by Anita Mills
“Well, my lord,” Mabille murmured, turning to him, “’twould seem you may ask of your people yourself.” Over her shoulder, she told Piers, “Dress him.”
“I would dress myself.”
Piers rummaged through the chests that lined one end of the solar and found Guy’s best tunic, the one he’d worn to see Henry in Rouen. Guy, who faced probable death, stilled his fears by studying Robert’s man. There was little about Piers de Sols that fit Belesme’s reputation, for the man seemed neither cruel nor unpleasant. When he came back with Guy’s tunics, chausses, and shoes, Guy asked him, “How is it that you serve Count Robert?”
“I am his squire these nineteen years, my lord. I have served him in every battle save Tinchebrai, and would have served him then but for broken bones.”
“Jesu, but how can you?”
Piers cast a covert look at Mabille and shrugged. “He has been good enough to me.”
“Then may God punish you for his blood sports,” Guy muttered as he slipped on the linen undertunic and then reached for his chausses.
“Nay, he does not ask me for that. I’ve killed no man other than in battle, my lord.”
His hands steady, Guy pulled on his hose and tied them beneath the undertunic. For the briefest moment he considered overpowering Piers and taking Mabille hostage in hopes of treating with Belesme, but then realized that none of them were armed. And ’twas said that the love between Robert and his mother was a strange one—that more than once he’d nearly killed her himself. But if he could use one of them for shield—nay, he sighed inwardly, he could not—Belesme would not treat for them. If anything, he’d bring out Guy’s men and begin executing them before his eyes.
Piers held out the overtunic and waited for Guy to pull it on. The black hawk of Rivaux spread its wings as he smoothed it, and Guy felt a fool for the way he’d been taken. He would have minded dying less if he’d struck a few blows first, but to have been caught by a ruse filled him with shame. He should have known that Belesme would not have stayed at Belvois, that he had not the men to sustain a siege into the winter, and yet Guy had ridden out and left Rivaux with far too small a garrison. How had Robert gotten William to surrender? he wondered, and new fear clutched at his heart. Had he killed William already?
“Art ready, my lord?”
“Ah…aye.” There was little use postponing the inevitable. Guy squared his shoulders and hoped he would not die a coward. “Aye.”
He followed Piers down the steep steps, passing the room where Rivaux’s men usually slept. The chamber had been swept bare save for a few rough benches and boxes and the rolled pallets that lined one wall. Did any of their owners yet live—and if so, then where?
Piers’s heels clicked on the flagged floor as they crossed the main hall to the room where Guy kept the records of his estate. The thought came to him as he reached the screen that he was glad he’d made his peace with Catherine before he’d sent her away. A stab of near-physical pain cut through his breast as he thought of her—she’d mourn him deeply, he knew. Aye, but he’d had what few men had had—for a time, he’d had Catherine of the Condes to love him.
Belesme warmed his hands at a small fire in the brazier. Guy stared at his back for a moment, noting for the first time that the older man’s tunic was faded and worn.
Piers paused at the edge of the wooden screen and cleared his throat. “I have brought the Count of Rivaux, my lord.”
“Leave us, then.”
Robert of Belesme turned around slowly, his green eyes traveling over Guy with a strange light in them. He appeared to stop when he reached the black hawk on Guy’s chest, and there was a flicker of something—disdain perhaps—that crossed his face. The dent in his cheekbone was even more pronounced than Guy remembered it, and the smile that twisted his mouth was made crooked by his disfigurement. Now that he was sure he was going to die, Guy felt like every moment dragged, making every observation unbelievably acute. They were of a like height, he and Belesme, but he thought perhaps he was outweighed by as much as a stone, maybe more. Noting the jeweled dagger that hung from Belesme’s belt, Guy considered his chances for overpowering and taking him, knowing full well he faced the man everyone had acknowledged the most dangerous in Normandy for twenty-five years and more.
