Authors: The Fire,the Fury
Anita Mills (46 page)
As more and more stragglers, none with word of Giles of Moray, passed by Dunashie’s gates, the hopes and fears of an entire household rose and fell within the keep. Yet in the days that followed, all maintained a cheerful mien before their lady. Jonnet and those women who’d been sullen and resistant in what seemed like another time now, joined in their effort to keep her busy with one thing and another, inventing matters that must have the lady’s attention, no matter how petty.
But it was to the woodcrafter, of all people within, that Elizabeth turned, leaving the others to puzzle over it. Having spoken with him shortly after she and Willie had gone to the chapel, he withdrew into his shed with orders to admit none. And five or six times per day, she visited him there. Finally, Willie, his curiosity piqued, chided her about it.
“Och, but if Daft Jock were nae so wizened, I’d be telling Giles on ye.”
“The day my lord comes home, Will, you will discover what I am about, but not before,” she answered.
“I hope ye’ve nae commissioned his coffin,” he retorted.
“Nay.” For a brief moment her green eyes brightened as she promised him, “ ’Twill please you.”
“ ’Twould please me more and I knew.”
Finally, unable to discover more, he decided she’d ordered a cradle. It had to be—there was naught else they needed.
It was as she inspected the project that she’d commissioned on that early September morn that she heard yet another horn signal an approach. This time she ignored it, for she’d dashed hopefully too many times to the wall, only to discover it was but another beaten mesnie returning from York. And when no one summoned her, she knew it.
“ ’Tis as fine as any,” she decided, pressing a silver mark into the craftsman’s reluctant hand. “Aye—I’d have it carried inside.”
She emerged into what for Scotland passed as blazing sunlight, too blinded to see the smiles of those around her, and turned to walk toward the corner tower. The gate behind her creaked upward, and for a moment she was almost angered. Did Willie not know they could not house every beaten warrior who fled north? Nay, she’d not quarrel with him over it.
She met Bertrade and Ivo and several of the women on the winding stairs, and instead of backing up as was required, they continued downward. “God’s bones!” she snapped irritably, betraying a hint of her old temper, “but I’d have you make way for your lady!”
Jonnet stopped, then blurted out, “Do you not go to greet him?”
“I’ve greeted enough—nay, I’d leave Willie the—” Him? She stopped mid-sentence and turned to run into the courtyard again.
Already the horses clattered into the cobblestoned yard, their battle harnesses jingling. She stood rooted, her whole body trembling with the intensity of what she felt when she saw him. Merciful Mary, he was whole—he was whole. And the black silk banner flew proudly from Hob’s stirrup holster.
His face had been dark and impassive, his black eyes expressionless as they sought her on the wall. It was not until he was well within the yard that he found her and saw the love and fear betrayed in her white face. Aye, as long as he would ever live, this would be the memory he would carry of her—standing there in her green gown, its gold banding shining in the sun.
Pushing off his heavy helmet, he handed it and his gloves to Hob, then swung down to hold out his arms. And the fear disappeared, leaving only the love in her face. She ran, flinging herself into his embrace, clasping him so tightly that he was afraid she’d be cut by his mail. His arms closed around her, holding her, as tears streamed down his face. His hand caught in her veil, pulling it from her shining hair, and it fell at their feet.
He was there. He was whole. And everything she’d felt for him this week past, everything she’d held within her, was too much to bear. She shivered uncontrollably, sobbing against him. Finally, her rational mind ruled.
He was there. He was whole.
She leaned back in his arms to look at him. Hiccuping and sniffling, she smiled radiantly, and her green eyes were warm with the love she felt.
“I am overlate, Elizabeth, and I apologize for it, but ’twas my duty to cover David’s retreat all the way from York.” His hand smoothed her long braid against her back lovingly. “And in return for it, you behold one who holds more now than when he left.” He waited for her to comprehend before he went on. “Aye. He enfiefs me himself. The babe you give me will be heir to much, Elizabeth of Rivaux.”
“All that matters to me is that you are unharmed.”
He sobered, then nodded. “Too many perished.” Clasping her hand, he turned to the others. “Ah, Will—would you rule at Blackleith? And you take it, I have found a lady for you.” He held out his free hand, drawing his brother against him. “Aye, she is widowed, but not childless, daughter to the laird of Byrum. He is desirous of allying himself with Dunashie.”
“Och, and I’ve nothing against widows,” Willie declared, winking at his brother’s wife.
Elizabeth’s gaze traveled to Bertrade, who held little Ivo closely and whose own eyes were on Bevis of Lyons. He hesitated, then embraced his wife and son. If there was no passion there, at least there was affection. She looked again to her own husband.
Sniffing, she smelled the strong odors of leather, oil, and sweat, and she wrinkled her nose. “My lord, you stink,” she told him, grinning. “I’d say you are in much need of a bath.”
“Aye,” he agreed, matching her tone. He fumbled with the pouch that hung from his belt, then drew out a sealed bottle. “I have even brought oil—’tis a present from King David.” His eyes dropped to her rounding belly. “But mayhap we ought to save it.”
“Only if you think me too ugly,” she retorted.
His own grin broadened. “Nay, Elizabeth. Never ugly—never.”
As they passed, hand in hand, to go up the tower stairs, she leaned to speak low to Willie alone. “I’d have the new chair in the hall tonight—that I may sit beside the lord of Dunashie.”
