Chapter Twenty-One

Will had expected she would be more at ease now that the guests were gone, but instead she seemed to have withdrawn inside herself. He watched as she picked at her food during the evening meal, more thoughtful and solemn than he had ever seen her.

He had passed by the chapel this morning and seen her there, her back to him. Something in the way she stood had warned him away, told him that today her prayer was far more genuine than the pious displays she had so skillfully given in the past. All day he had thought of it, forcing himself to accept that her devotion was true. As true as her anger, as real as her kisses. It seemed improbable – impossible, even, that she could be all those things. Angry and cunning and wanton and devout, all at the same time.

It was outside all his experience. Her faith was a new and complicated territory to him, her own private region of the heart. He had no right to interfere or demand answers, nor did he want to. But he did not like the silence that expanded between them now.

"You were long in prayer today," he tried, the first time he'd ever said it without disdain. He hoped at least to discover what had put her in this mood. "Brother Matthew did not force it upon you?"

"Nay," was her faint but swift response. "I stayed a while to speak with Father Benedict. Only that."

She pushed peas around her plate and retreated into silence. He felt like a clumsy youth, wanting her attention, failing to find the right words to charm her. He told himself it wanted only patience and time for her mood to pass, and then he could tell her – ask her, in truth, about his business with the Mongols. Tomorrow he intended to compose some kind of message to their new ruler, something that preserved the relationship without promising a war. It would be difficult. Her thoughts would be more than welcome, her intelligence and insight an invaluable help. It pleased him more than he was willing to admit, that he could discuss such things with her, that he need not find his way alone.

Further along the table, the newly returned Brother Matthew spoke earnestly to young Henry, who was listening intently. Guilt pricked at Will's conscience to see it. He should be attending the boy's education more closely. Perhaps he could speak to his nephew about the Mongol king? It would be interesting to see if Henry could be enticed to care about trade and diplomacy as much as he seemed to care about cardinals and canon law.

"I would join Constance on the morrow," Margaret said suddenly, her soft voice startling him into attentiveness. "We will go into the village to visit the sick and afflicted who dwell there, if my lord husband does not object."

It had been so long since he had been irritated at her manner that it took him by surprise now. He bit his tongue against the ill-tempered response that rose up, and took a swallow of ale while considering her. There was a quiet doubt in her face, as though she feared he would not consent. It only added to his irritation. Never before had she asked his leave for something so trivial, not even at her most timid and pliant.

"What cause have I to object to such a thing?" he asked, taking a light tone, expecting the question to serve as his answer.

"Full well do I know it is more fitting for the lady of Ruardean to visit the hospice at Saint Anne's, or somewhere like." She said it quietly, as though she feared they would be overheard. "And verily, I may perform my duties to the sick as well there as in the village, if you wish it."

His annoyance faded as the memory quietly asserted itself. Years ago, early in their marriage, he had learned that she had been visiting the impoverished sick in their homes, bringing food and medicines and whatever comfort a great lady could bestow. He had written to her in disapproval, explaining that Saint Anne's hospice made far more sense for someone of her status: it was safer, simpler, and furthermore only those who had a handful of coins to give, from local families whose esteem was worth nurturing, were admitted there.

He had not done anything so crude as to command her to take the more proper course. He had not needed to. He only made it clear what was acceptable, and what was not.

And she had obeyed. For all those years, she had swallowed her true feelings and simply given the expected performance.

"Go where you will," he told her, the ale gone sour in his mouth. A month ago, a year ago – all his life before now he would have said that there was little utility in comforting the unseen and nameless. He would have meant it, too. But now her voice echoed in his memory, full of raw confession: It has sickened my spirit . "Nor do I hold my judgment in such matters above yours."

She nodded, a little relief playing across her features. She did not look at him.

