Lady of Fire (18 page)

"God's teeth, girl! You'll faint in church in the morning if you do not eat!"

"I am not hungry, Papa."

"Eat anyway," he advised, "for you need your strength. You've lost weight since you left Nantes."

"If I have, 'twas because Fuld starved me."

He winced at the reference to her captivity and changed the subject. "How is it that Robert sups not?"

"I don't know—mayhap he drinks blood and bays at the moon—the moon is full."

Gilbert unconsciously crossed himself before retorting, "I pray he never hears you talk like that."

"What will he do—beat me to death?"

"Eleanor, the man is hot to have you."

"For now." She suddenly felt ill. The interview with Belesme, her quarrel with Roger, the crowd in the hall—all combined to make her stomach seem like a painful knot in her midriff. "Pray excuse me, Papa." She half-rose to leave, but Gilbert caught at her and pulled her back down.

"What nonsense is this? You cannot just leave Duke Robert's table."

"I'll shame you more if I stay—I am unwell."

Gilbert knew he should go with her or else call for a servant, but he was irritated by her sullenness. "I pray you do not disturb the duke by your leaving," he muttered.

Eleanor gained the outer corridor and leaned her head against the cool stone of the wall. The air inside Curthose's hall had been hot and heavy, and the odors of the food and people combined had seemed unbearable. She pressed against the knot in her stomach. She was not really ill, she decided, but rather she just needed to be alone.

"Demoiselle, are you all right?" she heard Prince Henry say behind her.

"Aye. 'Twas to hot in there."

"What you need is air—if you trust me to walk outside with you again."

"Aren't you afraid to be seen conversing with Belesme's bride?" she asked before she could bite back the words.

"Nay—my birth protects me, Demoiselle." He came closer."You seem uncommonly cross—is anything amiss?"

"Nay. Oh… aye. I quarrel with Roger, my lord."

"He told me. You know, I agree with him…'tis folly to wed with Robert of Belesme, Demoiselle. He could kill you in one of his black moods and repent of it later."

"Must everyone remind me? Can no one comfort me?" she cried out.

"Your pardon. The future must seem grim enough without the reminding."

He drew her down unfamiliar stairs and along a passage that seemed to lead toward the kitchens. She stopped and looked around the deserted passageway. The torches that hung in iron rings were spaced far apart and barely lit the way.

"Where are we, my lord?"

"You forget"—he smiled—"that I lived here as a child. There are many ways outside, Demoiselle. Would you have us discovered?"

"Nay."

"I thought not."

"But this seems to lead to the scullery."

"It does. They remove the covers now, and the jongleurs and mummers take their places, so most have gone up for a glimpse of the entertainment."

Something moved in the passage ahead of them and Eleanor drew back. Henry seemed unconcerned and gently took her elbow. " 'Tis nothing", he reassured her.

"My thanks." Roger stepped out and looked behind them. "Did any see you with her? I would not have him accuse you."

"Nay, the place is deserted. Gilbert, fool that he is, let her leave unattended."

"Roger, what are you doing here?"

"I saw you leave, so Henry and I thought now was as good a time as any to make our escape."

"Nay—Roger, I will not."

"Believe me, Demoiselle," Henry whispered, " 'tis the only way."

"Lea, if you come not willingly, I will muzzle you and carry you out anyway." Roger moved forward. "I do not want to hurt you, but I will if I must."

"Cry out now, and you seal his fate," Henry warned her.

"But I cannot go with you!"

"You can—you will!" Roger turned to Henry. "Is everything ready?"

"Aye, and we waste precious time. Come on."

Roger grabbed Eleanor's hand and pulled her after them into the depths of the scullery. Just as Henry had said, it was deserted except for Aubery. He stood waiting with what appeared to be an armful of clothes. When he saw them, he wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"I got them, my lord," he addressed Roger, "of one of the kitchen wenches. I pray she had no vermin." He extended the clothing to Eleanor. "Your pardon, Demoiselle, but 'twas what my lord requested. I hope they fit—the girl was bigger than you." He shook his head at Roger and added, "There were none as small as the demoiselle in the kitchens."

Roger took the clothes and turned to Eleanor. "Do you go behind the door and put these on, or do I strip you and put them on for you?"

This was a new and different brother that stood before her. His face was set with determination and there was none of the gentleness she was used to. She blinked at his tone and reached for the dirty clothing. "I will dress myself, Roger."

"Be quick—there's no telling how soon you may be missed." He spoke low to Henry, "You'd best be getting back, my lord. I would not have his wrath on your head."

