by Anita Mills
“So you can climb on me like a rutting beast when ’tis done?” she asked bitterly.
He stood stock-still for a moment, his eyes bleak as they contemplated her. “Is that what you think I mean to do, Catherine? Whether you choose to believe it or not, just because I take what Curthose offers me does not make me an animal.” He grasped her shoulder and turned her back toward the doorway. “Come on—you’ve got to get back undiscovered.”
“I care not if I am seen.”
“I care. I’d not have it said my countess lacked modesty or was free with her favors.”
She stared up at him a moment and then sighed, nodding. “Aye.” His fingers squeezed her shoulder and then he released her. Falling in beside him, she walked back, her mind occupied with the realization that she could not stop the marriage—that by the time the sun set on the morrow, she’d be Countess of Rivaux. It had been foolish of her to think it could be otherwise, she chided herself, and now she would have to force herself to give up her dreams of Brian FitzHenry. As she kept stride with him, her thoughts strayed to the inevitable and she stole a sideways glance at him, wondering what lying with him was going to be like.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading to Sybilla’s bower. As she turned to him, he tried to hide his disappointment by telling her lightly, “I’d ask a kiss for escort, but I’d not be like just any castle lout.”
“Nay, you could not be,” she managed. For a moment her heart pounded at the thought that he might kiss her again anyway, but he merely lifted her chin with his knuckle and studied her beneath a torch ring. His green-gold eyes were sober.
“God grant you a good night, Catherine,” he told her finally.
“Where have you been, Demoiselle?”
Both of them spun around at the sound of the duchess’s cold voice, and Guy instinctively reached a protective hand to Catherine. “She was ill, Your Grace, and would have me bring her back.”
Sybilla’s eyes traveled over Catherine first and then Guy, with open disapproval taking in the girl’s soiled gown and his bagging chausses. Without acknowledging Guy’s explanation, she addressed Catherine. “’Tis well you” wed, Demoiselle, for I’d not keep you in this house. The ladies who serve me are chaste.”
Catherine took in the shocked faces of the women behind the duchess and reddened in embarrassment. “Nay, but I fell on the way,” she tried to explain lamely.
“Get you to your bed. Your woman awaits you, Demoiselle, and you will need your sleep.”
Thus dismissed, Cat had no choice but to climb the steep stairs up to Hawise. Her head held high, she turned her back and started up. Behind her, she could hear Sybilla bid Guy of Rivaux good night, the censure in her voice still evident. And as his footsteps faded on the stone floor, one of the duchess’s ladies sniffed, “And ’tis well rid of her you are, Your Grace, for I’ll warrant the little demoiselle is virgin no more.” “Aye,” another agreed, “there’ll be no blood in her marriage bed.”
Cat briefly considered running back to confront them, but then realized it would serve no purpose other than gaining her further censure from Sybilla. As it was her last night under the duchess’s protection, she would simply go on up to bed. On the morrow, her things would be moved to the Archbishop of Rouen’s palace, where she and Guy would share their marriage bed in more privacy than Curthose could provide. She had Guy to thank for that, at least, she grudgingly admitted to herself, for surely the bedding ceremony could not be overly bawdy in such a place.
In the hallway below, Guy left the duchess and started back, tired now in spirit as well as body. He’d not expected Catherine of the Condes to be overjoyed to wed with him, but neither had he expected her to cling to her childish passion for Henry’s bastard son. God’s bones, but could she not see that he could make her Countess of Rivaux whilst all FitzHenry could do was wait to gain what she inherited at some later year? And what made her think herself so different that she should have a choice in the matter? Did not all daughters of noble houses wed where they were given, accepting husbands old, young, fat, thin, violent, overly pious, or given to vices too secret to mention, and meekly become vessels for their husbands’ seed? Nay, but he could not see Catherine of the Condes doing anything meekly, he admitted. A wry smile curved his mouth as he thought of her. In the short weeks he’d known her, she’d not gone tamely to her fate, but rather had struggled every step of the way, and he could not but admire her for it.
