Simon's Lady (30 page)

Sir Walter was partially right. Gwyneth was still trying to recover her composure after having seen Beresford’s brush with death. She was also trying to establish within herself what stance to take toward her husband when next they would meet. After his display of courage on the field, she could be no less courageous. She would not demean herself, or dishonor him, by whining or disclaiming any knowledge that his opponent had been Gunnar Erickson. She ached to tell him that she had had nothing to do with the deception on the field, but she did not think that merely telling him so would convince him. He already believed her to be clever at scheming.

Sir Walter moved on. Rosalyn came close enough to have to nod and smile. To Gwyneth’s eye, Lady Chester looked confused and somewhat chastened, which was to say that her crafty confidence seemed to have deserted her. Gwyneth felt a small spurt of pity for the woman, whose only crime was to love a double-crossing rat.

The day’s entertainment was exceedingly fine, although what was usually the climax of the tournament, the melée, was more of an anticlimax. Gwyneth took very little pleasure in this mock-combat exercise carried out in a spirit of comradeship. The knights had divided themselves into contending groups to fight against each other. This time she did not close her eyes to the engagement but fixed them on Beresford’s form as he slashed and thrust and warded off blows. The point of the tourney was to test the strength and skill of the contestants in horsemanship, accuracy of aim and resistance to the shock of impact. In all of these, Gwyneth saw that her husband excelled. It seemed to her that a magic circle surrounded him, preventing harm from befalling him.

The high point came when one knight’s helmet became so battered he had to be escorted from the field and have his head placed on an anvil, where a blacksmith tried to beat the helmet back into shape so it could be removed. This was, naturally, taken to be outstanding proof of the knight’s great valor, because it showed he had been in the thickest part of the fighting and had withstood tremendous blows. On any other day, such an occurrence would have won him top honors. This day, however, belonged to Beresford.

When the sun’s rays began to slant across the earth, when the tourney field had been drubbed into a fine dust and when enough lances had been broken to satisfy the spectators’ desire for extravagant waste, the victorious side was declared by Adela. The return to the Tower could begin. Escorted by her retinue, Gwyneth walked along with the other ladies, half hopeful of seeing Beresford, half fearful to be with him again. She anticipated the pain she would feel at being near him, knowing that she was estranged from his affection. She was, paradoxically, both worried and desirous.

She succeeded in convincing herself that what she felt toward Beresford was a combination of loyalty and shame that her loyalty to him should be in question. She succeeded in denying that she was experiencing new emotions, succeeded in suppressing the giddy, girlish anticipation of being with him again.

Back in the great hall, she met and mingled with her fellow courtiers. Preparations for the evening’s feast and entertainment were going forward. She spoke and laughed and looked discreetly for signs of Beresford’s entrance. She washed her hands and accepted a cup of wine, feeling as she did so that only half her body and soul were present.

She knew the instant he entered the hall. She was standing with her back to him, speaking with several ladies and a few knights who had already cleaned themselves up after the day’s exertions. She felt his presence and turned to look at him. She could not take her eyes off him as he came toward her. The courtiers between them seemed to fall back, leaving his path clear.

His hair was still damp and destined to curl in disorder when dry. He had not shaved for the evening, so his chin was shadowed with stubble. His tunic was unadorned but clean, as were his plain linen shirt and chausses. His stride was sure as ever, making her doubt reports that he had been wounded in his thigh, for she had seen only the blow to his shoulder. As he came toward her, she perceived the rough edges of the man, so much a part of him. She did not feel them bristle her, as she had in the past. They were more like the rays of a fractured nimbus around a man satisfied with his day’s work. They gave him his texture and made him come to life for her.

As he approached, she held her breath, but not from fear. If he intended to denounce her as the one who had set Gunnar Erickson against him, she was prepared. If he intended to spurn her publicly, she was prepared. But she was not prepared for what actually happened.

