Fire and Steel

by Anita Mills

  “King Henry took Froisart?” Guy echoed in disbelief.

  “Nay, Herluin of Braose threw open his gates.” Curthose’s voice was cold now, his eyes suddenly intent. “Your liegeman betrays me, Guy of Rivaux.”

  Guy’s worst fears about de Braose confirmed, he could but stare at his own suzerain. The hairs of his neck prickled under the duke’s almost malevolent gaze, and he realized he himself was in danger, that Robert Curthose could accuse him and execute him now and repent of it later. He sucked in his breath and met those dark eyes squarely.

  “I did not know, Your Grace, but he never answered my summons to arms. Aye,” he added slowly, “’twas why I would return to Rivaux to raise my levies from there. I thought to go to Froisart myself and remind Herluin of his oath to me.”

  “You did not know?” The duke raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “You would have me believe that you did not suspect his treachery?” he demanded, his voice rising.

  “Think you I would be here if I knew?” Guy countered. “That I would have brought the Demoiselle of the Condes to you, knowing one of my vassals would betray me? Nay, but I am not a fool, Your Grace.”

  “God’s blood, but he would lie to you!” de Mortain exploded.

  Guy ignored his old enemy, his gaze never wavering from the duke’s. “Where had you the news of this?” he asked with a calm he did not feel.

  “This hour past, de Braose’s own chamberlain rode in, saying his lord had gone over to Henry. Since his son serves here, he feared for the boy and hastened to tell me.”

  “Taillefer?”

  “Aye.”

  Guy knew Taillefer well and knew he would not bear false tales. With a deep sigh he nodded. “Then I ask your grace’s permission to raise Rivaux’s levies and march on Froisart.”

  “To join your vassal?” de Mortain gibed venomously.

  Robert of Belesme, who had been strangely silent, his face back to its usual impassivity with those cold green eyes fixed on Guy, moved suddenly to confront him. Guy’s flesh crawled beneath his stare, but he willed himself not to flinch or quail as he’d seen so many others do, for any observable weakness always earned Belesme’s contempt rather than his mercy. Coming to stand between Guy and Robert Curthose, Belesme effectively blocked any appeal to the duke, and Guy, who had learned to fear few things in his nineteen years, was afraid now. Belesme was so close that the younger man could see the fine stitches of gold thread that formed the leaf design on his green silk tunic. The whitened dent of his caved-in cheekbone was but inches away, and for a moment his famed blood lust shone in his eyes. Then his mouth twisted into that sensuous half-smile of his.

  “You deny that Herluin de Braose acted on your orders? That you knew his intent? That you wished to leave Rouen before ’twas discovered so that you could join your vassal in his rebellion?” His voice, though deceptively soft, carried throughout the totally silent chamber, its delicate sarcasm more devastating than a shouted accusation.

  “Aye. I deny it all,” Guy answered evenly. “Had I known of Herluin’s treachery, I’d have gone there rather than bringing the Demoiselle here.” His own gold-flecked eyes met Belesme’s soberly. “’twould have been foolish of me to deliver Roger de Brione’s daughter to Rouen if I meant to go over to King Henry, would it not? He’d scarce thank me for the service to his goddaughter, I think,” he retorted.

  “Nay!” de Mortain protested. “He lies as he has ever done!”

  “Nay.” Belesme shook his head. “If you brought her here, ’twas that I followed you until many leagues after Lisieux.”

  “You followed him, Robert? Why?” Curthose asked sharply, his surprise evident.

  “Aye. I mistrusted him to bring her here. I expected him to take her to Froisart or Rivaux.”

  “Nay, you did not, my lord,” Guy disputed evenly, fighting to keep his temper in check. “You met me outside the Condes and demanded custody of Catherine de Brione for your own revenge on her father. If you would charge me now, ’tis because I would not yield her.” The gold flecks spiked across his hazel eyes as he continued to meet Belesme’s. “Were I plotting with King Henry, I’d not take her anywhere else, Robert, for she’d be safer in the Condes than at either of the places you would name.”

