by Anita Mills
The boy Arnulf slid down and hastened to remove one of the waterskins tied to a packhorse. Rinsing out a battered cup, he filled it and carried it to Catherine. But for Catherine, a quick drink was little suited to her purposes, and she sought the means for further delay. Taking the cup, she held it out to Guy.
“As hot as I am, my lord, you must feel the sun’s heat ten times worse.”
He eyed her warily as he took it. From his limited experience of her, he’d not thought her capable of noticing anyone’s discomfort but her own. In the four or five hours since they’d left the Condes, she’d kept herself aloof except when she’d demanded to stop, first for water and then to relieve herself and now for water again. Raising the cup to his lips, he drank deeply, conceding to himself that he was thirsty, after all.
“I could not stand to wear a helmet on a day like this,” she murmured as he handed the empty cup back to Arnulf. “Surely it cannot make too great a difference if you were to cool yourself for a short while.” Even as she said it, she reached upward to touch the hot metal that encased his head. “My father complains that ’tis like a pit oven inside when ’tis hot. Sometimes when he and Brian would ride in, I would help him take it off, and then I’d wet his head with water from the well.”
“Demoiselle—”
“Sit you down, my lord, and let Hawise and myself cool you down before we go further. You’ll not reach Lisieux if you are fainted from the heat.”
She spoke reasonably and he was tempted. Already her hands tugged at the lacings of the mail coif that protected his neck. Before he could protest, her fingers had deftly undone them with the skill of a squire. His hands caught hers and pushed them away gently. “Nay, Demoiselle, but I can do that. ’Tis unseemly for you to care for me.” With an effort, he wrenched the helmet off his head, exposing his dripping black hair and deep creases from the imprint of the nasal against his cheeks. Dropping the helmet at his feet, he brushed back his wet hair with his hands. Nodding to Arnulf, he ordered, “Tell the men to dismount. We rest for a few minutes whilst the Demoiselle drinks. And you can take water down the line so each can quench his thirst also.”
The boy handed Catherine the cup and began untying another skin while she slowly sipped the tepid water. She watched as Guy found a tree to lean against. Following him, she reached impulsively to touch his arm. Telling herself that he was not so very different from Brian after all, she gestured to the ground.
“Sit you down where ’tis cooler, my lord.”
Dropping to the hard earth, he watched as she unwound the cloth girdle she wore and poured the rest of her water on a corner of it. After wiping her face and neck with it, she leaned over to mop his brow where an unruly dark lock of hair fell forward. He closed his eyes to savor the relief he felt. “Hawise, bring the water,” he heard her tell the plump woman, but he was unprepared for the sudden stream that hit his head, poured over his face, and splashed onto his blazoned surcoat. Sputtering, he opened his eyes to see Catherine standing over him with a nearly empty skin in her hands. “God’s teeth, but you would drown me!” he complained as he tried to rise.
“Nay.” She pushed him. gently back down against the gnarled tree roots and began wiping away the excess. “I was used to doing this for Brian after he practiced with the quintains in the heat.”
She was leaning over him, her body but a few inches from his head. Her wide sleeves fell away from her slender white arms, revealing that she’d forgone the undergown in the heat. Staring directly into the swell, of breasts that curved roundly beneath the fabric of the simple gown she wore, he was suddenly aware that the Demoiselle was already more woman than child. For the briefest moment he wondered if naked she would look like the castle whores he’d seen, and then he forced himself to dismiss the thought. She was, after all, but thirteen, and she was also, above all, Catherine of the Condes, daughter to Roger de Brione. Abruptly he brushed her hand away and pulled himself up against the tree trunk.
“My thanks, Demoiselle, but we can tarry no longer.”
“Wait…” Cat stalled for still more time. “My hair—can Hawise not braid it quickly ere we go? ’Twill feel better, my lord, and I will not get so hot.”
