Lady of Fire (23 page)

"Aye, and 'twas the heat of my body that spoke. You cannot think I would rather have you for a leman than a wife, surely."

"Nay, but I cannot wed with anyone," she persisted stubbornly.

"Jesu!" He threw up his hands in disgust. "Here—raise your arms," he ordered, "and get into this." he picked up the green gown and pulled it over her shoulders with unusual roughness. "I'll get the comb."

By the time he returned, his anger had abated. She sat obediently on the remains of an upended bench and let him work through the mass of tangles. His fingers painstakingly separated the strands and worked out the matted clumps before he even tried to drag the comb through it. It was a slow process, but he was patient and gentle—more so than most tiring women—and the tangles finally yielded to his efforts. "You hair is beautiful, Lea," he told her, "but it makes me glad I wear mine short. 'Tis a wonder that you have not cried out from the pain."

"I am used to it."

"Do you want one braid or two?"

"I don't care, but you don't have to do that."

"One's easier," he decided for her as he plaited the thick hair into a single braid that hung down her back almost to her waist. Stepping back to admire his handiwork, he nodded. "Aye,'twill do until we get to Walter's."

"Walter's?"

"Aye, 'tis what we should have done in the first place. Walter is lord of the port of Dieppe, and he is fond of you, and he hates Robert of Belesme."

"He is a de Clare, Lea, and your kinsman. His family is powerful both here and in England. He would dare."

"We still go to England then?"

"Aye." he raised a surprised eyebrow. "I am still sworn to you—did you think I meant to leave you with Walter? Nay, we go as planned."

"But if I am not your sister—"

"You still have to escape Belesme, Lea. Once you are safe, we can decide what to do." He looked up to the sky and frowned. "The sun is lowering already, and I've not got our supper. You turn the clothes over and fill the skins while I rob the poacher's traps."

"Shall I make another fire?"

"Aye—we'll try for a stew this time. God knows I shall be tired of rabbit any way 'tis prepared before we reach Walter's." He undid the dagger that he wore at his belt and proffered it hilt-first. "Remember this? Henry gave it to me that day at Nantes. You take it for protection, and if you see or hear anything untoward, hide yourself in the trees until I get back."

"Can I not come with you?" she asked as she noted the lowering sun.

"Nay. 'Tis possible I might meet friend poacher and he might not welcome the theft of his dinner." He flashed a brief smile and shook his head. "I'd not want to have to kill a man in front of you."

She watched him disappear softly into the woods and waited. She had plenty of time before he returned in which to do as he'd asked, so she sat on a broken piece of wall and tried to collect her tumbled and troubled thoughts into some semblance of order and good sense. At first, her mind seemed incapable of thinking, echoing only his words: "I share no blood of yours!" and "Aye, you are not my sister… I am not your brother," over and over again.

To compensate for the overwhelming sense of loss she felt, she tried to concentrate on what she must've meant to him for him to give up all he owned in a daring scheme to save her from Belesme. Aye, she reminded herself, and even before that, he'd been the single constant thing in her life. She recollected the letters, the visits, the constancy over the years, and marveled at his steadiness of purpose. And what they'd been to each other, she shook her head in remembrance, blushing even now for the things she'd been able to talk of with him. Roger was never offended nor was he shocked by any of her innermost thoughts. She sighed regretfully with the realization that never again would she be able to speak to him of love and life, of men and women—and all because they'd lived a lie once and now knew the truth.

The truth. Glynis must have told Roger that very day that William the Conqueror had intervened against Robert of Belesme. Looking back, she could see now just how subtle the change had been, and she knew for certain he'd known when he promised to be her champion. He'd warned her then about what men would have of her, and yet, years later, it was what he would have of her also.

She drew her legs up on the broken wall and hugged her knees to her. Well, she sighed sadly to herself, one thing was certain—they could not go back to the way there were no matter what he'd said. She'd seen the way he looked at her and she'd felt his body against hers, and she would never forget the passion he'd aroused in her. Nay, things would never be the same.

It would be so easy to love him as he wanted. She chewed reflectively on a thumbnail and let her mind wander to imagine really lying with him. Aye, he loved her now and life would be sweet—for a time. So it had been with her parents. By all accounts, Gilbert had been besotted of Mary de Clare when she came to him, and yet there was little but dislike—aye, hate even—between them when she died. And Eleanor had been the start of it by reason of her birth. Nay, it would be better to strive to maintain what she and Roger had once had rather than to wed with him and chance letting love turn to hatred.

