Fire and Steel

by Anita Mills

  The feast, which began in late afternoon, lasted for hours. Bones littered platters, bowls stood empty save for congealed sauces that were left, and the cloths were stained from spilled food and wine, and still the merriment continued as jongleurs performed their tricks and troubadours sang of heroic men and beautiful ladies. Cat’s neck ached from sitting straight on the high dais with a smile fixed on her face. From time to time, the frequency increasing with the drunkenness of the revelers, someone would lurch to his feet and call out a toast to her, and everyone would lift his cup again. Her ears already burned with the bawdy comments of the men, but she pretended ignorance and continued to smile.

  Guy, more than a little drunk himself, lazed back on his bench, his back braced against the wall, and studied her from beneath heavy lids. God’s bones, but she was the most perfectly made female he’d ever seen, he decided as he took in her fine profile, those eyes so dark that pupil and iris often appeared as one, and that shining hair. Impulsively he leaned to lift the circlet that held the gold tissue veil over the crown of her head. She recoiled from the suddenness of his movement, and he mistook the reason.

  “Nay—I would but see your hair.”

  “You would have the duchess think me overbold, my lord, for I must leave it covered now.”

  “Not if your lord wills it.” Even as he spoke, he drew off the gossamer fabric to expose the shimmering waves of rich, deep brown that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. “You should always wear it thus.”

  “I think you have partaken of too much wine, my lord, else you’d know ’tis unseemly to have it unbound after today,” she retorted.

  “You are free to use my name now, Cat.”

  “I would, but it sounds strange to mine ears yet.”

  “When we are alone, I give you leave to practice saying it.” He straightened suddenly and handed her the veil. “Churchmen retire early, it would seem, and by the looks of it, our host of the night means to leave.”

  She looked up to see the archbishop rise, still conversing with Robert Curthose, and then he nodded toward Guy of Rivaux. One of the duchess’s older ladies, Marguerite of Chalon, came to whisper in Cat’s ear, “Would you have me go with you for witness, Lady Catherine?”

  A chill of fear gripped her for a moment and then passed. Somehow she’d not expected to be bedded so soon. “Aye.”

  “We are fortunate that not many will leave to walk so far,” Guy murmured low. “But I cannot give you long, else the gates will be locked for the night.” Rising, he pulled her up after him and held her hand high to signal the final toast. Obscene advice accompanied by raucous laughter was hurled at them, until, in full view of everyone, he bent to kiss her full on the lips. A cheer went up from those still sober enough to pay attention.

  “Run, Lady Catherine,” Marguerite urged. “Now!”

  “Sweet Mary,” Cat breathed, still shocked by the public kiss.

  “Go on.” With a playful push, Guy directed her into the older woman’s hands.

  It was no short run to the archbishop’s palace, but Cat, discovering that some of the younger men meant to follow her, gathered her skirts up and ran with the abandon of a child through the corridors of Curthose’s palace, the narrow streets of Rouen, and into the walled house. Servants in Bonne Ame’s colors barred the gates behind her and promised that none but the archbishop and her husband would be admitted.

  Hawise met her and led the way to the chamber William Bonne Ame had so generously offered for her wedding night. Even as the door closed after them, both Hawise and Lady Marguerite began stripping her, removing her girdle, pulling her gown over her head, and removing her undergown. As she stood in her snowy cambric chemise, Hawise began plaiting her hair, suggesting it would tangle less if it were bound, while Sybilla’s lady tried to advise her on what would be expected. “You must not weep or cry out, for ’twill give him a disgust of you,” she offered. “And if you but lie still, ’tis soon over.” Her eyes traveled over Cat’s slim body as though measuring her. “You are small yet, to be sure, but mayhap you will not conceive soon.” To Hawise she directed, “Remove the chemise that all may see she is unblemished.”

  “Nay!” Cat recoiled. “I’ll not!”

  Hawise grasped the chemise firmly at the waist and pulled it upward, drawing it over her head so swiftly that Cat stood naked before she could stop her. Already the clamor of those at the gates could be heard. In panic, Catherine broke away from the two women and tore open the bed curtains, scrambling inside and wrapping her bare body in the sheets. Even as Marguerite chided her for being foolish, Cat held the top of the cover tightly under her chin and listened to the running footsteps in the corridor. She swallowed hard and shut her eyes when the door burst open.

