Fire Song (8 page)

“The messenger who arrived today was from Lord Graelam, informing me that his master is to wed an English heiress.”

“I see,” Kassia said. She felt weak with shock. Married, she thought again, and to an English lord! She stared at her father, trying to understand.

“There is more, Kassia. The first messenger was sent by the Duke of Brittany. Evidently Geoffrey found out that you were still living at Belleterre, that you had not accompanied your husband to England. He has tried to convince the duke that your marriage was all a sham, a plot by me to keep you and Belleterre out of his hands. The duke demands an explanation. If the explanation pleases him not, he threatens to have the marriage annulled and wed you to Geoffrey.”

“Is this English lord, this Graelam de Moreton, strong enough to protect Belleterre from Geoffrey?”

“Aye,” Maurice said, eyeing his daughter carefully.

It was odd, Kassia thought, sifting through her father’s words, but she felt the stronger of the two now. He looked ill with worry, and, she realized, he was dreading her anger at what he had done. Perhaps, she thought, she would have done the same thing were she her father. She loved her father more than anyone else in the world, more than herself. And she loved Belleterre. She thought of Geoffrey, sly, greedy Geoffrey, and felt a rippling of a shudder at the thought of him as her husband. She said, very firmly, “I understand, Father. I do not blame you for what you did. Do not distress yourself further.”

She slid from his lap and forced a calm smile to her lips. “I must prepare myself, Father. I will return with this messenger to England, to my . . . husband. It would not do at all for him to take another wife.”

Maurice gaped at her, wondering why she was not in tears, remembering her mother’s tears, shed so quickly and with such devastating effect.

“I think also,” Kassia continued thoughtfully, “that you should pay a visit to the Duke of Brittany. You could tell him, I suppose, that I fell ill and was unable to accompany my husband back to England. There is some truth to that! And, Father, you must not worry about me. I had to marry someone, and if you believe this Lord Graelam to be a fine man, then I am satisfied. I only wish he were French and lived near. I shall miss Belleterre.”

“Cornwall is not so far away,” Maurice said helplessly. He suddenly realized that he did not know Graelam all that well. He was a man’s man, a brave warrior, strong and proud. How would he deal with a wife he had believed dead within hours of his marriage? Kassia was
so innocent, so very young. He had protected her, guarded her, shown her only gentleness and kindness. My God, he thought, what had he done! He rose with sudden decision. “I will accompany you, Kassia, to Cornwall.”

“Nay, Father. You must protect Belleterre from Geoffrey’s grasping hands. ’Tis the Duke of Brittany you must see.”

Maurice continued to argue, but Kassia knew that he had no choice in the matter. She knew she had no choice either. She felt tears sting her eyes, and resolutely blinked them back. She pictured this Lord Graelam and imagined him to be no different from her father. “Is he old?” she asked, dreading his answer.

“Graelam? Nay, daughter, he is young and well-formed.”

“A kind man, Father? Gentle?”

“I trust so, Kassia.”

She smiled. Young and well-formed and gentle, like her father. All would be well.

“Graelam gave you a ring upon your marriage. I have kept it safe for you.”

“I suppose it would be wise to have it. I imagine that I look a bit different than I did on my wedding night.”

Kassia left her father and hurried to her chamber, calling Etta. “Imagine,” she said as she shook out a yellow wool gown, “I am married, and I didn’t even know it! Etta, did you see this Lord Graelam?”

“Aye, my baby. He was most gentle when the priest said the vows. He held your hand through it all.”

“And he is young and handsome?”

“Aye,” Etta said. He was also formidable-looking, a huge man who could crush her gentle mistress like a fly. “Aye,” she said again, “he is as your father
described him.” Likely, Etta thought, Lord Maurice was quite flattering in his description of his son-in-law. After all, Lord Maurice was a man, just as was the powerful English nobleman. And did he have any choice? “Now, my baby, I will send some servants to assist you. I must pack my own belongings.”

Kassia smiled widely and threw her arms about her old nurse. “We shall conquer England again, Etta, just as did Duke William two hundred years ago!”

Joanna de Moreley held the hooded peregrine falcon gracefully on her wrist and eyed the wretched Blanche from beneath her lowered lashes. Miserable bitch! Her mare suddenly sidestepped and the falcon shrieked, digging his claws into her thick leather glove. Joanna would have liked to fling the falcon into the nearest pile of dung, but Lord Graelam was watching her. She smiled prettily, but jerked the mare’s reins, hurting her tender mouth.

