by Claudia Dain
Rowland rose without a word, his entire manner bespeaking ready eagerness, his dark eyes urging William to follow him from the hall. William rose also, yet he was not so urgent. He had sent Rowland out to learn what he could about Cathryn and Greneforde, but there was a part of him that shrank from what he suspected he would hear. And still he was drawn to her. It mattered not; he would know what there was to know. There was no other path.
Gazing at Cathryn, he said, "Enjoy your meal, Cathryn." He added softly, his smoky eyes not leaving hers, "Ulrich, no more wine for my lady; I fear it blunts her appetites."
She had naught to say to that and watched in puzzlement as William and Rowland left the hall. William le Brouillard was an unexpected man; anger rolled through him as well as desire, and both swirled in the same current. He was definitely an unexpected man. His anger she could understand; his desire in the wake of his carnal knowledge of her was not what she had expected. Not after his heartfelt proclamation that he cared nothing for her as she lay naked upon his bed.
Father Godfrey moved to Rowland's place and seated himself next to her. Her usually calm expression was replaced by one of mild confusion. Wanting to comfort her without betraying the confidence William had placed in him, Godfrey offered, "Rowland has information regarding the well-being of Greneforde that is of supreme importance to William. They should rejoin us soon."
Cathryn nodded, her brown eyes fixed upon her plate, the food scarcely touched.
"The bond between them is strong," she commented, lacking anything of substance to say, her mind on William's remark regarding her appetites.
Godfrey smiled. "Yea, a bond unbreakable they share."
Cathryn lifted her eyes from her plate, her interest aroused. Godfrey's smile widened. He had achieved his purpose: to draw her thoughts off herself and onto another.
"It takes time to forge such a bond," she said.
"Time and much heat," he supplied.
"And hammering?" she asked.
"Yea, they have had their share of hammer blows in this world," Godfrey agreed, "but they are the stronger for it. So it is that God causes good to come of evil."
Cathryn's eyes turned again to her plate, her expression almost wistful.
"Does He?" she asked softly.
"Yea, Cathryn, He does. Though 'tis hard to give Him thanks when obstacles litter the path He has chosen for us, but thank Him we should."
"And William," she challenged, "did he thank God when his family lands were lost to him?"
Godfrey's eyes did not reflect censure or even surprise. He only said, "So you know something of William's long fight for Greneforde? I wonder, do you know the whole of it?"
Before Cathryn could answer, he said, "Nay, for how could you when no man knows the full tale of another, though he hear it word for word. 'Tis in traveling the same path that the true tale is known, and each man travels his life path alone, save for the knowledge of God he carries in his heart."
Godfrey suspected that Cathryn would adjust herself more readily to her husband if she knew the long travail his life had been, yet he did not want to be the one to share it with her. That should come from William, and from William she should seek it.
"Rowland and William met in Damascus, did you know?" he asked.
"Yea, Ulrich told me a pretty tale of valor beneath the blazing sun and the shadow of the wall," she answered with a smile.
"A pretty tale and true," Godfrey informed her. "There has been naught that could separate them since that day, not even Rowland's grief."
He let that lie between them, understanding women better than many another priest of God.
When Cathryn could no longer bite back the words, she asked, "And what caused Rowland's grief?"
Godfrey settled into his seat, fingering the tassels on his cushion, before he began what Cathryn prophesied would be a long and sad tale.
"If you know of Damascus, you must also know that Rowland d'Albret is of France, but not of Normandy, as is William. Rowland is of Aquitaine." Godfrey sighed and took a sip of wine. Cathryn waited for him to continue.
"Lubias was his wife."
Cathryn's eyes widened. She had not suspected that Rowland was married, or had been married.
"Rowland has been long from his wife," Cathryn said.
"Nay, his wife has never left him," Godfrey contradicted, his voice heavy with emotion. "The journey to the lands of our Savior is a long one, and Rowland was not eager to go, though he is a worthy and earnest soldier of Christ; 'twas his love for Lubias that hindered his going. But go he must, for is there a man alive that does not hunger for war and a chance to wet his blade on God's behalf? Lubias, loving Rowland, understood his quandary and solved it for him, Lubias rode at Rowland's side when they left Aquitaine."
