Fire and Steel

by Anita Mills

  “And you have a countess,” Guy retorted, his very being revolted by the thought that came to mind. Surely Belesme did not mean to take the daughter for revenge on the mother.

  The older man made no answer, but reached for a heron leg. Wrenching it off, he broke it between his thumb and forefinger like a dried twig. Laying the broken bone on Guy’s end of the trencher, he wiped his fingers fastidiously on the cloth before noting soberly, “Aye, but life is uncertain, is it not? And women are weak creatures.”

  A chill stole over Guy. Normandy had been torn asunder fourteen summers before in the quarrel over who had the better right to Eleanor of Nantes, a quarrel that had ended with her return to her rightful lord. That Belesme would think to open the festering wound again in these troubled times defied reason, for this time he might well ensure Curthose’s loss of Normandy with his folly.

  “Curthose will never send Catherine of the Condes to Belesme, my lord.”

  “I’d not wager against me, Rivaux—Normandy will lean where I push.”

  Down the table, Catherine moved her food around on the trencher she shared with Bertrade and pondered both Robert of Belesme’s strange manner and his words to her. What did he think to get of her? She could give him nothing that he did not have, she reasoned as she tried to make sense of what he’d said. He’d wanted to wed her mother once, but now had taken another, and that could scarce touch her—unless he meant to draw her father back from Wales. Nay, but he could not wish to fight him again—not after so many years. Her brow furrowed and then cleared. He had but wanted to frighten her, she declared to herself forcefully.

  “You’d best eat, Cat, else you’ll hunger later,” Bertrade whispered. “And the duchess keeps naught but wine in her bower.”

  Knowing that the other girl spoke the truth, Catherine cut off a small piece of mutton and forced herself to take a bite. Homesickness swept over her like nausea as she remembered the way it would have been prepared in the Condes, stewed rather than roasted, and surrounded by vegetables in a thick, rich sauce spiced with mustard and ginger.

  “Demoiselle Catherine.” The duchess leaned behind Bertrade to address Cat. “My lord husband tells me your grandsire comes to Rouen. Mayhap you would wish to sew him a fine purse for his belt to practice your stitches.”

  “Gilbert?” Cat’s eyebrow rose in surprise at the news. Of all who would take up the duke’s banner, her grandfather would be expected the least. Even now, she could remember her shame when Rivaux’s men had spoken of Gilbert of Nantes’s cowardice and voiced the opinion that he would not come. Shaking her head, she managed aloud, “Nay, but I scarce know him, Your Grace.”

  “’Tis a pity you do not, Demoiselle, for he holds Nantes for you.”

  “He’d not have it were it not for my father.”

  The duchess’s manner chilled perceptibly and she eyed Catherine narrowly. “As suzerain to Nantes, my husband confirms the inheritance, Demoiselle. If your mother would keep it, your father had best fulfill his oath to Normandy instead of cowering in Wales.”

  “My father keeps all his oaths, Your Grace. Unlike those who would rule, his word is his honor.” Bertrade gasped beside her, bringing home to Catherine what shed said, and she knew she should beg pardon for it. Instead, she met the duchess’s outraged expression mulishly. She had but voiced what everyone said behind Curthose’s back anyway, and she’d not listen to anyone insult her father.

  Sybilla’s face stared in astonishment, and then a slow flush crept upward into her pale cheeks. “You will leave this table, Demoiselle, and return to my bower, and you’ll not eat again until you learn to hold your tongue,” she managed levelly.

  “Your Grace, she did not mean…” Bertrade’s voice trailed off under the older woman’s quelling look and she dropped her eyes to the food on her trencher.

  Catherine rose hastily, nearly upsetting her narrow bench, and drew Curthose’s attention. He looked up in surprise, his knife halfway to his mouth. “God’s blood, Billa! Let the child eat!”

  “Nay, I’ll not have her at my table.”

  His eyes traveled to where Catherine stood, stiff and proud. “Sit you down, Demoiselle,” he ordered.

  “Nay.” Sybilla shook her head. “I punish her for her insolence.”

  “Mayhap you mistook her words,” he soothed. “She is but a little maid, after all.”

