Lady of Fire (8 page)

"You will kill him anyway, will you not?" Mabille's voice was flat and toneless in defeat.

"Nay, I will train him in something more useful than lying with an old woman." He bent and picked up the remnants of his supper, placing them on the low table. That done, he fastidiously washed his hands in a small basin and wiped them on a linen towel. His eyes caught sight of the other boy cowering, terrified and speechless, in the corner. "Clean up this mess," he ordered curtly, "and be quick at it—I cannot abide disorder." When the boy did not move, Robert walked toward him. "I care not from whence you came or of whose blood you are—you will join my service or you will be returned to your home. My mother has no further need of you."

"Robert!" Mabille fairly screeched out his name. "Nay!"

"Aye." he nodded grimly. "I'll not support this foulness further, Mother. Tomorrow I ride for Rouen to prepare for the betrothal. When I return, I expect to find you have retired to your dower lands." His eyes met hers and locked. "If I would see you, I have a horse." When at last she wavered and looked away, he pulled open the heavy oak door and left.

Mabille could hear the sound of boots and spurs on the narrow rock steps as he descended into the yard below. Piers moaned softly at her feet while the other boy sat as still as stone. In all of her forty years, she had never doubted her power over her son until this.

"Nay—she'll never take my place," she half-whispered.

Contents
-
Prev
/
Next

After leaving Fontainebleau, Roger cut southward toward Abbeville, forming his plans as he went. The success of the venture depended both on its boldness and on his ability to at least temporarily confuse Belesme as to where he was taking Eleanor. To that end, Roger prepared a number of letters to various acquaintances to suggest he might visit them sometime in June, and these he dispatched to France, Lombardy, Aquitaine, and Flanders to confuse the pursuit. And, as he rode, he confided only the briefest details of his plans to Aubery, Hugh, and Jean Merville, giving them the choice of following or of safely distancing themselves from his plotting. To a man, they chose to stand with him despite Belesme's awful reputation for vengeance.

At Abbeville, he knelt and asked his mother's blessing after telling her what he meant to do. It was not an easy task to confide that he meant to take Eleanor to Harlowe, even if he had to. He knew it grieved Glynis to open the old heart wounds, but he had to know everything possible about his father before he showed up on his drawbridge with Belesme's fugitive bride. She had cried, then begged and cried some more, asking him not to reveal himself to the earl, but in the end, Roger had made her see the reality—aside from William Rufus, his father was his only potential ally in England. Besides, Harlowe would be an unlikely place to look for them and would possibly prove a haven away from the crudity and immorality of Rufus' court. He didn't relish going to Rufus anyway, for despite what Henry said, Roger did not like the way Rufus looked at him. But so much depended on the Earl of Harlowe and his willingness to accept his bastard son.

From Abbeville, Roger moved on to Poix, where he met Prince Henry. There, in the faint illumination of rushlight in Hubert of Poix's wood-and-stone pile, he executed the agreement whereby he gave Henry the wardship of the Condes for an unspecified length of time in return for the loan of five hundred English marks. Both reasoned that Curthose would be more reluctant to take possession from his brother than from Roger, for he too relied heavily on Henry for money. There was an added purpose to the agreement—Belesme might hesitate to march on the Condes for fear that Robert Curthose would support Henry's wardship. It was a masterful stroke that would ensure that Roger would not lose the Condes outright.

Henry sanded the document to dry the ink and then shook the sand back into a leather pouch. Passing the vellum to Roger to read, he waited expectantly. "Well, can you see anything that we have missed? Do you think I have provided you with sufficient guarantee?"

Roger scanned it briefly and shook his head. "I think you have been overgenerous, my lord prince."

"Nonsense. You will need money if you are to keep the Demoiselle as befits her station. And you will find a woman is damned expensive, I can tell you."

"Henry…" Roger had to know. "Why do you do this for me?"

"For you?" Henry half-smiled and shook his head. "Nay, I do it for her."

"For her, then. Why?"

The prince fingered the chain that hung at his neck, feeling again the pendant he'd had made from Eleanor's hairpin. "I could have loved your sister, Roger—I know I could have. She is not like the others of her sex, but just how she is different, I cannot tell you. None other has ever affected me so." His voice dropped and his eyes took on a faraway expression as he remembered Eleanor of Nantes the way he favored her as a young girl. "She touched my heart, Roger. Had things turned out differently then," he mused softly, "I would have her to wive and a lawful son or two by now."

Roger fought back a stab of jealousy. "Nay, you would not have suited. She would have demanded constancy and you have not that in you. You would have quarreled with her over your wenching."