Cathryn had heard of such. It seemed there were wives, loving God as deeply as their husbands, who also followed the Way of the Cross and willingly endured the certain privations that came with such a journey. Few, even the hardiest of men, survived such a trek; Cathryn knew by Father Godfrey's tone that Rowland's wife had not survived.
"She was not at his side when he left Damascus," she said quietly.
Father Godfrey looked at her lingeringly and said sadly, "Nay, for William rode at his shoulder then."
"Was the road Rowland and his Lubias shared a long one?"
"Rowland would answer nay, but she was no flower to wither at the first frost. Lubias rode with her husband the breadth of France to Verdun. She bathed in the waters of the Rhine and the Danube and they entered Vienna together."
"Did she ever see Damascus?"
"Nay," he answered, "she traveled as far as Philippopolis, a noble Latin town. There the Germans—" Godfrey frowned—"in ungodly fashion, turned the market into a brawling mass, which was their usual practice."
"To what purpose is such an ill-advised practice?"
"None but a German could tell you, and I doubt even he, for they act without thought, moved by impulse and not by reason. In this instance they charged ahead, not allowing the French to inspect and buy the goods we all so earnestly needed; they were intent only on filling their own needs with no thought of those others who traveled with them. As a result, a brawl broke out, and French and German rained blows and shouted insults upon each other in equal measure. The French managed to break free of the market with their newly acquired goods, and this enraged the Germans. Seizing their arms, they pursued their allies in the cause of Christ. The French took up arms and put up a stiff resistance against the rage of the German horde. It ended only when God caused night to fall."
Godfrey looked into his goblet, now empty, for many moments.
"What of Lubias?" Cathryn whispered, knowing the answer.
Godfrey looked up, his eyes weary.
"Lubias." He sighed. "Lubias was with Rowland in the market that disgraceful day. A German knight faced him and they fought with swords ringing, the sound clanging like a dissonant bell. Rowland slipped and fell to one knee. 'Twas not a mortal fall, and I am certain he would have recovered swiftly, but Lubias would not take such a chance."
Cathryn edged forward on her seat, certain of what was to come and recoiling from that certainty.
"She rushed to Rowland's assistance, striking a blow upon the helm of the German. Striking from behind."
Godfrey breathed deeply and set his goblet down, his eyes closed against the memory.
"The German whirled and struck her down. He did not know his attacker was a woman. 'Twas over more quickly than words can tell it," he finished grimly, "and Lubias lay lifeless upon the stone."
"And the German?"
"His blood joined hers at the next strike of Rowland's sword. Then Rowland carried her away; he would not have her soiled by the Germans even in death."
Cathryn closed her eyes and clasped her hands. She would never have suspected that Rowland carried a memory of such sorrow. Then she remembered Father Godfrey's words.
"He carries her still," she said, opening
her eyes to seek out the priest's.
Godfrey looked at Cathryn appraisingly. She understood much.
"Yea, he carries her still, and though his burden is heavy, he will not relinquish her."
"You have advised him to?"
Godfrey smiled ruefully. "He would kill the man who spoke such words to him of his Lubias, priest or no."
Cathryn sat silent, as did Godfrey, in the high-ceilinged hall, their food forgotten. She wondered, in the most hidden corner of her heart, if it were truly possible for a man to love a woman as Rowland loved his Lubias.
* * *
They stood near the stable, the smell of the hay pleasant, the heat emitted by the horses comforting. They stood far from the great tower to insure their privacy.
"Greneforde Tower had a neighbor," Rowland began, his dark eyes as bleak as death. "Lambert of Brent. He occupied a motte and bailey fortification to the east of here."
William waited, knowing there was more, knowing that Rowland had searched until all that had been hidden was revealed. He ignored the twist in his gut at hearing of Lambert, so close to Greneforde, so close to Cathryn.
