Fires of Winter (20 page)

“The bruises need no salving,” I said softly, “but you are very welcome to look at them—or any other part of me.”

I saw her eyes flash down and widen, and she backed a step away.

“I will not pretend that I do not desire you, Melusine,” I went on. “But you need not fear I will force you either. I am the master of Monsieur Jehan de la Tête Rouge—” I tapped the red head that had pushed its way through the foreskin so she could not mistake of what I spoke, “—not he of me.”

There was a moment's silence, then Melusine swallowed hard and stepped forward, her full lips thinned and her round chin jutting. “Then hold Monsieur hard back, for I think myself a better judge of hurts than you.”

“He is as hard back as he will go,” I protested in a slightly choked voice, and then began to laugh.

“Perhaps those are the wrong words,” Melusine said stiffly. “I know little of such matters.”

That made me laugh even more, and she regarded me warily but continued to walk toward me, and when she was close enough, laid a hand on my black and blue ribs. I could feel her fingers tremble, but her hand was warm, not cold with fear, and she peeped downward once or twice while she felt my ribs. That was enough encouragement to keep my shaft hard and to tempt me to advance my cause. I leaned forward and kissed the bridge of her nose, which was all I could reach, her head being bent. She leapt back like a startled doe.

“You promised—” she gasped, her voice trembling more than her fingers.

“Only not to force you,” I pointed out. “I never said I would not try to make you willing. And you need not look at me as if I were threatening you with torture.”

Indignation chased the fear from her face. “I am not afraid of pain,” she said, much more steadily, and then, her voice shaking again, “I agreed to a truce, not to a true marriage.”

“As for pain, I do not think I would hurt you if you were willing—or, at worst, only a little and for a short time. As for marriage—will you or nill you, Melusine,” I reminded her, “we are truly married. For better or for worse, I am your husband. I would prefer that it be better between us.”

She swallowed hard again. “It may be better for you if we couple. I do not think it would be better for me.”

I shrugged. The talk and my inner knowledge that she was not yet ready to yield to me had reduced the urgency of my desire, but I was not looking forward to lying beside her without satisfaction for three more nights, or even one more. “Do you think you can be ready to leave tomorrow?” I asked as I got into bed. “Last Monday the king said we were to go in a week, but if the letters I am to carry have been written, I cannot see why we should not leave sooner.”

The tense alertness of a creature poised to flee relaxed, and Melusine sounded more natural, even tart. “If you will tell me how much to take and how you intend it to be carried, I can be ready in a few hours.”

“What do you mean, how much to take?”

“Is the bed ours?” Melusine countered reasonably. “The bedding?”

“Good God, I never thought of them,” I admitted, drawing Melusine's pillows to me so I could prop myself upright. “I think they are only lent by the king and queen. I will ask.”

She made a moue of distaste, which made me wonder whether she hated Maud and Stephen so much that it offended her to lie in a bed they owned, but her next remark offered a different interpretation for the expression. “I hope they are lent, but we still have the chests, which must go in a cart and that will make for slow travel. And—and I do not wish to sit in a cart like baggage.”

The last sentence was almost a plea. “You ride?” I asked, feeling blank.

I realized I had never thought of all the difficulties when I asked Stephen for permission to take Melusine with me. One thing I had not considered was how to get her to Jernaeve. I could not take her pillion on Barbe; he was not accustomed and was too nervous a horse to take a chance. But to give her the freedom of riding a horse of her own might be a temptation too great for a woman's promise.

“Yes, yes I do,” she said eagerly, and then, as if she had read the doubt in my face, “and I will not try to run away. I swear I will not.” In her earnestness she came to the bed and put out her hand, as she had when she had sworn truce.

“Very well, you shall ride,” I agreed, glad to make it seem that I was doing her a favor.

In reality I could see no other way of getting to Jernaeve, doing the king's business, and still finding time to visit Ulle. But even if Melusine rode well, that still left the problem of what to do with those things that could not be taken with us. In the past, my baggage had always gone with the king's, and before I came to court I never had more than could be carried in a blanket roll behind Barbe's saddle.

