by Anita Mills
“Cat, Lord Guy brings us unwelcome news from the duke.”
Eleanor’s words broke between them. The smile that had frozen on Guy of Rivaux’s face faded, and he stepped back, dropping Catherine’s hand. For a moment Catherine had forgotten the stab of fear she’d felt, but now it returned. Wordlessly she turned to her mother, her eyes questioning.
Eleanor, still seated on a low bench, clasped her hands tightly over her distended abdomen and looked away to hide her anguish. Catherine, fearing something had befallen her father, moved quickly to her side.
“Papa…?”
“Nay.” Eleanor sucked in her breath and fought for composure. “Roger is safe at Harlowe, Cat.”
“Sweet Jesu—’tis Brian! Brian’s been taken—he’s—”
“Cat…” Eleanor’s face went white and her hand pressed more tightly into her swollen side. Closing her eyes for a moment, she waited for the pain to subside.
“Maman, are you all right?” Cat demanded anxiously.
“Aye.” Exhaling slowly, Eleanor nodded and sighed. “I would tell you myself, but I find I have not the stomach for it.” Looking behind Catherine, her eyes met Guy’s. “My lord…” she appealed helplessly.
“Demoiselle.” He waited for Cat to turn back to him.
“I do not understand,” Catherine began slowly. “If ’tis not Papa and ’tis not Brian, then what…?”
Guy sighed heavily. “Demoiselle—Lady Catherine—I am come from your duke, your father’s suzerain.” Seeing that he had her full attention now, he plunged ahead. “Robert Curthose fears that your father will bear arms against him in King Henry’s cause, for ’tis well-known the love he bears England’s king.”
“But he would not—my father would not break his oath! My father—”
“Aye, and even Curthose’s own council disputes his fear, but he will not listen, Demoiselle,” Guy continued patiently. “He demands a hostage for surety against Lord Roger’s returning to lead Henry’s armies.”
“A hostage!” It was a howl of outrage. “Nay, but he would not dare! Of all the men in Normandy, my father would be the last to break his sacred oath! He’d die first!” She caught the sympathy in his face and stopped still. The color drained from her cheeks and her eyes widened in dawning horror. “Nay, he would not…” Her voice dropped hollowly. “Sweet Mary, but I’d not go.”
He nodded. “I’d not take you if there were a choice, Demoiselle, but I bear Curthose’s writ. You’ll go to Rouen to serve the duchess as one of her ladies until this thing between the brothers is settled.”
“Nay!” she blazed suddenly. “Tell Robert Curthose that we’ll hold the Condes against him first! Tell him—”
“Catherine.”
Cat spun around at the sound of her mother’s voice, certain that Eleanor would never let her be Curthose’s prisoner. But her mother’s face betrayed the answer—she had no choice either. Stretching her hands out in supplication, Cat pleaded, “Nay, Maman, but I would not go—I would not.”
“Cat…” Eleanor spoke gently, keeping her own voice low for control. “When I was a year younger than you are, when I was but twelve, my father sent me to a convent against my wish. I cried even as you cry now, but there was no help for it—I went. Seven years I spent at Fontainebleau, Cat—seven years—and I survived. This matter between brothers cannot last beyond this year, child, and you will come home again.” Eleanor shifted uncomfortably in the summer heat, and shook her head. “Curthose is our overlord- there is no help for it.”
“We can fight! Maman, we can fight!” Cat cried desperately. “We can hold the Condes until King Henry comes—we can!”
“Demoiselle.” Guy’s voice was gentle as he came up behind her. “’Tis folly to think it. I doubt you have twenty men left within these walls, and I have thirty ready to do as I ask.” Reaching to touch a strand of dark hair that fell loosely down her back, he sought the means to placate her. “You’ll be one of the duchess’s own ladies.”
“And as I am King Henry’s own goddaughter, my lord, I doubt she will be pleased with me. ’Tis not likely she will forget that, is it?” she demanded bitterly, shaking her head away from his hand.
“Curthose would not harm a child.”
“I am not a child!” Cat retorted hotly.
