He had given Geoffrey a new suit of chain
mail and both sword and shield. Since the young man, though of
gentle birth, was quite poor, he could never have found the funds
to pay for his armor. Without Guy’s generosity he might well have
remained a squire all his life. Guy had smiled away Geoffrey’s
profuse thanks for the new equipment.
“You have shown bravery in battle,” Guy said.
“You deserve your knighthood. For my part, I am pleased to have you
in my household. I know you will be faithful.”
It was considered good fortune for a woman to
help with a knight’s first arming, so the day before Geoffrey had
shyly asked Meredith if she would assist in this part of his
initiation.
“I would be honored,” she replied, and then
went to Thomas for secret instructions on how to help Geoffrey with
his chain mail and his sword so that she would not fumble or make a
mistake when the time came.
Immediately following Geoffrey’s knighting
another, simpler, ceremony was held, during which Guy presented
Thomas to the priest to be blessed and then bestowed on Thomas a
squire’s sword and baldric, a beautifully ornamented belt, to hold
his sword.
“Though you are a year younger than most
squires,” Guy said before all those assembled in the chapel, “You
have shown unusual bravery in the face of danger, and I know of
your private acts of kindness toward those less fortunate than
yourself. You have served me well as page. I believe you will be as
fine a squire. If you are mutually agreeable, I would see you
attached to Sir Geoffrey’s service, to serve him until it is time
for your own knighting.”
There could be no doubt that this plan was
pleasing to both parties. Newly made knight and his young squire
were grinning at each other.
“When I am twenty-one,” Thomas solemnly told
Meredith later, “Uncle Guy will knight me in that same chapel where
he knighted Geoffrey.”
“If God is willing it should be so,” added
Reynaud, coming up behind them. “We are all proud of you, Thomas.
Just as a knight may earn his spurs on the field of battle, so you
have earned the right to be a squire. I congratulate you.”
“Thank you, Master Reynaud.” Thomas went off
to attend Sir Geoffrey, and Reynaud turned to Meredith.
“What will you do now?” he asked. “You will
not return to your old home?”
“Sir Guy will not allow me to leave Afoncaer
to live elsewhere. I suppose,” Meredith said wryly, thinking of her
latest argument with him on the subject only the day before, “that
I shall become a kitchen wench.”
“I doubt that will be allowed either. I know
you can read a little.”
“Only a very little. Rhys taught me. I can
also speak Welsh, English and French, but I can read only the
French.”
“Would you like me to teach you to read more?
Until some permanent provision is made for you, you could be useful
to me. To my work,” Reynaud amended hastily.
“I would like it very much. I have a book
that belonged to Rhys. Perhaps you can teach me to read it. But,
Reynaud, I do not want to spend all my days poring over
manuscripts. I am a healer. Since Sir Guy will not free me to go
forth on my own, I would prefer to be in the stillroom making what
medicines I can there, or else attending to those who need my
skills here inside the castle.”
“You can do both,” Reynaud assured her.
“There is sufficient time in every day. If you are willing, I will
speak to Sir Guy about this, but it must be tomorrow, not today. We
are called to the table.”
The feast arranged to celebrate Geoffrey’s
knighting was magnificent. The new cook, under Joan’s tactful
supervision, had shown what he could do, preparing many fancy meat
pies and other pastries in addition to the usual stuffed and
roasted game birds, venison, and suckling pigs. The last of the
harvest was being gathered in, so there were still plenty of fresh
greens for salads, and for vegetable stews spiced with calendula
petals, parsley, garlic, and sage. Barrels of wine were broached,
the acrid taste of the wine sweetened with honey and the expensive
addition of those exotic new spices from the East, cinnamon and
cloves, as well as local herbs, to make the drink more palatable.
The guests ate and drank all day, until the early November dusk had
fallen.
When the revelers had finally gone home or
rolled themselves into blankets to sleep in the great hall, Guy
took Meredith’s hand and led her into the cold, misty night, and
then up the spiral stairs to the lord’s private chamber. She had by
now spent more than a few nights in this room with him, and the
place always delighted her.
“I like it here,” Meredith said. “I used to
come up here before the tower was finished, to look out over your
lands.”
