Fire Song

by Catherine Coulter

  Her eyes widened, but she did not draw away from him. He was pleased. He turned and nodded to a minstrel, Louis, a Frenchman he had invited to stay at his castle in Cornwall for several days. The small darkeyed man, sun-baked from his travels, had been playing softly throughout the meal, and now moved forward to sit on a stool in front of Graelam’s daised table. He smiled toward Kassia and played several haunting cords on his lute. “To your lovely bride from Brittany, my lord,” he said, and bowed his head, strumming the strings lightly. “I have christened it Fire Song.”

  ’Tis a fire in the blood that draws me

  to thee, my maid of Brittany.

  A softness in your eyes that makes me

  dream of nights in your gentle arms.

  His voice, gentle as spring rain, filled the silent hall. At his words, Kassia smiled shyly at her husband.

  Your woman’s beauty meets my hungry eyes

  calling me, my maid of Brittany.

  ’Tis a fire in the blood that makes me

  yearn to hold thee close.

  Graelam pressed his shoulder against hers and gently squeezed her hand. “A fire, my lady?” he teased her softly. “Soon we will know if he speaks true.”

  The sweetness in your smile draws me

  to thee, my maid of Brittany.

  ’Tis a fire I long to give thee

  the fire of my song and my heart.

  Louis kept his head down as he softly played a crescendo of minor chords. At the finish, he raised his eyes and bowed his head to Kassia.

  “ ’Twas well done, Louis,” Graelam called out over the enthusiastic clamor of the men. “I am pleased as is my lovely bride.”

  “It is my pleasure, my lord,” Louis said. He began again, this time a song of the great Roland and his death fighting the Saracens at Roncesvalles.

  Graelem said quietly to Kassia, “Go to our chamber, Kassia. I will come to you soon.”

  Kassia rose and nodded to Blanche, who was sitting quietly beside Blount, the steward.

  “God give you sweet sleep, my lady,” Guy said, smiling at her. He watched her wave a slender hand at him, then turn and walk from the hall. His eyes went back to Graelam. He had never before seen his master treat a woman so gently. It boded well, he thought.

  Graelam lifted his goblet to his lips and sipped slowly at the sweet wine, his eyes thoughtful. A woman should want a man. He would make Kassia respond to him, make her moan softly, and make her forget her maiden’s fear. The fire in his body would warm her. He downed the rest of his wine and rose from his chair when Louis finished his song. He saw a speculative look on Blount’s craggy face, an open smile on Guy’s, and knew that all his men were in no doubt about how he would spend his night.

  “Please continue, Louis,” he said to the minstrel. “As to the rest of you louts,” he called out to his men, “listen well and learn.” He strode from the hall, feeling something of a fool, for everyone knew he was going to his wife. He took the stone steps two at a time. He opened his chamber door and saw Kassia seated on the bed, wrapped in her blue wool bedrobe.

  “Come here, Kassia,” he said.

  She slipped off the bed, clutched her robe closely to her, and padded to him on bare feet. He held out his arms and she moved against him, wrapping her arms about his waist. He closed his arms about her back, and began to gently stroke away the tension he felt in her shoulders.

  “You smell so sweet,” he said, inhaling the lavender scent of her. He stroked his long fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp and tangling the soft curls about her ears. He drew her more tightly against him, lifting her against his hardening manhood.

  Kassia raised her head from his shoulder and gazed into his dark eyes for a long moment. Slowly, without instruction from him, she closed her eyes and pressed her mouth against his. She felt his exquisite hardness against her belly and felt again that strange tremor of warmth flow through her.

  Graelam swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her on her back and sat beside her. Slowly, he untied the sash about her waist. She gave a soft distressed gasp, and he stopped.

  “Did I tell you about my destrier, Demon?” he asked.

  She stared up at him, blinking in surprise. “Nay, my lord.”

  “He was bred near York,” Graelam said softly. “His sire was called Satan and his dam, Witch.” He lowered his head and gently kissed her closed lips. He caressed her lower lip with his tongue, all the while talking quietly about his stallion. “He saved my life in the Holy Land when a Saracen would have carved me. He reared up and stomped the fellow.” He realized belatedly that though he spoke softly, his words were anything but seductive and soothing. Why the devil was he talking to her about his damned horse? He shook his head at his own foolishness. “I want to see you, Kassia,” he said, and drew her robe apart.