A hunting horn sounded in the distance, drawing her back to reality. She held her breath and waited for it again. Her hand instinctively sought Roger's dagger and closed over it, while her eyes turned toward the woods where she would seek refuge if any came closer. The horn sounded again and, from the sound of it, it came from yet further away. She relaxed and turned her attention toward the tasks Roger had assigned her.

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Eleanor and Roger sat within the great tapestried hall of Walter de Clare's manor house and waited. It was a luxuriously appointed room in a building that sat in the middle of what was once an extensive courtyard surrounded by high, towered walls. Walter, a shipping merchant as well as a lord, had taken much of what he'd seen of English manors and constructed one of his own within the protection of his fortress. The place was furnished with things collected in his travels to Italy, Spain, Portugal, the emperor's court at Byzantium, and the Holy Land itself.

"I tell you I know of no Richard of Clemence!" Walter's voice carried from somewhere outside.

"My lord, he desires speech with you," his steward urged, "and I could not turn them away, for his lady is near her time."

"A landless knight, you say! God's teeth, but what am I supposed to do with them? I've enough levy to satisfy mine obligations."

"My lord, he said if you were unconvinced, I was to give you this."

"Jesu! Mother of God!"

Roger smiled at Walter's reaction to Henry's ring. Henry had been right—it could well gain him an audience where his appearance could not. He could hear footsteps now in the corridor outside the hall. Eleanor shrank against him, uncertain of her welcome as a runaway from parent, liege, and bridegroom. Roger clasped her hand tightly and waited for the door to burst open.

"I will speak to them alone," Walter ordered from the entrance as he dismissed his steward. He stepped in and banged the door shut behind him. When he first saw Roger and Eleanor, he regretted his decision to talk to the visitors, for, by appearances, he faced naught but a poor knight and a distressed lady. He frowned and stepped closer. Roger stood and pulled Eleanor up with him.

"Mother of God! It is you! Can you not know they comb all of Normandy looking for you?" Any uncertainty they'd had of his welcome was dispelled as he enveloped Eleanor in a tight hug and then turned to bestow the kiss of peace on both of Roger's cheeks. "Sweet Mary, but I've worried about you since I heard!" He stepped back and patted Eleanor's padded abdomen, laughing. "Ho! And what's this, fair cousin?"

"Roger thought none would look for a plain knight and a fat lady," she laughed. "And he was right. We passed under the very noses of Belesme's men, and not as far as from here to your gate from Belesme himself."

"Where were you? Or should I ask where you have been this past week or more?"

"Three days on the road to Saint Valéry, two days in the woods near there, and three days here."

"Saint Valéry! Jesu, but you were fortunate. Belesme stopped on his way there and demanded quartering for the night. He came to tell me my ships would not sail until you were found."

"Aye, he's closed the port."

"And everywhere else in Normandy, Roger." Walter rubbed his chin and frowned thoughtfully. "You are safe enough here, of course, though you'll have to remain this Richard of Clemence. I will, however, get you a bed on the pretense of your lady's imminent confinement."

Eleanor looked at Roger in dismay and he reddened even as he nodded agreement, "Aye,'twould be remarked if we were separated in a strange place."

"And she cannot sleep with the women without betraying her disguise," Walter mused aloud. " 'Twill have to be a cut-out chamber in the old castle walls if it is to go unremarked. You can spread your pallet there."

"Helene?" Eleanor could not but venture a question about Walter's wife, a highborn lady with connections to Curthose himself.

"I'll tell her nothing while you are here—you are the Lady Joan and nothing more. If she discovers the truth after you have gone, what can she do? Tell Curthose and have his wrath come down on her husband?" Walter's face broke into a broad grin. "Nay, she likes the life I give her here—'twould be uncomfortable if I were taken away." He turned back to Roger, asking, "And what are your plans now? You may stay here, and well you know it, but 'twill not do to stay overlong. I am Eleanor's kinsman and I expect Belesme to come back."

"Aye—we are for England."

"With the ports closed? Jesu, but the man ruins me, and so I told him when he was here."

"You control Dieppe, Walter. Can you not sail from there?"

"Not without letting Belesme inspect my cargo, Roger. When I told him I would sail whether or no, he gave me that strange smile of his and said, "Aye, but my agents will check your shipping bill against your cargo."

