by Anita Mills
“We are the only sisters he knows.”
Catherine opened her mouth to set Aislinn straight, and then thought better of it. Brian FitzHenry could do his own wooing. Instead, she reached for her sister’s cold hand and held it. “Try to rest, Linn.”
“Aye.”
Aislinn closed her eyes and lay quietly while the wine and the bedcovers warmed her. After a time, she was so still that Cat thought she’d gone to sleep. Gently disengaging her fingers from Linn’s, she rose and tiptoed toward the door.
“I pray ’tis a girl, Cat,” Aislinn murmured suddenly. “Then he will not want the babe.”
After much shouting back and forth between William on the wall and Count Hugh before the gate, it was agreed that Guy would go out to discuss the matter under flag of truce. But for reasons of safety, Guy chose to do so in full mail. More than one fool had been felled by arrows while he spoke, he told Alan as he adjusted his helm over his face.
“I’d go with you.”
Guy looked down at Brian from the height of his horse. “Nay, you’d but anger him further.”
“I’d hear what lies he would tell you. You cannot know how he has treated Linn, my lord. Had I known of it before we left Mayenne, I’d have tried to kill him first. But she did not tell me until we were nearly here. If you’d not believe me, ask one of them.” He gestured to where the men who’d ridden with him huddled over the fire that heated the pitch. “Aye, there’s not a man among them as would not wish him dead.”
“I believe you, but I’d go alone.” His eyes were heavily flecked, giving no insight into his thoughts as they stared from behind the polished helmet. “If ’tis just Guy of Rivaux he faces, he either goes home or makes his quarrel with me. If it is both of us, there is already a quarrel.”
Nudging his horse forward with his knee, Guy indicated to the gateman he was ready. As a precaution against a ruse or a rush for the bridge, Rivaux’s bowmen fitted their notched arrows in the crossbows again and waited. Villeins soaked rag-covered torches in hot pitch and handed them up to the defenders on the outer wall.
Guy rode out slowly, leisurely even, always conscious of the dramatic effect of his presence. While still in range of his archers, he stopped and leaned forward to rest arms on the pommel of his saddle.
“I am come to see how it is that you invade my lands, Hugh of Mayenne,” he called out clearly.
“I come in peace, my lord,” Count Hugh answered loudly. “’Tis curious that I am given this welcome when I but seek my son’s wife. Send her out to me, and we will leave Rivaux.” He edged his own horse closer, being careful to stay just beyond arrows’ reach. “She carries the heir to Mayenne.”
“She has requested shelter, and I’d not turn my wife’s sister away.” Guy clicked his reins and moved to meet the older man on open ground. “If you would seek her return, you’d best discuss it with her father, for I am told her husband is dead.”
Hugh of Mayenne watched Guy uncomfortably. There was a studied arrogance about the Count of Rivaux that almost frightened him. He sat there too easily, his free hand resting on the hilt of Doomslayer, his flecked eyes cold in an impassive face. A shiver traveled up the older man’s spine, making him shudder. It was as though the younger man would as soon cleave him in half as speak to him. Hugh licked his lips nervously, but managed to protest, “Nay, but there is no quarrel with you—I’d but take the girl and go. As you see, I have few men and treat with you unarmed.”
“She wishes to return to her father.”
“This is not her father’s house, my lord.”
“Aye, but Earl Roger is gone to England. She turns to me as husband to his heiress.”
“She comes to you as Henry’s bastard’s leman,” Hugh spat out, unable to believe that Guy would care what happened to Aislinn of the Condes.
“’Tis my kinswoman you insult, Hugh.”
“The bastard fled with her ere my son was cold—what else am I to think?”
“If you accuse her, I will be compelled to defend her honor,” Guy told him coldly.
“Jesu! She’s naught to you!” Recovering, Count Hugh tried a different tactic. “You cannot wish to be burdened, my lord. Send her back with me, and when the babe is born, I will send her to her family. You have other concerns, do you not? He looked upward at the bristling wall. “Aye, your wall is unfinished yet—you’ve not the time to fight over a woman.”
