Anita Mills (36 page)

“One thing at a time,” Gib answered. “If ye’d have aught else, bend your knees yourself.”

But to Giles only two things mattered: that Reyner sought to take Elizabeth for Stephen, and that Guy of Rivaux came for him. Even if he saved her from the one, could he keep her from the other?

Lang Gib, seeing his lord’s bleak countenance, sought to comfort him. Edging his horse closer to Giles, he murmured, “There’s none as says Rivaux isna a fair man, my lord. There’s none as says he isna good.”

“And there’s none as has gone against him and won,” he responded.

“Then send him against the lord of Eury,” Gib reasoned. “And when he sees ye have a care for her, mayhap he will relent. Aye, there’s naught like a babe to be born as can change a man’s mind.”

“Like mine own grandsire? You forget I cost my sire his head, that he died the day I was born.”

“Och, but your grandsire was not Guy of Rivaux.”

“If anything, he was far weaker,” Giles retorted, spurring ahead.

Gib fell back with the others, muttering beneath his breath, “ ’Tis nae only the Rivaux as has pride, I’m thinking.”

Tortured of mind, bereft of soul, Giles rode on, heedless of those who would shake their heads behind him And as the day wore on with no sign of Reyner ahead, he gradually faced the fact that he’d rather see Elizabeth in the hands of her father than in the Count of Eury’s. For despite all he’d said, when he looked back at those who rode with him he knew he had not the means to defeat a Norman count. They were but a few of his men, the best he had save Willie, but the rest of his power lay divided, separated to defend both Wycklow and what he held against his sovereign north of the border. Nay, but if he could not overtake him, if he had not the advantage of surprise, he could not win. And there was no sign of Reyner of Eury.

Finally, with the horses too exhausted to carry them further, they stopped at the Abbey of St. Cuthbert to rest, and there they received news that confirmed Giles’ fear. The abbot protested that he was scarce able to adequately tend them, for much earlier in the day his larder had been depleted by the Count of Eury, his food carried off by those who rode away in haste after asking of a keep called Wycklow. Saddle-weary, with horses nearly lame, Giles knew he now had no hope of surprising Reyner ere he reached Elizabeth.

Denying himself the meager supper offered, he lay upon one of the narrow cots in a cell, staring at the crucifix that hung on the wall above him. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he closed his eyes to the Cross and allowed himself to remember her, to see her again as he’d seen her in the beginning, a nun swinging an axe like a man. Even then, those unusual green eyes had drawn him. He could see her at Harlowe, surrounded by the wealth and power of her family, wearing a gown that glittered beneath the torchlight. Nay, but even then he’d known there was none other. And in his own arrogance he’d thought he could have her. That he could keep her.

Even now his mind could see her as clearly as if she were with him. But this time when she came to him there was no recrimination, no rancor or bitterness in her green eyes. She was as he would remember her, her pale body gleaming beneath the black silk curtain of her hair, her mouth parted and inviting. He could feel the warmth of her skin against his, he could smell the soft fragrance of rose water in the hair that brushed over him. And his whole body ached with remembered desire. But she was more than that to him, she was his life and his pride, and within her she carried his babe. No matter what happened, he would have a child born of the blood of Rivaux.

There’s none as says he isna a fair man.… There’s none as says he isna good.
Aye, despite everything, even Giles
’
men revered Count Guy for long-ago deeds of valor, for had he not vanquished the Devil? Guy of Rivaux was more than a man.

When Giles opened his eyes again a stream of moonlight was slicing across the wall, illuminating nothing but the crucifix above him. Was it a sign? Was it a warning? He knew not, but for the first time in years, he dared to raise his voice to it.

“Nay, but if you will yet listen, I’d give Elizabeth of Rivaux back to her father, if you will keep her safe. Above all else, I’d have her safe. Give me a sign that ’tis right what I do.”

There was no answer. He rolled to sit, and held his hands into the moonlight, seeing again the scars on them. They were his penance, the symbol of the burden he carried every day of his life, the outward manifestation of the guilt in his mind. For a long time he tried to make sense of it, and then he rose.

The bells sounding the first office, calling the monks to sing Matins, broke the midnight stillness, and as the sandaled feet scrambled down the stone-flagged floors outside his cell door, Giles hurried to catch the abbot. “Kind Brother, I’d have pen and parchment ere you go,” he said quickly. Then, realizing he intruded on the priest’s silence, he added, “ ’Tis of some import, else I’d not ask. I’d send to Rivaux at Harlowe.”

