Lady of Fire (5 page)

"You daft woman!" Gilbert half knocked over the table as he tried to reach her. " 'Tis your own issue you would condemn."

She pitched forward, striking the already disturbed table and falling under it. Moans and screams intermingled as she writhed in the rushes as though possessed. Gilbert stood over her with both fists clenched "I warned you, Mary—I said I'd put you aside, and for God, I shall!"

Gasps of horror spread through the crowd. Roger pushed his way to the front of the hall even as Prince Henry moved between Gilbert and his fallen wife. Many around them crossed themselves and craned for a better look. William stayed his host with a firm hand on the shoulder.

"Stand back that she may be ministered to. Henry look to Lady Mary." William caught sight of Roger and motioned him forward. "Can you lift her?"

"Aye."

Henry knelt before the moaning woman and pried her mouth open, forcing some wine between her teeth. She gagged and then vomited. He nodded to Roger "Let us lift her to a bench so that we may better see—and someone fetch the leech."

Gilbert mastered his anger as he came to the realization that his wife was indeed extremely ill. "Mary… Mary… what ails you?"

Roger pushed him back. "Let others tend her. As it is, all present saw you eat of the same food and drink of the same cup. If she dies, it is most likely that something has burst within her. Give no truth to her accusations."

"But… Mary…" Gilbert's face seemed to crumple. "Oh, God… Mary!"

Roger and Henry picked up Lady Mary and laid her on a bench. She was breathing heavily and sweat poured profusely from her forehead. As the prince pressed a towel against her damp face, he called, "Where is the lady's chaplain?"

Menservants cleared the way and carried her on the bench past the stunned and horrified guests. William nodded to Gilbert. "I'll come with you for witness."

Eleanor paced the floor of her father's chamber in anguish. One by one, her sisters, her mother's relatives, even her mother's tiring women had been summoned to bid farewell to her. Yet none had come for Eleanor. Even as dawn began to creep rosily across the dimly lit chamber, she still waited. Old Herleva dozed by the brazier and left the girl alone with her thoughts. That Mary could not be brought to love her daughter did not mean the daughter did not love her. Guilt for her very existence weighed heavily on Eleanor.

"Lea." Roger stood at the top of the stairs.

"Is she…?"

He shook his head. "Soon, I think. Would you go to chapel with me?"

"You don't think Papa will send for me? No—I suppose not," she sighed. "Aye. Mayhap I should pray."

"Don't wake Herleva," he advised in a whisper as he reached to take her hand. He half-led her down the narrow, steep stairs in the semidarkness. At one turn, she lost her footing on a closed bowman's slit and pitched forward. From there to the bottom, Roger carried her. The passage below was deserted and pitch dark where the heavy iron torchholders had not been replenished during the night.

"Lea…" Roger drew her against him and wrapped his arms about her, whispering softly, "It is not your fault, lovey, that she could not accept what God gave her. Whatever happens to you, to Gilbert, or to anyone else in this household, you are not to blame."

It was so like Roger to know her thoughts and to bring them out into the open. With a wrenching cry, she buried herself against him and began to sob. He held her quietly for a long time, allowing her to vent her hurt and anguish. Then rocking her against him, he began to whisper over and over, "Cry until you can cry no more, little one."

Slowly the racking sobs subsided into gulping hiccups and then into wet sniffs. "Roger," she managed at last, "what will I do without you now?"

He stepped back a little bit, but could not see her face in the darkness. He groped for words to explain what would happen to her, to soothe the blow of Lady Mary's final revenge on her unwanted daughter. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, uncertain how to tell her and unwilling to have her hear from Gilbert.

"Lea…"It was no use—she'd take his news pitifully no matter what he said. Finally he reached again for her hand and began walking to the empty chapel. "Come pray with me, Lea."

Although neither Gilbert nor Mary was particularly religious, they had made great show of their devotion to Holy Church and no place reflected this outward display more than the chapel at Nantes. As though to tempt God to send him a legitimate son, Gilbert had spared no expense. Cloth of gold and crimson velvet paneled the narrow walls and draped the altar, while Italian windows of extraordinary beauty arched their stained-glass scenes to the sky. Rings of spring flowers decorated the backs of chairs carved and fitted into the wall. And behind the altar, a gilded statue of Christ, flanked by statues of the Virgin Mary and St. Catherine, was illuminated by purest wax candles. And in the base of Christ's statue, a special chamber held a reliquary of a saint.