"Nay, why should he suspect? He rode out earlier, telling my brother that he had business at Caudebec but would return by morning."

"I wonder what it was," Roger mused half to himself. "No matter—time is short. Lea, are you dressed yet?"

She came out from behind the door, her head hanging in embarrassment. Aubery had been right—the dress came from a larger girl. The neck opening hung precariously low over Eleanor's breasts, half-exposing them. She pulled the coarse material back in vain, frustrated that she could not walk holding her shoulders without drawing attention. And certainly she could not go out bare-chested without even more notice. Both Prince Henry and Aubery stared appreciatively at her. Her temples pounded as the blood rushed to her head, and she had to look down in embarrassment. "Sweet Jesu, Roger! I cannot go anywhere like this," she whispered, mortified.

"Nay, Lea. 'Twill do for its purpose." Roger turned around and stopped still as his eyes took in what the others saw. His own blood rushed and he could barely conceal the hunger he felt. He turned her away from them and pulled her close to cover her. "Just hide your face in my shoulder when we leave, and pay no heed to what I have to say."

"Here's the ale, my lord." Aubery stepped forward with a cup and handed it to Roger. " 'Tis foul stuff," he warned even as Roger slopped it down the front of the rough gown.

"Ugh!" She recoiled, "it smells rank."

"Aye—the ranker the better, Lea. Common wenches smell far different from gentle ladies, I can tell you, and this will make it easier to get you out without arousing suspicion amongst the guards." He looked over her shoulder at his squire. "Is there anyone in the passageway, Aubery?"

The younger man went to the door and cracked it to peer out cautiously. "Nay, there is not one."

"Well, gentle sister," Roger asked Eleanor the last time, "do you come quietly, or do I render you unconscious until we are safe?"

All three men stared at her and the tension in the room mounted. If she screamed or drew attention to them, explanations to the duke and Belesme would be awkward, if not impossible. "Please, Roger," she tried one last time, "let me go back."

"Nay, I cannot. My mind is decided, Lea—the only question is how you go."

She capitulated. "Quietly then."

"Then we are ready." He took a full purse and a scrap of parchment from Prince Henry and nodded to Aubery. "My thanks to you both—few men are blessed with better friends."

"Wait." Henry cut in front of them and opened the door. "I'll go first and call out if I see anyone."

They followed him into the empty passageway and up a narrow backstairs to the yard. It too was deserted. Henry stopped before they reached the sentry gate and waited for them to catch up. "God grant you success," he whispered. Motioning to Aubery, he hissed, "You come with me, and if any asks, we have been wenching together." His hand touched Eleanor's shoulder in the darkness. "Godspeed, Demoiselle, until we meet again in England." With that, he and Aubery faded into the blackness. Behind them, Eleanor could hear the door creak as they disappeared.

"Come on," Roger urged her, " 'tis now."

Before she could know what he intended, he grasped her about the waist and hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain on a peasant's back. With his free hand he pushed her dress up to expose her bare legs, while the hand that steadied her on his shoulder rested suggestively on her buttocks.

"Nay… Roger!" she hissed in shock.

"Shhhh—put your head against me and hide your face."

"But…"

"Just do it, Lea."

"Aye." She buried her head in the softness of his tunic while he moved toward the gate. He began to weave unevenly and to sing a ribald tune she'd never heard before. His voice grew louder the closer he got to the sentries.

"Hold! Who goes there?" A soldier in Normandy's colors stepped forward to challenge them. Eleanor sucked in her breath and waited.

"FitzGilbert," Roger answered thickly. "Leave us be."

"My lord." The sentry nodded in recognition.

Roger seemed to stagger under Eleanor's weight and she had to clutch at him. "Itsh hot in there," he slurred, "and I'd lay a fine wench." He gave a drunken giggle and raised her skirt higher. "See for yourself."

The guard moved closer and laid a hand on her white thigh, stroking the smooth flesh while Eleanor tried not to flinch. "Aye, she's a young one—mayhap a virgin," he noted.

"Nay—she lays like a whore who knows her business, but I would have her to myself." Roger winked broadly at the soldier. "And the grass is soft."

"Aye, my lord." The fellow laughed and slapped Eleanor's thigh hard. "I wish you joy of the wench. If you wear yourself out, you can pass her on to me."

"Aye," Roger muttered thickly.

He adjusted her on his shoulder and carried her past the other guard. He belched loudly as he passed through the gate and began to sing again about some Bertha whose pit was deep and tight. Mortified, Eleanor could hear the sentries laughing behind her.

