Fire Song

by Catherine Coulter

  Kassia handed him a goblet of ale and a slab of cheese and freshly baked bread. “I am certain that Thomas will provide your men with refreshment.” She sat down across from him in an armless chair and looked at him with her direct gaze. “Why are you here, Geoffrey?”

  “To see you, cousin,” he said, breaking off a piece of bread.

  “My father would not approve.”

  “Your father is wrong not to approve. I have never done him ill and he is my uncle, and I am his heir.”

  “Nay, Geoffrey,” she said steadily. “I am his heir.”

  Geoffrey shrugged. “Let us say that your husband will be his heir.”

  She knew well what he was thinking and it angered her. She said, gazing straight at him, “ ’Tis so sad that my brother did not live. Then no man would look at me and at Belleterre as one and the same.”

  Geoffrey shifted uncomfortably, but managed a dismissing laugh. “You do not hold yourself in sufficient esteem, cousin. Believe me, I value you for yourself alone.”

  She wanted to laugh in his face for his blatant lie, but she felt a tingling of fear and rising gooseflesh at his words. Geoffrey was smooth as oil, but today his meaning was all too clear. He was eight years her senior and she remembered him clearly as a boy, tall and gangly and mean, particularly to her brother, Jean. She knew that her father had blamed Geoffrey for her brother’s drowning, and because her father believed him responsible, so did Kassia. Maurice had forbidden Geoffrey to come to Belleterre for five long, very peaceful years, until his sister’s merciless harping made him relent. But every time Geoffrey came to Belleterre, her father would mutter about vipers and bad blood.

  Kassia wondered now at Geoffrey’s motives, and decided to push him. “Yes,” she said agreeably. “I suspect that one day I will have to wed. But of course, my father will select my husband.”

  “Or perhaps the Duke of Brittany will.”

  “That could only happen if my father were dead.”

  “We live in uncertain times,” Geoffrey said smoothly. “Just last week one of my men, a strong fellow and young, fell ill of a fever that wasted him within a week. Yes, life is quite uncertain.”

  “Surely such a philosophy is not at all comforting,” Kassia said. “Do not you believe that God protects those who are good?”

  “You speak like a child, Kassia. God has little to do with the affairs of men. But enough of grim subjects. Tell me how you are amusing yourself during your father’s absence.”

  Although Kassia knew that Geoffrey wasn’t at all interested in her activities, it was, nonetheless, a way of passing the time until he left. She told him of her herb garden, of the medicinal properties of certain substances her nurse, Etta, had taught her about, and the construction of a new outbuilding for their temperamental cook, Raymond. She gazed at Geoffrey beneath her lashes. He was beginning to drowse in his chair. Kassia took pity on him and halted her monologue.

  “When Father returns,” she finished, her eyes lowered to hide the laughter bubbling within, “I am certain that we will all become drunk as jongleurs with the wine he is bringing.”

  She did not see the penetrating look Geoffrey shot her, a look that softened briefly with regret. “A pity that I will not be here to join in your festivities,” he said only.

  “Yes, isn’t it? Oh my, the hour has flown by with amazing speed! You must, I suppose, be on your way.”

  She rose expectantly, and Geoffrey, seeing no way of delaying, also got to his feet. He looked down at her lovely face, remembering clearly how he had thought her as plain and unappetizing as monk pudding but two years before.

  “You will send a messenger to Beaumanoir if ever you wish to see me?”

  Kassia cocked her head to one side, thinking it an odd question, and a most unlikely circumstance, but replied easily enough, “Indeed, Geoffrey. I bid you Godspeed.”

  She watched him mount, returned his jaunty wave, and walked to the top of the east tower, not leaving until he and his men were specks in the distance.

  She ate her evening meal with Thomas, chided a serving maid for an unmended rent in her kirtle, and went to bed, a headache beginning to throb at her temple.