The dawn filtered softly through the many-colored windows, casting strange and beautiful images on the flagstone floor. Eleanor knelt on the cold floor and began to pray for her mother's soul. Roger knelt beside her and tried to compose his thoughts for the task facing him. Eleanor half-turned and was awed by the halo effect of the light on his blond head. Surely this must be how a man looked when he was purified for knighthood. He looked up, caught her awestruck expression, and looked away.

"Roger, something troubles you—something more than Maman or than your leaving Nantes." She took his hand and held it to her cheek. "Is it Glynis?"

"My mother leaves Nantes. We escort her as far as Abbeville, where she will join the sisters there."

"My father sends her away to salve his conscience over Maman," Eleanor muttered bitterly.

"Nay—she chose to leave."

"Roger, nobody goes to a convent who does not have to."

He took another deep breath and shook his head. "Lea, I would tell you this only because I know Gilbert will do it and I'd rather you heard from one who at least loves you."

"Heard what? Roger, what is it that is so terrible that you cannot speak to me of it?"

"Well, because of what he thinks everyone is saying, Gilbert wishes to appear devoted to your mother. What she could not get out of him in life, she will get in death."

"I don't understand."

"She is having you sent away. She has demanded that Gilbert make a gesture of penance—something that will aid her soul—and that gesture is you." He paused and stared at the girl so soon to be a beautiful woman. "You will be dedicated to Holy Church."

Eleanor sat stunned. It could not be. She who had a future perhaps even as a prince's bride—she was to be a nun. She who practiced her religion by rote and who let her attention wander at Mass? Nay, it could not be.

"Look at me." Roger turned her face toward his. "Soon you will be summoned to hear Gilbert tell you what I have just said. Try to appear to accept it."

"What choice do I have?" she asked bitterly. "I am as much an outcast in this family as you are. Oh, Roger, I could bear it as a child because of you, but now I will not have even that."

"Nay, Lea, you'll always have me. I will always be your champion." He saw the hurt and confusion mirrored in her face and sought to explain. "I have not the resource nor the strength to do anything for you now, but the time will come when I will free you from wherever Gilbert sends you. There are things I cannot tell you—things I dare not tell you now—that may change everything for you and me, Lea. Trust me, and remember that I will come for you when I can."

"When? Days? Months? Years? Oh, Roger, I can not bear it—I will grow old and die there."

"Listen, Lea, I have told you I'll get you out—and I will." Roger sought for some means to convince her that all was not hopeless. "Here…" He pulled her after him behind the altar. Reaching into the base of Christ's statue, he drew out the small gold casket. "In this box lies a relic of a saint—Saint Catherine, I think." He knelt on the flagstone in front of Eleanor and placed the box between his hands. "I, Roger, called FitzGilbert, do swear on this sacred relic that I will be Eleanor of Nantes' man, to champion her causes and give her justice, yea, even to the end of my life."

"Roger! You cannot! You must not! 'Tis blasphemy; to swear that which you cannot keep!"

"Nay, Lea, I have done it, and I will keep my oath to you."

"But you are bound to me by such an oath!"

"Aye. I will have liege lords and swear to my sovereign, but my first allegiance will be to you." He took the small metal box and replaced it into its niche beneath the statue. "Now—it is important that you do not become a nun. They will be at you, badgering and praying, until you take your vows. Do not take them even if you are punished for refusing. It will be hard, Lea, but as long as you are a layperson, you will have the freedom to leave one day if Gilbert or your guardian orders it."

"And if I cannot?"

"Nay, Lea, you will."

She nodded slowly, a glimmer of hope somewhere in the dark future to light her way. "Roger," she said quietly, "I'll take an oath to you."

He smiled as he rose and dusted off his knees. "Not yet. You are too young to know your own mind, and I would not have you promise that which you might not want to do. When you are older, I'll tell you more and let you decide." He examined her face and rubbed at a tearstain on her cheek. "There. We'd best be getting back before Gilbert sends for you."

