Contents
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Epilogue
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
FIRE SONG
A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1990 by Catherine Coulter
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0979-0
A SIGNET BOOK®
Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
Signet and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: May, 2002
To best friends,
Randi and Bob
1
“By all the fires in hell, Guy!” Graelam shouted, pointing between Demon’s flattened ears. “A dozen whoreson villains against a merchant and six men!” He wheeled around in his saddle and yelled back to his men, “Let’s show these damned French bastards what the English are made of!” Even as he spoke, he dug his heels into his destrier’s sides and smoothly unsheathed his gleaming sword. Demon thundered down the grassy rolling hill into the small valley below, his silver-studded bridle glittering in the bright sun.
“A Moreton! A Moreton!” Graelam shouted. He clapped his visor down and swung his huge sword in a wide vicious arc. His two knights and dozen men-at-arms closed behind him, their cries echoing his own. Graelam coolly studied the band of brigands thinking they had chosen an ideal spot for a coward’s attack. And one of the men under attack was no merchant, he realized, as Demon crashed into a horse, tossing the rider high into the air. The man was richly garbed in wine velvet over his chain mail, and sat astride a magnificent bay stallion. He obviously had a knight’s training, for his sword was flashing like silver as at least six of the brigands circled him, four of them on horseback. But despite his prowess as a warrior, unaided he would soon be cut to pieces by his six attackers.
Graelam yelled again, “A Moreton! A Moreton!”, and half of the brigands, no fools, dashed toward the forest, while six others continued their furious attack on the lone man.
He fights well, Graelam thought, and in the next moment he rode into the fray, a grim smile on his face as his sword sank into a man’s throat. Blood spurted upward, splattering Graelam’s mail, but he ignored it, riding Demon straight into another brigand’s horse. Demon rose to his hind legs, slashing with his forelegs at the horse’s neck. At the same moment, Graelam sliced his sword through the man’s chest, sending him spinning to the ground, a thin, surprised croak tearing from his throat. He closed beside the warrior, protecting his flank, and laughed aloud as the remaining rogues, screaming from wounds and fear, fled after their fellows into the forest.
The fighting had lasted five minutes, no more. Save for the groans of the wounded men, all was peacefully silent again. Graelam calmly handed his bloody sword to one of his men-at-arms, then dismounted and turned to Sir Guy de Blasis, one of his knights.
“Only Hugh is wounded, my lord,” Guy said, panting a little, “and not badly. The vermin were cowards.”
Graelam nodded and approached the richly clothed man. “Are you hurt?”
“Nay, but I would be fodder for the crops were it not for you. My thanks.” He pulled off his helmet and shoved back the chain mail covering his head. “My name is Maurice de Lorris, of Belleterre.” He smiled widely at Graelam, his eyes twinkling.
He fights like a much younger man, Graelam thought, taking in the close-cropped graying hair and the deep lines radiating from his dark green eyes. He was still a well-looking man who had not grown soft in the manner of many older warriors. He had not an ounce of fat on his wiry body and Graelam could see the play of firm muscles in his shoulders and arms. “You are breathing hard, my lord,” Graelam said. “Come, rest awhile and tell me why a party of brigands would attack you.”
Maurice nodded and dismounted, aware that his heart was pounding painfully in his chest and his breathing was coming in short, jerking gasps. But Christ’s bones, he thought, it had been a good fight!
“You are wounded.”
Maurice looked stupidly at the bloody rent in his velvet surcoat, and cursed softly. Kassia would have difficulty repairing the jagged tear. “ ’Tis nothing,” he said, shrugging it off.
“Guy,” Graelam called. “Have one of the men bring me some water and cloths.”
He smiled down at Maurice. “I am Lord Graelam de Moreton, an Englishman, returning from the Holy Land. I was beginning to believe that I was traveling through an Eden,” he continued, looking around at the gently rolling hills of Aquitaine. “Bloody boring it was becoming. I thank you, my lord, for the sport.”
“Your timing bespeaks divine intervention,” Maurice said, wincing as one of Graelam’s men ripped the velvet surcoat beyond repair to clean and bind the wound in his arm. “You say you were in the Holy Land?” he asked, looking more closely at the large English warrior who had saved his life. At Graelam’s nod, he continued in a saddened voice, “Word reached me about Louis. The poor king dying like a piece of filth in that godforsaken land. A saint among men, but now what does it matter? Your valiant Prince Edward, did he survive?”
“He did indeed. But enough talk for you until you are stronger, my lord.”
Maurice found himself leaning gratefully against Graelam’s massive chest. Graelam eased him down beneath an oak tree, then rose to survey the damage wreaked by the brigands. He pulled back his mail and ran his hands through his matted black hair. “Guy,” he called, pointing toward a mortally wounded man who was groaning on the ground, “dispatch that brigand to hell.”
It was odd, Graelam thought, but none of the wagons had been touched. He pictured the battle in his mind, recalling the six men who had attacked Maurice de Lorris. If contraband had not been their goal, then . . . He shook his head and continued his inspection. Three of Lord Maurice’s men were dead and two wounded. He gave his men further instructions and walked back to Maurice, whose arm now rested in a sling.
