by Anita Mills
“’Tis unfair! Brian loves Papa! He—”
“Aye, and Roger loves him also, but we were not speaking of what is between them, lovey, but rather of what is between a man and his wife. I think myself more his mother than the Welshwoman who bore him, but I am not blind to his faults.”
“But I’d wed with him, Maman,” Cat protested miserably. “Surely you who fled with my father can understand that, can you not?”
“Aye—I understand. But I was promised to Robert of Belesme, else we’d not have run to England. And Brian is not Roger. Roger would never have gotten a bastard of every willing serving girl in the house.”
Catherine fell silent. Even now it pained her to remember her shock and dismay when she’d learned that both Agnes and Tyra carried Brian’s babes. And even his assurances to her and Aislinn that the women meant nothing to him had not lessened the hurt of Agnes’ gloating in her presence.
“Would you be like Henry’s Saxon queen?” Eleanor persisted gently. “Would you be content surrounded by your husband’s bastards? I may never give Roger a son, but I know in my heart that no other woman will bear him one either. Whether he is gone from here a week, a month, or a year, Cat, he will lie with no other. Can you in truth say that would be the same with Brian if you were wed?”
Catherine bit her lower lip and shook her head slowly. “But there is no other Roger de Brione, Maman,” she answered low. “Every man—”
“Nay, but ’tis not so. My cousin Walter looks at none but Helene, and Aubery would not stray from my sister Adelicia’s bed—and I could count many who are not faithless, Cat.”
“And you cannot know if this Robert of Caen will prove different from his father either!” Catherine retorted.
“Mayhap, but there’s naught said of him yet in that quarter, while Brian—”
“Nay, I’ll not listen! I’ll…” The words died on Catherine’s lips as she met her mother’s eyes. She’d come to ease her mother’s grief, not to quarrel with her again. And, after all, was not her mother’s concern for her as great as her sorrow over the babe? she chided herself silently.
“’Tis difficult being heiress of Nantes, Cat, as I can attest, and you will find yourself heiress to far more than that. You must have a husband who is strong enough to hold vast lands in both England and Normandy for you and your heirs one day.”
“Brian—”
“Brian is good-tempered and pleasant to the ladies, but he is no soldier. Roger says the other boy shows more promise on the field, Cat, and that is what you will need when we are gone.”
“You speak as though you will never have a son. You cannot know that—you cannot!”
“God denies me this—mayhap because I would not serve him at Fontainebleau—but he denies me.” Eleanor closed her eyes and sank back against her pillows for a moment. Exhausted from both her labor and the pain of parting from her firstborn, she nevertheless summoned the strength to touch on that which worried her the most now. “But I would speak no more of the babe, Cat,” she said finally. “’Tis for you that I fear. I cannot keep Lord Guy from taking you to Curthose’s court.” She opened her eyes to see the girl’s face set mutinously. “Nay, but we must not argue—’twill be done whether we will it or not. And you will be going where your father’s power cannot always protect you, for a man who has risen as Roger has done gains many enemies. Remember always that you are among them.”
“Nay, but Curthose is Papa’s overlord, Maman, and—”
Eleanor silenced her with a tired wave of her hand. “Cat, that you go for hostage tells that your father’s enemies already have the duke’s ear.”
“But—”
“We must speak while we have the time.” Raising herself higher on the pillows, Eleanor fixed her daughter with the seriousness of her expression. “You must behave as a gently bred lady, Catherine, and conduct yourself always as befits the Demoiselle of the Condes. But I would not have you draw attention to yourself—there must be no cause for Curthose’s complaint. Do you understand?”
“Nay, but—”
“I’ll brook no argument in this. You will be obedient to Lord Guy in all things also. He may well be your only friend on Curthose’s council, Cat.”
“A boy scarcely older than Brian!” Catherine scoffed indignantly.
“He is nineteen, but ’tis of no import how old he is. He’s won his spurs on the battlefield and he’s managed to keep his lands intact against the power of great barons in these troubled times. You cannot say that of men thrice his age, and well you know it. We must trust him to hold you safe.”