Lady Mary was laid to rest beneath the floor of the chapel. Given the strange circumstances of her death, her funeral had been a hasty affair with barely time allowed for an artisan to wax-cast her effigy. Most of the nobility that had gathered for the festival had left immediately upon her death. A few of her more vocal kinsmen had asked for a ducal inquiry and William had stayed long enough to conduct it. Now she was interred and he had ruled her death due to illness rather than poison.

Privately, Roger confided to Eleanor that he felt William's willingness to remain was tied to his desire to pry fresh troops for the French war out of Gilbert. And he had done just that.

As soon as the workmen began relaying the stones in the chapel floor, Duke William and his retinue were ready to ride. Eleanor watched sadly from a corner in the courtyard as Roger prepared to depart. A bitterly disappointed Prince Henry made his way to the back of the assembled mesnes for his own farewell to her. Like his father, he wore a shirt of chain mail, a short tunic of fine red English wool, and a plain brown surcoat. Unlike his father, he was bareheaded, his brown hair ruffling in the wind.

"Demoiselle." He glanced to where Roger sat mounted above her. "I would walk apart with you ere I go."

She nodded and followed him away from the others. He drew her around the corner of the armorer's, placing both her hands in his. There was genuine sympathy and regret in his brown eyes.

"I have much to say, Demoiselle, and little time to say it. 'Twas my intent to ask your father for you in marriage before your mother died. Now my father says that I will have to wait and you are safe enough where you are going that I need not worry. You are very young, Lady Eleanor, and I should not be speaking thus, but I shall not forget you. I still have hopes that your father can be brought to take you back into his household someday."

Eleanor stared in astonishment. He'd just confirmed that she could have been his bride—bride to the best of Normandy's sons.

Henry's face was grave, his voice serious as he continued, "If you do not take your vows as Christ's bride, you may yet wed a mortal man."

"Henry!" The Conqueror's voice called for his son,

"May I take a token to carry with me, Demoiselle? Something to remind me of your sweetness and you: beauty?"

She loosed the jeweled pin that held back her hair "I have nothing else on me, Your Grace. 'Tis a poor token at best, but all I have."

"Henry! God's teeth, boy! It grows late!"

"Can you read?"

"Aye."

"Good—I'll write and send them with Roger's messages." He tucked her hairpin into his scabbard. "Godspeed, Eleanor."

Roger rode around the corner as Henry departed Leaning as far down as he dared, he reached for her. She caught his hand and stepped up into the stirrup to reach his face for a final kiss. He turned just as she brushed his cheek and instead they brushed lips.

"Godspeed, Lea."

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Eleanor shivered as her feet sought her slippers on the cold stone floor. It was still dark and the bells had not even sounded, yet she was summoned to the abbess' apartments with orders not to tarry along the way. Resentment and rebellion seethed in her breast as she made her way across the empty courtyard. Her heavy wooden crucifix dangled loosely over her chest, thumping at her sore ribs as she walked.

As she lifted the heavy iron ring to knock, she was surprised to hear the sound of a man's voice from within. A premonition of something terrible caught at her heart—a messenger for her at this hour could only mean death. Eleanor's first thought was of Roger. The oak door swung open to admit her into the dimly lit room. The abbess' eyes were red-rimmed and she appeared to have been on the verge of crying.

"It took you long enough," she greeted sourly.

Eleanor sketched a hasty obeisance before retorting, "I was asleep, Reverend Mother. Would you have me appear naked and unkempt?"

The old woman's hand caught her at the side of her face with a resounding slap. "Insolent child! I know not how your mother dared to mark you for Christ's bride!"

Eleanor heard a harsh laugh from the shadows and turned to see a tall knight half-concealed by the dimness of the room. Only the metal links of his mail caught the flickering firelight from the small brazier that burned in one corner of the room. He gestured dismissal to Mathilde with one hand while the other rested on the hilt of his broadsword.

"Leave us," he ordered the abbess curtly..

"My lord—" Mathilde hesitated, strangely unsure of herself. She cared little for the independent Eleanor, but she felt compelled to support her in the presence of a man she considered equal to the Devil himself.

"My business is with the girl." He half-emerged from the shadows to repeat, "Leave us."

"You!" Eleanor's throat constricted even as she recognized him.