It was strange that he could think of her as his lady already when scarce four days before he’d not even considered taking a wife. Aye, he’d never had the time or the inclination to dally with fair maidens, preferring instead the simple relief of an occasional whore who knew what she was about. Would the spoiled and pampered Cat be repelled by what was expected of her? Would she cringe and cry in her marriage bed—or would she fight? That gave him pause. He’d no wish to ravish a woman, whether he had the right or not. He stared unseeing, trying to imagine in his mind what she would look like without her fine clothes, her slender body pale, her dark hair spread out on his pillow, and the very thought made his mouth dry with desire. Would her eyes, already a deep brown, darken with passion, or would they stare at him in horror? Somehow he could not think of Cat being afraid of him. Cat. Aye, but she was rightly named, his Cat.
“My lord?”
He looked up, startled by the sound of William de Comminges’ voice, and realized he’d come all the way back to the common sleeping area, where a space had been curtained off for the more notable of Curthose’s guests. He’d walked darkened corridors unseeing, his thoughts on Catherine of the Condes, and yet he’d somehow managed to find his way. God looks after all fools, he supposed.
William, having known Guy from his birth, sensed his introspective mood and fell silently into step beside him. The boy was a puzzle to him, a complicated person whose great prowess in combat was matched by an almost unbecoming gentleness despite all William had done to toughen him. That he could dispatch his enemies with savage thrusts of his broadsword and yet save a cat from those who would torture the creature was almost beyond comprehension. Eyeing his young master from beneath heavy brows, the grizzled old warrior tried to make sense of the boy. It had been a task of pride to take the child of ten and teach him the art of war so well that Guy of Rivaux’s prowess surprised enemies eager to dispossess him. Aye, but the boy was cunning and strong, his savagery tempered and checked by years in the monastery. God’s blood, but if the old count had waited much longer to relent, it would have been too late to make him a warrior.
“What think you of the Demoiselle?” Guy asked finally, breaking the silence.
“I think her overyoung, my lord.”
“Aye.”
“And too small to bed,” William added significantly.
“She is already bigger than her mother.”
“She is but thirteen.”
As much as he’d said the same things to himself during the four days past, Guy was reluctant to part with his dreams of Catherine. Part of him realized the truth of what William said, but part of him wanted her in spite of it. “Holy Church accepts that a girl of twelve may be bedded,” he reminded William.
“Aye, and Holy Church buries them also, my lord. If you would keep the little demoiselle long enough to bear your heirs, you’d best not lie with her.” The older man cocked his head for a better look at Guy. “But she is yours to do with what you will,” he added with a shrug, knowing that he’d touched the young man’s conscience. “She is, after all, a beauty, and she’ll be all fire, I’ll warrant.”
“Aye.”
“Your mother wed at thirteen.”
“And died at fourteen—is that what you would remind me?”
“It is something to think on, is it not?” William retorted. “Why wed an heiress if you would not have what she brings you? And a dead girl brings nothing, my lord, for the lands go to the next daughter if she has borne no babe.”
“Do you remember her—my mot
her, I mean?”
“Aye.”
“What was she like?” In all of his years, Guy had never heard much about the child bride of his elderly father, and he suddenly wanted to know of her now.
“She was a beautiful child.” William shook his head and sighed. “Aye, and a very foolish creature who paid for her sins.”
“You do not think I should have taken Catherine of the Condes, do you, William?” Guy asked suddenly.
“I think you have a war to fight, my lord. And I think you have made too many enemies. There’s not many—nay, not even Curthose when he thinks on it—who will like the looks of Rivaux, Nantes, Harlowe, and the Condes together.” His eyes met Guy’s soberly and then he nodded. “Aye, and that is what your son may one day have—if Curthose wins.”
“I know. I hear the grumbling already,” Guy admitted, “but there’s not many as would pay what I pay to get her.”
