Lady of Fire (45 page)

Roger's challenge had taken Curthose by surprise and he was not pleased. Nonetheless, he rode forward far enough to set the terms. He looked first at Roger. "When do you wish to meet?"

"Tomorrow."

"Is that acceptable, my lord?" Curthose asked Robert.

"Aye—the sooner the better."

"Then as your suzerain, I set the tenth hour tomorrow for combat. You will each come armed with mace and broadsword unless you prefer the ax."

"Nay—'tis too unwieldy," Belesme muttered.

"And you will continue until one is the undisputed victor, which shall be when one is killed or yields. If the vanquished chooses to yield, the victor will not strike him down. Agreed?"

"So be it," Roger declared solemnly.

"So be it," Belesme agreed.

"My herald will set the rules according to custom and you will abide by his calls to commence or halt."

"Aye."

"Robert, you will bring the Lady Eleanor and place her in the custody of the Archbishop of Rouen," Curthose continued, "until the matter is settled. God grant that justice is done!"

Belesme hesitated and frowned. "She is unwell and but some two months before her time. I would not have her watch."

The duke nodded in understanding. "Aye—we will set up a tent where she may remain until 'tis settled. She will be delivered to the victor."

Belesme remounted and saluted. "Until tomorrow, then."

Curthose waited until he judged Robert out of hearing before rounding angrily on Roger. "Art a fool, my lord," he snapped, "and make fools of us all! We raise our levies for you and find we have emptied our pockets for naught!"

"I have submitted my cause to God."

"And you will lose your wife and your life. You, of all people, know his skill."

Roger's earlier euphoria had evaporated when Belesme had picked up the glove, and the tension he felt was nearly unbearable. He knew the odds and he knew he had to take them, but he had no wish to spend the rest of the day hearing of his folly. "Leave me be—I know what I have to do. If he had your wife, you might do the same."

"Never."

Robert of Normandy cut off from Roger as soon as he reached camp and Roger could hear him already telling any who could hear, "Lord Roger means to meet Belesme tomorrow!"

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"On the morrow, I will deliver you into William Bonne-Ame's custody," Robert told her first. "It is agreed."

He watched the transformation from disbelief to hope in her face, and her obvious eagerness to leave him hurt. "Aye." He nodded. "You will go out with me to the field below, where you will wait with Bonne-Ame."

"Wait?" He was not making sense to her—there was something strange about his manner. He seemed far too even-tempered—pleasant almost—and he was watching her carefully. She warned herself to be wary.

"You will wait with him while the Bastard and I determine who has the better claim by force of arms."

"Nay! Robert, you cannot—you would not!"

" 'Robert, you cannot—you would not,' " he mimicked cruelly. "Aye, I would, Eleanor, and I will. Tomorrow night, you can tear your clothes and pull your hair and weep in widow's weeds, because it will finally be over between me and him, and I will come for you the victor."

"And I will hate you," she told him evenly. "If you kill him, I will hate you."

"You will forget! I swear you will! When the babe is gone to Harlowe and Roger lies with his flesh rotting from his bones, your memory of him will fade. And you will turn to me because there is no other."

"You lie about this to torment me! You cannot stand it that I cannot love you!" She twisted uncomfortably in the high-backed chair and leaned against the arm. "Leave me be!"

"Nay." He shook his head. "By my sweat and by my blood and by my sword arm I won you, Eleanor." His voice had dropped to a low intensity that was scarcely above a whisper. "I pushed Gilbert until he had naught but his miserable life, d'ye hear? And for what, I ask you? You! He gave you to me then, Eleanor."

"I was not his to give, my lord. He was no father to me."

"He gave you to me! Aye—and Curthose too! Both said I could have you if I would but draw back and cry peace with Gilbert."

"Robert, that is over. Listen to me. I wed another—I wed Roger. If he dies tomorrow, I will still be his." She reasoned with him as one would reason with a child who refused to understand. "You cannot change that."

"Do not speak as though I am a fool!" He dropped on his haunches beside her chair. "I will prove to the world you are mine tomorrow, I swear. And when you are recovered from your grief, we will wed." He reached to possess one of her hands. "My sons will come from your body, Eleanor. We will get fierce, strong sons to rule Nantes and Belesme after us." He brushed the outline of her full breasts with his other hand. "When 'tis my son that sucks there, you will feel differently about me."

"God aid me! Can I not make you understand that I cannot love you? Not now—not ever! Jesu, but you do not listen to me!" she cried out in frustration.

