the table, his quill pen scratching busily.

“How did your discussion with Magdalen fare?” Bellair set a chair for his guest and instructed Giles to pour wine.

De Gervais waited until the page had been dismissed before replying. “Without difficulty. She was curious about many things, but in no wise reluctant.”

“I trust her curiosity was tempered with courtesy,” said Lord Bellair dryly.

De Gervais smiled. “You need have no fears on that score. Master Secretary is gathering together the necessary documents, I see.”

“The original document, placing the babe in my charge until such time as the duke would claim her, is here. Master Cullum is drawing up the necessary release of that charge, naming you as my successor in the matter. It will be witnessed under seal.”

De Gervais nodded. He could well understand Lord Bellair’s desire to have no loose ends. His responsibility
must be officially declared completed. With such parentage and the destiny planned for her, Magdalen could well be the focus of some future plot, and a sensible man would want no past ties hanging loose to incriminate him.

“When is the wedding to take place?”

De Gervais pulled his chin. “Within six months. There is the matter of legitimacy to be dealt with first, but the duke is working closely with Rome. There are bargains to be struck.” He shrugged as if to say there always are. One could always buy what one needed from the papal court with some kind of currency if one was powerful enough, particularly in these days of the papal schism when competition between the papal courts at Avignon and Rome obscured all spiritual considerations. John of Gaunt would not be remotely interested in spiritual considerations, only in what his power and currency would buy him from one amenable pope—he only needed one, after all.

“You will wish to discuss with Lady Elinor certain matters, I daresay,” Robert Bellair said directly. “She will know what stage the child has reached in her maturing.” Receiving a nod of agreement, he called for Giles and sent him for Lady Elinor.

The lady had been expecting the summons and addressed the subject with the same directness as her brother. “There are as yet few indications of womanhood, Lord de Gervais. She is, I believe, somewhat behind in her developing. I have known other girls at eleven who could be bedded within a short time after their twelfth birthdays, but I believe that in Magdalen’s case it will be more than a twelvemonth before her terms come. Her body is still unformed.”

“There will be no hurry for consummation,” the lord said. “Once the alliance is formalized, the rest may take its time. The duke is besides concerned that her breeding ability be not overtaxed, as so often happens if
maids are bedded too young. But I am glad to have your opinion, my lady. You will remain with her for a few months at Hampton, I trust, and will be able to pass on your knowledge of the child to my wife, the Lady Gwendoline.”

“I will be happy to be of what service I can to your lady. But my brother will have need of me before the spring forays, and I would return by Easter.”

Lord de Gervais recognized that the brother and sister felt their duty to be done, and he understood this. For eleven years they had fulfilled a responsibility, knowing always that the duty would end within twelve years. They had affection for the girl, but the affection would have been tempered with the knowledge of the impermanence of the relationship—a knowledge that the child had not had to aid her through her confused sense that in essence she did not belong in this place with these people. But then childhood was a time of confusion, was it not? If it were not, then grown men would be ill prepared to deal with their world.

“Indeed, madame, whatever time you feel able to spare will be most welcome.”

Lady Elinor curtsied in acknowledgment. “When will you wish to go in to dinner, brother?”

“Whenever we are summoned,” Robert said heartily. “I believe my Lord de Gervais and I are concluded with our business. There is but the betrothal. Father Clement will officiate, and it should take place in the chapel after vespers. Magdalen understands that Lord de Gervais will stand proxy for his nephew?”

“I have explained it to her,” de Gervais said. “Would you permit her to sit beside me at dinner, Lord Bellair? I would further our acquaintance. It may make matters run more smoothly.”

Robert Bellair offered a small smile, tapping the document now handed to him by his secretary. “By the words here written, Lord de Gervais, you make what
disposition you see fit for the person of one Magdalen, daughter of his grace, the Duke of Lancaster, and Isolde de Beauregard.”

“But I would not have her aware of that,” the other said sharply. “She must believe, until his grace decrees otherwise, that you still hold a father’s authority over her.”

“We will proceed in that fashion,” the Lord Marcher acceded. “Let us repair to the hall.”

T
HAT EVENING
, M
AGDALEN
stood beside Lord de Gervais before the altar in the castle chapel, feeling both important and excited. “What am I to do?” she asked, blinking her eyes, which stung from the censer smoke.