  Curthose leaned half out of his high chair, now more disturbed by Guy’s revelation than by Herluin de Braose’s treachery. “I charged Count Guy to deliver the Demoiselle of the Condes to me for hostage, Robert. I gave him my writ—you had no right to interfere with my wishes.”

  “A mere boy!” Belesme scoffed. “And he had but thirty men to keep her safe.”

  “And you had but twenty,” Guy reminded him.

  “I needed no more.”

  “Would you have brought her to Rouen, Robert? Or would you have used her for her own revenge on her parents?”

  A murmur of unease rippled through the assemblage as memories of the struggle between Robert of Belesme and Roger de Brione came to mind. Robert’s green eyes flashed as he defended himself. “I would have kept her safe! I am no boy sent to do a man’s task.”

  “And Eleanor of Nantes would never have yielded her daughter to you, Robert,” Curthose snapped. “Nay—’twas not your place to interfere.”

  “So you bring her to Rouen to leave her in the company of women before we go to meet Henry! ’Tis folly, I say! Nay, but she should be held where she can be used for our purposes if the need arises.”

  “You would send her to Mabille?” Guy’s lip curled in disgust. “And you would have us believe her safe there? God’s bones, but what fools you must think us, Count Robert! You would deliberately provoke her father against us and ensure that we lose! Nay, but you would use her for your own ends rather than Normandy’s.”

  “He’d not dare to come to Belesme!”

  “But he would join King Henry then.”

  “And be forsworn!”

  “Jesu! I never thought to call you fool, Robert, but ’tis folly, what you would propose! Do not destroy Normandy with your hatred for Roger de Brione!” Guy realized suddenly that he was shouting in Belesme’s face. Dropping his hands, he stepped back and lowered his voice. “There’s none here who would save his patrimony more than I would, my lord, but harming a child will not further our cause.”

  Curthose looked from one to the other and realized it served no purpose to have two powerful barons quarrel in council. Despite his own anger over de Braose’s defection and Belesme’s challenge to his authority, he knew he had to have the support of both of the men before him if he were to keep his duchy, for without Belesme’s leadership and Rivaux’s levies, he had no hope. “Nay, sit you down, both of you,” he cut in tiredly. “If my lord of Rivaux will but renew his feudal oath to me, I am prepared to hold him blameless for his vassal’s actions.” Then, to placate Belesme, he added, “We will discuss what is to be done with the Demoiselle later. For now, we are better occupied defending Normandy.”

  8

  The ducal court displayed a festive air despite the underlying tensions of a duchy preparing for a fratricidal war. And judging from the crowded passages and overflowing hall, Catherine found it difficult to believe the rumors of daily defections amongst Normandy’s baronage. Indeed, the crush of nobles, knights, men-at-arms, and household servants made tempers short and strained even Rouen’s usually well-filled larders, and she did not see how Robert Curthose could stand the expense much longer. And yet the duke played the lavish host, providing grand banquets, lively entertainment, and rich gifts to those who had answered his call to arms.

  Following Duchess Sybilla and her ladies through the crush of bodies that pressed for admittance to the hall, Catherine found herself cut off from the others as the surging crowd closed between them. Fearing the duchess’s displeasure, she tried vainly to slip through, only to be forced back despite her cries of, “Let me pass—I attend your lady! Let me pass! I pray you, my lords, let me by!”

  Several young men waiting at the edge of the crowd turned to survey her with i
nterest, taking in the richness of her gown. One, emboldened by her isolation, insolently swept his eyes over her, allowing them to linger suggestively on the swell of her breasts beneath the metal-shot samite. His lips curved into a leering smile as he reached to touch her shoulder with a finger that slipped to trace downward to her breast.

  “Ho,” he announced loudly to his companions, “a beauty among crones, my lords. And you said there were no comely wenches to be had in Normandy’s court, Frambert. Come closer that we may see you, little one.”

  His fingers closed on Catherine’s shoulders and he leaned forward, his wine-breath in her face. She tried to shake his hand away. “Unhand me, sir, that I may pass,” she told him coldly. “’Tis no peasant wench you touch, and well you know it. I am Catherine of the Condes.”

  “Catherine of the Condes,” he repeated, jerking his head toward the others. “D’ye hear her—’tis Catherine of the Condes! Nay, Demoiselle, but you are in Rouen now, and your sire’s run to England.”

