by Anita Mills
“I’d not fight beside him.”
“You’ll not—Belesme asks to flank you. But we wander—you will wed the Demoiselle ere we leave, that you may take her with you.”
“Nay—”
“Sybilla has taken the child in dislike and would not keep her. I think she blames the daughter for what the father will not do, and the little demoiselle’s tongue does not improve her lot.”
“An army is no place for a child,” Guy protested. “Nay, but her safety cannot be certain, and I promised her mother…” He halted mid-sentence, aware of Curthose’s frown.
“We will take her.”
It was final—he would wed Catherine of the Condes without so much as a crying of the banns and without the pomp and ceremony due their rank. And he would take her with him in an army’s train. Jesu, but it was a mixed gift Curthose would give him, an heiress whose temperament would cut up his peace, an heiress whose family had promised her to King Henry’s son. If Curthose lost, Guy did not dare think of the consequences. Banishing that possibility from his mind, tie sighed heavily. “Do you seek the mercenaries or do I?”
“I have already sent for them.” The duke smiled, his expression that of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted. “Would you have me tell the little maid?”
“Nay. I will tell her—she’ll not be pleased.”
Curthose’s smile broadened as his eyes traveled over Guy. “Art a comely fellow, Guy of Rivaux—Sybilla tells me all the maids think it—so I’d expect Catherine of the Condes to be no different.”
Still shunned by all but Bertrade for her intemperate remarks at supper several days before, Catherine sat apart and plied her needle with indifference, scarce caring to remove the knots she made in her grandfather’s purse. Her stomach growled, reminding her again of her refusal to beg the duchess’s forgiveness, and she stabbed viciously at the heavy silken cloth. Sybilla had banned her from meals pending her apology, and she’d had naught but bits of bread and cheese smuggled to her by Bertrade. Sweet Mary, but what she would not give for a slab of venison or some salted herring just now.
At the other end of the bower, a girl worked the shuttles of a loom while others visited over their needlework, their soft voices carrying across the narrow room. From time to time Catherine looked up to see if anyone was watching her. Her hunger gnawed at her insides until she could scarce think of anything else, but she’d not apologize. Not when the duchess would insult her father. Reaching the end of her thread, she bent to bite it apart and knot the strand.
A page in Normandy’s colors entered to approach the duchess, went down on one knee, and murmured something to his mistress. Nodding, Sybilla motioned Guy of Rivaux in from the threshold, and a hush spread through the bower as the ladies turned their curious attention to him.
Even as he knelt in obeisance, the duchess raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “So you seek speech with the Demoiselle, do you?” she asked, mild disapproval in her voice. “You will find her down there.”
Guy frowned. He’d not considered that he’d have to tell her in the presence of so many others, particularly not since he expected her to be displeased with his news. He glanced furtively to where she sat, her head bent over the silk purse. Her dark hair fell forward, touching her knees, and her fine profile was marred by an expression of utter disgust, warning him that she was not in the best of tempers. Sybilla followed his gaze and nodded. “Aye—you’d best walk apart with her, my lord. Demoiselle!” she called sharply to Catherine. “Count Guy is come to see you.”
Catherine almost dropped the purse and then caught herself. As glad as she was to see a friendlier face, she’d not let him know it. Instead, she carefully folded the silk pouch and stuck her needle through it. Laying it aside, she rose and moved forward, hoping he would not hear her stomach. Her eyes darted to the ladies of the duchess’s court and she noted with satisfaction that their expressions ranged from chagrin to outrage. Behind her, Bertrade whispered, “How you are envied, Cat—don’t dawdle—’tis Rivaux!”
Light-headed from lack of food, she did not trust herself to curtsy before him and instead inclined her head. “My lord.”
“Jesu, but she forgets herself,” came a disgruntled mutter from the other side of the duchess.
Ignoring Catherine, Sybilla turned to Guy. “The day is warm and the herb garden empty, my lord, if you would take her there.”
“Aye.”