His eyes narrowed for a moment and he scanned her face for some sign of guile. She stared steadily upward, meeting his gaze squarely and openly. And once again he was struck by the incredible beauty the girl possessed. Looking away, he muttered, “See that she hurries, then. Arnulf is nearly done, and I would be on the way as soon as may be.” Bending over, he reached to pick up his discarded helmet.
Cat smiled slyly to herself as he made his way back to the front of the column. Thus far this day, she judged she’d already cost him better than an hour, an hour that would make Lisieux difficult to reach by nightfall. A few more such delays and they’d have to stop before they got there, making the ride back to the Condes easier.
“One braid or two, Demoiselle?” Hawise asked from behind her.
“Two.”
“One would be quicker.”
“Two,” Cat repeated firmly.
“I would not tempt his temper,” the woman warned as her fingers separated the dark hair into thick strands. “He does not look overly patient to me.”
“Leave me be—I know what I am about.”
Hawise’s hands ceased moving and her mouth drew into a thin line of disapproval. “Have a care, little mistress, lest your wiles lead you where you would not. My lord of Rivaux is no Brian ready to do your bidding rather than quarrel with you. Nay, but this one will not be so easily fooled, I think.”
“Brian is no fool, old woman,” Cat snapped irritably.
“Mayhap not a fool,” Hawise conceded as she began anew to braid, “but too eager to please where he should not.”
“You speak in riddles. Hold your tongue and do my hair—’tis why you are come with me, after all.”
Reaching the front of the column of men, Guy handed his helmet to his squire, ordering curtly, “Tie it to my pommel—’tis too hot to wear.”
Above him, William de Comminges still sat his horse impatiently. “God’s teeth, but she delays us,” he complained.
“Aye.”
The grizzled old warrior threw up his hands in disgust as Guy looked back down the line to where Hawise still worked on her mistress’s hair. “’Tis nursemaids Curthose would make of us, my lord, for the little maid cannot keep a soldier’s pace.”
“My lord”—Alan of Poix followed Guy’s line of vision with a frown—”perhaps if we were to carry a skin up here, she would not have to stop again.”
“Nay,” William snorted above them, “for then she will have to pass water, and we’ll waste time seeking privacy for her.” He eyed his young lord balefully. “’Twould have been more to our purpose to have told Curthose to come after her himself.”
“I told you—he would have sent Belesme.”
“Nay.” William shook his head. “Not even Curthose would be such a fool. Now, as ’tis, we must needs coddle a small maid.”
“She is not so small as one would think,” Guy mused under his breath, his eyes still on Catherine.
“Aye—I have seen them wed younger than’ she is,” Alan murmured beside him.
Guy’s expression deepened to a frown. If a fourteen year old squire could see what he himself saw, protecting the Demoiselle of the Condes was going to be an impossible task. Tearing his eyes away from her, he muttered, “I would that she were wed, for then we’d not have her.” With unusual roughness he grasped the reins of the big black and pulled hard to lead the horse to where one of the ostlers emptied the last water from a skin into a basin for the animals.
“Jesu, but he is short-tempered today,” Alan complained to William.
“Aye, and with good reason. She costs us time we do not have.”
The boy stared for a long moment as Hawise finished binding Catherine’s hair and stepped back. “By the Blessed Virgin, but I’ve not seen her like before,” he admitted in open admira
tion.
William looked down suddenly, his black eyes sharp, and growled, “Lord Roger would hang you for the thoughts your face would betray, Alan. Nay, but she will bring promise of the Condes—and Nantes and
Harlowe also—to her marriage bed. Unless Lady Eleanor should bear a son, there stands the richest heiress we are like to see.”
“Holy Mary.”
“Aye.”
Unable to delay any further, Catherine handed Hawise her wet girdle and walked back past the curious stares of Guy of Rivaux’s men to stand beside her mare. She waited until the young count himself led his horse back to the line before drawing his attention. Pointing up to her saddle, she ordered him imperiously, “Mount me.”
