Anita Mills (12 page)

“Then I will speak with him. I pray you will be all that is civil when he sups with us.” Eleanor dropped her arm and nodded to Walter of Meulan. “I’d see this Giles now. And may God aid us if ‘tis the lord of Dunashie, for he’ll not forget the insult, I fear,” she predicted tiredly.

Elizabeth stared in disbelief as Eleanor gathered the towels and soap from Helewise. It was outside of enough that her grandmother had asked Moray’s pardon, but for him to demand to be bathed beyond that—well, ‘twas not to be borne.

“You cannot mean to do it—nay, you shall not!”

“He is guest here,” Eleanor answered mildly.

“Jesu! ’Tis not meet—you have but to look at his mesnie to know he is of no worth.”

Eleanor’s lips drew into a thin line of disapproval. “He was of enough import that you held him here,” she reminded her granddaughter.

“Because he was insolent to me!”

“Mayhap he considered himself provoked,” the old woman observed dryly. “In any case, I would make amends.” Carefully folding back the wide sleeves of her gown, she proceeded to lay the drying sheets over her fitted undersleeves. “He tells me he leaves on the morrow, Liza, and until then he is Harlowe’s guest,” she repeated. Her dark eyes met Elizabeth’s. “If you cannot be glad of the life you owe him, I am.”

“And if he is this Butcher?”

“That does not outweigh the other. Besides, I’d not have him burn Guy’s fields as he goes. God knows we shall have enough need of them when the war comes to Harlowe.”

“Then let Helewise bathe him! God’s blood, but you would have us feed his high opinion of himself,” Elizabeth muttered, looking down. “You are Eleanor of Nantes, Grandmere, and ’tis not meet that you do this.”

“As lord of Dunashie, he sits in King David’s council.”

“And swears to Stephen! God’s bones, but ’twas whence he came when we were met!”

“Roger swore to Curthose for that which he held in Normandy and to Rufus for that in England,” Eleanor pointed out patiently. “The Scots do the same. Aye, even David himself swears to Stephen for his Huntingdon lands.” Brushing past her granddaughter, the stiff skirt of her overgown rustling against the woven rushes, Eleanor moved toward the door.

“This man is naught but a border thief, Grandmere. ’Tis not seemly for the Countess of Harlowe to do this.”

The old woman stopped, but did not turn back. “Lest you forget, the Lord Jesus himself was not above washing the feet of other, less worthy men.”

She was so small, so frail in appearance, that the thought of her bending over Giles of Moray to tend him shamed Elizabeth. For a long moment the younger woman struggled within herself, then exhaled sharply, goaded.

“Nay, if he is to be attended, I should do it—the fault is mine that he is here.”

“I do not ask it of you.”

“ ’Tis more seemly, for you are Eleanor of Nantes. I am but the widow of Ivo of Eury.”

“And Guy of Rivaux’s proud daughter,” Eleanor reminded her.

“Have done—I have said I will do it.” Walking to where her grandmother waited, Elizabeth reached out for the soap and drying sheets. “You are very like Maman, you know: she is not above shaming me also.”

After she left, Eleanor unrolled her wide sleeves. “Ah, Helewise, if I am not to bathe this man, I’d pass the time with tables. Get you the dice that we may play.”

The tiring woman opened one of the carved chests that lined the wall. “Do you think ’tis truly the Butcher, my lady?” she asked as she rummaged within.

“Aye. He has aught to gain and much to lose should he lie. I can think of no reason to admit what can only cost him here.”

Helewise stopped to sign the Cross over her breast, but her mistress shook her head. “That he is a strong man who holds his lands in these troubled times does not make him any worse than others. The Scots are no more like to respect weakness than we are, when you think on it. And I have heard he was provoked.”

Her sense of ill-usage increasing with every step, Elizabeth forced herself to climb the tower stairs. “And if you would smile, dolt, I’ll see you are beaten,” she muttered as she passed the guard Gervase. At the top, she rapped sharply to gain admittance.

As the heavy oak-planked door swung inward on its iron hinges, the one called Wee Willie stepped aside. Giles of Moray turned to face her and, his eyes traveling over her, taking in the towel and the plain woolen sheet she’d wrapped around her velvet gown, he bowed slightly.

“Lady Elizabeth, you honor me.”