“Except Belesme.”
“Aside from his first protest, Count Robert has said little—’tis de Mortain who would howl as though stuck. Now Curthose would have it that I must wed the demoiselle first and renew my fealty after, so ’twill not look as though he sold her. Jesu! As though none will suspect when all know! We fight for a fool, William.”
“Aye. And you’d best seek your pallet, my lord, else you’ll be unfit for your marriage bed.” William reached affectionately to clasp the boy’s shoulder. “Aye, and whether you bed her or not, you’d best look ready for the task.”
“And you?”
“I go back to the hall, my lord. Curthose provides wine and jongleurs, and I’d not miss them. I did but come to see how you fared.”
“I am all right.”
All was quiet after William left, and Guy once again eased his tired body onto his pallet, taking the time only to remove his shoes. Rolling on his side, he cradled his head and tried to sleep. Jesu, but never before in his life had he found the task so difficult—not when he was but a child sent to a monastery or a boy come out to fight for his patrimony. And now he had even more to lose—his life, his lands, and Catherine de Brione. Never in all his years had he risked so much with so little hope of success, for this time all that he had depended on the feckless Robert Curthose’s ability to keep his duchy. Trying to banish troubled thoughts from his mind, he closed his eyes and thought of Catherine.
11
Bells pealed throughout Rouen, signaling the plighting of troth between Catherine of the Condes and Guy of Rivaux. It was to be a day of ceremonies, the first being the marriage, followed by the renewal of Guy’s oath of fealty, and then a wedding feast. Necks craned and eyes strained for a glimpse of the bride when she came in on the duke’s arm. If any considered it strange that ’twas not Gilbert of Nantes that gave her in marriage in the absence of her father, there were others who considered it further evidence of Curthose’s favoritism toward his young vassal. A hush descended over the assembled baronage and clergy as the duke placed the Demoiselle of the Condes’ hand in Guy of Rivaux’s and stepped back. She was very pale but otherwise composed, a picture of regal beauty to all who’d come to admire, to witness, and to grumble over Guy of Rivaux’s good fortune.
She stole a sideways glimpse through the gold tissue veil that covered her hair and flowed down over her shoulders from beneath a simple circlet set with uncut stones. Beside her, Guy stood, his rank splendidly displayed in a tunic of red silk, heavily embroidered and crusted with winking jewels that caught the colors of the ornate stained-glass windows above them. The tunic, which nearly touched the floor, was split on the sides and laced with gold cord past his hips, falling open below to reveal bright blue hose that fit smoothly over his calves and disappeared into gold-embossed red leather slippers. His black hair was freshly barbered and hung in a fringe over his brow, flattened by the narrow gold circlet that proclaimed his ranking amongst the baronage. His flecked gold-green eyes were somber as he faced the premier cleric of the duchy. But without looking at her, he must have sensed her eyes on him, for he squeezed her fingers briefly.
It was morning still and therefore yet cool, but Catherine felt suffocated by the closeness of the air within the cathedral. Closing her eyes momentarily, she fought the panic rising in her breast. In a matter of minutes she would belong to Rivaux forever, she would be his to do with as he willed, and her fate would irrevocably be tied to his. She felt his hand tighten again and became aware that the archbishop had begun to speak, challenging any who would stand against the marriage. A low rumble spread through the crowd, but no one spoke out openly, and then Guy, in response to the question of whether he would take her, spoke loudly and clearly for all to hear with an “aye” that seemed to reverberate off the walls, the pillars, and the vaulted ceiling, echoing again in her mind, an audible reminder that she was to be his. As Guy repeated the age-old vows, she found herself oddly calm now, her panic receding with acceptance of the inevitable. There was a pause and she suddenly realized that the archbishop addressed her, asking if she would take Guy of Rivaux for husband. Sucking in her breath, she released it slowly and nodded. “Aye,” she answered low. In what seemed almost to be a dream, she repeated the words spoken before her, matching the archbishop’s cadence.
