by Anita Mills
“Art silent, Demoiselle,” Guy chided her. “I cannot believe the Cat no longer means to hiss and spit.”
“I was thinking the place stinks more than I remembered,” she answered untruthfully.
He looked sideways at her, taking in her proud profile and thinking she looked more like a queen than a hostage. If Eleanor of Nantes had given her daughter anything of herself, it was that incredible beauty. Watching her, he could almost forget that she’d cast a host of insults at him in the four days he’d known her, and he felt a stirring of charity toward the girl. After all, despite her best efforts, they’d finally reached Rouen on the day he’d appointed from the beginning. Aye, for once he’d made it plain that he’d brook no further delay, she’d ridden as well as any man in his train.
His eyes traveled lower to the gown she wore. Gone was the stained traveling dress, replaced with an embroidered sendal gown of brightest blue shot with fine golden threads that shone in the sun. The woman Hawise had laced it tightly beneath the full sleeves to show the contour of Catherine’s breasts, making it difficult for a man to remember she was so young. Were it not for her sharp tongue and her obstinance, Guy could almost envy Robert of Caen, but as it was, he told himself he pitied him instead. Aye, he sighed regretfully, but Catherine of the Condes was beautiful enough to enslave a man and termagant enough to make his life miserable ever after. And somehow he did not think a heavy hand would improve her in the least.
“Art insolent to stare,” she snapped in annoyance.
“I ask your pardon, Demoiselle. I was but thinking it a pity that your tongue comes with you,” he answered, grinning. “Aye—mayhap I should warn Robert that ’Tis the other daughter he should take.”
“The next time you see him, I hope you are lying on the ground vanquished, my lord.”
“Thankfully that is in the hands of God alone.”
“And you think He favors you, my lord?” she demanded scornfully. “Nay, he does not. If you stand with Duke Robert, you will find ’Tis otherwise.”
“Mayhap, but I have done naught to offend God so far as I know it,” he answered easily, his eyes still reflecting his smile.
“Well, you have offended me,” she retorted.
“Ah, but you are not God.”
She looked up sharply and met the gold-flecked eyes. “’Tis blasphemy to jest of such things,” she reminded him evenly. “You would mock me.”
“I have asked your pardon once—I’ll not ask it again this day.” His voice was quiet, his face older than his years from fatigue, but despite his aching body, he maintained his humor under her scrutiny. His cheek moved as his smile broadened again and the gash she’d given him bore witness to how close she’d come to getting his eye. As it was, the faint scar that divided his eyebrow seemed to be a part of the red line that continued below. When it healed, it would look as though it had happened in one blow and people would marvel that he still had the eye. She felt shame for what she’d done, and then she reminded herself that he was, after all, Curthose’s man, and he brought her here to an uncertain fate. Bitterness crowded all else from her mind.
Their progress through the streets was slow, owing to the intense bustle of a city crowded beyond its means, and her sense of ill-usage increased with each plodding step. They were bunched together so closely in the narrow lanes that when a cart would have passed them, Rivaux’s leg pushed against hers.
“Jesu, but you take liberties with my person,” she complained irritably.
“’Twas not my intent, Demoiselle.”
The knowledge that he was right did nothing to improve her temper. She fought back angry tears that irrationally welled in her eyes, turning away so that he would not see them. She might as well have come to the Conqueror’s city in chains, something that he failed to understand, and Rivaux’s indifferent manner was infuriating.
The gates of the palace swung open before them without a challenge, another reminder of the young lord’s standing with Robert Curthose. The red-and-black banner of Rivaux hung limply above them in the heat of an airless day, a symbol of the wealth and power that gained him a voice in the duke’s own council despite his youth. A symbol of the power that had enabled him to come to the Condes for her.