Hugh of Mayenne’s words were meant as a veiled threat, but Guy ignored them. “’Tis nearly done.”
“I’d ransom her from you.”
“I’d stand her champion. Accuse her if you will, but stand ready to defend any accusation on the field of honor, my lord. I said I’d not turn her away, and I’ll not.”
“’Tis your final word?”
“Aye.”
“Then I pray you do not regret this, my lord of Rivaux, for the next time I come for her, ’twill be with an army!” Wheeling, Hugh spurred his horse and rode back to his men, muttering aloud, “God’s teeth, but he is an arrogant whelp!”
Guy sat there until Mayenne reached his escort and turned back to him. Lifting his hand in a mocking salute, Guy then eased his horse slowly back into his keep.
“Jesu!” Brian exhaled as he met him. “Does he mean to fight?”
“Not this time.”
36
Despite Mayenne’s threat, the harsh winter passed quickly and almost without incident. After Guy wrote to Roger informing him of Aislinn’s presence at Rivaux, her father sent permission for her to stay, and she provided good company for Catherine as both awaited their babes. Work on Rivaux’s stone outer shell continued as weather permitted, and was finished about the same time as the last spring thaw. And Henry, as Normandy’s duke rather than England’s king, unbent enough toward Guy to keep the feast of St. Catherine with them in November. During that time, he was persuaded to send his writ to Mayenne stating that the Lady Aislinn “hath of her own free will and conscience departed her late husband’s house in favor of her sister’s, and doth have all permission to do so, provided Mayenne’s heir be returned to his patrimony once weaned.”
Christmas came and went with new robes throughout the household, owing to Henry’s abatement of Rivaux’s annual taxes for that year only. Indeed, Guy had prospered sufficiently that when Catherine’s women had their Christmas chairing, the custom whereby they held the lord of the castle in his chair until he paid them gifts, they were rewarded with new cloaks apiece. Only the news that Eleanor of Nantes had taken her two youngest girls and gone to Harlowe to be with her lord marred Catherine’s enjoyment of the feast. But then, Earl Roger and all of them were expected back in the Condes by Easter feast, and plans were made for Aislinn to return to her family home as soon as her babe was born.
The spring thaws of March brought rumors of renewed raiding by Robert of Belesme, first in the Norman Vexin and then closer to Rivaux, but such was the fear of him that if rumors could be believed, he had the power to be at opposite ends of the duchy on the same day. There was a collective sigh of relief when the last stones were fitted in Rivaux’s high outer wall. Not content with this measure of security, Guy at once set about the construction of round towers to be built in four places inside the wall. And, true to his promise to her, he ordered the breaking of ground for the magnificent house he intended to build for Catherine.
On 2 April, 1112, Aislinn was delivered of a daughter born too early, and on 4 April they buried the babe beneath Rivaux’s chapel floor. For Catherine, now heavy with her own child, Aislinn’s tiny daughter was yet another reminder that the descendants of Gilbert of Nantes seemed to be all girls. Nonetheless, she clung steadfastly to the belief that she carried a son for Guy.
When Aislinn did not mend quickly, Catherine took it upon herself to write to Brian, who had returned to Rouen with his father. Drawing close to the fire in her solar, she dipped her quill in ink and carefully began:
Brian FitzHenry,
I heartily recommend me to you thi
s 7th day of April, and trust my message finds you well. Cecilia of Mayenne came into this world on 2 April and departed it shortly, may God in His mercy take her small soul. My lord husband wrote to Count Hugh of it this day, and dispatched the message forthwith.
She paused to look over what she’d written and sighed. She wanted to tell him to come back to Rivaux, but there seemed no politic way to put it, for Aislinn would not wish her to meddle in her affairs. But Cat knew Brian loved her sister, so she dipped her pen again to continue:
Aislinn does not mend well for disappointment in the babe, and I fear for her health. My lord father wishes her home again and promises to accept her will in whether she weds or not. I am told there have been several inquiries as to her person and her dowry, but Count Hugh delays in returning what my father granted on her marriage to Geoffrey. God willing, Linn will return to the Condes, leaving here 22 April with William for escort.
