Almost Innocent (29 page)

Guy stood looking down at her. He was smiling, but shadows lurked in his eyes. The deep shadows of knowledge, of the expectation of the pain of loss. How long would it be before John of Gaunt declared his daughter widowed? And even when he had done so, Guy de Gervais could not expect to be gifted with the prize. He had received one wife from his overlord, and the wealth and power that accompanied that union. He was owed no more, and, in truth, there was nothing he had to offer his overlord as inducement that Lancaster did not already have from his vassal.

He drew the bedcurtains to shield her from the
candlelight and went back to the table, straightening the crumpled papers, inhaling the scent of her, feeling her body warmth beneath his fingers. Such sensations were not conducive to work, but he drew the candlestick closer and sat down.

M
AGDALEN AWOKE FILLED
with the sense that something wonderful was going to happen. She had felt like this once or twice as a child, but usually without adequate reason, she reflected without undue resentment. Now, she lay for a second before she remembered. The Sieur Charles d’Auriac was leaving today. Her spirit lifted as if the burdens of the world were gone from her. She and Guy would be alone once again.

He was sleeping heavily beside her, and she could see from the guttered candle and the still glowing fire that he had sat up long into the night. Her body still burned with the memory of what he had done for her, what he had given her before she had so selfishly fallen asleep and left him to his papers.

Propping herself on an elbow, she leaned over him, gazing at his face in the dim gray light of dawn. In sleep, the tautness of mouth and jaw was absent, giving his mouth a full, well-shaped curve that invited kisses. Red-gold hair waved thickly on his broad forehead, and she wanted to brush it aside, trace the thick line of his eyebrows, kiss the tip of his nose. But she did none of those things, unwilling to disturb his sleep, not even to repay some of the pleasure he had given to her. She would repay the debt with interest soon enough.

She lay down beside him again, but her blood was dancing, her muscles quivering with the urge to be up and doing on a day that seemed to promise only the very best of things. Silently, she slipped from the bed, drew on her robe, and left by the inner door, her heart skipping at the thought that in a few short hours she would see the last of the loathsome man she was obliged to call cousin.

In her own apartments, she leaped into the unslept-in bed for form’s sake and rang the bell for her women.

“I am ravenous,” she greeted them without preamble. “I would break my fast with coddled eggs and meat, and I will bathe this morning.”

“Yes, my lady,” Erin said placidly, well aware that the appetites of pregnant women were unpredictable and should always be indulged. “Margery will fetch food and have hot water brought up from the kitchen.”

She went into the adjoining privy chamber to assemble bath necessities, and Magdalen jumped from the cold bed and followed her.

“Sprinkle lavender on the water, Erin.”

“I always do, my lady,” the woman said as placidly as before. “I understand the visitors are to leave this day.”

“Yes, indeed!” Magdalen affirmed with an enthusiasm she realized was not entirely appropriate in front of Erin.

“There’ll be some sorry to go,” Erin said with a chuckle, taking soap and towels from the chest.

“Why, how should that be?”

“Young Berthe, my lady,” Erin said. “The laundress in the
sieur’s
company. Fancies herself in love with my lord’s servant, Olivier.” She shook her head, her mouth pursed. “Can’t imagine what she sees in him. Scrawny little man, he is, always creeping around and turning up when he’s least expected. But they say he’s smitten with the wench, too.”

Magdalen’s nose wrinkled. She could not imagine finding any member of her cousin’s party in the least appealing. She wandered back to her bedchamber just as Margery came in with a tray. Hungrily, she took a mutton chop from the platter and began to chew on it while continuing to drift from privy chamber to bedchamber, from wardrobe to window.

“You’re very restless, lady,” Margery observed. “It must be the child, quickening.”

“I feel nothing as yet,” Magdalen mumbled through a mouthful of mutton, patting the small swell of her belly. “Did you bring buttermilk?”

Margery handed her the cup, and she drained the contents with a satisfied gulp.

“Your bath is ready, my lady,” Erin announced. “Will we wash your hair?”

“Yes, certainly.” Magdalen stepped into the round wooden bath. For some reason, she felt the need to start the day fresh and clean, all traces of the last twelve days washed from her skin and hair, so that when Charles d’Auriac rode from her gates, she would be left cleansed of anything that might remind her of his touch, of that dark and slimy aura that had sullied her during his visit.