She knew he mocked her. Her fingers closed more tightly on the chunk of tallow soap as she fought the urge to hurl it in his face. “Nay, I’d not see my grandmother humble herself before you. She is Eleanor of Nantes, dowager countess to Harlowe, lady of the Condes, and I’d not have her do this.”

“Leave us,” he ordered the big man.

“Nay, I’d have him stay.”

“Art afraid of me, Elizabeth of Rivaux?” he gibed, moving across the room toward her. “You have but to cry out for a score to come.”

“I’d have him undress you that we may be done.”

“I undress myself.” He lifted his arms and held them away from his body. “ ’Tis not as though I would be divested. And you behold no mail, no gambeson—and no weapons,” he added pointedly.

“Are you this Butcher?” she demanded. “Are you in truth this lord of Dunashie? Or are you but a mercenary it pleases to lie?”

“Are you a nun of St. Agnes?” he countered.

Her chin came up. “ ’Twas safer to journey so for me.”

He nodded. “And so ’twas for me. I had no wish to fight my way from Dunashie to London and back again,” he admitted. “There are too many who would hang my head above their gates and boast of it. And had I come with a large enough escort to insure mine own safety, King Stephen would have beggared me in the determination of my levies.”

“You might have told me.”

“Would it have made a difference? One man’s sword ought to be as good as another’s if it saves you.”

To her discomfiture he came closer, moving between her and the door. The thought crossed her mind again that he was as big as her brother or her father. His body seemed to fill the small, narrow room, blocking out much of the light from the narrow arrow slit. Telling herself that he was but a man like any other, she turned to the wooden tub, noting that the water still steamed in the chill air.

“Then I pray you will hasten,” she muttered to hide her discomfiture. “I’d not tarry at this. I find it distasteful that I should be asked to bathe a Scot.”

Her manner amused rather than angered him, and he found it difficult to suppress the smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Nay, Elizabeth, but I am Norman also—where think you we border louts are come? My father’s grandsire gained Dunashie for himself after Hastings, you know, for he served in the Conqueror’s train—as did your grandsire’s father. The difference between us is but that your family was given Harlowe.”

The fact that he spoke to her as an equal goaded her further. “God’s bones, but you are an insolent oaf!” she snapped. “None of my family is called Butcher!” She swung around to face him again. “There is no honor in such a name!”

His smile vanished and his face grew hard. “My sire was murdered when I was born, and mine enemies were many,” he told her harshly. “I crawled out of arrow slits and broke the ice to swim moats in winter, Elizabeth of Rivaux, to keep my skin whole, and when I was grown I took back what they had taken from me. If ’tis butchery then butcher I am, and I’ll not ask any pardon for it—not from David of Scotland, King Stephen, or God. Behold that I have prevailed! All that I am I have made, Elizabeth.”

His face was but inches from hers, and there was that in his black eyes that frightened her, yet she would not back away. “And what of the innocent ones? How many of those have perished at your hands?” she demanded, trying to fight her fear with anger.

“Innocent? Sweet Jesu, but you prate of what you know not! ’Twas my blood or Hamon of Blackleith’s, and if others perished between us, there was no other way.” He reached out, then dropped his hands. “But you who were born to great wealth, to whom this is but another keep, you cannot know how ’twas. You had not to fight for every hide of land, and neither did Guy of Rivaux.”

“My father lost all he had in Robert Curthose’s cause,” she answered him coldly. “For years he endured King Henry’s exile.”

“And repaired his fortunes with his marriage,” he sneered.

“Nay, ’twas why he lost his lands. King Henry wanted my mother for his son.”

“Yet he recovered them easily enough, did he not?”

She knew she owed him no answer, but she could not let his words pass unchallenged. “Because Robert of Belesme had burned them until they were worthless! Nay, but whatever my father is,
he
has made himself also, my lord. He came back to Normandy and to my mother penniless, with naught but a title and a ruined patrimony to sustain it. But my father won great lands and honor—my father brought down Robert of Belesme,” she told him proudly.

“I have heard the tale. Aye, who has not? But then ’twas not the same for me, Elizabeth of Rivaux, for mine enemies had a king’s favor, whilst ’twas I who was the outcast. But I have learned that even kings can be brought to accept that which they have not the power to change.” His black eyes bore into hers. “Aye, Elizabeth, when Hamon’s heirs died with him, David confirmed my claim.”