Graelam turned away, a frown gathering on his brow. Although the mare belonged to Joanna, it angered him that she would so mistreat the animal. He sighed, wishing he were miles away from Wolffeton, in the heat of battle, breaking heads with his ax, feeling sweat trickle down his face and back with exertion. Anything but playing the gallant to this ridiculous vain girl! She was not ill-looking, he admitted to himself, and he supposed that her arrogance, bred by an overly doting father and mother, he could control soon enough, once
she was his wife. Her hair was fair, so blond in fact that when the sun shone down upon her head, it appeared nearly white. He had always been partial to fair-haired women, until now. Her best feature, now covered with a wimple that appeared like stiff flapping wings, left him little to admire. He had eyed her body carefully and noted the wide hips, well-suited for childbearing, and her abundant breasts. Perhaps, he thought doubtfully, her proud opinion of herself would turn to passion once he had her in his bed.

He heard Blanche question Joanna in her soft-spoken way, and winced at Joanna’s patronizing tone when she answered. It hadn’t taken long for Graelam to realize he would have no peace in his own castle until Blanche was gone. Unfortunately, he had had two weeks to compare the two women, and to his mind, Blanche, already gentle and submissive, would make his life less troublesome. At least Blanche was no budding shrew. He hardened his jaw. If Joanna proved difficult, he would beat her. The thought of her dowry had not swayed him; indeed, the jewels he had brought back from the Holy Land had provided him enough to finish the work on Wolffeton, enough to buy sheep and more cattle for his freehold farmers and two villages, and finally enough to bring at least another dozen men-at-arms into his service. No, it was the Duke of Cornwall who had pressed him into this alliance. With Edward still out of England, it would not be wise to anger the king’s uncle.

“My lord,” he heard Joanna lisp in that affected way of hers, “I grow overheated. My mother does not like me to spend too much time in the sun.”

Graelam grunted and turned his destrier back toward Wolffeton. Damn the Duke of Cornwall anyway! He
had chosen to accompany Joanna’s parents and their impressive retinue to Wolffeton for the wedding. The duke was no fool.

Joanna gazed ahead at Graelam’s back. He was rather boorish, she thought—no honeyed compliments coming easily to his lips, unlike some of the young knights at the king’s court—but he was handsome and strong. She would mold him to her liking once he was her husband. As for that witch Blanche, she would see her soon gone! She stared toward his castle, Wolffeton, and shuddered. It was a monstrosity, a graceless heap of gray stone in the middle of nowhere that boasted no comforts for a gently reared lady. Joanna smiled. Where her husband would be stupid and boorish, she would be witty and cunning. She would rule him as easily as she ruled her father. She would not suffer by spending her years immured in Wolffeton. Perhaps a few months of the year, but that was more than enough!

The smile on her lips began to hurt, but she did not know when or if Lord Graelam would swing about in his saddle to say something to her. Her eyes bored into his back. She had grown up with five brothers and she knew well what power a woman could wield with her body. She had seen Graelam once without his shirt and had felt a gentle tingling in her belly at the sight of his massive chest and arms, tanned by the harsh wind and sun. Her eyes had roved downward and she had shuddered slightly in anticipation. She was not a virgin, having lost that commodity some four years before in the eager arms of one of her father’s knights. She doubted that Graelam would know the difference in any case, and if he suspected that her cries of pain were feigned, she would have a small vial of chicken blood ready to blotch her thighs.

Blanche rode beside Sir Guy, wishing she could grasp his knife and hurl it into Joanna’s back. And he knew what was in her mind, damn his impudence! She realized quite clearly that her ploys during the past two weeks had failed miserably, even though her gentle manner had shown in clear opposition to Joanna’s snideness, winning her approving looks from Graelam. It was clear to the meanest intelligence that Lord Graelam spent less and less time with his betrothed as the days went by. But it did not matter. There was but one recourse open to her now. She raised her chin, and her eyes gleamed with decision.

“Dare I ask what you are planning . . . now?” Sir Guy said, drawing his palfrey closer to her mare.