  “The duchess will hear of the insult you offer, sir. I demand you let me pass.”

  “She demands!” he chortled. “Nay, little maid, but ’twill take a kiss for toll.”

  To her horror, he bent even closer, his eyes scarce inches from hers, and then his leering grin froze. Suddenly someone gripped both her elbows from behind and pulled her back against a decidedly hard and muscular man’s body so tightly that she could feel the metal of his belt in her spine. His fingers cut into her flesh through the sleeves of her red-and-gold samite gown as he barked, “Make way for the Demoiselle! Make way!” Her tormentor drew back as though struck and shrank against his companions, while the crowd surged and ebbed as everyone sought to get out of the way. In front of her, a young man in a richly brocaded tunic shouted, “’Tis my lord of Belesme! Make way for Belesme!”

  An involuntary shiver traveled the length of her spine and her skin turned to gooseflesh as he thrust her forward through the press of men’s bodies that had blocked the double doors of the duke’s hall but a moment before. Those who stood inside the door parted, melting away as ice before fire.

  “Sweet Mary!” she breathed with relief when Belesme released her into the open air of the hall itself. “They are more like beasts at the trough than people come to dine.”

  “Aye. Well-said, Demoiselle,” Belesme murmured behind her. “You would do well to remember that we are all beasts, the difference between us being that some are better broken to saddle and bit than others.”

  “Even you, my lord?” she asked without thinking.

  “Nay—I was born to ride them.”

  His eyes flicked over her as she looked up in surprise, and a slow smile spread across his twisted face, sending another shiver coursing through her. To hide the sudden stab of fear she felt, she looked to where the duchess was taking her seat at the raised table. He reached out to turn her head back and force her chin up with his knuckle.

  “What were you born for, Catherine of the Condes?” he asked in a low voice. “Will you achieve for me what I could not?”

  The green eyes burned intensely, boring into hers as though seeking some answer. For a moment she was drawn to him, strangely fascinated by him. Then she remembered what he’d done to her mother. “Nay,” she answered coldly, jerking her head away.

  “Curthose is a fool, Demoiselle—he will serve my ends rather than his in this.” Dropping his hand, he nodded toward the dais. “You’d best take your place if you would sup, little Catherine. And you must remember you are not in the Condes now. An army of men pours in, swelling the court with those who have left their women behind, and ’tis not safe to be unattended.”

  “I am under the duke’s own protection, my lord,” she reminded him.

  His strange eyes traveled to where Curthose sat at the high table, and he shook his head. “’Tis no protection at all, Demoiselle—do not place your hopes on one who cannot rule. I’d keep you safer than he can.”

  His words echoed in her ears as she made her way across the crowded hall to sit several places below Curthose and his duchess. Sybilla frowned her displeasure and turned back to her lord, while Bertrade of Meulan leaned close to Cat and whispered, “Sweet Mary, but how came you to be in the Count of Belesme’s company? Our duchess likes him not.”

  “With reason, I’ll warrant,” Cat muttered dryly. “Nay, he did but help me through the crowd when I became separated from you.”

  Bertrade eyed the count as he took his place on the other side of Robert Curthose, furtively signing the Cross across her breast as she did so. “Well, I’d not want to speak with him,” she added with conviction.

  Guy of Rivaux, seated according to his rank, occupied the low bench just below Robert of Belesme and shared his trencher. His only recompense in the matter was that it was Belesme rather than de Mortain, for the latter had absented himself from supper. More than once he’d had the unhappy distinction of eating with the man who’d sought so bitterly to take Rivaux from him, and the meal had been ruined by the rancor between them. Glancing cautiously at his trencher partner, he realized that this night there was scarce improvement, and he could curse himself for intervening where Catherine de Brione was concerned. He’d gained himself two powerful enemies instead of the one he’d always had, and he’d been a fool to do it.