“But we will not be able to leave tomorrow,” I went on. “I will have to make arrangements to store the chests and whatever else we do not take. There is no chance the king will remain here long, and I do not wish to burden anyone with the responsibility for our possessions.”

Melusine nodded. “It is better to have a home to which possessions can be sent and faithful servants who will see that they arrive safely.”

Our eyes met. “As soon as I can,” I agreed and then, cautiously, “if you can bear to live there.”

I had taken Melusine's hand when she promised not to flee from me and she had not withdrawn it. Now her grip tightened on mine, and I drew her closer and put an arm around her.

“I do not know.” Her voice quavered, but she steadied it. “I think about it often, and it seems to grow less painful. When we are there, if I cannot bear it…” She buried her face in my shoulder. “I do not know what I will do. Papa would be so angry…”

I did not make any direct reply. What could I say except that her father was dead and would not care at all—and that might hurt her more than believing he did care. I stroked her hair for a minute and then bade her softly to make ready for bed, turning her gently so I could untie and unlace her bliaut. She pulled away before I was quite finished, thanking me in a choked voice and saying she could finish for herself, and all but ran to the other side of the room. I was puzzled by Melusine's change of mood, for she had come into my arms herself, and I had made no sexual gesture that could frighten her. Still, I knew she could not be pushed further that day, so I tossed her pillows back to her side of the bed and lay down with my back to her to give her privacy to finish undressing.

It was as well that I had realized I would have too much to do to leave the following day. When I arrived in the king's antechamber at dawn, there were already petitioners waiting, each pressing to be heard first, if not by right of earliest arrival then by right of the urgency of their business. And long before the king was ready to see anyone at all, the bishops of Winchester and Salisbury came in, both with sour downturned mouths. To give Stephen a little warning, I remarked after I told him they were waiting, that perhaps we should not have spent quite so much time in the chase, but he seemed at first not to want to understand, laughing and clapping me on the shoulder.

“I am delighted that your wife already finds your presence so necessary to her that she quarrels with you over your absence,” he said. Then I saw he understood very well because he added, “My ministers do not have the same excuse but seem to feel the same way—or say they feel the same way while they urge me to give them the power to rule my country without me altogether.”

My chest tightened with anxiety. That sounded as if Stephen suspected Winchester and Salisbury of wishing to overthrow his rule. I could not be sure about Salisbury, but it could not be true of Winchester; he was Stephen's brother.

“It is not that they wish to restrict your pleasure,” I offered, trying to seem unaware of the direction the king's remark pointed. “The bishops fear, because of the recent troubles, that you might be drawn away again to defend your throne before necessary business is done. I am sure that if you explained carefully that they can trust the queen—”

“They do not wish to trust Maud,” Stephen said in a peculiar voice. “They want the power themselves, so they look for problems, not solutions.”

He was, I thought, partly resentful and partly uncertain, and I would have been hard put to find an answer that would not have deepened his resentment. All I could think was that King Henry had trusted Salisbury to rule England for many years at a time and few had complained of the bishop's management—and that answer would only have made Stephen angrier. Fortunately he did not wait for me to speak, gesturing irritably during his last few words for me to bring Salisbury and Winchester in.

I was surprised to see that Stephen had smoothed the anger from his face in the few minutes it took me to fetch the bishops into his bedchamber, and he greeted them with a jest about trying to escape a scolding for running away from his duties by seeing them before he was truly awake. Both smiled at once, making me wonder if their sour looks had been owing to expectations of an unpleasant greeting rather than irritation with Stephen for hunting. It might be, I thought, recalling that stiff, uncomfortable dinner the day after my wedding. Winchester pressed the king's shoulder gently, saying that Stephen deserved a few days' rest. But Salisbury, although he looked quite benign, remarked that King Henry had loved the hunt also and found it restored the balance of his mind.