Catherine’s heart quickened at the thought of leaving the bower for even a short time, and her pleasure was mirrored in her dark eyes. She took the arm he offered, flashed a small smile of triumph at those who would shun her, and nodded at the duchess. Sybilla smiled frostily and turned back to the gold-and-green stole she’d been working.
“My thanks, my lord,” Cat whispered as she escaped into the stairwell.
“For once, Demoiselle, I could almost think you glad to see me.”
“I am,” she admitted openly. “I tire of sitting for hours and hours with naught to do but stitch this piece or that.” She held up her right hand to show him her reddened fingertips. “They are so sore that I have taken to pushing the needle with my other hand, my lord. Sweet Jesu, but I would be away from there.” Peering down the steep and winding steps, she swayed slightly. “I’d not go first, if you do not mind it.”
He opened his mouth to remind her of her words at the Condes, and then thought better of it. If they were to wed, it would be better to strive for pleasantness. He edged past her and started down, staying close enough to feel the skirt of her gown at his back. She tottered dizzily, swayed again, and lost her balance, stumbling into him. He half-turned to brace himself, and caught her against him. Even on the shadowed stairs he could see she was very pale.
“Jesu, Demoiselle, but what ails you?” he asked as he steadied her. “I would get you back.”
“Nay!” She clutched at his tunic for balance and shook her head. “I am all right.”
“You are shaking, Demoiselle—we’d best go back.”
“Nay, I would but have food,” she protested. “I begin to think of naught else.”
“Food!”
“Aye—food. My lord, I am so hungry I cannot sleep.”
“Jesu. You have not eaten?”
“If I had, would I be like this?” she snapped. “Nay, but I am not given so much as a crumb until I beg her pardon for saying he is an oath-breaker! Yet she would not beg my pardon for what she says of my father! Nay, but I’d not do it!”
“She starves you?” he asked incredulously.
“Have you seen me at supper?” she countered hotly. “Nay, but you have not!”
“But you are given food surely—”
“Nay.”
“God’s teeth! Curthose said…But I’d not thought…” He caught himself and shook his head. “’Tis no matter—I’ll get you food,” he decided grimly. “Can you walk down or would you have me carry you?”
“I can walk, I think.”
He half-carried, half-walked her the rest of the way down and then pulled her after him toward the kitchen buildings that lay to the back of the ducal palace. Pushing her ahead of him through a heavy oak door, he gestured to a scullery wench who stood stirring a bubbling pot in the stifling heat of the kitchen. “Get her some bread and some of that if ’tis done,” he ordered harshly.
Catherine sank onto a stool drawn up to one of the preparing tables and leaned her head in her arms while the girl scurried to do Rivaux’s bidding. She did not even care what it was in the pot.
“Here.” Guy thrust a bowl of stewed mutton and vegetables heavily seasoned with cloves and thyme in front of her. “A spoon also—and the bread,” he reminded the kitchen girl.
It was so hot it burned her tongue, but Catherine didn’t care. The first bite scalded all the way to her stomach. In the absence of wine, he tore off a chunk of bread and handed it to her. “Sop it until ’tis cooler.”
The scullery maid stared in fascination as the richly gowned girl stuffed hersel
f with the abandon of a peasant while the young gentleman in embroidered tunic watched. Reluctantly remembering her stew, she tried to stir it with one eye on them. And when Catherine was done, the bowl was wiped clean from the sopping bread.
“My thanks, my lord,” Cat murmured gratefully after the last crust was swallowed.
“Mayhap you should be starved more often, Demoiselle,” he told her, grinning, “for twice this day you have thanked me.”
She looked up from the rough-hewn table and managed a rueful smile. “Aye, and I’ve eaten like swine at the trough, have I not? I’d begun to think I could not survive much longer.”
“It would have been better to have begged her pardon.”
“Nay—the fault was hers first.”
“Art a stubborn little maid. Come, I’d not talk here.” He grasped her hand, pulling her up. “You can tell me which herb is which.”
“If I know.”
