Fire Song

by Catherine Coulter

  He waved his hand, frowning. “Continue,” he said shortly. And to his scribe he said, “You, Simon, are recording the . . . essence of this problem?”

  “Aye, my lord,” Simon said, crouching again over the small table in front of him.

  Poor Simon, Charles thought, he grows hunchbacked in my service. He sighed, wishing he were hunting, for it was a beautiful spring day, the air fresh and crisp. Anything but listening to squabbles about a keep small enough to fit in his hauberk! The two young men needed bloodletting and he wondered idly if he shouldn’t let them go at each other. He was aware that Simon was giving him one of his looks, damn the old man, and pulled his wandering attention back to the two men.

  The morning hearings droned on. Charles informed the two knights that he would consider their respective claims and waved his hand in dismissal.

  “My lord,” Robert de Gros, his closest friend and chamberlain said, approaching him. “An Englishman is here, claiming to know you. He says it is a matter of some urgency.”

  Charles raised a thick auburn eyebrow and looked from Robert toward the doorway to the chamber.

  “Graelam de Moreton! By all that’s holy!” Charles roared, leaping up from his chair. “I had thought we would be lucky and your hide would be skinned in the Holy Land!”

  Graelam proffered a mock bow and strode forward, relieved that Charles remembered him and appeared glad to see him. “The Saracens cannot fell an Englishman, my lord,” he said.

  Charles grasped him by the shoulders. “Do you never learn to show respect to your betters, Graelam?”

  “Edward,” Graelam said smoothly, his voice mocking, “never had any reason to complain. How the devil did you know I was in the Holy Land?”

  Charles laughed, buffeting Graelam on the shoulder. “Your King Edward has scribes to write letters, my lord, unlike the rest of his illiterate followers. I hear that you, Graelam, are one of the few to return with riches from the Holy Land.”

  “Aye,” Graelam said, “perhaps even a jewel to ornament your wife’s lovely throat.”

  “That,” Charles said, “is the best news I have heard today. Come, my lord, let us speak in private and I will hear this urgent business of yours.”

  Graelam followed Charles from the suffocatingly ornate hall filled with chattering lords and ladies into a small chamber that held but two chairs and a single table. The court life Charles led was making him soft, Graelam thought, studying the Frenchman. Although he was but five years Graelam’s senior, lines of dissipation marred his handsome face, and a paunch was beginning to thicken his belly. But his thick auburn hair was unmarked by gray and his dark eyes were sharp with intelligence, his boredom of a few moments before replaced with interest. He certainly looked prosperous enough, Graelam thought, eyeing his rich crimson robe with its full ermine-lined sleeves.

  Without pause, Graelam handed Charles the marriage contract. “I am wed to Kassia de Lorris of Belleterre. I am here to swear fealty to you as my liege lord and gain your official sanction.”

  To Graelam’s surprise, Charles threw back his head and roared with laughter. “That sly old fox,” he gasped, tapping his finger against the parchment. “Ah, I cannot wait to see the fury on poor Geoffrey’s face!”

  “Geoffrey de Lacy is here?” Graelam asked, feeling a tingling of anticipation.

  “Sit down, Lord Graelam, and I will tell you about the nest of hornets you have stirred.”

  Charles bellowed for wine, then eased back in his chair, his hands folded over his belly. “How timely your announcement, my lord,” he said blandly. “My coffers don’t yield enough.”

  “They never did,” Graelam said dryly. “Unfortunately, the riches I gained in the Holy Land must be spent in reparation of Wolffeton. What I offer you in return for recognizing my marriage is a strong sword arm and fighting men to protect your lands. I am at your disposal, say, two months of the year. And, of course, a ruby perhaps for your wife.”

  “Well, that is something, I suppose,” Charles said, sipping at his wine. From the corner of his eye he saw the serving wench hovering near the doorway, doubtless, he thought irritably, one of his wife’s spies. He turned a narrowed eye on the wench and she quickly disappeared.

  “My wife,” he muttered, “likes to be informed of everything. I should not wonder if she knows when my bowels move!”

  Graelam cocked a disbelieving brow. “You, my lord, under a woman’s thumb? You tell me that age will shrivel my manhood?”