  The next morning Kassia felt oddly weak, but she ignored it and prepared to ride Bluebell, as was her habit. The morning sun was bright overhead, yet she felt cold, and her throat was feeling scratchy. “You are being silly, Kassia,” she told herself aloud, for she could count on her fingers the number of days she had been ill during her life. When Thomas prepared to help her into the saddle, she could not seem to grasp Bluebell’s reins. With a small cry she fainted, falling backward into his arms.

  3

  Maurice cursed loudly and fluently as one of the wagons mired itself deeper into the muck. And still the rain poured down upon them, in thick, cold sheets. They were circling the Noires mountains, more like barren saw-toothed crests than mountains, Graelam thought, and the rain had turned the narrow winding trail into a quagmire.

  Graelam, weary and drenched to the skin, dismounted and added his strength to the back wheel. He wished he were home. But as he pushed with all his might, he thought philosophically that he would have been sodden with or without Maurice’s company. The thick mud made a sucking sound and he heaved again with the men. The wheel, once freed, jumped into the air, and three casks of wine tumbled to the ground.

  “Tonight, by God,” Maurice said as the casks of wine were loaded again into the wagon, “we will be dry. ’Tis near to Beaumanoir we are, and I plan to ignore my witch of a sister and drink away my damp bones! And you, my lord, are my guest!”

  “Where is your sister’s keep?” Graelam asked.

  “Near to Huelgoat. I pray the damned lake hasn’t flooded the countryside.”

  Graelam, who had never heard of Huelgoat or its lake, merely grunted. During the past three days, he had learned a great deal about Maurice de Lorris, and even more about the long-lived antipathy between him and his nephew and his sister, Lady Felice de Lacy. “She had the nerve to insult my Kassia’s housekeeping,” Maurice had told him. “My Kassia, who could manage your king’s Windsor Palace!”

  Graelam thought cynically that his precious Kassia was assuming saintlike stature with every word from her sire’s mouth. He was regretting his agreement to stay at Belleterre, even for a few days. This Kassia was likely a rabbit-toothed, carpy female, so unattractive that Maurice was courting him, Graelam de Moreton, an Englishman and a virtual stranger, as a possible husband for his daughter.

  But he liked Maurice. He enjoyed his wit and the outrageous tales he spun. He hadn’t even lost his sense of humor when the skies opened up and made the entire troop feel like drowned rats. And, Graelam knew, under Maurice’s skillful probing he had likely told him all Maurice wished to know. He wondered, smiling to himself, if Maurice would like to know that his first wife had had a wart on her left buttock.

  “As for that nephew of mine,” Maurice had grunted in disdain the afternoon before, “he’s naught but a worthless fool.”

  “Mayhap a dangerous one,” Graelam had said calmly.

  “Aye, ’tis possible,” Maurice had agreed. “Slimy bastard!” He had told Graelam about his son, Jean, a fine lad, who, he had long suspected, had been left to drown by the jealous Geoffrey. “He lusts after Belleterre, and his mother has encouraged him. She had the effrontery to tell me to my face that her son was my heir! My heir, all the while looking at Kassia as if she were naught but a fly on the ceiling! Aye, I know what is in both of their minds. Kassia wed to that malignant wretch and my sister lording it over everyone at Belleterre!”

  “Why,” Graelam had asked Maurice, “did you not remarry after the death of your son?”

  The veil of pain that had fallen into Maurice’s eyes had shaken Graelam, and he needed no words to answer his question.

  And now he would meet Maurice’s sister, Lady Felice, and perhaps the nephew, Geoffrey.

  Beaumanoir was a small castle, of little strategic importance, Graelam
saw, set near the edge of a narrow lake. The water was dirty brown and churning, but had not yet flowed over its bounds. Nor did Beaumanoir appear to be a rich keep. The surrounding countryside was dotted with hilly forests of beech, oak, and pine, and the rain-drenched soil looked poor. He was aware of ragged serfs, shivering and miserably clothed in the inner bailey. He followed Maurice up the stairs into the hall, Guy at his heels.

  “Brother dear,” a tall woman said. “What a pleasant surprise. My, how very wet you are, Maurice. I hope that you will not die of a chill,” she added, her smile ruthlessly insincere.

