Lady of Fire (26 page)

"Your pardon." Richard de Brione's mouth twitched at the corners much as Roger's did sometimes. "I am two-and-forty, you see, and he appears young to me." His blue eyes twinkled with humor and she warmed to him.

"
Your
pardon, my lord—I did not intend insolence."

"I did not think it, Demoiselle." He pushed her half-finished trencher toward her. "Here—eat your supper and let me eat mine. I will speak to this Roger after I have supped."

She tried to do as he told her, but she was too stunned to taste the rest of her food. The man next to her, a belted earl, bore a strong resemblance to Roger. It did not make sense—she'd never even heard of Richard de Brione until they fled Normandy. She felt compelled to defend Roger to him, but she knew not how to do it.

Earl Richard chewed his food thoughtfully and studied the girl next to him covertly. She was a breathtakingly beautiful child or woman—she was soo small and fine-boned he could not decide her age—and she seemed to have some wits about her. Her quick defense of the boy spoke of an affection that disturbed him. He had no love of Gilbert of Nantes from years back, but he knew the girl's blood set her far above most men. She looked up under long black lashes.

"He may be young to you, my lord, but he is not without means or power in Normandy," she spoke up finally. "When the Old Conqueror came to Nantes, he recognized Roger's worth and took him into his own household, saying bastards should stand together, and he fostered him when my father failed to find him a place. Roger served him well against King Philip of France and was rewarded on the battlefield with his spurs. William knighted him himself when Roger was but seventeen, my lord, because my brother showed his courage. Indeed, Roger was with him at Mantes when he took his final blow."

"Your brother? Nay, he is not Gilbert's spawn."

"Aye—I grew up thinking him my half-brother, but he is not. He did not tell me until after we left Rouen." She raised her eyes to his face and spoke proudly. "But brother or no, he is the best knight, the truest champion I could have."

"Brian—my seneschal—wrote that your Roger called himself Lord of the Condes," Richard prompted.

"Aye, he holds it of Curthose, and other lands as well. Indeed, I think he has some small fiefs in this country from the Old Conqueror, and he is Prince Henry's man also."

"A remarkable career for a bastard, I admit." The earl smiled. "And you, Demoiselle—you interest me. Are you betrothed or wed?" he asked bluntly.

"I am neither. I was dedicated to Holy Church at the age of twelve, my lord."

"I see—yet you do not wear the habit of your vocation."

"Nay, I refused to take my vows—I am unsuited."

"Well, you are too pretty a child to languish within cloisters, Demoiselle."

"I am nineteen, my lord, and will be twenty next month," she told him quietly. "I am but small and despair of growing taller."

Richard de Brione found it hard not to ask how she came to be unattended in the company of a strong and vigorous young man on a journey that must have lasted weeks. She was plainly no harlot—she fairly shone with innocence—and yet she sat at Harlowe with no escort and certainly without her father's blessing. The tale would bear hearing. Aloud he managed, "It would be a pity if you were taller, Lady Eleanor, for full half your beauty is in your fine bones."

"You really think so, my lord?" She seemed to brighten.

"Aye—big men protect small women."

She leaned forward impulsively and fixed him with her large dark eyes. "You are easy to like, my lord. I find you as kind as the Conqueror."

Richard nearly choked at the comparison. It was probably the first time in his memory anyone had called Old William kind. "You met the Conqueror?"

"Aye." Her eyes shone as she remembered. "He came to see my father for his levies and brought Prince Henry with him. They were to have arranged a betrothal between us, but my mother's death prevented it."

Jesu, he thought, but this girl could have been England's queen one day. Henry was Rufus' heir, and given that harsh man's unwillingness to marry, he would likely be king. Eleanor of Nantes was an extraordinary girl. "Well, Demoiselle, you will have to excuse me—I would meet your Lord of the Condes." He beckoned a servant and pointed to Roger. "Tell him I would speak with him alone in my chamber."

Roger approached the meeting with Earl Richard with mixed emotions. He'd wanted to face the man for seven years just to ask why he'd abandoned Glynis, and yet he had to ask for his aid now. He followed the page to the closed door and reached hesitantly for the handle. The boy bobbed a quick bow and disappeared, leaving him alone in the corridor. Roger took a deep breath and wrenched the door open.