  Her hands fluttered up, but he stilled them, clasping them lightly above her head. “You have beautiful breasts,” he said.

  “I—I am small,” Kassia said, “but I will be larger when I gain flesh.”

  “You are perfectly shaped,” he said, surprising himself. He did not like slight women, but somehow, Kassia’s delicately rounded breasts appealed to him. And the soft pink nipples, so smooth now, not yet tautened with passion.

  “You are staring at me,” Kassia said.

  “Aye.” He grimaced at the memory of Maurice tearing the leech from her breast and flinging it across the chamber.

  “I do not please you, my lord?”

  “You please me well,” he said. “I feel well the minstrel’s words.” He lowered his head and kissed the column of her throat. Slowly he touched his lips to her soft flesh until he lightly flicked her nipple with his tongue. She gasped and he raised his head to see her staring at him, a stunned look on her face. He smiled and lowered his head to suckle her gently. He could feel the pounding of her heart against his cheek.

  “Someday,” he said, lifting his face to look at her, “our babe will suck at your breast thusly.”

  He felt her hands stroking in his hair, pulling him closer to her breast.

  “Oh!”

  A look of pain flashed across her face.

  “What is the matter?”

  “I—I don’t know,” she gasped. A cramp twisted in her belly and she cried out.

  Graelam sat up and laid his hand to her cheek.

  She suddenly lurched up, her face ashen. “I am not well,” she cried.

  He handed her the chamber pot just in time. She retched until there was naught left in her belly.

  “I am sorry, my lord,” she whispered, and moaned, drawing her knees up against the vicious cramps.

  “Hush,” he said. What had she eaten that he had not, he wondered, worry gnawing at him. Had he forced her to eat too much? Had her fear of him made her ill? He dampened a cloth and gently wiped her sweating face. “Lie still. I will get your nurse.”

  He watched helplessly as Etta crooned over Kassia, feeling her belly with gentle hands.

  “What is wrong with her?” he demanded.

  Etta shook her head. “She ate something that was bad, I think.” She rose. “I will make her a potion, my lord.”

  At that moment, Graelam felt a cramp in his belly, and doubled over. “Christ,” he muttered, and strode quickly out of his bedchamber.

  At least, he thought a few minutes later, his belly empty, it wasn’t her fear of him that had made her vomit. He checked with his men in the hall. None were ill. The cramps continued and he gladly drank the potion Etta handed him.

  “ ’Twas the stew,” he said. “Only Kassia and I shared it, and she ate the most of it.”

  She was moaning pitiably, her arms wrapped around her stomach. His cramps were lessening, yet he knew what she felt and it frightened him. She was so slight, and had not half his strength. He sat beside her and pulled her into his arms, rocking her.

  “She will sleep soon, my lord,” Etta said, hovering protectively close to her young mistress. “And she has
nothing foul left in her belly.”

  Kassia’s head lolled back against his arm. She said vaguely, “I shall hang the cook up by his heels with his head in the stew.”

  Graelam was thinking of a more ferocious punishment for the hapless cook.

  “You will be all right tomorrow, my baby,” Etta said, gently wiping the damp cloth over Kassia’s forehead.

  “I am so ashamed,” Kassia whispered, and burrowed her face against Graelam’s arm.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he said sharply. “Can you sleep now, Kassia?”

  “Aye,” she muttered.

  He laid her on her back and drew the covers over her. “I will call you if she worsens,” Graelam said to Etta.

  The night was a long one. Kassia awoke every several hours, her belly convulsed with cramps. Graelam forced her to drink, but she could keep nothing down. Finally, toward dawn, she fell into a deep sleep, and he allowed himself to relax.

  It was near to noon the next day when Graelam entered to find Kassia awake. The chamber reeked of sickness and he felt nausea rise in his belly at the stench.

  “She has drunk some broth, my lord,” Etta said proudly at Kassia’s accomplishment.