  “Nay, but I am not hungry.” Catherine spoke with a coldness that matched the duchess’s manner, and, head high, walked toward the open doors. Behind her, she could hear Robert Curthose still protesting Sybilla’s harshness to a child, but she didn’t care. She neither wanted nor needed defense—she had but spoken the truth.

  Beside him, Guy heard Robert of Belesme murmur low, “He has not the time to waste on a child, Rivaux. Mark my words, he’ll yield her yet. And he needs me.”

  “He needs me also.” Abruptly Guy rose. “Your pardon, my lord.”

  Belesme looked up, his face betraying faint amusement. “Do you think to set yourself against me? “Twould be like a pup thinking to take the boar in the hunt.”

  Catherine walked quickly, partly out of fear and partly out of anger. If life in Rouen had been unbearable, she had no doubt that she’d made it doubly so now, for Sybilla would not easily forgive the insult she’d offered. Sweet Mary, but would she never learn to hold her tongue?

  “Demoiselle.”

  She spun around defensively, ready to fight any fellow who thought to accost her. She’d borne enough insults herself this night. Then, seeing it was Guy of Rivaux, her anger faded. “What do you want?” she asked sullenly.

  “God’s blood, but you would make your life unpleasant, Demoiselle,” he chided as he caught up to her.

  “I am naught but a prisoner here,” she reminded him bitterly. “Aye, you may say I am one of her ladies, but I am not. She does not even like me.”

  “You do not even try to please her.”

  “And you would not know if I did, my lord,” she spat back. “Nay, but you promise my mother you will keep me safe, and yet you would leave for Rivaux without a thought for me.”

  “’Tis not so, Demoiselle.” A rueful smile curved the corners of his mouth as he shook his head. “I cannot be shaved and not think of you.”

  Her eyes took in the reddened cut on his cheek, and she colored. A sharp retort died on her lips. “Oh…aye. Does it hurt very much?”

  “Nay—not now.”

  “Well, I am sorry for it, but you should not have stopped me.”

  Refusing to argue with her, he moved to take her arm. “Come—you must not be unattended with so many strangers about, Demoiselle. I will take you back to the duchess’s solar.” When she would have pulled away, he tightened his grip and pushed her ahead of him. “Your disgrace was noted by nearly everyone, and I would not have you followed.”

  “As you have done?” She bristled at his tone and tried to break his hold on her arm. “Release me, my lord—I can walk unaided.”

  “Jesu, but you are an ill-tempered little maid,” he complained as he continued pushing her down the narrow corridor. “If you do not hold your tongue, Curthose will think you more trouble than you are worth to him.”

  “Then he can send me home.”

  “Nay, he could send you to Mabille of Belesme, Demoiselle, and you’d learn that Duchess Sybilla is far the kinder lady.”

  “He would not dare!” She stopped so suddenly that he nearly collided with her. “My father—”

  “Is in Wales,” he finished for her. “Aye, and Robert has asked for custody of you. Think, Demoiselle—do you wish to go to Belesme?”

  “Of course I do not wish it! Count Robert frightens me, if you would have the truth, my lord.”

  “I saw him speaking with you earlier.”

  “He spoke in riddles, asking if I would give him what he could not get himself or some such thing, but I made no sense of his words.” Looking up, she noted Guy’s frown and nodded. “Aye—he did but mean to frighten me, I think.”


  “Nay. Robert neither threatens nor boasts that which he will not do. He takes pleasure in foretelling his plans. ’Tis what makes his power over men, Demoiselle—they wait in dread for him to move, knowing full well he will when he is ready. Nay, but Belesme does not boast idly.”

  “Well, Curthose is not such a fool that he would risk my father’s wrath, I think,” she maintained with a confidence she did not feel, knowing even as she spoke that he’d already dared her father by taking her hostage.

  “You mistake the matter—sometimes he is the greatest fool in Christendom, Catherine.”

  “Then why do you fight for him?”

  “I told you—because I must. I am so sworn.”

  “As you were sworn to protect me, my lord?” she gibed. “How is it that you can forget one oath and not the other?”

  “I hold my lands of him.”