Seen in sunshine, the small tower and wall that was Wycklow did not look nearly so grim, and for once Elizabeth did not dread going there. It was not Harlowe, it did not compare with even the smallest of her father’s keeps, but it was here that Giles would return to her. And until he did she would busy herself cleaning it with lime and sweetening the floors, making it as habitable as she could.

As they neared the bridge she breathed deeply, grateful that before he’d left Giles had ordered the ditch drained and dredged. Although the green line of scum was still visible, the water that lapped beneath the wall no longer stunk with the refuse from the kitchen and garderobe.

Willie removed his helmet and waved to the man on the wall who watched silently, almost sullenly, as the weathered bridge creaked downward. “Afore God,” he muttered, “but I’d teach the whore’s son his manners.” Looking up again, he called out, “Auld Wat, is this any greeting fer yer lady?” Instead of answering, Wat looked away. “God’s bones, but what ails him?” Willie wondered out loud.

It was not until they were across the bridge, their horses entering the small, cobbled yard, that either of them noted the body of Dib’s Jock on the gibbet, telling them something was very wrong. Elizabeth wheeled to flee, but she was too late. Already the spiked gate eased downward, separating Wycklow from the outside world, as Reyner of Eury swaggered toward her.

Willie lifted his axe, riding between her and the count, ready to defend her, shouting, “For God and St. Andrew! Nay, but ye’ll not take her!” Above him, an archer loosed his bolt. As Willie swung low, decapitating one who reached for him, he was struck. The arrow penetrated the boiled leather of his
cuir bouilli
with such force that he fell forward and was pulled from his saddle by two men of Eury. Reyner stepped over the headless body, ordering, “Kill the fool,” curtly.

“Nay, he is William of Dunashie!” Elizabeth cried. “He is my lord husband’s brother!”

She raised her whip, but Reyner caught her hand and brought it down, forcing her to drop it. “Spare the bastard then,” he called out, “for I’d have surety against the Butcher.” His eyes met Elizabeth’s, and his grin revealed his uneven, blackened teeth. “So we are met again, daughter. And this time, you will be of some worth to me.”

“Unhand me,” she said coldly.

“Did the Butcher teach you no manners? Did Black Giles not beat that arrogance from you?” he gibed.

“He’ll kill you for the insult you offer.”

“Your border Scot?” he sneered. “Nay, but he is with Stephen.” He leaned closer, and his strong breath sent a wave of nausea through her. “He’ll not care, for we shall both profit of you. We are together in this.”

For an awful moment she thought Giles had allowed this, that Reyner had come with his leave, but then she looked down to where Willie lay, his huge body held down by booted feet on his chest. “Nay, you lie,” she decided, “else you’d not need surety. Nay, he would not risk his brother. Unhand me,” she said again, “that I may tend him.”

He twisted her wrist painfully before he released it and stepped back, still grinning. “Aye. You will see to him that he lives. It will please me to see Rivaux’s proud daughter on her knees in the dirt.” His gaze moved to the sullen men who sat their horses behind her. “Disarm them, and when she is done with the bastard, I’d have you bring her to what passes for the lord’s chamber,” he told his captain. His pale, almost yellow, brown eyes met hers again. “How your fortune has fallen, my daughter—nay, but I would have given you more than this.” His hand reached to touch the braid that hung forward over her shoulder, smoothing it against her breast. “Aye, much more,” he murmured.

Unable to control her fury, she spat into his face. “If you would think to touch me again, I will kill you myself.”

His grin disappeared as he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. “The Butcher does not beat you enough, but I’ll remedy that. I’ll put an end to your temper.” He turned on his heel and started for the tower door.

“As craven as is King Stephen, he will not allow you to harm me!” she called out after him.

He stopped. “Harm you? Nay, you mistake me, daughter. I will but give you the meekness you have lacked. I have ordered your things moved to the hole in the wall. ’Tis a mean place, but you will survive.”

She watched him disappear inside with sinking heart, then she dropped down to look at Willie. “Get your stinking boots off him,” she snapped to one who held him. “I cannot see the wound.” As he complied she touched the arrow shaft, testing it. “ ’Twill have to be pulled out, Will, and I doubt I can do it.”

