Lady of Fire (3 page)

"Yet you bore him a fine son. Though outmatched by two stone and a full hand in height, your Roger fought well today. With training, he'll make a good knight."

"I should have thought he lost badly, Sire, for there's scarce an inch of his body unbruised."

William stood to be rinsed. "If that is so, he took a beating before we arrived. Once he had a sword and shield of his own, the boy gave nearly as many blows as he received. It pleases me to foster him."

"And grieves the little maid. She would not part with her brother, Papa." Henry would know more of Eleanor if he could prompt Glynis to tell them.

"Well"—she began rubbing William vigorously with a rough towel—"it is best for both of them that Roger leaves now. They have been overmuch together and the time nears when she will be betrothed, anyway. As it is, they protect each other too much for either to grow strong."

"Is her lot that unhappy?" Henry pressed.

"She is not a son," Glynis answered simply.

"But she is truly beautiful. How could anyone not love her?"

"Henry—" William's black eyes warned his son. "You'll not play the rutting boar here. Good dame, that's enough—old wounds heal slowly at my age."

Glynis would have clapped for William's man, but he stayed her. "I would dress myself." She shrugged slightly before sketching a hasty curtsy and departing.

"What did you think of her, Papa?"

"Gilbert's leman?"

"The Demoiselle."

"She is old and wise for her years. Were she fifteen or sixteen, she would make a good wife—especially since she brings Nantes with her when Gilbert dies." William reached for his tunic and shrugged it over his head, muffling his voice as he added, "I find her enchanting."

"And you are fifty-eight with a houseful of heirs," Henry reminded him with alarm.

"I have no need of a wife," William agreed mildly as his head emerged again. "I was thinking of Rufus. Robert is wed—much good that does us, since he sits with my enemies—but Rufus is not."

Henry fought the urge to vomit. The thought of sweet Eleanor and the crude violent Rufus caused his gorge to rise. Nay, Rufus had no use for a woman. She'd have a better chance of winning his love if she were a pretty blond boy.

"Your brother will have England, Henry. I cannot stop Robert from claiming
Normandy
as his birthright, but, by the saints, I can bestow England on the son who stands by me. The little maid of Nantes could be a good influence on him, Henry."

"Nay! You would not! You could not! Think—Rufus would not know what to do with one such as she is. Nay, he would not want her!"

The old duke wrapped his cross-garters over his chausses. "I am well aware of your brother's strange appetites. You need not remind me."

"Papa, there are other considerations besides Robert and Rufus." Henry's voice took on an intensity not often used with his father. "Robert gets
Normandy
, Rufus gets England, and I get nothing. The Demoiselle brings Gilbert and all he has—yea, even Nantes one day. She is everything a man could wish for—beautiful, intelligent, strong-willed, and loyal. Can she not come to me?"

"Henry, is this your heart or your loins speaking?"

"Both. I would be lying if I denied it."

William sighed as he regarded his youngest son. "A man in your position cannot afford to wed where he wishes. You must always weigh the politics of your decisions because I have no land to leave you. There's money enough to make you rich, but there's no land."

"She can bring me land. Surely Gilbert will dower her well—and then there is Nantes. She can bring me Nantes, Papa."

"She is but twelve years old. What if she does not live long enough to give you an heir? Her land will go to the next sister, not you. And have you considered that it will be two or three years before you can bed her?"

"And what of Rufus?" Henry argued back. "I doubt he would ever bed her—not even for England's sake. She is more like to die in his care than mine, I'll warrant."

William wavered. This boy was much he wished to be—intelligent and cunning, educated beyond his peers, even-tempered, and loyal. Oh, if he could only disinherit the feckless Robert and provide for Henry. Nay, the baronage would revolt against the very idea that the eldest son did not inherit. Then too there had been his promise to his beloved Mathilda—Robert had always been her favorite. As for Rufus, William could not deny him either. Harsh, crude, with a streak of cruelty, Rufus nonetheless always stood firm with his father, taking the field on William's behalf time and again, putting his very life on the line to keep William secure on England's throne. He could never deny Rufus. But Henry was right—Rufus would not want a queen.