"Nay—you do not listen to me. I have just told you that I will meet Roger in combat tomorrow and you will belong to the victor. Accept it! 'Twas he who challenged me, Eleanor. He has agreed that it will be so."

"I am not a hide of land the two of you can fight for, my lord. I am Eleanor of Nantes, a flesh-and-blood woman. Land does not care who owns it. I care who has me! I want my husband!"

They were getting nowhere and they both understood that. Reluctantly he released her hand and pulled himself up with her chair arm. "Resign yourself anyway, for 'tis me you'll get. You can watch it for yourself if you do not think it will mark your babe when I kill him."

"Death is in the hands of God, my lord. I will pray."

"I have been known to help Him send some to hell then." He touched her chin with his hand, forcing it upward until she had to look at him. "Think you I have not heard men pray for their miserable lives? Think you I have not heard them pray to die quickly? I have yet to see God stay my hand." His tone was oddly gentle and his mood had changed with baffling suddenness. "But I would never hurt you, Eleanor," he told her softly. "I have threatened, but I could not. Once I wanted you for my pride, because the Old Conqueror said you were fit to be a warrior's bride, and because you were the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. But when Wald came for me and told me you lay dying, I thought I could not survive. I love you, Eleanor, and I would give all I have to make you love me."

"If you would love me, my lord," she answered quietly, "then let me go. I cannot be what you would have me."

He stared hard at her face as though if he willed it hard enough, it would happen. She met his gaze quietly and waited. Finally he dropped his hand and stepped back.

"I have spoken nothing like this to any other!" he told her harshly. "Damn you! You are more a witch than my mother! You have caught me and yet you will not have me. I swear that I cannot save myself." He turned and walked to the door, flinging over his shoulder, "You confound me, woman!"

Eleanor did not join Robert at the high table for supper. Her absence irritated him, but he had no wish to quarrel further with her before he met Roger. Instead, he ate sparingly and drank little to keep his head clear for the morrow. All through supper he had to listen to those who would tell him how easy it would be for him to take Roger. Only old Eustace seemed strangely silent.

"You do not think it will be so easy, do you?" Roger asked his seneschal finally.

"I would not underestimate the man's skill, my lord. Who has not heard of FitzGilbert? I have heard his deeds sung these four years and more."

"At least you are truthful. Aye, I do not see it a simple task either." The euphoria he'd felt earlier over his meeting with Roger had left him and now he just wished it were over. Abruptly he heaved himself to his feet. "It grows late and I would sleep. Let the others eat and drink their fill."

He made his way to his new quarters and undressed himself in the near-darkness so that he would not disturb her. Easing his body into his curtained bed, he found it empty. He rolled out in alarm and went naked into the hallway to take a candle from an iron ring. Bringing it back into the chamber, he used it to light the candles that stood by the bed and those by the brazier. The room was neat and orderly, but she was not there. Cursing, he threw on his clothes and went looking for her. She did not like Belesme's rowdy and barely civilized men and therefore did not move about the castle alone, and certainly she never went about at night.

The garderobe was empty, the passageway to the kitchens was empty, and the courtyard was deserted. She did not have the means to escape—she had to be close by. On impulse, he walked to the chapel she'd refurbished and he found her on her knees with two wax candles glowing on the rail above her. Without his boots, he made little noise as he came up behind her. He could see now that her eyes were closed and that her lips were moving, but he could not hear any words. The intensity of her expression told him that she prayed fervently and desperately. She was so very beautiful that he almost needed to touch her to prove that she was made of flesh and blood. He watched her hungrily, taking in every detail of her fine profile, her thick dark lashes, her slender neck, the curve of her shoulder, and that dark, glossy hair. Even her swollen belly was not displeasing to him. He closed his eyes to still the raging desire he felt for her. If he could have had but one wish in his life, he would have wished her to love him; if he could have had two, he would have wished she carried his son.

Though they were separated in the chapel by only a few feet, the gulf between them was as wide as between heaven and hell. He stepped closer and reached to touch her bent head. "Eleanor…" It was a bare whisper that escaped him.

He could feel her inhale sharply and recoil beneath his hand, but she recovered quickly. "You startled me, my lord."

"Aye, but you should be in bed asleep, Eleanor. You need your strength."

"I could not sleep."

"Two candles—you have lit two candles," he murmured softly. "One is for him, isn't it?"

"Aye—I have prayed for his life, Robert."

"The other?"

"For you." She turned beneath his hand and looked up at him. "I ask God's mercy on your soul, my lord."