  “She will not keep it down if she must remain in here,” Graelam said. He strode over to his wife and wrapped her up in blankets. “I am taking her outside. Clean the chamber and open the windows. Burn incense, whatever, just get rid of the stench.”

  Graelam carried his wife out of the keep. He ordered Demon saddled.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Kassia asked, clutching at Graelam’s sleeve. Now that the cramps were gone, she felt mortified. He had held her whilst she had retched. All night he had cared for her. She wanted to bury her face in his shoulder and never look him in the face again.

  “Perhaps I shall toss you over the cliff,” Graelam said, hugging her tightly against his chest.

  “I would not blame you,” she sighed. “I have not been a very good wife to you.”

  Graelam laughed deeply. “You have not been a wife at all. Now keep your tongue quiet in your mouth.”

  He held her in his arms as he guided Demon over the lowered drawbridge. “Breathe deeply, Kassia,” he said.

  He rode to the cliff and dismounted, tying Demon to a low juniper bush. He eased himself down against a bowed pine tree and settled Kassia in his lap. “Now,” he said, “you will think about being well again.”

  “I am so ashamed,” she said.

  “I was also ill. We have both survived. Now, I want you to be quiet and breathe the clean air.”

  He felt her burrow trustingly against him, her fist closing about his tunic. He dropped a light kiss on her forehead and leaned back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes.

  “My lord.”

  Graelam opened his eyes and looked up at Guy. He shook away the remnants of sleep.

  “It grows late,” Guy said quietly, for Kassia still slumbered.

  “I will come soon, Guy.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Aye, thank God. Did you speak to the cook? What is that varlet’s name?”

  “I gave him—Dayken is his name—the flat of my sword against his fat buttocks! He swears the meat was fresh. I do not understand it. It’s almost as if—” He broke off, shaking his head.

  “As if what?”

  “Nothing, my lord.”

  “If you have something to say, Guy, say it!”

  Guy scratched his ear. “I like not that only the two of you fell ill.”

  “I like it not either,” Graelam said softly. “The only question is who, Guy?”

  “A woman’s jealousy can lead her to do vicious things, my lord.”

  Graelam grunted. “So who is this woman, Guy?” he asked.

  “Not Blanche, I am certain of that.” Indeed, he had spoken to her, watching her beautiful eyes for signs of deception. He did not want to admit to his profound relief when he realized she was innocent. Guy shook his head, perplexed. “All knew you were to bed your lady last night.” He flushed as his master’s eyes narrowed on his face.

  “It need not have been a woman, Guy,” was all he said.

  Kassia stirred in his lap and raised her head from Graelam’s shoulder. “My lord?” she whispered, her voice foggy with sleep.

  “ ’Tis naught, Kassia,” Graelam said. “How do you feel?”

  She smiled, and the dimple deepened beside her mouth. “Hungry,” she said.

  “Excellent. I am certain that your nurse has a pot of broth awaiting you. Your belly isn’t cramping anymore?”

  She flushed, seeing Guy, and shook her head.

  Graelam rose easily, and shifted Kassia in his arms. The blankets fell away and Guy glimpsed the white curve of her breast.

  “I’ll get Demon, my lord,” he said quickly, and strode to his master’s destrier.

  12

  The afternoon was overcast and a chill wind blew from the sea. Kassia stood watching Graelam, his powerful chest bared, wrestling with one of his men, a huge fellow who had the look of a mighty oak tree. The men formed a half-circle, calling out explicit and coarse advice.

  Kassia moved closer. She saw the concentration on her husband’s face as he circled the other man. He lunged so suddenly that she blinked in surprise. He gave a fierce yell as he hooked his leg behind his opponent’s and toppled him to the ground. He slammed down on top of him, pinning his shoulders.

  The men cheered and Graelam stood up, offering his hand to his man. He met Kassia’s eyes at that moment, and smiled.

  She waved to him shyly and called, “We have a visitor, my lord.”

  Graelam spoke to his men, then strode to his wife, flexing his shoulder muscles. He looked at her closely, studying her face for any signs of lingering illness, and satisfied, asked, “Who comes, Kassia?”

