by Anita Mills
“Don’t touch me!” she hissed as she broke away.
“You’d not get the FitzHenry anyway, Demoiselle.” He tried to think of the means to console her. “Your father would give you to Robert of Caen, but his suzerain gives you to me.”
“And I am no better than a serf in the field,” she complained bitterly. “Nay, I am no better than an ox to be sold!”
“I said I would treat you well.”
Infuriated by the even way he spoke, she turned on him viciously, spitting out, “You! Think you I am a fool, Guy of Rivaux? ’Twas you who brought me here! Aye, and you knew—you knew when you came to the Condes, did you not? You listened to me speak of Brian and you knew what Curthose planned!”
“Demoiselle…Catherine…”
Fed by rising anger, she completely lost control of her temper. Her body shook and hot tears scalded her eyes, spilling over onto her cheeks. “You promised my mother I’d be safe when you knew ’twas false!” she charged hotly. “Jesu! And Curthose dares to think my father forsworn!” She moved to face him, her body scarce inches from his, and raised her hand as though to strike.
“Nay, I am not twice the fool, Demoiselle,” he told her as he caught her wrist painfully and forced her arm down to her side. “You’ll not open the wound you gave me.”
“ “Twas why you asked if I were betrothed, was it not? You think to be Lord of the Condes and to have Nantes and Harlowe!”
“Lower your voice, Catherine,” he ordered sternly. “You’ll have every man in Rouen come to hear you. And, nay, I did not know what he meant to do, else I’d not have brought you here.” Releasing her hand and stepping back, he strove to control his own temper. The muscles of his jaw were so tight they ached as he reminded himself she had a right to be angry and that she was, after all, scarce more than a child.
“I do not believe you!” she spat at him. “Jesu, when I think I was beginning to like you! To believe you were not so bad as the rest of those who serve Curthose!” The tears coursed freely now, streaking her face, and her lower lip quivered as she fought for control. She reached to wipe her cheeks with the back of her hand, and gulping for air, she stopped to stare balefully at him.
“Cat…Catherine…” He paused to gain her attention and nodded. “Aye, whether you believe it or no, ’twas never in my mind to wed with you until Curthose offered. And then ’twas to me or another he would sell you for men and arms.” She met his eyes silently, her face set in mulish defiance. “You may believe what you will,” he repeated, “but I would not lie to you.”
The garden hummed with late-summer sounds around them, and the fragrances of a dozen herbs intermingled as the sun beat down, its brightness a sharp contrast to the bleakness in Catherine’s heart. His strangely beautiful eyes were intent on hers, his face solemn. The anger ebbed from her body slowly, the last vestiges exhaled in a heavy sigh.
‘It does not matter, does it?” she asked finally, her chest aching with the emptiness she now felt.
Relieved that her fury was spent, he took her elbow and tried to lead her gently back down the cobbled path. “Walk a pace with me, Catherine, and tell me what you would have for bridegift—I’d give you what you want.”
While she did not shake him off, she shook her head. “I am no whore to be bought with a pretty bracelet, my lord.” Looking up at him, she spoke tonelessly. “I would go back now.”
10
“Unhhhhhhhh?”
Catherine bent to poke him cautiously again, and Guy rolled over to cradle his head in the crook of his arm. The straw pallet rustled beneath him as he repositioned his body, his bare shoulder visible above his red cloak. “My lord,” she whispered furtively, her hand touching his warm skin, her eyes warily on the door.
He came awake suddenly, groping to pull the cloak to cover his nakedness. Squinting in the semidarkness of the curtained-off chamber, he tried to adjust his eyes to the flickering torchlight. “Jesu! Demoiselle, what are you doing here?”
“Shhhhhhh,” she hissed. “I would speak with you.”
“What time is it?”
“I do not know,” she answered truthfully, “but everyone is still at supper.”
“You should not be here—’tis but a common sleeping room.” He sat up, one hand clutching the cloak while the other rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His dark hair was rumpled and his face shadowed with the day’s growth of beard.
“You were not at the duke’s table,” she pointed out as though that should explain everything.