“You might do it,” Belesme told him almost pleasantly, “But then again, I might carve your lights out and roast every man in Rivaux if you err in the trying.” Abruptly he changed the subject, gesturing almost wearily to where the constant drizzle wet the frame of the unshuttered window. “It grows chill for September—I’d hoped to avoid the rains.”
When Guy was silent, the older man leaned to pick up a steaming cup from a low table and held it out. “I mulled some wine for you—you will need it ere we are done.”
“Is this like the hyssop the Romans gave Christ?”
“Nay, ’twill but warm you.” He moved closer with the cup and his green eyes searched Guy’s face as though they looked for something. “Here.”
The metal cup was hot when he took it, but Guy raised it to his mouth to sip.
“Have a care—you’ll burn your tongue out,” Belesme murmured, still watching him.
“’Twill save you the trouble later, then.”
A faint smile again twisted one side of his mouth. “Nay, if you think I mean to kill you, you mistake the matter.” Robert lifted his cup and drank deeply before wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. Illogically, Guy remembered there had been a time when he would have been too fastidious to soil his clothes with food or drink. “Nay, I’d not harm you, Guy,” Belesme repeated softly. He stared harder, as though he would see something beyond mere appearance, and when he spoke again there was something akin to the old pride in his voice. “Though I think you no more afraid of me than I would have been.” He moved even closer, until Guy could see the age lines on what must have once been a handsome face. “Aye, but you have not the look of her,” he decided softly.
Taken aback by the sudden change in Belesme’s tone, Guy felt as though he were part of something unreal, some faery dream mayhap. “The look of whom?” he managed to ask.
“Alys.”
“I never favored her, I am told.”
“’Tis as well you did not—she was a foolish creature.” Robert waited for him to rise to the bait, but he did not.
“I never knew her, as she died birthing me,” Guy admitted, wondering where Belesme led him.
“Nay, but there is more of your father in you than you will care to admit.”
“I scarce knew him either, so if you hope to gain a fight with me over either of them, you’ll not do it,” Guy retorted, betraying his bitterness. “All I ever had of my father was Rivaux, and it was granted grudgingly to me when there was no other heir to name.”
“Not quite.”
There was something so compelling in those two words that Guy felt the warning hairs on his neck rise and his flesh chill. He had the sense that Robert enjoyed the slow telling of this as much as he enjoyed a slow killing. He took another drink of the hot wine to stave off the unease he felt.
“Aye, Alys was a foolish, silly maid wed to an old man who could not even do the deed,” Belesme continued conversationally. “She hated him—aye, you may stare, but she did. And she was a comely thing if one did not consider her foolishness, I suppose. I spent part of the winter here when she was but newly wed.”
Guy’s stomach knotted and his palms grew wet at the impossible thought that came to mind. “You have no reason to tell me this now that they are both dead, my lord.”
“Aye, I have every reason, Guy.” Robert of Belesme moved to look out into the courtyard at the gray, drizzling rain that fell there. “I was but twenty-one and newly knighted—Old William delayed that as long as he could, out of dislike for me, but that’s naught to the tale—and Alys thought to use me to rid herself of a cold and useless husband. My handsomeness excused my own coldness then, but there were not many as wanted to lie with me at that.
Except Alys. She was restive, wanting what Count Eudo could not give her, and she turned to me.”
“Nay!”
Belesme spun around at the vehemence in his denial and nodded. “Aye, but she did.” His green eyes grew distant, as though seeing again what had passed, and he continued, “She had dark hair, not so dark as Eleanor’s as I remember, and eyes that were more gold than brown. I used to close mine when we were together and tell myself she was Eleanor of Nantes. ’Twas not Alys I wanted—’twas Eleanor.”
“I do not believe you—’tis lies you tell!” Guy disputed hotly, despite the chill in his heart.