"His holding was not impressive," Rowland continued, "and was destroyed by mercenary knights not a year ago. He and his men—" Rowland swallowed heavily—"lived at Greneforde for a few months."
William was silent, waiting for all of it, knowing he had not heard the worst.
"They left," Rowland continued slowly, "upon hearing of Henry and Eleanor's coronation. They left hurriedly after they had delayed as long as possible."
William waited, his eyes the color of heavy fog.
"Lambert was ever in the company of Lady Cathryn."
He had a name now for the man who occupied his wife's heart, a heart she kept carefully defended against him. A name for the man who had taken what rightfully belonged to him; the virgin blood that should have covered him had covered another. Lambert of Brent.
William le Brouillard turned away from Rowland and faced the tower, rising solidly in the darkness and the rain. His eyes were as impenetrable as the fog that lay shroudlike above the chapel. With steps quiet and quick, William moved toward Greneforde Tower.
Rowland, despite his loyalty to William, found himself pitying Cathryn of Greneforde.
* * *
William sought not Cathryn, not yet. He would give her every chance, though he could in no way imagine what could save her after what he had just learned. She had consorted with Lambert for months, breaking off the sordid pairing only when Henry took the throne, he who was vocal in his intent of restoring order to a wildly chaotic land.
William sought John the Steward—John who knew all that occurred within Greneforde's walls and would have access to information that perhaps Rowland had not. If there were words to save her, John would have them, but William would have the truth, whether it saved or damned her. He would know all before he faced her again. He found John on his way to the kitchen.
John was caught completely off guard when the lord of Greneford clasped him on the shoulder with a heavy hand. Turning quickly, knowing who accosted him by the very strength of the grip, he faced a solemn William with black-eyed Rowland at his back. Tremors gripped him and rolled unevenly through his innards. This was to be a confrontation; he had no doubt of it.
"You have been steward of Greneforde long, John," William said quietly, with no sign of emotion. "There is much I would know of Greneforde's history. You will tell me."
It was a command and nothing less. John responded in the only way he could: he obeyed.
"Yea, Lord William."
William nodded his acceptance of John's capitulation and asked, "Greneforde has a neighbor, Lambert of Brent."
John's wide eyes and indrawn breath were all William needed in the way of confirmation.
"Lambert's holding was destroyed."
"Yea," John agreed.
"He came to Greneforde. He resided here, in my lady's company, for many months," William intoned, his gray eyes icy.
"Yea, he came—" John began.
"She sheltered him," William charged, his voice a heavy monotone, his manner as cold as that of an executioner.
John could see that the facts were lined up against his lady. Despite his fear of William's manner, John could not allow such an indictment to stand against Cathryn.
"Lord," he said urgently, "Lambert was not invited to Greneforde."
"Yet he stayed for many months," William softly contradicted.
"Yea, he stayed," John agreed, all thoughts of caution quickly evaporating in angry defense of his lady, "for there was none to make him go!"
"Lady Cathryn could have—" William began.
"Nay, not Cathryn," John argued, his voice hoarse with suppressed emotion. "Not she. She could do naught against him, though she did try."
William's black brows lowered in a scowl, his gray eyes appearing even stormier than before.
"She did not send him away."
"Lord, listen and believe what I will tell you, though I break the confidence my lady placed in me and whose honor I hold dearer than life," John beseeched. "Lord Lambert appeared at our walls with Lord Philip, Lady Cathryn's brother, in his grasp."
"I was told of no brother," William cut in, frowning furiously.
"Nay, none were told, and that was his sister's doing. Upon the death of her mother, Philip grew ill and was thought close to death. He was long in recovering his strength. It was at this same time that Lord Walter, lord of Greneforde, departed for the Holy Land. My lady knew her situation was dangerous: a young woman and a younger heir, left with a prize that many would covet. Philip was sent to Blythe Tower in greatest secrecy, his survival depending upon all thinking him already dead. So they separated for their very lives, with only a few knowing the truth of Lord Philip's whereabouts."