“I was too tired to eat.” He combed his hair with his fingers and eyed her irritably. “God’s bones, but what cannot keep until the morrow? And how is it you are here? ’Tis no place for a maid, and well you know it. Jesu!”
“’Tis all right—I complained of the stomachache and ’tis believed I am in the garderobe. And nay, it cannot wait. Had you been at supper, I’d have asked to speak with you after, but you were not there.”
“I was tired,” he repeated. “And we wed on the morrow, so you could have spoken then.”
“Nay.” She shook her head. “Then it would be too late.”
Even in the dim light, he could see the determined set of her jaw, and he realized that to her, at least, whatever she had to say was important enough to risk further censure from Sybilla. “You are fortunate you leave the duchess’s household,” he muttered, “else you’d never eat again. “Twas all I could do to get you back to table tonight.”
“I care not.” She leaned closer, her dark hair falling forward to spill onto his bare shoulder, its soft fragrance floating over him. For a moment, desire flooded his consciousness, testing the rigid control he’d learned to keep over his mind and body. Resolutely he drew away and rolled to sit with his back to her. His voice strange, he ordered her, “Wait outside and I will dress.”
“Think you I have never seen a man before?”
“Where?”
“Well, when I was a little maid, Linn and I were used to watching from the tower as the stableboys ran from the bath shed after old Herved doused them with cold water.” Smiling, she added truthfully, “But they were quick and we did not see much from the distance.” Her expression sobered as her dark eyes met his. “And I cannot wait outside, my lord, for I would risk discovery.”
“Sweet Mary, but with you nothing is simple, is it?” he complained as he reached for his chausses. “Look, then—’tis no more than you will see later anyway, I suppose.” Drawing the hose over his legs, he stood, his bare buttocks exposed. She stared curiously for a moment and then averted her eyes out of fear that he might turn around. He hastily pulled up the chausses, tied them at his waist, and reached for the embossed leather garters, cross-wrapping them so quickly that he did not take the time to smooth the light woolen hose against his calves. “You can look now,” he murmured, his voice suddenly warm with amusement.
He was still bare above his waist, and his hose bulged over his sex, but he was covered after a fashion. Fascinated, she studied the expanse of his chest and unwittingly compared it to Brian’s, noting that three years in a boy’s age seemed to make a great difference in how he looked. Either that or the muscles that rippled with movement across his shoulders and upper arms were the result of considerably more practice with broadsword, lance, and battleax. And whereas Brian’s chest boasted but a few scattered reddish hairs, Guy of Rivaux’s had a triangle of black curls that began just below his neck.
“Well, am I pleasing to you?” he asked, grinning at the flush of embarrassment that diffused through her cheeks. His voice muffled as he pulled his discarded overtunic over his head, he told her, “You may speak whilst I take you back to the duchess’s bower, and hopefully, if we are seen, ’twill be said that you were but overeager.” Feeling on the floor with his toes, he managed to discover and slip his feet into his soft leather shoes.
“Overeager? Overeager?” Her voice rose in indignation even as her color deepened. “Nay! If I am here, my lord, ’tis because I would not have you!”
“Keep your voice down then, Cat, or you will be found.”
“I’d not have you call me Cat,” she sniffed haughtily.
“Catherine then.”
“And not that either.”
“All right,” he murmured as he took her arm and pushed her toward the door. “What would you that I call you?”
“Demoiselle—I would stay unwed.”
Ignoring the gibe, he eased the door open and peered into the darkened corridor. “Jesu, but how did you find me? ’Tis black as the pits of hell out here.”
“Aye. I came in on the curtained side.”
“Where the men-at-arms pallet? God’s bones, but ’tis a wonder you are still whole.”
“I told you—they are all at supper.”
He grasped a pitch torch from a ring suspended above them in the sleeping chamber and slipped past her to lead the way down the black passage. “Aye—I had thought to get some sleep before the snoring starts, but ’tis not likely now. All Rouen is filled, until Curthose has naught to give any but a pallet.”
“But you are a count,” she protested.