How great a boon, as she had said. Such a small benevolence from the high and mighty lord, and yet it was all he knew to offer. He drank his ale and tried not to imagine his mother sitting in this very spot, tolerating his father's arbitrary commands for years. How she must have planned each action around his whims, her every decision shaped by his power, her life lived in pieces – in secret, when her husband was not looking.

His hand found Margaret's where it rested in her lap. It seemed like something a good husband might do. Or so he imagined. He found it difficult to hide the smile that pulled at his mouth when, after a moment, he felt her fingers twine with his. Perhaps whatever harm he had unwittingly caused in the past was not beyond repair.

They sat that way, surrounded by gay music and the laughing chatter of the household, as the hour for evening prayer approached. Then her palm pressed tight against his.

"Tell me true," she said, her voice low, her eyes trained on their hands. "If I had been eager to know you when first we were wed, and gave you naught but honesty from the beginning… If I had said to you then that I abhorred the notion of crusade, would you have heeded me?"

She took a breath as though to brace herself, and then looked at him for his reply. There was a right answer – he knew that. Some words that would remove the unease that had settled in her face. But he could not fathom what they might be.

He must give her the truth, then.

"You might have been the Virgin herself come to me in a vision, and I would have scorned your every word." He gave a rueful smile to think of it. "Even did you encourage the scheme, I would have scorned you, so great was my anger when we married."

Confusion creased her forehead. "Anger? When I but agreed to your proposal?"

"Not with you. It was more than a year that I did not speak to Gryff." His friend who had broken his promise, who had put Will in a predicament that only this marriage could resolve. He shrugged. "With great care and forethought do I lay my plans. Is rare they are disrupted."

Her hand moved restlessly in his. "Yet only this morn did you throw your most careful plan to the winds. For me."

"Not for you," he corrected. "But because of you."

He should not have said it, should have known it would set her mind to working again – but they had promised no lies between them. He could see her examining and discarding possibilities until she finally concluded, "It is because my heresy has made it more difficult for you to succeed in the plan, and so it was better to end it. I have weakened your position."

Yes. He should say yes. That was the easiest answer, and it was not wrong. It was certainly less difficult to explain than what had been in his mind this morning.

"The things we do out of hate, and those we do for love. They come back to us." He watched the servants remove the trestle tables as he spoke, and tried to strip all feeling from the words, tried to make it sound like only an idle musing. "But what of the things we do for ambition, and those we do with indifference?" He shook his head. "It is a thing I should have asked many times before today. Yet I did not, until now – and only because of you."

Still there was confusion in her face, her brow furrowed over a gaze she fixed on their joined hands below the table. He knew he must give her the other truth. Even if it cost him.

"And if I compel good men to die for my ambition," he said, low and private, his thumb stroking hers, "I think me you will not sit beside me as you do now, nor ever look on me with fondness."

Her answering silence was a little torture, and the way her hand twitched in his. He looked out over the hall to distract himself, to find anything else to comment on. The only thing of note was the crowd of eyes on them, everyone taking in the unprecedented sight of their lord and lady with heads bent together. Distantly, instinctively, thoughts came to him of how such a display might be used against him, or by him. But then her body leaned closer to his. Her eyes were on him, a concentrated awareness, yet still she said nothing.

He could bear it no longer. He straightened and reached for his cup. "Will you venture into the Welshry tomorrow?" he asked. Better, and so much easier, to talk of tenants and land and harvests. Already the ground felt more solid beneath him.

"The Welshry?" She blinked, startled by the sudden turn of his conversation. "I have heard of no urgent need there. Gladly will I visit any home you wish, if you will say me which."

"Nay, not that. I seek assurance they are prepared for the coming harvest." It struck him as he spoke the words, how well he liked discussing such matters with her. He should have done it long ago. "In faith, I fear my steward is not well-liked there, and I would know if aught is amiss among the Welsh."

He was thinking of the people's wariness when he had visited, how so many of the houses needed repair, of the broken threshing board he had spied and the too-small stacks of hay in their field. For the thousandth time, he thought how different it would be if his sister ruled Ruardean. But the duty was his, and he had been nearly as absent as his own father had been.