  “Where is she?” someone demanded drunkenly.

  To her horror, the bed curtains were pulled and her eyes flew open beneath the curious scrutiny of a half-dozen men. She must’ve looked as embarrassed as she felt, for Guy’s man William pushed everyone back, saying, “Nay, but she’s where she ought to be, my lords. Have done, else you will scare her wits from her.”

  Behind him, she could see that Guy was being stripped of his clothes amid earthy comments about his body. “Aye, and if you cannot keep her pleased with that, there’s something wrong with you.” Someone laughed.

  “Would you see her before witnesses, my lord?” Lady Marguerite felt compelled to ask.

  “Nay—I accept she is whole,” he responded quickly, his eyes on the red-faced Catherine.

  Cat bit her lip and willed herself to watch. The dark hair on his chest converged to the middle and continued downward in a line past his navel and below. As they pulled his chausses down to his ankles, she stared at his face and realized he was as uncomfortable as she was. He stepped out of them and then literally dove into the bed beside her, his face flaming, and she wondered momentarily if he were virgin also.

  “God’s bones, but you are wrapped in the sheet,” he complained. “Loose your hands and let me cover myself.”.

  “Nay.”

  His fingers pried hers off the cover and he rolled under, his body touching hers. Pulling the sheet up over both of them, he slid his leg against her calf and crossed her ankle with his. William de Comminges leaned his head in between the bed curtains and announced solemnly, “They are bedded, my lords—let us go back and drink more of Curthose’s wine to celebrate.”

  Catherine lay as still as stone, afraid to move under the weight of his leg. His naked body was harder and heavier than she’d imagined. As the noise outside the chamber died away, Hawise pulled the bed hangings shut and then dragged her pallet into a small alcove. Alone at last with the man she’d wed, Cat steeled herself, expecting him to throw his whole body over hers.

  Guy lifted his leg off hers gingerly and rolled over on his back to stare upward into the darkness. He was acutely aware of her, so much so that every inch of his body was sensitive to her nearness. Even her sharp intake of breath when he’d touched her had sent his pulses racing. But she was so young and so delicately made that he feared to take her. Struggling to master his desire, he willed himself to think of the mother who’d died bearing him, who had died because she’d been too small, and slowly, ever so slowly, the heat ebbed from his body.

  “You’ve naught to fear from me, Catherine,” he told her when he finally dared to speak. “Turn over and try to sleep.”

  Having prepared herself, willed herself even, not to cry out when he lay over her and took possession of her body, she could not believe what she’d heard at first. Relief flooded over her, easing her mind and body. He wasn’t going to take her maidenhead—he wasn’t going to tear her asunder to plant his seed—he wasn’t going to touch her at all. And even as she began to realize exactly what he’d said, he rolled to lie on his side, his back to her.

  Her relief faded, replaced with indignation. “Do you mean you are not…that you…?” Words failed her for a moment.

  “Aye. You have naught to f
ear of me, Catherine,” he repeated.

  The thought of Sybilla and the others smirking when it became known she’d not bled made Cat furious. “You are not going to lie with me?” she asked incredulously. “Nay, I’ll not be insulted thus! ’Tis my right, my lord—if you wed me, you’ll bed me!”

  “Catherine—”

  “Do not speak ‘Catherine’ to me! You would shame me, Guy of Rivaux, and I’ll not let you! D’ye hear me? I had no wish to wed with you, my lord,” she hissed in a lower voice, “but since ’tis done, you will not make me scorned for what is not my fault!” Pushing herself up to sit in the bed, she stared down at him.

  “God’s bones, but what ails you, Cat?” He rolled back over and tried to focus on her in the darkness. “Jesu!”

  “And I’d not be called Cat either!” In her fury, she let the sheet drop as she reached to poke him with her finger. “I prepared myself to accept what must happen between us, my lord, because I would not have it said I came not a virgin to you.”

  “’Tis more like that they’ll know you were too young to bed.” He caught her hand and held it.

  “Nay, they will not! Already there are those who sneer at me and gibe that I am unchaste!”