"Then we will have to be shipped goods."

"I am mostly a cloth merchant, Roger."

"How does it go?" Eleanor asked. "I mean—is it crated, in trunks, or baled?"

"All ways, I suppose, but mostly just baled." Walter eyed her suspiciously and waited.

"Well, why could Roger and I not be a trunk of cloth?"

"And Belesme will have every one of them opened when he hears I would sail, cousin. Nay, 'tis too risky for you and for me."

"Walter, how much sits on the wharves that will be bound for England? Enough to fill a ship?"

Walter rubbed his chin again while he thought. "More than that—there's enough to stock six or eight merchant ships ready. Why do you ask?"

"Lea's right. Let us be trunks of cloth and send so much that they will tire of opening them. And do it boldly—apply openly to both Curthose and Belesme for a permit to leave. Aye, invite them to inspect your cargo, saying you must sail or be ruined by the losses you suffer."

"Much Robert of Belesme would care about that," Walter snorted. "An admission like that would guarantee that he would stop us."

"Nay, your lady is of Curthose's blood on the Flemish side, is she not? Can she write? Have her apply to Curthose by messenger."

"What if you are taken?"

Eleanor sucked in her breath as Walter asked the question she dreaded most. Roger shook his head. "Nay, Lea it will not happen. But if you are afraid, we can get word to Henry. He travels to England often enough that I might be able to persuade him to sail with us."

"Aye." Walter warmed to the plan. "One of you could go in his trunks—not even Robert of Belesme would dare to open them without permission."

"Roger, we cannot ask it. Prince Henry has done so much already that he risks Curthose's anger. He has no land and is dependent on his brothers."

"He has the Condes now," Roger reminded her. "And he would do it to see you safe, Lea."

"He still thinks he loves her?" Walter asked, fascinated. "I'd supposed he'd forgotten her long ago, judging by how well he's consoled himself."

" 'Love' is a strong word for what Henry feels," Roger answered, "but he still cares for her."

Walter's lips pursed into a low whistle. "So it was true. Jesu, sweet cousin, have a care around him then. I've no desire to see a kinswoman of mine made a royal mistress."

"Nay, he is not like that," Eleanor defended.

"Humph," Walter snorted derisively. "You have been too long in a convent, cousin. Henry usually takes what he wants if he wants it badly enough."

"Henry is Rufus' heir, and it is not likely Rufus will wed," Roger pointed out. "If Henry is to sit England's throne, he will have need of men like you and me. He would not risk our support even to have Lea in his bed. If naught else can be said of him. Henry is a practical man."

"Aye. Write to him, then, and I will send it by my rider today with orders it is for his hands only." Walter held up the prince's ring to the light. "And if we send this, he is bound to know it comes from you."

"Aye. 'Tis better if you write, and only in the vaguest terms, in case it falls into Belesme's hands. The ring will be enough to bring Henry."

"Walter," Eleanor asked suddenly, "could I have a bath and a bed? I am tired and dirty and I've not slept much these two days past."

Both men looked at her and frowned. Her disguise would be difficult enough to maintain in a busy household without exposing her to the scrutiny of servants. Besides, as wife to an itinerant knight, she would be accorded no such privileges. But as Walter looked on her tired face with its hollows and shadows, he relented. "Aye," he answered finally, "but you will have to bathe yourself. I will tell Helene it is a courtesy because of your condition."

"Thank you, Walter."

De Clare went to the door and called out to a passing servant, "Ask my lady to come down—we have visitors."

Eleanor luxuriated alone in her bath, soaping herself and rinsing again and again with pitchers of fresh warm water. The door was closed and the privacy was welcome. The room itself was larger than she'd expected and better appointed, but then, her cousin was a wealthy lord. She had to smile at Helene's condescending way of bringing her up and carefully explaining that these used to be the family's quarters before the new house was built in the courtyard. Obviously, Walter's wife took much pride in her husband's wealth.

She leaned her head back and thought of how much had changed in her life since Robert of Belesme had come to her at Fontainebleau—of Fuld Nevers, of Rouen, of Henry, and of Roger. Jesu, what a mess other people had made of her life while she moved through it. She stretched her neck back and yawned, wondering what else would come her way before all was done. It was getting harder to think rationally.