“Aye, and so are Gilbert and Mortain, and yet they sleep here also. Only Belesme brought his own bed.” He stopped to transfer the torch to his left hand, holding it out so that the popping pitch sparks would not make holes in his fine tunic. “He offered to share it with any who wished, but there were none who dared sleep with him. Not that I did not consider it,” he admitted, “since tomorrow is my wedding day.” Laying his free hand on her shoulder, he guided her toward the end of the corridor. “’Tis not every day that a man renews his feudal oath, marries, and gets fleeced at the same time.”
“Fleeced?” She stared up at him, unable to see much in the darkness.
“Aye.” He dropped his hand to catch hers and began walking rapidly, pulling her after him. She nearly had to trot to keep up with his long strides. “You come dear to me, Catherine of the Condes—’tis an army he would have from me for you.”
“Wait!” She pulled back, grumbling. “Sweet Mary, but you would walk me so quickly that you would have me lose my shoes.” Balancing against him, she lifted a foot and adjusted her slipper over her heel. “My legs are not nearly so long as yours, my lord.”
“All right.” He peered into the silent darkness ahead to be satisfied they were alone. “Then you can tell me now what ’tis that is so important you must needs wake me.”
“Here?”
“There’s none to hear you save me.”
“Aye, but…”
“But what?” he prompted impatiently. “I am awake enough to listen now.”
“Nay, I would not speak here…” Her voice trailed off in uncertainty.
“Jesu! Where, then?”
“Mayhap the garden…” she suggested tentatively.
He brought the pitch torch down to illuminate her face, and even in the flickering yellow-orange light he could see her eyes were enormous, betraying her agitation. “All right,” he decided finally, “but I would warn you, Demoiselle, that my temper is not the best. I am tired unto death, half of my vassals have not answered my call to arms, and I prepare to fight a war. And, above all else with which I must contend, I am wedding you within a matter of hours now.” Feeling her hand tense in his, he relented and sighed. “But if ’twas important enough to wake me, then I will hear you out, Catherine.”
The oak door at the end of the passage groaned and creaked on heavy iron hinges as it swung outward into the duchess’s herb garden, the same garden where four days earlier he’d told her she came to him. The night breeze was cool in comparison with the stale air in the corridor, prompting her to shiver slightly. Above them, the moon showed but half its face, sending only a faint silvery light over the plant beds. Guy released Catherine’s hand to lean over and push the stem of the torch into the soft earth.
“Sit you down, Demoiselle, and tell me now what keeps me from my bed.” Straightening, he wiped his hands on his wrinkled tunic and waited. “Well?” he asked finally when she made no move toward the stone bench.
“My lord…” She eyed him uncertainly now, working her damp palms against the fullness of her skirt, her heart thudding. He was but a foot or so away from her, but his face was deeply shadowed, giving it a harshness she’d not expected. The flecked eyes that stared back at her reflected the faint light eerily.
“Come, there’s naught that cannot be said between us, Catherine. As husband and wife, I would hope to achieve a peace and understanding, else we shall both be the most miserable of people.” His voice had gentled, dropping to a softness that surprised her. “What would you have of me?” he prompted. “Is it some favor you would ask? Or is it your bridegift mayhap? Curthose beggars me, but I’d not have it said I could not buy you what you wish.” He was at a loss, his mind searching for reason in her sudden appearance at his pallet. His experience with women was limited, having mostly consisted of brief encounters with willing whores or camp followers eager to please in exchange for a small coin, and it had not mattered if he saw any of them again. But the girl before him was Catherine of the Condes and therefore different. This was the girl who would grow to womanhood as his wife, the one who would bear his heirs for him, and somehow it was important that he please her insofar as was possible. He reached to touch a strand of hair that strayed over her face, lifting it and brushing it back with a fingertip. “What can I give you, Catherine?” he asked softly.
She sucked in her breath, afraid now to tell him. It had seemed so simple, so reasonable even, when she’d thought it out earlier, but now she realized it for a foolish hope. Exhaling heavily, she looked away and gathered her courage to blurt finally, “My lord, I cannot wed with you—I cannot.”
There was a desperation in her voice that took him aback. “Cat…Cat…” he soothed, reaching out again to her.