Ostlers rushed to take the reins from the riders, yet another sign of Curthose’s favor, and the duke himself, in the company of his duchess, several ladies, and an assemblage of barons, waited to greet them on low steps. It was as though he felt relief at Rivaux’s arrival, Catherine decided as she openly studied the Conqueror’s eldest son. He was aptly called Curthose, the name that had stuck since he’d been but a boy, for his legs were disproportionately short to his body, making him overall a head shorter than the men around him. He must’ve had those legs of his mother, she supposed, for her own mother had said the Duchess Mathilde had been very short also. He turned dark eyes on her and, forgetting her promise to her mother, she swore softly under her breath. God willing, ’twould soon be her godfather King Henry in his place, and Normandy would once again know peace and justice.
Guy eased his weary frame from the black horse and turned to Catherine. Reaching upward for her, he was unprepared for the vehemence in her voice as she hissed at him, “Take your hands off me, Guy of Rivaux—I can get down myself.” She raised her whip as though to strike, and the memory of her last blow came to mind.
“Conduct yourself as a lady, Catherine. You are in the presence of your duke,” he reminded her coldly, his hand still on her waist. “Your father’s suzerain,” he added in warning.
She raised her hand higher. “Unhand me, my lord, else I’ll mark your other cheek,” she gritted out between clenched teeth.
For answer, his other hand snaked out to grasp her whip and wrenched it away. Then, throwing it on the ground, he pulled her from her saddle and pushed her down against the dirty paving stones, soiling her rich gown and sending a nervous titter of amusement through the crowd. The muscle in one jaw twitched and his eyes glittered angrily. “You make your obeisance to Duke Robert from there, Demoiselle,” he gibed over her. Bending down to pick up the discarded whip, he leaned closer until his face was but inches from hers and spoke low. “And we are done, Catherine of the Condes, for you would try me once too often. Not even your lady mother would expect me to bear what I have borne from you these three days past.” Straightening, he nodded to Robert Curthose, announcing clearly, “I give you the Demoiselle Catherine, Your Grace, in answer to your writ. You will find her ill-tempered, overbold, and given to violence, but she is here.”
Humiliated by the laughter around her, Catherine considered making her disgrace complete by flying up at Guy and opening his face wound again with her fingernails, and then she thought better of it. Instead, she bent her head low to the stones and murmured, “My lord duke. Duchess Sybilla.”
“Rise you, Demoiselle,” Robert Curthose acknowledged briefly. “My duchess would make your stay in Rouen a pleasant one.” Beckoning her forward, he nodded to the pale woman beside him. “You have prepared a place for her, have you not?”
For answer, the duchess reached a cold hand to touch Catherine’s chin. “We bid you welcome, Demoiselle.” A faint smile did not warm her pale eyes at all as she added, “You have the look of your mother, child.”
The duke’s attention turned to Guy of Rivaux as he asked, “Have you heard aught of Belesme, my lord? I had expected him ere now.”
“We met the other side of Froilyn. I believe he is scarce an hour’s time behind me.”
Curthose’s face lightened. “Aye, I knew he would come. He’s not like to fight for my brother since Henry banished him from England. And you, my lord—do your vassals heed your call?”
“Some of them. I would return to Rivaux by your leave, your grace, that I may raise my levies from there.”
Catherine’s heart sank unexpectedly and a sense of desolation stole over her as she listened to him. Despite what had passed between them, she was afraid to have him leave her alone in the str
angeness of Normandy’s court. In front of her, the duchess saw the stricken glance Catherine gave Guy and she frowned in disapproval. “Come, Demoiselle, that we may see you are settled. Your maid will be shown where to put your things whilst we explain your tasks.”
With a swish of her gold-banded hem against the stone steps, Sybilla turned to go inside. Catherine hesitated, wishing now she’d not provoked Guy of Rivaux and hoping he would look her way. Instead, he was surrounded by barons intent on discussing the impending war. Reluctantly she brushed the dirt from her gown and followed the duchess, telling herself that she would survive—that he’d not forget his promise to her mother no matter what he had said.
It did not take long for Catherine to discover the duchess’s penchant for needlework. There had scarce been time for Hawise to put her things in the narrow cupboard she shared with another of Duchess Sybilla’s ladies, a younger daughter of the Count of Meulan, Bertrade by name, before she was summoned to join all the ladies in the bower. To her dismay, she found the day’s occupation to be the embroidery of priests’ mantles for the city’s cathedral. To her further dismay, a discreet inquiry garnered her the information that this was how they spent most of their days, the chief variance being the pieces worked. And after pleasant introductions amongst the dozen or so ladies, Catherine was presented with an alb and told to embroider the design along the hem.
