Fire and Steel

by Anita Mills

  It had begun this time when Maine had gone to the warlike Count of Anjou upon the death of Elias of Maine, and even Henry dared not leave the duchy—not when the age-old rivalry with Anjou threatened again. And unless he mistook the matter, Guy expected France to take advantage of the growing strife. Already he’d heard in Rouen that Robert of Belesme, bolstered by French gold, had crossed from his sanctuary in France into the Vexin to burn whole villages and destroy the crops before they’d scarce begun to grow. Amid the growing violence, it was speculated that Henry would ask Roger de Brione to take the field against the Devil of Belesme once again.

  But the strife that brewed boded well for Guy, he’d decided as he lay awake among the snoring men who shared the common room in the ducal palace. Aye, the more he thought on it, the better he felt about coming home. With Elias dead and de Braose, Malet, and Bainart deprived of their lands, there were few, other than the Lord of the Condes, strong enough to combat either Anjou or France—and certainly none other who would willingly pit himself against Belesme. But if Guy had nothing else to offer, he had acknowledged skill as a fighter, both as a knight and as a leader of men, and he meant to make use of his own reputation to redeem his lands of Henry. Nay, Henry needed him now.

  Rising early, he endured the combined ministrations of Arnulf, Alan, and William, even submitting to a fresh barbering, to make himself presentable for court. But when Arnulf thought to give him a liberal sprinkling of rosewater, he’d had enough. “Nay,” he told him, pushing him away, “I’d not go smelling like a maid going to her marriage bed.”

  William looked at him from beneath grizzled brows and shook his head to hide his pride. “There’s naught about you to be mistaken for a maid, my lord—not when you stand a full head taller than Henry and half a head taller than most. Aye, and not with that face of yours—’tis more like to turn a maid’s head than be mistaken for one.”

  Guy instinctively felt the thin scar that divided his cheek, rubbing it ruefully. “There are those who prefer shorter men with rounder faces.”

  “Art a fool if you would believe that,” William snorted.

  Arnulf smoothed the front of Guy’s best tunic, a long overshirt of gold cloth that would reach well past his knees. Holding it to the light of the window, the body servant inspected it for spots and found none.

  The design was magnificent—the black hawk of Rivaux, its talons studded with glittering cabochon stones, spread across his chest as though it swooped for prey. The design had been chosen for political reasons as much as anything else. Guy meant to go before his suzerain with the full trappings of his patrimony, for he intended to gain more than Rivaux if all went well for him. When dealing with Henry, he suspected that he’d need a show of strength rather than weakness. He stooped slightly to allow Arnulf to draw the rich garment over his head and straighten it over his trunk. For once, he was glad he’d not sold it, for now he could face Normandy and his court without anyone knowing just how straitened his circumstances had become.

  Alan stood ready with Guy’s stamped and studded sword belt and waited for Arnulf to lace the exposed undersleeves of Guy’s red silk shirt with gold cord. His lord stood the almost ceremonial dressing patiently, knowing all too well that he needed to make Henry think he was still possessed of some wealth if he were to gain what he wanted. The irony was not lost on any of them—a poor man was likely to be rewarded poorly and a rich man stood to be given more to buy his loyalty. When Arnulf was finished, Alan buckled the heavy belt and stepped back to get Doom-slayer, Guy’s prized sword. William knelt to fasten to his ankles the spurs Guy had earned on knighthood.

  Guy took the sword, balancing it as before a battle, testing its weight and admiring the intricate chasings that decorated the polished steel blade. He’d won it from a knight returning from the Holy Land, a fellow who’d told him the design was an incantation that protected whoever wielded it. His hand closed over the tall forged hilt. It felt good—it embodied the warrior in him. Satisfied, he slid it into the scabbard that hung almost to his feet.

  “God’s bones, but you look more ready for war than peace, my lord,” Alan murmured. “Had you come in mail, they’d think you meant to fight.”

  Guy nodded grimly, acknowledging the truth of it. He and William had discussed how to approach Henry and had decided that a martial appearance would serve him best, for he meant to remind his duke of his value as a fighter. Already in Wales there were those who had compared his ability to that of Robert of Belesme, and Guy meant to remind Henry of it. If Anjou threatened and Belesme raided, Henry had need of Guy of Rivaux.