  “Jesu!” Her face was flushed and her dark eyes bright with challenge as she stared up at him, reflecting the rosy glow of the spitting pitch torch suspended above them. Her thick, dark mane of hair fell away, exposing the fine brow, the delicate face, and the perfect skin. With an effort, he resisted reaching out to feel the silken strands, to smooth it down over her shoulders, to touch where it lay against her back. “I did not think you wished my protection, Demoiselle,” he murmured softly.

  His manner had changed so suddenly that she was taken aback. An odd thrill traveled down her spine as blood rose to her face. Looking away, she managed lamely, “’Twas my mother you promised, Guy of Rivaux.”

  Disappointed, he dropped his hand and stepped back, the heat fading from his body as quickly as it had risen. For a moment he’d wanted her to tell him that his help would matter to her, but she had not. “Aye”—he nodded finally—“I keep my word in all things, Demoiselle.”

  They walked in silence the rest of the way, stopping at the foot of the narrow stairs leading to the ladies’ bower. Another pitch-dipped torch sputtered and popped in an iron ring that hung from a lion’s head, catching the gold-embroidered talons of the hawk on his chest. “You are safe enough now, Catherine,” he told her. “Here.” He reached for her hand and pressed a linen-wrapped chunk of cheese into it. “Mayhap ’twill fill your stomach for now.” Then he did what he’d wanted to do earlier, and brushed the shining hair back with his fingertips, savoring the silk of it. The faint odor of roses floated up in the warm night air. “Sweet Mary, but I’ve not seen another like you,” he half-whispered, drawing away. “God keep you until the morrow, Demoiselle.”

  She waited until he’d gone several steps before daring to speak. “Wait—when do you leave for Rivaux, my lord?”

  He stopped and turned back to her. “I am not going.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Curthose does not trust me to leave again, so I have issued my call from here.”

  “Oh.” She formed the word almost silently, unable to control the sudden rush of gratitude she felt. “Then I will see you again.”

  9

  “My lord of Rivaux, I would be private with you.”

  Robert Curthose’s words carried across the dissolving council meeting, prompting curious stares from Normandy’s disgruntled barons. It had been a hotly disputed session, with Belesme, de Mortain, and Guy even goading the duke into taking action against King Henry’s further incursion into the duchy. And it had been called after news arrived that Walter de Clare, warden of four ports and lord of a dozen fiefs, had declared for the king and raised Henry’s standard over Beauville.

  Guy waited warily as the others filed out. And as Robert of Belesme passed him, he leaned to mutter for Guy’s ears alone, “Do not let him waver, else we’ll all winter in France this time.” And Waleran of Theroux hissed low, “Aye, but he cannot tarry now, my lord.”

  “You may close the door,” Curthose directed a parting page with a wave of one beringed hand. Motioning Guy closer, he rose to stare out one of the tall arched windows into the busy courtyard outside. Silence settled over the room as the footsteps in the corridor grew fainter, and Guy wondered what new disaster was to befall him. Did Curthose mean to chastise him for his outspoken words in council? And if so, why had he not done so before the others? But he’d meant what he said—if they did not fight, and fight now, there’d be no Normandy left for those loyal to their duke. He sucked in his breath and waited, ready to argue again if necessary.

  “I have decided to bestow Catherine of the Condes on you for wife.” The duke turned around as he spoke, his dark eyes sober as they met Guy’s. “Aye.” He nodded, taking in Guy’s stunned expression.

  “Jesu!” Guy gasped, exhaling in shock. “Sweet Mary!” he whispered as he attempted to assimilate Robert Curthose’s words. Disordered thoughts crowded his mind, making rational response impossible. For an instant he wondered if the duke had gone mad—or if he himself were dreaming.

  “She is a pretty child,” Curthose added, his face breaking into a smile. “And ’tis rare to find such wealth and beauty in one bed. With Gilbert of Nantes having no sons, and his daughter not like to have one, the little demoiselle can make you lord of lands vaster than Belesme’s.”

  Numbly Guy tried to follow the duke’s words, but the image of Catherine as he’d last seen her flooded his consciousness suddenly, blotting out all else. He could see those dark eyes, feel the silk of her hair beneath his fingertips, and smell the rosewater she’d worn. Sweet Jesu, but he’d not even dreamed…With an effort, he forced himself to listen, his body tense and his mind wary. For Robert Curthose to make such an offer, he had to want something very badly.