  Maurice grunted. “Felice, this is Lord Graelam de Moreton. We are both in need of a hot bath and dry clothes.”

  She was a tall, slender woman, Graelam saw, and not unhandsome, even though she must be over forty. Her hair was hidden beneath a large white wimple.

  “Certainly, Maurice.” Felice glanced more closely at Graelam de Moreton and felt a quickening of blood in her veins. Lord, but he was a man, and handsome! Felice gave sharp instructions for her brother’s bath to a serving wench and walked toward Graelam, her hips swaying gracefully. “You, my lord,” she said softly, “I will see to personally.”

  This is all I need, Graelam thought, to be seduced by Maurice’s lustful sister in my bath. He was tired, and all he wanted was to drop in his tracks. Aloud he said, “You are all kindness, my lady.”

  He left Guy in front of the open fire in the hall, a shy serving wench hovering over him, and followed Lady Felice to the upper chambers.

  “Your son is not here, my lady?”

  “Nay,” Felice said. “He will be sorry to have missed his uncle.”

  If Geoffrey were behind the ambush in Aquitaine, Graelam thought, it did not appear that his mother knew about it.

  “I am certain,” Graelam said, “that Maurice is of the same mind.”

  Felice did not notice the sarcasm in his voice, her attention on lighting the candles in her chamber. “Ah my lord, ’tis not elegant, for I am but a poor widow.” Her voice rose sharply toward a cowering serving girl: “Betta, see that Lord Graelam’s bath is prepared, immediately! Now, my lord, let us ease your . . . discomfort.”

  She is very efficient, Graelam thought, as she deftly assisted him out of his sodden surcoat. She unlaced his mail, clucking at its heaviness, and gently laid it in a corner. To his chagrin, she knelt before him and unfastened his chaussures. It was common practice for a lady to assist a visitor in his bath, but her caressing hands were anything but matter-of-fact, and made him aware that he hadn’t had a woman in several long weeks.

  When he was naked, he felt her eyes upon him, studying him and his burgeoning manhood, he thought sourly, as if he were a stud for her stable. Belatedly she handed him a thick wool cloth to wrap about his loins.

  “I see that you have known much battle, my lord,” she said, her voice low and throaty. She reached out and touched the long scar that ran along his left side and disappeared beneath the cloth.

  “Aye,” Graelam said, wishing only for the serving wenches to return with the hot water.

  Felice did not move away from him. She breathed in the male scent of him, the fresh rain smell mixing with his sweat, so potent that she felt her senses reel.

  She stepped away from him when three serving wenches hauled buckets of steaming water into her chamber and heaved them into the wooden tub. She herself added cold water and tested the temperature of the bath. Satisfied, she rose and beckoned Graelam with a smile.

  “Come, my lord, ’twill revive you.”

  Graelam pulled off the cloth, relieved to see his manhood lying soft against him, and stepped into the tub. The feel of the hot water made him draw in his breath with sheer pleasure. He leaned his head back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes.

  “I did not know that my brother called an Englishman friend,” Felice said, her voice soft and close.

  “We have traveled together from Aquitaine,” Graelam said, wishing that the woman would leave him in peace.

  He felt a soft soapy sponge drift slowly over his shoulder and forced himself to keep his eyes closed.

  “I see,” Felice said, moving the sponge over his massive chest. Her finger tingled at the touch of him. “Lean forward, my lord, and I will wash your back.”

  Graelam did as she bid. “Aye,” he continued, “I will journey with Maurice to Belleterre. He wishes me to spend some time there.”

  Did he imagine her sucking in her breath? He said with great untruth, “I wish to see his daughter, Kassia. I have been told that she is a beautiful girl.”

  The sponge halted a moment on his back. “Kassia,” Felice said, “is a sweet child, though my brother spoils her shamefully. Once she is wed to Geoffrey, I fear I will have to teach her many things. As for her looks”—he could feel her shrugging—“she resembles her mother, so of course my poor Maurice is somewhat prejudiced. Only passable, one would say. Now, my lord, lean back and I will wash your hair.”