Instead of going into the woods, he kept to the wall and made his way down to the road into town. He stopped and set her down, apologizing as he pulled her skirt back over her legs, "I am sorry, Lea, but was the only plausible way I could think to get you out."

"I think men are disgusting," she muttered with feeling as she rubbed the place where the sentry had struck her. "Is this what you do with your wenches, Roger?"

"It is not." He reached for her hand and squeezed reassurance. "We made it thus far, Lea. We walk into Rouen and change clothes where Aubery has arranged it. From there, I am a mere knight, Richard of Clemence, and you are my lady wife, called Joan. 'Twill be uncomfortable for you, and I am sorry for it, but we decided that the best way to hide your small stature would be if you were heavy with child."

"What!"

"Aye—none will look for it. My armorer at the Condes has made a device to be strapped double around you so that it will not slip. 'Tis straw and horsehair encased in several layers of fine linen to soften it, but 'twill be hot, I know. Henry has arranged documents for us so that we may cross at Saint Valéry—we are going to pray for your safe delivery of a son at the tomb of the Confessor in London. But we waste time talking—come on."

Contents
-
Prev
/
Next

The innyard was neither deserted nor crowded as they approached. Ostlers led away a couple of horses while travelers visited lazily at tethering posts or on wooden benches positioned by the inn itself. The few who did look up saw nothing extraordinary about the couple coming in, an impoverished knight and his pregnant wife. Any who bothered to note them could plainly see he was at best a mercenary, a probable younger son, because the packhorse behind them carried the tools of his trade, a plain shield, a broadsword, a lance, a serviceable suit of mail, and a helmet, in addition to a couple of packs that probably contained most of their clothing. He was shabbily dressed in a brocaded tunic whose colors had long since faded, a pair of plain brown chausses wrapped with leather garters, and heavy but worn boots, while she wore a plain gown of dull blue cloth untied at the waist to allow for her swollen belly. The only remarkable thing about them to any interested observer was that they were obviously besotted with each other.

He dismounted and turned to lift her from her horse as carefully as if she had been a basket of uncooked eggs. His hands lingered at her thickening waist possessively before he stepped back to straighten her gown. Then, slipping a protective arm about her shoulders, he leaned closer and whispered something for her ears alone. Her laughter floated through the courtyard. She seemed quite young, probably with child for the first time, judging from her small stature and a certain aura of innocence about her face. She was a beautiful girl even with her hair braided and severely pulled back into a roll at the back of her head. Had she not been so heavy with her husband's heir, she would have stirred any man. Closer inspection by a few curious eyes revealed that the knight, though impoverished, was not so unremarkable after all. He stood head and shoulders above his lady, a well-built young man with softly waving blond hair and bright blue eyes that sparkled with good humor. A couple of men watched them and shook their heads at the vagaries of a fortune that made some great lords and others merely younger sons.

Roger's blue eyes were warm with approbation as he teased Eleanor aloud, "Art beautiful even near your time, Joan."

"Nay, Richard, your eyesight fails you," she teased back, "for I am ugly and ungainly—only my lord could love me like this."

"Your lord loves you right well, lady, even if he cannot show it until you are delivered. But it grows late and, by the looks of the yard, room will be scarce. Wait here with the horses while I bespeak a bed, Joan."

He walked casually into the inn and scanned the dining travelers for a sign of his man. Across the room in a nearly secluded corner sat Jean Merville eating alone. Roger nodded almost imperceptibly before seeking out the innkeeper, a stout, hearty fellow whose pocketed apron marked his trade.

"I need a bed for myself and my lady."

The man took in his faded tunic and shook his head regretfully. "As you can see, we are most crowded." He gestured around the taproom with a broad sweep of his hand. "Nay—a common pallet with three or four others could be found for you, but I've no space suitable for your lady."

Roger reached into the bag at his belt and drew out a small purse of coins. "I have money." He weighed the purse in his hand before extending it to the landlord. "Here—count it for yourself. My wife is with child and nears her time—she cannot go further tonight."

"Well…" The fellow rubbed his chin thoughtfully before reaching for the money. " 'Tis not much, but here is the loft over the horses, sir. Gundrade can spread you a clean pallet there."

"So be it then." Roger nodded in agreement. "We need supper also, and water for washing."

"There's a well in the yard…you can draw from it. Gundrade!" the man called out to a pleasantly rounded apple-cheeked woman who came in from the kitchens. "Get this man a drying cloth for himself and his lady, and make up a pallet for them in the loft."

