Fire and Steel

by Anita Mills

  Catherine knew if she was caught out in the open, she risked being ravished by those who would take first and identify later, and she realized her only hope lay in reaching King Henry’s more noble allies. Even as she hid herself, she was numbed by the quickness of the defeat and the dull fear that Guy had fallen made her heart like lead in her breast. How could it have happened so soon? It was not possible that the husband she’d helped arm scant hours earlier could be gone already. A sense of hopeless rage rose, supplanting the numbness. She wanted to flail her arms and shout that there was no justice when a Guy of Rivaux had to fight for the likes of Robert Curthose.

  The screams of a woman drew her, and to her horror, she saw one of the camp whores pinned down, held by leather-jerkined men, her skirts hiked high to reveal thrashing white legs, while a common soldier grunted and thrusted, his buttocks bared above hastily dropped braichs. The raucous laughter echoed and died suddenly, and the soldier let out a cry of pain rather than release as a mail-clad knight leaned from his saddle to strike him with the flat of his sword.

  “Pursue the enemy! There’s time for that when we are done!”

  Recognizing Maine’s colors, she scrambled from beneath the wagon and ran pell-mell for the knight’s horse. “I am Catherine of the Condes, sir, and I crave protection! Sweet Mary, I pray you aid me!”

  Startled, the knight looked down from beneath his helm. His eyes narrowed above his nasal, taking in her torn gown and her panicked expression, Nodding, he reached down to her and pulled her up in front of his saddle. “God’s blood, Demoiselle, but what are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I was Curthose’s hostage. Please, sir, but I would find my godfather—I’d find King Henry—and I would know if Rivaux lives.” The words tumbled out of her mouth breathlessly. “I’d know if my husband lives. I pray you, help me!”

  Wordlessly he slid a mailed arm around her, balancing her on the huge battle charger, and turned back toward the battlefield. Bodies of the dead and dying, those cut down in flight, littered the open area below the town of Tinchebrai. Catherine closed her eyes and reeled from the sight of the maimed, sightless corpses and the sounds of the wounded.

  “Ho, Evrard, you found one!” someone called out.

  Cat opened her eyes to see a contingent of mounted men, their noble prisoners lined single file behind them, riding toward Curthose’s camp. At the front rode the king himself, flanked by Count Elias and the bareheaded and bowed Robert Curthose. They reined in and waited.

  “Cat! Sweet Jesu! ’Tis Cat!”

  One of the squires behind the king swung down from his horse and started toward her on foot. The knight who’d rescued her eased her off the charger, leaning to set her down in the muddy road, and turned to the king. “I found her beneath the supply wagons, sire—she says she is Catherine of the Condes.”

  “Cat! God’s eyes, but you are a welcome sight!” the boy before her cried out joyfully as he enveloped her in his arms.

  The smell of metal and leather and sweat commingled, but Catherine didn’t care. She clutched him gratefully and burst into tears. “Oh, Brian!” she sobbed into his woolen surcoat. “Is there any word of Guy of Rivaux? Does he live?”

  The mounted prisoners watched from behind Henry’s guard, dispossessed and disheartened. Guy stared bleakly to where Catherine stood locked in a boy’s embrace, and felt heartsick and empty. Beside him, William de Mortain watched and grumbled, “God’s blood, but there’s a bastard who’ll get what Henry takes of us,” and Guy knew without asking that he spoke of Brian FitzHenry.

  The king’s prisoner, Guy lay on his pallet and contemplated his bleak future. De Mortain had already been sent to England, blinded and condemned to a life of imprisonment, Robert Curthose was in confinement at an undisclosed location, and Henry had begun the task of dealing with those who’d remained loyal to Duke Robert. In Guy’s case, what passed for the king’s justice had been swift and severe. In a brief audience, he’d accused Guy first of treason, then of treachery in supporting Curthose. Unrepentant, Guy had reminded him that he’d have been forsworn to have done anything else, and Henry had grudgingly ceded the point. Not that it mattered ultimately, for he’d stripped Guy of Rivaux of all his lands and revenues, and ordered him to repudiate his marriage to Catherine of the Condes.

