Simon's Lady Read Free

who had slipped into his seat at the table while all eyes were on Beresford.
    Beresford knelt then rose. “I am always ready to serve you, madam,” he said, his deep voice resonant and respectful, “and the king, my liege.”
    “That, too, pleases me,” she said and invited him to take his chair, the vacant one at the foot of the table.
    He did so, with a heightened sense of unease at Adela’s graciousness, insensibly increased by the sight of the table ceremoniously set with two impressive silver ewers and weighty silver chalices, heavily embossed and chased, one for each person at the table.
    Stephen of Blois, King of England, slumped in his chair, was a handsome man turned heavy whose one act of decisive courage had won him the throne twenty years before. The king had one or two innocuous words to say to his most loyal knight, then returned the initiative to his capable mistress, Adela of Chartres, seated on his left, who was plainly in charge of the proceedings.
    Adela was dark haired and even a little dowdy, despite the grandeur of her raiment, but as canny a politician as Queen Mathilda, who had died the year before. Upon Mathilda’s death, it had been widely feared that Stephen would lapse into an inactivity that would surely lead to the Angevin duke Henry’s usurping of the throne. However, when Adela stepped in to strengthen Stephen’s resolve, her position as surrogate queen in Stephen’s court was met with acceptance and even approval.
    Adela began to speak to the man she had summoned, yet was able to include all the barons in her gentle conversation. It seemed a disjointed discourse at first, though mellifluous in its delivery, wandering at random over a review of the loyal services that Simon of Beresford had performed for his king.
    Beresford let her words wash over him for the first minute or two, nodding, listening, even drifting away for a moment as he tried to imagine the nature of Adela’s intentions.
    Then he heard her say unmistakably, “And that is why, my lord, I have grown concerned about the loneliness of your present state.”
    His attention snapped back. “My loneliness?” he repeated, astonished. “I am hardly lonely, madam, I assure you! I live in a very full household, as you must know.”
    “Ah, but you have been a widower some five years already,” she said softly.
    “That is true,” Beresford answered. “But I fail to see the trend of your argument.”
    Adela smiled a woman’s smile. “You have grieved your dear, departed Roesia long enough—”
    “Never a day of it!” Beresford interpolated bluntly, hastening to correct her misimpression.
    A titter of laughter went around the table, but Adela admirably kept her composure. She continued smoothly, “—and so bravely. You have been raising your sons without a mother, trying vainly to keep a household in order—”
    “My household is in excellent order,” he objected, rudely interrupting her again in his continuing astonishment.
    “—Managing your many estates alone under great duress. For these reasons, my lord, and principally that of your personal happiness, I am delighted to inform you that we—King Stephen and I—have found you the perfect wife.”
    Beresford was momentarily stunned, as if he had taken a physical blow. Then, without another thought, he thrust back his chair, causing it to stutter against the floor. Rising, he ejaculated a fiery,
“What?”
He nearly choked in his surprise and anger. He did not bother to address Adela but turned directly to Stephen. “A wife? For
what,
pray? My personal happiness? Tell me that you are joking, sire, and I will forget this outrage!”
    A moment of silence fell, as the very room held its breath at the unprecedented insult of a knight to his king. Had these words been uttered by any man other than Simon of Beresford, calls of treason would have been hurled down on his head. Under the circumstances, however, not a baron was disappointed, and they eagerly awaited