I am unhandsome but well and hope to be delivered of my son next month. It would please me greatly were you to stand godfather to him. I thought to ask William, who has served my lord so well, but he declines, saying he is too old for the task.
Reading it again, she was satisfied that he could not help but know what she wanted him to do. She added her closing and sanded the whole, shaking the white sand back into the small leather pouch she kept for her writing things. Aye, he’d know it was time to come for Linn—and she’d given him twelve days to do so. Otherwise, he would have to go to the Condes and attempt to persuade Eleanor that he had changed. And he had changed, for he drank no more to excess, nor did he fill his pallet with serving wenches and whores. Rolling the letter carefully, she inserted it in a cylindrical case and affixed Guy’s seal at one end.
“Give this to Sir William for dispatch,” she ordered her new page, a small redheaded child sent by a neighboring lord to be trained in her household.
“Aye, my lady.”
She could hear the boy run on the stairs and sighed at the boundless energy of children. Her own babe stirred within her, shifting from one side to the other. It had to be a son, for no girl could possibly make her ribs so sore.
“Did you not think to tell him not to run on the steps?”
She shifted on her seat and turned at the sound of Guy’s voice. Grinning, he came across the room to clasp her shoulders from behind and hold her against him. “Aye, I cannot think de Searcy would thank us if the boy killed himself ere he even got to where he played with swords.”
She leaned back against his woolen tunic, savoring the rough, hard feel of him. His hands slid down over her swollen breasts to tweak a nipple through her gown, and she felt a surge of desire and then disappointment as he drew back.
“Nay, ’tis too close to your time,” he murmured above her, smoothing her hair against her crown instead.
“I will be glad when I am not so ugly.”
“Ugly? Naught’s ugly about you, Cat. Big belly and all, you are still the loveliest lady in Christendom, I swear.”
“Art blind then.” She ducked away from him and rose awkwardly, clutching her gown to her swollen abdomen as though to hide it. “Sweet Jesu, but I will be glad when it comes.”
His expression sobered. “Do you fear it?”
“I think that must be why God gives us so long, Guy,” she decided. “When ’tis time, we feel ’tis overlong and are ready to part with the burden. If I fear anything, ’tis that ’twill be a daughter, or even worse, that ’twill die like Aislinn’s.”
“I’d be glad of a daughter.”
For a fleeting moment she glimpsed the haunted look in his eyes, but mistook the reason. “You are afraid also.”
“Aye.”
“Because of what happened to your lady mother?”
“Aye.”
“I am full grown and healthy, my lord, and the babe sits well within me. If my mother, who is far smaller than I, can be delivered ten times, then so can I.”
“I hope ’tis not ten times, Cat—I’d not put you through this so often.” He moved closer to wrap her in his arms and nuzzle the part of her hair with his chin. “Art dearer than life to me, love.”
To accommodate the babe between them, she had to lean forward to slide her arms around him. “I’d have a dozen sons for you rather than give up lying with you,” she murmured against his shoulder.
“What would you think of having the babe at the Condes with your mother to attend you?”
She stood very still within his arms, uncertain and afraid of his meaning. “Why do you ask?”
“Henry summons me to Rouen. I’d not go, Cat, but I dare not refuse him—he is overlord to all I hold.”
“But why?” she gasped in dismay. “Why is it that he needs you now? Can you not tell him…can you not write…? Nay, I suppose you cannot,” she sighed. “’Tis but that I would have you here for my lying-in.”
“I’d be here—you know I would—but I cannot depend on how long Henry means to keep me. I know not even why I am called,” he admitted frankly. “But Linn goes to the Condes, and I’d have you go with her. You will have William for escort, and he will see to the fitting of a cart so that you do not have to ride on horseback. If you leave this week, you should be there with weeks to spare.” Releasing her, he lifted her chin with his knuckle. “Aye, ’tis not how I would have it either, but at least I will know you are as safe as may be.”
“Why cannot I stay here?”
“If I cannot be here, I’d have you with your lady mother, your sisters, and women with skills in childbed.”
“Sweet Mary, but I’d not have you go,” she whispered, nearly choking on her disappointment.
