Stuart, Elizabeth (32 page)

Jocelyn
sighed and stretched against him. Then she told him all that had happened since
she had awakened to find Brian in possession of Belavoir, everything save that
damning tale about Rhys. She would tell him that, too, but not now. She hadn't
the courage to risk that yet.

Robert
lay quietly, holding her. Only when the telling was complete and she lay silent
and still in his arms did he curse and sit up. "Never once did I think you
in danger, Jocelyn. Never once!"

He
frowned and stared down at her. "Judas, I'd never have left you to face
Brian alone, would have found some way inside if I'd had to sprout wings and
fly over those damned walls myself!"

Jocelyn
shook her head. "Despite what Brian might have meant to do, I wasn't
harmed. I'm only sorry my trust in him lost you Belavoir." She reached out
to touch
his face. "My ignorance made you a figure of scorn and lost Stephen a
vital fortress. I'm sorry, Robert. So very sorry."

He
caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. "The loss of Belavoir is
serious but can be mended. I'll get it back, believe me." He smiled.
"As for becoming a figure for scorn, it's of little concern. My father
taught that a man has two masters, God and himself. To be able to face both
with a clear heart is to fear little in this life or the next— certainly not a
few petty scandals. He was a man who lived his beliefs, Jocelyn, and I've tried
to live them as well. They've stood me in good stead all these years."

His
smile widened. "Besides men might be laughing behind my back, but I do
assure you, none has dared laugh in my face. There's nothing like good steel
and a strong arm in helping along a sober countenance."

Jocelyn
smiled and closed her eyes, rolling closer to rest her cheek on his hard thigh.
She couldn't get enough of touching him, of being close. It was difficult to
believe he had forgiven her, believed her, that despite all the evidence to the
contrary, he had never even doubted her.

"Jocelyn,
there is something we need to speak of." His tone was serious and she
opened her eyes.

He
was staring at his hands, scowling fiercely. "Judas, madam, I don't even
remember her name! That woman at Leaworth. I am sorry you had to—"

"Robert!"
Someone cleared his throat loudly from the front of the tent. The voice came
again—Geoffrey's voice. "My lord, I do hate to call you, but the king is
asking for you. He has already sent once and now a second time."

"Damnation!"
Robert scowled again, but he was already reaching for his hose. "Damn
Stephen! He must know I'd have come to him in good time."

Jocelyn
sat up, reaching for her crumpled shift and pulling it over her head. They did
need to talk. There was so much that had to be said. "Do you have to go
now? Couldn't you just send word you'll come later?"

Robert
was already pulling on his boots, seeking in vain to straighten his rumpled
shirt. "No, sweet, I dare not. Stephen is not the same man since
Malmesbury. He's suspicious, much given to strange tempers and odd imaginings.
He's quick to anger, quicker yet to despair. He did take Leicester's defection
very much to heart."

Jocelyn
stopped, stared.
"What?"

Robert
swung around at her tone. "You didn't know?"

And
when she shook her head he said grimly, "Leicester went over to Henry some
weeks ago. That is thirty major castles, madam, a great number of men and
supplies, not to mention the fact that my old friend Robin de Beaumont is one
of the most influential men in the kingdom. Others may well follow."

"But...
but he has been Stephen's friend from of old!"

Robert
nodded, moving to the table to pour out two goblets of wine. He brought her
one, turned the other up and drank deeply. "Yes, he's long been Stephen's
friend, one of his staunchest allies. But he has grown sick of war —or so he
said in trying to excuse himself in the letter he sent me—said he dreaded what
would come to pass when Eustace came to the throne."

Robert
tore off a hunk of bread, gulped down a piece of cheese. "I tell you
truth, madam—but for your ears alone. Stephen's eldest son is the greatest
asset Henry of Anjou has. Eustace is vicious and undisciplined—courageous, yes,
but totally unfit as he stands now to be king. Stephen alone seems able to rein
him in, and even loyal men are beginning to curse themselves and wonder and
dread what will happen when Stephen is no more."

Robert
finished off his wine and stared at her a moment, then he bent and brushed a
kiss against her mouth. "Don't fret, madam, all will yet be well."

And
then he was gone.

Jocelyn
stared at the rumpled bedding where she had just lain with her husband, at the
crushed violets strewn about. And of a sudden her world, which had seemed safe
and secure such a short time ago, was an uncertain place again.

***

It
was full dark by the time Robert came back from the king's pavilion. Jocelyn
had found needle and thread and was mending a rent in one of his shirts by the
light of an oil lamp. She smiled as he entered. It was difficult to
believe they
could be together again like this. "Have you eaten?"

