Fire Song

by Catherine Coulter

“So I hear,” the duke said dryly, “which brings me back to the Lady Joanna. Do you deny that you have need of heirs, Graelam?”

  “Nay,” Graelam said slowly, his thoughts upon his second wife, dead within hours of their marriage.

  “Is there another lady who has caught your fancy?”

  Graelam smiled at the impatience in the duke’s voice. “Nay,” he said again, and shrugged. “A wife is a burden, my lord duke, a burden that chills my guts.”

  “You are nearing thirty years old, Graelam! Do you wish to be an old man like me before you see your sons become men?”

  And there must be an heir for Belleterre, Graelam thought suddenly.

  “You begin to convince me, my lord,” he said, “with your terrifying logic.”

  “Forget not,” the duke continued, more tolerantly now, for he scented victory, “that even the wealth you brought from the Holy Land does not go far enough to provide you comforts within your keep.” He looked pointedly at the bare stone walls and the reed-covered floors, and doubted not that there were lice mixed with the refuse and bones. The furniture was scant and roughly hewn, with no soft cushions for a man’s weary buttocks. The beamed ceiling was black from years of neglect, and the wall sconces were as black as the mutton-fat rushes they held. “A wife who brought a fat dowry and housewifely skills would make Wolffeton a truly noble keep.”

  “But a wife,” Graelam said wearily, leaning his head back against the high-backed chair. “ ’Tis something that haunts a man all his days.”

  “As I said,” the duke interrupted, “the Lady Joanna is comely. Perhaps you would learn to care for her.”

  “Care for a woman?” Graelam arched a thick black brow up a good inch. “If she were a good breeder, ’twould have to be enough. Why does Leichester choose me?”

  “As one of the king’s closest friends,” the duke said with weary patience, “as well as being my vassal, Leichester need look no higher. Any of his neighbors would think twice before encroaching on Leichester’s lands with such a powerful son-in-law.”

  “You have yourself seen this Lady Joanna?”

  “Aye, once about six months ago. As I said, she is comely, and built just like her mother. And, I might add, that woman has borne with ease five sons, four of whom have survived.”

  “I suppose she would expect to be wooed and have songs written about her eyebrows.”

  “You are a hard man, Graelam. I offer you a rich plum and you complain about playing the suitor.”

  “And if I beat the wench for disobedience, I suppose I can expect tears and reproaches and her father upon my neck!”

  “Just keep her belly filled with children, and she’ll have no time for disobedience. As to wenches you take to bed, it would be wise to be somewhat more discreet once you have a wife.”

  Graelam thought of Nan, who was now likely to be sleeping peacefully in his bed. “I must think on it, my lord,” Graelam said, rising and stretching.

  The Duke of Cornwall rose also and faced the young man he loved more than his own worthless son. He gave him a wide smile. “Think quickly, my lord, for the Lady Joanna will arrive next week . . . for a visit. She will be accompanied by some of her father’s men as well as her ladies. If you suit, the wedding will be attended by her parents and me, of course.”

  “You wicked old man,” Graelam said, a dull flush of anger rising over his face. “You woo me with reason, then clamp down your chains!”

  “Plow the wench in your bed well, Graelam, for it would be wise to forgo your appetites once the Lady Joanna has arrived.” He clapped his hand to Graelam’s shoulder. “Don’t be angry with me, my boy. ’Tis for the best.”

  “Christ’s bones,” Graelam growled. “Best for whom?”

  But the Duke of Cornwall only laughed. “You’ll make a lusty husband for the girl, Graelam. Be content.”

  6

  “The Duke of Cornwall has arranged a marriage for me,” Graelam said to Blanche. “Lady Joanna and her retinue will arrive next week. Can you make preparations for her comfort?”

  Blanche stared at him, unable to take in his words. Married! She wanted to scream and cry at the same time, and strike Graelam until he bled like she was bleeding inside. She lowered her head, running her tongue over her suddenly parched lips, and listened to him continue, his voice as indifferent as if he were discussing the weather.

  “If the girl is pleasing enough, I will wed her.”

  Blanche clutched at his words like a lifeline. “You do not know her, Graelam? You have never seen her?”

