Anita Mills (22 page)

“And so you appealed to King David?”

That brought forth a derisive snort. “Nay, I tired of waiting for a court to rule: when they would not yield my patrimony to me, I burned it.”

“Jesu!” She half turned to stare at him. “You burned your own keep?” she asked incredulously.

“Aye. Many perished in their beds.” His black eyes were sober when they met hers. “I did penance for the innocent and damned the rest. And when the complaints were done, David of Scotland confirmed Dunashie to me.”

“And you have built this?”

“Aye. Almost ten years it has taken me, but ‘tis nearly done.”

Ten years. He’d been but sixteen then. She looked upward again, much impressed. “You were young to have done so much.”

“Aye, I have fought as a man since I was fourteen, Elizabeth. I had not the choice—I was not born to Guy of Rivaux.”

“My father fought for his patrimony when he was seventeen, and his sire knighted him for it. And my grandsire of Harlowe served in the Conqueror’s train when he was but fifteen, I think.”

“You are fortunate in your blood. My sire was murdered as I was born. I am said to favor my mother,” he added significantly. “ ’Twas she who was born to the Maurais. They have been in Scotland since the Old Conqueror ruled England.” He smiled faintly. “As I told you, you are not alone in your Norman blood.”

“But you bear your mother’s family name.”

“Aye.” He clicked his reins, nudging his horse forward onto the planked bridge over the freshly dredged ditch, and the din of the crowd when they saw him go beneath drowned out anything she could say. For a moment she wondered again if he was bastard-born, then dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter now—she was pledged to him, whatever he should prove to be. But there was so much that she did not know of this man she’d promised to wed, she recalled uneasily.

They rode into the courtyard, a narrow, cobble-stoned area already filled with milling vassals, ladies, household knights, and servants. A dozen boys ran out to take their reins, but before any could aid her Giles had dismounted and turned to lift her down. And it was a far different welcome than she’d had at Wycklow, for this time she’d ridden a horse alone, this time she’d come into Dunashie as his betrothed, wearing a robe that, while it did not entirely fit her, still bespoke wealth. His wealth.

His hands caught her at the waist, lifting her easily, setting her lightly on the ground. And his arm slid around her, supporting her whilst she gained her legs after the long hours of riding. She steadied herself, leaning into the circle of his arm, feeling the strength beneath the mail. Never in her life had she been so aware of a man. Not even when Ivo had come to Rivaux to claim her had it been like that. But then Ivo had been but a boy of seventeen.

His black eyes gleamed with amusement, and she wondered if he knew how much he was in her thoughts. Coloring with sudden embarrassment, she stepped away. He raised his hands to dislodge the heavy helmet from his head. The deep imprint of his nasal, where it had pressed against his cheek, gave him the appearance of fatigue. But there was nothing tired about the way he tossed the helmet and his gloves to his squire, nor was there anything tired about the way he suddenly caught her again at the waist and lifted her high before the crowd.

“Behold Elizabeth of Rivaux!” he shouted above the din. “My lady!” There was a sudden silence, then a new roar.

“Sweet Mary,” she muttered, “I would you put me down.”

Ignoring her protest, he called out again, “I’d have you rouse the priest that I may wed!”

“Now?” she gasped.

“Aye.” He let her down slowly, sliding her body the length of his. “Two days already I have fed them, and I’d prefer to have enough left for siege. Besides, this night I’d not sleep alone.”

“Nay, but—”

“Tomorrow will be no different from today, save we’ll be poorer for the feasting.” A smile curved his mouth and warmed his eyes. “Art still afraid of me, Elizabeth of Rivaux?”

“Nay,” she lied,, trying to match his smile. “I did but wish for a bath and a fresh gown.”

“There will be time for that between the wedding and the feast,” he promised. “For this I’d not wait.”

Her heart pounded painfully beneath her ribs and the pulse beat so loudly in her ears that she could scarce hear. As his fingers closed over hers, her stomach knotted. She tried to protest ‘twas too soon, but her mouth was too dry for speech. It did not matter whether ‘twas now or then, she told herself, for she had already bound herself to him. And she’d not have him know her for the coward she felt this day.

“Aye,” she croaked, her voice barely audible.