When he came within feet of her, he stopped. He gazed at her for a moment through hard, gray eyes that held a vast, new dimension, such that when she returned his gaze, she thought she would be lost in it. She nearly gasped when he went down on one knee before her and bowed his head. It was a signal honor to her for all to see and a magnificently submissive gesture that only the least submissive of men could afford. A breathless moment passed before he reached out and took her fingers in his. As he rose, he kissed the back of her hand. She felt his touch all the way up her arm and felt the effect of his courtly kiss like a stab to her heart.

He looked down at her and turned her hand so that he could place her fingertips on the cuff of his shirt. They began to walk. Gwyneth felt her blood beat faster just at being next to him. She basked in the glow of his rough-edged nimbus.

Looking straight ahead, he said, “I had to do it.”

Her nerves were grazed by a charge in the atmosphere. She replied, “I know.”

He nodded. “Perhaps we should take our places at the table.” He gestured not to the central table, but to the first table on the king’s left. Gwyneth could not know that he had adamantly refused Adela’s request that they sit in places of honor at the head table.

They made their way forward decorously. Their conversation was equally decorous. She asked politely, “And have you recovered well, sire?”

He looked down at her with a faint question in his flinty eyes. “Recovered?” His voice, customarily gruff, was low and lazy.

“From your wounds,” she clarified.

His brow lifted slightly in understanding. “My squires attended to them.”

“Ah, yes, that would be Langley,” she replied without thinking, “and—” She broke off.

“Gautier,” he supplied.

The atmosphere crackled, causing her nerves to tingle. “Yes, of course,” she said. The unmentionable name, Breteuil, hung in the air. Was it cowardice, she wondered, that prevented her from telling him the truth? Or worse, fear that he would not believe she had not conspired against him? She gathered her courage and steeled her nerves. She turned to face him. “Let me tell you that—”

The look in his eyes sliced off her words as effectively as his blade had slit Gunnar Erickson’s throat. He evidently did not wish to hear any confessions from her.

The words
I had nothing to do with Gunnar Erickson’s entry into the lists!
died unspoken on her tongue. She swallowed them and tasted ashes.

“Madam?” he inquired after a moment.

Her courage failed her. Her throat closed, this time from unshed tears that some longing within her might never be satisfied. She kept her eyes lowered as she said, “Let me tell you that you were magnificent today on the field.”

He merely grunted. Gwyneth was spared embarrassment, for Geoffrey of Senlis accosted them. “’Magnificent’ does not do justice to your performance, Simon!” he said, clapping Beresford on the back.

Beresford smiled wryly. “Ah, no, Geoffrey? That was not your opinion earlier today.”

Senlis bowed gracefully. “Allow my natural love for you to have overtaken my practiced courtesies.” His voice was teasing, simple and sincere. He rose and looked straight at his friend, and Gwyneth saw in his eyes the light of purest friendship. “You see, Simon, I thought you were going to die.”

“You have no faith in me,” Beresford complained.

“At least admit that the situation looked grave!” Senlis said.

“I will admit no such thing,” Beresford returned. “The man had no skill.”

“So it might have looked to you!” Senlis replied. “To us, it looked rather different! Hardly anyone has spoken of anything since. Why, not a few moments ago, Lancaster pointed out—”

Beresford eyed his friend measuringly. “Perhaps you find this subject interesting. I do not. You perceive that we are headed to this table here, at some remove from what will be the center of activity. I have no wish for idle chatter this evening.”

Senlis took no offense at this rebuff. Instead, he laughed and said, “Not this evening or any evening! That is why I propose to join you for supper—to ward off idle chatter that is sure to come your way!” Senlis turned to Gwyneth and bowed. “That is, if, my lady, you are agreeable to my presence?”

When Senlis straightened, the look in his beautiful blue eyes was complex, yet communicative. Gwyneth saw in their depths a gentle retreat. She saw an acknowledgment of noble and masculine love for her husband. She saw a chivalrous regret that his interest in her could not go beyond friendship.

“Of course, Sire Senlis,” she accepted graciously, “you must certainly sup with us. Here at this end, then, next to me.”

