Simon's Lady (6 page)

Senlis admirably suppressed his smile. “Very true!” he agreed lightly. “But that is only a mildly offensive remark, Simon, even by my standards. What else did you say that Gwyneth objected to?”

Beresford had a sudden vision of violet eyes and felt an alien sensation pass through him—a bout of weakness, perhaps, or the sigh that comes with the ethereal effect of a fragile line of poetry. He said harshly, “I was not able to determine whether she grieves for her husband.”

Senlis nodded in understanding. “That would be difficult to determine in all events, I think, Simon.”

“On the other hand, I was able to determine that she is not carrying his child.”

Senlis’s expression fell comically. “You
what?”
he demanded.

“I discovered that she is not carrying her late husband’s child,” Beresford repeated.

Senlis asked slowly, “And did you discover such a thing, mayhap, by asking her?”

“How else was I to know?”

Senlis’s oath was inventive and profane. “There are a hundred and one ways to discover the answer to such a delicate question without asking the lady herself!” He delivered several more irreverent phrases, shook his head, then asked with some exasperation, “And this line of inquiry came after your unfortunate remark about Johanna?”

“No, it came before.”

“Gwyneth was still speaking to you after that?” Senlis asked, amazed. He took a moment to absorb that information then uttered a pithy, “Well! I did not know at first whether your Gwyneth was not, perhaps, too….” He did not complete his thought, but said, “Instead, it seems she has great fortitude, for throughout the entire conversation, her face betrayed nothing but serenity from what I could see. Or perhaps,” he continued reflectively, “she did not properly understand you. Could it be, as you first suspected, that she is simple?”

“Ha!” Beresford said, almost bitterly. He was a man who could recognize his mistakes.

“Well, Simon,” Senlis said, “you seem to have made a mess of it.”

“How so, Geoffrey?” Beresford challenged. “What is so wrong with what I asked? You think that I was going to let Stephen—or Adela—maneuver me into accepting a woman who was carrying the brat of one of Henry’s followers? Is that what you think?”

Senlis thought many things, but he cut to the heart of the matter. “I think she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

Beresford stopped dead in his tracks and grasped the tunic of his friend, as he had earlier in the council room.

Senlis still dared his flippant tones. “Ah, no, Simon! Let me tell you, since you are in dire need of a lesson in manners, that it is very bad form to threaten the life of a good friend twice in one day! And while I am about the grand task of trying to tame you into near-human behavior, allow me to put a word in your ear. Subtlety— Do you know what it means?”

Beresford pulled himself together. The poetic feeling had passed. So too had Senlis’s flippant mood, judging from his face when Beresford did not release him.

“Shall you put words in my mouth and teach me to speak just as my wife-to-be has done?” Beresford said in none too pleasant a tone. “I do know the meanings of some words, my friend, and I will now indulge my penchant for plain speaking. A threat is a violent action that is not necessarily acted upon. Permit me to tell you that I never threaten.”

Adela sat straight in the chair in her solar and did not reveal her satisfaction at the news she was receiving from her councilors, with whom she met every day just before supper.

In the year since she had unofficially succeeded Queen Mathilda, she had made few political mistakes, for the simple reason that she could not afford the luxury of making them. Stephen’s hold on his throne was being weakened from within by the increasingly quarrelsome earls of the realm and threatened from without by the Conqueror’s great-grandson Henry, who had his eye on the English throne and his feet on English soil. Adela had room only for wise decisions. She would have been greatly satisfied if Cedric of Valmey had agreed to marry Gwyneth of Northumbria, but he had turned the idea down flat. Adela did not press the issue, knowing that Rosalyn, her most reliable source of information, would object.

She thought she had recouped brilliantly in choosing Simon of Beresford as Gwyneth’s bridegroom. It was true that Beresford had taken badly to the idea, but Adela had reckoned on his displeasure and had calculated to temper it, if necessary, with the bestowal of the Northumbrian earldom.

Although she knew that Beresford’s elevation would be viewed with envy by several of the barons, she also knew that the grumbling could not be too great, for Beresford’s loyalty was well known and his reward justifiable. From the reports she was receiving, she was reassured that Beresford’s new honor was being met with general approval in the castle. Adela had good reason to be pleased with her day’s work.