  “Blanche’s son, my lord.”

  Graelam frowned a moment, having forgotten the boy.

  “Blanche is smiling. I am pleased her son is here.” Her son will give her something to think about other than you!

  One of Graelam’s men tossed him his shirt and tunic. “Wash me down first, Kassia,” he said, and walked beside her to the well in the inner bailey.

  Kassia filled the bucket and poured it over her husband’s head and back as he leaned over. He shook himself and donned his shirt.

  “My tunic, Kassia,” he said.

  “Oh!” She had been staring at his chest, wondering why it made her heart pound to think of tangling her fingers in the dark curling hair, or suckling at his nipples as he had hers.

  Graelam wondered at the sudden delicate flush on her cheeks as he pulled his tunic over his shirt.

  They walked into the hall. Blanche was talking to three men, all travel-stained and weary-looking. A slender boy, some eight years old, clung to the side of one of the men.

  “My lord,” Blanche called out. “My son is arrived. Evian, this is Lord Graelam de Moreton, your uncle by marriage.”

  The boy peeped from behind the man. The man gave him an indulgent smile and shoved him forward. “ ’Tis a bit shy he is, my lord. I am Louis, from my lord Robert’s household in Normandy.”

  “I bid you welcome, and thank you for delivering the boy safely,” Graelam said, then squatted down to the boy’s eye level. He had his mother’s dark eyes and dark hair, but was saved from being pretty by a square jaw and a broad forehead. “You will be my page,” Graelam said. “If you are competent at your duties, you will one day be my squire. Does that please you, boy?”

  “Aye, my lord,” Evian said. He studied Lord Graelam with intelligent eyes and became his slave at that moment. Graelam dropped his hand on the boy’s shoulder, patted him, then rose. “You have already met my wife, Lady Kassia?” he asked.

  Evian nodded, his eyes turning toward Kassia. She was giving him a welcoming, open smile, and he gave her a tentative one in return.

  “You are most welcome, Evian,” Kassia said.

  “I am nearly as tall as you, my
lady,” Evian ventured.

  “Aye, in another year or so, ’tis I who will be gazing up at you.”

  Blanche grabbed her son’s hand. “He can sleep in my chamber, Graelam.”

  “Nay, Blanche. Guy, come and meet my new page. The boy will sleep outside my chamber, on a pallet, and take his meals with the men.”

  He is not like his mother, Kassia thought, and immediately chided herself.

  “I have been living with my mother’s cousin,” Evian said confidentially to Guy, “in Normandy.”

  “Evian, I would like to speak to you!”

  The boy turned large reluctant eyes back to his mother, wishing she would not treat him like a little boy.

  “Nay, let him go, Blanche,” Graelam said, to Evian’s immense relief. “You can cosset him later.” He turned to Louis. “Come have some ale, your men also. Nan, bring drink!”

  * * *

  “He is a fine lad,” Graelam said to Blanche that evening. “Your cousin has raised him well, but ’tis men’s company he needs.”

  Blanche forced a bright smile to her lips. Graelam was pleased with her son, just as she had hoped he would be. But it was too late. “You are most kind, Graelam,” she said softly. Such a pity that Nan had not mixed more of the vile herbs in the stew. Blanche knew the wench had done it, for Nan was unable to keep the smug, triumphant grin off her face when she believed no one was looking at her. Blanche frowned, lowering her eyes. Jealousy was a terrible thing, and it made her writhe in self-reproach, hating herself for her feelings, even as she searched for ways to undermine Kassia. Life has not been fair to me, she would tell herself over and over, the litany her excuse.

  Kassia watched Graelam and Blanche speaking together, and felt a strange burst of anger. Unlike her, Blanche was endowed with a full and rounded woman’s body and her long dark hair glistened in the rushlight.

  “Your thoughts are not pleasant?”

  Kassia turned to Guy “Blanche is very beautiful,” she said honestly, bewilderment at her jealousy sounding in her voice.

  “That is true,” Guy said honestly. “But she need never concern you, truly. Lord Graelam could have wed her had he wished to.”