"Aye."

"And fetch some of the pigeon pie." The innkeeper judged the weight of the purse he held. "Aye—and a little of the wine."

"The wine, Gerbod?"

"Aye," he answered gruffly. "His lady nears her time, Gundrade—would you have her drink the stout?"

"Nay." The woman smiled at Roger. "Bring her in, sir, and I will clear a place for her away from the others."

Roger returned to the yard with the coarse linen squares and tossed a coin to the ostler, saying, "Put up the horses and guard our things well—there's another coin for you on the morrow if everything is still there." Turning to Eleanor, he grinned. "We are fortunate, Joan, to get a bed and a meal here. I had so little notion of the advantage of traveling with a big-bellied woman." He handed her one of the rough cloths and pointed toward the well. "We wash there."

"There?" Eleanor raised a skeptical eyebrow until she caught Roger's warning eye. "Oh… I see." It had never occurred to her before that the lower orders of the nobility did not enjoy the same privileges she had had even in the convent. Apparently they waited on themselves.

He drew up a bucket of cool water and proffered a dipper for her. It was hot and the air was heavy with unshed moisture. She took the dipper without question and drank deeply, draining it, and then waited for him to do the same. He poured another cup or so on one of the pieces of cloth and gave it to her, saying, " 'Twill at least take the dust and sweat off your face, Joan, before we eat."

"Aye." She rubbed the cool wetness over her face, savoring the feeling of temporary freshness it gave. "Do they have baths here, Richard?" she asked hopefully.

"Aye." He pointed to a shed behind the inn itself where buckets hung suspended over open cubicles. "But I doubt you would want to use them."

"Oh." Daunted, she had to content herself with pushing back her wide sleeve and thrusting the wet cloth deep within it to wash her arm and what portion of her body she could decently reach. It might not be a bath, but it was better than living with the sticky-damp feel of one's sweat. She rinsed the cloth and repeated the process on the other side, furtively scratching at the belt beneath her gown. Roger shed his tunic and the wet linen undertunic, tied the undertunic around his waist to catch excess water, and then poured several dippers of cool water over his head while she watched in fascination as the water trickled down over his shoulders and his upper torso. She looked at the wet hair on his chest with open envy. "Jesu, but I wish I were a man," she told him with feeling.

"Do you now?" He rubbed his head vigorously with a dry strip of linen and grinned at her. "You'd not find it nearly so exciting as you imagine, Joan, for your life would be spent fighting other men's wars and wondering each time if it is your turn to fall. It is endless days on horseback in heat and cold, clad in heavy leather and steel, with mostly cold biscuits and stale ale to keep you alive. Nay, you would not like it."

"Is that truly how it is, R-Richard?" she asked, fascinated by this glimpse into the life of a fighting man.

"Aye—and 'tis little better for any from soldier to king. Did you never wonder why the Old Conqueror was so grizzled or so wary? He sat at the same camp-fires and ate of the same food as the rest of us most of the time."

"Well, it could not be worse than a convent."

"Shhhh," he cautioned her low. "Do not forget yourself."

"Aye." She stood back and waited for him to finish drying himself off. "At least you can bare your chest and cool off."

"And if you did the same, lovey"—he grinned—"I could not defend you by myself." He pulled on his overtunic and left his undertunic to dry on the bucket post. "Let us go eat—I am famished, my lady."

Jean Merville, clad in Prince Henry's colors now, rose and hailed them as they entered the inn. "Richard…Richard of Clemence!" he called out loudly. "Lady Joan! Over here!"

Roger appeared startled and then recognized his man slowly as one who had just seen an old and seldom-met acquaintance. He furrowed his brow thoughtfully before snapping his fingers and grinning. "Merville, is it not? I thought you at the Condes."

"I am for there, Richard, but I serve my lord Henry now."

"How is that?"

" 'Tis a long tale—I'll tell you after I have supped. Do you and your lady stay here the night?"

"Aye."

Merville looked at Eleanor curiously. "God's teeth, Richard! Should she be traveling like that? She looks ready to drop twins."

"Ah, Sir Merville," Eleanor joined, " 'tis always thus—I get huge early on."

"Aye," Roger laughed, "One day it can scarcely be noted, the next she looks ready to lie in."

"Well, would you and the Lady Joan join me? The place clears out now."

"Aye." Roger looked around the room to make sure there were no familiar faces before seating Eleanor and himself at Merville's trestle table. Jean leaned across to murmur low, "All hell came down after you left, my lord."