When she appeared in the great hall two hours later, however, she gave no indication of her intemperate joy, unless it was in the added sparkle in her eyes, a certain coiled expectancy in her body. Dressed in emerald velvet and an ermine-trimmed surcote, her hair hanging down her back in heavy, gleaming plaits threaded with pearls, she took d’Auriac’s breath away as he became immediately aware of her suppressed excitement. For some reason, he did not associate the excitement with his impending departure—a mistake Guy de Gervais did not make.

Guy’s heavy eyes were matched with a heaviness of spirit that he could not explain except in terms of a too short night. But he had spent many such nights in his life, many nights where sleep of any duration was absent, and had felt not the least ill effect. He looked at the radiant Magdalen, remembering her joy of the previous evening. She certainly had the air of a satisfied woman this morning. Maybe his own restraint and consequent lack of satisfaction lay behind his present disaffection.

“I give you good morrow, my lord.” She greeted him with a smile, a hinting, glinting glow in her eyes that told him she too was remembering the artistic experiences
of the previous evening. “We are to bid our guests farewell this day.” She turned to Charles d’Auriac and his knights. “I wish you Godspeed,
mes sieurs
, and a safe journey.”

“My thanks, my lady.” Her cousin bowed slightly, his eyes hooded. “Your mother’s family welcomes you as a de Beauregard, Magdalen of Lancaster.”

A cold shiver lifted the downy hairs on her spine. The words seemed invested with a meaning she could not understand but knew instinctively were sinister. Yet it was a perfectly reasonable courtesy, an acknowledgment of the ties of kinship. She inclined her head, a wintry smile on her lips. “I am of de Bresse now, sir.”

“Ties of diplomacy, cousin. In ties of blood, you are of de Beauregard and Lancaster.”

“Magdalen.” Guy spoke her name quietly. When she turned to him, her relief at his interruption transparent, he gestured to the table where a two-handled emerald-studded hanap stood beside a chased silver pitcher.

She had not forgotten this ritual but was grateful for a reminder that, however unnecessary, had spared her the need to respond to her cousin’s intense declaration. She went to the table and filled the goblet with wine from the jug.

“Cousin, the cup of friendship.” Her tone was neutral as she touched the rim of the chalice with her lips before offering it to her guest.

He took it, drank, and passed it around. Guy took it last, and by then Magdalen’s unease had dissipated under the knowledge that her cousin’s departure could not now be delayed.

They accompanied their guests to the inner court and saw them to their horses, then watched them ride into the outer ward. Magdalen on impulse gathered up her skirts and ran across the court and up the stone steps to the battlement, spurred with the need to see them well gone from her gates.

The heralds blew the exchange of civilities as the party rode forth, standards snapping in the wind, and Magdalen began to dance on the tips of her toes. She ran back to the court, to where Guy still stood. “Oh, come into the orchard,” she demanded. “I must shout my joy to the skies and may not do it here.”

Shaking his head in mock censure, he followed her to the seclusion of the orchard where Magdalen instantly began her prancing dance of delight again.

“He has gone! He has really gone! Oh, I could sing such a song!” She flung her arms wide in a gesture to encompass the earth. “I need never see him again. I
will
never see him again. My heart is so light, my lord, I feel as if I have been carrying the burdens of mankind and they are suddenly lifted from me.” She laughed in pure delight. “Is it not wonderful? Do you not feel wonderfully lighthearted?”

Guy wearily rubbed his temples. “Not really. In truth, you make me feel old.” It was the truth, he realized, at this moment, when she was so full of life and energy and unregarding happiness, made so easily happy by the simple immediate relief of something that had been causing her discomfort. It was the way in which the young and innocent were made happy.

Magdalen stopped her prancing. She regarded him with a frown in her eyes. “Why, how should that be?” Suddenly the frown disappeared, to be replaced with an impish twinkle. “Why, it is because of that silly hat you are wearing. It is indeed a hat for an ancient, not for a man of such strong and youthful mien!”