  “Nay. I know nothing about her, save she is an heiress.” Graelam shrugged. “If she can breed me sons, I suppose it is enough to ask. Her father is interested in gaining me as a son-in-law because of my friendship with the king and the Duke of Cornwall.”

  Blanche’s thoughts raced. Surely all was not lost! Graelam cared naught for this Joanna, had never even seen the wench. She still had time. “My lord,” she said finally, her head lowered modestly, her voice softly shy, “it is likely that the Lady Joanna, being such a young girl, knows little of managing a keep the size of Wolffeton. If it pleases you, it would be my . . . honor”—she nearly choked on the word—“to assist her in gaining the necessary knowledge.”

  Graelam gave her a perfunctory smile, thinking absently that she was a gentle, accommodating woman. “Thank you, Blanche.” He wondered briefly if she knew herself how to manage a keep, for Wolffeton had certainly not changed since she had come here, and he had given her free rein within the keep. Perhaps, he thought, not wishing to be unfair, the food had improved somewhat.

  Blanche retired to her small chamber, gently closed the door, and smashed her fists against the wall. How could he, she raged, be drawn into a marriage, and it not be to her! She had been too shy, too modest, she realized when she was calmer. She had not given him enough encouragement, and thus he saw her as a mere adjunct to his household and not as a desirable woman. Damn him! Her lineage was every bit as respectable as this Joanna de Moreley’s! The fact that she was not an heiress as was Joanna did not hold long in her mind. Graelam must be made to realize that she, Blanche, would be the right wife, the only wife for him. But Graelam had mentioned breeding sons off his wife, and that stilled her a moment.

  She walked to the small window, pulled back the wooden shutter, and stared down toward the practice field. She saw Graelam, stripped to the waist, wrestling with one of his men. She could see the sweat glistening off his back, the twisting of his powerful muscles. Ah yes, she thought, she would teach this Joanna a thing or two! Her fingers clutched unconsciously on the edge of the window, as if they were touching Graelam. “Damn you, my lord,” she cursed him in a hoarse whisper.

  Much later, when Blanche lay in her narrow bed, alone, she considered her son. She would write a message to her cousin and have him send Evian to Wolffeton. Once Graelam had met her son, perhaps he would forget his desire for his own son. After all, the boy was also his half-nephew. She realized that she was assuming she could still gain him as her husband. I will be his wife, she vowed softly, and if he still demands I bear him a child, I will do it. She hated the thought of the inevitable birthing pain and the bulk of a child in her body. For a moment she rebelled against her woman’s lot, against the sheer helplessness of it. Stop it, Blanche, she scolded herself silently. You have not won yet. But she would win, she had to. Her son’s future and her own lay in the balance. She fell asleep somewhat calmer.

  The next morning Blanche had to contend with the servants, the pert Nan in particular. They had supposed, Blanche guessed, that she would become the future mistress of Wolffeton and had thus given her grudging obedience. She trembled with rage when Nan, the wretched little slut, said in a snide voice, “If ye want a new gown, mistress, ye’d best ask his lordship. Likely he’ll buy his new young bride anything, but his old sister-in-law, who will be but his poor relation . . . ?” Her voice fell away like sharp droplets of rain dripping off stone.

  “You little bitch!” B
lanche said, her voice trembling, hating both Nan and herself for the truth of the wench’s words. She reached for Nan’s long braid, now clean from weekly baths, but Nan was faster. She scurried out of the chamber, laughing aloud.

  “I’ll have you flogged!” Blanche yelled after her, knowing full well that it was an empty threat.

  “The master won’t allow that,” Nan taunted her from a safe distance. “He likes me smooth and soft. He’ll not let ye beat me!”

  “Slut! Just wait until your belly swells with child! You’ll see then how much the master cares about you and your soft hide!”

  “He’ll give me a fine cottage and mayhap a servant of my own,” Nan retorted.

  The other servants snickered behind her back, Blanche knew, but at least they obeyed her orders, albeit with the slowness of mules trekking up a cliff. She ground her teeth and bided her time until Lady Joanna de Moreley came, and Evian. Graelam had seemed reluctant to have her son come to Wolffeton, but Blanche had managed to cry pitifully, an altogether honest reaction, and he had finally agreed.