“Aye,” he gasped. “ ’Tis sorry I—”

“The fault was mine,” she said quickly. She looked up to Reyner’s captain, and for a moment her heart paused. “Bevis of Lyons, I’d have your aid.” When he did not move, she added evenly, “Or would you that I told Reyner what you were to Ivo?”

His face darkened, and she feared he meant to kick her with his spurred boot. Still she did not flinch. Finally, he nodded. “Carry him into the hall,” he ordered. “And see that she has what she needs.”

It was not until the arrow had been wrested from the big man’s shoulder, until the wound had been burned with the poker and bandaged, that she would follow Bevis to the small solar. As his eyes moved contemptuously over the moss-streaked walls, she considered appealing to him.

“Bevis, if you will send to my lord, I’ll hold you blameless.”

“Nay.”

“If I am harmed here, my lord will kill you—aye, and my father will come also.”

“Nay.”

She sucked in her breath, then exhaled fully. “I should not have said what I did. You know full well that my father will pay if I escape.”

“Nay.”

“Sweet Jesu! Why can you not see what you do? You cannot hold me and live.” Then, realizing he regarded her with bitterness in his eyes, she could not help wanting to know: “Why? Do you hate me so much?”

“Nay.”

Realizing she was gaining nothing, she tried a different approach to him. “Your lady—the Lady Bertrade—is well?”

“Well enough,” he answered curtly. “She gives me one son—and I have called him Ivo.” He reached to jerk open the heavy oak door at the top of the steep, winding steps.

“For the love you bore my husband … for the love of Ivo … I beg you will aid me, Bevis. I—”

But he’d already stepped ahead of her. “My lord,” he said to Reyner, “I bring you the witch of Rivaux.”

“Daughter.” The lord of Eury nodded, then indicated a rough bench. “You behold I have not much to offer you, for ’tis a mean place,” he said, smiling blandly as though he welcomed her, as though his anger were forgotten. “ ’Tis not nearly so grand as Rivaux—or Harlowe.”

“Nay, ’tis not.” She remained standing. “Why are you come here?”

“For you.” He pressed his fingertips against each other as he looked up at her. “Aye, I have not forgotten how you failed my son. I have not forgotten what you cost me. When you gave us no heir, you robbed me of your dower lands.”

“ ’Twas Ivo failed
me
,” she snapped. “He gave
me
no son. The fault was his.”

His smile never faded. “You were worthless to us.”

“Nay, but if you believe the fault was mine, you believe a lie.”

“And you took my son from me. You made him turn from me. I chose you for your father’s wealth, and you did not let me keep it, daughter.”

“If there be any fault, Reyner, ’tis yours,” she retorted. “Sweet Jesu, but ’twas you who lied to us! You made my father believe that Ivo wanted me, when you knew he did not.”

“You were to make him care for you, Elizabeth. I chose you with care, for you were a comely maid.”

“I could not! Do you think I never tried? Nay, but when I wed, I did not know there were those such as he!”

“Naught was wrong with Ivo that you could not have cured had you tried,” he answered, his eyes going cold.

“Naught was wrong with Ivo?
Naught was wrong with Ivo?”
she demanded incredulously. “Reyner of Eury, you knew what was wrong with Ivo! And if he turned from you, ’twas because you forced him to my bed! Aye, he said you beat him to make him he with me!” She stood above him, her green eyes flashing with pent-up anger. “There was not a woman born as could tempt Ivo!”

“You lie! God’s bones, witch, but you lie!” He rose, his fists clenched, his face dark and menacing. “If aught was wrong with my son, ’twas you!”

“Ivo lay with men, not me—and so you knew ere you made him wed me,” she said, her voice suddenly dropping low, but forceful still. “Nay, but ’twas you—not I—who drove him from you. By the end he hated you for it!”

“Lying witch!” He struck her then, his blow sending her reeling against the small table where she’d played chess with Willie. “If you cannot still your lying tongue, I’ll cut it from you! Think you I do not know you killed him?”

She righted herself and wiped the blood from her mouth. “He fell from his horse, and I was not there!”

“He died by his own deed, Elizabeth, and afore God I’ll not forgive you for it! Think you I have not heard how it was between you? Think you that your women did not tell?”