“But—”
Eleanor appeared to ignore the interruption as she continued in the same vein, “He has given his oath on the Cross that he’ll not see you harmed, so I pray you will not vex him. I would that I’d not spoken against betrothing you to Robert of Caen before this began.”
“Lord Guy asked if I were betrothed.”
“Then he recognizes the task before him.” Eleanor sighed heavily. “Were you already pledged, none would dare to claim you.”
“Well, I am glad I am not. I’ve no wish for Robert—not now, not ever,” Catherine maintained stoutly.
“Alas, but I pray we do not regret ’twas not done.” Resigned, her mother shook her head and sighed anew. “Come, Cat, cry peace with me and get you down to sup before Lord Guy thinks we do not mean to feed him. And promise me now that you do not mean to quarrel with him.”
“I…I…” Catherine bit her lip until it reddened before she could bring herself to nod acquiescence. It would do no good to reveal now the plan that was forming in her head. Instead, she prayed silently that God would forgive her the deception.
“Give me your pledge, Cat, that you will strive to make Roger proud to call you his heiress.”
The girl breathed in relief, certain that her father would not expect her to go meekly for hostage. “I will be my father’s daughter in all things, Maman,” she answered finally.
“I pray you are.”
After Catherine left, Eleanor turned her face into a pillow and wept again, both for the son she’d lost and the daughter she feared to lose. And then she prayed that Guy of Rivaux would be able to keep his own promise to her.
The hall was more than half empty, with the blue shirted men of the Condes mingling freely with those in Rivaux red at the lower tables. On the dais, the young count leaned forward, his elbows resting on the cloth that covered the trestle table, his dark head bent attentively to Aislinn. Catherine watched for a moment as her sister’s hands moved descriptively in the telling of some story that brought a broad smile to his face. Somehow she felt it disloyal of Aislinn to be so obviously taken with Guy of Rivaux when, despite his
handsomeness, he was the one come to take Cat away from the Condes.
As she drew nearer, he looked up, his strange eyes still warm with amusement, and the smile faded suddenly. Rising to greet her, he leaned over to ask in a low voice, “How fares your lady mother?”
“As well as may be, my lord, given that she lost the babe.”
“Aye—I heard and I am sorry for it.”
She bit back bitter words of accusation, reminding herself that he could not be faulted for her mother’s early labor. Instead, she slid onto the bench as Aislinn reluctantly moved to make a place for her. As the elder, it was Cat’s right to share Guy of Rivaux’s trencher whether she wished it or not. With scarce a sideways glance as he dropped down beside her, she reached to dip her fingers into the bowl of scented water.
“Did you speak with Maman, Cat?” her sister asked eagerly. “Alice said Hawise came for you.”
“Aye.” Catherine took a towel proffered by a serving boy and dried her hands carefully before turning around. “And it is as you would think, Linn. She grieves for the son she has lost.”
Aislinn nodded. “Hawise said ’twas strangled with its own cord.”
“Sweet Mary!” Catherine muttered irritably. “If you had the tale already, why do you ask? Nay,
but I’d not speak of it before strangers, anyway,” she added with a significant glance toward the young count, who was seemingly absorbed in carving a haunch of roasted deer.
Unperturbed, Aislinn slid her trencher past Cat to allow Guy to place a chunk of the venison on it. “My thanks, my lord. I pray you will forgive my sister her lack of manners,” she murmured.
“Linn…” Cat’s voice dropped low in warning.
“The Demoiselle has much to plague her,” Guy responded easily as he began cutting the meat he’d placed on their trencher into small pieces. Pushing half
of it to Catherine’s end, he made a place for the ale boiled fish that a serving wench placed on the trestle table in front of him. “Do you take fish or some of the capon?” he addressed her.
“I am not hungry.”
Thus answered, he divided the fish between them and reached for the bowl of stewed peas and onions. “I would not have you weak and famished on the road to Rouen tomorrow, Demoiselle. ’Tis my plan to reach the abbey outside Lisieux at nightfall.”
“Lisieux!” Catherine’s face betrayed her dismay. “Nay—’tis too far! My lord, I am no soldier to be marched from daybreak to sunset!”
