Lady of Fire (31 page)

"Art a beauty, child. Norman?"

"Aye. My mother was Mary de Clare and my father Gilbert of Nantes."

"The same Gilbert that carried off my daughter?"

"Aye."

"Then how…?" The old woman's face turned to Roger.

"That too is a long tale. Suffice it to say that I have carried her off and wed with her. Her father would have given her to Robert of Belesme."

"
Belesme
!"

"You have heard of him?"

"Who has not? The Devil travels across the sea. And what sort of man would give his flesh and blood to such a one as that?"

"Gilbert."

"So the Saxon carries off the Norman this time, eh? Aeldrid would have liked that. Let me get down from here and call for wine and cakes, boy. I would hear the whole tale from you. Aye, a Saxon takes a Norman."

"Half Saxon," he reminded her over Eleanor's head. "You forget I am his son also."

"Pfaugh! You are my grandson and therefore Saxon."

Roger pressed his advantage. "Earl Richard names me his heir. I will rule where Aeldrid ruled. Aeldrid's blood will yet again hold sway over this land."

They passed much of the afternoon with Gytha, first telling her of their childhood at Nantes and then all that had befallen them since. She asked a few questions and bristled at mention of Old William, but otherwise seemed to mellow as they talked. Finally she stopped them and smiled at Eleanor. "It has made the circle now, or so it seems, with this Norman girl. From her, Harlowe will get an heir of both bloods and justice will have been done." She caught Roger's surprise at her acceptance and nodded. "Aye, Richard of Harlowe is a good man and rules well, but he is Norman and a reminder that we are a conquered people. Your son can claim some Saxon blood and the people will love him for it." Abruptly her manner changed. "I am tired now, but I would give you my blessing before you leave. May God in his wisdom grant you a long life and peace and happiness and give you strong sons to hold this land after you are gone."

"We would have you move to Harlowe."

"Nay, I belong among my husband's people. All I ask is that if I am alive when the babes are born, bring them to me so I may see those of Aeldrid's line."

"You will not be rid of me so easily," Roger promised. "I intend to come again and hear of my Saxon relatives. Besides, I would practice my Saxon tongue. Who knows? Mayhap Lea will learn it also."

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Uneven-tempered in the best of times, Robert stalked the length of Belesme's open area between gatehouse and inner wall in a particularly black mood while he considered his next move. The newly arrived intelligence that Roger not only had succeeded in taking Eleanor to England but also had married her under Harlowe's protection tore at his insides like some deep hot pain. In all of his struggles with Gilbert, in all those years since the May festival at Nantes, Robert had never considered her anything but his to take and hold. He barely held his fury in check as he strode past the armory, the stables, the granaries, and the great kitchens that abutted the thick inside wall. Men scattered before his unseeing eyes and even his favorite wolfhound bitch slunk out of his way and took refuge beneath a loading platform.

He stopped where the wall met the new construction of his pretentious manor house—the house he was building for Eleanor of Nantes—and gave a timber support a mighty kick with heavy-soled boot. When it did not budge, he kicked again and again, to no avail, until at last he fell against it and slid down the partially finished side wall. His face contorted hideously to fight the sobs that rose in his throat, his chest ached with unaccustomed tightness, and still he could not hold back the hot tears that scalded the high cheekbones and poured down the planes to fall in wet spots on dry, powdery dirt. For seven years he had fought and schemed to have her, without success.

Above him in one of his towers, Piers de Sols sought out Mabille in alarm. The boy's infatuation with the woman was over—he served Count Robert now and Robert's strange behavior frightened him. Mabille listened impatiently while Piers recounted the tale of Belesme's captain returning from Rennes and bringing word at last of the Demoiselle. Mabille fought to conceal her elation over the news.

Then she looked out her slitted window and saw her son. Not since his cradle days had she ever seen him cry, and then it was only with that enraged howl of demand. Alarmed, she gathered her skirts and went down to him.

With unusual gentleness, she touched his shoulder. "Come, Robert, let us go up where none can see," she coaxed.

He looked up in embarrassment and quickly wiped his wet cheeks with the back of his hand. Nodding, he allowed Piers to help him stand. The three of them slowly made their way back to Mabille's solar. Robert's step was heavy and his broad shoulders slumped. His mother longed to touch and to comfort, but she did not dare. It was only Eleanor's precipitate flight that had allowed any sort of a reconciliation between them, and that reconciliation was tenuous at best. And she knew that while his anger might be spent for the moment, it had remarkable powers of rejuvenation. She had to content herself with a nearly impersonal pat on the nearest shoulder.

"Sit down, my son, and I will pour you wine, and you can tell me the whole."

"What is there to tell?" he asked tiredly. "She is in England now and she is wed."

"
Wed
?" Mabille's voice rose in incredulity. "When? to whom?"