Henry watched intently as his father thought. In the space of this brief conversation with William, little Eleanor of Nantes had become very important to him. He not only wanted her for her extraordinary beauty and her wealth—now she had become a symbol of his own worth to his father.

Finally William spoke slowly and reasonably. "There is much to what you say, my son, but I think Gilbert would prefer Rufus for his daughter because of the crown he will wear."

"I doubt he dares aim so high. I'll warrant he'd take any of us for a bridegroom."

"And what of the Demoiselle?"

Henry doubted that she cared much about marriage to anyone, but he had something to sweeten the bar gain. Betrothed to him, she would come to court to be educated and there she could see her brother often enough. A smile spread across his face. "She'll be pleased enough."

"Let me approach Gilbert on the matter. Say nothing to the girl until it is agreed on with him."

"So be it."

Much disturbed by her encounter with her mother and the impending loss of Roger's company, Eleanor sought out her half-brother for comfort. In spite of Lady Mary's hatred, he resided in a cupola cut into the heavy wall of Gilbert's chamber, and Eleanor thought to find him there. As she rounded the final steps, she could hear the voices of strangers. Probably someone was waiting to see her father.

"Demoiselle!" It was a startled Prince Henry that spun to face her. The Old Conqueror sat wet-headed on a low bench by the fire as he struggled with his heavy boots.

"Eh? The Demoiselle, you say?"

Eleanor mistook his surprise for irritation. Stammering out an explanation even as she swept a hasty curtsy, she managed, "Y-your pardon, Your Grace, b-but I thought to find my b-brother here." She gulped for control of her thudding heart. She had intruded at an awkward time at best. Lamely she explained, "He lives there," as she pointed to the tiny alcove.

"Come here, child." Even as he commanded her, William rose and strode toward her. "Let me look at you again." His fingers lifted her chin, allowing her freshly combed hair to fall back like a parting silk curtain. Her clear brown eyes stared unwavering back at him. She was neither cowed nor overly bold. Finally the old duke threw back his head and laughed aloud, to her puzzlement.

"God's teeth, but you are a rare find, Demoiselle. Warriors cringe when I look upon them—yet you look back." He stepped back and dropped his hand as his eyes traveled to the slight swelling of young breasts. Abruptly he asked, "Have you had your courses yet?"

An embarrassed flush crept to her cheeks and she lowered her eyes. Prince Henry sought to intervene by protesting, "Really, Papa—" but William continued to wait for an answer.

Finally she nodded her head. "Aye. Once."

"Papa—"

"Be still, Henry. I would get to know the child." With his black eyes still on Eleanor, he continued his questioning. "How soon will you reach your thirteenth year?"

"September."

"You have such beauty, little one." William's raspy voice softened. "But only time can tell if it is God's gift or nature's curse."

"Nay, only God could create such perfection. When she is grown, there will be none fairer in Christendom." Henry moved behind his father's shoulder. "Pay my father no heed, Demoiselle—'tis not his intent to frighten you."

"She is not frightened—she knows I would not harm her." William continued his inspection. "Art delicately boned and small. Such a one was my Mathilda—she came but to here on me." He indicated a place on his chest that made Eleanor think the late duchess must have been very small indeed. "She gave me three living sons and five daughters, God rest her soul. With a gentle nudge to Eleanor, William nodded toward Henry. "What think you of my son?"

Eleanor frowned in puzzlement at the strange line of questioning. Raising her eyes to look at the prince she found him smiling reassurance at her. In response her own face broke into a soft smile as she answered his father, "I think you have a prince to be proud of Sire."

William roared at her answer, puzzling her ever more. "God's teeth, Henry! We have found us a diplomat!" He gave her head a paternal pat. "Well, don't stand there gaping—help her find that brother of hers." As Eleanor made her obeisance before leaving, the old man added, "And tonight, Demoiselle, you sup with us."

She followed Henry down the steep and narrow stone steps and into the courtyard. At the last step, the prince turned to tuck her hand in the fold of his elbow. The eyes of the curious followed them,
Normandy
's son and Nantes' daughter, across the open yard. The prince appeared at his most charming and her laughter could be heard floating upward to where William watched. At the lean-to that housed Nantes armory, Henry paused.