She was pleased, as well, when Gwyneth of Northumbria was announced at the queenly bower and ushered into the room by two ladies-in-waiting. At her entrance, Adela summarily dismissed her councilors, rose from her chair and moved forward.

“Thank you for coming, as I requested, my dear,” she said, her hands outstretched to grasp Gwyneth’s. “Let me look at you.” She stood at arm’s length. “Very lovely. Yes, very lovely. Perfect for this evening.”

Adela, indeed, approved of Gwyneth’s appearance. The young woman had left Northumbria with little clothing, so Adela had provided her with a dark blue kirtle, over which she wore a light blue linen bliaut that laced at the sides and fit closely to her hips, flaring out below. The pretty woven -leather belt that Gwyneth had passed twice round her waist and knotted in front was her own, but she had no jewelry, nor did Adela intend for her to wear any until she remarried. Particularly satisfying was the change in Gwyneth’s hair. Adela had provided her with a plain circlet and a small round veil as a replacement for the snood, and this proper headdress made the young woman look less Norse and more Norman.

Gwyneth thanked her hostess modestly for the compliment while Adela led her to a wide window seat piled luxuriously with pillows and cushions. “Lady Chester has already informed me,” Adela said, “that your initial meeting with Simon of Beresford went exceeding well. Now I would like an account of the event from your lips.”

“It went very well,” Gwyneth agreed in her lilting accent. “But as for a precise account, I would not know where to begin.”

“You might begin by telling me whether you are in any way displeased with your husband-to-be,” Adela suggested gently. To the nearest lady-in-waiting, she requested that two cups of wine and a bowl of nuts be brought then she drew Gwyneth down next to her on the gaily-striped cushions. Lowering her voice in a conspiratorial tone, she said, “The matter is not cast in stone until the wedding vows are spoken, you know.”

She saw Gwyneth pause a moment before replying demurely, “Displeased with him? No, madam.”

Adela smiled encouragingly. “Are you pleased by him, then?” she prodded.

Gwyneth lowered her thick, blond lashes. “I am pleased to accept your choice of husband for me,” she replied, ever demure.

This was not the response Adela was angling for, and she wished she could have seen into the young woman’s eyes. “Very proper,” she confined herself to saying. Hoping to coax Gwyneth into revealing her feelings, she ventured, “Simon of Beresford has many fine qualities.”

“Oh, yes, I am sure that he does,” Gwyneth replied.

“He is strong and rich,” Adela continued, “although he is not one to display his wealth.” She paused long enough to take a cup of wine from the tray held by the lady-in -waiting and to gesture invitingly toward Gwyneth. “And he is kind.”

Gwyneth took the cup and raised her eyes. In the benign light of the dying day, Adela found herself looking straight into a limpid, limitless violet that told her nothing of Gwyneth’s thoughts.

“I have seen that he is strong,” Gwyneth said sweetly, “and I believe you when you say that he is rich. However, I have too slight an acquaintance with him to know yet whether he is kind.”

Adela laughed once, musically. “You may as well state that his manners are harsh and that his social graces are few!” she said humorously, switching tactics. “Such a man is our Simon! But I assure you that he is honorable and that beneath his ragged manners beats a warm heart.”

Gwyneth nodded acquiescently, and Adela felt the first stirrings of dissatisfaction with her day’s work. “But you are not drinking, my dear,” she said, noting Gwyneth’s untouched wine. “It will relax you after the excitement of the day.”

Thus commanded to drink, Gwyneth obeyed.

“Now that I have mentioned Beresford’s rather blunt ways,” Adela continued, keeping her tone light, “I must say that they were in full evidence earlier today in the council room. A number of barons were present when I bestowed upon Sir Simon the privilege of marrying you, and in his surprise, he reacted without thinking!” Her voice was cozily confidential. “You, dear Gwyneth, know how rumors can scurry throughout a castle, becoming more distorted with every telling. The ones circulating about Sir Simon that so closely concern you are bound to come to your ears, and I did not want you to be distressed, my dear, if you were to hear that Sir Simon was not happy with the match.”

Gwyneth replied with an openness that gave her words the ring of truth. “You need not worry about untoward rumors of such a nature coming to my ears, madam, for Sir Simon told me himself that he was against the marriage.”

