Lady of Fire (43 page)

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"I cannot believe in the old dog's impudence!" Robert raged as he consigned William Bonne-Ame's letter to the fire. "He would mediate your release, he says!"

Eleanor looked up from where she sat stitching an altar cloth for the chapel he'd finally allowed her to open. "I would like to see him, my lord."

"Resign yourself," he told her angrily. "You do not leave me!"

"I know, but I would confess to someone, and there's no priest in Belesme."

"What have you got to confess?" He sneered. "You are blameless and can lay what is between us on my soul."

"I did not think you had one," she reminded him mildly. "Have you changed your mind?" She stabbed at the ivory satin and pulled a strand of golden thread through it. The irony did not escape her as she realized that her captivity had taught her more about praying than seven years in a convent and more about sewing than Herleva would have guessed possible. She held up the cloth to admire the golden cross she had worked in the center.

"Do you want to see him?" he asked finally.

"Aye."

"I'll not change my mind, Eleanor. Nothing the old man can say will move me."

"I know."

"Does a priest mean so much to you? God's teeth, but you could not wait to leave Fontainebleau!"

She folded the altar cloth carefully on her lap and looked away. "But that was before I had been to Belesme, my lord."

"Eleanor…" He moved awkwardly to stand behind her chair. "I have not forced you in some time now." He could watch the muscles in her shoulders tense at the thought that he might touch her. He swallowed hard above her dark head and tried not to think of how much he wanted her. "All right—you can have your damned archbishop. I'll send word that he can see you, but that I do not negotiate. But I warn you—I'll not have him in these walls above one day."

"I doubt he would wish to stay."

He felt a hopeless sense of loss as he looked down on her. Finally he sighed heavily and asked, "Can we not begin anew?" He reached to touch the soft silk of her crown, but she ducked her head beneath his hand.

"Nay, my lord. You can take me to your bed whenever you wish it, but you cannot make me like it. If that satisfies you, you have that."

"You know that does not satisfy me!" He kicked the chair leg so violently that she cringed as though he meant to strike her. "Look at yourself, Eleanor! Look at your clothes! Look around you at what I give you! God's teeth, but you are stubborn, woman!" He jerked her roughly up from the chair and shook her, forcing her to look at the newly finished chamber. "If you defy me much longer, I fear for you. I cannot always check my temper before 'tis too late." Suddenly his grip relaxed and he reached to touch her chin gently. "I did not mean to frighten you. You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen—I would not look at another."

"But you do frighten me, my lord. Even if it were not for my husband, I could not live my life with you. Sweet Mary—what if I bore no sons? What if I angered you beyond what you could check? Would you skin me alive like you did Fuld?"

"You'd bear a son for me. If your mother had no son, 'twas because your father got none." He released her and stepped back. "What you need is time. Once the Bastard is no more, you'll turn to me. I swear I can make you content, Eleanor."

It was useless to provoke the argument further and she knew it. He stubbornly refused to face reality and nothing she could say would change that. She managed not to flinch when his hands slid down her arms and took her hands. He bent to brush her lips with his. "I'll show you."

Apparently William Bonne-Ame lay nearby waiting for Robert's reply, for it did not take him long to reach Belesme's gates. That he came at all was a triumph of personal courage over a deep-seated fear of Robert of Belesme. Somehow, he viewed it as a personal atonement for what he had done to Eleanor of Nantes.

With a very real sense of foreboding he entered the great castle and passed beneath the eyes of an unfriendly crowd. It was not until he had crossed beneath the barbican and found himself actually within the walls of Belesme that he remembered some of the details of Count Robert's awful confession. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and beads of perspiration formed on his high forehead. His free hand crept to touch the crucifix on his breast.

The lone attendant allowed in with him leaned over to whisper, " 'Tis scarce a tumultous welcome, excellency."

"Nay, but we are safe enough, I think." They crossed the inner gate and into a small courtyard faced on one end by Belesme's new manor house. Robert himself, bareheaded and splendid in a long, flowing robe of green silk belted with gold, stepped forward to take the archbishop's reins. A faint smile flitted across the coldly handsome face as he brushed the prelate's ring with his lips.

"You are timely arrived, excellency," Belesme told him with a straight face, "for Eleanor has but lately furnished our chapel. You could be the first to say Mass there in many years."