"You'll find him within, Demoiselle. My father would have him fitted with a good set of mail and helm ere we leave. And your father has commissioned a well-padded gambeson and sword for him. When he wears
Normandy
's leopards, he will be as well-equipped as the rest of us."

Tears sprang suddenly into the dark eyes as she nodded mutely at this reminder of Roger's leaving. Henry could have bitten his tongue for having saddened her. Reaching to brush away a tear that brimmed, he advised gently, "Patience, little Eleanor. One day you will grace
Normandy
's court with your brother."

Their voices had brought Roger to the doorway. Squinting against the bright sunlight, he caught Henry's gesture and frowned at the prince's familiarity with her. Inexplicably, it made him angry.

If Henry noticed Roger's scowl, he gave no indication. "FitzGilbert"—he grinned—"I bring you your gentle sister. She was so anxious to see you whole that she invaded
Normandy
's chamber."

"I thought to find you in our father's room," Eleanor told Roger.

Henry waved aside any further explanation and turned away. "I leave you in safe hands, Demoiselle. But do not forget—tonight you share my trencher."

"And what was that about, Lea?" Roger glowered after the prince's retreating figure.

"I don't know. I am commanded to sup with the duke tonight." She reached out impulsively and caught Roger's hand. "Only fancy—I have met and conversed with an anointed king—and am bade to sup with him!"

"I can fancy a lot of things, Lea, and I like not any of them." He winced as he stooped slightly to pat one of Gilbert's wolfhounds. "Walk with me a pace else I grow stiff from the blows I've taken today."

He drew her along the curtain wall, wandering aimlessly, with him pushing his aching body and her lost in thought. Neither seemed to notice as they passed beneath the indulgent scrutiny of the sentries and out into the field beyond. They followed the road down toward the city until it forked between town and forest. It was warm for the season and shade trees beckoned. There, beneath the very shadow of a huge stone fortress, and above the bustle of a city teeming with revelers, the world was strangely peaceful and beautiful.

Roger stopped in the shadow of his favorite oak and stripped his sweat-soaked shirt from his body, tossing it to the ground to make a place for Eleanor to sit. She smoothed her skirt and lowered herself to the ground. With a groan, Roger dropped to her side and rolled to lie stretched out in the lush cool grass. He pillowed his head and closed his eyes.

She was conscious that too soon he would ride out—maybe never to return to Nantes—and she sought to engrave him in her memory. In her nearly thirteen years, he had been everything to her—brother, companion, teacher, friend. From him she'd learned to ride, to hawk, to sing and to strum the lute, even to read and cipher. He'd teased and laughed with her—and he'd fought any who would hurt her feelings. But his life had been hard here—and for his sake she ought to be glad he had a chance to better himself.

With a start, she realized that she was so used to him that she'd not noticed he'd grown nearly to manhood. He was a lot taller stretched out than she'd thought. At Christmas, she'd reached his shoulder—now she reached his breast. She studied the tousled waves of cropped blond hair, the finely angled and chiseled planes of a face that already showed strength and handsomeness—so much so that the priest had chosen him to play the archangel Michael in the Christmas tableau. He had a well-defined chin, even teeth, straight nose, and a downy mustache that he hated. But most of all, he had beautiful blue eyes.

As if aware of her thoughts, he opened those eyes and rolled onto his side, the movement rippling muscles in his arms and shoulders as he came to rest on a propped elbow. Fresh bruises darkened the skin along his rib cage and swelled his upper arms. A wry smile formed at the corners of his mouth. "Lea, you've not been this quiet since you were born."

"I was thinking you could have fallen off yonder wall and not been so black and blue," she teased.

"Aye. Belesme swings his sword with a power you'd not believe. I took some of these through Walter's shield. Jesu!" He appeared to examine one particularly ugly area. "I thought he meant to kill me beneath
Normandy
's nose."

"He probably did. Prince Henry says he's very cruel."

"Prince Henry says," he mimicked her. "God's teeth, Lea, but you have only to meet a member of a royal house and you can do naught but speak of him."