“I remember.” His arms were around her, her
face pressed against his heart. She had meant to talk to him yet
again about her future and her need to continue in her healing work
outside the castle confines, but his nearness sent her thoughts and
careful arguments spinning away into empty air, until all she was
aware of was Guy and her love for him, of his mouth on hers, and
his hands, those large, square hands that could be so gentle and so
strong, tantalizing her, stroking her flesh, driving her wild for
complete union with him, until he picked her up and laid her on his
bed and took her in ecstatic abandon.
“Meredith.” She heard his breathless gasp
through pulsing waves of pleasure given and received, not fully
comprehending his words until later. “Meredith, I love you, love
you.”
“I love you, Guy. I’ve always loved you. I
always will.” Her lips moved without her conscious thought. The
words came directly from her heart and her spirit.
After, when they lay quietly, their legs
still entangled and his arms holding her more gently, she thought
about those words.
“It’s impossible,” she whispered. “I must go
from Afoncaer before my heart is broken.” She did not add that it
would break her heart to go.
“I won’t let you leave me.” She felt his arms
tighten convulsively. “I need you. Stay here at the castle under my
protection. You are free to do your work. There are enough injuries
and illnesses to keep you busy, and anyone from outside Afoncaer
who seeks your help may come to you here.” He kissed her, a long,
slow, tender kiss. “I need you beside me,” he whispered, but he did
not ask her to marry him. She knew he never would. She was
base-born, of unwed parents. The Lord of Afoncaer must marry a
noblewoman, some great heiress perhaps, who would bring her husband
lands and wealth and more titles to add to those Guy already
held.
If she did as he wished, and stayed at
Afoncaer as his mistress, what would happen to her when he did
marry? What wife would accept her husband’s mistress under the same
roof, not to mention the children who would be the inevitable
result of such a liaison? As for herself, how would she ever be
able to bear the nights when he went to another woman, as he must,
to get a legal heir? She felt Guy stir, then settle himself more
comfortably beside her. She did not know his thoughts were as
anguished as her own.
Meredith had brought him a peace and
completion he had never experienced before. With her he was no
longer lonely. He wanted her with him permanently, but he could not
ask her to marry him. There was no place for love in a Norman
baron’s life. As Guy had once told Walter, a wife should be chosen
for the dowry she would bring and for her ability to provide heirs,
not because her husband had passionate thoughts toward her.
And always, always, in the back of Guy’s
mind, tormenting him ceaselessly, lay the question of who Thomas’s
father was. It was intolerable to Guy to think that he might once
have lain with Isabel. But if Lionel had not fathered the boy, and
if he, Guy, were not the father either, then Thomas, much as Guy
loved him, was no true heir to either Afoncaer or Adderbury. In
that case, Guy had an obligation to marry and provide legitimate
sons of his own to carry on his family’s line.
Guy’s unhappiness deepened during the next
weeks. Any contentment he might have felt now that Afoncaer was
safe was dissipated by his two beloved problems, Meredith and
Thomas.
It was Reynaud who dared to challenge him on
the subject of Meredith. Reynaud had been writing a steady stream
of messages and reports to King Henry ever since Walter and Isabel
had left Afoncaer. Guy assumed all the writing had to do with the
attempt to take Afoncaer from him.
“What are you going to do about Meredith?”
Reynaud asked, catching him by surprise one afternoon. “Everyone at
Afoncaer knows you lie with her nightly, yet she has no official
position here. There are those who look down on Meredith and treat
her unkindly, saying she is no more than a temporary bedfellow.
Others resent you taking a woman they regard as one of their own
kind – and a very special one, at that, because of her relationship
to Rhys – and using her for lewd purposes.”
“There is nothing lewd about my association
with Meredith,” Guy retorted sharply, knowing in his heart that he
had brought upon his love that very shame he had once wanted to
spare her. Guy felt guilty and thus belligerent.
“My lord,” Reynaud said, “you have done much
to make peace between the Welsh who live on your domain and the new
settlers you have brought in, and you yourself are regarded as an
honest man. Here in this small portion of borderland there is a
chance for peace and for prosperity for everyone under your rule.