The room was far too small. Despite her resolve to show no weakness she moved behind the tub, distancing herself from him. “Ever has my father fought with honor, my lord, for right more than for gain. Aye, and he will risk all again, my lord, for he’ll not serve Stephen against Henry’s heiress.”

“A woman who carries herself as though she were a man!” he scoffed.

“The rightful Queen—the one nigh every baron swore to uphold!”

“It is enough that she is Henry’s daughter to put me against her,” he retorted. “Nay, I had no love for him. For years he held me from mine lands, as but a hostage in his household.” Abruptly, he moved away, walking toward a low bench drawn near the brazier fire. “My water grows cold whilst you quarrel.” Sitting, he leaned forward to remove his shoes. “Did you bring any oil?”

“Nay.”

“ ’Tis as well. I’d not smell like one of King Henry’s whores.”

Whilst she watched him, he unwrapped the worn leather cross-garters that smoothed his chausses against his calves, and again she was struck by his powerful legs. “You must have walked overmuch,” she noted acidly.

He looked up from the task. “The breadth of Scotland more than once. When your enemies would seek you on horseback, ’tis sometimes safer to hide as a freeman on foot.”

“ ’Tis cowardice.”

“Aye?” One black eyebrow lifted as he cocked his head. “At least I never hid myself behind the Cross, Sister Elizabeth.”

Ignoring the barb, she asked shortly, “Are you not ready yet? ‘Twill be time to sup ere you are done.”

“If you would hurry, you have but to help.”

“ ’Tis enough that I soap you.”

“Did none of your husband’s guests complain of you?” he wondered aloud.

“I did not bathe them.”

“Ivo of Eury was a jealous man?”

“I did not bathe him either—he had others for the task. And if you do not make haste, my lord, I will go.”

But he showed no inclination to hurry as he stood to pull off the plain woolen overtunic he wore. His voice was muffled as he spoke. “This Ivo was an overly tolerant husband, ’twould seem.”

“I’d not speak of him.”

“Did none ever dare to tell you have the temper of an alewife?” he asked conversationally as he dropped the woolen garment to the floor. “Were you mine, I’d teach you patience—I’d be no Ivo of Eury.”

Before she could discover a rejoinder he reached for the neck of his linen undertunic, and leaned forward to draw it over his head, ruffling his black hair. And for a moment, he again reminded her of her brother. But the man who faced her was broader and more powerfully built than Richard, something she’d once not believed possible. She stared at his bared shoulders, seeing the well-defined muscles. And her mouth went dry with the realization that he’d soon be naked before her. She would be expected to touch his skin, and she was not at all certain she could do it, for despite his resemblance to Richard she was all too aware that he was not her brother.

He looked up and saw the hesitation in her eyes. “What ails you? Art still afraid of me? Nay, but you have no need to be. I am not such a fool as would ravish Rivaux’s daughter in his house.”

“I am not afraid,” she lied.

“Nay?” He dropped the undertunic beside the other, then moved closer until only the tub separated them. Her green eyes were wide and wary. “Then how is it you look at me like a maid about to be taken after battle? Were you not a widow, I’d think you a virgin seeing your first man.” As he spoke, he reached to untie his chausses at his waist. He pushed them down, stepped out of them, then straightened. “You behold I am ready. Would you soap me standing or sitting down?”

She’d been unprepared for the rush of blood to her face. Turning away, she answered quickly, “Sitting.”

Easing himself into the water, he leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. “Tell me—who bathed the guests in your husband’s household if you did not?”

Her hand, which had been about to part his hair in search of nits, stopped in midair. “At Eury, ’twas the tiring women, and at Rienne they bathed each other,” she admitted baldly, hoping he would ask no more.

“Your guests were doused in the stalls? Jesu, but ’tis no wonder you would put me there. And I’d thought you punished me.”

His hair was thick beneath her fingers, but it was not greasy as she’d expected, nor was there any sign of lice. Still, it had the strong, sharp odor of male sweat. “You stink,” she muttered, wetting it.

“I had not the patience to stand in the cold whilst stable boys poured buckets of dirty water over me,” he admitted. “I did not take the time to wash my hair. There is something about freezing that encourages haste.”

“Art soft then.”

“At Dunashie, even the scullery boys use the tub in winter. I’d not ask them to stand outside when they can be near the fire. I lose fewer to sickness thus.”