Maurice studied the dark, powerful man who had saved his life. English or no, he was a splendid specimen, and a fierce fighter. And, Maurice thought, his eyes squinting against the afternoon sun, he was young and healthy, his mighty chest firm and solid as an oak tree’s. He was a man well used to command, a man one could trust. He saw the frown furrowing Graelam’s brow and said, “I know your thoughts,
my lord, for they echo my own. There are thieves aplenty in this world, but a force such as attacked me is unusual. Aquitaine is well-governed, and it stretches the imagination to believe I was attacked by such a collection of men for a mere three wagons of wine.”
“You have enemies,” Graelam said matter-of-factly.
“It would appear so.” Maurice shrugged and looked directly into Graelam’s dark eyes. “What man does not?”
“An enemy who also is too cowardly to do the work himself.
“So it would appear.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I have no proof,” he said finally. “There is but one man who would go to such lengths to have me removed from this earth.”
With the excitement of battle receding, Graelam felt weary, more from the weeks trekking from Sicily than from wielding his sword. He rubbed his hand over the muscles knotted in his neck.
“I had forgot,” Maurice said. “Your Prince Edward is now king. Does he return soon to claim his crown?”
“Nay. He has the wanderlust. And there is no need. England is at peace and his uncle, the Duke of Cornwall, will protect what is Edward’s.”
“But you, Graelam de Moreton, I hear in your voice that you wish to be home.”
“Aye. Fighting the heathen in the Holy Land was an exercise in bloodletting and disease and frustration. The treaty Edward negotiated with the Saracens will keep the Christians safe for some time, at least.”
Maurice looked thoughtfully at the English knight. “We are but three days from my home, Lord Graelam,” he said. “Will you accompany me to Belleterre?”
“It will be my pleasure,” Graelam said.
“Good,” Maurice said, his thoughts turning to Kassia. He would have three days to determine if this Englishman would prove a worthy husband for his only daughter. Belatedly he asked, not meeting Graelam’s eyes, “I suppose you have a family eagerly awaiting your return?”
“Nay, but my castle, Wolffeton, is likely falling to ruin. A year is a long time to be gone.”
“Ah,” Maurice said, and sat back against the oak tree, closing his eyes.
2
Kassia shrugged out of her ermine-lined cloak, folded it carefully, and laid it across the saddle in front of her. It was much too beautiful to wear, she thought with a smile, remembering her father’s sly looks when he presented it to her on her last birthday. She had teased him that it was a gift for a princess and not a simple maid living in the wilds of Brittany. As for her nurse and maid, Etta, she had tisked behind her hand, claiming the master was spoiling her baby, but Maurice had only laughed.
Kassia raised her face to the brilliant sun. It was a beautiful spring day, with soft puffy white clouds dotting the blue sky, and air so pure and clean and warm that she couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough. She turned slightly in her saddle and looked back toward Belleterre. Her eyes glistened with pride at the sight of the four round towers that rose proudly to formidable heights, guarding the surrounding countryside like massive sentinels. Thick gray stone walls, aged to mute grace over the last hundred years, connected the huge towers, forming a large square atop the rocky hillock. Belleterre was not only her home but also a strategic fortress, commanding the River Morlaix. No enemy could sail from the sea up the river without the soldiers of Belleterre knowing of it. And no enemy could escape detection landward, no matter how stealthfully they tried, for the castle commanded the highest hill in the area. As Kassia gazed beyond the thriving town of Morlaix, toward the sea, she remembered the stories her father had told her of the violent past when powerful men had fought to gain control of Brittany. Belleterre had survived, for even the stoutest war machines had faltered and failed before they could draw close enough to harm Belleterre with their flaming balls of fire. Siege was their only fear and her father would remind them of it every year when the crops were safely stored. Kassia, every bit as fine a housekeeper as her grandmother had been, would ensure that the outbuildings were well-stocked with wheat and fodder, the meat cured, and enough flour and salt purchased to withstand the forces of the King of France himself.
Thomas, one of her father’s squires, reined in beside Bluebell, drawing Kassia from her thoughts. “My lady,” he said, pointing to the east, “a group of men is approaching. We should return to Belleterre.”
She nodded, remembering her promise to her father, and urged Bluebell into a canter back to Belleterre. She smiled, thankful that he would be home within the week. Home with enough wine from Aquitaine to last him a decade! How she had teased him, chiding him about the red lines on his nose from too much drinking. He had believed her until he had stared closely into a silver mirror and come after her, bellowing. She had felt so guilty that she had allowed him to trounce her in chess.
Pierre, the porter, raised the portcullis, and their small troop rode into the inner bailey. As always, Kassia felt a sense of accomplishment when she viewed the cleanliness of the outbuildings and the well-swept cobbled ground that slanted gently downward to the outer bailey so that rain could not collect and stagnate. There was no filth, no untidiness in her home, and all who lived within the keep were well-fed, and clothed in stout wool. A group of children were playing near the large well, and Kassia waved gaily to them. They also were a part of her huge family, and she knew each of them by name. “We live in a rabbit warren,” her father would complain with a smile. “Sometimes I cannot even relieve my bowels without someone about.”