She stared a long moment at the snowy linen garment before seeking the duchess’s attention. “Your pardon, Your Grace,” she began tentatively, “but my stitches are too poor for this.”
Sybilla’s pale blue eyes took in the alb before resting on Catherine. “Demoiselle—Catherine, is it?—false modesty will gain you faint praise here,” she warned.
“But I would not ruin it.”
“I have seen your mother’s work, Demoiselle, and ’tis quite pretty.”
“But she learned it at Fontainebleau, Your Grace, and I’ve not the skill.” She reddened as the other ladies turned to stare at her. “And needles make my fingers sore.”
“You have not been taught to sew?” the duchess demanded incredulously.
“My father said my lord could pay to have his clothes made, and I spent my days learning to write and cipher,” Catherine defended.
The older woman’s mouth drew into a thin line of disapproval while she considered the newest of her ladies. “Then you will learn to ply your needle here, Demoiselle.”
“But…” Cat’s protest died on her lips at the scandalized looks she received from the others. Dropping her eyes modestly to hide the chagrin she felt, she murmured apologetically, “I will be obedient, madam, but I would not ruin this.”
The duchess’s brow furrowed as she contemplated Catherine. If it was as the child told her, Eleanor of Nantes had sadly neglected her maternal duty. Finally she took one of the silken cushions from behind her back and placed it on the clean-swept floor, gesturing to Catherine to come forward. “Sit you here, Demoiselle, and I will show you myself how ’tis done.” Lifting the priest’s gown onto her lap, she selected a needle threaded with purple silk and deftly began stitching. “You must take care to keep them fine, Catherine, taking but a thread or two between, so ’twill be smooth.” She held the material closer for Cat’s reluctant inspection. “Work this small place whilst I watch, and we will see how ’tis.”
Despite the mutiny in her breast, Catherine settled onto the cushion and began making the tiny stitches as directed. The duchess, satisfied for the time, turned her own attention back to the beautiful golden design she’d marked on a silk altar cloth and did not notice the set of the girl’s jaw.
The day dragged slowly as Cat sewed and the duchess picked out her stitches, admonishing her to repeat them with more care. From time to time the girl looked up to see the curious stares of the others, some openly admiring and some quite envious. Finally Bertrade of Meulan edged closer when Cat was close to tears. “’Tis not so bad, Demoiselle, when you are used to it. Here, let me see if I can aid you.”
“Why would you wish to?” Catherine asked suspiciously.
“Because we are to be bedmates, Demoiselle, and I’d not have you weeping all night.”
The girl was as plump and white as a turtledove, with great blue eyes, yellow hair, and skin as pale as fine linen, but there was no guile or animosity in her face. With a sigh, Cat handed her the well-creased alb and shook her head. “By the time I am finished, ’twill be so unraveled that ’twill look old before ’tis worn.”
Bertrade examined it closely in the late-afternoon light from the high window behind them. “The pattern is too difficult for you to learn at once, Demoiselle. You should be working something simple first, I think.” She leaned to pick up the chasuble she embroidered and held it up. “Even this requires skill, but ’tis easier than that. I will ask the duchess if I may show you on a bordered scarf first.” The girl’s smile was disarming. “How are you called, Demoiselle?”
“My parents and sisters call me Cat.”
“Cat?” Bertrade cocked her head sideways to study her. “Aye, the name becomes you, I think. Everyone here save Duchess Sybilla addresses me as Berta.”
“Berta.” Catherine looked up to see the others watching them, and some were openly hostile.
“Pay them no heed, Cat,” Bertrade murmured low. “They are but envious of your beauty, and they begrudge you the time you have spent with the Count of Rivaux.”
“Sweet Mary, but they cannot know him then,” Cat whispered back.
“Nay, none of us can claim the honor. Roland says that he is more monk than man, but I’d not listen to him.”