  Graelam knew he should mind his own business, but her confident assumption that Maurice’s daughter was to wed her son aroused his curiosity. He had gotten the distinct impression that Maurice would send his daughter to a convent before he would allow such a thing. But then, his thoughts continued, had Maurice died, Kassia would be at the mercy of her aunt.

  He leaned his head back and reveled in her fingers rubbing soap into his scalp. Though it was none of his business, he said nonetheless, “I did not realize that Geoffrey was a suitor for Kassia’s hand.”

  “Oh,” Felice said, “Maurice will come about. He has this odd dislike for his own nephew, but ’twill pass. After all, Geoffrey is his heir.”

  She rinsed his hair and bade him to rise.

  “Heir?” Graelam asked, aware of the sponge descending slowly over his belly. “I would have thought that his daughter is his heir.”

  Her hand paused, and he felt her fingers softly tangling in the thick black hair of his groin. His manhood swelled.

  “How magnificent you are, my lord,” Felice said, and to Graelam’s surprise, she giggled like a young girl.

  “The air is cool, my lady,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I would wish to be done.”

  “Certainly, my lord,” Felice agreed, but she continued her assault on his body, touching and exploring every inch of him.

  “Should you not see to your brother’s comfort?” Graelam asked, an edge of desperation to his voice. He was not made of stone, but the thought of bedding this woman left all but his eager manhood cold.

  “My brother,” Felice said dryly, “is likely enjoying the . . . services of Glenna. I will fetch you one of my son’s bedrobes, my lord.”

  Graelam took the cloth from her and dried himself, relieved that finally she had left him in peace. It was in his mind to relieve himself to prevent further unwanted reactions from his body, but she returned too quickly, a rich burgundy velvet robe in her hands.

  “I fear, my lord,” she said in a clipped, almost angry voice, “that my brother is demanding that you come to him.” She ran her tongue over her lips, hoping to entice him, but his attention was on the robe.

  Graelam smiled at her, a slow, seductive smile that made her knees tremble. “Perhaps,” he said softly, “if Maurice is not with this Glenna, I could enjoy her services.”

  It was cruel and he knew it, but he refused to spend the night half-awake, waiting for her to crawl into bed beside him.

  Two spots of color rose to prominence on her cheeks and she wheeled about and left the chamber.

  Graelam walked quickly down the stairs into the hall, still wearing Geoffrey’s bedrobe. He heard Maurice’s mocking voice: “You did not tell me, dear sister, where my nephew is. Does he take no interest in his home?”

  “I do not know where Geoffrey is!” Felice snapped, watching him tear the chicken meat off a bone with his strong teeth. Damn him, she thought enviously. Just last week she had lost another tooth, this one dangerously close to the front of her mouth.

 
; She saw Graelam approach and felt fury course through her. She had offered herself to him, and he had refused her. She touched her fingers unconsciously to her jaw, feeling the slack flesh, and winced. Soon he would be comparing her to Kassia.

  Maurice smiled, his mouth full of chicken meat, and motioned Graelam to join him.

  “Did my lord Graelam tell you, Felice, that he would be spending some days with Kassia and me at Belleterre?”

  She heard the malicious tone, but forced herself to smile, albeit frigidly.

  “Aye,” she said. “Geoffrey rode to Belleterre but a few days past. It seems that Kassia was most pleased to see him.”

  Maurice howled with laughter, a piece of bread flying from his mouth. “Kassia,” he said, “is her father’s daughter. Her pleasure in her cousin’s company can only reflect her sire’s pleasure in his nephew’s company, and that, my dear sister, is nil!”

  “You, Maurice, are merely jealous that you have a worthless girl! Geoffrey is a warrior and is rising in favor with the duke.”

  “I am not surprised, if he has his father’s oily tongue and your cunning, sister.”

  Graelam chewed thoughtfully on his meat, watching the two of them spar. At least, he thought, it appeared that Lady Felice had all but forgotten him. He cast an eye about for the wench Glenna as he drank his ale.