Fire Song

by Catherine Coulter

  There was much good-natured laughing and cheering from the men.

  “Arnold the ox!”

  “He’ll eat the targets he missed for his dinner!”

  “Most fascinating,” Graelam said sarcastically to Rolfe. “I grow more excited by the minute.”

  The next two men did no better than Arnold, and Graelam was beginning to believe that Rolfe had arranged this ridiculous competition as a jest. He started to say as much to his master-at-arms, but Rolfe was staring fixedly toward the next rider.

  Graelam did not recognize the man—boy, rather, he quickly amended to himself. But the stallion, Ganfred, was from his stable.

  “At least the lad shows more ability than the rest,” he said, watching the boy draw his bow smoothly back and gently release the arrow. It hit the center. He frowned. “Who is he, Rolfe? A new fledgling you wish to take under your wing?”

  “He does well,” Rolfe said, trying to postpone the moment of reckoning as long as possible. “Look, my lord, another bull’s-eye!”

  Rolfe felt himself swell with pride. She was doing well, despite the problems she was having with the stallion. By the end of the course, she had struck nine bull’s-eyes out of twelve.

  “The boy is undersized,” Graelam said, watching him ride back to the far side of the field. “I begin to believe that you arranged this competition just to make him look good. You gave him Ganfred to ride? Who is he, Rolfe?”

  “My lord, look! Here is Bran!”

  Graelam shot a sideways glance at Rolfe. Something was brewing. He decided to wait and see and simply enjoy himself in the meanwhile. The wiry, graceless Bran made Arnold look like a master archer. Graelam joined the laughter as Bran finished the course, smiling widely, showing the huge space between his front teeth.

  “I will challenge any jongleurs to beat this act!” Graelam said.

  Perhaps, Rolfe thought, he shouldn’t have picked such utter dolts to compete. Even if Lady Kassia won, it wouldn’t be much of a victory. He realized that the men competing had, of course, recognized her, for their performance became even worse. All the men were very fond of her, and were shielding her. He saw the men whispering to each other, passing the word along, and he realized that he had made a grave mistake in allowing this. Graelam would skin him alive.

  He cleared his throat nervously. “The lad appears to have won the first round, my lord,” he said as the men slapped Kassia on the back, congratulating her. “The men will pair up in the second round and compete for the targets.”

  “I can barely contain my excitement,” Graelam said dryly.

  Rolfe saw that Kassia was paired with Bran, the worst of the lot. He waited until the two of them rode toward the first target, jockeying for position as they drew close.

  “The lad, my lord,” he said, touching Graelam’s sleeve to gain his attention, “he did win the first round.”

  “Aye, and he does not do so badly in this one. But he had better watch Bran’s horse. The brute hates Ganfred.”

  Rolfe drew in his breath in consternation. The plan had been to have Kassia ride smartly up to her husband, pull back her hood, and demand the prize from him. He watched helplessly as Bran’s horse reared up, kicking his hind legs at Ganfred just as Kassia, as vulnerable as possible, raised her bow to shoot at a target.

  “We must stop this!” Rolfe shouted.

  “Why? You are growing soft as an old man, Rolfe. Let’s see how much talent the lad does have.”

  “The lad, my lord, is your wife! She did not ride Ganfred until yesterday!”

  “You are mad,” Graelam said between his teeth. “The jest goes too far, Rolfe.”

  But Rolfe had jumped from the dais and was running toward the course, waving his hands. The men had quieted, watching Bran try unsuccessfully to rein in his mount. The stallion, his eyes rolling with challenge, bit Ganfred on the neck, reared again, and smashed his hooves into Ganfred’s sides.

  Graelam was running, all thought frozen. Fear coursed through him, raw and cold. He watched helplessly as Kassia’s bow and arrow went flying from her hands to the ground. He saw her desperately try to pull away from the maddened stallion, but she did not have the strength to control him. Ganfred turned on the other horse and attacked.

  “Kassia, jump off!” He heard his own shout, knowing it was lost in the shouts of his men.