Nearly an hour later, Roger tapped gently at the door, but she did not hear him, as she'd slipped into sleep. He tried again and received no answer. Finally he lifted the iron handle and pulled. At first glance, the room was empty when the heavy door swung inward to reveal the silk-hung bed, woven floor mats, cushioned benches, a table, and finally a bathtub that had been dragged into the corner. There was no sign of Eleanor. Alarmed, he entered the chamber and saw her discarded clothing on a bench. Turning to pull back the bed hangings, he was surprised to find the bed empty also. Then he saw her.

Her head was tilted back against the rim of the oaken tub, her profile outlined perfectly in shadows against the wall. Her lips were parted slightly as she breathed and her hair cascaded in unbound ripples to the floor. He ought to shout at her to wake her up, he knew, but he was inexorably drawn to stand over the tub. He could not help staring at her with that old familiar hunger. The memory of the feel of her beneath him flooded over him for the thousandth time since it had happened, as he allowed his gaze to follow the smooth line of her neck down to her shoulders and below to the swell of her perfect breasts. Her knees were drawn up to accommodate her body in the confines of the tub. He reached down and dipped his fingers in the cool water. A dull soap film sat like oil over the top of it. Sweet Mary, but she must have been tired to have gone to sleep like that.

Reluctantly he bent to shake her gently, but she only groaned and shifted slightly. He swallowed convulsively to combat the awful yearning that tightened his loins and quickened his heart.

"Lea! Lea!" He shook her again more insistently and watched her rouse unwillingly. A folded sheet of linen lay beside the tub. He picked it up and shook it out. "Come on, Lea, you've soaked yourself so long you are wrinkled like an old woman. Come on," he coaxed, "stand up and I'll cover you."

She yawned wide and murmured sleepily, "Leave me be—I am too tired." Her eyes were still closed.

"Nay, you'll sleep better in bed. Here…" He bent over and slid his hands under her arms, lifting her to a standing position. Water showered off her and spotted his tunic. She lurched and weaved before she could get her balance. "Jesu, Lea, but I've had more help from a drunken soldier than you give me. Come on—step over the side."

She still fought being wakened, but she managed to follow his guide and stepped out. Her legs were cramped from being folded in the tub and threatened not to support her. She swayed slightly while he slipped the linen around her. "Mother of God," she muttered, "but all of me aches."

"Aye, 'twas a long ride, Lea, but we are at Walter's—remember?"

She yawned and stretched, leaning against him for support. "Ummmm… I remember. Walter's," she repeated.

Not trusting himself to rub her dry, he blotted the linen quickly and told her, " 'Tis nigh to supper—you've got to get dressed."

"I am too tired to eat—I cannot."

"Aye, love—let me get you to bed. I'll bring you something up later when I come back." He slipped an arm beneath hers and walked her across the room. The linen fell away as he half-bent to pick up the clean undershift she'd laid out. His eyes traveled upward from the flat plane of her white belly to the crevice between her breasts. "Sweet Mary, Lea, do not do this to me," he groaned, "for I cannot stand it. Oh, God…"He pulled her against him, savoring the feel of her bare skin as his hands roamed freely over her bare hips. She was soft and pliant in his arms. For an instant she snuggled closer, laying her head against his shoulder, and his whole body blazed with rekindled passion.

"Sir Richard! Lady Joan!"

He could hear a woman's voice calling from the tower stairs. Muttering a soft curse under his breath, he pushed Eleanor away and hung the now-wrinkled undershift over her head. "Aye," he called back, "Joan is abed!" Working the garment down over her damp body, he half-lifted her and guided her toward the bed, thrusting her between the curtains. Just as Walter's wife reached the doorway, he saw Eleanor's padding lying in full view. He lunged for it and kicked it beneath the bed.

"Ah, Sir Richard—I came to look to your lady"—Lady Helene smiled—"for Walter tells me she nears her time."

"Aye, but she is very tired and could not stay awake."

"Poor child," Helene sympathized. "Walter tells me she is very young—is it her first?"

"Aye."

"I came to tell her that if her time comes whilst she is here, we have a woman skilled in simples." Helene de Clare moved closer and extended a bundle she carried in her arms. "Here—when she wakes, give her these." Roger took the pile of folded cloths curiously. "Swaddling clothes," she explained.

"Our thanks, my lady…'tis very kind of you."

As soon as she left, he turned back to Eleanor. She had half-rolled into the feather mattress and cradled her head on a white arm. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically in sleep.