"Aye,
I ate with the king."

She
put her sewing away and went to him, forcing a smile and a light tone. "Well,
and what did he say? Does he wish me hanged as a traitor?"

"No.
Richard de Lucy has ever been on our side, hinting to Stephen that all wasn't
as it seemed. Now, he's boasting to all that the king knew the truth from the
first. Stephen, of course, half-believes it himself."

He
grinned. "The king's justiciar is a right crafty and influential man to
have on your side, madam. Of course, it hasn't hurt your cause that Aymer and
his men have been singing your praises all afternoon. It's all over camp that you
faced down your brother and his men with a dagger. That you slashed Brian's
face and hacked his sword arm near to bits."

Jocelyn's
eyes widened. "But Robert, that's a lie! I did but cut him once and run
for my life."

He
was still grinning. "Of such things are legends made. Do you think all the
tales told of me are true?"

"Certainly,"
she returned so promptly that he laughed and took her in his arms. "They
do all call you the Lioness now, did you know that? They say that is why I have
two lions on my banner instead of one. And they do say, madam wife, that the
lions are well mated." He grinned again, drawing her close against the
lower half of his body. "On that, madam, I find I agree."

Jocelyn
leaned into him and put her arms around his neck. "If I please you, that
is all I care for, Robert. The king and his lords and all the rest of the world
may go hang."

He
kissed her lips, her closed eyelids, then returned to take her mouth. "I
find myself with the overwhelming need to try out my men's sayings again,"
he murmured. "I wouldn't have you think, madam, that I didn't miss you
while we were apart."

They
undressed each other, leisurely this time, making love with a slow tenderness
that was almost more than Jocelyn could bear. And when it was over and she lay in
her husband's arms, she knew she had to tell him the
truth—all the
truth—before she lost the courage to tell him any at all.

"I
do love you, Robert," she said softly. "I'm sorry if it is a burden
to you, but I do love you, have loved you, almost since that first day you came
to Belavoir. You need not pretend to the same. I've not forgotten what you said
to me about that before."

"Jocelyn—"

"Wait."
She reached to put her fingers against his lips. "Don't say anything yet.
I've more to tell you, more about what happened between Brian and me. I just
wanted you to know that first. This last is... is even more terrible than all
the rest."

She
drew in a deep breath and he lay still, listening, watching her with those
beautiful, passionate eyes. It made it all so much harder to say.

"I
may not be Montagne," she began, feeling her way. "I may be the
baseborn daughter of a Welshman who came often to Warford with my uncles. Rhys
was a good man, a friend of my mother's—her lover, Brian said. I didn't believe
him at first, but now... now I don't know."

She
hesitated, bit her lip. "I wouldn't care, would almost rather Rhys did
turn out to be my father but for what it means to us. I may have no legal claim
to Warford, to all those lands you thought I brought. Brian threatened to make
the tale public. Now, no doubt, he will do so just for spite."

"I
love you, Jocelyn."

She
lay very still, watching him. That wasn't what she'd expected to hear.
"You don't have to say that. Just because..."

His
arms tightened around her. "I love you, madam. I don't care if you are
Montagne or the daughter of a charcoal burner. You're my wife, and that is what
matters. Let any who dare to say differently do so at their peril. I do love
you, Jocelyn, have waited far too long to tell you that, I think."

Tears
clogged her throat. She pulled away from him and buried her face in his pillow.
Why
now? Merciful God, why did he have to say it now?

"Oh,
Robert, if I'm baseborn you'll need to marry someone else! I understand that,
honestly I do. Only let me be your mistress. I know you have other women, will
reconcile myself to being one of them somehow. Only don't bring the others
where I will have to see them. I..." She faltered. "I'm so horribly
jealous, you know."

Robert
turned her over to face him. To her amazement and hurt he looked as if he were
fighting a laugh. "After what you did to that poor creature at Leaford do
you think there've been women foolish enough to frequent
my
bed?"

Jocelyn
blinked, stared up into his handsome face, his golden eyes. Once again he had
surprised her. "I think, did you but smile at them, my lord, that you
could have any woman on earth in your bed."

His
eyes narrowed, darkened. "But I haven't... because none of them is even
remotely like you."

She
was silent. What was a woman to say
to such as that?

"I
need to tell you something, Jocelyn," he murmured. "I had meant to
tell you that night I came back from Leaford. I didn't take that woman for
wanting her. I took her because she was there, available and attractive, but I
didn't want her. I wanted only you."