  Kassia was not afraid, she was furious. She must have been born under an unlucky star. “Bran, pull the beast away!” she cried out. When Ganfred reared up and attacked, she realized that all had gone awry. She struggled to bring the huge stallion under control, but it was no use. She felt Ganfred jerk the reins from her ineffectual hands at the same time she heard Graelam shout at her.

  But she knew if she jumped she might be crushed under the horses’ hooves. She hung on, clutching frantically at Ganfred’s mane.

  “Bran,” she croaked, “pull him away!”

  Ganfred gave a mighty heave, rearing up again to attack, but the other stallion was running away. He snorted in fury and dashed after him. Kassia lost her hold. She realized that she should roll once she hit the ground, but when the hard earth crashed against her side she was stunned, unable to move, the breath knocked from her.

  She lay perfectly still, trying to clear her wits and regain her breath.

  “Kassia!”

  She looked up to see Graelam above her. “It is not fair,” she panted. “I would have won! It is not fair!”

  He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands roving methodically over her body. “Can you move your legs?”

  “Aye,” she whispered, feeling suddenly dizzy and nauseous. “Graelam, I would have won!”

  His hands were bending her arms, then prodding at her belly.

  She sucked in her breath, not wanting to retch. That would be the ultimate humiliation. She saw the shadows of the men above her, heard them talking.

  Graelam clasped his hands about her shoulders. “Kassia,” he said, gently pulling her up. “Look at me. Can you see me?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I am all right.”

  Graelam lifted her gently into his arms. “The competition is over,” he said harshly to the men.

  She closed her eyes against the waves of dizziness, her head falling back against his arm. “I was not afraid,” she muttered. “If it had not been for that wretched horse . . .”

  “Hush,” Graelam said. He carried her to their bedchamber, shouting for Etta. After laying her on the bed, he gently straightened her legs. She closed her eyes tightly, and he saw the tensing around her mouth.

  He felt utterly helpless.

  “My baby!” Etta scurried to the bed, ignoring Graelam as she sat beside her mistress.

  “I am going to be sick, Etta,” Kassia whispered.

  When the spasms passed, she lay pale and weak. Her head ached, but the waves of dizziness were growing less.

  “I will prepare her a potion, my lord,” Etta said, and slowly rose.

  “Will she be all right?” Graelam asked harshly.

  “I trust so,” Etta said. “It is just that—”

  “Just what?”

  “Naught of importance,” Etta muttered, and hastened from the bedchamber.

  Graelam sat beside his wife, took her small hand in his, and noticed the calluses on the pads of her fingers for the first time. His wrenching fear was lessening. But he said nothing, merely watched her pale face for signs of pain.

  Kassia opened her eyes and looked into her husband’s worried face. “I would have won,” she repeated, sounding a litany.

  “Why did you do it?” he asked, his grip tightening on her hand.

  “I wanted to make you admire me as you do Lady Chandra,” she said simply. “I thought if I won you would be pleased.”

  “I do not want my wife aping men!”

  His words cut through her, and she stared up at him, hopelessness in her eyes. “I wanted only to gain your approval, to make you proud of me. I could think of nothing else to make you
care for me, to make you forget that you so dislike me.”

  Graelam said nothing. Guilt flooded him. “I do not dislike you,” he said finally. “But what you did was foolish beyond permission.”

  “Please do not blame Rolfe,” she whispered. “Nor any of the men. They could not have known that Bran’s stallion would attack Ganfred.”

  He wanted to bash all their heads in, but he saw the pleading in her eyes and said, “Very well.” He gently unfastened the brooch and pulled off her mantle. ‘You will likely be sore for a while from your fall.” He fell silent, then smiled at her ruefully. “Compared to the dolts in the competition, you did very well indeed. This was my surprise?”

  She nodded. “They were not real competition,” she said, rallying. “Rolfe did not believe I could gain your attention if I went against the better men. He did not want me to look bad.”

  “You did not look bad. Did Lady Chandra give you this idea?”

  “Nay, not really, though she showed me how to handle a bow. She is so beautiful.”