His scarred eyebrow rose and his strange gold-flecked eyes were alight with humor. “If you know? Demoiselle, if you cannot sew and you are unskilled in simples, what can you do?”
“I can read and write, cipher and tally,” she responded haughtily. “And just because I may not know every herb does not mean I am not skilled in simples. I have learned to make balms and soothe wounds in case Brian should ever be hurt. Aye,” she added proudly, “’twas my salve that cured his arm when he was dragged by his horse.”
He sobered. He’d not thought of Brian FitzHenry. He tried to keep his voice light despite the sudden misgivings he felt. “Then you do have some housewifely skills at least.”
“I mean to be of use to Brian, my lord, for he has not the inclination to his letters that he ought. Despite his father’s learning, he says such things are for priests rather than knights.”
“Well, he is wrong, Demoiselle, for how is a man to know he is not cheated if he cannot study the accounts himself?” he asked dryly.
“Aye—so my father told him, but he would not listen. So ’tis important that I can read them, is it not?”
He opened the gate to the walled garden and waited for her to pass. Shutting it securely behind him, he murmured, “Have you never considered that you may not get this Brian for husband?”
“Nay. My father and my mother will be brought to see that I will take no other. ‘Twill take time, but I’ll do it.”
Her naiveté touched him, making him reluctant to broach the matter of her marriage to him. Instead, he dropped to a low stone bench and leaned back against the wall. She eyed the bench with disgust.
“Nay, I’d not sit, my lord—not when ’tis all I do the whole day in the duchess’s bower. Sweet Mary, but I know not how they stand it, the carding and spinning, weaving and sewing! In my mother’s house, ’tis the serving women who do such!”
“Then what does your mother do?”
“She has the ordering of my father’s castle. She plans all that we will make or buy, whether ’Tis salted herring or candles or iron for the armorer, my lord,” she answered with pride. “And she keeps my father content.” She caught the gleam of amusement that lit his green-gold eyes and shook her head. “Nay, but you do not understand—he trusts her to rule rather than serve—they are of like minds, my mother and my father.”
“Eleanor of Nantes is a rare woman, Demoiselle.”
“Well, did not your father value your mother?”
The light faded from his eyes and his face grew suddenly harsh, the healing scar accentuating the set of his jaw. “I know not what he thought of her, Demoiselle, for she died birthing me. But, as little as I knew him, I do not believe he ever liked anything in his life. If he bore her any love, it died with her, and he spoke not at all of her.”
“Oh, I did not mean—”
“I know you did not.” He straightened and pointed to the neat herb beds as they lay in geometric patterns between cobbled walks. “Tell me what you know of them.”
“Well…” She glanced down at the plants nearest her and with a toe pointed to fuzzy stalks. “This is pennyroyal—’twill sweeten your breath if the leaves are chewed—and ’tis sometimes used to bring the flux in -women.” She colored as she realized what she’d said, and added lamely, “Well, ’tis supposed to keep the number of bastards down. But considering it was given to Agnes and Tyra and they both had their babes, I do not think it works.” The memory of how she’d learned it was Brian’s bastards they bore came to mind, paining her still. She closed her eyes for a moment.
Her sudden change of mood was not lost on him. Bending forward to snap a stem, he plucked leaves from it and handed her one. “I am supposed to chew it?” he asked as he popped another into his mouth. “Mary, but ’tis strong,” he murmured as he worked it between his teeth.
Giggling in spite of herself, she touched the tip of hers against her tongue and sucked lightly. “Aye, but none will know what you have eaten this day. I think there are places where ’tis brewed with water and drunk,” she added.
He leaned over and spat the leaves on the ground. “I think my mouth is as sweet as I want it.” Pointing across the narrow walk, he directed her to another bed. “What’s that?”
“Fennel.”
“And that?”
“Dill.”
“I thought you said you did not know them,” he teased lightly.
“Nay, I meant but that I might not know all of them. See those over there? I’ve no notion what they are.” She walked across the small garden to inspect the plants more closely.