The big man’s face broke into a wide smile of understanding. “Aye. And ’tis pleased I am fer the both of ye.”
Dunashie, Scotland
January 20, 1139
The mood within the castle was festive, as much so as if it were still Christmas. Elizabeth of Rivaux had given her lord not one son but rather two, born within minutes of each other. And now, as vassals and family proceeded to the christening of the fifteen-day-old infants, it seemed to her as though her world was nearly perfect, that she had all she could ever ask for.
If there was one small regret, ’twas that neither her mother nor her brother had come with Guy to see her sons. But she understood why they did not—the week before Elizabeth had been brought to bed, Richard’s Gilly had presented him with young Roger of Harlowe, and Cat could not leave Rivaux. Her brother too had his son. Her father called the babe Red Roger, saying he was a lusty little fellow. But Gilly’s lying-in had been a difficult one, and Richard was loath to leave his wife ere he must.
Yet Elizabeth could not repine overmuch, not in this, her own moment of triumph. This day, full half the border came to see Guy of Rivaux hold his namesake over the baptismal font, while the rest journeyed to watch the curious sight of the lord of Dunashie’s bastard brother standing godfather to the other twin.
Willie had demurred at first, saying it was not meet, but Elizabeth had held firm—she would have the new lord of Blackleith and none other. And so, amid a full week of feasting, there was this formal christening.
Guy, Count of Rivaux, Earl of Harlowe, lord of the Condes and lesser possessions, carried his grandson proudly into Dunashie’s chapel, swearing to uphold him in the faith, giving him his name. Everyone strained to see the priest pour the water onto the tiny head.
“I baptize thee, Guy of Dunashie, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, that your soul may be in the hands and care of God,” Father Wigand intoned. “May you grow worthy of the name you bear.”
Then it was time for the other. “Who stands godfather to this babe?” he asked.
“William, lord of Blackleith, his uncle,” Will answered loudly, holding the other boy over the font.
There was the sound of water hitting water, giving everyone else pause, but the priest chose to ignore it, while Willie reddened, almost too embarrassed to answer, “I will,” when asked to swear to uphold the babe in matters of religion.
The chaplain turned to Giles. “And what name do you give this babe?”
“David,” the proud father answered clearly. The choice had been a political one, a recognition of Giles’ reconciliation with his sovereign overlord, and the king had sent a lavish gift to his namesake also.
Wigand nodded, then dipped of the now less than pure water to drip it over the babe’s face. “I baptize thee, David of Dunashie, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
“Nay, Father,” Willie protested low, “but ye forgot ter commend him into the care of God.”
The priest, irritated to be reminded of his lapse, shook his head. “ ’Tis enough that he is sprinkled and named,” he muttered.
Outside, Lang Gib asked curiously, “What was it that I heard ere he was named?”
“Och,” Willie answered, reddening again, “He passed water into the font, and my hand could not hold it.” He frowned. “ ’Tis to be hoped that forgotten words are not an ill omen,” he observed cryptically.
Elizabeth took the younger twin from him and smiled proudly into the babe’s face. “Nay, how could they be, when one son is as like to the other as if they were cast of the same mold? Sweet Mary, but they are both fine sons.”
“Aye.”
What she felt, looking into that small face, was beyond anything she could have imagined. In the words of the psalmist, her cup truly runneth over. She was loved beyond any of her girlhood dreams, and she’d proven to the world that she was not barren. She had more, she thought as she took her husband’s arm, than any other woman in Christendom. Not even the Cat had given her lord two strong sons.
Throughout the christening day many passed by the double cradle to admire the twins of Dunashie, so many that she feared they would sicken from so much attention. Yet Guy could scarce tear himself away from his namesake. Already he’d bestowed a gift of one thousand marks, generously including a like amount for the second boy, saying he would have need of it to buy what he could not inherit.
He leaned over the babe’s face to rub his finger across a soft, pink cheek. One small hand reached to grasp it. Smiling indulgently, Elizabeth’s father tried to pull away but the babe held on tightly, so much so that he rose up in the cradle ere he let go.
“Afore God, but he is strong,” Guy murmured with approval. “This one will hold all we can win for him.”
Elizabeth looked over his shoulder to the beaded band on the tiny ankle. “Nay, Papa, you have the wrong one, for that is David. ’Tis Guy who will rule Dunashie and all else we have one day.”
The babe’s small fingers closed into a fist as Willie watched behind her. “Och,” he said, grinning. “Ye’d best make provision for this one, else he’ll take what he would have.” He regarded his godson for a long moment, and his expression sobered. “Already I doubt me that David of Dunashie is destined fer the Church.”
At that moment, the small face contorted, and the babe began to wail loudly. The girl chosen for wet-nurse pushed between them to lift him, saying, “ ’Tis a lusty appetite he has, my lady, and always he would be first at the milk.”
Giles caught Elizabeth at the waist, pulling her back against him. As she turned her head, he murmured above her ear, “ ’Tis two warriors you have given me, love.”
The warmth of his breath sent the familiar rush of desire through her. Heedless of the others, she leaned back, savoring the feel of his strong hard body against hers. “There will be more,” she predicted.
“Aye, but let us hope that some are high-spirited daughters, Elizabeth—I’d have at least one like you.”
Anita Mills
lives in Kansas City, Missouri, with her husband, four children, and seven cats in a restored turn-of-the-century house. A former English and history teacher, she has turned a lifelong passion for both into a writing career.
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