  “Kassia,” he said very gently, “I wanted her, I told you that. But I did not love her. There was no reason for you to be jealous of her skills.” He lightly touched his palm to her forehead, and relaxed. She felt cool to the touch. “Kassia,” he continued after a moment, “does it matter so much to you what I think?”

  She gazed at him, remembering that she had once told him she loved him. Had he simply disregarded her words? Believed that she was telling but another lie? And now, of course, since she had admitted that she had lied to him, he would likely believe nothing she said. She said only, “Aye, it matters to me.”

  “There has been much between us,” he bagan, only to break off as Etta came into the bedchamber. He moved aside and watched her give Kassia the vile smelling potion.

  Etta straightened. “She will sleep now, my lord. I did not know what she planned, else I would never have allowed her to do it. I pray that she will be all right.”

  “I will stay with her until she sleeps,” he said. “I will call you if she worsens, Etta.”

  He took her hand in his and stroked his fingers over her soft flesh. Her lashes fluttered and closed. He listened to her breathing as it evened into a drugged sleep.

  He undressed her, smiling whimsically at the boy’s clothes. Gently he eased her beneath the covers, pulling them to her chin. He found himself studying her, comparing her to Chandra. There was, he decided, no comparison at all, and he was pleased.

  Kassia slept the afternoon away, awakening briefly in the evening. She felt oddly heavy, and dull.

  “It is the potion Etta gave you,” Graelam told her. “I fear that you must rest a few days before you again take up your bow and arrow.”

  “You do not mind?”

  “Nay,” he said, smiling at her. “In fact, I will give you better competition than poor Bran. The fellow is frantic with worry. You must get well and reassure him.”

  “Aye, I will.” She fell asleep again, hope filling her at his words.

  She awoke to darkness, her throat dry and scratchy. She slipped from the bed and made her way slowly to the carafe of water on the table. She reached for the water, only to whip her hand to her belly at a sudden fierce pain. She felt wet stickiness gushing from her body. She looked at herself, not understanding, then doubled over as another cramping pain ripped through her. She cried out.

  Graelam heard her cry and bounded out of the bed. He quickly lit a candle and strode toward her.

  “Kassia, what is it?”

  “Graelam, help me! I’m bleeding!” She gasped as another pain clutched at her.

  He saw the streaks of crimson on her white chemise, the rivulets of blood flowing down her legs. Her monthly flow, he thought blankly. No, it was not that. He felt a searing fear turn his guts cold.

  He grabbed her to him. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, and she stiffenend with another cramp. “Help me,” she whimpered. “What is happening to me?”

  He knew then that she was miscarrying a babe. He heard himself saying to her quite calmly, “You will be all right, Kassia. Let me help you into bed. I will get Etta.”

  He lifted her gently into his arms and laid her on the bed. She stared up at him, her eyes wide with fear.

  “You will be all right,” he repeated, more for himself than for her. “Do not move.”

  She watched him stride to the door, jerk it open, and bellow for Etta.

  Etta paid no heed to Lord Graelam’s nakedness. She was panting with exertion, still pulling on her bedrobe.

  “Blood,” Graelam told her. “I fear she is losing a babe. Is she with child?”

  Etta felt the blood drain from her face. “Aye,” she whispered. She looked down at Kassia, saw her mistress lying in a pool of blood, and uttered a distressed cry. “Oh, my baby,” she said, clutching at Kassia’s hand.

  “What can I do?” Graelam asked from behind her.

  Etta pulled herself together. “Clean cloths, my lord, and hot water. We must make certain she does not bleed her life away.”

  Graelam turned immediately, pausing only when he heard Etta call after him, “My lord, your bedrobe!”

  31

  “You knew she was with child?”

  Etta’s kind face contorted with pain. “Aye, I knew, my lord, and I was going to tell her if she did not come to the knowledge soon.”

  “It is a pity that you did not tell before she played the man today.”

  “You had no knowledge of it, my lord?”