  Belesme’s green cabochon emerald ring flashed in the torchlight as he reached for a dish of fruit and selected an apple. Biting into the fruit, he leaned back against the wall behind them and chewed, his strange eyes distant and thoughtful. Curthose’s servants carried in great wooden platters of carved pig, beef, venison, and mutton, followed by peacocks, swans, and herons, all dressed, roasted, and glazed before being refeathered for showy display. Fishes boiled in ale and stuffed with almonds gave off steam from plates placed next to bowls of stewed onions, peas, and beans, puddings and frumenties, while breads and cheeses were set on boards in front of Curthose’s guests. At one side of the hall, musicians played lutes and pipes above the din of voices raised by those who would converse.

  Guy poured wine from a golden pitcher and swirled it idly. He’d watched Belesme come in with Catherine de Brione, had seen the girl blanch at whatever had been said, and knew instinctively that Belesme had threatened her. Well, it was no business of his, he told himself defensively, for he’d washed his hands of her. Or had he? The nagging memory of his promise to Eleanor of Nantes came unbidden to his mind. That Catherine de Brione had tried his patience, made mockery of his chivalry, and scarred his face without reason bore not at all on his responsibility to keep her safe. Setting his cup on the long trestle table, he rubbed his cheek where the whip had cut it. It was sore still, scabbed in a long thin line that would heal like a knife wound, marking him forever. Someday it would appear to be one with the earlier, higher scar, but for now it was a reminder of Catherine of the Condes. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, and looked past Belesme to where Catherine sat next to one of the duchess’s younger ladies. Her dark hair gleamed, streaming unbound over her shoulders like a mantle, rich and warm in the flickering torchlight. The flame of one of the large wax candles set on the table for illumination cast a rosy glow to her fair skin and played off the gilt threads in her gown. Jesu, but she was a feast for a man’s eyes.

  “I have heard you bear the little Cat’s mark.”

  Belesme’s words interrupted Guy’s disjointed musings and brought him up with a start. Realizing that one of his men must have told the story, he reddened slightly and nodded. “She thought to escape, and I was fool enough to reach for her before I took the whip,” he admitted frankly.

  “You should have beaten her backside.”

  “Had she been mine, I would have, but as she is the Demoiselle of the Condes, I did not.”

  Belesme’s attention turned to Catherine for a long moment as he studied her soberly. “She is more Eleanor’s daughter than his,” he observed half to himself. Abruptly he straightened, his face bitter. “By rights, she should have been mi
ne.”

  Guy was uncertain as to whether he meant that Catherine should have been Belesme’s daughter or if he referred to Eleanor of Nantes herself, but he was not fool enough to pursue the matter. Instead, he reached for the wooden board that held an elaborately prepared peacock, its lovely fan of feathers spread out behind its glazed body.

  “She’ll go to Belesme ere I am done.”

  Guy’s hand stopped in mid-reach. “I thought your countess in Ponthieu, my lord,” he reminded him. “’Twould be unseemly to send her where your lady is not.”

  “Nay, she must be in Mabille’s care, else she serves no purpose to me.”

  Guy’s flesh crawled at the thought of Catherine de Brione in Mabille of Belesme’s hands. “Care” would scarce be the word for what that witch might do, since she’d poisoned more than one, mayhap her own husband even, for her son. Indeed, ’twas oft said they were so alike, mother and son, that both were the creation of Satan rather than God. And it was whispered that the reason Robert’s countess was not at Belesme was she feared Mabille. Not that the count would have made any concessions to his wife’s feelings in the matter—he made no pretense of affection for her—quite the opposite, in fact. Nor did he appear to care for his children either. Once Eleanor of Nantes had been denied him beyond hope, he’d wed an heiress, gotten his heirs on her, and gone his own way, an even more violent, embittered man.

  “Nay, the child can gain you naught, my lord. If she is harmed, Holy Church will take Henry’s side.” Almost by afterthought, he added, “And I am sworn to protect her.”

  “You?” Belesme regarded him for a moment lazily and then straightened. “Nay, but I have mine own plans for the Demoiselle, and you’ll not interfere.”

  “What can a child bring you now, my lord?” Guy asked, trying to fathom Belesme’s reasoning.

  “She can still bring Nantes.” The green eyes warmed slightly as Guy stared into them. “Aye. Gilbert has no sons and Eleanor has no sons.”