Chapter 6
When they reached the small chamber put to the use of the de Gaillard men, his father merely sighed.
“Take off those damn decorations.”
Aimery did so, except for the bracelet on his right wrist and the gold ring. “Normans wear them, too, Father,” he said mildly.
“On you they have a pointed effect. De Sceine says you only put them on to come to court.”
“They’re hardly suitable for working the fields . . .” Aimery stilled at the look in his father’s eye.
“I’m quite happy to bruise the other side of your jaw if you want.”
Aimery said nothing. He knew it was fear that stirred his father to anger, fear for his youngest child.
“By your reports from Rolleston,” said Count Guy, “you’re doing well there. But I hear you slip away sometimes. Where do you go? Hereward?”
“Does everyone think me a traitor? I gave you my word, and I’ve kept it. I haven’t seen Hereward since before Senlac.” He saw his father relax. “I’m half English, Father, and I’ll not deny my English part, but I am true to the king.”
“You’d better be. If you betray him, he’ll deal harder with you than he would with one he always knew to be his enemy.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but I am what I am.”
Guy de Gaillard grabbed his youngest son into a bear-hug. “Take care of yourself, my boy.”
Aimery relished the encompassing hold, feeling for a brief moment like a child again, safe in his father’s arms. Then he realized he was now taller and broader than his father.
Guy de Gaillard was beginning to age while Aimery at twenty-two was in the peak of manhood.
He was surprised and disconcerted by a feeling of protectiveness toward his once awesome parent.
He hid it by turning away to place his adornments in his chest.
“Do you know what ‘reward’ the king has in mind for me?” he asked lightly.
Leo answered. “Perhaps since you’re doing so well at Rolleston, he’ll give you an estate of your own.”
“Not very likely. He’s surrounded by land-hungry followers with better claim than a half English younger son. And as long as Father lets me run Rolleston, I’m content.”
“Ha!” exploded Leo. “Wait until you’ve a battalion of hungry sons. You’ll be glad of every little manor.”
Aimery grinned. “I’m in no mood to marry, Leo, and English heiresses are fought over like marrow bones.”
Count Guy passed his sons goblets of wine. “I doubt William would let you marry an Englishwoman, Aimery. He dislikes the English influence on you as it is.”
“There, see,” said Aimery to Leo. “And I consider myself lucky. Have you seen some of those English widows?”
Leo was always an optimist. “Well, then, perhaps he has a lovely little Norman heiress in mind for you. Hey, perhaps he’s going to give you the Lady Judith!”
Aimery choked on his wine. “Only if he’s gone mad. That’s a plum to catch much bigger game than me. Did you hear he’s offered Agatha to Edwin? Now that’s the use for a royal lady. Buy the whole east of England.”
Leo had to accept the argument. “He did say he was going to reward you, though, so you’d better please him. Let’s go find you a lyre, little brother.” He drained the goblet and set it back on the chest. “Come on.”
And so they started a lighthearted search of the castle and town, gathering in a dozen or so young men as they went.
The search for a musical instrument was a strange one and took them through a number of taverns and one brothel.
When they staggered back to the castle to change for the evening, Aimery groaned. “After this, you expect me to sing?”
“You got your lyre, didn’t you?”
“Hours ago.”
“And you got to practice, didn’t you?”
Aimery remembered singing battle songs in the guard room, and bawdy songs in a tavern—and learning some new ones, too. He’d sung pretty, soft songs for the whores, who’d turned sentimental and rewarded him suitably.
“I think I’m all sung out, Leo,” said Aimery as he slipped on a fresh tunic—a rich red silk with long tight sleeves and trimming of heavy gold braid. After a moment’s hesitation he put on his armbands and extra bracelet.
“Father’ll have your guts,” said Leo without great concern. All the de Gaillard boys had grown up buffeted, beaten, and loved by their father, and it seemed a fine way to raise sons, which is why he was doing the same with his own little tribe. “Come on, or heaven knows where we’ll end up sitting.”
The hall was a fair size but could barely hold the court. People jostled and fought for seats at the tables around the room. At the head table sat the king and queen, Fitz Osbern, de Mortain, Peverell, Lady Judith, and Lady Agatha. There were only a handful of other ladies present.
Agatha had filled out, Aimery noticed, but not a lot. She was fine-boned and young for her age but would improve in time. She saw him, giggled, and waved. Aimery blew her a kiss.