Eleanor pressed harder against her side and tried to ease herself. “You will go, Cat,” she managed finally, “and you will remember that you are a de Brione.”
“Art craven like your sire, Maman!” the girl exploded. “Aye, but you’ve no more spine than Gilbert!” Whirling to face Guy, she declared defiantly, “You’ll not get me to Rouen, my lord, and you’ll rue that you ever thought to take me! I’ll—”
“Cat!” Eleanor reproved sharply. “Would you risk that Curthose sends Belesme? Lord Guy says that he will.”
“Belesme!” Cat spat out the hated name viciously. “Belesme! Is there none save my father who is not afraid of Belesme? Sweet Mary, but even he cannot take the Condes!”
Beads of perspiration formed on Eleanor’s blanched brow while she held her breath. Rising, she exhaled slowly and reached to grip an iron torch ring embedded deep into the stone wall. “When would you leave, my lord?” she addressed Guy. “I would not have her go to Curthose’s court like a beggar’s daughter.” Tears welled to brighten eyes as dark as her daughter’s. “’Twill take her maids two days to pack the sumpter horses.”
“Maman!”
Guy ignored Cat’s shriek to answer, “I have not the time, Lady Eleanor. We’ll have to leave at first light.” There was a hint of apology in his voice as he added, “I have mine own feudal obligation to meet before King Henry moves, else I’d stay longer.”
“You will keep her safe?”
“Aye.”
“You so swear?”
He looked to where the beautiful young girl stood shaking with rage, and pitied her. He had not a doubt but that her angry words hid a very real fear for her safety. “By the Blessed Virgin and all the saints, I swear it. I’ll yield her to none but Curthose,” he promised.
Eleanor met his gaze squarely, taking measure of the man before her. He was little more than a boy, and despite the reputation that preceded him, he seemed overyoung to wear the spurs of knighthood that clinked against the floor. Though he was nearly as tall as Roger, he could not be out of his teens, and yet she would have to entrust him with her daughter, an heiress to lands great enough to inspire greed in every baron. For once, she wished she’d not argued against the early betrothal to Robert of Caen.
Her eyes wavered and dropped. It was a difficult thing to do—to send her firstborn for hostage, knowing full well that a misplaced word, a whispered lie, could bring the duke’s wrath down on her daughter. Robert Curthose might blind the thirteen-year-old girl in a rage and repent of it later. “God defend you if she is harmed, for Roger will see you dead then,” she managed finally.
“I’ll see she is safe—even in Rouen.” He reached beneath the neck of his splendid tunic to draw out a crucifix suspended from a thin leather thong. “I’ll swear by the Cross she’ll come to no harm if ’twill ease your mind, my lady.”
“My lord, do not promise what you cannot keep.”
“I give Curthose five hundred men, Lady Eleanor. There’s none but Belesme that can bring him more,” he answered quietly.
“Sweet Mary, but is everyone mad save me?” Cat cried in disbelief. “You would let him take me to an unjust lord, and he would fight for a weak fool! Papa will never forgive either of you for this!” Angrily she stalked for the door, the silk of her undergown swishing against her legs.
“Demoiselle!” he called after her.
“Nay!” she shouted defiantly from the stairs.
“Leave her be, my lord, and give her time. She is, I fear, much indulged, but…” Eleanor’s body doubled over with a new stab of pain. “Meekness is not in Cat, my lord,” she gasped. Her fingers gripped the torch ring until her knuckles were white and her head pressed against the co
ol stone. “Holy Mary—”
“Jesu! Lady, are you all right?” In two long strides Guy was at her side to support her. “Demoiselle! Demoiselle!” he shouted as he encircled Eleanor’s waist with his arm. The color had drained from her face, leaving it damp and ashen. Another pain convulsed her, depriving her of breath. He lifted her easily as she drenched the back of her gown. “God’s teeth, is there none to come?” Helplessly he looked around the solar and then he began yelling in earnest. “To Nantes!, To Nantes! To your lady!”
Catherine was nearly to the bottom of the steep steps when she realized that he was not calling her back in anger. Below her, servants ran in answer to his frantic shouts. She turned and ran back up.