“Roland?”
Bertrade wrinkled her nose in distaste and sighed. “Roland de Villiers—I am betrothed to him and will wed when Curthose returns to Rouen after King Henry leaves.”
“And you like him not.”
“I scarce know him.” She cast a furtive look at the duchess, who had moved to the other end of her bower in search of better light, before adding, “He is but seventeen and serves Count William of Mortain as squire yet, but my father dared not speak against the marriage because Curthose wills it. Aye,” she admitted with another glance at Sybilla, “I like him not.”
“So ’tis with me.” Cat dropped her voice even lower to confide, “My father would give me to Robert of Caen.”
“The king’s bastard?” Bertrade colored and she looked away to the floor. “Your pardon—I should not have said that, for there’s none to say anything against him. Indeed, when he was here last, he was much admired by the younger ladies, and even the men seemed to like him.”
“Oh, I care not that he is bastard-born. You mistake the matter—’tis but that he is the wrong bastard, Bertrade.” Cat’s eyes flashed defiance for a moment, and then she shook her head. “Nay, but I would have Brian FitzHenry.”
“ ‘Berta,’ ” the plump girl reminded her. “And I do not know this FitzHenry, but then, there are so many of them that…” Her voice trailed off suddenly and she flushed anew. “I should not have said that either, but…”
“But ’tis true,” Catherine finished for her. “Aye, everyone notes it, so why should you not also?”
“He must be very handsome to gain your favor.”
Catherine cocked her head and considered the boy she’d known most of her life and tried to decide how best to describe him. The image of the dark-eyed, brown-haired boy with the smile that won all the ladies came to mind, but she could think of nothing that would give Bertrade a sense of what he was like. “Aye,” she sighed finally.
“Is he as comely as the Count of Rivaux?”
“Nay,” Cat admitted.
“Well, ’tis of no matter if he is not—I can think of none who are. Alas, we can but dream of one like that, Cat, when we will go to Robert and Roland whether we will it or not.”
“Nay, I’ll take none but Brian.”
Guy had barely had time to cross-garter his chausses after his bath before Curthose’s summons came. The message
had been terse—the duke wanted a council of war and he wanted it immediately. Traversing nearly the length of the ducal palace, Guy entered the narrow chamber thinking to take his place in one of the carved high-backed chairs that were fitted into the wall. Already most of Normandy’s loyal barons were there, and Belesme’s usually cold face was heated with anger as he raised his voice to his suzerain.
“Nay, but she is of more use to us at Belesme, I tell you! If the battle is lost, she will have value to us yet if she is in Mabille’s hands. As ’tis now, Henry could march unchallenged to Rouen and we have nothing with which to treat for peace.”
“You forget yourself, my lord!” Robert Curthose snapped.
“Nay, I forget nothing! Can you not see that even if we fail, we may offer the Demoiselle to save our skins? My mother can hold Belesme against Henry, Your Grace, and he will know that she will blind Catherine of the Condes if I am harmed—nay, she will kill her! For the love he bears her parents, he will not let that happen—he will not! But if you leave her here, he will think her safe, and we are doomed!”
“You speak as though we have already lost,” Guy broke in.
All eyes turned on him and a strained hush spread over the room. The duke, whose temper was strained by Belesme’s outburst, muttered irritably, “You are late to council, Lord Guy.”
“Your pardon, Your Grace.” Guy edged into the room, aware now of a crackling undercurrent of hostility, but uncertain as to the reason. “Had I known you meant to convene so quickly, I’d not have bathed,” he murmured apologetically.
The Count of Mortain, Curthose’s cousin and ranking baron in the room, leaned in his chair to whisper in the duke’s ear, and the quarrel with Belesme was forgotten. Guy watched uneasily as his bitterest enemy gestured toward him, and knew instinctively something was very wrong. Even as he waited, he heard de Mortain whisper the words “whore’s whelp.” Curthose leaned back and studied him from beneath hooded lids that made his dark eyes little more than slits. “Froisart is in my brother’s hands,” he said finally, waiting for the younger man’s reaction.