  Graelam grunted and heaved as he helped the masons fit a huge slab of stone into place on the outer eastern wall of Wolffeton. He stepped back and dashed the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He felt exhilarated from the physical labor, for it had kept his mind off Joanna de Moreley’s impending visit, which he dreaded. He thought of the message he had sent to Maurice de Lorris several days before, and felt a spurt of unwanted pain for what had happened. He heard nothing from Maurice, and assumed that Geoffrey had made no move on Belleterre. Surely it could not be long now before Geoffrey found out about Kassia’s death. Belleterre was not that isolated, and over two months had passed.

  Graelam stretched, enjoying the pull of his tired muscles, and headed toward the cliff path that led to the narrow beach below. The surf pounded against the naked rocks, splashing spray into wide arcs in the air. He stripped off his clothes and waded into the tumbling water. Feeling the powerful tug of the tide against his legs, he let himself be dragged forward with the outgoing waves. The water was cold, raising gooseflesh on his body, but he ignored it and plunged facedown into a high-crested wave.

  Some minutes later he heard a yell from the cliff above him and turned to see Guy waving toward him. He started to answer, but a huge wave smashed against his back and sent him sprawling onto his face. When he fought his way out of the sea, his face smarting from the coarse rocks and sand, he heard Guy’s laughter. He strode onto the narrow beach and shook himself, much in the manner of a huge mongrel dog.

  “My lord! Dress yourself before your bride sees you in your natural wonder!”

  Graelam cursed softly. The girl was two days early. He did not doubt that his days of peace were over. He dressed himself quickly and strode up the cliff path.

  “My lord,” Guy said, a wide grin splitting his well-formed mouth. “I fear the Lady Joanna will see us side by side and send you about your business.” Guy preened in his green velvet and patted his hand to his golden hair, his laughter ringing above the raucous sound of the seabirds.

  Graelam didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he asked, “Is all in readiness for the lady?”

  “Do you mean has Blanche swallowed the prune in her mouth and managed a welcoming smile?”

  “If you had something to offer her, you larking, conceited buffoon, ’tis that lady you could take off my hands!”

  “ ’Tis not my bed Blanche seeks, my lord!” Guy straightened suddenly, a slight worried frown puckering his brow. “ ’Twas a mistake allowing her to send for her son.”

  Graelam felt thoroughly irritated. “For God’s sake, Guy, leave be. Blanche is comely and endowed with the proper shyness and modesty a lady should have. If I wed Lady Joanna, I shall find Blanche a husband. With her son in tow, it proves she is a good breeder.”

  Many of the servants would applaud that decision, Guy thought. Blanche had not been overly patient with any of them, so awash was she in her disappointment. He felt a tug of pity for her, as well as something else he was loath to examine. He shrugged. It was none of his affair. He said aloud, “Nay, my lord, do not waste your ill-humor on me.” He paused a moment, then added, “there is but one thing that bothers me.”

  “I suppose I must ask you what it is, else you’ll taunt me with your useless guile.”

  Guy gave him his sunny smile. Their relationship was more in the manner of an indulgent older brother toward a younger sibling, not liege lord to one of his knights. “Why did you agree to this match when it so obviously displeases you?”

  Graelam had asked himself the same question many times during the past weeks. “A man must have sons,” he said finally. “Now, let me meet my sons’ mother.”

  * * *

  Kassia walked slowly through the apple orchard, her face lifted to the bright sun overhead. She smelled the sweet scent of the camellias, hydrangeas, and rhododendrons she herself had planted, and heard the comforting drone of the bees in the hives just beyond the orchard. Hugging her arms around her body, feeling the sun warming her bones, she knew the joy of simply being alive.

  Her favorite gown of yellow silk still hung loose, but it didn’t bother her. She smiled fondly at the thought of her father, ever watching her with worried eyes, encouraging her to do naught but rest and eat. She looked up to see her nurse, Etta, whose ample figure was now walking purposefully toward her, a bowl of something doubtless very nourishing and equally distasteful held in her hands.

