“Aye, I imagined he had spoken to you of it. He is ready to begin building. Unlike his father, his plans do not include cathedrals.”
“It is well,” Graelam said, sipping at the sweet red wine in his golden goblet. “The Marcher barons have not the strength to keep the Welsh raiders in check.” He grinned at the duke. “Now that you have my opinion, my lord duke, you wish me to leave?”
“Nay, you impudent rascal. Actually, I have planned a tourney and wish you to take part. Does that interest you?”
Graelam rubbed his hands together, his dark eyes lighting up. “It interests me. I have grown bored with naught to do but see to the reparations of Wolffeton. When will the tourney take place?”
“I had thought of April. It gives me no pleasure to think of knights floundering about in foot-deep snow and slush.”
“Will Edward deign to come?”
“Can you doubt it, Graelam? This building of his will cost dearly, and his nobles, of course, must dig into their coffers.”
“I imagined as much. Still, it is wiser to have his nobles bashing each other’s heads in a tourney sponsored by the king’s uncle than attacking each other without his permission.”
“What do you think your lady would say to your fighting, my lord? She would accompany you, would she not?”
Graelam stiffened, his dark eyes narrowing. He forced himself to ease, and sipped negligently at his wine again before answering. “She has been ill. We will have to see when the time grows near.”
“Ill? Does the child do better now?”
“She lost our babe,” Graelam said evenly. “She is well now, at least in body.”
“A pity, but she is young and appears quite healthy. She will bless you with many sons.”
Graelam held himself silent, and the duke continued after a moment. “I have heard from Sir Guy. It appears that his new bride, Blanche, is with child. He is most pleased.”
“I will visit him soon. He is a good man and a valiant warrior. I miss him sorely.”
“But it pleases you that he is now landed, does it not?”
“Aye, it pleases me.”
“How did your lady lose her babe?”
Taken off guard, Graelam said, his voice filled with anger, “She was playing at being the man. My master-at-arms, Rolfe, had taught her how to shoot the bow. He arranged a competition with the most clumsy of my men, to make her look good, of course. One of the horses attacked her mount and she was thrown.”
The duke leaned forward in his chair, a questioning smile on his face. “I do not understand. What made her do such a thing?”
“She met the Lady Chandra at Edward’s coronation. She was most impressed with Chandra’s prowess. She thought to . . . impress me.”
“And did she?” the duke pressed quietly.
Graelam sighed, the truth coming easily now, for he was beset with guilt. Still, his voice was hesitant. “Aye, but ‘twas not necessary. I was coming to admire her without such ruses.”
The duke felt as though the world had taken a faulty turn. He knew he was staring, but he could not help it. He had always believed Graelam a warrior without equal, a proud man, a man who took what he wanted, be it possessions or women. But there was always a part of Graelam he knew to be lacking. He said quietly, “My lord, to love a woman does not weaken a man or make him a mewling fool. The stronger the man, the more gentle he is with his lady. Your father was quite wrong, you know.”
Graelam gave a snort of disdain. “You sound like the troubadours, my lord duke. Can you see me kneeling before a lady and vowing her eyes are brighter than the stars and her complexion a rival to the fairest rose?”
“Does your wife demand such nonsense?”
Graelam ran his hand over his brow, smoothing out the troubled frown. “Nay, but she demands more of me than I am able to give.” Even as he spoke the words, he knew they were not true. What had she demanded of him? Naught save gentleness and kindness and affection. An angry inner voice repeated the refrain he had struggled with for months. She left you. She lied. She is not to be trusted. She lost your babe. He rose abruptly and paced about the duke’s solarium, the confusion of his thoughts clear on his face. He stilled momentarily at the sound of the duke’s voice. “And just what, Graelam, does your gentle wife demand of you?”
I should have known the old man would pry, he thought. “I believe,” he heard himself say, voicing his inner thoughts, “that she wants me to love her.” He slammed his fist against his open palm. “Damn her! I told her I forgave her lies!”
The duke raised a bushy gray brow. “Lies? What is this?”