“Nay!” she cried, backing away from him. “You have not heard all I would say! Curthose’s cause is doomed—you admit your vassals will not fight for him, and…and he has no right to give me to you…and…” The words tumbled out almost incoherently, mirroring her disordered thoughts. “Aye—and you cannot wish to wed with me without my father’s consent, can you? You said yourself that Curthose asks too much for me, and…and I’d not be a very good wife to you—I swear I would not. I mean, I cannot sew or weave or spin…or card even.” To her horror, a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth and then broadened. Hastening to finish her proposal before he touched her, she continued, “As you know, King Henry is my own godfather, my lord. Take me to him and you shall be rewarded, I promise—aye, you’ll keep your lands and…”
His smile vanished as he stared incredulously at what she asked of him. “You would have me take you to King Henry? To flee Rouen in the middle of the night, leaving my vassals behind to Curthose’s wrath? You would ask me to be forsworn—to forget my oath to my suzerain?” he demanded. “God’s bones, Demoiselle!”
“And what of your oath to my mother?” she retorted without thinking. “Aye, you promised on the Cross to keep me safe! And that, my lord, is the oath I would have you keep!”
“Jesu!” he muttered. “You could not ask for anything I could give you, could you? Nay, but you’d have me damned before God as an oath breaker if ’twould free you from me.”
He was not reacting as she had hoped. “Oh, nay—’tis not you, my lord,” she cut in quickly. “Nay, but you are greatly desired as a husband—indeed, the other ladies would have me most fortunate, but…”
“But I am not Brian FitzHenry,” he finished for her. “Well, I am sorry for that, but you’d not get him anyway.”
“I might! But if I am wed to you, then there will be no hope—can you not see that?” she pleaded. “As long as I am unwed, I can hope to change my father’s mind! Can you not see how ’tis for me?”
“Cat…Catherine…”He took a step closer.
“Nay, do not touch me!”
“’Twas not my intent—but I would have you listen to me.
”
She backed away again, this time losing her balance against the low bench, stumbling, and falling over it. “Ooooooph!” she gasped as she landed in a sprawling heap, the skirts of her chemise and overtunic billowing out from her legs.
“Are you unhurt?” he asked as he extended his hand to pull her up. She nodded and tried to brush dirt and twigs off her expensive gown. “As I was saying before you fell,” he continued while she smoothed her skirts, “you’ve not considered how it is for you. None was more surprised than I when Curthose offered you to me—aye, you can believe that or not—but do you know what he wanted for you? One hundred mounted mercenaries, twenty knights’ service, fifty footsoldiers, and five bowmen—all above what I already owe him for Rivaux.” He watched her eyes widen in shock at the cost. “Think on it, Demoiselle—there’s not many who can pay such in these troubled times: myself, de Mortain, Belesme, and a few others I’d not care to name. So if I refused Curthose’s generous offer,” he emphasized sarcastically, “think you he would have stopped with me? God’s bones; Catherine, but his duchy’s the prize now—he either keeps it or loses it—so your wishes are of small concern to him. He will use you to gain what he can and hope it will be enough to help him win. He cares not for you—he cares not for me. Nay, but I would not seek to talk me out of taking you, Catherine of the Condes, lest you be given to the likes of Belesme.”
“Belesme is wed.”
“Aye, but ask your lady mother how much marriage bonds mean to him.” He watched her recoil visibly and lowered his voice to speak more kindly. “And if not Belesme, then to whom would he give you? Let us consider. De Vere mayhap? Aye, now there’s a widower for you—with three wives buried yet. At least I am young and vigorous and you’ll not have to watch four men lift me into my saddle. But mayhap he might consider Brittany’s young sons—the oldest cannot be above ten—but what’s that to say when an heiress is being sold?”
“Stop it! You would mock me,” she hissed furiously.
“Nay, ’tis the truth I tell you. Take me, Catherine of the Condes, and make the best of what you are given. I at least am sworn to protect you, and I’ll not beat you without cause.” He paused, waiting for her further response, and was disappointed when her shoulders sagged and she looked away, her defiance gone in the face of reality. A disheartening silence settled over them as she digested what he’d told her. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he picked up the torch, its flame burned down to an orange glow on the hardwood limb. “Come on—we’d best get back while we can still see a little. You will have a tiring day on the morrow and you will need your strength.”