“You do not ride well, Demoiselle?”
“Cat rides better than most men, my lord,” Aislinn offered proudly.
Casting her sister a look that bordered on pure dislike, Catherine turned back to Guy. “I do not travel well in the heat,” she lied as she furtively pinched Aislinn in warning.
“We’ll take extra skins of water.”
“My lord…” Catherine hesitated, unwilling to ask anything of him, and yet so very loath to leave her mother.
“Nay,” he answered.
“Nay?” Her face flushed with indignation. “You presume too much, Guy of Rivaux, if you think to know my thoughts!”
“You wished to ask if I would stay another day.” He fixed her with those strange gold-green eyes of his and shook his head. “Alas, but I cannot.”
“But why? Surely one day cannot mean so much to you, my lord, and my mother—”
“Nay,” he cut in patiently. “As I told the Lady Eleanor in your presence, Demoiselle, I have mine own feudal obligations to be met. Already Henry makes his move, and I will have to have my levies raised ere he marches through Normandy unchallenged.” He pushed the laden trencher closer to her.
“Believe me when I say again that I wish I did not have to take you with me.”
“Then do not.”
“I bear Curthose’s writ.”
“Jesu! ‘I bear Curthose’s writ,’ ” she mimicked angrily. “God’s blood, but you are a fool to bear arms for him, my lord! You will lose your lands and mayhap your life for a weak-willed duke who changes his mind as often as other men change clothes.” Her dark eyes mirrored the scorn in her voice. “Do you not know that my father will hunt you down and hang your head from these gates if I am harmed?”
“I gave my word that you will be safe, Demoiselle.”
“A vow you cannot keep! How many will listen to a boy, my lord?” she gibed spitefully. “Aye—you are but a boy playing at men’s games in this foolish war!”
“Cat!” Aislinn gasped beside her.
“Well, I would not go—and I will not.” In a calmer tone she added to Guy again, “You will not get me to Rouen, my lord. You forget that I am my father’s daughter as well as my mother’s.”
His own patience strained by her outburst of temper, he picked up her small dinner knife and carefully speared a small piece of venison with it. “Aye—you’ll go, Catherine of the Condes—you’ll go if I have to tie you in your saddle and lead you all the way there. Now, eat your food and give me peace to eat mine.” Reaching for her hand, he pressed the knife handle into her palm and closed her fingers over it. “We have many miles to travel on the morrow, so you’d best fill your stomach well.” For a moment his eyes seemed more green than gold, and then his expression softened and they lightened. “Come, Demoiselle, let us not fault each other for what must be done.”
“If Brian were here, he’d meet you for the insult you offer,” she gritted between clenched teeth.
He skewered another piece of meat with his own knife and bit it off. Then, after carefully wiping the rim of their silver goblet, he washed the venison down with a sip of sweetened wine. For a moment he stared absently across the nearly empty hall as though he meant to ignore her.
“Aye, and he’d claim your horse and your armor for spoils, my lord,” she taunted further.
“Your FitzHenry?” He turned back to her with raised eyebrow. “Mayhap, but I would doubt it.”
“Art a conceited fool also, are you not? You speak as though you were Count of Belesme rather than Rivaux.”
“Nay, but I try to give better than I get in all things, Lady Catherine.”
“Brave words for a boy, I think.”
The scarred eyebrow rose a fraction higher. “You mistake the matter, Demoiselle. While FitzHenry learned the art of war within the safety of these walls, I had to fight for every hide of land my father left me. Your father has been at peace these two years past, whilst I have defended my patrimony against those who would take it.”
“Aye.” Aislinn leaned around Catherine to address him. “And your successes are not unnoted. Our father says you acquit yourself well, my lord.”
“I survive,” he acknowledged simply.
“Until King Henry takes the field,” Catherine muttered. “Then you will be in chains—if you live.”
“Cat!”
“Well, ’tis the truth. Eat your supper, Linn, and cease making sheep’s eyes at the fool. ’Tis bad enough having to share my trencher with him without your feeding his conceit.”