"If God answered such prayers, Eleanor, there would be no heads on my gate. Come—you need to be in bed." He lifted her up gently as the heat faded from his body and he was overwhelmed by a sense of loss. "Come on."

"Aye."

"You are barefoot," he noticed suddenly, "and in naught but robe and shift."

"I could not sleep once I was in bed."

"Do you want me to carry you back?"

"Nay—I would walk."

"Eleanor…" He took her hand and began leading her back to his chamber. "I do not have to kill him." He took a deep breath and watched her stop still. "Aye. If you will stay with me, I will only force him to yield."

"You would make me your willing whore."

"I do not want to! But if that is the only way I can have you willing, I will accept that."

"Nay"—she shook her head slowly—"I could not rob my husband of his honor. I will have to leave it in the hands of God."

"Then I will kill him."

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The morning dawned clear and bright, and the spectators gathered early in an almost festive mood. Lines were drawn to mark the field and ropes were staked to hold the crowds back. A small tent was pitched at one end to shelter Eleanor of Nantes from the curious and to protect her from seeing the carnage that everyone expected. Many eyed the blue tent with disappointment as they hoped to glimpse the woman they had been called to fight for. Belesme's sense of the dramatic, however, gave them the look they wanted.

The gates of Belesme opened a few minutes early and he rode out with a full retinue of men in rich green silk surcoats. At his side, Eleanor of Nantes sat a white palfrey caparisoned in green and gold. She was very pale and she was far gone with child, but she struck men dumb as she rode past. In spite of her pregnancy and in spite of the fact that two men claimed her for wife, Robert had made her wear her glorious hair unbound like a maid and it streamed like rich dark silk over the green gown she wore.

Walter de Clare ran to take her reins and lifted her down. "Jesu, sweet cousin, but we have worried."

"So have I—I thought never to see any of you again." She glanced up to where Belesme sat impassively above her and then back to Walter. "But I am all right now."

"Aye." Walter hugged her briefly. "You are all right now. You are safe here and 'twill soon be over."

Her eyes scanned the field anxiously. "Where is Roger? I would see him before…" Her voice trailed off, unwilling to put into words the impending duel.

"In his tent, I would suppose, but I will get him for you."

"Nay!" Belesme's voice was harsh above them. "I surrender her to Bonne-Ame and none other!"

Neither was paying attention. At the far end of the roped-off list, Roger rode in full battle dress. The sun glinted off the highly polished mail and the soft breeze carried the blue-and-gray silk of his surcoat like a trailing cloud. Across his chest he wore his new device—a black falcon in full swoop.

"
Roger
!" It was a shrill cry of recognition as she sought his attention. "
Roger
!"

He reined in and looked around for the source of the cry and then he saw her. He urged his horse forward until he was between her and Robert before he dismounted. In an instant she was in his arms, pressing her awkward body so close that he could smell the rosewater she'd used to scent her hair. His arms closed around her and they stood locked together, totally oblivious of all but each other.

A shout went up from the crowd as Belesme, unwilling to watch the drama beneath him and unable to stop it, wheeled his horse angrily and rode to seek Curthose's herald.

Roger finally stepped back shakily and held her at arm's length. "Careful—I would not hurt you. Jesu, but I feared never to see you again, Lea."

She tried to smile through a mist of tears. "I must look awful now," she managed as she touched her abdomen hesitantly.

"Nay, you are as I have remembered you—and more."

"Roger," she whispered desperately, "I love you with all my heart, but—"

"Shhhh." He touched her lips with a fingertip. "I know." For a fleeting moment he wanted to just throw her up on his battle horse, to ride off with her, and to let Belesme come after them if he dared. But he'd challenged him and he'd have to end it with Belesme first.

"I would not have you do this for me."

"I do it for me too."

"Aye." She sucked in her breath and exhaled slowly. "Do you remember that day at Fuld Nevers'—when you were angry with me?" she asked.

"I do not remember being angry with you, Lea."

"When you asked if I were like all the rest where Robert is concerned?"

"Aye—I remember. I should not have said that."

"Well, 'twas true then—but not now. I believe you will win this day." In spite of her best efforts, her eyes filled with tears, and her smile twisted. "But take care anyway—for my sake."

"My lord…" Roger felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to face Curthose's herald. " 'Tis nearly time. I would discuss the rules with you and Count Robert."