  Guy shivered and pulled his cloak closer as he remembered the king’s anger over the marriage. He ought to have obeyed, he supposed, but Cat had been forced into one alliance not of her choosing, and he’d not let Henry force her to take Robert of Caen also. Instead, he’d maintained the legitimacy of the union despite the king’s ranting that he’d break the marriage by papal decree. Cursing himself for a fool, Guy wondered why he’d done it—it was plain from watching that she loved Brian FitzHenry—it pained him still to remember her in the boy’s arms. What difference could it make to him if she were given to Robert of Caen or to the FitzHenry? Either way, she’d not warm his bed. But for some unfathomable reason, he’d refused to yield to Henry in this, and now he faced an exile in England. Shifting his arm to cradle his head better, he corrected himself—not England, really, but Wales. He was being sent to redeem himself by subduing the wild Welsh, something the English had been trying to do for centuries, something that only the ruthless Robert of Belesme had done before his expulsion from the country.

  There was no justice in what Henry would do with Curthose’s vassals, Guy reflected bitterly. The faithless Gilbert of Nantes was allowed to keep his lands and his revenues for merely giving his oath to the king, and Belesme, who had fled when de Mortain’s line crumbled, sat unmolested at home in Belesme—not that the count could rely on Henry’s pardon, Guy knew. Nay, but once the rest of Normandy was pacified, Guy had no doubt that Henry would once again turn his attention to destroying Belesme with as much tenacity as he’d used against the count in England.

  Beside him, William de Comminges lay wide-awake, staring at the tent ceiling. It was hard on a man his age to have to start over, but he’d sworn to the Lady Alys that he’d see to her son—and now it looked as though he’d have to follow the boy into Wales. His bones still ached from the blows he’d taken at Tinchebrai. Tinchebrai—a battle that had changed their fortunes all too swiftly.

  “Lord Guy?”

  One of the sentries posted outside stepped in to shake Guy awake, not realizing that he did not sleep. Guy rolled over and sat upright, hoping that he was not being summoned to another stormy session with King Henry. “Aye.”

  The soldier, his hand still closed over the precious silver mark she’d given him, glanced furtively at William before leaning closer to murmur, “You have a visitor, my lord.”

  “Jesu,” Guy muttered. “There’s not many as would still seek speech with me. Who is it?”

  “The demoiselle—the Lady Catherine.”

  Guy sucked in his breath and shook his head. Behind him, William sat up also, and his squire, Alan, rolled to stare up at the sentry. Guy’s heart raced at the thought of seeing her again, but he forced himself to remember her as he’d seen her last—in the comfort of Brian FitzHenry’s arms. “Nay, ’twould serve no purpose.”

  “She begs but a few minutes…” The man hesitated, knowing he risked his king’s displeasure by even allowing the visit.

  “Nay.” Guy was definite. “Tell her that King Henry forbids it.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The sentry retreated, hoping she would not demand her coin back.

  “I never thought to call you a fool, my lord,” William snorted in disgust.

  “William…” Guy’s voice lowered in warning. “’Tis not your place to discuss her.”

  Unmollified, the older man shook his head. “Nay, but you would cause her pain. She is your wedded lady, no matter what any dare say, and I’d not have you send her away.”

  “Jesu! What aid can I give her now? You forget she has a father well able to hold for her, whilst I am naught but disinherited. Besides,” he added glumly, “she can seek help from the FitzHenry. I doubt not
she already has.”

  “My lord—”

  “Nay, but Id not speak of her,” Guy cut him short.

  Outside, Catherine stared at the sentry in disbelief. “Did he say why he would not see me?” she demanded. Tears welled in her eyes and threatened to spill over onto her cheeks. “Did he say nothing of why?”

  “He said that King Henry forbids it, Lady Catherine.”