Do not disrupt the peace you yourself have established by keeping
Meredith as your mistress. You must either marry her or send her
away.”
“Marry?” Guy stared at him in horror. “I will
never marry. Thomas is my heir.” Even as he spoke, a voice in his
mind said,
but you may have to marry if Thomas is neither your
son, nor Lionel’s.
Reynaud looked at him narrowly, and Guy knew
the architect was thinking of Isabel’s parting words. At least the
man had sense enough to keep silent about that. Reynaud could be
trusted.
“Thomas is but mortal, my lord,” Reynaud said
quietly, providing yet another reason for Guy to marry. “I have
learned enough of your personal history to understand how your
mother and your sister-in-law have turned you against the idea. But
you need a legitimate heir of your own getting. Afoncaer needs a
chatelaine to manage it. You need a wife.”
“Meredith is not noble, and she is
illegitimate.”
“So was Sir Brian illegitimate, but that did
not prevent him from achieving knighthood, and becoming a hero.
Branwen told me that Meredith is the child of a Norman baron.”
“The difference between Meredith and Brian is
this, Reynaud. Brian’s father acknowledged his son, gave him
support, and raised him to be a knight. Meredith has grown up wild,
with no gentle schooling.”
“Do you love her any the less for that? Oh,
yes, I know you love her. Thanks to Rhys and Branwen, Meredith is
better taught than most noblewomen. With Joan’s help she would soon
learn to manage your household. As for the dowry, you are rich
enough to overlook it.”
“The king would never allow it.”
“Ask him. If you wish, I will myself write a
letter suggesting that you marry the lady. I can say such a
marriage would have a calming effect upon your Welsh subjects.
Henry would like that.”
“For a man sworn to celibacy, you are
remarkably persistent about urging others to marry,” Guy said
dryly.
“I am concerned for you, my lord. And for
Meredith. She does not deserve public scorn.”
“I will think carefully about what you have
said, Reynaud. Content yourself with that for the present.”
One week later Guy announced he would go to
Westminster for Christmas to meet with King Henry, who had just
returned from Normandy, and to make a personal report to the king
about Walter’s attempt to take Afoncaer. Reynaud, without being
bidden to do so, wrote his own account of recent events at
Afoncaer, including in it high praise of the bravery of one
Meredith, daughter of the late Lord Ranaulf of Kelsey in Mercia, a
minor baron under Henry’s brother, King William Rufus.
Guy reached London in the middle of December
and was granted a private appointment with the king, scheduled for
three days later. He used the time he must wait to renew old
friendships and catch up on court gossip. News of Walter’s
treachery had circulated freely, and Guy was pleased to learn, as
his friends discussed it, that Walter’s brother, Baldwin, taking
his duties as custodian seriously, had confined both Walter and
Isabel to a limited area of his estates in Brittany.
The talk of Walter and Isabel brought up once
more the tormenting question that would not leave Guy alone. He had
to know who Thomas’s father was. He considered a voyage to Brittany
to confront Isabel, but discarded the idea. The weather was
unusually bad, and passage across the Narrow Sea was severely
curtailed until the seas had calmed. He told himself he would not
have believed anything Isabel might have said, anyway.
If only there were someone in London, in
Westminster Palace perhaps, who could help him. He thought about
that night again, trying to recall everything he knew, anyone who
had been near Isabel’s bedchamber. Isabel’s maidservant Agnes had
been sent away to sleep in the women’s quarters. She probably would
have known nothing, and in any case, she had died of lung
congestion shortly after reaching Afoncaer. Lionel, too, was dead.
That left himself, Isabel, and Kate the kitchen wench, object of
his youthful fancy. Kate, who had repulsed him over and over again
after that night. Kate, who just might remember, and tell him the
truth. If he could find her again after all these years.
He made his way to Westminster Palace, to the
kitchen where once he had spent so much time watching the beautiful
girl with the orange-red hair and the freckled nose, and there he
began his inquiries. No one remembered a youthful Kate, until, in
near despair, Guy asked a gnarled old man who was bringing in
buckets of water from the well in the courtyard. The man looked
vaguely familiar to him.