Ignoring the outburst, Robert went on, “Old Eudo was blind. Because I never lay with the castle wenches, he thought me safe enough—’twas even rumored that I shared William Rufus’ strange taste for men rather than women. It wasn’t until Alys conceived you that he discovered he’d been cuckolded. First she begged me to kill him, and when I would not because the Old Conqueror valued him too much, then she begged to go with me, saying she would tell him of it. I told her not to be a fool—to bed the old man any way she could—but she was too stupid to listen. She still thought to rid herself of him through me.” A harsh laugh escaped him as he remembered. “Aye, she told him she carried my babe, Guy, thinking he’d challenge me and I would kill him anyway. As I was as big as I am now and was already noted for my skill at arms, I knew he would not force a quarrel. I told him I would leave and say nothing of what had happened here.” His eyes met Guy’s now and held. “As well you know, ’twas my offer he took. He’d no wish for any to know of his shame, so he kept her—he beat her until ’twas difficult to recognize her, but he kept her.”
The knot tightened in his stomach and his gorge rose, threatening to make him vomit, for Guy knew deep within himself that Robert of Belesme spoke the truth. It explained so many things now—why he had been despised by both his mother’s family and by the man he called his father, why he had been sent away to the loneliness of a monastery when most boys went to foster, why he had to fight his terrible temper—dear God, but he was the son of Robert of Belesme! He bore the terrible Talvas taint—the blood that flowed in his veins was the Devil of Belesme’s. The witch Mabille was his grandmother. His very soul was damned to hell for the blood and madness he carried within him.
“Aye, Guy of Rivaux—art my son.”
“Why could you not have just killed me—why did you tell me this?” Guy asked numbly.
“Dead you serve no purpose, but living you fulfill what I promised to Eleanor of Nantes.” Belesme reached to take the empty cup from Guy’s nerveless fingers, and turned away to set it on the table. “Did you never wonder how ’twas you were given Catherine of the Condes?”
“Curthose needed men.”
“I gave her to you—I pushed him into turning to you.”
“You demanded she be sent to Mabille, as I remember it,” Guy contradicted as he fought hard within himself against the horror and self-loathing he felt.
“And you think he did not know how it would be for her? Nay, my demands forced him to do something to protect her from me. He needed men and money, aye, and I gave him the means to get them—and I gave the girl to you.”
“Nay, ’twould make no sense. You wanted her for revenge on de Brione—”
“And bring all Normandy down on my head then? I never wanted but Eleanor of Nantes in my bed since first I saw her—something your foolish mother and my countess would not believe. I knew Catherine of the Condes was not for me. She bears his blood as much as Eleanor’s.” Belesme walked the few paces back to face Guy. “But the day I went to the abbey to tell Eleanor she came to me, I vowed to her that my son would rule Nantes.”
“I think you are mad.”
“Aye. But my son will rule Nantes, Guy. My blood will triumph over them all—all who thought to thwart me in this: Curthose, Henry, Roger, Gilbert, even Eleanor. You defeat them for me—you defeat them all.”
“Sweet Jesu. And you tricked me at Belvois—you came here to tell me this?”
“I can tell none other.” Belesme’s eyes met Guy’s squarely. “Aye, you hate me, but I hold your fate in my hands,” he murmured with chilling softness. “’Tis fitting that the son most like me should fulfill what I once promised, is it not?”
“Nay, you lie to me—’tis all lies, Robert!” Guy denied suddenly, unable to bear the burden of what Belesme had told him. “If I were your son as you say, you’d not have burned Rivaux!”
“’Twas not yours when I burned it—Henry held it. I did but take revenge for you, Guy.”
“I’d defeat you. I have but to go to Henry and tell him of this, my lord. I’d tell him I do not want Nantes.”
“Nay, but you are not the fool your mother was—you’d know the cost. Henry hates me as much as I hate him. Think you he would let you live when he vows to rid all Normandy and England of the family of Belesme? And what of your wife’s family? Think you that they would welcome my son as they have Guy of Rivaux? Or Catherine? Would she want my bastard for husband?” He leaned so close that Guy could feel his breath. “Nay, you’ll hold your peace and know what you do for me.”
“I know you are mad.”
“Madness is in our blood, Guy.”