"Several weeks ago—to Roger FitzGilbert, though he is FitzGilbert no longer."

"
What
! Robert, do not tease me with nonsense. Roger FitzGilbert is her brother!" Mabille would have said more but for the face her son turned to her. The hurt and anger she saw reduced her to silence.

"So we all thought, fools that we are, Mother. In truth, he is not her brother. He is not even Gilbert's bastard!" Anger struggled for the upper hand in his conflicting emotions. "Aye, he is Harlowe's heir!"

"Robert, you cannot have heard it aright." Mabille was positive and reassuring. "Nay—his mother was Gilbert's whore."

"Stolen from Harlowe, who thought her dead. But not, apparently, before Richard de Brione planted his seed." Robert's face twistted at the irony of it. "Now the Bastard is bastard no more, and lies with Eleanor in the marriage bed while I am left with naught but the humiliation."

Mabille moved behind him and began to massage the tight muscles of his shoulders. Wisely, for once, she let him talk while she rubbed and listened.

"Aye, I have built her nearly a palace here. Her windows I have ordered from Milano, her furnishings from Florentine and Milanese craftsmen, and she will see them not. I would have used her gently, Mother."

Mabille's jealousy over this unwonted extravagance overcame her caution. "Nay, Robert"—she leaned over to encircle his neck with her slender arms, and her red hair fell like flaming satin over his shoulders—"you are well rid of the girl. 'Tis as well that she goes to him. What need have you of a convent girl?" Her voice dropped huskily. "Now that she is gone, we can be as we always were."

"Stop it!" He loosened her arms roughly and ducked away to rise angrily. "What need have I of her? Every need, Mother! She is mine! Mine! D'ye hear? Mine! I would have wedded with her and sent you away! I would have given her all I could!" He turned back to Mabille. "But she feared me and ran from me, Mother. Aye, I frightened her with this temper I have of you." He advanced on her. "I am your son, Mabille, and look what your blood has brought me—nothing but fear and hatred! If I could, I would open this vein and drain all that I have from you out of me."

Mabille backed away while Piers watched uncomfortably. In his months of service with Robert, the boy had learned not to interfere in the strange quarrels between mother and son. One minute, they could be physically at each other's throats, and the next they could be almost amiable. It was too risky to interfere in something that neither of them understood. Besides, he felt nothing for Mabille anymore. His love and loyalty went to her son in spite of the man's cruelty. When Mabille would have clutched at him for safety, he moved out of the way and went to stand by the stairs.

"Robert, for God's sake …" Mabille was alarmed by her son's expression now.

"
God
? What can he do for one whose soul is already damned?" Robert gibed.

"It is not my fault if you disgusted her! You should have laid with her at Fontainebleau and then there could have been no question—nay, my son, 'twas not I who lost her!"

Robert stopped, arrested almost in mid-step. "What did you say?" he asked softly.

"About what?" Mabille sensed the danger had passed and stopped backing away from him. "That you should have just taken your precious Eleanor and let the consequences fall on your shoulders?"

"Aye. I had forgotten about Fontainebleau," he mused almost to himself. "Aye."

"I do not know what you mean, Robert. Has this girl addled your brains until you cannot make sense?"

"Nay, I have but just come to my senses. Mother, send to the seneschal—I am going to Rouen!" When she did not move to do his bidding on the instant, he caught at her hands. "Do you not see? I am going to the archbishop!"

"I see many things, Robert, but I cannot see this," she snapped. "Do not speak in riddles to me."

"I will get her back with the Church's aid."

"Are you daft? They make the sign of the Cross at the very mention of your name, my son."

"Eleanor of Nantes is worth the price of a few Masses, Mabille. When it becomes known that she was pledged to me first and that she lay with me at Fontainebleau, the Church will declare her mine."

"You would not take a wife who has lain with another man—Robert, you have too much pride for that." Mabille caught at Belesme's arm. "Nay, you do not want her!"

"And you do not understand. I will have her if I have to kill everyone who stands in my way—I will do anything to get her and anything to keep her. She is mine."

"Art a fool, Robert. She will bring you grief."

"She cannot bring me any more grief than you brought my father, Mabille."

She winced at his meaning. "And you were too young to know the grief he brought me. We were not well-matched in anything."

"And so you killed him and then lay with every man in the keep, including your own son, to hide your guilt. And you made me as foul as you are, Mother. You cannot understand how it is that I would have a lady as fine as Eleanor."

"So fine that she lay with her brother!"

"He is not her brother!"

"You would take his leavings!"

"Aye! If the Church does not support me, I'll make her a widow!"

"Robert, listen to me! She is wed—she has lain with another man—she is not for you. Let us cast about for another bride for you."

"I would not have the flat-faced woman you would choose. Nay, Mother, it is Eleanor of Nantes for me if I have to kill to get her."