Guy’s eyebrow shot up and the corners of his mouth betrayed the thought that flitted through his mind as the men behind him suppressed snickers. His flecked eyes flicked over her, taking in the dull red that crept unbidden to her face with the realization of what she’d said, and his grin deepened. “Alas, Demoiselle, but there’s not time, and I’d not incur your father’s certain wrath.” Bending over, he cupped his hands.
“Insolent fool,” she muttered to cover her embarrassment. Stepping up into his palms, she grasped the pommel and waited for him to throw her into her saddle.
She was lighter than he’d supposed, but then, he’d scarce touched any female other than castle whores, and they were usually thick-waisted and heavy from bearing their bastards. He lifted her easily and she swung her leg over the padded leather before settling into the seat. Wiping the dust from his hands on his red silk surcoat, he stepped back.
“God’s blood, but you have the manners of a serf,” she gibed above him.
“And you have none at all, Demoiselle,” he responded dryly. Looking up to where William sat, he nodded. “Give the sign to mount—we’ve miles to travel in haste.” Striding to his own horse, he took the reins, and without a backward glance at Catherine, he swung up and eased his mail-and-leather-encased body into the saddle.
“Wait.”
“Jesu!” Gone was that brief feeling of charity he’d harbored for her earlier, replaced by a sense of frustration. “What now, Demoiselle?” he gritted out without even turning around.
“I…I…” Her face colored as every man except Guy stared at her, but her chin jutted determinedly. “I would be private, my lord.”
“Nay.”
“You would not wish me to soil my gown.”
“Demoiselle…” Guy growled.
William cast his young master a look of resignation, muttering, “I told you she had too much water.”
“Nay.”
“Nay?” Her voice rose indignantly. “Nay? My lord, even prisoners of war are allowed to relieve themselves when they must.”
The muscles of Guy’s jaws twitched as he sought to control his temper. Finally, with a patent sigh of capitulation, he nodded.
The flecked eyes he turned to her were clearly skeptical, prompting her to add defensively, “I will hurry.”
“I doubt that. Alan, get the woman to go with her.” The scarred eyebrow lifted higher as he appeared to study her face. “And, Demoiselle, I take leave to examine the ground afterward for the puddle. If there is none, you’ll not stop again this day—not even to eat.”
“You have no courtesy, my lord.”
“What did you expect from one with the manners of a serf?” he shot back. “And you could have done this ere you had me mount you.” The emphasis he placed on the last several words brought another round of guffaws from the men. Her color deepened, and he was instantly sorry for the remark. She was, after all, little more than a spoiled child, he reminded himself, and he supposed she could not be expected to understand his need for speed, no matter how many times he explained it to her.
Ignoring Alan’s outstretched arms, Catherine slid easily from the mare and started toward a brake of trees several hundred feet from the road. Behind her, she could hear the mutterings of Rivaux’s men, and a slow smile of satisfaction curved her mouth. Let them think her weak and stupid—’twould serve her purpose well. If she could but make them lose another hour or two, she’d warrant that they’d not press on to Lisieux but would choose some inn or abbey closer.
To Guy, it seemed like she took far too long, and he was about to go after her when she finally emerged from the woods. This time, she walked quickly despite the heat until she reached them. Then, without further complaint, she stepped into Alan’s cupped hands and let him throw her up into her saddle.
“I am ready, my lord.”
Wordlessly Guy raised his hand and gave the forward gesture, and the column finally moved, with men and pack animals swinging into tight formation behind him. Alan hastily remounted and caught up, falling in beside his lord.
“I thought you wished to inspect the ground, my lord,” Catherine chided Rivaux.
“I had not the time,” he responded tersely.
Guy spurred the big black into a bone-jarring trot as the horses’ hooves pounded rhythmically against the hard-packed road. Beside him, Catherine matched his pace and planned her next delay.
5
“My lord, there are riders ahead.”