She jumped suddenly on the tips of her toes and snatched the flat velvet cap from his head. “There now! That is better.” Tossing the hat in the air, she then caught it deftly, laughing at him.

“Give it back, Magdalen.” He held out his hand, unable to respond to her mood.

“No, I shall not!” Still laughing, she danced away
from him. “If you wish for it, my lord, you must catch me first.”

“Magdalen, I have neither the time nor the inclination for this,” he said, irritated now.

Magdalen did not hear the irritation. She was too enwrapped in her own exuberance. She danced behind an apple tree, shaking his cap in taunting invitation, grinning at him from around the trunk.

“I am not in the mood for games,” he warned, snapping his fingers imperatively. “Would you give me my hat, please.”

“Oh, you are just pretending to be a graybeard,” she declared, still convinced she could draw him into her game. She tossed his cap into the branches of the apple tree. “Now see what you have made me do, Master Graybeard.”

With a muttered exclamation, Guy turned on his heel and strode out of the orchard, leaving Magdalen still standing beneath the tree, the laughter dying from her eyes, a sudden tremor on her soft mouth.

She felt embarrassed, as if she had committed some childish solecism and been dismissed by a weary, exasperated guardian. She had miscalculated, she realized, nibbling miserably on her thumbnail, remembering how tired he had looked. Perhaps the strain of d’Auriac’s visit had told on him also, but in different ways. Perhaps he
was
too old to feel the simple exuberance of relief, and she still an annoying babe who had not acquired the gravity and wisdom of experience. Unfortunately, Magdalen didn’t think she wished to acquire those things if such acquisition would mean an absence of the high spirts that she had been feeling. But they had simply led her into trouble, they always had. It was a melancholy reflection.

She looked up into the branches of the apple tree where perched Guy’s burgundy velvet cap, its jeweled pin gleaming against the bare gray bark. An experimental
jump confirmed it was too high to be reached from the ground. She was not dressed for tree climbing and had enough wisdom at least not to attempt that. Disconsolately, she wandered through the orchard in search of a long stick with which to poke it down.

That achieved, she returned to the castle, her pleasure in the day sadly diminished as she wondered how Guy would greet her at dinner. She wasn’t sure which would be worse: that weary disapproval of the orchard, or the overt displeasure that had driven him from her. Maybe she should discover in advance. She turned the velvet cap over in her hands. Returning it would give her a pretext for disturbing him, and maybe he would see it as an apology and put aside his annoyance.

She was about to go in search of him when she saw him crossing the court, deep in conversation with the master of pages. With a resurgence of her embarrassment in the orchard, she put the cap behind her, suddenly shy of being seen publicly holding the evidence of her foolishness. She stood uncertainly in the shadow of the donjon, watching his approach and debating her own.

Guy saw her as his discussion with Master Edward drew to a close. “Some further hours at the quintain should improve the lad’s marksmanship,” he said absently, his eyes on Magdalen. “Use the swinging target. A few thumps from that after an ill-placed lance have been known to improve skills with some rapidity.”

The master of pages chuckled. “You speak truth, my lord. But young Paul’s a timid lad.”

“Then he must learn to overcome his timidity,” Guy said briskly. “It will stand him in bad stead, and he is ill served with too much gentleness.”

Master Edward bowed to the undeniable truth. Ten-year-old boys destined for knighthood had a hard row to hoe, and little would be gained by pandering to their youth and diffidence. Young Paul must learn to handle the great lance on horseback, and if a few unseating
thumps from a heavy flour sack were needed to teach him the consequences of failure, then so be it.

Guy nodded in farewell and strode across the court to where Magdalen was standing. His annoyance had vanished almost as swiftly as it had arisen, and he found himself now curious as to why she should be standing there so still, with her hands behind her back and an air of penitent anxiety that somehow amused him.

“Magdalen? Did you wish to speak to me?” He came up to her, greeting her, one eyebrow raised interrogatively.

“I wished to give you back your hat,” she said, bringing the cap out from behind her back, brushing a dried leaf from the border. “You left it in the orchard.”

“How careless of me,” he said solemnly. “I thank you, my lady, for your attention.” He took it from her, and his eyes laughed at her. “How did you contrive to get it down? It was much too high for you to reach.”