  “ ’Tis my manhood I protect!” He gave a doleful sigh. “I once believed her so lovely, so innocently sweet. And her body still tempts me mightily.”

  “Your lady’s body is yours,” Graelam said, waving a dismissing hand. “Saint Peter’s bones, Charles, beat her! A man cannot allow a woman to rule him, else he is no man.”

  “Ah,” Charles said, not offended, “thus speaks a man who has never known a tender emotion. Though,” Charles added, frowning into his wine, “the saints know that emotion lasts not long. The troubadours have done men a great disservice. Their verses make the ladies dream of softness and love, and a man, witless creature, plays the part to get what he wants.”

  “In England men are not such fools.”

  “Still so harsh,” Charles said blandly. “Let us say, Graelam, that one must suffer a wife’s inquisitiveness if she is to suffer his dalliances.”

  “A woman should have no say in a man’s affairs,” Graelam said, impatience clear in his voice. “If I remember aright, you were surrounded in England by ladies who wanted naught but to share your bed.”

  “Aye,” Charles said, his eyes growing soft with memory. He sighed deeply. “Alas, a man grows older, and must take a wife.”

  “I would beat any woman who dared infringe on my wishes, wife or no. A woman is to be soft and yielding, her duty to see to her master’s pleasure and bear him sons.”

  “And your dear young wife, my friend? Is she gentle and submissive enough to suit you?”

  Graelam was silent for a moment, seeing the gray death pallor of Kassia’s face. “She is what she is,” he said shortly.

  “I can almost pity the girl,” Charles said, feigning a deep sigh. “There is no chivalry in Englishmen. I hope you did not rip her apart on your wedding night with that huge rod of yours.”

  “Maurice de Lorris sends his greetings,” Graelam said abruptly. “And his continued pledge of fealty.”

  “As does his beloved nephew, Geoffrey de Lacy,” Charles said softly. “Geoffrey, until your arrival, Graelam, had convinced me that he should have Kassia de Lorris’ hand. He also pledged fealty and . . . other things.”

  “Then he lies,” Graelam said calmly. “I have visited his keep, Beaumanoir. His serfs are ragged wretches, what men I saw appeared swaggering louts, and his mother—”

  “The less spoken about Lady Felice, the better,” Charles interrupted.

  “—and I would willingly dispatch Geoffrey de Lacy to hell as meet him.”

  “I imagine Geoffrey will feel the same way—until he sees you, that is. He is brave enough, but not stupid. ’Tis odd what you say about Beaumanoir, for Geoffrey possesses wealth. Lord knows he is lining my pockets. Very well, Graelam de Moreton, what’s done is done. You have my official sanction and I accept your pledge of fealty. Breed many sons, Graelam, for the line of Belleterre is a noble one, old and proud.”

  Graelam bowed his head, and if Charles chose to think it silent agreement, it was his right. The only way he could hold Belleterre after Maurice’s death, Graelam knew, would be to kill Geoffrey. The thought gave him no pause of regret.

  “Now, my lord Englishman, tell me about your adventures and how you gained your riches. Mayhap I can still relieve you of some of them.”

  Graelam obliged him, recalling the long, desperate months in the Holy Land, and the outcome, the Treaty of Caesarea. “The Holy Land is replete with fools, Charles, greedy fools who care naught for anything save filling their coffers. They ignore the misery and death that sur
round them. The treaty”—he gave an ironic laugh—“will protect the fools for another ten years. As for my riches, my lord duke, I gained those in a raid on a Saracen camp.”

  He looked into the swirling red wine in his goblet and shook his head, not wanting to share that particular adventure with Charles.

  He said abruptly, “And you, how many sons now carry your proud name?”

  “I am cursed with three daughters and but one son. Ah, Graelam, the adventures we shared! Do you remember that merchant’s daughter in London, the one with the witch’s black hair?”

  “Aye, the little tart nearly exhausted me!”

  “You! Ha, ’twas I who shared her pallet and her favors!”

  “You rearrange the past to suit yourself, my lord duke.” Graelam rose from his chair and proffered Charles a mock bow. “But since you are my liege lord, I will not trifle with your fanciful memories.”

  “You are a dog, Graelam,” Charles said. He lowered his thick auburn brows and said in a sly voice, “Do I take it as the new bridegroom you will remain chaste during your visit here?”