William de Comminges’ urgency cut into Guy’s consciousness, drawing him from his glum preoccupation with their slow progress. He looked up absently, followed his captain’s gaze, and came alert with a jolt. As a line of green-shirted men drew up along the horizon, he sucked in his breath and the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end. His hand instinctively crept to the hilt of his sword, grasping it, ready to withdraw it from the sheath that lay flat against the side of his leg. Exhaling sharply, he swore a long and unsatisfactory oath that bordered on blasphemy.
Catherine, startled by his vehement outburst, leaned forward in her saddle to look. Even as she watched the approaching knights, their green-and-white banner dancing above them, Alan of Poix edged closer and reached for her reins.
“Take her back with her woman,” Guy ordered curtly, frowning deeply. “And throw a blanket over her ere he sees her plainly.”
“Who?” Cat demanded foolishly, her own heart pounding.
“Belesme.”
“Sweet Mary,”
“Aye.”
All of her life, she’d heard of Count Robert of Belesme, knew of the bitter enmity between him and her father over her mother. Her flesh crawled at the thought of the tales she’d heard of his cruelty and depravity, and for a moment her heart threatened to stop. Alan leaned across his horse, blocking her from view as he led her toward the back of the line.
Guy shielded his eyes against the sun and waited uneasily. “I count but twenty of them.”
“’Tis not like him to ride with so few, my lord.” William turned away and spat on the ground.
Belesme’s men had halted also, and Guy could see one of them counting the red surcoats of Rivaux before conferring with his leader, the tall knight Guy knew for Count Robert himself. Even in the intense summer heat, Belesme wore his helmet and full mail for protection against his enemies. Not that Guy could blame him for it—Robert of Belesme considered no man his friend with good reason.
Suddenly the count turned and spoke with his captain. Then, as Guy watched warily, he removed his helmet, smoothed back black hair, and rode forward alone with the helmet dangling from his pommel. Reining in a scant ten feet from where Guy sat, he flashed a smile of greeting that did not begin to warm those cold green eyes of his.
“I had expected you before now.”
“I was delayed.”
“Aye. I heard Curthose sent you to the Condes.” Belesme looked past Guy, his eyes flickering over the Rivaux column quickly, taking in every detail with the detachment of a seasoned soldier, apprising himself of the numbers and equipment of Guy’s men. “You have the Demoiselle,” he noted dispassionately as he stared toward where Catherine veiled herself with her cloth girdle.
“Aye.” Guy’s mouth was dry, his nerves taut.
“I would see h
er.”
Before Guy could refuse, Belesme had spurred his horse past him, moving down the line to where Hawise attempted to shield her mistress. “Nay, I would but look at the girl, old woman.” Edging his horse between them, he reached to draw away the wrinkled cloth. For a long moment he stared at her silently.
Catherine’s fear faded, replaced by curiosity at the longing mirrored in that face. It was as though she glimpsed a vulnerability at odds with all she’d ever heard of him. Staring back, she could not help thinking he must’ve been extremely handsome once, sometime before a well-aimed blow had broken and caved in one cheekbone, disfiguring him. His green eyes did not set evenly now, and yet they were still arresting with their intensity.
“You favor her.”
There was no need asking whom he meant, for men still sung the tale of his disappointment of Eleanor of Nantes. She nodded. “Aye,” she answered proudly.
“Your lady mother—is she well?”
Somehow, Catherine did not think that either of her parents would wish her to discuss her mother with him, but she felt an odd pang of sympathy for this man despite what she’d heard of him. She exhaled slowly under that penetrating gaze and shook her head. “Nay—she lost yet another babe this week, my lord.”
His face hardened and the green eyes went cold so quickly she was taken aback by the change in him. His curiosity was gone, replaced now by an expression of such bitterness and hatred that she wanted to flee from him. Willing herself to sit calmly, she denied the chill that crept up her spine. Then, like quicksilver, his twisted face changed yet again, softening, and his eyes traveled over her before returning to her face.
“Aye,” he half-whispered more to himself than to her, “but you are very like her in more than looks, Demoiselle. She never cowered before me either.”
