"No, love, each time is always better," he said in a husky voice. His hand began to leisurely stroke and caress her thigh. "Look at me, Elizabeth," he commanded, "I would know if I hurt you."
Elizabeth propped her head up on her hands and gazed into his eyes. She fought the urge to lean forward and kiss him once again. "You did not hurt me," she said in a soft voice.
His hands smoothed her hair away from her face before cupping the sides of her cheeks with such excruciating tenderness that tears filled Elizabeth 's eyes. He leaned forward and placed a warm, gentle kiss on her parted lips. "What we have… this thing between us, it would be blasphemy to use it as a weapon to hurt the other. Never will you try to hold back what is mine," he said. His voice held no anger, only a sweet caress as he continued, "And never will I hold back what belongs to you."
"But, Geoffrey," Elizabeth whispered in return, "how can-"
"The battle between us stops at the bedroom door, wife."
"And resumes in the light of each new day?" she asked, unable to keep the sadness out of her voice.
"If you wish it," Geoffrey acknowledged.
Elizabeth did not have an answer for him. She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against his chest. His words confused her. Perhaps, she thought with a yawn, perhaps in the light of day she would be able to sort it all out.
Geoffrey had been so sure that the following morning, after he had demanded that neither hold back from the other in the privacy of their bedroom, that his docile wife would give him the apology he had demanded. Docile! Ha, Geoffrey snorted aloud, that was certainly not the word to describe his new wife. Why she had had the temerity to ignore his request for an apology. He shook his head as he remembered how she had boldly walked over to the window and pointed to the sun. Oh, how she angered him! And at first that anger kept him unaffected.
He locked Elizabeth in their room and commanded that she was to receive neither food nor water… nor visitors. And everyone seemed inclined to let him have his way, he thought, smiling to himself, most probably reasoning that the spat between husband and wife would be settled by nightfall.
But it was not, of course, and the interference began the next day, subtle at first, and then more obvious to the most ignorant of men. Geoffrey would go to the bedroom and find the door unlocked. Food would mysteriously appear in their room on trays no one remembered carrying. But his wife did not take a bite or a sip. By the third day, it was Geoffrey himself trying to entice her. And by the end of the fourth day, he commanded it. "I will not have you dead at my feet," he remembered telling her. And when she had raised one eyebrow in question, he had muttered something about becoming fond of her grandfather and her little brother and not wishing to distress either of them.
It was then that he devised another plan to pull her back in line, and had actually thought it would work. And with other women, it might have, he told himself. But not Elizabeth. She was like no other! The bolts of fine material went unnoticed and the seamstress had to ask him to command her into being fitted for new gowns. He, of course, had done it, more furious with himself than with her. Know your opponent! How often had that statement been drummed into his head. The problem here, Geoffrey admitted, was that he did not know Elizabeth 's mind as well as he might; and in truth, he did not want her to be his opponent.
"With your permission, Geoffrey, I would have a few words with you." The interruption brought Geoffrey back to the present. He looked up and saw that Elizabeth 's grandfather, Elslow, stood before him.
"You walk with the silence of a hunter," Geoffrey complimented. "I did not hear you."
"Your mind was elsewhere?" Elslow asked, smiling with knowledge.
"Aye, it was," Geoffrey admitted.
"On my granddaughter, no doubt." Elslow stated it as a fact, and waved his hand in dismissal when Geoffrey started to protest. "Enough of this, Geoffrey. You behave like a child in this matter."
Geoffrey was so flabbergasted by his new friend's statement that he could only shake his head. "You risk much with your errant words, Elslow," he said in irritation.
Elslow was unaffected by the implied threat. "Nonsense, Geoffrey. I risk nothing. It is you who risks it all." He pulled up a stool-without permission, Geoffrey noticed-and sat down facing the lord. He took a long time adjusting his long legs in front of him and only when he was comfortably settled did he look again at the Baron. "She gets her stubbornness from her father's side of the family, you know," he said, grinning.
Geoffrey found himself laughing. "She is that," he acknowledged. "I cannot give her what she wants, Elslow, not yet. And because of it she has no faith in me."