“Maman! Maman!” As she rounded the last step, she could see him laying her mother across the curtained bed. One look at the scene told the tale. “Sweet Mary—’tis the babe!”
The women Gerdis and Hawise pushed past her and elbowed Guy away from the bed. Hawise felt of Eleanor’s taut abdomen and nodded. “Aye, ’tis the babe, and ’tis early.” Bright birdlike eyes flicked over Guy as Hawise took in the richness of his dress. “Get him belowstairs, Demoiselle.”
But Catherine stood rooted to the floor. Stricken with shame for her earlier words, she barely managed an audible whisper. “Maman, I beg your pardon—there’s naught of Gilbert in you.”
Eleanor closed her eyes and nodded. “’Tis all right, Cat.”
“’Tis my accursed tongue.”
“Nay. Do as Hawise tells you.”
Guy grasped Catherine by the elbow and firmly led her from the chamber. “There’s naught you can do here, Demoiselle.”
At the first landing, Cat stopped to murmur a quick prayer under her breath. Looking up when she finished, she explained, “I would that God grants my parents a son this time.”
Surprised, he raised the scarred eyebrow. “Strange words for an heiress, ’twould seem.”
“Nay, but I pray thus every time she is delivered, for seven times in thirteen years she’s been brought to bed in her quest for a son, and she has naught but four daughters and three dead babes for her labor. ’Tis her mother’s curse, she says.”
Guy, who well understood what it meant to be unloved by a parent, felt a tug of sympathy for the beautiful girl. Laying a comforting hand on her shoulder, he murmured, “Aye—’tis hard to be faulted for one’s birth.”
She looked up at his touch and her eyes widened at the sudden warmth in his. “Nay, but you mistake the matter, my lord,” she muttered as she ducked away. “My parents blame me not for what I cannot be—’tis I who would be a man.”
Catching her arm to steady her on the narrow landing, he shook his head. “Nay, but you are as God made you, Demoiselle, and ’tis rare He grants such beauty.” Moving below her, he turned to help her down the steep steps. “Are you betrothed as yet, Demoiselle?”
For a moment she could only stare. Then, shaking his hand off her arm, she brushed past him on the steep step. “God’s blood, but you would aim high for yourself, my lord,” she muttered scornfully. “My father promises me to a king’s son.”
He caught up with her at the bottom. “You think I ask for myself? Nay, but you mistake the matter, Demoiselle,” he told her coldly. “I’d not take an ill-tempered girl, no matter what her wealth and beauty. Aye,” he added at her outraged expression, “I’d not have you.”
“Nay? Then why did you ask?” she shot back.
“Because I have sworn to protect you, Demoiselle, and the task would be easier if you were already betrothed,” he responded evenly. “Otherwise, there are those who would persuade Curthose to grant an heiress, and the duke is a changeable man.”
“He would not dare give me where my father would not.”
“Then you are betrothed?”
“I will be given to Robert of Caen when King Henry comes to the Condes.” She looked down to where her toe traced the edge of a cobbled stone. “And I like him not.”
“You are unpledged, then.”
“I cannot see the difference!” she snapped. “’Tis as much as done, is it not? My father and the king have decided for me, whether I will it or not. And…and I shall hate him!” she finished vehemently.
“Robert of Caen?” Again the scarred eyebrow rose. “Demoiselle, do you know him? Nay, but there’s naught to dislike in the boy.”
“Naught to dislike! Brian says he is vain and ill- tempered and…”
“Then this Brian cannot know him, Demoiselle. Robert-”
“Brian is his half-brother, and knows him well, my lord,” she interrupted. “And Brian FitzHenry would not lie to me.”
“Then he is but envious of Robert, for I’ve seen none of this.”
Her dark eyes flashed and her face flushed angrily. “He is not! And if he is, ’tis because of me!”
“Jesu,” he complained, “but I know how ’tis you are called Cat—you are all claws and spit rather than wit.”
“There’s naught wrong with my wit!” she spat back. “’Tis that I do not want Robert of Caen when I’d rather have Brian!”