Margaret gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Their priest is Father Einion, and he is like to know the truth of it. I will ask him when next I go there, if it please you."

"There is no need." He shook his head, glad to be on this more comfortable topic. "Soon I will go myself and bring Henry with me, to speak their language so there is no confusion. But if you are not among the Welsh tomorrow, then you may discover some need among the English in the village. If there is a complaint that may be easily remedied –" Anything he should have seen already, all the things he should have attended to but had neglected in favor of grander plans. "If you see aught, I would have you tell me."

"Ah." She leaned closer and lowered her voice further, her tone almost teasing. "You fear I will in secret make a charity of your coffers, and you are made pauper in a day?"

He laughed at that, relieved to see her mood lighten. "It would take far longer than a day, even for a thief so accomplished."

Her smile broke free, a delightful little miracle that she had spent years in hiding from him.

"By your leave," she said, "Tomorrow I will be free with the coin that I have, and vow to make a true accounting to you when it is spent."

"Nay, it is not that accounting I would hear," he dismissed. "I want you will tell me what is needed so that I am no longer ignorant when my people go in want. I would know where I have failed them, that I may set it right."

It should alarm him that it fell so easily from his tongue, this admission of failure. And indeed she was looking at him with such a singular intensity that he began to fear it was a grave mistake. He could not name the emotion that was in her face, or know what he had said that so affected her. He could only watch a new a different smile transform her features in the moment before she pulled him closer, her hand at the back of his neck, and kissed him most thoroughly.

His wife, so full of never-ending surprises, was ravishing his mouth as they sat before the filled hall. It was bold beyond anything, like when she had climbed above him, twisted her fingers in his hair, and taken her pleasure of his mouth. But that had been in the privacy of their chamber, and now he could almost blush to know so many eyes were on them.

He thought the eruption of noisy approval all around them would remind her of their audience, but she only deepened her kiss. He had little choice but to return it with an equal fervor, until they were both breathless.

When at last she pulled away, she did not hide her face. It was filled with a strange mix of exhilaration and bewilderment. The noise of the hall nearly drowned out her whisper. "Why now?" Almost more to herself than to him, "Why?"

Even had he understood her confusion, there was no chance even to try to give an answer. Amid raucous cries of disappointment, Brother Matthew had risen from his place and now stood near.

"Come, lady, to your penance," he said, a mild reminder that it was the hour for evening prayer. He was smiling fondly, as amused as anyone else in the hall. "Soon enough will she be returned to you, Lord William."

She leaned close to Will, her lips brushing his ear. "It is thanks I will give," she said softly, like it was a secret between them. "Not penance."

Her cheek pressed hard against his for a brief moment, and then she let go his hand. She left the hall with head bowed, so suddenly solemn and obedient in her demeanor that anyone would believe her properly chastened.

But he saw it so clearly now, the donning of the meek disguise after acting so bold. It made him smile to himself – for his own past blindness, for her cleverness, and most of all for the secret delight of knowing her, at last, in truth.

That evening he took himself to the wall-walk and looked out over Ruardean, which stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. Gwenllian had used to bring him up here to peer through the battlements into the forecourt below, or to the fields beyond, and tell him the names of each person they saw. She made sure he knew every family, every person's skills and purpose on the estate. It will be yours , she always said, and pretended to be entirely happy about it.

It was his, and he had forgotten most of those names, those skills, those families. But he knew who brought the king his morning ale, and who to speak to if he wished to influence the choosing of the next pope.

Now he searched out the few stars to be found in the sky. He stared at the brightest of them and let himself consider Margaret's question of why. Why, and why now. Such astute questions. The stars gave him no answers, or at least none he cared to contemplate. They only shone bright on a field of darkness, never caring if men praised them or even took note of them. There was likely a lesson in that, for philosophers to find.