  Graelam refused to be baited, and gave Charles a crooked grin. “I have no taste for the pox, my lord duke. My carnal needs can wait.”

  The duke roared with laughter. “Ah, Graelam, I cannot wait until the evening dinner to see how you avoid the amorous advances of all the ladies! Alas, I am weak of flesh. I will have my chamberlain show you a chamber.”

  “I must leave on the morrow, Charles, but I gladly accept your hospitality this night.”

  “Back to your blushing bride, huh?”

  Graelam paused but an instant. “Aye,” he said. “I must get back.”

  Graelam was markedly silent the following morning when he and his men left St. Pol-de-Leon. The coast was barren, battered ceaselessly by the merciless sea winds. Jagged cliffs rose to savage splendor about the rock-strewn beaches. There were no bushes or flowers to soften the bitter landscape. Graelam was impervious to his surroundings, his thoughts on his encounter the previous evening with Geoffrey de Lacy. The great chamber with its huge trestle tables held enough food to supply Edward’s army in the Holy Land for at least a week, Graelam had thought. The duke had taken great delight in introducing Graelam to Geoffrey de Lacy, enjoying the other man’s rage, for enraged he was, Graelam saw.

  “You must welcome Lord Graelam de Moreton to the family,” Charles said jovially, his eyes alight with deviltry on Geoffrey’s pale face.

  Geoffrey felt such fury that for a moment he could do nothing but think of the dagger in his belt. His long fingers unconsciously stroked the fine-boned handle.

  “I have heard much about you,” Graelam said, studying Geoffrey as he would any enemy. Geoffrey de Lacy was about five years his junior, Graelam guessed, a tall, slender young man blessed with broad shoulders and a pleasing face. His hair was dark brown, but it was his eyes that held Graelam’s attention. They were a pale blue and shone from his face like slivers of blue ice. He wondered cynically, remembering Lady Felice’s randy disposition and dark coloring, if Geoffrey had inherited his features from his father or another.

  He watched Geoffrey run his tongue over his lower lip. “I did not know,” Geoffrey said, his voice as icy as his eyes, “that my esteemed uncle knew any Englishmen.”

  “Ah,” Graelam said easily, knowing that the duke was enjoying himself immensely, “I did not meet him until very recently. Indeed, I saved him from being murdered by a band of ruffians in Aquitaine.” Maurice’s conjectures were right, he thought, catching the flicker of guilt in Geoffrey’s eyes. And dismay and frustration.

  Geoffrey realized that he must get a hold on himself, for the duke was standing near, all attention. He stared at the harshly handsome man who was regarding him with something close to contempt. How he would like to slit the English bastard’s throat!

  “His gift to me,” Graelam continued coolly, “was Kassia’s fair hand and Belleterre. I shall . . . cherish my possessions.”

  “Kassia is too young,” Geoffrey said, pain and fury breaking his voice. “She is innocent and trusting—”

  “No longer,” the duke said, laughing, a leering gleam in his dark eyes. “Innocent at least. Lord Graelam is a man of strong passions, as I’m certain his young bride realizes now.”

  Geoffrey pictured Graelam naked, his powerful body covering Kassia’s, pictured him thrusting between her slender legs. “Kassia was to have been mine,” he growled, unable to contain his rage.

  “I suggest that you forget both Kassia and Belleterre,” Graelam said. “Your own keep, Beaumanoir, is much in need of your attentions. Of course, I did not see many of your men. Perhaps they were off elsewhere, following your orders.”

  “You make insinuations, my lord,” Geoffrey spat, his hand going to his dagger.

  Before he knew it his arm was caught in a grip of iron. “You, my puppy, had best forget your plans and disappointments, else I will break your neck. If ever Belleterre tempts you again, you will find yourself with your face in the dirt.”

  Geoffrey tasted fear like flaky ashes in his mouth. Hatred boiled inside him, making him tremble. “You will regret what you have done, my lord,” he said. He ripped his arm from Graelam’s hold and strode from the chamber.