"Aye." His mouth was dry and his stomach knotted, but he drew away from her. "Take care of yourself and the babe, Lea—I love you both." He fingered the small enameled brooch pinned on his surcoat. "I wear your token again for luck—'tis the one you gave me at Nantes."

She could feel herself losing her composure completely and had to turn away to hide her face. Strong arms enfolded her from behind and she turned into Henry's chest. It was as though he braced her for strength and she held on to him gratefully.

The prince nodded over her head. "I will take her to Bonne-Ame, Roger, and I will join you before the start."

"Nay—stay with her until 'tis over." Roger could see Eleanor's whole body shake as she fought a losing battle for control. "God love and comfort you, Lea." Reluctantly he tore himself away and swung himself up on the big bay charger.

Henry's arm slid beneath Eleanor's arm and supported her. "Come on, love," he said softly. "Let us go inside and wait. Soon enough it will be over and you can look to your husband."

Roger listened to the herald explain the standard rules of combat, from the start, to breaks if both should become disarmed, to the manner of yielding. The irony of it all was not lost on him as he realized that the barbarism of a battle to death was cloaked in civility and blessed by religion. He nodded soberly when asked if he understood the terms and then waited for the Archbishop of Rouen to pray aloud for God's justice.

Both he and Robert knelt solemnly, their heads bared, their bodies side by side, while Bonne-Ame exhorted God to guide the right man to triumph. There was no question in the minds of any of the spectators when the archbishop laid his hands over Roger's head and blessed him as to which side Bonne-Ame considered to have the right of the matter.

Roger remounted his charger and waited while Aubery checked over the saddle girth, the horse's trappings, the blinders, and the bridle bit. Finally satisfied, the squire handed up the well-padded helmet. Roger jammed it on his head and adjusted the nasal over his nose, taking care to ensure that he still had the best vision available. Aubery checked the evil-looking mace and tested the spikes and the chain for looseness before passing it up also. Roger made a few swings to get the feel of it and laid it across the saddle pommel. Across the field, he could see Belesme and Piers doing much the same things. Roger had to fight the nausea he felt at the pain and awful physical punishment he knew were coming, and he closed his eyes.

"Are you all right, Roger?" his father asked anxiously. "If you are sick, we can draw back for today."

"Nay—I could not do this again."

Richard possessed himself of Roger's still-ungloved hand and kissed it. "Then fight for Eleanor, son! Fight for your own son!"

"Aye."

He took Avenger from Aubery and put the broadsword in the saddle sheath. It felt light for its purpose but well-balanced in his hand. His new shield, with its diagonal division between blue and gray and its swooping black falcon emblazoned over the center, was next. He slipped his left arm through the strong leather bands on the back and adjusted it as comfortably as he could. Finally he reached for the thick leather gloves with the tiny metal plates across the back and pulled them on. He was ready and his whole body felt taut as a pulled bowstring. Belesme's squire signaled to Curthose's herald that his master was ready. Roger lifted the handle of his mace, swung it in a circle again, and nodded.

He eased his horse out to one end of the list to a mixture of ill-assorted cheers. He could hear cries of "Bastard! Bastard!", "God aid you, FitzGilbert!", and "Roger! Roger!" It made no difference what they called him, for by the sound of it, he was not only Eleanor's champion against Belesme—he was the crowd's champion.

At the other end, he could see Belesme lean down for a quick last word with his squire. Roger had nothing more to say to anyone. Indeed, he felt that if he opened his mouth, he would disgrace himself by vomiting.

Both men watched the herald intently now as he lifted a red silk scarf high in the air and released it. They were supposed to charge when it touched ground. The breeze caught it and it wafted briefly before it drifted downward. Roger took a deep breath of fresh air and poised his spurs.

He dug in the instant he saw it touch, and his charger leapt forward, gaining speed until it thundered the length of the list. The ground seemed to shake beneath them by the time the two men met in the first pass. Roger could see the twirling spiked ball come at him and he raised his shield to ward off the hit. There was not time for him to strike a blow before he felt the weight of Belesme's strike. It thudded against his shield and glanced off. He swung his own mace and fell wide of the mark. He felt like he could hear Robert laughing.

Oddly, the blow he'd taken with his shield seemed to clear his head. The nausea evaporated and so did the terrible tension. Now it was as though he were detached from his body like a spirit hanging behind his ear and telling him how to strike, how to counter, and when to dodge. He took another blow before he landed one and this one nearly tore the shield from his arm. Jesu, but Belesme did not mean to take his time this day! Roger wheeled his horse for another pass, hoping to come by on Robert's left even though that was the protected side. He had to show Belesme he could strike just as hard if he were to hold his own at all.