"She thinks you do not care," Elslow said. It was the first time in the two weeks that Geoffrey had spoken about his wife, and Elslow was very pleased. He sensed his grandson-in-law wanted to make peace.
"How can she think I do not care! Why, I actually called her 'love' one evening. Granted, it was in the heat of passion, but still, it was an… endearment. She is the only woman I have-"
Elslow was trying hard not to laugh. "Talk with her and use more honeyed words. Explain your position," he urged.
"I will not." The quiet refusal was devoid of anger. "It is not my place to explain," he argued. "She must learn patience. That is the way of it."
"And did you get your stubbornness from your mother or your father?" Elslow asked, grinning.
Geoffrey looked surprised by the question. "Neither," he said. "I do not remember my parents."
"That explains your confusion over her feelings," Elslow said very matter-of-factly. "But I tell you this, Geoffrey: I have learned over the years that we dislike in others what we find in ourselves."
Geoffrey stood up and almost tripped over Elslow's feet. "Walk with me and explain your riddle."
Elslow nodded his agreement and followed Geoffrey outside. He did not speak until they were out in the courtyard and headed toward the south end of the area.
"You are both stubborn and that is fact," Elslow said. He imitated Geoffrey's pace, also clasping his hands behind his back as they both charged up the slight incline. "Geoffrey, you are older and stronger in both spirit and body, and therefore you should make amends. Teach her what you expect with a gentle hand and a sweet tongue, else you will lose her."
"And did I ever have her?" Geoffrey found himself asking.
"Oh, yes, son," Elslow said. He smiled to himself and thought, They do not yet know that they love each other and that is their problem. Each guards against the other. "From the moment she said the vows, she became yours."
Geoffrey shook his head and hurried the pace. "You are mistaken," he muttered. When Elslow did not answer, Geoffrey glanced over at him and continued, "Always she talks about the great love between her mother and her father. I have never seen such a love, not even between William and Matilda, God rest her soul." He gave Elslow another long look and then said, "At times I thought Elizabeth made her stories up. No two people would let themselves become so attached to each other… so vulnerable. It is foolish."
"They did not have a choice," Elslow stated. "But it did not happen overnight as my granddaughter would have you believe. Your king married my daughter to Thomas to gain Montwright, and I can give testimony to the fact that the two newlyweds fought like lions and tigers in the beginning. Twice my daughter ran away from him," he said, laughing. "She even took his two daughters with her!"
"Tell me this tale," Geoffrey asked. He found himself grinning as he thought about what Elslow was telling him, wondering if Elizabeth knew these details of her parents' lives.
"Thomas had two pitiful-looking little girls," he began. "They looked like orphans, though dressed in finery, with a sadness in their eyes that tore at the hardest of hearts. They were little more than babes when their mother died and then they were taken from all they knew and placed in the cold home at Montwright. It only took my daughter a month to right the situation. The first time she ran away from her husband, she came to me, in London, and the transformation that had taken place with the little girls was amazing. She loved them and the children blossomed under her care."
"But what did Thomas do?" Geoffrey asked.
"Why, he came after her, of course," Elslow replied. "Used his daughters as his excuse for not beating her. He loved her from the start but was too stubborn to admit it."
Geoffrey stopped in midstride and turned to Elslow. "I do not understand why you did not hate him. He took what was yours and cast you out."
"My mind was set against him, I'll admit that," Elslow replied. "But then I saw my daughter with his two little girls. She had become their champion. I saw too how Thomas looked at her and read the caring in his eyes. I told him I would kill him if he harmed her, and instead of becoming angry with my threat, he agreed that I should do just that. He gave me his word to honor and protect her, and he held it to his dying day."
Geoffrey tried to picture Thomas in his mind but the image was vague. "He was a humble man, as I recall, and on the quiet side."
"He was content."
"Like I used to be," Geoffrey snapped. "Until your granddaughter came into my life. I will have this chaos end, Elslow, and things returned to normal."