"Ah…" William opened his mouth and then thought better of whatever he'd intended to say. He twisted in his saddle and looked over the crowd around him. "The Lady Eleanor?" he inquired finally.

"Inside." Robert nodded toward the new building. "Piers, take his excellency's mount," he told the boy behind him. He stepped back and waited for William to swing down.

"I would see the lady. I have promised the duke and her father to ascertain her condition."

"She has been unwell," but she mends. If you will but come with me, you can see that she is not ill-treated here."

Bonne-Ame followed Belesme to the low, single-story building and Robert opened the massive double doors for him. William was totally unprepared for the splendor he found as he surveyed the white plastered walls, the clean-swept floors covered with woven reed mats, and the ornate sconces fastened to the walls. There in the main hall, the great vaulted ceiling was as exquisite as those in churches. " Tis beautiful, Robert," he breathed.

"I built it for my marriage," Belesme murmured sardonically behind him. "But we tarry—I believe you wished to see Eleanor."

"Aye." Bonne-Ame gave the hall one last look. "You are a wealthy man, Robert."

He turned and followed Belesme through one of the side doors and found himself in a corridor that led to the count's living quarters. At the entrance, he stopped, uncertain as to what he would find within. From the moment he'd heard that Robert had taken her, he'd been afraid of what might have happened to the girl. In his mind, he'd imagined that Eleanor of Nantes must be the most unfortunate lady on earth.

Belesme stood aside and waited for the archbishop to pass. "Behold the Lady Eleanor," he announced proudly.

She was seated before a tall casement, her fine, profile outlined by the spring sun. At the sound of Robert's voice, she turned around and William Bonne-Ame stared, suddenly bereft of speech at the girl before him. She was small, but she was the most perfectly formed female he had ever been privileged to see. It was no wonder that both men wanted her enough to fight for her.

She rose with a questioning look and came to kneel gracefully at his feet in spite of her obvious pregnancy. He looked down when she kissed his ring reverently and he fought an urge to smooth the shining satin of her dark hair. As he raised her, he could see that she was richly dressed in ruby samite trimmed with gold embroidery at the neck and around the wide sleeves. Her undertunic was of the deepest blue silk. She was pale, but he could see no marks of violence on her. Her eyes were large and luminous against her whiteness, and it was easy to see that she had indeed been very ill. He finally found his voice.

"You are all right?"

She glanced at Belesme before answering, "I have been unwell, excellency, with a fever." She gently disengaged her fingers from the archbishop's grip and managed a smile. "I am glad you are come, for there is no priest here and I would confess."

"Mayhap you can persuade William to say Mass for you before he leaves in the morning." Robert's message was pointed—he'd allowed Bonne-Ame to see her but the had no wish to prolong the visit. He dropped his tall frame into a carved high-back chair.

"My lord, if she would confess, it must be private. Her sins, if any, are between her and God."

"Nay, she is blameless."

"Please, Robert," Eleanor appealed to Belesme, "it will not take long."

"Aye." He heaved himself back up and took a few steps toward the door. "Just do not be thinking he has the means of taking you away. Confess if you will, but do not expect his aid if you would have him leave here alive."

As soon as the door banged behind him, Eleanor hastened to bar it. Turning back to Boone-Ame, she again dropped to her knees at his feet to begin the ancient rite of repentance. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned against God and am heartily sorry." She paused as though uncertain where to begin and then with a deep breath continued in a low voice, "I set my face against God's service, excellency, for I felt no call to the sisterhood, I loved against the wishes of my family and my family's liege lord and took a husband not of their choosing, and now I have lain with a man not my husband." Her voice fell even lower and he had to strain to hear her. "I pray Roger can be brought to forgive me."

He could feel the depth of her anguish and sought words of comfort for her. "Nay, child," he told her gently, "you have sinned in none of this. It is not wrong in God's eyes to follow the conscience he gave you. I know Lord Roger, and he is a good Christian lord, Eleanor. The pope confirms you in your choice of a husband and your marriage is valid." He laid a comforting hand on her head. "As for lying with Robert, there is no doubt but that you were forced, and therefore the sin is his, not yours. Life is precious, my daughter, and God expects us to guard it while we have it. For the sake of yourself and your unborn babe, I cannot see how you could have survived had you spurned Count Robert. You did not go willingly to him, did you? You did not seek pleasure in lying with him?"