Catherine’s tart tongue prompted him to look heavenward and shake his head. “Poor Robert,” he murmured in mock sympathy.
Both girls looked up at Guy. “Robert?” Cat demanded.
“Aye. He’ll weary his sword arm beating manners into you, I fear.”
“Nay, you mistake the matter, my lord. I’ll not wed with him—I swear it. ’Tis Brian FitzHenry I’ll take, and no other.”
He took another sip from the wine cup and shrugged. “’Tis of no concern to me whom you wed—I have but the task of getting you to Rouen.”
4
Catherine rode in sullen silence, her thoughts bent on escape from Guy of Rivaux. Beside her, he too was quiet as he contemplated the tasks ahead of him. He was already late in assembling his levies, although he’d sent out his call to arms to Rivaux’s vassals a fortnight before. His brow furrowed at the mental count of those who’d answered and those who had not. It was not easy to command men who had been betrayed by Robert Curthose’s vacillating ways too many times before. Twice since he’d been count, he’d followed his duke against Henry of England, only to stand helplessly watching as Curthose had bargained away Norman lands rather than fight. And now there were those of his own vassals who held back, waiting to see what the two quarreling brothers would do this time, hoping to save their own patrimonies. Jesu, but they regarded their feudal oaths lightly. His frown deepened at the thought of Herluin de Braose, who had not yet responded to his call. If a man like de Braose chose to be forsworn, what hope was there?
“My lord, I would stop.”
Without waiting for permission, Catherine reined in her white mare and slid to the ground. With a muttered oath Guy shook his head. She looked up to where he sat astride the black stallion, a horse huge enough to be used for a battle charger had it been gelded. From where she stood, Guy of Rivaux appeared as magnificent and imposing as her father. She had to shield her eyes from the bright reflection of the hot summer sun off his helmet and mail. She could sense rather than see that he was angry with her.
“Nay, Demoiselle, but we do not stop again.”
“I thirst.”
In defiance, she turned and walked back along the mounted column to where Hawise rode with the pack animals and Guy’s body servant. “Get me a dri
nk from the skins,” she ordered. Behind her, she heard him dismount as his spurs clinked against the hard-packed dry mud of the road.
The maidservant hesitated, unwilling to incur the young lord’s wrath yet again, and remained uneasily on the horse provided her. With an almost furtive nod toward the advancing Guy, she hissed to her mistress, “You strain his patience, Demoiselle, and are like to gain nothing by it.”
“I care not.” Lifting her thick mane of hair off her damp neck, Catherine kept her back to him. “Sweet Mary, but ’tis hot,” she complained, “and I’d go no further until I am cooled. He cannot expect to treat me as a soldier, after all. Get me the water, Hawise.”
“Demoiselle.”
She felt his hands on her shoulders and would have ducked away but for the firmness of his grip. Standing stock-still, she spoke evenly. “Unhand me, my lord.”
“Nay.” He held her steadily until he’d mastered his temper, and then he slowly turned her around to face him. “Do you take me for a fool, Demoiselle?” Still holding her by one hand, he gestured toward the bright, merciless sky. “Thrice you have caused me to stop, and ’tis scarce noon yet. I have not the time to spare for this, and well you know it, so I can only think you wish to delay me.”
The gold flecks spiked across the green of his eyes from above his nasal as he fixed her with their intensity. The suppressed anger she read there made her forget his youth. A sharp retort died on her lips with the realization that defiance would defeat her purpose. If she were to carry out her plan, she would have to make him think her weak rather than stubborn.
“My lord, I an unused to traveling in the heat.” Lifting her hair again to show him her wet neck, she explained in softer, more placating tones, “I should have braided my hair—’twould have been cooler. Perhaps Hawise—”
“Nay.”
“Then at least let me drink.”
Despite the harsh side he showed his enemies, Guy retained a kindness and gentleness toward those whom God had created weaker. Staring down at her upturned face, he reminded himself that she was, after all, but a child still, and she was being thrust into the difficult position of hostage through no fault of her own. With a sigh, he relented. Turning to his perplexed body servant, he ordered curtly, “Get one of the skins and give Lady Catherine some water.”