“I’d not have this blood! Nay, I have it not! ’Tis lies, lies—all of it! You seek to destroy de Brione through me—and I’ll not do it!” Guy’s voice rose in horror as he stared at Robert of Belesme.
“Lies? Look at me,” Robert commanded harshly. “We are of a height not common to most men, are we not? And your hair is as black as mine, your face much as mine once was before this.” His fingers touched his caved-in cheek. “Aye, and even your eyes betray what I have given you.”
“You are the only one to see it,” Guy spat out, and then he stopped, arrested by the memory of how Eleanor of Nantes had looked at him.
“Men have short memories, Guy. Too often they see what is now rather than what once was. But Mabille noted the resemblance as soon as she saw you.” He stepped back and his eyes raked Guy from head to foot. “And I would not have you think I take no pride in you, for you have gained lands as I have lost them, you have the battle skills I once had, and you have Eleanor’s daughter to wive. Aye, look at yourself with that black hawk of Rivaux blazoned there—’tis as much vanity as ever I had. There is that of me in you. And look at me…” He gestured to his own faded, spotted green tunic. “As you rise, I fall to this. Aye, my day is nearly done, and yours has just begun. You will carry the blood of Belesme to sons who will rule vast lands, and as you know it, I will know it also.”
“May God in his mercy give me no sons, then.”
“My family always has sons.” Abruptly Belesme turned and strode to the window. “When the rain ceases, we will leave. I take but provisions for my men from you. I have no gold to pay for the food, but I leave your people as I have found them. I did but come to tell you what you do for me.”
“I will hunt you down if you raid again in Normandy.”
“Nay, the monks had you too long. I saw that when we were together at Curthose’s court.” Belesme shook his head, his face still toward the open shutter as he braced himself against the sill. “To kill your father is forbidden you.
32
Gilbert scanned the horizon anxiously, his eyes darting along the lines of trees that dotted it, fearing to find some sign of Robert of Belesme. Ever since they’d reached Belvois and been told that Belesme had withdrawn, he’d wanted to return to Nantes, but Catherine would not hear of it. They would go to Rivaux first, she told him. And the more he tried to delay the sharper her tongue got, until he wondered how he could have ever thought her sweeter-tempered than her mother.
But just when his sense of ill-usage threatened to explode into anger, he’d look over at her and see how sick she was. He’d tried to leave her at Nantes—had done so, in fact—but she’d followed them, and he’d let her come finally, thinking she would slow him down and lessen his chances of meeting Belesme. Bu
t. she had not—she’d lost her breakfast and her supper almost every day and still managed to sit her horse and keep the pace. As much as he hated to admit it, he felt a grudging sense of pride in her. Aye, she’d bear a strong son for Nantes. With her spirit and Rivaux’s strength, that son would hold Nantes against all enemies.
“What say you to a rest, Catherine?” he asked, noting the now familiar ashen color of her face. “Art overtired, child.”
“’Tis not much further.”
Ahead of them, Gilbert’s outriders reined in and signaled a halt. One of them wheeled and rode back to warn his lord, “There are riders crossing into the forest beyond the river. Eustace cannot be sure from here, but he believes ’tis Belesme from their green shirts.”
“Belesme?” Cat’s eyes widened in dismay. “Where?”
“’Twould appear they come from Rivaux.”
She reeled from the news as though from impact, and Gilbert hastily leaned to hold her in her saddle. “Nay, it cannot be,” he soothed. “There is no smoke.”
“I’d have you pursue them,” she managed as she clutched at her pommel for strength. “I’d not have them escape again.” Her stomach weighed like a rock within her at the thought of what Belesme would have done to Guy. “Sweet Mary, but I’d not have him go unpunished if he has harmed my husband.”
“You look like death itself,” Gilbert muttered, his arm still bracing her. “Nay, but we stop here.”
“My husband is at Rivaux! Guy is at Rivaux! Nay!” She broke away from him and dug her spurs into her horse’s flanks. The animal, unused to such treatment, leapt forward and ran straight toward the river.