The last place he wanted to be was Rouen, miles apart from her, not when the last few months had been the best of his life. It was no abuse of the truth when he said she was dearer than life to him, and he was afraid to leave her. Despite her brave words, women did die in birthing, and she would be torn apart bearing a child, he feared. Even as the babe moved between them, it frightened him to think he had passed on the blood of Belesme. What if she looked on the child and saw Belesme in it? That thought had haunted him from the time he learned she carried the babe. Now it had reached such proportion that he had to will himself not to dwell on it, a near-impossible task given that she expected him to share her pleasure in his child.
“I will plead your illness,” he decided finally. “Mayhap Henry…”
That he would do it was proof enough for her. “Nay,” she decided, sighing again, “I’d not cost you his goodwill, Guy. ’Twas wrong of me to tear at you for what cannot be helped. ’Twill be good to see Maman again.” Her hands clutched at the woolen tunic as though to hold him as long as she could. “When do you ride?”
“I am bidden to be there Monday.”
“’Tis but four days!”
“Aye, I will have to leave on the morrow, but you and Linn will have William to tend to your needs,” he tried to reassure her.
The whole household was subdued as news of Guy’s departure spread. The isolation of winter had lulled everyone into a sense of self-sufficiency, and now those who had looked forward to the birth of their lord’s heir as being the final link in the chain of normalcy for Rivaux were to be denied. It was a sudden and all-too-grim reminder of their feudal state, where raiding and rebellion could again tear apart their peaceful world. Even William de Comminges, whose fifty-five years of life had been regularly punctuated with war, uprisings, suppression, and the interminable preparation for those things, was reluctant to see the peace of the winter past come to an end.
“God’s bones, my lord, but we have only finished the wall, and now we have not the security of staying behind it,” he grumbled to Guy.
“’Twill not be for long, I hope. Henry summons Normandy’s council, most probably to levy more taxes—I have heard that his daughter’s wedding last year still beggars him.”
“Art not such a fool, my lord,” William scoffed. “You leave me with women whilst Henry rails at the baronage f
or aid against Belesme, and well you know it.”
It was always difficult to fool William. “All right—aye, I think he means to ask for aid, but I give you the greater task. I’d have Catherine safe at the Condes before Belesme raids again. Robert is mad enough that I cannot trust he will not come here, and I’ll not be home.”
“’Tis a long journey for one near her time.”
“Hawise judges she has another month before the babe comes.”
“Humph! I’ve seen them count wrong before, but aye—I’ll do it.”
“If anything should happen…” Guy hesitated, afraid to put his worst thoughts into words. “If Catherine…”
“I’ll send to you at Rouen with orders that the messenger is to follow you until he finds you. But she is well, my lord, and there is naught to suspect otherwise.”
“Aye, but the babe…Oh, Jesu, William, but I’d not have her bear it,” he finished finally, looking away.
“You speak as though you think its feet will be cloven, Guy. ’Twill not be so. ’Twill be but an ugly, shriveled creature as you were once, and then ’twill grow as you have.” William raised his hand to touch his young lord and then dropped it. “Nay, but there’s no speaking to you, is there? You have haunted yourself with what you fear, and naught I can say will convince you that the evil of Belesme is in his mind and not his blood.”
“Then you cannot explain Mabille or William Talvas, can you?”
“I know not what made them as they were, my lord, but I’d ask you this: do you see madness in yourself?”
“There is a violence in me, William.”
“God’s blood!” the old man exploded. “Art a fighting knight and a man! Aye, you kill in battle, but is there a pleasure in the killing?”
“Nay.”
“I saw you cleave eight men outside Ludlow, my lord, and then I saw you empty your guts when ’twas over. Think you Belesme has ever done the same?” With the authority of a king’s prosecutor, William shook his head. “Nay, you have not, and therein lies the difference between you. If every man who had a temper thought himself insane, Normandy would be naught but madmen!” Then, sensing that he had overstepped the bounds between a knight and his lord, he exhaled heavily, muttering, “Your pardon, my lord, but ’tis wrong of me to, tax you. If I offend you, ’tis but for the love I bear you.”