The old abbess struggled between fright and duty. Finally she dropped her eyes in capitulation, muttering, "Very well, my lord, but have done before matins. It is unseemly that she be alone with you."

"Old she-wolf," he muttered as she left. "Well, Demoiselle"—he turned his attention back to Eleanor—"much has passed since last I saw you at Nantes."

"Aye." She licked her lips in fear. In those intervening years, his reputation for cruelty and depravity had grown until tales were even told of him in the abbey. She found herself staring. The eerie glow of the small fire only served to enhance the impression of coldness and arrogance in spite of the handsomeness of his face. He still wore that thick black hair cut straight across above those icy green eyes. His obvious cruelty set his face against its own attractiveness. The metal rings of his mail and the iron rowels of his spurs clinked as he moved forward for a better look. A faint smile lurked at the corners of a sensuous mouth.

"Art more beautiful than I remember even." His voice softened as he half-whispered the words more to himself than to her.

"My lord of Belesme," she found her voice and asked coldly, "what business have you with me? Had I known 'twas you, I should have kept to my bed."

He ignored the false bravado as he continued to stare at the perfection of her face. Finally he collected himself enough to answer, "I am come to see what my sword has bought me." He waited for his words to sink in, then nodded as the color drained from her face. "Aye."

Dull fear gripped her insides. "What your sword has bought you?" she echoed foolishly.

"Your craven father thought it a small price for his miserable skin." He sneered contemptuously. "I would have had it all—Nantes and you—but Curthose would play the peacemaker, asking what I would have to leave Gilbert be." Robert of Belesme waited, pausing in his explanation and savoring the telling, until Eleanor could stand it no more.

"Nay! It cannot be."

"Aye. I sent word to Curthose that I would cry peace with Gilbert if my son would rule Nantes. And thus you come to me."

"Nay! Roger—"

"The bastard busies himself at the Condes. Curthose thought it better not to tell him until the arrangements are made. Not even one who grows as fat in favor as the bastard has will dare to complain. I'll warrant he'll be content enough to accept the gift of a small fief or two from the Duke." Belesme moved a step closer. "After all," he pointed out, "he's risked nothing to save Gilbert."

She licked her lips nervously. "He had naught of Gilbert, so why should he fight?" She took a half-step backward. "Nay! I'll not do it! I'll not have you!" She caught the strange expression in those green eyes as he advanced on her. "Wed with me, my lord," she cried out even as he touched her, "and I'll fill your house with bastards!"

His hand hung suspended in mid-air for the briefest of moments before he raised it and then delivered a sound blow to her jaw that sent her crashing in a heap to the floor. "Play me false, Eleanor of Nantes"—he stood towering above her, his legs slightly apart, his fists clenched, his voice low—"and you shall watch your lover die broken bone by bone before I give you the same fate. I have fought too many years to claim you—I'll not share your favors with another." He pulled her up roughly and held her at arm's length. "Now I would truly see what my sword has bought me."

Even before he touched the shoulder of her rough woolen robe, she knew his intent and instinctively shrank back. "Nay!"

"Aye."

One of his hands found the cord at her waist and yanked it loose while the other pushed at the material at her neck. "Take it off lest I ruin it."

"I'll scream!"

"And who dares to come? The old crone? A fat priest? I think not."He gave her gown another tug. "Take off your robe, Demoiselle, that I may look at you."

Her face flushed uncomfortably as she had to own the truth of his words. To resist him would be to provoke him to further violence. Her hand crept to her swelling jaw. In the unlikely confines of Fontainebleau Abbey, she was going to be ravished by her family's bitterest enemy. Slowly her hands crept to grasp the shoulders of her robe and to pull it upward over her head. Shivering from both fear and cold, she stood in undershift and slippers with her robe dangling from nearly nerveless fingers.

He nodded. "The chemise."

"You dishonor me!"

A harsh laugh escaped him. "Demoiselle, I wear mail and have little time. Nay, I would but look at you."

Her exes met the cold green ones and wavered. Taking a deep breath, she quickly pulled off the undershift and stood naked save her slippers. "There. Look and leave."