"Nay." Henry was positive. "You mistake the matter. Had I Eleanor of Nantes in my bed, I'd need no other."

Roger felt a sense of unease at the prince's confession and pressed for Henry's intent. "I will not stand back and let her be any man's leman, prince or no," he warned quietly.

"Believe me…" Henry's brown eyes were serious, his face sober in spite of the wine he'd drunk. "Believe me when I say I mean your sister no disgrace. I would not take her else I could wed with her, and that time has passed me by." He gave a heavy sigh of regret and met Roger's curious gaze. "Aye. Rufus names me his heir in England and Curthose will fight me for it, well you know. Nay—I must wed where 'tis most politic, Roger, and your pardon for saying it, but I cannot afford Gilbert for a father-in-law. When I raise my standard, I have to know who will come." He fingered the pendant again. "I have not the luxury of wedding where I would now, if I want to wear England's crown, my friend. But oh how I shall envy the man who weds your sister—and I will do everything in my power to see that 'tis not Belesme." Abruptly he rose and walked to a shuttered window. "I grow maudlin from the wine, Roger," he murmured as he unhooked the shutters and opened them. "What I need is a warm wench to lift my spirits. So do you. Hubert says there are some passable ones to be had in the village. What say you—shall we find them?"

"You go on, my lord—'tis sleep I need," Roger lied. He felt taut as a bowstring whenever he discussed Eleanor.

Henry peered at Roger closely for the first time since they'd been at the Condes. Deep bluish circles ringed tired blue eyes, and fatigue lined the handsome face. He nodded. Roger was the closest person he had for a friend since the Old Conqueror had taught him that princes do not have friends. It disturbed him to see Roger stretch himself to such limits. "Aye," he said aloud, "you look as though you had not slept for a week."

" 'Tis but ten days since you came to the Condes to warn me about Belesme's plans for Lea, but it seems like a year. I have thought of little else since."

"Well, if you have no care for yourself, you will be of little use to her when the time comes." Henry walked over to where Roger sat and clasped him on the shoulder to squeeze reassurance. "But 'twill all work out if we can but get her out of Rouen."

"If it does not, I will have to kill Belesme. Jesu, but I do not know if I can do it. Face-to-face, I have never bested him."

"It won't come to that. We'll get her out of Rouen and you'll get her to England. There's little enough love lost between the Count of Belesme and my brother Rufus—you can count on sanctuary there until you can decide what to do with your sister." Henry paused at that—nothing had been said about what ought to be done with her. "She'll have to have a husband, you know. I can write to Rufus and see if he can arrange something.

"No!"

"All right, I won't mention it, but it is the only answer, Roger. Think on it—even Robert of Belesme cannot claim another man's wife." He released the shoulder that had suddenly gone stiff beneath his fingers. "You take to your bed and I'll look over the wenches in this place."

When Henry had left, Roger refilled his goblet with honeyed wine and made his way to the bed he'd share with the prince later. Stripping down to nothing but a shirt, he downed the last of the wine and climbed into the depths of the curtained bed. The mattress was feather rather than straw and seemed luxurious after his nights on the road. As he eased his body into its softness, it seemed that every muscle cried out for rest. He rolled up one of the silk-covered cushions and cradled his head against it.

But sleep would not come. Once his eyes were closed, visions of Lea floated in his memory. He could remember the feel of her hands as she'd undressed him for his bath, her touch on his bare skin, the feel of her lips as she'd kissed him when he sat in the bathing tub. He could smell the clean scent of her and see the shiny silken hair that had hung over him. And most of all, his body could feel the firm, round contours of hers as he had held her last at Fontainebleau. His tongue grew dry with desire and his pulse raced as he allowed his mind free rein to imagine her there as he'd done so many times before. In his half-dreams, she came to him as a wife, a lover eager to please her lord, smiling, caressing, and opening her body to him. Now every fiber of his body cried out for ease from this overwhelming desire.

He threw back the curtains and flung himself out of bed. He could not sleep like this. Wine—some more wine, he decided, and he could pursue sleep more readily. He drew on his braichs and did not bother to cross-wrap them or to put on his boots. With a rushlight taken from an iron ring in the passageway, he lighted his way back to the hall.

The place was deserted now except for an occasional servant removing the last vestiges of supper. A few men slept on pallets placed along the walls. Roger walked silently around checking wineskins and jugs until he found one with enough left to bother with.

Aaaiiiieeee!" Someone emitted a high-pitched shriek behind him. He swung the rushlight around and faced a girl he'd startled. Her hands were laden with empty pitchers that she clasped tightly to her breasts. Her eyes were luminous and large in the flickering light.