  “You appear surprised, my lord,” the duke observed with satisfaction. “Aye, but I would give her to you—on condition. You have not renewed your feudal oath to me, and—”

  “You do not need to reward me for what is yours, Your Grace,” Guy cut in, drawn away from thoughts of Catherine. “Nay, but I would place my hands between yours now if you will it.”

  “’Tis a public display of your support that I need now, my lord,” Curthose snapped, and then caught himself to add in a more conciliatory manner, “I want you to swear to me in the presence of all Rouen. You would have me fight my brother, would you not?” he demanded as a faintly querulous tone crept again into his voice. “Then you must be prepared to give me more than your feudal dues, else I cannot.”

  The duke had not wasted time with the subtleties of his strange offer, Guy thought wryly—he would trade Catherine of the Condes for men and arms when all was said and done. “Your Grace, there is no need to bribe me—all I have, I hold of you. What would you have of me?”

  “Rivaux is a rich fief,” Curthose mused aloud, “and provides you with great wealth—enough perhaps to pay mercenaries from Italy…” His voice trailed off as he appeared to consider the possibilities.

  “Aye.” Guy waited to see what the duke meant to ask in exchange for Roger de Brione’s daughter.

  “I need men.” The older man’s eyes met his steadily. “With each day bringing word of those who would follow my brother, I must have men who will fight for me. How many do you owe me?”

  Guy would wager that Curthose knew to the last battleax what he owed, but he answered anyway, “Two hundred mounted knights, five hundred footsoldiers, and twenty-five arbalesters, all equipped to do battle.”

  “How many of that number were Herluin de Braose’s?”

  “Not many—I had but twenty knights, fifty foot, and five bowmen of him.”

  “Buy me what you lost of him and one hundred mounted mercenaries, and I will give you the Demoiselle of the Condes.”

  A low whistle escaped Guy at the price. God’s bones, but Curthose would sell the girl dearly. “Nay, but I’d not wed her against the will of her family,” he answered slowly as he counted the cost. “She is promised to Robert of Caen.”

  “And she is not betrothed,” Curthose reminded him impatiently. “Nay, but as her father’s liege lord, I would bestow her where I may, and I’d not give a Norman heiress to one of my brother’s bastards
.”

  “You sell her.”

  “I need men. God’s blood, but I had thought you pleased to have her—aye, I have noted the way you look on her.”

  “She is but thirteen and small-boned.”

  “And old enough to wed and bed.” Curthose turned away to look again into the courtyard. “I need men,” he repeated. “Now, do you take the Demoiselle and give what I ask? Or do I offer her elsewhere? There are others who would count the price cheap for what she will inherit.”

  “You would beggar me,” Guy stalled, his mouth dry at the thought of Catherine de Brione in his bed. Jesu, but if he found her too small to lie with now, there would always be later.

  “Scarcely that, my lord. You have the gold and you will gain much through the girl—nay, you are one of those who can afford the offer.”

  “I’d not make an enemy of her father.”

  “I have the right to give her.” His back still to Guy, the duke shrugged, indicating he tired of the discussion. “But if you would wish,” he conceded, “after you swear to me again, I will have Gilbert confirm your heirs as his once you are wed.”

  “And if I do not take her?”

  “You are not a fool, I think.” Curthose turned back slowly, his eyes measuring his liegeman. A slow smile formed at the corners of his mouth. “You want the girl, do you not?”

  “She has the temper of a termagant.”

  “Beat it out of her.”

  Somehow the thought of beating Catherine repelled Guy. As much trouble as she’d been, she’d but tried to escape an injustice. And for all her tongue, she’d showed more courage than most girls. His senses reeled even as he thought of the feel of her when he’d pulled her from her horse that night at Froilyn, of the smell of her rose-scented hair, and he knew he’d take her if he had to beggar Rivaux to get her.

  “When will you have the banns cried?” he asked finally.

  “There’s not the time. Gilbert comes today or tomorrow, and we will move toward meeting my brother. As Belesme and William de Mortain are certain that Henry means to capture Mortain before coming further, we’ll go to the relief of that fortress.” The irony of the situation was not lost on the duke. “Aye—’tis strange for you to be aiding de Mortain, is it not?”