Instead, to her horror, he reached to touch her bare skin, placing both hands at her waist and then splaying his fingers downward to her buttocks. "Art small and slightly formed for bearing," he observed, "but you are perfectly made and I'll warrant much pleasure lies within you." His hands slid upward across the slight ridge of her rib cage to touch her breasts. He cupped one, massaging the nipple between thumb and forefinger until it tautened. Slowly, leisurely, he bent his mouth there as though to taste it. "Sweet," he murmured even as he curved his tongue around the button that formed. The cold feel of steel links meshed against her skin.

It seemed that all of Eleanor's flesh tingled from the strangeness of his touch. She closed her eyes to hide from him. "Please," she whispered.

"Please what?" he whispered back. "Would you give what I would take of you?" An arm slipped around her and bent her slightly back even as he dropped his other hand lower, tracing a line along the curve of her hipbone downward to the softness between her thighs.

"Nay!" She stiffened and pushed at him. "I'll not lie willing for any man until I am wed. Force me now and I'll not wed with you!"

His eyes darkened, his breath heavy, and his pulses racing, he released her. "Aye," he muttered as he struggled to control desire, "they'll not hang out clean sheets the morning after I take you to wife. He bent to retrieve her chemise and handed it to her. His manner changed abruptly as he picked up his heavy gloves. "I am for the Vexon on Curthose's business—part of the price I pay for you—and I would have your pledge before I leave."

"Nay!" She clutched the undershift to her. "I'll not do it!"

Ignoring her, he grasped one of her wrists and pulled it away from her, possessing himself of the hand. "I, Robert, Count of Belesme, take thee, Eleanor of Nantes, for my betrothed wife. I so swear." His green eyes met hers in warning' "Now, you will make the same pledge to me."

"I will not!"

While still holding her hand, he cuffed her with his free one. The blow caught her in the temple and would have felled her had it not been for the hold he had on her other hand. As it was, she staggered and nearly fell clutching against him. "Now, give me your pledge."

She shook her head stubbornly.

"Lady Eleanor, it was not my intent to beat your vow out of you, but I will if I have to." He raised his hand to strike her again. This time, he delivered an openhanded slap across her face that sent her reeling into the wall, where her fall was broken only by the rending of an exquisite hanging. She landed in a tangle of tapestry.

This time, she would not wait meekly. She came up with her fingers curved like claws and flew at his face. Her nails dug into his skin and drew blood in their wake. He barely had time to shield his eyes.

"She-devil! You would blind me!" He managed to catch both wrists and hold her. Incredibly, he was laughing. Transferring both of her wrists into one hand, he wiped a bleeding cheek. "God's teeth, but you draw more blood than mine enemies." He took in her panting and her disheveled hair, her naked body, a the discarded chemise. Releasing her, he again handed her the undergarment. "Put this on before you tempt me further."

With a wary eye on him, Eleanor slipped the chemise over her head. She longed to rub her swelling jaw and her bruised face, but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much he hurt her.

"Old William was right," he told her, "when he said you were fit to be a warrior's bride. You will be betrothed at Rouen under Curthose's nose the first of June." He gingerly touched the red areas of her face, drawing his finger along her aching jaw. " 'Twas not my intent to harm you, Demoiselle. Learn to be the obedient wife and I will mayhap learn to curb my accursed temper." He appeared to want to say more, but thought better of it. In a few quick strides, he was by the door. "Farewell, Eleanor, until Rouen." Even as he opened the heavy door, the abbess stood read to enter her apartment.

"But I cannot wed with you," Eleanor whispers desperately. "I cannot."

Her words were lost in the gasps of the indignant abbess. "My child—what has he done to you? Sit you down, Demoiselle, whilst I get aid for you." The old woman took in Eleanor's battered appearance and her discarded robe and reached the obvious conclusion "My poor child! Would that you had given your oath to Christ rather than to that devil!" She called loudly, "Sister Therese! Sister Agnes!" Returning to Eleanor's side, she soothed as best she was able, "I'll have you bathed and put to bed in a trice. Oh, I knew I should not leave you alone with that foul beast! The bishop shall hear of this!" Her old bosom fairly seethed with indignation.

Eleanor sank to her knees and began to weep. When Mathilde sought to raise her up, Eleanor lifted her tearstained face to whisper, "Truly I am accursed!" Her words echoed hollowly in her aching throat.