  “I…I see.” She stood, nonplussed for a moment, and tried to reason his rejection in her mind. Unaware of the man staring at her, she groped for an answer and found none—unless her usefulness to him had ended, unless the king had made it plain that he’d not inherit from her, regardless of the marriage. Somehow, she’d thought he was different, that he cared beyond dynastic ambition, but he would have been a rare man if he had. The lowering thought that she had been used—by Curthose, by Henry, and by Guy—that she was but pawn to be moved for advantage, defeated her.

  “Lady, are you unwell?”

  She blinked back tears of humiliation and stared up at the soldier. Gathering her dignity about her like a cloak, she straightened, squaring her shoulders. She was, after all, Catherine of the Condes, daughter to Roger de Brione and Eleanor of Nantes, and nothing could change that—nothing, she told herself fiercely.

  “Nay, I am cold only. And you may keep the money.”

  14

  March, 1111

  Unable to sleep, Eleanor of Nantes stared pensively out the narrow slitted window into the garden below. The air was crisp and the hoarfrost covered the dormant beds with silver that glistened in the faint dawn light. The pungent odor of wood burning in the main hearth and the numerous braziers throughout the keep mingled with the smell of bread already in the ovens. After a week of entertaining Henry and his royal retinue, even the Condes found its resources strained.

  But it was not so much the royal visit that troubled her, rather the fact that Henry had brought Brian with him. There was no question in her mind after seeing the young man in Cat’s company that he was more attracted to the girl than ever. And Brian FitzHenry was well on his way to equaling his father in the number of bastards he left behind, if even half the stories could be believed. He had such an easy charm with women that Eleanor worried about her eldest daughter, for Cat was becoming more restless as months and years passed with her situation still unresolved. The girl ought to be wed, Eleanor mused, and then caught herself—aye, there was the problem.

  Nearly five years had passed since Cat had come home after Tinchebrai, and in those five years neither Henry nor Roger had been able to break the girl’s marriage to Guy of Rivaux despite the pressure they’d brought to bear on the old archbishop before he’d died. Nay, he’d told the both of them, there was no cause—it could not be claimed that the couple was related within the bounds of consanguinity, nor could it be claimed the marriage had not been consummated. In a deposition sent to Rome, the old man had maintained stoutly that “if ever there was evidence of conjugal union, it is so in this case, for the girl bled heavily, owing to her small stature and her youth.” Finally, Henry had given in gracelessly, finding the heiress of Gloucester for his son Robert instead. And Cat, her poor Cat, had been left at the Condes, a wife without a husband.

  “Come back to bed before you chill yourself, Lea,” Roger murmured behind her.

  With a sigh, Eleanor closed the tall shutters and padded barefoot over to stare down at her husband. His blond hair, now lightened with strands of silver, was rumpled from sleep, but his blue eyes were awake and studying her. A thrill as intense as any she’d experienced in her youth traveled down her spine, sending a shiver of excitement through her when he patted the soft mattress beside him. After nearly nineteen years of lying with him, of loving him body and soul, she still found herself alive with anticipation. For answer, she let the loose robe fall away from her shoulders and slip to the floor.

  He reached up, catching her hands and pulling her down. “Jesu, Lea, but you are nigh frozen,” he chided as he warmed her with his body. “What ails you that you must needs sit and worry before ’tis even light?” Even as he spoke, his fingers stroked her hair, smoothing it out on the pillow.

  He was warm, he was safe, and he was going to love her the way she liked it, slowly savoring the pleasure of union between them, building intensity until neither could stand the fire that would consume them. His palm brushed her breast lovingly, nearly blotting out all else from her senses.

  “Sweet Mary,” she whispered, turning against him, “but I would that Cat could know even one-tenth of what is between us.”

  His hand stilled as he craned his neck to look at her. “All right,” he sighed, “’tis best to speak of her now, since she plagues your thoughts. What is it this time, Lea?”

  “She grows restless, Roger, and I fear for her. Have you not noted how Brian looks on her? He knows what ails Cat, and he would satisfy his lust.” Her hand crept to push back an unruly lock from his forehead, and her eyes met his. “He would make her his leman.”