When he descended the wall-walk, he found old Father Benedict was crossing the yard in the direction of the chapel. He held a lamp, the light revealing a worry that wrinkled his brow. But when he saw Will, his face cleared.

"Bid you good eve, Lord William," he smiled. "Your pardon, I am late to the evening prayer. I was attending – you know Gwladys, my lord? A midwife for many years, but now grown infirm. Her bones are stiff and pain her, and I thought to bring her meal so that she may take her ease by her own fire."

"I know who Gwladys is," Will said gently, feeling a little twinge to know the priest doubted it. That she was Benedict's wife was the most well-known secret of Ruardean. "Certes you are a great comfort to her."

"I hope to be," answered Benedict, and cast a reluctant look towards the chapel. "But I must go to prayer now, or explain my absence to this Brother Matthew."

It was said with a mild bitterness that was unlike anything he had ever heard from the cheerful priest. "Walk with me instead, if you wish," Will suggested, nodding to indicate a path away from the chapel. "Only a moment at it, and you may say in truth that you were counseling your lord."

With a relieved smile, the older man lifted his lamp and led the way. They walked along the curtain wall for many minutes in silence before the old man spoke again.

"You think most deeply, my lord. Are you in need of counsel?"

He sounded startled by the notion, which made Will laugh a little.

"Nay, I was only thinking of Ruardean, that though its fortunes are ever foremost in my mind, I have been almost a stranger here. I have wondered how different my ambitions and endeavors might be, if I had not left this place at so young an age."

"Perhaps your ambitions are made by God's design, then, for you did not choose to leave when you were a babe." The old priest shook his head a little ruefully. "Your father commanded it, and would hear neither reasoned argument nor your mother's pleading. Nor did he have any care for the sorrow that hung about her as a cloud in those days. In faith, I hoped she would defy–" He stopped abruptly, frowning a little as he shifted the lamp from one hand to another. "Well," he recovered. "Lord Walter was not a man to be defied."

Will suppressed a sigh. What he would give to never think of his father again. "Think you my father's command was God's design, then?" he asked.

"He believed it was."

"But I ask what you believe."

Benedict shrugged. "Can a thing be God's design if it may be changed by man?" he asked with a comfortable smile. "I believe you need not wonder how different your ambitions and endeavors might be, my lord. You have the power to change them at any time."

Will slowed his steps, looking up to again search out the brightest star. He said the only thing that came to his mind. "And I believe you give very good counsel, even when you mean to give none."

They had come to the kitchen garden, the smell of rosemary in the air all around them. The evening prayers would be ended now. Will sent the old priest off to his bed, then stayed in the quiet corner, alone with the smell of flowers and leaves and good rich soil. He liked it there, very much. More than ever he had liked the ornamental gardens of the king.

Though he knew she would be long asleep, he went to her bedchamber. She roused a little when he set his head beside hers. He watched her lashes struggle to lift and her sleepy dreamer's smile.

"Did you give thanks for the day?" he asked softly.

"I gave thanks for you," she mumbled, half-asleep, and he wondered if she even knew she said it. He wondered if she knew that when he lay beside her like this, her quiet sleeping breath next to him in the dark, all the things he had spent a lifetime wanting – every alliance, every ambition, everything he had called his duty and honor – all that wantingturned to dust, like ash in his mouth.

He tugged the bed linen up, smoothed it over her shoulder.

"It should be me who gives thanks," he murmured, knowing she could not hear it.

She sighed a little, her eyes trying and failing to open again, her breath catching in a faint yawn before she uttered something that sounded like, "Do you see it?"

He moved even closer, until her breath touched his face. "See what?" he asked.

She burrowed deeper into the bedclothes, her lashes lifting for the barest second before giving up again. "The light," she breathed. The sweet, dreamy smile tugged faintly at the corner of her lips. "All around."

He did not answer. There was only enough light to barely see her as she fell fully into sleep, and that was all he wanted anyway.