  Arnulf shook out the short cloak of green brocade and stood on tiptoe to fasten it at his master’s shoulder with a large round brooch. He’d scarce managed the clasp before a page in Normandy’s colors knocked lightly and entered the chamber.

  “My lord of Rivaux?” he asked respectfully.

  “Aye.” Guy slid a sheaf of documents under his tunic.

  “His Grace would see you now.” His eyes wide in admiration, the boy took in Guy’s tall frame, noting the exquisitely stamped scabbard and the hilt of Doomslayer. “Is it true, my lord, that you slew twenty Welshmen unaided at Wigmore? We had a fellow sing the story when we were at Shrewsbury,” he blurted out suddenly.

  “Nay.” Guy watched the boy’s face fall in disappointment and relented, grinning. “’Twas but eight.”

  There was a buzz of whispers as they passed into Normandy’s audience chamber, the same chamber where Curthose had first given him Catherine of the Condes, and Guy knew much of the talk was of him. For effect, he elbowed back his cloak to rest his hand on the hilt of his sword as he walked past the first group of courtiers. “Sweet Jesu,” he heard someone utter, “he comes armed.”

  The knot in his stomach eased when he saw King Henry sitting in the carved chair of Norman dukes. He had his chance now, and it was as good a chance as he’d had on any battlefield. He walked slowly, savoring the swell of anticipation that followed him. Robert of Belesme had once gained much through his fearsome reputation, Guy remembered, and he himself was not above reminding everyone of his own military prowess—after all, he not only had to get Rivaux back, but he had to keep it. He stopped a short distance from the youngest of the Old Conqueror’s sons, Henry, the first of his name to rule both England and Normandy.

  The duke conferred with a clerk, giving Guy the opportunity to stake his ground first and to observe the man who would become his liege lord. Had he not met him before, Guy would have been disappointed, for there was little in the man’s dress or appearance to distinguish him from any other. He wore but a plain gown slit at the sides to expose his hose where it fell away at his knees, and his head was bare. Then Guy noted dispassionately that he’d abandoned the Norman custom of being clean-shaven for a Saxon beard. But when Henry’s brown eyes turned to him, Guy was almost arrested by the shrewd, calculating way the duke assessed him. They watched each other warily while the chamber grew quiet. Finally Henry beckoned him forward. Guy swung his scabbard backward as he knelt on one knee in obeisance and then rose unbidden.

  “God’s blood, but he’s arrogant,” one of the clerks whispered to another, drawing a barely discernible twitch of amusement in Guy’s otherwise impassive face.

  “How left you Wales?” Henry asked without preamble.

  “Mayhap better than I found it, Your Grace,” Guy responded easily.

  “You are overmodest, my lord. I am told you have served me well there—Hereford was loath to have you leave him.” Henry’s eyes rested on Guy’s sword hilt speculatively. “But then, my father believed a warrior is a warrior wherever he may be.”

  “If he has the inclination.”

  His eyes narrowing, Henry knew that although there was nothing disrespectful in the younger man’s words, he was not returning as a penitent begging to be given what was already his. And the duke was enough of his father’s son to appreciate what Guy of Rivaux could mean to him. Silently he was grateful that Eleanor had ask
ed for his return, for now that he saw him, he instinctively saw a man capable of balancing Normandy’s fractious barons. Aye, with Guy in Rivaux and Roger in the Condes, Belesme would find a duchy ready to stand against his raids. Even though Rivaux was young for the task, Henry had heard and seen enough to know that he’d not give an inch of what he held without a fight, something that could not be said for Gilbert of Nantes and a host of other barons. Aye, he’d have the inclination.

  “Well-said.” Henry nodded. “You will serve me well in Normandy, I think, if you are properly rewarded.”

  “I ask for but what is my birthright, Your Grace.”

  “Rivaux is yours—give me but your oath to keep it.”

  “And I will swear freely for it,” Guy answered solemnly. “But there is the matter of my other estates—those I hold of my mother’s dowry and as my grandsire’s last heir.” His eyes met Henry’s squarely and held them. “If there is a dispute as to who should hold them, I am prepared to sue to determine my rights in ducal courts, Your Grace.”

