Lady of Fire (46 page)

Another blow delivered to the green shield was barely fended off. Roger raised Henry's Avenger to try cleaving from the shoulder downward, his heart racing with the excitement of winning. Robert made one last wild swing when he saw Roger raise his blade and he took him heavily on the shield. Roger reeled and lost his balance. Robert staggered over him, swaying and still obviously confused. Slowly he raised his sword.

"
Nay! Stop it! Nay!
"

Robert's head pounded with pain. He could feel his own blood running down his face. He could barely see where he was. But he could hear her screaming. He stood there holding the sword above Roger's neck.

"
Roger
! It was a wrenching scream of horror and terror.

Henry tried to catch her before she could get any closer. He would not let her see Belesme kill Roger if he had to carry her back forcibly, but she eluded him as she ran onto the field.

Belesme turned to look for an instant. With a sudden roll, Roger pushed against his legs and brought him down. He fell heavily and the blood poured from the bottom of his helmet. Roger pulled himself to a half-standing position and then stood up shakily. He lifted Avenger to place it at Robert's throat. Robert's eyes betrayed his pain as he stared upward.

"Do you yield, my lord?" Roger croaked through parched lips.

"Nay."

Every muscle in Roger's body ached and he was tired unto death itself. He raised the sword and held it above Belesme's neck, positioning it for one last quick and final stroke.

"Have mercy, sweet lord! Have mercy!"

Before Roger could drive the blade downward to end his eight-year struggle with Belesme, Mabille was on her knees in the dirt, crying and clutching at the hem of his surcoat. He hesitated, his eyes fixed on Robert of Belesme. Sucking in his breath, he asked one last time, "Do you yield, Robert?"

"He yields!" Mabille cried. "He yields!"

"Nay," Belesme gasped.

"Jesu." Roger looked up at Eleanor standing white-faced beside him, her whole body shaking. "Lea?"

Before Eleanor could respond, Mabille had crawled to cover Robert's body with her own. And Curthose, both men's liege lord, intervened by pushing his way onto the field, yelling, "Art beaten, Robert—yield!"

Belesme closed his eyes and swallowed some of his own blood. Slowly his lips formed a silent "Aye." Roger raised the blade higher and drove it down with such force that it stood vibrating in the ground a bare inch from Robert's neck vein. Mabille screamed and rolled away.

"Then I leave God's justice to God," Roger said finally. He could see Belesme's eyes fly open and he could hear the gasps of astonishment around him. Using the embedded sword for balance, he leaned over his vanquished enemy. "Do you need a priest, Robert?"

"Nay, I shall live," Belesme whispered hoarsely. Breathing was an effort and talk almost impossible. The blackened grass and earth were stained with his blood. He closed his eyes again and then opened them, trying to focus on Eleanor. "Take her," he rasped. " 'Tis over between you and me, Roger." Taking in more air, he gathered his strength before continuing, "I give her back as I found her—she never lay with me."

Eleanor stared down at him in astonishment, unable to believe that he'd lied to ease Roger's taking her back. She could not speak for the lump that formed in her throat while tears of emotional release flowed unchecked down her cheeks. She looked up at Roger, who stood waiting, and she flung herself into his arms. He crushed her against the bloody surcoat until she could feel every link of his mail and her babe kicked indignantly at the lack of room. He pulled off the heavy globe and smoothed her hair in that familiar gesture.

"Lea, I am come to take you home."

"Aye," she whispered through her tears. "I was afraid, but I never doubted you." Her cheek pressed against his shoulder gratefully. "Merciful God—'tis over."

"Shhhhh," he soothed. "For us 'twill never be over, Lea. We've a lifetime together."

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Eleanor lay back, too exhausted to assist those who worked to clean up after the birthing. Her body, still aching from her effort, now felt strangely light from the poppy juice the physician from Milano had given her. Roger, who'd defied Glynis and the others by staying with her, still clasped her hand and smoothed her damp hair. At the narrow arrow slit, Glynis and the physician examined the babe.

Satisfied, Roger's mother brought the still-screaming infant closer for them to see. Overcome with emotion, Roger squeezed her hand and whispered, " 'Tis a daughter, Lea—we have a daughter!" Eleanor opened her eyes and could barely see for the tears that filled them. "A daughter?" she managed to whisper back. "Nay." Incredibly, she could tell he was smiling and crying at the same time. "You are not disappointed?" she murmured foolishly. "You do not care?"

"Nay, love." He took the babe and held her closer for Eleanor to see. "Look, Lea—she is a beauty like her mother. If we could be blessed with ten like this, I would love them all," he declared sincerely. He caught her still-stricken expression and knew she thought she'd failed him. "Nay—I swear that if I am surrounded by images of you, Lea, I am content."

"But I wanted to bear your heir!" she muttered miserably.

"And you have."

"But—"

"Just look at her, Lea—look at her!" he urged. With a sigh, she turned her attention to the babe. It had stopped crying and was staring solemnly at her. She tentatively reached to touch the tiny nose and lips. It appeared small, but seemed healthy enough. They took stock of one another while Roger waited and watched. Finally the babe screwed its tiny face up and yawned. A slow smile spread over Eleanor's face as she discovered the wonder that God had wrought from their bodies. "Aye—she
is
beautiful," she decided softly. "She is."

He gently eased the infant into the crook of her arm and leaned over to kiss Eleanor. "Aye, and she is ours to keep, love."

"If you truly do not mind, I do not." She twisted her neck for a better look at the babe that lay soft and warm against her arm.

"Henry would stand her godfather, Lea."

"I know—he told me that day we waited on the field at Belesme." Her face clouded at the memory of that awful day. "He said he would hold for my babe no matter what happened."

" 'Tis over and done with, sweetheart, and you never have to think of it again. Look to us and to the child instead." As if to look forward himself, he reached to touch the dark thatch of hair on the babe's head. "What think you of Catherine for a name?" he asked casually.

"Catherine? But I had thought to call her Glynis," she protested.

"Nay." Roger's mother stood by the bed and studied her new granddaughter. "Nay, give her a happier name for a happier life."

" 'Tis your choice, Lea. I thought of Catherine for the saint that witnessed my oath to you at Nantes."

The babe yawned again and stretched tiny clenched fists. Eleanor's arm tightened protectively and she smiled. "Aye, Catherine—my little Cat."

Anita Mills lives in Kansas City,
Missouri
, with her husband, four children, sister, and seven cats in a restored turn of the century house. A former English and history teacher, she has turned a lifelong passion for both into a writing career.