"Milord! You frightened me—I thought everyone asleep."

"So you came to get some extra wine for yourself?" She shook her head. "I came to finish clearing the tables after all the louts were asleep."

"Oh." He eyed her with interest. Her eyes were dark and her hair was long and dark also. The small-ness of her stature reminded him of Eleanor. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"Are you a virgin?" he asked foolishly, knowing that it was unlikely.

She looked at the rushes while answering. He could have sworn she reddened at the question, but perhaps it was the firelight. "Nay," she answered finally in a low voice. "I am not."

"Would you like to share my wine?" He could not bring himself to ask her the obvious, but she understood his meaning.

She took in his half-dressed appearance before lifting her gaze to his face, where she could see the blue eyes, the tousled blond hair, the well-defined face. He was far handsomer than any she'd lain with before. She placed her pitchers on the nearest trestle table and nodded. "Aye."

Once back in the chamber he shared with Henry, Roger stopped and kissed the girl. It was a gentle kiss at first that deepened as he closed his eyes and thought of Eleanor. Heat flooded his body as he imagined that he held Lea in his arms as a lover rather than a sister. Slowly, almost languorously, he wooed her with soft kisses and caresses, undressing her as though they had all the time in the world to experience the pleasure of each other. The girl was confused by his gentleness at first, but soon began to respond wholeheartedly to him. Roger cradled and caressed until she thought she would go mad before he took her. And when at last he straddled her and entered her, she cried out with floods of pleasure that came again and again until he drove himself to release. "Lea… Lea… I love you so much," he whispered brokenly as he came within her. And for one brief moment in her life, the girl felt loved instead of used. He rolled off her and lay back with his eyes closed, swallowing to get his breath. She crept closer to rest her head against his shoulder as his breathing evened out. He put an arm around her and held her against him while he drifted off to sleep. She lay awake a long time wishing fervently that she were some unknown lady called Lea.

"God's teeth! Roger, have you got a wench in there with you?" Prince Henry pulled back the bed curtains and peered within. His voice was thicker than usual with drink. "So the old dog found a bitch to lay after all." He looked even closer as Roger tried to drag himself awake. "Leave it to you to find a comely one, too, whilst all I've had were fat with greasy hair."

The girl tried to cover herself from Henry's leering gaze. Roger rolled away and reached for his discarded shirt. "Here." He handed her his shirt even as he sat up on the side of the bed. "You'd best be going."

She hastily pulled on the shirt and scampered out of the bed past the prince. Before he could reach out to her, she had achieved the safety of the door. She looked back at Roger and smiled. "My thanks, milord."

"You hear that, Roger? The wench
thanked
you for giving her a tumble." Henry rubbed the stubble on his chin and shook his head. "I'll be damned if I've had any thank me."

But Roger wasn't attending him. He was thinking that he'd find the girl on the morrow and give her some money. Remorse already flooded over him as he thought he might have unwittingly loosed another bastard to suffer for his sins. And long ago he'd vowed that he would not be responsible for bringing another bastard child into the world. Well, he'd give her his direction and see what happened. His body felt good—a lot better than it had in months. If only it could have been Lea there as his lady wife.

"Roger, have you heard anything I've said?" Henry asked querulously. "What ails you?"

"I hope she doesn't drop a bastard."

Henry eyed him in disgust. "Trouble with you, Roger, is that you don't lay enough of them. I mean, what's a man to do when he's unwed? Burn? If they don't lie with you, they lie with some other lout. If they drop bastards, ten to one they don't know whose it is."

"Then why do you keep your bastards?"

"Because I'm the only man that has lain with the mother. With a serving wench, it's a different matter. A brat'd have to look like me before I'd acknowledge it then." He looked around the room for some more wine. "Don't tell me you've swilled it all."

"All."

"Go on back to bed. I'll go find myself some more."

Roger waited while Henry walked unsteadily out the door. Then he lay back down and thought of Lea. Somehow it seemed that he'd betrayed her—a foolish thought, since she had no idea how he really felt about her. How would she react if she knew? he wondered. Would she recoil in horror? Or would she return the love he felt for her? He ought to tell her before they left Rouen, but he doubted that he would. He could not chance that she might not go with him. It seemed he puzzled it a long time, wavering on how to tell Lea the truth about himself.

"Well…" Henry wobbled in the door carrying a pitcher of wine that he sloshed on the floor. "Your conscience can be clear, my friend. If she has a bastard from this night's work, she's more apt to blame me than you." He set the wine down on a low table. "And you don't have to pay her, either—I gave her plenty enough for both of us."