  Henry stiffened, knowing full well that any hearing that touched on a man’s birthright could stir others to follow the example. God’s blood, but Guy of Rivaux was shrewd for one so young, almost as shrewd as he himself had been. The initial surge of anger he felt at the young man’s audacity turned to grudging admiration—a dispossessed lord with naught but his sword arm to recommend him dared demand restitution in veiled terms. Waving vaguely to where the clerks sat behind long tables, he delayed, murmuring, “’Tis a complicated matter, Lord Guy, and will take some time to determine which lands would bear a claim.”

  Guy reached into the bosom of his overtunic and drew out a packet of writs that bore seals dating back before the Conqueror’s time. “If you will acknowledge receipt, Your Grace, they have my leave to examine these. I think they will find that my claim is primary in every case.”

  Henry, who fancied the appellation of Beauclerc because it reminded people that he could read, took the writs and scanned them silently, noting the seals affixed at the bottom of each. The one pertaining to Rivaux itself predated Henry’s great-grandsire. Nodding grimly, he handed them back to Guy. “Give them to the clerks,” he directed. “They will be confirmed. You will do me homage and meet your feudal obligations for each.”

  Guy gave an inward sigh of relief. Henry would no doubt exact a stiff price for what he grudgingly confirmed, but Guy was once again a landed magnate, possessing enough to carry weight in Normandy’s council. “Whenever Your Grace wills it,” he managed aloud.

  “You were with the monks, were you not?” Henry asked dryly. “’Twould seem they taught you well.”

  “Aye.”

  “What think you of Sunday next?”

  “If ’twould please Your Grace, I stand ready to swear to you now,” Guy countered, his eyes still on Henry’s. “I’d return to mine own lands as soon as may be and look to my defenses before Belesme reaches Rivaux.”

  “Aye, he burned it last year, and I doubt it has been repaired since. And, as ’tis Whitsunday, you will be well-witnessed.” Henry stood, still looking upward at Guy, taking measure of him. “You have my leave to swear now.” Turning to the table of clerks, he ordered that the oath-taking be recorded for the marks of the magnates present.

  Belesme had burned Rivaux. Guy’s face never betrayed the anger he felt, but he silently vowed revenge on Robert of Belesme. Let other men boast of what they would do—he would do it.

  Henry waited while the clerk’s pen scratched carefully across the parchment. Impatient, he nodded to Guy. “You will go to Rivaux when you leave here?”

  The image of Catherine as he’d left her floated before his face unbidden. “Nay,” he decided, “I return to the Condes for a wedding first. Then I will go to Rivaux.

  22

  Grasping Isabella by the shoulders, Catherine propelled her after Philippa. “Go find Maman,” she ordered the two youngest girls. “I would look to Linn.”

  “But I would watch her dressed,” Bella protested loudly.

  “As would I—’tis not fair of you, Cat,” Pippa added with feeling. “How is it that you are sent?”

  “Because I am a wedded lady. Now, be gone, both of you, else I shall tell Papa you’ve no wish to attend Linn at her wedding.”

  Bella hung back mutinously, but her sister clasped her hand and pulled her toward the courtyard. “Have done—Gerdis needs to straighten your sleeves anyway.”

  “Cat!”

  Catherine turned back from watching the girls, to find Brian waiting for her on the stairs. She’d scarce seen him since that first night that Mayenne and his retinue had come to the Condes, and she was surprised to see him now. He was already dressed for the wedding and looked especially fine in a new blue tunic that hung just past his knees, but she was almost too angry to notice. He’d blown hot and cold since Guy rode out to Rouen, first making a fool of himself over her at supper and then ignoring her ever after. Her sense of ill-usage grew at the sight of him.

  “Oh, ’tis you,” she muttered silently. “I cannot tarry for speech, for I am expected to aid Hawise in readying Linn, and I am overlate.” She started to brush past him, but he caught her arm. “Nay, unhand me,” she told him coldly.

  “I am come to tell you that I am leaving after the wedding, Cat.”

  In spite of her anger with him, she stared, her eyes widening in surprise. He met her gaze soberly and nodded. She leaned against the rough-hewn stone and tried to comprehend what he was telling her. “You are leaving me also,” she echoed slowly. Her anger gone, she felt nothing—not the wrenching anguish of his earlier parting from her, not the terrible pain of loss she’d expected. Instead, there was but a sense of emptiness when she looked at him, an emptiness that left her baffled.