“Thomas,” she said after he had helped her to dismount, “have Pierre close the gates until we know who our visitors are.”
“Yes, my lady,” Thomas said, unable to entirely keep the worship from his voice. He was Kassia’s age, and his father held sizable lands to the east, but he knew, sadly, that Kassia regarded him as a brother. It was just as well, he thought, turning to speak to Pierre, that he would win his spurs within the year. He did not think he could bear to be around when her father gave her in marriage to another man.
“Damned whoreson!” Pierre spat, watching the dozen riders approaching Belleterre. “ ’Tis that miserable Geoffrey de Lacy. I recognize his standard. It should be a weasel and not a proud eagle. How I’d like to tell the lout to keep his hide away from Belleterre and my lady!”
“I will see what Kassia wishes,” Thomas said.
But Kassia had heard, and she called to him to open the gates. Geoffrey was her cousin, son of her father’s sister, Felice. Evidently his strident, altogether disagreeable mother had not accompanied him this time. Thank the saints for one small favor, she thought. If only her father were here! She climbed the wooden stairs to the outer wall and watched Geoffrey draw his small troop to a halt at the base of the hill. He was richly attired, as usual, in dark blue velvet, and she imagined that his pale blue eyes were assessing the worth of Belleterre. She chewed on her lower lip, wishing she could refuse him entry. But, of course, she could not.
“Kassia, ’tis I, Geoffrey,” he called up to her. “May I take my rest for a while?” She did not even bother to call back to him, Geoffrey noted, his lips thinning with annoyance. Proud little bitch! Once he was wed to her, he would teach her manners. He could not prevent his eyes wandering lovingly over every inch of Belleterre as he and his troop of men rode slowly upward toward the massive gates. It would be his soon. He would be lord of Belleterre and away from his mother’s infernal harping and sharp tongue.
He straightened his shoulders, pasted a smile upon his face, and rode his destrier into the inner bailey to where Kassia now stood awaiting him. He had not seen her for nearly six months, and he felt a tingling of pleased surprise as he noted the soft curve of her breasts, more fully rounded now, more womanly. He admired her magnificent chestnut hair that caught the sunlight in its thick silken strands, falling in lazy waves to her waist. But he did not like her eyes, though they were a brilliant hazel, wide, and framed with dark thick lashes. They gazed at him too straightly, directly into his face, into his mind. She was forward for a woman; his damned uncle had coddled her, not teaching her
her place. But on this visit Geoffrey had no trouble smiling as he viewed his future home and his future wife.
“Kassia,” he said, dismounting to stand beside her. “You become more beautiful with the passing months.”
“Geoffrey,” Kassia said shortly in acknowledgment, disregarding the caressing tone of his voice. “My father has not yet returned from Aquitaine.”
“Ah, it is not just your father’s company that draws me.”
“What does draw you, Geoffrey?”
His lashes lowered over his eyes, hiding their annoyed expression. “The lovely day, and you, my cousin. May I spend an hour with you? Unfortunately, I must return to Beaumanoir by evening.”
Kassia nodded, picked up her skirts, and led him up the winding stairs into the great hall. “I trust your mother is well,” she said.
Geoffrey laughed. “My mother is always in good health. She is particularly in fine fettle when I am about, a likely candidate upon which to vent her spleen.”
“Well,” Kassia said, bending a bit, “she treats you better than she treats me! Imagine her telling my father that I am far too young to manage Belleterre! As if I were some silly twit raised in a convent!”
Geoffrey relaxed at the honest laughter in her voice, and her eyes were twinkling in the most beguiling way. It was wise of him, he thought, to come here today. He would be the one she would wish to see when she heard about her father. He would have her, willing or unwilling, but he preferred her to want him, to accept him. The thought of forcing a lady was distasteful to him. She motioned him to a chair and he again noticed, with pleasure, the soft roundness of her breasts as she gestured with her hand.
“You have not grown taller,” he said.
“No, I fear it is my fate to forever be at the level of my father’s Adam’s apple. Would you care for some ale, Geoffrey?”
He nodded and sat back comfortably in the high-backed chair. It felt like home already. It was not her father’s chair, but nonetheless it was solid and intricately carved, and lasting, like Belleterre itself. He watched Kassia give orders to a serving girl, her voice gentle and pleasingly soft. “Kassia is like her mother, Lady Anne,” his mother would snort upon occasion. “Soft and spineless and without spirit.” But Geoffrey knew she was wrong. Kassia was gentle because she had been raised gently. She appeared soft because her father treated her with unrelenting affection. He doubted if anyone had ever spoken roughly to her in her life, except of course, his mother. But she had spirit, perhaps too much for a girl. His eyes drifted down to her hips. So slender she was. He wondered if she would bear him sons without dying in childbirth as her mother had. His own mother had informed him that Kassia was late in developing into a woman, and he winced, remembering her crude discussion of Kassia’s monthly flow of woman’s blood, not begun until she had passed her fifteenth year.
Fire Song Page 1