"I...
I don't understand."

He
frowned. "I didn't want to care so much,
to need any woman so much as I
was coming to fear I needed you."

"That
time before Christmas," she said, thinking back. "That's when it all
began to change."

He
nodded. "You did give me a scare, madam, set me to thinking thoughts I
didn't want to have."

He
drew in his breath, sent her a wry, self-conscious smile. "My experiences
at loving have none of them been very good. My first wife—well, you know already
about Marguerite. Suffice it to say that she was a spiteful, vindictive bitch,
that she hurt a great many in this life before she quitted it, and even after
that."

"But
I'm not like Marguerite. Did you really fear I would turn out like her?"

"No,
of course not. But I loved my father and he died, Jocelyn. It was hard, but to
be expected. Fathers usually
quit this life before their grown sons. He was past
his prime, died in battle as he would have wished. I mourned but let it
pass."

His
voice went lower, then softer. "Adam... ah, now my son was another matter.
Adam I loved too well. I did fight and rail against his sickness, but in the
end not all my ranting and fighting did any good. He died, and
I couldn't stop
it. Not all the love and rage and fear in the world are proof against a fever
of that kind, madam."

The
silence stretched out between them. She was beginning to understand him at
last. "I can promise I won't betray you, Robert," she said gently.
"I cannot promise I won't die."

"I
know." His voice was strained. "And that is why I chose to like you,
enjoy you, respect you even, which for me is no very small thing." He
hesitated again. "But I didn't want to love you, madam. Before God, I did
not."

Jocelyn
sat up, putting her arms around her husband, fighting the terrible ache in her
throat that made it difficult to speak. It was almost overwhelming, this
knowledge of how vulnerable a strong man could be.

"I
believe you've done it, Robert," she said, in a strained, choking attempt
at lightness. "You've come up with the only possible excuse a man could
make for taking a mistress, the only excuse a wife would not only accept but be
flattered to hear."

He
crushed her against him, gave a low, strangled laugh. "If only one thing
in my life could go right, love, only one amid all the mistakes and defeats and
wrong turns, I'm glad it was you, Jocelyn. I do thank God it was you!"

Throughout
that spring Jocelyn traveled with Stephen's army, staying with her husband when
they rested, waiting anxiously in nearby towns or castles with the other women
when their men went out to fight. It was a time of overly intense emotions, of
love and fear and joy so violent Jocelyn sometimes wondered if her spirits
would ever achieve equilibrium again.

When
Robert was with her, nothing else mattered. For the first time in her life she
knew what it was to love and be loved, and she lived and ate and breathed that
love, drawing her strength and courage from him.

But
when they were apart all her serenity and courage was naught but pretense, for
she lived in terror of the moment a messenger might come, singling her out
after siege or skirmish to inform her some sharp sword-thrust or well-aimed
arrow had ended all that made her life worth the living.

She
had seen it happen, had helped to comfort sobbing widows and fainting
mistresses. And every night she went down on her knees, thanking God and the
Blessed Virgin that it hadn't been her man they'd brought in, mute and
bloodied, to be cleaned up and readied for burial.

Still,
her terror was a secret one. She forced herself to be cheerful in her husband's
presence, never speaking a word of her fears. Robert carried burdens enough
already, for as one of the king's last trusted friends, he was relied on more
heavily each day.

Both
armies pillaged and raged across England, but the two main forces never
engaged, contenting themselves with swooping down and taking castles from each
other's adherents instead. The Angevin army was the smaller, and
some said Henry
feared to risk all on one pitched battle. For a certainty Stephen was afraid.
Many of his barons were openly murmuring among themselves, sending secret
envoys to Henry and trying to decide whom to back. Spies abounded and men
everywhere looked askance at each other and kept their own counsel.

Stephen
raged and despaired and dared not risk the one crushing blow that would end it
all, the blow he had hoped for at Malmesbury. If he went into pitched battle
against Henry, he might see half of his force melt away.

And
as the soft, glorious days of late spring drifted in, Jocelyn hoarded up a
miser's wealth of memories and tried not to think of the future. And everywhere
men crossed themselves and prayed for a miracle... and prepared for still more
war.

***

"Madam.
Lady Jocelyn!"

Jocelyn
turned away from the little group of women. It was a day of rare beauty and
several of the ladies following the camp had brought their maids and come
together here to sew and gossip and enjoy themselves along the river. She rose
and went quickly to meet Sir Aymer. "What is it? Does my lord have need of
me?"