  “There’s naught for me here, Cat,” he told her gently.

  “’Tis your home.”

  He shook his head. “Nay I thought I could return and we would be as we always were—you and me…Roger…the girls. But ‘tis not so, Cat. You are Rivaux’s wedded lady, and I can never be your father’s son. Linn told me that but a few days ago, and I’ve thought of naught else since. She is right, you know.” His brown eyes never wavered from her face. “If I stay here, I’ll never know if I can make my own way or not.”

  “But what will you do? You have no lands…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered she touched on his bitterness.

  “I mean to go to my father. I’ll offer him my service, but if he has no place for me, then I will turn to another landed lord. There cannot but be one who would welcome a man trained in the skills of war by Roger de Brione, I’d think. Aye, and if none will take me, I’ll return to my mother’s house.”

  “But ’tis Wales, Brian.”

  “Aye, and there is always fighting there. Mayhap the husband my father gave my mother will welcome me, if not for my blood, then for the sword I bring him.” He scanned her face, disappointed that she did not even protest her love for him. “Rivaux managed to come back from there with my father’s favor—mayhap I could also.”

  “Brian—”

  “Nay. Do not feel the need to say what is not in your heart, Cat. ’Tis time for the truth, I think.”

  “Do you not love me even a little?” she managed to ask.

  “Aye, but not as we have thought. Linn made me realize that what I really feel for you is but the love of a brother. Oh, I admit that I have wanted you—who could look on you and not think the thought?—but ’tis your father’s love I have sought. Mayhap I believed I loved you because I wanted to be his son. God knows, but my own father loved me not.”

  “Sweet Mary!”

  “And ’tis not all my fault if things are different between us, Cat. You were not the same Cat who came back from Tinchebrai, I think. I did not see it then, but I see it now as I look back to then.”

  “Nay, I…” She halted numbly and looked away. “I was glad this year when you came back to the Condes.”

  “I know. But have you th
ought that ’twas because you sought diversion from your life here? Your place is with Guy of Rivaux, Cat, and I think you already know it.”

  “You do not have to leave because of me, Brian.”

  “There’s naught here for me—you will go to Rivaux, Linn will go to Mayenne, and your father has a full household. If I stay, there is but wenching and drinking to occupy my time. Your father is at peace, and there’s none foolish enough to challenge him. If I stay, I will become but a drunken sot too willing to take any woman to my bed.” He reached to lift her chin with his knuckle. “Linn made me see the truth, Cat.”

  Brian was leaving her. Oddly, the pang of sadness turned to relief: she need not feel guilty for lying with Guy of Rivaux. And then a different, deeper sense of loss struck her, leaving a dull ache in her breast. Rivaux did not want her either. To him she was but a mother for his sons. But she had too much pride to let anyone know how deeply Guy’s leaving her had stung. Gathering her dignity, she managed to smile at the man before her. “Wheresoever you go, whatsoever you do, Brian FitzHenry, I wish you Godspeed.” Tears brightened her eyes as she leaned to kiss his cheek. “God keep you safe.”

  “God’s teeth, Cat, but I think I like your claws better,” he told her gruffly. “Aye, I shall miss you.”

  Aislinn stood in the center of her mother’s solar while Hawise straightened the glittering gown over her plain chainse. The fabric, called “flames of fire” for its iridescence, caught the light from the window, and its interwoven threads of red, green, and gold seemed almost to glow. Chafing her cold hands, the girl felt a sense of panic. She was overold to wed and she went to a kind and gentle lord, she told herself to bolster her flagging courage. Aye, there was little to dislike in Geoffrey. Surely he would use her gently. Maybe too gently. She’d watched him these last days since Brian had said he was more maid than man, and what she’d first thought but gentle courtesy she’d begun to see as a flaw. Indeed, even her father had remarked that the Geoffrey who came to the Condes seemed little like the boy he’d met years earlier. But who could envision what changes time would bring? Mentally she compared him with Brian FitzHenry and Guy of Rivaux and found him sadly lacking in manly appearance. But Brian wenched, she admitted, and Guy made Cat unhappy. And somehow she could not see Geoffrey taking another woman to his bed, nor could she see him quarreling with her as Guy did with Cat. In truth, she could not see him doing anything.