  “Nay, he would not—they are but as brother and sister, Lea.”

  “As we were?” she reminded him.

  “That was different—I knew I could wed with you.”

  “Aye, but if it had not been possible, would you have lain with me anyway?”

  “Nay, I’d not have let you bear my bastards.”

  “Ah, but in that, Brian is different from you—can you not see it, Roger? How many bastards has he sired already?” Even as she watched him, she could see him mentally reviewing Brian’s many conquests. “Aye,” she pressed her advantage, “and Cat is truly beautiful. As much as it shames me to think it, I believe she would know what she does not have—can you not see where that will lead her?”

  “Cat is chaste,” he muttered, wondering where Eleanor meant to lead him.

  “For now,” she agreed readily. “For now. But she is flesh-and-blood woman—she is a child no more, Roger—she cannot but wish to be loved by a man.”

  He pulled away to prop his head with his hand and watch her. “Aye,” he admitted finally. “But there is no answer. The Church—”

  “But there is! Roger, she is wed already, is she not? Has not Holy Church said her marriage is binding—that she belongs to Guy of Rivaux? Yet she is here and he is in another land. It makes no sense, Roger!”

  “Nay, but he has nothing now, Lea. Would you give your daughter to one who is disinherited? Nay,” he answered his own question. “Have you forgotten that he wed her without our consent and knowing she was all but betrothed to another?” His ardor cooled, he threw back the covers and sat up. “I’d not speak of him,” he muttered.

  Eleanor clasped his shoulder determinedly and shook her head. “Roger, I know you think to put me off with your anger in this, but you will not do it this time. I cannot sleep for worry over her, and I’ll not let you turn me aside. Listen to me,” she reasoned with him, “and think on it—Guy of Rivaux is of higher birth than the man you would have given Cat to, and if he has lost all, ’tis through no fault of his own. He did but what you yourself would have done—he fought for Curthose because he was Normandy’s sworn vassal and owed no other liege.”

  “He has no lands!”

  ‘ ‘Because Henry took them!”

  “Jesu!”

  “Aye, and from what Cat said to me when she first came home, he had no choice in the marriage, either—had he not taken her, Curthose would have given her to another. If anything, he risked all he had in taking her, Roger. Why must he pay for that with his lands? Now he has neither Rivaux nor Cat—and ’tis not right!”

  “You want her to live as wife to Rivaux?” he asked incredulously.

  “Better that than dishonored. Aye, there’s little to dislike in the boy—he is young and handsome and honorable, and—”

  “And you’ve not seen him in five years,” he interrupted. “If he had wanted her, he’d have taken her with him.”

  “You cannot know that! He faced an angry king, Roger, and we both know
Henry has hardened in these last years—and we both know he knew we wished to give her to Robert of Caen! Then you and Henry sought to break the marriage! You do not know—mayhap ’twas all Rivaux could do to keep his life in the face of the king’s anger.”

  Grudgingly he turned back toward her, and she pressed her argument further with the skill of a counselor in royal court. “Think on it—Rivaux was but a boy called to a man’s responsibilities, and he discharged those responsibilities with honor—when Gilbert laid down his arms and Belesme ran, ’twas Rivaux that stayed and fought until Curthose was taken.”

  “Why have you not spoken of this before, Lea? God’s teeth, but it has been five years and you’ve said little of this—why does it weigh so heavily on you now?”

  “Because I can see my daughter yielding to Brian’s lust, and the result cannot be happy for any of us. ’Tis time she was given to her own husband.”

  Roger could see that she felt very deeply about the matter, but he was loath to think of parting with his firstborn, and particularly not to a man he scarce knew. To him, Catherine was the most precious of his children, his heiress, the culmination of his love for Eleanor. “He has no lands now,” he repeated defensively.

  “Then enfief him yourself—give him land for Catherine’s dowry,” she argued reasonably. “Make him your vassal, if need be, for we are rich in land and likely to gain more. Sweet Mary, but Cat will have Nantes and Harlowe and this also one day, anyway.”