“I will put a ring upon your finger and plight you my troth in Edmund’s name, then you are to say, ‘I, Magdalen, plight thee, Guy, proxy for Edmund de Bresse, my troth, as God is my witness.’ Then you will give me a ring.”

Lord Bellair was standing beside her and now handed her a plain gold band, advising in accustomed fashion, “Do not drop it.”

“Of course I will not, sir,” she responded, injured.

It was as simple as she had been told. Questions were asked; Lord de Gervais and Lord Bellair answered them all. Guy de Gervais slipped a thin gold ring on her middle finger, and she spoke as she had been bidden, giving her own ring to de Gervais, who slipped it into his pocket.

At dawn the following morning, Magdalen hastened downstairs in search of Lord de Gervais. She did not bother to examine why she wished to see him, but since he was her betrothed, even if only as proxy, she considered she had a right to his company. She was most disconcerted to be told that he and his knights had gone stag hunting with their host.

Reflecting that it showed a fine want of feeling to
abandon the main player in this present drama as if her affairs were of no further concern, the child trailed disconsolately back to the women’s wing, where she was pounced upon by her aunt and obliged to participate in the preparations for departure.

The hunting party returned with much revelry and elation, bugles blowing, two stags slung across poles borne in the rear by four huntsmen apiece. The great hall resounded with their feasting, with the music of pipe and lyre, but Lord Bellair had decreed that today the women should dine apart, and Magdalen ate in her aunt’s company in the parlor, silently lamenting the unjust lot of women.

Nor did she have private speech with Lord de Gervais before their departure, three days later, by which time she had decided that being betrothed was a sad and sorry condition, according none of the expected advantages. But not even this disgruntlement could spoil her excitement at the sight of the cavalcade drawn up in the
place d’armes
at dawn on the day of departure. A small troop of Lord Bellair’s men were to accompany them to the border of Bellair territory, as a matter of courtesy. The knights’ own force, refreshed after the generous hospitality they had been accorded, sat alert and ready, and the train of pack mules loaded with the baggage stood in resigned patience.

Magdalen looked in vain for her own horse. Lord de Gervais was standing talking to her father when she hurried over. “I beg pardon for interrupting, sir, but where is my mount? I cannot see Malapert anywhere.”

“You are to ride with me, Magdalen,” de Gervais informed her. “Your aunt and her women will ride pillion with the grooms.”

“But I would ride by myself,” Magdalen blurted without thought for discourtesy. “I will not be carried like a baby.”

Lord Bellair’s reaction to this insolence was entirely predictable. De Gervais interrupted the threats of
summary punishment with a raised hand. “Nay, we will excuse the impertinence. If the child wishes to ride, then she may do so until she is fatigued.”

“I will not become fatigued,” Magdalen declared stoutly, emboldened by this championship.

“I will give you four hours at the outside,” he challenged, laughing. “Go and tell a groom to have your mount readied.”

In her pleasure and relief, Magdalen failed to remark the subtle shift in authority revealed by that exchange. In any other circumstances, she would have been mightily puzzled that her father would have permitted the intercession of a stranger in such an instance. The intercession itself would ordinarily have been an unthinkable act. But Lord de Gervais was rapidly assuming godlike qualities in the child’s vivid imagination, and whatever he did was becoming invested with a magic that set his actions outside the normal run of things.

Then came the flurry and excitement of departure. Lord Bellair promised that he would be in London within the year, and she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him with a fierceness that surprised him. She made a decorous farewell to the pages and then spoiled the effect with a broad grin and a mischievous wink. The servitors who had known her through her growing were there to call their good wishes, and she rode through the great gate and across the drawbridge, waving frantically over her shoulder at her home and wondering why she felt suddenly melancholy.

Then the bugle sounded, and the thrilling prospect of what lay ahead drove all from her mind but the need to meet the Lord de Gervais’s challenge. She rode proudly upright at his side as the sun rose, and it was near midmorning before her aching back caused her shoulders to slump slightly. The third time she put her hand behind her in an unconscious gesture, rubbing the small of her back to ease the stiffness, Guy leaned down
from his palfrey, caught her under the arms, and lifted her onto the saddle in front of him.

“If you exhaust yourself this day, you will be fit for nothing on the morrow.”

“But was it more than four hours?” she asked urgently.

He smiled, looked up at the sun, and gave her the benefit of the doubt. “By a hair,” he said.

With a sigh of satisfaction, Magdalen settled comfortably into the crook of his arm.