Holding her hand, he walked the length of the courtyard, gathering visitors and household behind them until they reached the small chapel built against the hall. The crowd swelled so much that the priest had to yell, “Make way, good people! Make way!” in order to pass through to the door. There he turned to face them, addressing Giles and Elizabeth loudly, “Why are you come here this day?”

“To wed and hear Mass,” Moray answered.

“And she is of like mind?” the chaplain asked.

A hush fell, broken only by the grunts of those who still elbowed to see. Giles’ hand clasped hers more tightly, reassuring her. Elizabeth drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, then nodded. “Aye.”

“And there are no impediments? No blood within the forbidden degrees?”

It was Giles who answered again. “Nay.” Turning to Elizabeth, he intoned solemnly: “I, Giles of Moray, lord of Dunashie, take thee, Elizabeth, to wife—to have and to hold, to honor and protect in all adversity, until death shall part us. So I swear, so help me God.”

And now the turn was hers. Looking down to where his fingers twined with hers, she spoke so low that none but Giles and the priest could hear her. “I, Elizabeth, daughter to Count Guy of Rivaux and Catherine of the Condes, take thee, Giles of Moray, for husband. God grant—”

She faltered, and the chaplain, presuming she knew not what to say, prompted her. “Nay—you will honor and obey,” he reminded her in a low undervoice.

Her chin shot up almost defiantly before she finished her vows. Meeting Giles’ eyes, she added more loudly, “I will honor you and have a care for you so long as we both may live, my lord, as God is my witness.”

Before the priest could protest, Giles answered, “So be it then.”

The old man shrugged. As there was no set oath when the banns were not cried, only the pledging between a man and his wife, if Lord Giles was satisfied there was little else to be said. A man’s wishes were law to his wife, anyway. He made the sign of the Cross over each forehead, then stood on tiptoe to spread his hands above them, “Having sworn before Almighty God and these witnesses, you are now man and wife in His eyes. May He bless your union in all ways, making you fruitful and prosperous. Amen.”

A chorus of murmured “amens” rippled through the assemblage as Giles turned, holding Elizabeth’s hand high before them. “I give you your lady!” he called out. “Her honor is mine own!”

A lump formed in her throat, tightening it, for his meaning was clear: he’d brook no insult to her from anyone. There would be no mocking favorites to shame her before his people. In that moment, she almost loved him.

As the priest threw open the chapel door, Giles leaned closer to her, whispering, “If the rest of you is as cold as your hands, we’ll both freeze tonight.”

She leaned back against the wet wood, savoring the warmth of the scented water and the fire that blazed beside her, trying not to think of later. And yet wherever she focused her thoughts they seemed always to return to Giles, and she wondered in exasperation if he spent half so much time thinking of her. But, try as she might, she could not deny to herself that she was afraid. There were no more days to delay him, no more nights to lie alone. For pride or whatever other reason she had wed him—the deed was irrevocably done. She belonged to him in name if not yet in fact.

And what that would bring her, she knew not. Aye, she scarce knew him. Looking down to where the water streaked her breasts, she wondered if he would find her pleasing—or if he would turn away in disgust as Ivo had done. And what if she were in truth barren? Would he hate her for it despite what he’d said? Surely her years with Ivo could not be proof, for he had not lain with her above five times, and then only to satisfy his father. And she knew not which of them had been more disgusted of the other, she or Ivo.

But what if she disappointed this man? Would he taunt her as her young husband had done? Would he fault her for knowing nearly nothing of the deed? The deed. Aside from Ivo’s reluctant efforts, she had no other notion of what to expect.

Nay, but whatever befell her at Dunashie, it could not be half so bad as what she’d endured at Eury. And this time, God willing, she’d have a babe for solace. Aye, and if he proved a bad husband she’d spend her life at Harlowe, putting him off with promises to return later, she decided.

“My lady, if you do not hurry your lord will be displeased,” Helewise reminded her. “Already the feast begins late.”

“Have you seen Lord Giles—my husband?” Elizabeth asked, embarrassed by the awkward way the words tumbled from her tongue. “Does he send for me already?”

“Nay, but his guests grumble—or so the one called Willie says. A wedding feast should last all day, and ere you are down the sun is halfway to setting.”

“Ah, Helewise, but we rode overlong. Sweet Mary, but my backside aches,” she murmured, rising from the tub.