"I hate it!" she whispered vehemently. "But I do not try to stop him anymore."

"God knows that, child, and so does Lord Roger. Nay, Holy Church would tell him he must take you back, but I know it will not come to that. He would have you for what you are, anyway."

"I hate the beauty God gave me, excellency! I would that I were ugly and that Robert of Belesme had found me so!"

"Nay—there's your sin, daughter," William told her gently, "for we must learn to accept whatever burdens He gives us and make the best of them. For that, I ask you to get on your knees and pray forgiveness. As to the other things you fear, there is nothing to forgive."

He made the sign of the Cross over her head. "I absolve thee, child. Go and sin no more."

"But I have dishonored my husband!" she cried out.

"Nay—Count Robert has. 'Tis between them, little Eleanor." He extended his hand for her to kiss again. "Come—get up and tell me how you are really treated here that I may tell your father. And Prince Henry would know also how you fare." He assisted her up and put a fatherly arm about her shoulders. "Do not despair, little one. Already the armies gather."

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On April 30, 1093, Roger landed at St. Valéry in Normandy with a force of four hundred men levied from Harlowe's vassals and carried across the Channel in Walter de Clare's ships. He was met there by Prince Henry, who brought another hundred from Roger's levy in the Condes, and Curthose, whose resolve Henry had managed to stiffen enough to face Belesme. From the port, the army moved to Breteuil, to be joined by men gathered by Gilbert of Nantes and William Bonne-Ame. Given the uncertainties of spring weather and the sometimes indifferent response to the call to arms, Roger had made exceptionally good time.

At Breteuil, while he waited for Gilbert, Roger found that Victor III's patience with Belesme was at an end—Robert would be excommunicated and his vassals absolved from their feudal oaths to support him. Had they faced a pitched battle, the news would have been momentous, but Roger knew in his heart that Belesme could be held a year with as few as ten men.

By May 3 his patience was wearing thin and he decided to press on to Belesme without Gilbert, a decision supported by his vassals and his allies, who had spent much time arguing as to where the cowardly count of Nantes should be placed in battle. No one wanted Gilbert in front of him in case he should break and run, and no one wanted his protection on the flank for the same reason.

As the army prepared to move on to Belesme without further delay, the archbishop, clad in full mail with flowing Cross-emblazoned surcoat, rode the length of the train, blessing the troops and exhorting them to give Eleanor of Nantes justice. When Bonne-Ame reached the front, Roger dismounted, removed his helmet, and knelt in the dirt before him.

"God grant you his aid, my son," William intoned over Roger's bare head, "and make you the instrument of his justice." He signed the Cross. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen." Raising Roger to embrace him, he nodded encouragement. "With God and these good and true men, we cannot fail, my lord."

"Look at him," Curthose leaned to whisper to Henry. " 'Twas he who began this whole affair with his damnable inquiry into her marriage."

"Nay," Henry reminded him abruptly, " 'Twas you and Gilbert—you who would have given her to a man like Belesme in the first place."

Curthose reddened but made no rejoinder. Instead, he rose in his stirrups and looked back down the columns curiously. "And where do you suppose Gilbert stands when all's said, brother?"

"Though he loves his daughter not, he'll come—he'd not risk his immortal soul or your goodwill. Aye—he'll answer the call because you and the Holy Father will it."

"Well, if he does, I have spoken with Lord Roger and 'tis agreed he shall guard the packs so none of us will have to depend on his fighting."

"Knowing Gilbert, he'll thank you for the service."

They watched as Roger remounted and Bonne-Ame swung into his own saddle. Roger lifted his hand to signal everyone down the column to fall into line and then he moved his horse between Henry and Curthose.

"We leave without Gilbert or Nantes' standard—he can catch up at the gates of Belesme for all I care. Let us move on."

"You do not suspect he means to betray you and join Count Robert?" Curthose asked.

"Nay." Roger grinned. "Nothing on earth could get Gilbert willingly within the walls of Robert's stronghold. He will be with us or he will stay safe at Nantes."

A cheer could be heard rising from the back of the columns. Aubery wheeled and spurred his horse to ride back for a look. Returning shortly, he reined in beside Prince Henry, his surprise evident.

"Gilbert comes—and he brings a host of archers!"

"Mother of God!" Roger turned to stare down the road behind them. "Foot soldiers and archers—aye, I should have known the men of Nantes would demand to fight for their demoiselle."