It did not take long, the ceremony that bound people to each other, and as Catherine knelt beside Guy to receive the blessing of Holy Church on the union, she resolved to make the best of what she had been given. Guy of Rivaux was neither old nor fat nor stupid nor cruel, and for that at least she could be grateful.
As soon as the Cross was signed over their bent heads, Guy leaned closer to whisper through the golden veil, “Art lovely, Catherine—fairer than a man dare expect.” His breath was warm and his voice soft against her ear.
Coloring, she struggled to her feet, encumbered by her flowing gown with its layers of chemise and undertunic twisting about her ankles. Supporting herself on Guy’s arm, she lifted the full skirts away from her legs and straightened them. Sybilla, under Curthose’s orders, had spared nothing in the making of the wedding finery, and despite the haste of its construction, the gown was truly beautiful. Smoothing the rich green samite down over the undergown with her free hand, Cat caught the edge of the hem and slid it over a hook on her golden girdle to expose the banded undergown of purple sendal.
Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “I am ready, my lord.”
Later that day, Cat would be hard-pressed to remember much of the Mass that followed. As she sat between Guy and Gilbert of Nantes, her attention wandered, first to covert glances around her and then to the beautiful patterns of rich blues and reds and greens created on the stone floor by the light that filtered through the windows above. The image of Brian crept unbidden into her thoughts, but she resolutely pushed it away. That part of her life was past forever.
The press of bodies, some unwashed, heated the air and made it close. Cat closed her eyes and told herself that it would soon be over, that she had but the renewal of Guy’s oath and dinner to survive before she could rid herself of the hot veil and voluminous gown. Aye, but then would come the bedding, she remembered suddenly, and her stomach tightened at the thought. Well, she would survive that also, for she had a fair notion of what would happen, and while it sounded distasteful in the extreme, she could be comforted in that she’d have the satisfaction of proving she came virgin to her husband. Guy’s hand moved to cover hers on the carved armrest, and his fingers stroked hers. She closed her eyes but did not pull away.
When at last the priest pronounced the final benediction, Guy released her hand and stood, ready to give his public avowal of support for his embattled duke. Cat nudged her grandfather awake, and he lurched from his seat, thinking it finished, only to fall back, glowering from beneath full gray brows. A few more minutes, she told herself, and they could go out into the air.
In full view of everyone, both Curthose and Guy walked forward. People shifted uncomfortably in the hard seats and craned to watch as Guy of Rivaux knelt to place his hands between the duke’s
. Cat leaned forward, straining to hear Curthose ask, “Do you wish without reserve to be my man?”
“Aye—I wish it,” Guy answered clearly.
The archbishop stood behind the duke with a small casket believed to contain a relic of the martyred St. Stephen, ready for the swearing. He stooped to whisper something to Curthose and then nodded to Guy.
Clearing his throat, the young count began, calling out to the assemblage, “I promise, by my faith, that from this day forward I will be faithful to Robert, Duke of Normandy, and will maintain toward him my homage, entirely and against every man, in good faith and without deception, so help me God.”
Curthose released his hands and took the casket, holding it out, asking, “Do you swear on these bones of St. Stephen that all you have said is true and binding, now and forever?”
For answer, Guy placed his right hand on the box. “I so swear.”
As Curthose raised him to bestow the kiss of fealty on each cheek and to receive it in turn, Catherine turned to see Robert of Belesme watching her, his strange green eyes cold, his face impassive. Suppressing a shudder, she wondered what he thought now, now that he’d lost in his bid to send her to Belesme. Her eyes met his briefly and his expression did not change. Jesu, but one could not tell what was in his mind. Abruptly he turned to look at Guy, and an odd smile crossed his face, sending a shiver of foreboding down her spine. She was certain that her marriage had not ended whatever plans he had for her and that Guy could now consider the Count of Belesme an enemy.