He did not know the Lady Judith, for she was the daughter of William’s sister and had been raised in Lens. She was definitely well-filled out, a curvaceous beauty with long red-gold plaits and sparkling eyes. All that and Huntingdon, too, he reflected.
He saw the Lady Judith catch his admiration. She dimpled with interest and flashed him an unmistakable look. Aimery winked at her. The man who received her would be getting a handful. A delightful handful, but a handful nevertheless.
As Leo had predicted, they had to squeeze a place where they could, but Aimery didn’t mind. He found himself among friends, sharing memories and catching up on the news, both personal and martial.
“Seeing the luscious Lady Judith,” said one young man, “reminds me of that heiress, the Baddersley one. I keep hoping my path might take me that way, but I’m jiggered if I even know where the place is.”
“It’s not that far from here,” supplied Aimery. “A bit south of Huntingdon.” This caused a small uproar.
“Don’t say you’ve stolen a march on us, de Gaillard!”
“I just know my way about Mercia.”
“Only too well,” sneered a voice. “Full of nasty Saxon relatives, isn’t it?”
Aimery looked up to meet the hot, dark eyes of Odo de Pouissey, who was squeezing into a seat opposite.
Aimery had never liked the man, and now his feelings were deepened by what he had witnessed.
This was the man who’d tried to rape Madeleine de la Haute Vironge, and though he hated her, the thought of de Pouissey pawing at her made him want to gut the man.
Aimery’s hand tightened on his goblet. “Full of nasty Norman relatives, too. The heiress is your cousin, isn’t she?”
Odo flushed with anger. “My father’s stepdaughter only. And, by the Grail, what are you implying about Madeleine?”
Aimery took a grip on himself. The king would string them up for fighting at his table, especially over Saxons and Normans. To distract everyone, he said, “So, who wants a map to Baddersley to go heiress hunting?”
“The king’ll have the giving of her,” said one man whom the wine had pushed into sullenness. “Don’t suppose it would matter if she grew devoted to me, so what’s the point?”
“True enough.” Mischievously, Aimery added, “And it might be hard to play sweetly on her if you find she squints and has the temper of a harpy.”
It did not markedly lessen her appeal.
“I could play sweetly on a monster for a fine barony,” declared Stephen de Faix to a chorus of agreement.
Stephen was a handsome, popular young man with a lighthearted approach to life and a taste for hedonism which often got in the way of his ambitions.
He’d very much like an heiress bride. “Tell us, Odo,” he commanded. “How bad is she?”
“Madeleine has a temper,” said Odo. “But any woman can be managed. Gag her in bed. Ignore her the rest of the time.”
“By the Rood,” said another man, “I’d wed the veriest hag for some land of my own. There’s always a pretty wench around for amusement. But tell us just how dreadful she is.”
Odo clearly realized the advantage of painting an unattractive picture of the Baddersley heiress and dropped hints to swell the tale of horror. By the end of the meal everyone was convinced she was ugly, crippled, and foulmouthed, and that was why the king had her hidden away.
They all would still jump at the chance to wed her.
Aimery felt a twinge of compassion for the girl. He remembered fine eyes, dark and flashing, and a shapely, fluid body. In his company she had always been moderate in speech, even when angry.
He pushed his kinder feelings down. She was doing it again, bewitching him even at a distance. He knew her to be cruel and rapacious. If one of these men became her husband, he’d know what to expect and not be swayed by a shapely body and fine eyes. So much the better.
Aimery was dragged out of his musings by the king commanding him to play.
He went into the central space, knowing the flaring torches would highlight his golden hair and ornaments.
He saw his father’s frown in passing. Perhaps that was why he was more cautious than he had intended.
Instead of English songs he sang the favorite Norman ones.
The queen requested a humorous song about a fish and an apple, then the Lady Judith leaned forward. “Lord Aimery, do you know the song about Lord Tristan and Lady Yseault?”
Aimery saw the gleam in her eye and kept his expression politely distant as he replied, “Yes, Lady. I’ll play it for you.
” He knew Lady Judith’s type and had enough troubles without engaging the interest of one of the king’s prizes.
It was as well she seemed to have a taste for the English style, however, since that was doubtless her destiny.
As he sang he ran over the possible candidates.
Edwin was the prime one, but he had apparently been offered Agatha.
The Atheling Edgar was the only male of the English royal bloodline, but he was a boy with no power and never likely to have any.
Edwin’s twin, Morcar, could be of importance, but he hadn’t achieved anything yet.
Gospatric, Earl of Northumbria, was married.
Waltheof.