The earl stood over a table studying some papers that bore official seals. He looked up as Roger walked in, and gave him a wry smile. "Well, you do not look in need of my purse, at least."

"Nay, I have money."

"The Demoiselle speaks highly of you—says you are a lord of Normandy with ties to the Conqueror and his family, knighted by William himself before he died."

"Aye."

"Why then to you come to Harlowe?" Richard de Brione was blunt and to the point.

"Because, my father, I would have your aid." Roger spoke quietly, but the words hung in the aftersilence as though they had been shouted.

The earl drew in his breath and nodded. " 'Twould be difficult to deny you, boy. Even Brian wrote that you look much as I once did."

"You are my best hope, else I would not have come."

"Your mother—who gave you life?" Richard's question was almost inaudible as he faced Roger.

"Did you have so many lemans you could not remember? Do you forget the daughter of a Saxon thane?"

"Nay! Name your mother!"

"Glynis, daughter to Aeldrid."

"You lie!"

Roger was unprepared for the vehemence of de Brione's reaction, but he stood his ground. "Aye—I am Glynis' son of your loins, my lord, born in Normandy in July 1069—your bastard, Earl Richard!"

"Nay, you cannot be! 'Tis a hoax! Name your mother!"

"Glynis!"

Richard de Brione was as white as parchment. "Nay, Roger whoever-you-are, my Glynis lies dead in the churchyard—and has these twenty-three years past! How dare you claim to be her son!"

"She said you'd repudiate me as you did her long ago!" Roger shouted back. "Aye, you let them turn her out knowing she carried your child!"

"I tell you she is dead! I do not know what cruel trick you would play, boy, but you cannot be hers!" The earl was obviously shaken by Roger's assertion of his birth. "You may well be my son, but you are not hers!"

"And I know not who is buried in your churchyard, my lord, but it is not Aeldrid's daughter." Roger lowered his voice and spoke as reasonably as he could. "She spoke to me the day I went into the Conqueror's service, saying I need have no shame over Gilbert of Nantes—that I was not his son." He raised his eyes to the earl, his pain evident. "For fifteen years I had lived in his house, treated little better than a stableboy even though he acknowledged me, and I saw my mother despised as his leman. She did it to provide for me, my lord, and I was not his son! She did not tell me then, else I would have sought you out long ago, my lord, and I would have asked you why you let Gilbert take her. 'Twas not until a few months ago that she would tell me you were my father. And it pained her greatly to know that I would bring Lea here." He let out his breath slowly to control the anger he felt. "I know not who is in your churchyard," he repeated, "but Glynis of Harlowe lives!"

Richard de Brione's hands shook and his jaw worked as he struggled to maintain his own composure. "Brian said you reminded him of Glynis," he half-whispered, "but it cannot be!"

"Dig up the grave, my lord, and you'll not find her there. My mother is in the care of the nuns of Abbeville—she went there when I went into the Conqueror's service. It pained her greatly," he repeated, "to know that I would come to you after what you did to her."

"Nay—ever did I love her! I left her in my family's care, Roger, when I went off to fight the Wake in William's cause with my father. She died ere I returned. There was naught but a grave to show me when I came home to her."

"Nay—you knew they meant to sell her to Gilbert! You were through with her!" Roger accused.

"She is dead, I tell you!"

"Dig up her grave and show me!"

" 'Tis sacrilege to disturb the dead!"

"She is not there!"

Both men were shouting again. Roger stepped back and tried again to regain his temper. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly until he could speak in an even voice. "Very well, my lord, if you fear God's retribution, give me a shovel. I am certain enough that she lives in Abbeville that I will risk my immortal soul to show you."

"So be it then! I'll not wait until morning—you can come down now and show me."

Richard de Brione spun on his heel and stalked out of his chamber into the corridor. Roger followed him silently nearly the length of the wall on one side until he stopped at the south tower. The earl stopped finally and removed a pitch torch that smoked in a ring before opening a narrow door to the outside.

"Here—you carry this and I'll show you the way."