I held my breath until Stephen replied. Considering his earlier mood, I feared he might become angry at what I took to be a subtle reprimand. But the king only agreed and said blandly that he supposed he might have inherited much from his uncle and then smilingly asked why they had rushed to see him before he broke his fast if they had not come because great numbers of pressing affairs had arisen in the few days of his absence.

“One affair is pressing enough,” Salisbury said. “I would like to send a royal messenger to King David this very morning with terms for a treaty.”

“It was David who was defeated,” Stephen remarked, suddenly standing, turning his back, and throwing off his bedrobe. A squire leapt forward, holding out a pair of chausses and another came with a shirt. “Why should I hurry to send terms to him? That would seem as if I doubted Aumale's ability to take back the royal castles from David's men.” His voice was muffled as he drew on his clothing.

“I am sure King David will not think you doubt Aumale,” Winchester said. “He will believe that you wish to save fruitless bloodshed on both parts. Stephen, I know David. You will have more leverage with him if he believes a treaty will save his men's lives than—”

“Save their lives for what?” Stephen interrupted bitterly, turning to face his brother, his hair tousled from pulling his shirt down. “So David can gather them and bring them down on me again? Let them die. When he is too weak to fight, he will sign what I want him to sign as meekly as he did for King Henry.”

Winchester looked shocked. “But our men will die too,” he protested uncertainly.

“I am sorry for that,” Stephen replied, gesturing away the squire who was trying to slip under his arm and tie his shirt at the neck without interfering with the conversation, “but David's losses are more important than mine in the north.” He paused and then went on, his voice sharp with exasperation, “Henry, do you not see that I cannot call a levy on the northern shires as long as David is strong so that losses among those men do not weaken me. God knows, I wish they were at peace and not dying, but—”

“Then let us at least try,” Winchester urged. “I tell you, I know David. If he can be brought to sign a treaty and swear he will no longer support Matilda's cause, he will keep that treaty.”

“Perhaps.” Stephen shrugged.

“My lord, there is another reason for offering a treaty now,” Salisbury put in before Winchester could insist again that King David was a man who kept his oaths. “We hope, as you do, that Robert of Gloucester will not be able to find entry into England and that the unrest caused by his defiance is at an end, but if rebellion should burst out again, there will be far less chance of bringing King David to an agreement favorable to us.”

Stephen laughed, and my heart sank. I desired peace in the north more fervently than the bishops. Northumbria was my home; it was men I had fought with in Alnwick and Jernaeve who would die, and innocents, like a little whore I knew in Alnwick village, who might be destroyed by the fighting. For my own sake, I had hoped the king would listen to Winchester, though I knew from a military point of view that the bishop's argument was not convincing.

What Salisbury had said was entirely different. So far, it was true that Gloucester had shown little desire to act in his sister's cause, but that could change. It was also true that the rebels against Stephen had not joined forces and had been easily suppressed. That too could change. And if, God forbid, Gloucester should find a way into England and rally the rebels into a powerful, coordinated force, King David would surely refuse to sign an unfavorable treaty. There would be too great a chance to win back all he had lost with Gloucester's help.

My worst fears were confirmed when the king made an obscene gesture and cried, “Gloucester? Aumale will have time to clean out Northumbria and take half of Scotland before Gloucester can make up his mind what to do.”

“Do not be too sure of that, my lord,” Salisbury warned. “Now that he is in company with Geoffrey of Anjou, he may be spurred to action. Anjou is a man of firm decision, and he has a fluent tongue and convincing manner that could arouse Gloucester. And Anjou has very good reasons to foment trouble in England. If you are at war here, you would be unable to fight him in Normandy.”

“Nothing will stir Gloucester,” Stephen scoffed. “Even if he should try to come, Maud's ships will stop him in the channel. And should they miss, the coast is closed to him. Moreover, I have taken the heart out of the men who might have rallied to him if he had come earlier.”