The woman held up a thick woolen sheet, ready to rub her dry. “I’d not tell a husband that, my lady.”

“He ought to know it,” Elizabeth snapped peevishly. “He rode from Harlowe also.” She stood still, allowing the tiring woman to envelop her in the towel. “I’d thought to wait some days ere I wed.”

“Aye, but ‘tis eager he is to have you.”

“Nay, you are mistaken—’twas his fear of depleting his larder,” Elizabeth muttered. “Or so he said to me.”

Helewise paused from her rubbing. “Then why came he to Harlowe?”

“Twas his pride that spurred him.”

“Was it?”

“Jesu! What else am I to think? You behold a childless widow, one reported to be barren, overold to wed a man without heirs. Nay, had I not pricked his pride, he’d have taken another.” But even as she said it she wanted Helewise to dispute it.

Instead, the woman shrugged. “It matters not now—the words are said. Now ‘tis but a question of one pleasing the other.”

“Aye.”

Somehow Elizabeth managed to endure Helewise’s ministrations, despite the fact that she felt as taut as a drawn bowstring. Under other circumstances she would have told herself it would pass, but she knew it wouldn’t. She’d married the Butcher, and now she would have to live with him—at least until she conceived his child.

One of the girls sent up from the hall brought forth two robes for her inspection, one a bright blue sendal embroidered with a fanciful tree, the other a plain green velvet. Neither was suited to a woman, but there was naught else to be had. Despite her resolve, a momentary sense of desolation stole over Elizabeth: she celebrated her wedding feast with a lord she scarce knew, in a place far from her home, without so much as her family or her things about her. And despite the contract between them, in truth she was at his mercy, she was his to do with as he would until she went again to Harlowe.

But she was in no worse case than many another, she reminded herself sternly. Aye, so many girls went to wed old, fat, ugly, and often cruel men only to satisfy the ambitions of family or sovereign. At least Giles of Moray was well-favored and clean. And despite the way he’d abducted her, he’d asked her consent to wed. There were those who would have taken first then forced the marriage.

Aye, but what if he should prove to be as false as Ivo? What if he’d only wed her because she was Rivaux’s daughter? Or worse even, what if ’twas for revenge? Her hands shook as she took a linen under-gown. For whatever reason, ’twas done, and it served naught but to overset her to ponder on the reason why. This time, she told herself, she was no little maid filled with foolish dreams of love. Aye, never again would she let a man crush her pride. Giles of Moray, if he should think to rule her, would have a battle to fight in his house.

Helewise smoothed the linen against her bared skin, then reached for Elizabeth’s borrowed stockings. Sitting down, the girl pulled them on and tied the garters at her knees. “ ’Tis a pity I cannot wear his shoes,” she muttered.

“Nay, but they will not show.”

She stood again, letting Dunashie’s maids slip Moray’s green velvet robe over Elizabeth’s head and turn back the too-long sleeves. Then one of them produced a girdle, holding it up. “ ’Twas the Lady Aveline’s,” she explained, holding out the golden chain.

“Did you serve her?”

“Nay. Her women were sent whence they came, for Lord Giles wouldna have those who gave evidence against him in his house.”

Elizabeth longed to ask still more of Giles’ wife, but it was unseemly to gossip with serving maids. So instead she held her tongue, hoping the girl would tell her, but she did not. Finally she could stand it no longer. Using the girdle as an excuse, she asked, “She was small, the Lady Aveline?”

“Aye. Like a golden bird, she was—and of about as much good to him.” The girl slid the chain around Elizabeth’s waist and shook her head. “She wasna as broad as ye, my lady—there’ll nae be so much to hang.”

“She was comely?” Elizabeth could not help asking.

“Aye.” The maid stepped back to decide if one end was too short, and apparently was satisfied. “Looked the way the priest would ha us think o’ angels.” Then, pausing to look up at her new mistress, she smiled, “But ye need nae worry, lady, for she hated him, and he knew it. Aye, if she’d spent half so much time on her back as on her knees, she’d ha’ bred for Dunashie.”

“Surely she cannot be faulted for piety.”

“Piety!” the girl sniffed. “Nay, ye mistake my meaning. More than once I heard the priest confess her, for she prayed he’d nae come home to her. And then she prayed he’d nae come near her.”

“Holy Mary—do you tell me she wished him dead?”