They cut across an open space between tower and wall. Frogs could be heard from the lake beyond and the water lapped against the rock pilings where the island had been raised. Harlowe boasted a separate chapel, a small church that had been incorporated within its walls when the castle had been built, and the building stood butted against the curtain wall. Richard opened a small shed behind the church and rummaged for a shovel, cursing the darkness until he found one. He threw it out onto the grass, muttering, "There—dig!"

"Where?"

"My family lies within the church floor, but they buried her outside because she was Saxon." Richard led him around to the side of the church to what appeared to be some sort of a garden. A stone bench flanked by fragrant rosebushes sat near the center. The earl walked behind it and pointed down. "Here—she lies here."

There was a carved stone, but Roger could not read it in the darkness. Richard brushed the grass away and murmured, "This marks the very spot, Roger. I had it set when I became earl."

Uncertain as to just what he'd find, Roger crossed himself and murmured a prayer before he began to dig. The earth was soft from summer rains and gave way easily beneath the shovel. The earl held the torch off to the side and watched as Roger turned shovelful after shovelful out onto the grass. Roger's shoulders ached as he spaded out a pit some three or four feet deep and several feet wide. Finally he straightened and wiped his forehead with a dirty hand. "Are you sure you had it aright, my lord? This is the place?"

"Aye. I wept here often enough when I came home. My mother led me here and showed me the spaded earth and said, 'She died of the fever shortly after you left, Richard.' "

"Well, as you can see, she is not here. There is no box and no bones. She was sold to Gilbert of Nantes—he was to use her and then to kill her. They could not know that he would not tire of the Saxon girl and would keep her with him. She told me she wanted to die, but she knew she carried me, and then she bore me in Gilbert's stronghold and let everyone think me his."

"She still lives." Richard's voice was hollow. "Mother of God! Why did she not seek me out?"

"She did not want to. You see, she heard at Gilbert's table that you had wed."

"Aye—the girl died in childbed. My father chose a fine Norman girl for me." The earl shook his head bitterly. "And all these years Glynis lived. Jesu! I took another while my wife yet lived."

"Your
wife
?"

"Aye—did she not tell you? Her family wanted no part of my Norman blood and mine wanted no part of her Saxon blood. She was pure when she came to me, Roger, and we did not lie together until we pledged ourselves at the church door. When 'twas done, we faced the wrath of both families." He straightened up and looked off into the darkness. "Had I not gone against the Wake, things would have been very different." Slowly he turned his attention back to Roger. "You are no bastard of mine if you are her son—you are Roger de Brione."

"Jesu!"

"Aye."

"She never told me that."

"Mayhap she did not know—mayhap she thought the pledge was not binding or that I repudiated her." Richard de Brione stood up and looked at Roger awkwardly. "Right now, I feel nothing, Roger—I am unused to the idea of having a son… and you are a man grown."

"I had not expected this."

"You must have expected something—you came to me for aid."

"I intended to confront you as your bastard son and ask that you at least help me stand against the wrath of Robert of Belesme—mayhap the wrath of Curthose also."

"Belesme?" Richard gave a start.

"Aye. You see, I have run off with his intended bride."

It was dawn almost and the candles were nearly gutted for the third time before they sought their beds. Roger sat in Earl Richard's chamber and told the whole story of his and Eleanor's lives at Nantes, of her misery and his own when they were children, of his rise in William's household, of her exile to Fontainebleau, of Prince Henry, of Robert of Belesme, of Fuld Nevers, and of Rouen. He told of their flight from Rouen and their escape in Walter's ship and their subsequent journey to Harlowe. The earl listened intently and asked a question occasionally when he found the tale too tangled to follow. The only thing Roger could not bring himself to tell of was his intense desire for Eleanor—that was still too personal, too close to his soul for discussion.

When he finished, Richard de Brione leaned back and watched his son beneath lowered lids. For a moment Roger thought he'd slipped into sleep. Finally the earl sighed heavily and shook his head. "Aye, there's no help for it—you'll have to marry the Demoiselle."

"She won't wed with me," Roger told him flatly. "She would still think of me as brother rather than husband."

"I'll speak with her if you wish."

"Nay—'tis yet too soon."