Elslow knew he had said enough. He nodded and took his leave. He would give Geoffrey time to absorb what they had discussed, and then he would again prod him. The role of peacemaker was new to Elslow and he found himself quite thirsty from his effort. He quickened his pace in his quest for a cool goblet of ale. Maybe he could challenge Roger into another game of chess, he considered, smiling with anticipation.
Geoffrey stood where he was, his mind considering what Elslow had said. He straightened his shoulders and took a different direction, his hands once again clasped behind his back, as he circled the side of the fortress.
Little Thomas called out a greeting, and Geoffrey paused in his walk. He watched the little boy run toward him, holding a small spear in his arms. Elslow had fashioned the toy spear just the evening before.
"And what are you about?" he asked in what he considered his pleasant voice.
"I am going to learn the quintain," the child yelled.
"And who is going to teach you this exercise?" Geoffrey asked, smiling.
"Gerald," Thomas said, pointing to the squire, who was now coming around the side of the fort with his horse trailing behind. "See what he made?"
Geoffrey looked to where Thomas pointed. There, pounded into the ground, stood a five-foot post. Across the top was another piece of board, placed crosswise. Hanging from one end was a straw figure of a knight, and from the other end hung a bag of sand. The object of the exercise was to thrust the lance at the pretend knight, but with sureness and quickness, else the bag of sand would swing around in time to knock the rider from his saddle. The quintain was an exercise that the older squires preferred, and too dangerous for one as small as the child standing in front of him. "Today," he said, "you will just watch. And perhaps tomorrow you can sit in front of Gerald while he practices this most difficult exercise," Geoffrey stated.
Gerald swung up into the saddle of his horse then and showed Thomas how the exercise was done. The child was so impressed that he dropped his spear and clapped his hands with approval. "Again," he shouted, running closer to the squire, "do it again."
Gerald, seeing that he had his lord's undivided attention, was eager to comply. He was anxious to show his lord how nimble and quick he was. He turned the horse and raced him toward the target and swung his lance like an ax. His aim was for the area of the chest, but he misjudged in his enthusiasm, and the lance severed the clump of straw just below the helmet, causing the body of straw to fall in a heap while the head swung in its decapitated state.
Gerald was mortified. To show such clumsiness in front of his baron was humiliating. He started to call an apology for his aim when he caught sight of the child's face. What he saw there stopped him cold. He could only stare. And then the scream erupted from the lad, piercing the air like the release of a tormented soul from hell, the sound so devastating that Gerald had to cover his ears to keep the torment from reaching his soul.
Geoffrey was the first to react. He raced over to the child, turned him to look into his face.
The anguish he saw there caused an ache to lodge in his heart. Again and again the child screamed, and all Geoffrey could do was hold him fast against him. It was little comfort, he knew, as the boy did not seem to recognize that he was being held.
Roger, with Elslow trailing behind, raced toward them. Geoffrey motioned to them that it was all right, and then lifted the child into his arms. The screams lessened then and the boy began to sob. He was soon exhausted from his shock and rested his head on Geoffrey's shoulder, clinging to him with his hands while he confronted his memory. "My mama," he sobbed.
"You are safe now, Thomas. Safe," Geoffrey chanted while he patted the boy on his back.
His words calmed the child and the heart-wrenching sobs subsided.
Both Roger and Elslow stepped out of his path as Geoffrey walked by, still holding the child in his arms. His intent was to take the boy to his sister.
And then Elizabeth appeared. She came running toward them with a look on her face that saddened Geoffrey as much as the child's distress. She stopped when she saw they were coming toward her, though she continued to look terrified.
Geoffrey could tell by the way she was staring at her brother's back that she thought him injured, and he shook his head and said in a gentle whisper, "He remembers."
Elizabeth understood. Tears filled her eyes and she nodded, reaching one trembling hand out to touch her brother. Geoffrey took hold of it and pulled her into his other side. With his arm circling her shoulders, he began to walk again.
She found herself leaning against him. The terror that her brother was horribly injured was over. She felt the safety and the peace of Geoffrey's hold and, for the moment, called a truce.