Blanche gave him a dazzling smile and quirked a beautifully arched brow at him. “For a . . . boy, you show great interest in things that do not concern you.”

“And for an older woman,” Guy said, unabashed, “you show too much interest in my lord. I tell you, Blanche, you have lost. Accept your defeat. Graelam will find you a husband.” He felt himself frown slightly, disliking that thought.

“You are a fool,” Blanche said, her smile never slipping.

“It is you who are the fool, my lady,” Guy said, his voice gentling, for he knew well her distress. Why, he wondered, would she not accept the truth? “Lord Graelam is honorable. He has agreed to the marriage. He will not break his word.”

Aye, Blanche thought. It was Graelam’s honor that would play to her advantage.

I wish that stupid old man would keep his bony hands to himself, Blanche thought angrily as she eyed
Joanna’s father, Lord Thomas, from beneath her lowered lashes. She would have dearly liked to slap his hand away and tell him what an old fool he was, but she kept still, slewing her eyes toward the acrobats performing in the great hall. She found no amusement in them. She felt a knot form in her throat as she gazed at Graelam, and a renewal of her determination. At least, she thought, he did naught but drink wine and speak to the Duke of Cornwall, paying no attention to his betrothed. Joanna’s lips were drawn in a tight line, showing her displeasure at being ignored, and that made Blanche’s mood somewhat better. Damn her, Blanche thought. She knows Graelam does not want her. She signaled to a serving wench to refill Graelam’s goblet. She felt Lord Thomas’ bony hand once again trail up her thigh and she shifted away from him. His wife, Lady Eleanor, seemed oblivious of her husband’s vagaries, content to speak softly with Sir Guy and gaze about the great hall of Wolffeton with a satisfied and proprietary eye.

Finally, Blanche thought, finally, she could excuse herself. She curtsied gracefully and left the hall. She heard Sir Guy laugh and tossed her head.

It seemed that she waited in the darkness of her small chamber for hours. She had begun to sweat and quickly rose from her bed to pat a damp cloth beneath her arms. She paused a moment and stared at herself in the polished silver mirror. Her body was lush and large-breasted, with full, rounded hips. There were faint lines from childbearing on her belly, but in the candlelight he would not see them. She began to hum softly to herself as she slipped a sheer silk shift over her head. She patted her soft hair into place and walked quietly to the door and opened it. All was quiet at last.

She carried the candle, protecting its thready flame with a cupped hand, and sped toward Graelam’s chamber. She unlatched the door quietly and slipped inside. She paused a moment, then smiled at the sound of his snoring. He had drunk a lot of wine. He would likely not come to his senses until it was too late. And as Sir Guy had told her, Graelam was an honorable man. If he took an unmarried lady in his bed, he would also take her hand in marriage. Why, she wondered, had she not thought of it before? She stifled her guilt and her sudden apprehension, and raised her chin. I will not be a coward! I will do what I must!

She walked quietly to his huge bed and stared down at him a moment, the candle held high. He lay naked on top of the covers, for the night was warm. She was not immune to his male beauty and let her gaze rove the length of his body. Even in relaxed sleep, she could see the ridges of muscle that banded his belly. Lower, she saw a long jagged scar, running from the top of his thigh to near his groin, showing white through the black hair. His manhood lay soft and flaccid in the thick matting of hair and she felt the urge to touch him, to caress him, to bring him to life. She set the candle down on the small table beside his bed. Slowly, ever so quietly, she slipped the shift over her head. She prepared to crawl into bed beside him, when a sudden gust of wind came through the small window. The candle flickered and died. She cursed softly to herself, but quickly realized that the moonlight would be ample for her purposes.

She lay down beside him, pressing her body along his side. Slowly she leaned over him and ran her fingers lightly down his chest. He sighed in his sleep but did not awaken. Blanche sent her searching fingers lower
until they curled around him. With gentle insistence she began to stroke and caress him.

“Nan,” she heard him mutter, still half-asleep, “I told you that we would bed together no more. Leave off.”

Her fingers tightened about his burgeoning member, and she smiled as he groaned. Suddenly his arms were around her, drawing her on top of him. She felt his mouth, hard and demanding, close over hers. She quickly parted her lips to his thrusting tongue. She felt his hands stroking down her back to her buttocks, kneading them fiercely, pressing her against his swollen manhood.