"Yes."
Aymer took her arm, adding in a grim undervoice, "He asks you to come to
the king's pavilion. A courier just rode in with news. It is bad news, madam,
very bad. The countess Gundreda of Warwick has just surrendered that fortress.
She tricked the loyal garrison and turned over Warwick Castle to Henry's men by
stealth."

"Dear
God!"

"Earl
Roger was with Stephen. He collapsed in some odd, jerking fit as they were
speaking. They cannot wake him, madam. My lord has stayed to calm the king, but
he does hope there is something you might do for Warwick."

Jocelyn
nodded. She liked Warwick. He was well past his prime, half-crippled now in the
service of his king, but he had insisted on following Stephen so long as he
could still sit a horse.

She
arrived at the king's opulent tents just in time to hear the royal rage.
"By the splendor of God, are there no
men left?" Stephen was shouting.
"Will this kingdom be won by women and traitors only? What have we come to
here? Do men no longer fight in honorable ways? Is all done by quiet and
stealth, some black, rotting sickness seeping out from a blacker heart?"

Jocelyn
stood for a moment, wondering if she, of all people, should be standing there
now. Then Robert glanced toward her and said with obvious relief, "Thank
God you are come, madam! Lord Roger is here in the king's own chamber."

She
curtsied swiftly in the king's direction then went toward her husband.
"Aymer told me. I'm sorry, Robert."

"Aye,
it's grim news," he muttered, leading her into the silk-curtained
bedchamber where the earl had been laid.

Jocelyn
knelt beside the bed. Warwick's face was chalk-white, his breathing shallow.
She felt his hands and face as Robert described what had happened. "I've
seen this but few times before," she said. "Sometimes the person
recovers and sometimes not, and sometimes when they wake they cannot speak or
move parts of the body. It's a strange thing, Robert. There is little to be
done, I fear."

Her
husband was kneeling beside her, but at those words he rose to his feet.
"They've killed him then," he said sharply. "Gundreda and
Leicester. It's Robin's hand I see in this." And with that he turned away.
"Do what you can, madam. Stephen is near beside himself. I must go
back."

Jocelyn
sat all afternoon with the earl, but he didn't wake. His squires and men
finally removed him to his own tents, and she went with them to see the man
settled.

When
all was finally done, Warwick's youngest squire, Thomas, escorted her back
through the gathering dusk. Robert was waiting inside their tent with wine and
a cold supper laid out.

Jocelyn
glanced wearily at the table and smiled. This was much better than the usual
camp fare. "You do work miracles, my love."

"No."
He poured a cup of wine and handed it across to her. "My men do. How is
Roger?"

Jocelyn
sipped her wine and sat down. "The earl is no better, nor yet any worse.
He's in God's hands."

"As
are we all."

Jocelyn
studied her husband's face. In the soft light of the candles, he looked worn.
"Is Stephen still raging?"

"No,
he's moved on to despair." Robert frowned and shook his head. "I
almost prefer the rage. It's near impossible to hold him to any purpose when he
despairs. He begins to speak of his dead queen, to lament that the Church has
refused to anoint Eustace his heir, to go on and on in a litany of betrayal and
defeats. It's bad enough that I hear it, but sometimes there are others
listening as well. Such talk does spread despair, madam. Something no army
needs."

Jocelyn
took a steadying drink. "How bad are things, Robert? I would hear the
truth."

He
thought for a moment. "We're stronger still than the Angevin forces. We
hold most of England save for the southwest and Chester and Leicester's
lands... and Bigod's. There are yet more loyal lords than rebel, and even if
there are more defections, we've a strong core of mercenaries who will fight so
long as they're paid. They are ill men without a strong hand, but William of
Ypres is a good general. No, you needn't fear."

Jocelyn
reached across the table and took his hand. "Then why do I hear that in
your voice which speaks of worry?" She forced a smile. "Come, Robert,
I would share your burdens if I might."

He
squeezed her hand and then released it. "It's more the direction we're
sliding, I fear," he said slowly. "So many have turned openly against
Stephen. They don't know Henry's true nature, don't dream where he will take us
if he gains the upper hand. For all that he's only twenty, he's a man who won't
be bridled, who will ignore the council of his magnates. I've seen what he did
in Anjou and Normandy and I fear it, madam. He rules with an iron hand."

"But
why do so many turn to him in support, even men of wisdom like Leicester?"

Robert
frowned. "The land is torn and tired, madam. Stephen is growing old and
uncertain and Eustace has made himself the bane of many. The Church begins to
eye Henry as the rightful heir, and men do hesitate to take up
arms against a
man they think might become king. As for Leicester..."