Adela was mightily displeased by this information, but had enough experience not to show it. She had not thought it necessary to speak to Beresford alone before he met his bride, figuring that Gwyneth would win him over with her beauty. She did not know what ailed the man, but she made a mental note to meet with Beresford immediately before supper.

Before replying, she fortified herself with a leisurely sip of wine and encouraged Gwyneth again to do the same. Then she set down her cup and matched Gwyneth’s openness with a pleasant candor of her own. “Our Simon, again!” She shook her head in affectionate dismay and chuckled. “I shall make a point of having you visit Beresford at his home in town tomorrow. You will have a very different impression of him when you see him in his element. Your feelings will undergo a measurable change for the better.”

Adela paused. The young woman’s obvious retort would have been, ‘Ah, madam, it is not
my
feelings about the marriage that need to improve, but those of my husband-to -be, who has expressed his displeasure at the match.’

Instead, Gwyneth said nothing. She merely nodded. Adela waited another moment for a response, and when Gwyneth glanced at her modestly and expectantly, as if waiting for the next topic, Adela felt her dissatisfaction grow into frustration. For all her skill at eliciting valuable information from the unsuspecting, Adela was baffled by Gwyneth. She could not determine whether the young woman was remarkably docile or exceptionally smart.

Adela sensed that her plans could go awry if she did not realize them soon. “Everyone will feel better, I am sure, when the date for the wedding is set,” she said with a smile. “I will have it announced at supper this evening, when the toasts to your happiness are made.”

So saying, Adela rose, thereby bringing the brief conversation to its conclusion. She touched her hand to her forehead and said, “Ah, but I have just bethought myself of a task left undone.” She turned toward one of her ladies. “Marta, I pray you, escort our guest to the hall for supper.” Turning back to Gwyneth, she said, “I will follow shortly. You will understand if I am unable to accompany you there myself just now, won’t you, my dear?”

****

Gwyneth understood perfectly. She had held no illusions before the summons to the king’s consort’s solar and held none now. When Adela had opened the discussion with, “The matter of your marriage is not cast in stone until the wedding vows are spoken, you know,” Gwyneth had not been deceived into thinking that she had the power of refusal. When Adela had brought up the little matter of the rumor circulating that Simon of Beresford was not well pleased with the match, Gwyneth had grasped the true reason she had been honored with an invitation to the private chambers: Adela had wished to forestall a potential scandal and avoid an openly unwilling bride. Gwyneth had seized upon the occasion to reaffirm Beresford’s opposition to the scheme, and although her ploy might not undo the match, she was not sorry to have tried. Not for anything would she have revealed her own fears for her future, for she had lived with Canute too long to ever expose weakness. And her tongue was
never
loosened by strong drink.

Accompanied by Marta, Gwyneth arrived back at the great hall, where preparations for the lighter of the two daily meals were going forward. Even in this warm weather, low fires mulled on the hearths of the wide fireplaces that faced one another across the length of the room, chasing any chill and damp. Pages were setting up the trestle tables and benches and arranging the silver spoons and cups of horn. Servants with bronze ewers circulated throughout the hall so that the nobles could wash their hands.

Upon stepping into the activity, Gwyneth felt a calm that came from knowing the worst of her fate. A glance around the room confirmed that Beresford was not there. She did not have a moment to feel at a loss in this gathering of strangers, for several women came up to her, friendly and curious. She had hardly been introduced to them and begun to receive their congratulations when a man joined the group, smooth and smiling, and somehow she found herself separated from the women and alone with him.

“You are Cedric of Valmey,” she stated. The handsome man, dressed in a rich burgundy tunic that enhanced his dark good looks, was standing too close to her, and she took a discreet half step away from him.

He bowed and said, “You flatter me, Gwyneth of Northumbria.”

Since she had earlier perceived him to be a man who would think himself irresistible to all women, she did not bother to deflate him by saying that she was hardly likely to have forgotten the one responsible for her captivity. She also refused to blush or simper in apparent confusion. “I did not mean to do so, sire,” she said. She regarded him steadily, a disconcerting trick, she had learned, that sometimes put overbold men at a disadvantage.