  “Cat…Cat…” He sat up also and tried to make out her features, but all he could see of her was the flash of her eyes. Groping for the pull cord with his free hand, he opened the bed curtains to let in the light from the sputtering tallow candles that stood impaled on tall iron spikes. “There’s none to say you are unchaste if I do not complain. Look at me—I am your husband now, Catherine, and ’tis only I who have the right to say how you came to me. Lie down and get your rest—the day has been overlong for both of us.”

  “Nay!” Hot, angry tears welled in her eyes and spilled over. “That ’tis not important to you makes no difference, my lord—’tis my honor you dismiss so lightly!”

  Despite her anger, she appeared very pale in the flickering yellow light. Guy’s eyes traveled from her face to where she held the sheet clenched below her breasts. She was small and yet the tipped peaks were firm and well-formed. His mouth went dry and his senses reeled. He sucked in his breath sharply and fought rising desire. With an effort, he released her hand and reached to pull the sheet up. “Cover yourself,” he ordered harshly.

  “Why? Do you find me displeasing?” she demanded. “Sweet Mary, but you have done naught but stare at me since first I saw you! And now you would not even lie with me!”

  “I do not find you displeasing, Catherine,” he answered with a sigh. “But you are overyoung—how long have you had your courses?”

  “Nearly a year.”

  “Jesu!” He’d not expected her to act thus, and he knew not how to appease her. His body, at war with his mind, warmed again to the nearness of hers, and yet he feared to risk getting her with child so young. Resolutely he shook his head. “Nay, ’tis not long enough—my own mother died in childbed when she was older than you.”

  “I am bigger than my mother,” she maintained stoutly.

  She leaned closer and her fragrant hair, which had come loose from its unfinished plaits, cascaded over him like a silken curtain, brushing against his bare skin and trailing fire in its wake. Her face was but inches from his and he could feel her warm breath as she spoke. The pupils of her dark eyes were large in the faint light and her lashes were like black smudges against her fair skin. Despite his resolve, he reached to twine his fingers in the silky mass of hair to draw her closer. As her image blurred from nearness, her lips touched his, tentatively at first, as though she didn’t know what to do. The taste of her was enough to send liquid fire through his veins. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he argued with himself that he could touch without taking. He leaned back, pulling her down with him.

  His body was lean and hard, the muscles of his upper arms and shoulders moving beneath her as his hands eagerly stroked her hair against her back. His mouth, which had been soft and pliant against hers, hardened also and demanded more than her lips, and as his tongue teased hers, a tremor of anticipation traveled downward, warming her. She wriggled against him, suddenly feeling his aroused body.

  “Jesu!” He pushed her off him and rolled to sit on the edge of the bed. “I did not mean…Nay, you know not what you ask, Cat.” With an effort he heaved himself out between the curtains and groped for his clothing. Cursing as he half-stumbled over a low bench, he found his discarded chausses and began drawing them on. Behind him, Catherine blinked in bewilderment and disappointment, uncertain if she’d done something wrong.

  “But where are you going? Nay, but you cannot leave me now, else I shall be doubly shamed, my lord.”

  “I will be back.”

  He dressed quickly, not bothering to garter the hose, and pulled on his tunic with such speed that his head seemed to pop out of the neck. Fear gripped Catherine—surely he did not mean to sleep apart from her on their marriage night. It would be bad enough when Lady Marguerite and the others came to see proof of her maidenhead on the sheets, but if her husband was not even with her…She dared not think what would be said of her. Too many would point and laugh—or pity, and that would be worse. She hung her head and managed to mumble, “If I have offended you, my lord, or given you a disgust of me, I am sorry for it—’twas but that I feared what everyone would say…”

  “I said I would be back. Lie down and try to sleep.” He slid his shoes on and bent to straighten the points over his toes. Straightening, he started toward the door.

  “Sleep?” Her brief lapse into humility forgotten, she sat upright and cast about for a weapon. “God’s blood,” she muttered, “if I were a man I would kill you for the insult you offer me.”

  His scarred eyebrow rose in amusement as he turned back to her. “Ah, Cat, the day will come when I will remind you of your eagerness—I only hope you are as willing then.”

  “Leave me, then! ’Twill give my father the means of breaking this marriage!” she flung after him. Pounding the pillow behind her, she flopped back down. As his footsteps grew fainter, she lay there seething, certain that Brian FitzHenry would not have left her.