Piers watched the renewed escalation of the quarrel with detachment. Had he been Belesme, he would have sent Mabille away long before and been done with it.

"I am for Rouen—do you help me get ready or not?"

"Nay!"

"Then get out of my keep!"

"Nay! I bore you here, Robert, and I stay!"

"Then be a mother and act in my best interests. Stand with me rather than against me in this."

"I do not want her in my house!"

"You have no claim to Belesme, Mabille. If you would rule, go to your dower lands."

"I will not!"

His hand snaked out and caught her throat. "Nay? Have a care, Mother, that you do not wind up imprisoned in this keep you love so well. You have done naught but defy me where she is concerned." His green eyes glittered. "Aye, 'twould not surprise me to learn you came to Caudebec that night in collusion with mine enemies to draw me away from Rouen." His fingers tightened around her neck. "I ought to strangle you here and now for that."

"I came for your wedding."

"And defied my orders to stay away."

"You are my only son!"

He dropped his hand and sighed. "Aye, I am your son, Mabille, though I curse the blood you gave me. Let us not quarrel again over this."

"But I see your death in this. Robert, I did not tell you—have not told you—that I have dreamed of what will happen. You will lie dead in the dirt beneath Lord Roger's feet ere 'tis done."

A derisive snort escaped him. "Now I know you make up the story, Mother. The day will never come when I cannot take him by any means he chooses." He touched the red marks where his fingers had imprinted her neck. "The next time you would dream, remember this and dream of Lord Roger at my feet, for that is how it will be, I promise."

None was more surprised than the Archbishop of Rouen when Robert of Belesme was ushered into his presence and fell on his knees to kiss his ring. A shiver went through the prelate at the feel of Belesme's strong fingers around his and he fought the urge to pull away. Hastily William Bonne-Ame made the sign of the Cross over the bent black head and bade Robert rise.

"My lord, I could not be more surprised to see you," the archbishop murmured truthfully. "In fact, except for your abortive betrothal, I cannot recall your presence in Holy Church since the Conqueror died."

Robert bristled at the mild reproof in William's voice and then hid his contempt by staring at the floor in what he hoped appeared to be submission. "Father, I have come for your aid," he stated baldly beneath William's thunderstruck stare. "Aye, I ask you to stand with me in seeking the return of my affianced wife."

"Your
wife
?"

"Eleanor of Nantes."

"My son…" The archbishop nearly choked on the words. "I can do nothing if she refuses the marriage. Surely you must know the position of the Church on consent."

"She was pledged to me!" Robert's anger flared briefly in spite of his resolve to conciliate William. "I am sorry, excellency, but I am overwrought by what has happened."

William's curiosity was piqued enough that he unbent slightly. "I think, Robert, that you should tell me the whole. Let us share a cup of wine and I will listen—though I am uncertain what you would have the Church do." He motioned Belesme to a low table flanked on either side by two high-backed chairs.

Robert sat and began to recite the story he'd rehearsed in his mind a dozen times. The archbishop listened attentively as Robert wove his lies into the fabric of truth, telling of his contract for Eleanor with Gilbert and Curthose and of his subsequent visit to Fontainebleau. William let him go without interruption until he reached the point of Eleanor's flight with Roger. Then the wily churchman placed his fingertips against each other and broke in somberly.

"Let us return to the place where you admit you took the Demoiselle against her will at Fontainebleau. That is what you have said, is it not?"

"Aye." Robert flushed at the hostile tone in William's voice. "But she was pledged to me, excellency—she gave me her pledge first!"

"And she consented to lie with you?" William persisted.

"She did not," Robert admitted, "but we were pledged. I but had my rights of her. The Church recognizes the plighting of troth."

"You forced the maid."

Belesme was uneasy at the way the archbishop dwelled on the least savory aspect of his story. "Aye," he answered finally. "She is very beautiful and she was to be mine—I could not help myself."

"Were there any witnesses?"

"Not exactly, but the abbess can attest to the fact that Eleanor was distraught and unclothed when I left. I was sorry, of course," he hastened to add under William's disapproving gaze, "but what was done was done. We were pledged to wed, after all, and I considered it no dishonor. Excellency, I expected to fulfill my marriage contract as soon as I finished Curthose's business. You remember well that she was to come to me here in this church."

"I still fail to see what you would have me do, my lord."

"She is in England, excellency, and it is claimed that she has wed the man we knew as Roger FitzGilbert, a man we thought her brother. It has since been asserted that he is Harlowe's son and it is claimed that he is the heir."

"If what you say is true," William noted slowly, "then she was not free to wed another. Aye, I see your point now, my lord. If you tell the truth." He cast a furtive glance at Belesme's sword hand and found it still rested on a knee.

"Excellency"—Belesme raised those strange green eyes to meet the archbishop's squarely—"I will swear on anything you name that Eleanor of Nantes is mine."