Roger frowned a warning. "I am most anxious to hear of it, but not here. We have the loft—you can pallet with us and tell us then."

Gunrade produced the promised pigeon pie and wine. Roger smiled his thanks, winning for them an extra dish of fruit and cheeses. When she had left, Jean Merville poked Eleanor as an equal and asked. "Did you see that, my lady? 'Tis always the same—he but smiles at a woman to get whatever he would have."

"Really?" She turned her dark eyes mischievously to Roger. "And just
what
do you usually get for your smiles?"

"Jean—" Roger seemed less than pleased. "Cease this, else you'll have her appearing as the jealous wife."

"Leave him be. I was but teasing you."

To avoid further embarrassing conversation, Roger dug into his share of the pigeon pie with gusto. Eleanor, on the other hand, found that the heat had robbed her of much of her appetite. She merely picked at the pie and then munched slowly on an apple. Gundrade reappeared to clear the covers and noted Eleanor's still-full trencher. She left to bring back a fresh fruit tart, still warm from the ovens.

"Gentle lady," she addressed Eleanor, "you must eat for your strength. Pray try one of these…they are fresh for the morrow's meals."

Merville and Roger exchanged glances after she returned to the kitchen. "Now, Jean, you can see 'tis more advantage to travel with a lady near her time than with a smiling fellow. Look who got the best of the meal."

"Nay." Eleanor pushed the tart toward them. "You divide it between you—I am too hot to eat."

Roger eyed her anxiously. "You are not getting sick, are you?"

"Nay, 'tis the heat."

Roger rose and reached for her. "Let us walk outside where it is cooler then. Jean, you may have the sweet." He looked out an unshuttered window and noted, "It grows dark outside—we'll meet you in the loft later."

"Aye." Merville weighed the wineskin and nodded. "There's some left here, anyway."

He watched them leave curiously. He genuinely liked the Demoiselle, but he still could not reason out the strange hold she had on Roger FitzGilbert. Were the girl not of his blood, it would be easier to understand, but still not fully comprehensible. There was no woman on earth who could move Jean the way Eleanor of Nantes did Roger FitzGilbert.

The innyard was empty now, its occupants having gone in to sup or having already sought their beds. The still nearly full moon peacefully illuminated the open space while night insects hummed their summer songs in the distance.

"I hate the way I look now," Eleanor murmured as she clutched Roger's arm and walked toward a deserted bench.

"Nay—you are beautiful."

"Tell me truly, brother…could you love a lady who looked as I do now?"

He stopped walking and looked down for a long moment. Soberly he replied, "Aye—doubly so were it my child she carried."

"Your son," she corrected.

"Nay"—he shook his head emphatically—"my child."

"You cannot deny that all men demand sons."

"Only God chooses what a man gets in this life, Lea. Not all men are Gilberts and you would do well to remember that. There are those of us who would love first the wife, and then the children, if they come."

"And if they do not? Roger, my father's love for my mother turned to hate when she had no son."

"Lea, I repeat what I said…not all men are Gilberts."

"Well, I still think it will be different when you are wed, brother. Then it will be a matter of your heir."

He shrugged. "Think what you will, but I really do not care that much about building dynasties. If my wife proves barren even, 'twould be a source of sadness for us both, but I would not reproach her for what she could not help. Besides, the fault could be mine—I've long thought your mother bore no sons because Gilbert planted none."

"Marie is most fortunate," Eleanor murmured softly.

"Marie?" Roger looked at her sharply and then recovered himself. So Eleanor thought Marie de Coutances to be the lady he sought. Well, he reasoned, it did no harm to let her think so for the moment. "Oh… aye."

Eleanor felt a stab of jealousy and tried to focus on Roger's gain rather than her own loss to ease the pain. "She is very beautiful, brother," she managed.

"She is that," he agreed. He began again to move toward the bench. "Come on—sit down and rest yourself."

"If I sit down, I sit on that which is the most tired after two days of riding."

"Then stand while I sit."

She followed him to the bench and waited while he dusted it off with his hand. With a rueful sigh she adjusted the heavy padding at her waist and sat anyway. "The next time I run away, Roger, I will choose mine own disguise."

"And be what?"

"A nun or a squire—or anything except a fat lady."

"You are not fat." He eyed her appreciatively. "Truly, Lea, you are still the most beautiful lady I've seen."

They heard the inn door bang open and saw the ostlers make their way out for one last inspection of the stable. Roger slid closer to Eleanor and laid an arm about her shoulders while whispering, "Do not forget and call me 'Roger' or 'brother' when we can be heard."