  Willing herself not to think about it finally, she wriggled and burrowed until she made herself a place within the feather mattress and tried to sleep. Her eyes grew heavy from the fatigue of the day’s celebrations, and she was nearly asleep when he returned. He shook her awake, pulling her upright.

  “Get out, that I may tend the sheets.”

  “Unhhhh? Jesu, you are back,” she muttered irritably as she struggled to come fully awake.

  “Aye. Stand up.”

  Before she’d scarce had time to roll off the edge of the bed, he was pouring something from a small metal container onto the middle of the sheets. “Are you daft?” she grumbled. “Nay, but I’ll not sleep in a wet bed.”

  “Aye, you will. Get in there and smear it around—’tis pig’s blood from the slaughterhouse, but ’twill have to do.” As she stared in horror at the red splotches, he examined them. “Do you think ’tis enough?”

  “Sweet Mary—do you not know?”

  “I never lie with virgins.” He stepped back, grinning at the skeptical look she gave him. “Aye—’tis true. Whores know their business and expect naught but a coin or two in return. Virgins, I am told,” he added wickedly, “scream and cry or else lie like stone.” Gesturing to the bed again, he added, “Well, would you have some more? By the looks of it, even Sybilla ought to pity you tomorrow.”

  “You expect me to sleep with pig’s blood!”

  “It won’t hurt you—the pig’s dead,” he told her reasonably.

  “Sweet Mary.”

  He peeled out of his clothing with his back to her and then slid between, the soiled sheets. “You can stand there freezing if you wish, but I mean to get some sleep whilst I can. Curthose expects to leave Rouen later in the week, and you will find straw pallets hard and uncomfortable. You’d best enjoy the luxury of a bed now.” Turning on his side and propping his head on his e
lbow, he looked up at her. “And do not despair, Cat—you’ll grow and give me fine sons yet.”

  12

  Even though it was misting rather than raining outside, the day and the circumstances were dreary enough to dampen spirits in the small tent. Hawise sat in one corner, mending a rent in one of Guy’s tunics, while Catherine plied her needle determinedly, taking small careful stitches as Hawise had shown her earlier. The piece was simple enough, an undertunic of fine cambric with a blue diamond pattern embroidered at the neckline to show beneath an outer garment. Pricking her finger, Cat muttered a mild oath and sucked at the tiny drop of blood. Hawise looked up, a secret smile on her plump face.

  “Be careful that you do not stain the fabric, Cat,” she reminded the girl.

  “Aye.” Catherine held up the piece, turning it in the dim light provided by a tallow candle on a spiked stand beside her. “Do you truly think he will like it?” she asked skeptically. “’Tis not perfectly done, but neither will most of it show.”

  “Aye, he’ll like it—if for no other reason than ’tis your own work.” The older woman’s eyes twinkled as she added slyly, “Methinks, Cat, that you are not as displeased with your young lord as you once thought.”

  “Because I make him something to wear? Jesu, but there’s naught else to do, is there? I can scarce go about with hundreds of men outside, and besides, ’tis raining.” Laying aside the undershirt, she stretched her hands toward the small brazier that smoked beneath the chimney hole. “And even if it were not, ’tis cold for September. Jesu! Tinchebrai!” She spat out the name of de Mortain’s keep contemptuously. “It shows who has Curthose’s ear now, does it not? Guy says there are better places to fight, but because ’tis de Mortain, we come here.”

  Hawise smoothed the mended tunic and nodded complacently. In the fortnight since Catherine’s marriage, there’d been a subtle change in the girl, and it was a change that made the older woman proud of her little mistress. When the girl had seen that defiance would serve her ill, she’d capitulated and accepted her marriage with a grace that was obviously winning her the love of her young lord. Not once had Catherine spoken of Brian, putting aside her childish passion instead and making the best of what she’d been given. And from what Hawise could see of Guy of Rivaux, he appeared enormously proud of his beautiful little wife and valued her well. There were not many secrets when one traveled with an army, and more than one night, she and the others who shared the tent with their lord and lady had been kept awake until early hours listening to Guy tell Catherine of the day’s happenings. De Comminges, who appeared to have an almost fatherly relationship with his lord, had grumbled good-naturedly that “Catherine of the Condes knows more of Curthose’s plans than half the Norman baronage.” Aye, but Cat was far better off with the young Count of Rivaux than with the likes of Brian FitzHenry.