Robert whirled just as he came upon him and they nearly collided. Roger swung with all of his weight and hit the corner of Belesme's shield with such force that the count reeled and the corner bent inward. Robert's eyes glittered with fury above his nasal. And then they began flailing in earnest, charging, reining in, wheeling awkwardly, and trading blows.

Roger took a lot of hard hits on his shield, far more than he gave, and his left arm began to ache. He longed to go for Robert's less-protected right side, but he dared not chance leaving himself open to his opponent's longer reach. The mace was not his best weapon and Belesme knew it, Robert, on the other hand, used the tools of his trade with equal skill. Roger took a crushing blow that sent his shield into his rib cage with a heavy thud that nearly unseated him. He swung high and wide more to regain his balance than anything and he heard rather than saw the iron ball hit Belesme's helmet on the side. For an instant Robert reeled precariously in his saddle, and the crowd seemed to give a collective "ahh," but then he righted himself and pulled his horse back for another charge in an effort to give himself time to clear his senses.

This time, when he charged, he did not even swing at Roger. Instead, he passed on the shield side and leaned over to strike the big bay's knees. The horse pitched forward, neighing in terror and pain to the cries of "Foul! Foul!" But he could not rein in time to take advantage of the immediate confusion and had to continue his pass.

Roger fell to the side and managed to extricate himself before the horse's weight landed on his leg. He yanked Avenger free and waited for Belesme's next pass. It was an unequal contest now, with him on the ground and Belesme able to swing downward with the heavy mace. Roger half-crouched, his left arm above him to take the blow and protect his head, his right arm braced with the broadsword's blade upward. His detached feeling intensified as he waited, and it seemed that time slowed. He watched Belesme rein in and then spur his black destrier viciously. Roger waited and the crowd was strangely quiet. The ground beneath him seemed to shake with the thunder of the destrier's hooves and then the black horse loomed above him. Belesme's arm was raised to swing. Roger dodged at the last second and drove his blade deep into the horse's belly. It reared as Roger drew back the bloody blade, its nostrils flared and it screamed hideously, and then it fell heavily. Belesme tried to roll free, and although he did not fall beneath the horse, he could not get his foot out of the stirrup. Before Roger could raise his sword again, the herald blew a halt.

Belesme had been shaken by the fall. He managed to gain his balance finally and bent to draw his own broadsword. He faced Roger with green eyes that glittered hatred and waited for the herald to start them anew. Roger took several deep gulps of air as though to store it for later. The trumpet sounded again, and Belesme moved forward, his shield in front of him and his right arm holding his broadsword upright. They circled each other, measuring distances and judging defenses, until Robert thought he saw an opening. He arched his swing to come in on the right side in hopes of disabling Roger's sword arm. Roger pivoted against the blow and took it on his already battered shield. It cut into the metal covering before Belesme drew back.

"Another instant and I'd have cut you in half, Bastard," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"Aye." Roger made a few thrusts to test Robert's defenses and only succeeded in tiring his arm further. The green-and-white shield held solidly against the blows.

Both men took stock of the situation now and fell to short jabbing thrusts and easy swings designed to conserve strength. Occasionally Robert would swing hard and put his weight behind it as though to remind Roger of his strength. They were tiring now and neither had any hopes of finishing the other quickly anymore. The weight of armor, shield, and heavy broadsword was taking its toll. If they were not careful, the combat would end not on the basis of skill but on the ability to hack wildly.

Belesme was breathing heavily, his strength ebbing from weight and the heat of the sun. He sought to bait Roger into making a mistake. "Bastard! Fool! She moans at my touch and you would fight for her!"

"Liar," Roger answered mildly. "She flees from you."

Robert lunged to try again for Roger's ribs on the right side. Roger swung hard and hit the blade side-on and almost disarmed him. Furious, Robert threw all of his weight into another blow, trying to come in under Roger's shield. Roger came around high and hit Robert's helmet first with all his strength. Belesme staggered and reeled away unsteadily as though he'd lost his direction. Roger leaned on his sword hilt and tried to catch his breath. His chest ached, his arms ached, and he thought his lungs would burst from the air he would put in them. When Belesme got his wind and his direction, he turned around. A deep dent creased the side of his helmet and even the nasal was out of line. Blood ran down beneath both the nasal and the side of the helmet. Robert still seemed disoriented even though he had his sword and shield raised again. Roger was sure he had him now and he closed in.