"And Lambert found him," William commented, not at all convinced of the veracity of the tale.
"Yea, through the duplicity of Greneforde's priest," John spit out.
"Holy God," Rowland murmured in horror.
"Lambert appeared with Philip in tow and all his knights with him, calling for Greneforde to open her gates to him. To surrender. There was no fight, though what remained of Greneforde's knights wished differently. Cathryn would in no way put her brother's life at risk. The gates were opened and Lambert came in. By nightfall, Greneforde's knights lay dead," John said harshly, his wise face stark in the dim light.
"Go on," William commanded.
"Lambert is no honorable lord," John continued flatly.
"Such things are done by knights," William argued. "Greneforde is not the first great tower to have been taken by treachery."
"Nay," John all but shouted, "such things are not done by knights sworn to uphold Christ's holy standard." His brown eyes wide, he croaked, "Lambert took my lady. With savage brutality he took her. Do you comprehend? He took her and beat her when she fought him. Have you not marked the scar that slices her brow? Lambert did that, the first time."
"It cannot be," William argued in a whisper, unholy images rising to curdle his thoughts with their poison.
John ignored him, his eyes filled with unshed tears, and said, "When Philip heard her cries, he rushed to aid her. Before her eyes, Lambert killed him."
"Nay," William said under his breath. It was all he could think to say. He believed it not. It was but a tale to turn his wrath from his wife, and spoken by one who openly confessed to unshakable loyalty. It could not be. It was too much like...
John saw the doubt on William's face hardening to disbelief. He had gone far, broken a sacred vow to give William the information he now possessed; he took a new vow that it would not be for naught.
He beckoned into the shadow of the kitchen wall and waited. "Come," he urged.
With slow steps a girl—nay, a woman—stepped away from the sheltering darkness into the relative light of the rain-wet yard. It was Marie.
William and Rowland looked her over in surprise. She was of Gre
neforde, her very cowering proclaimed her so, yet they had not seen her, and each had looked over the folk of Greneforde most carefully.
"You have heard," John stated baldly.
"Aye," she all but stuttered.
"They believe Lady Cathryn welcomed Lambert into Greneforde." John paused, as if reluctant to continue. When he did, his tone was gentle though his words were not.
"They believe she welcomed him into her body."
"Nay!" Marie cried in horror, her lovely eyes filling with swift tears.
"You must tell them what you saw and heard, Marie. He is her husband and must know the truth concerning his wife."
When she hesitated still, the fear a livid mask riding her features, John urged, "You will do her no hurt if you but tell the truth."
Marie searched John's face and gulped heavily, wiping at her eyes with reddened hands.
"She loved her brother," Marie began simply, struggling to find her way through the painful memories. "Lambert used Philip to gain entrance. Once inside, he discarded the boy and searched for my lady. She was not hiding; he found her quick enough."
Lifting her eyes to stare into William's, she stammered, "I... I was with her... in the bedchamber. We heard him on the stair. She pushed me into the chest and bade me say not a word, to make no sound. Lambert found her, dragged her to her bed by... by... by the length of her hair." A small sob rushed out of her open lips; she gulped it down and continued: "I could not see, but I could hear. I heard her fight him, the sound of flesh meeting flesh, and then he struck her with his ringed hand and caused her blood to flow from a wound on her brow. This I know because I tended the gash myself when he had left," Marie asserted.
"And still she... she did not submit, and he told her... he told her"—Marie sobbed—"he told her that all the women of Greneforde would be taken as she was being taken if she resisted him, and that he would kill them, kill us... kill us... if she did not submit."
The sobs racked her shoulders, and she wound her arms around her waist to still the heaving of her stomach. She would have stopped if John had not commanded, "Finish."
"Philip rushed in to defend her, but... but... he could not. Lambert killed him. Killed him with his dagger or his sword, I know not. Lambert kicked Lord Philip's body from the chamber." Marie pressed her fists against her eyes as if she would grind out the memory.