  Graelam made a slashing motion with his hand. It was on the tip of his tongue to shout at her that he was a man and paid no heed to women’s concerns. But he held himself quiet. It should have occurred to him that she had had no monthly flow. And had he not noticed that her breasts seemed fuller?

  “How far along was she?” he asked instead.

  “Early days,” Etta said. “Two months, I should say.”

  He looked down at his wife, asleep now from another potion Etta had given her. She was so pale that her face looked as if it had been drained of blood. Her chemise, stained with streaks of crimson, lay wrapped in cloths on the floor. He swallowed convulsively. “She will be all right?”

  “Aye, the bleeding is stopped.” Etta rubbed her gnarled hands together helplessly. “I should have told her. I thought that since she was now a married lady, and you a man of experience, she would realize that—”

  Graelam cut her off. He felt impotent and angry. “I married a child,” he said harshly. “How could anyone expect her to know a woman’s function?”

  “She has had other concerns of late, my lord,” Etta said, looking directly at him.

  “Aye, riding astride and learning men’s sports!”

  “ ’Twas not her fault,” Etta said steadily.

  “I do not suppose that she finally admitted to you that she lied? About everything?”

  “My lady does not lie, my lord.”

  Graelam gave a snorting laugh. “Little you know her. It matters not now. Go to bed. I will call you if she awakens.”

  Etta gave him a long look, tempted to tell him he was a fool, but she saw the pain in his dark eyes and held her tongue. He did care for Kassia, she thought, but how much? She shuffled from the chamber, her bones creaking with tiredness.

  Kassia awoke, blinking into the bright sunlight that streaked into the bedchamber. Memory flooded back and she tensed, waiting for the terrible pain, but there was none. She felt tired and sore, as if her body had been bludgeoned. She smiled wryly, remembering well that it had. But the blood. What had happened to her?

  “Here, drink this.”

  She turned her head slowly on the pillow at the sound of her husband’s voice. She felt his hand slip behind her head to lift her, and sipped the sweet-tasting brew.

  “How do you feel?” Graelam asked as he carefully eased her down again.

  She gave him a wan smile. “I feel as though you must have beaten me, my lord. But I do not understand. All the blood, the pain i
n my belly.”

  “You lost our . . . a babe.”

  She stared up at him blankly. “I was with child?” At his nod, she felt herself grow cold. She whispered brokenly, “I did not know. Oh no!”

  Tears filled her eyes and fell onto her cheeks, but she did not have the strength to dash them away.

  Graelam wiped them away with the corner of the bedcover. He wanted to comfort her, but bitterness flowed through him and he said coldly, “I daresay even your mentor, Chandra, knew enough to curb her men’s sports when she was with child.”

  The unfairness of his words numbed her. Did he believe that she lied about not knowing? Did he believe that she had willfully endangered their babe? It was too much. She slowly turned her face away from him and closed her eyes tightly against the damnable tears. I will weep no more, she told herself. “Perhaps,” she said so softly that he had to lean closer to hear her, “it would have been best had I died.”

  Graelam sucked in his breath. “Do not speak nonsense,” he said sharply. “There will be other babes.”

  Would there? she wondered silently.

  “You will not blame Rolfe? He did not know, I swear it.”

  “I am not a monster,” he said coldly, forgetting for a moment the tongue-lashing he had given his master-at-arms. “You must rest now and regain your strength. Your nurse is hovering outside to attend you. I will see you later.”

  She watched him stride toward the door, so powerful, so unyielding. He did not look back at her.

  The evening meal Etta served her was temptingly prepared for an invalid’s flagging appetite.

  “Come now, my baby. The cook made the stewed beef especially for you, using the herbs and spices just as you taught him. And here is hot, freshly baked bread with honey.”

  Kassia ate. When she was too exhausted to lift the spoon, she leaned back against the fluffed pillows. “Where is Lord Graelam?”

  “In the hall,” Etta said carefully, eyeing her mistress. “Everyone is very worried about you. Poor Rolfe was ready to kill Bran.”

  “ ’Twas not Bran’s fault,” Kassia said, closing her eyes. “He blames me,” she said flatly after a long, silent moment.