He leaned back and studied her lazily. She was far more beautiful than a man had a right to expect in his marriage, and the knowledge that Curthose meant to give her to him was almost too new to grasp. She was small, but not nearly so small as her mother, and her body was slender yet well-formed. Aye, he could span her waist with his hands, he decided as he watched her move about gracefully. If her temper could be borne, there was naught else about her that was unpleasing to a man. She pulled up a plant and sniffed it before turning around triumphantly.
“Tis sweet maijoram!” she crowed.
“Is there a sour one?” he asked, grinning.
“I know not,” she answered truthfully. “Is there anything else you’d know, my lord?” She returned to stand before him, her hands on her hips. “Or would you do naught but stare at me?”
“Mayhap I like watching you.” Without thinking, he reached to pull her onto his lap, settling her against him and closing his arms around her. The softness of her body made him forget she was but thirteen. “Thou art a beauty, Catherine of the Condes,” he murmured softly into her hair.
Shocked by the suddenness of his action, she sat very still for a moment. “Even if I am out of favor, my lord,” she told him stiffly, Ί doubt the duchess would approve of your touching me.” But even as she spoke, she was intrigued by the strength of his arms and the hardness of his body against hers. “Nay—release me ere you are seen.”
She was lighter than he’d expected, and smaller than any of the whores he’d had. He moved his hand to stroke her hair where it fell forward over her breast, and felt as well as heard the sharp intake of her breath. He bent to nuzzle the shining crown of her hair. Both of her hands caught at his and she tried to push free of him. “Nay, but I am no castle wench to be fondled at will. I demand you release me now, my lord, else I shall cry out.” Twisting her head to look up at him, she tried to keep her voice calm despite the racing of her heart. Jesu, but even Brian had not been so bold.
“One kiss for toll first.”
He bent his head down, thinking to brush her lips lightly, but the smell of roses and mint made him forget everything save that she was to be his. Her lips parted in protest beneath the pressure of his, and he could taste the sweetness of her mouth. His tongue traced the edge of her teeth and his free hand stroked the silk of her hair. She squirmed beneath his touch and struggled to sit up. Reluctantly he released her.
She lunged forward to stand, her eyes wide, her color heightened with anger. “A kiss
for toll? God’s bones, but you are like that lout who would have accosted me at supper, are you not? Nay, you forget yourself, Guy of Rivaux! I thank you for the food, but I’ll not stay to be ravished!”
She was almost to the gate when he caught her from behind and held her while she kicked backward against him. “Sheathe your claws, Cat,” he murmured above her ear. “You’ve not heard why I sought you out.”
“And you are disrespectful—my name is Catherine!” she spat out. When he would not release her, she bent her head to sink her teeth in his knuckle.
“God’s teeth! I’ll turn you loose if you will but stay to hear what I came to tell you.” So saying, he dropped his arms and stepped around to bar her path to the gate.
“Nay!” She was breathing heavily from her struggle, and her dark eyes flashed defiance. “If you so much as attempt to touch me again, my lord, I will claim Normandy’s protection, and I’ll tell him why!”
“He gives you to me.”
She blinked and stared, too stunned for speech at first. Then, watching him nod slowly, she echoed in disbelief, “Curthose gives me…to you?”
“Aye—we wed ere the army moves.” He stepped closer but did not touch her. A crooked smile lifted one side of his mouth, and his eyes were almost gold. “Come—’tis not so terrible, Catherine. I’ll not beat you—nay, but I’d treat you gently.”
“Nay!” She backed away, her eyes still wide with the shock she felt. “Nay.” Her voice dropped low and she looked away. “Sweet Mary, Lord Guy, I’d not wed with you.” But even as she spoke, she realized she was but a prisoner of Robert Curthose’s and there was none to listen to her in Normandy’s court. A tight knot formed in her stomach and threatened to rise as she swallowed back tears. “Nay, I’d not,” she whispered.
“You’ll have no choice in the matter,” he told her gently, reaching for her.