  A fine drizzle began to fall and Graelam pulled his cloak more closely about him. He cursed, unable to keep the image of Kassia de Lorris’ ravaged face from his mind. He could still hear the soft rattle rising over her labored breathing. She was dead and buried now, poor child, beyond Geoffrey’s twisted desires. He found himself worrying about Maurice, and wondered if he shouldn’t return to Belleterre. But no, Maurice had been adamant. He had wished to grieve alone, and Graelam knew he must respect his wishes. He wondered how long Kassia’s death could be kept a secret. He imagined that within the year he would be returning to Belleterre to defend it from Geoffrey’s greed. He smiled grimly at the thought of running Geoffrey cleanly through with his sword.

  5

  Kassia was trapped in darkness. She realized that her eyes were closed, but she hadn’t the strength within her to open them. She heard a hoarse, whimpering sound.

  “Hush, my baby.” She heard a soft, crooning voice, Etta’s voice, and she quieted.

  She felt a wooden object pressing against her lips.

  “Open your mouth, Kassia. ’Tis beef broth.” She did as she was bid. The delicious liquid coursed down her throat.

  “Papa,” she whispered.

  “Yes, ma chère. I am here. A bit more broth and you can sleep again.”

  Maurice gently wiped the trickle of broth from her slack mouth and raised worried eyes to Etta.

  “Time, my lord, ’twill take time. The child will live. She’s a de Lorris.”

  “Aye,” Maurice said, his voice sounding as tired as he felt, “a de Lorris.” But Jean, his son, had been a de Lorris, and he had died. So young he was, so innocent and helpless.

  He sat back in his chair, his eyes upon his daughter’s ravaged face. He wondered idly if the final absolution the priest had granted would serve her when the time came for her to really leave this earth.

  “Fool,” he muttered to himself. “Your brain is becoming fodder for the cows.” He thought of Graelam de Moreton, and felt a shudder go through his body. He would not think of Graelam now, nor what that proud warrior would think or do when he discovered his wife lived.

  “Papa?”

  “Aye, poppin.”

  “It is raining. ’Tis a marvelous sound.”

  Maurice gave her a gentle kiss. There was a sparkle in her eyes again, and her face had lost the grayness and hollowness.

  “You look tired,” Kassia said, her eyes narrowing on her father’s face.

  “You worry about yourself, Kassia, and let this old man be. By the saints, child, I have prayed until my knees are knobby and stiff.” He clasped her slender fingers, gently stroking them. He felt such happiness that he could burst with it. Her fingers, of course, were bare. He had tucked Graelam’s ring
into a leather pouch in his chamber.

  “I have had such dreams, Papa,” Kassia said. “I remember your voice, of course, but there was another as well. A voice I did not recognize, speaking in a soft way.”

  “ ’Twas likely one of the women you heard,” Maurice said.

  “Nay, ’twas a man’s voice. His voice was deep and slow.”

  “A dream,” Maurice said. She was still too weak, he told himself, to know the truth of the matter. He could not believe that she remembered Graelam.

  “Aye,” Kassia said, her lashes sweeping over her eyes. “ ’twas a dream.”

  The days flowed into nights. Kassia slept, spoke briefly to Etta and her father, and ate. At the end of a week she had strength enough to raise her hand and scratch her head. Her fingers slid beneath the simple cotton wimple and touched short tufts of spiky hair.

  Maurice entered her chamber to see tears streaking down her face.

  He rushed to her bed, guessing their cause when he saw the wimple lying beside her. “Fie, Kassia,” he said. “ ’Tis but a head of hair, naught of anything. I had not believed you so vain.”

  Her tears stopped, and she sniffed.

  “Within a month you will have soft curls and look like a sweet choir boy.”

  Suddenly she smiled. “Perhaps you should invite Geoffrey to Belleterre. Were he to see me like this, he would soon lose his desire to wed me.”

  “There, you see,” Maurice said uncomfortably, “there is always a bright side to things. As for Geoffrey, that whoreson dare not show his face here. Now, Kassia, I’ve brought you another goblet of sweet wine from Aquitaine.”

  “I think I’ve already drunk a cask, Papa! If I continue swilling I will have a veined red nose!”

  She sipped the wine, enjoying its smoothness and warmth. “Papa,” she said. “I want a bath. I cannot continue to lie here and wallow in my own filth. Then I want to lie in the garden and feel the sun upon my face.”

  Maurice beamed at her, feeling his heart swell. “You shall have whatever you desire, poppin.” He wrinkled his nose. “You are right about the bath. That must be first.”