  “You should be resting, mistress,” Etta said without preamble. “Here, drink this.”

  “Another of your concoctions,” Kassia said, but obligingly downed the thick beef broth. “I need to prune my fig trees,” she said thoughtfully, handing the bowl back to Etta.

  “Fig trees!” Etta said on a mighty sigh.

  Kassia cocked her head in question. “I am well enough to do just as I please now. Come, Etta, you know you enjoy my delicious figs.”

  “Aye, my baby. ’Tis not your figs that are on my mind at the moment.”

  “What is on your mind?” she asked.

  “Your father. Another messenger arrived a while ago.”

  “Another messenger? I did not know there was even a first, much less a second!”

  “Aye,” Etta said. “He does not look happy.”

  “Then I shall go to him and see what is wrong.”

  “But you should rest!”

  “Etta, you and Father are treating me like a downy chick with no sense. I am feeling much stronger, and if I keep eating all the food you stuff in my mouth, I shall be fat as my favorite goose.”

  “Hurrumph,” Etta said, and followed her mistress back to the keep.

  Maurice had dismissed the messenger and sat staring blindly in front of him. He didn’t realize he was wringing his hands until he felt his daughter’s fingers lightly touch his shoulder.

  “Father,” Kassia said softly. “What troubles you?”

  He managed to wipe the worry from his face and smiled at her, drawing her into his lap. She was still so slight, weighing no more than a child. But her vivid hazel eyes were bright again with glowing health, and her beautiful hair now capped her small face in soft, loose curls. He thought of the message and pulled her tightly against him. Time had run out.

  He felt her small, firm breasts pressing against him, reminding him yet again that she was no longer a little girl. She was a woman and a wife. He drew in a deep breath and pulled back from her so he could see her face.

  “You are feeling well, ma chère?” he asked, avoiding the issue.

  “Quite well, Father. Much better, I gather, than you are. Now, what about this messenger? Etta also let slip that this was the second one. Is it Geoffrey?”

  Kassia could see the beginnings of deception in her father’s eyes and said hurriedly, “Nay, Father. I am no longer at death’s door. You must tell me what troubles you. Please, I feel useless when you treat me like a witless child who must be protected and cosseted.”

 
; He knew there was no help for it. None at all. Slowly he said, not meeting her eyes, “Do you remember telling me that you dreamed of a man’s voice? A man you did not know?”

  “Aye, I remember.”

  “You did not dream him. There was such a man. He is an Englishman, Lord Graelam de Moreton. He accompanied me to Belleterre. You see, I was attacked in Aquitaine by brigands, and Lord Graelam saved my life, he and his men. He is an honorable man, Kassia, and a fine man, a warrior who was just returning from the Holy Land. I found myself telling him about that whoreson Geoffrey, and indeed, we stopped at Beaumanoir one evening. He met your aunt, and managed politely enough to avoid her bed. I will not deny that by the time we reached Belleterre, I was thinking of him as the perfect husband for you. I told him much about you. When we arrived, I was told that you were dying. Indeed, there was no doubt in my mind that you would not survive that night.”

  Kassia was gazing at him with such innocent incomprehension that for a moment Maurice couldn’t continue. He coughed, raked his fingers through his hair, and mumbled something under his breath.

  “Father,” Kassia said, “I do not understand. What of this man, this Graelam de Moreton?”

  “He is your husband,” he said baldly.

  Kassia was very still, her eyes wide and disbelieving on her father’s face. “My husband,” she repeated blankly.

  “Aye.” He pulled her tightly against him again and breathed in the sweet scent of her flesh. “Aye,” he said again. “Let me explain what happened, my love. I was convinced that you were going to die. And I also knew that Belleterre would be lost to Geoffrey. I convinced Graelam to wed you before you died. It would be he, then, who would have Belleterre, and not that bastard Geoffrey. He argued with me, Kassia, but I wore him down, with guilt. He finally agreed. The next morning he left with the marriage contracts to go to the Duke of Brittany. The duke approved the marriage, and Graelam, according to my wishes, returned to Cornwall. I did not write to tell him that you had lived. I saw no reason for it until you regained your strength.”