“Aye, there is—’tis foolish to dislike that which you do not know and even more so when you speak of Robert. He can bring you the king’s favor, Demoiselle.”
“I care not.”
“Art a strange little maid, then.”
“I am not!”
She spoke with such force that Guy was hard-pressed not to laugh. As it was, the corners of his mouth threatened to betray him. “Oh?” His eyes traveled over her as he appeared to consider her. “I should be surprised to find you anything but a maid at your age, Demoiselle, and you are nearly an English foot shorter than I am, so you must be a little maid.” Noting the defiant jut of her small chin, he could suppress his smile no longer. “And given that little maids are supposed to be meek and pleasant, I’d have to think you are a strange one.”
“You are laughing at me!” she said angrily.
“Nay.” His expression sobered suddenly. “I am thinking it will be a long journey to Rouen.”
3
Catherine approached her mother’s bed slowly, composing what words of comfort she could. The labor had been swift and hard and fruitless, and now Eleanor lay silently weeping within the shadows of the silken bed hangings. Her red-rimmed eyes opened at the sound of Cat’s footsteps on the floor, and she managed a tired smile through her tears.
“Maman.” Cat sank to her knees beside the bed and leaned to clasp her mother’s Angers between her own. Despite her best efforts at control, her quavering lower lip betrayed her. “Maman, I am so sorry,” she whispered as she rested her head against Eleanor’s breast.
“Nay—’tis not your fault, Cat.”
“But my accursed tongue—I should not have spoken so. I…I…Oh, Maman!” she wailed miserably.
Eleanor’s free hand crept to stroke her daughter’s silken hair much as she had done when the girl was but a tiny child. “’Twas not you,” she repeated gently. “Aye—the pains were coming before Lord Guy arrived even, but I had wanted to speak with you—to tell you of Curthose’s writ myself—before I could not.” Pausing to sniff, she admitted, “I was afraid this time, Cat—I was afraid without Roger.” She took a deep breath and sighed heavily. “’Twas a boy babe.”
“Aye.” Catherine was at a loss for something to say. Hawise had told her how the child had come forth strangled by its own cord. They’d blown into its mouth and rubbed its tiny body to no avail until Eleanor had finally ordered them to stop. “May the Holy Mother cradle him in heaven,” she whispered at last.
“I…I have asked that Masses be said,” Eleanor added haltingly, “but I cannot bring myself to write of this to Roger.” Her fingers ceased stroking Cat’s hair. “I would that you did so for me.”
Catherine longed to ease, to give solace, to say that there would yet be other sons, but like everyone else in the Condes, she was loath to raise hope again. Four times in her memory she’d seen her mother brought to disappointment in c
hildbed, and it was almost too much to bear.
“He will not reproach me—he never has. He never complains of the lack, Cat.”
“He loves you well.”
Eleanor sighed heavily. “ ‘I took an heiress,’ he tells me each time, ‘and I will leave an heiress, content that I have had Eleanor of Nantes for wife.’ “ Her chest shook with suppressed sobs beneath Catherine’s head. “Oh, Cat!” she wailed.
Cat’s throat constricted painfully, making speech nearly impossible. She’d quarreled bitterly with both her mother and her father before he’d ridden out, and she’d been ill-tempered and sullen since he’d left. “Maman, I am so sorry,” she choked out.
“Aye.” Eleanor shifted to turn her head for a better look at her daughter.
Catherine raised up and rocked back on her heels. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks now, streaking them, as she met her mother’s eyes guiltily. “I…I have given you much to bear, but I never wished—”
“Nay, but you are my joy—and Roger’s also, lovey,” Eleanor consoled. “I am grateful to God for all of you—Aislinn, Philippa, and Isabella—but for you most of all. ’Twas the promise of you that gave me strength those long months I was captive to Belesme.”
“But Papa—”
“Cat,” Eleanor interrupted softly, “I know you think him wrong where Brian is concerned, but he does what he believes best.” Lifting a weary hand to brush at Catherine’s wet cheeks, she murmured, “He fears that Brian is too much like Henry and constancy will not be in him.”