"I told you he'd not dare fail to answer the call," Henry reminded Curthose.

"Jesu!" Walter rolled his eyes heavenward. "God provides where one least expects it! Now, if you will but put him in front of Earl Richard where he can be cut down if he would run."

All eyes in front turned to the Earl of Harlowe and it suddenly came home to those present that this would be the first confrontation between Glynis' husband and the man who'd made her his leman for so many years.

"Nay—I'll not quarrel with him. 'Tis over and he reared me a fine son in spite of all." Richard raised a mailed hand to gesture to Roger. "And you'll not put him in front of me in case he should fall. I'll not have it said I murdered him to secure my son's claim to Eleanor's inheritance. Leave him with the pack as we decided."

Unaware of the almost universal contempt of his fellow lords, Gilbert rode the length of the columns to reach them. "I would have been here sooner, my lords," he explained, "but those damned fellows cannot walk as fast as we would ride, and to a man they wanted to come." His gaze swept over those around him. "Your Grace. Excellency. My Lord Henry. Roger." He stopped when he saw the earl and went white.

"Gilbert." Richard sat straight and tall in his saddle, his blue eyes cold but not openly hostile. "It has been a long time, my lord."

"Aye. We were both boys then, Richard," Gilbert managed uncomfortably.

"And now you are both men come to aid the Lady Eleanor," William Bonne-Ame injected smoothly, "and to save your grandchild that he may rule."

"She is with child?" Gilbert seemed surprised and then a slow smile spread across his face. "Praise God! I pray she has a son of my blood for Nantes!"

"And I pray she is safely delivered," Roger cut in coldly. "I count it God's blessing either way so long as she survives and is well."

"Amen," Bonne-Ame agreed. "Well, my lords, do we parley all day or do we ride to Belesme?"

"To Belesme."

They came, in Roger's words, looking like a small horde of brightly colored ants wending their way through the hills to Belesme. Saddle-weary, their bodies chafed raw in places from the stiff leather and mail they wore, they drew up in front of the high fortress and stared soberly at what they faced. Though Roger and many of the others had been there before in the time of the Old Conqueror, Earl Richard had not.

"God's teeth!" he muttered involuntarily. "But it sits up there! You told me how it was, but I thought you overgenerous in your description. Nay—you did not do it justice!"

"Aye," Roger agreed grimly. "I know not where to start to reduce it."

"Mining."

"Nay—'tis solid rock beneath. The fill does not go down under it."

"There will be a weakness somewhere, I think. I cannot believe it is naturally situated like that."

"It is. Besides, I doubt Robert will let us inspect his walls carefully enough to discover a flaw without covering us with pitch." Roger appeared to consider the length of the wall above him. "Unless, of course," he mused aloud, "we position Gilbert's archers across. If we built a tower for them, they could provide a hail of arrows as cover."

"Curthose would fire the village so they cannot plant."

"Nay"—Roger shook his head—"not unless we have to."

They could see movement on the wall above them as Belesme's archers took to the bow slits. Standing at the very top directing them from a place on the curtain wall itself was a man Roger could identify only by the ankle-length robe of Belesme green. He touched his father's arm and pointed.

"We'd best move if we are not to be cut down." He hastily jammed on his helmet and adjusted the nasal. "The man up there in the green—'tis Robert, and we are seen."

Even as Richard looked upward, an arrow fired from one of the lower slits whirred past him. He broke for cover as another fell a few feet short,

"Roger, draw back!" Henry shouted as he rode toward them. "Jesu, but you are fools to come so close!"

"Aye," Roger called back, "but I wanted him to see the defenses."

They pulled back out of the line of fire and watched the arrows fall harmlessly on the rocks below. Roger shaded his eyes against the sun and looked at the man in green. He was certain it was Robert, and the identification was confirmed when the man made a baiting gesture and called out loudly, "Come and get me, Bastard!"

"Come out and fight!" Roger shouted back.

"Hell will freeze first!"

"Arrogant bastard!" Henry muttered under his breath. "A pity my father did not drown him when he was a whelp and save the world the trouble."

But Roger wasn't attending. He stared bleakly at the huge rock-walled stronghold, taking in every detail he could see and counting every arrow slit. "I see no weakness," he managed finally, "and Eleanor lies within those walls."