He
hesitated. "He did but say that he was sick of war, that he wanted to see
it ended once and for all. He didn't think Stephen the man to keep this land
safe—nor Eustace. Not with a young and hungry wolf like Henry tearing at the
door."

Jocelyn
nodded, fighting to keep her voice calm. "Men fear for themselves and
their families. I understand that." She drank more of the wine, forced
herself to eat some cold meat. "Robert, what did you mean when you said
Leicester was responsible for Warwick?"

He
glanced up. "Gundreda is Leicester's half-sister. I've no doubt he talked
her into that. After all, Roger is old, they have children. It is said Henry is
confirming lands and privileges to those who come to him now of their own free
will." He sipped his wine, added softly, "I'm almost thankful now,
that I don't have a son."

Jocelyn
put down her knife. She might still be able to sit calmly enough, but she
couldn't eat. Before God she couldn't eat! "Robert, do you think if the
worst came to pass, if this Henry did gain the upper hand..."

She
paused, began again carefully. "Do you think he might value you for your
skills, for—"

"No,
madam, he will not. There is much between us, and Henry is a man with a very
long memory. As am I."

Jocelyn
sat frozen for several moments. Robert was studying her but she didn't speak,
didn't even try to keep up the pretense.

He
rose and came around the table, putting his hands on her shoulders, squeezing,
working away the sudden tension with the same unerring knowledge of her body
that he always brought to their bed. "I've frightened you and I hadn't
meant to," he said softly. "Haven't
I just told you our armies are
stronger than Henry's, that we do hold most of England? It won't come to that,
love—not to what you fear."

Jocelyn
nodded, blinking rapidly, glad her husband stood behind her, that he couldn't
see her face. If only Henry would die, she thought wildly. If only that cursed
Angevin would die!

Robert
drew her to her feet, began kissing the nape of her neck, the sensitive flesh
of her throat. She wrapped her arms about him and clung tightly.

"Come
to bed now," he whispered. "I've no wish to think on Henry or
Leicester or even my king. I do wish for tonight to think of us. Only of
us."

***

The
earl of Warwick lingered nearly a week. All in camp went about grim-faced and
silent as they waited, for Warwick's illness was a grave omen.

Jocelyn
was at the earl's bedside as he breathed his last. She had been fetched by a
terrified young page who hoped she might yet do what even the royal physicians
could not, something to save his lord. Warwick was beyond her help, but she did
what she could to comfort the sobbing child and Warwick's despairing squires.

Stephen
came running at the news, grieving bitterly for his friend. One thing Jocelyn
could say for Stephen of Blois: Where he loved, he loved freely and with his
whole heart. She could understand Robert's loyalty to this man— could
understand as well why men such as Chester and her father could so easily take
advantage of him.

She
slipped out of the tent as the magnates began to arrive, feeling self-conscious
in such a gathering without Robert beside her. He had ridden out at the first
of the week, gone with some of his men and a host of Stephen's mercenaries to
seize a supply train bound for the rebel armies laying siege to Tutbury.

She
hugged herself as she made her way back to the de Langley encampment, praying
for her husband's health and safety. She hated this time of waiting and
wondering, this helplessness of not knowing.

When
she came within sight of her tent she saw a crowd of men gathering before the
crimson standard. She hurried.
News... Robert must have sent news of
some sort!
But
then she checked, steeling herself. Even from this distance she could tell
something was amiss.

One
of the men saw her and the crowd fell back, revealing a single dirty and
bloodstained man at the center— a man she scarcely recognized so stooped and
unfamiliar he seemed.

"Geoffrey..."
Her mouth was dry, so dry the word was a whisper. She dug her nails into her
palms and forced herself to keep walking, to hold Geoffrey's dark and
despairing eyes. "What news have you of my lord?"

The
tall knight sank to his knees in the dust before her, so weary he could scarce
hold up his head. "It was a trap, lady, the supply train was a trap. We
were set upon by rebel forces, overwhelmed by a far greater number striking out
unexpectedly."

He
hesitated, closed his eyes and drew a long, shuddering breath. "They
were... like jackals circling round him, led by that hellspawn Chester. I saw
my lord go down. He was struck, how badly I don't know. I was knocked
unconscious, left for dead, I suppose. When I came to, it was growing dark.
They—"

He
choked, swallowed convulsively, then opened his eyes to meet hers. "They
were robbing the dead, madam. I crawled away into the bushes, managed to catch
a horse and make my way here. In truth, lady, I don't even know if my lord be
living or dead!"