The meal was soon presented. Gwyneth hardly tasted it, for she was too aware of the force of Beresford’s presence to take notice of anything else. Senlis did the job he had taken upon himself and very smoothly deflected all unwanted attentions from Beresford. He maintained any number of idle, uninteresting conversations with the great variety of courtiers who passed by. Only Cedric of Valmey slipped in under Senlis’s guard toward the end of the meal and got to Beresford through Gwyneth.

Leaning against the table, Valrney propped an elbow on the table and leaned close. He smiled charmingly. “And what did you think of your husband’s joust, madam?”

Gwyneth tried to maintain her composure, but her smile was tight. “I told him earlier that his performance was magnificent.”

“Assuredly,” Valmey agreed. “However, I dare to wonder, as an admirer of your husband’s—” here Valmey flicked a glance at Beresford, who was watching him lazily“—whether his opponent was not truly as unskilled as Simon made him look. The poor man displayed no trace of Norman science.” Valmey paused. “Would you have an opinion on that, my lady, acquainted as you are with different practices? Did the poor man display the signs of Northumbrian science?”

“I have no eye for the fine points,” Gwyneth replied, “like many others, I thought the unknown was Renaut of Breteuil.”

“Renaut would have given Simon a better contest, I am sure,” Valmey said with liquid charm.

“Which is why,” Beresford interrupted, “I was disappointed not to meet you in the sixth joust. Will your horse survive the injury it received?”

Valmey drew himself up and regarded Beresford. “I have every hope.”

Beresford nodded. “Then we are sure to meet in the future.”

Valmey bowed his head first to Beresford, accepting his stark challenge, then to Gwyneth, as he courteously withdrew from their table.

Senlis kept the others at bay. Beresford was relaxed and silently watchful of the movements in the hall. Gwyneth was breathless and expectant next to him, all jumping nerves. She was aware of his strong fingers fiddling with the wine cup, aware of his shifts upon the bench, aware of every breath he took, aware of the bones in his body and the layers of muscles covering them.

At last, Beresford turned to her and said, “We shall leave.”

Gwyneth blushed and blurted aloud her thoughts. “You wish to check me for knives?”

Beresford’s gaze became more focused upon her. Her jumping nerves sizzled. For one abysmal moment, she thought he would refuse her.

Of course,” he said, picking up her hand from the table. He brought it to his lips. “What else could I have meant?”

Her blush deepened. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you?”

To cover her embarrassment, she challenged, “Shall I make some suggestions as to what you might have meant?”

He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.” He turned her hand over and cradled it palm up in his own. He traced the outline of her fingers with his.

Her nerves stretched taut. Her thoughts were in a whirl. Her emotions were in confusion. Her body knew just what it wanted. “But you, sire, are an advocate of plain speaking,” she said brazenly. “I would be happy to name the possibilities of what I thought you might wish to do when we leave, in light of today’s events.”

He weighed her hand experimentally, as he had on a previous occasion. Looking at her, one heavy brow cocked, he said, “The more you talk like that, the more the possibilities narrow to one.” He rose and brought her to her feet. He drew her forward so that she was standing against him, their clasped hands lodged chest high. “Which was the one I had in mind from the beginning.” He put his other hand on her hip. “You, too, it seems.”

A thrill shot through her. She wondered, with a surge of desire, how it happened, this evening, that he could be both blunt and subtle at the same time. Or was it always so with him, this man who knew what he wanted, but who did not always state it outright?

Anger and pique mingled with her embarrassment and her desire. She wanted to get the better of him somehow. She did not move away. She pulled her head back to look up and asked defiantly, “Do you dare?”

He smiled. “You have seen enough today to know what I dare. And this,” he added, “is different.”

It was her turn to ask, “Is it?”

He took the hand he held and moved it behind her back. He raised his other hand from her hip, grasped her free hand and joined it with the other. With one hand he manacled her wrists. His other hand he placed at her throat.

“My lance is not faulty for this round,” he said.

Her cheeks flamed. That was blunt enough. Or subtle enough. She did not know which, for her own mind was in a whirl. Before the misty, musky gauze of desire for him veiled her reason, she decided that he must like using the flat blade of danger to whet sharp edges of his desire and hers.