It was a golden day in Cornwall. The sun shone hot and bright overhead and the stiff sea breeze smelled as sweet as the clumps of wildflowers that grew on the surrounding hills.
Graelam felt utter contentment as he drew Demon to a halt at the edge of the sloping cliff and stared down at the white-crested waves that crashed against the rocks below. From St. Agnes Point, a sharp jutting finger of land, he had a view of at least thirty miles of northward coastline. The rugged cliffs gave onto land so savage and desolate that even the trees were stunted and twisted from the westerly gales that pounded them. Beyond St. Agnes Point lay the small fishing village of St. Agnes, as desolate and rugged and timeless as the craggy cliffs it hugged.
Graelam remembered his hikes along the winding footpath below St. Agnes Point when he was a boy, exploring the caves and calmer coves that indented the coastline, and felt the savage beauty of Cornwall burn into his very soul. He turned in his saddle. Inland, beyond the ragged cliffs, were rolling hills where sheep and cattle grazed, and between the hills, in narrow valleys, farmers tilled the land. His land. His home. His people.
Rising behind him like a rough-hewn monolith stood Wolffeton, fortress of the de Moretons since Duke William had deeded the lands to Albert de Moreton after the Battle of Hastings over two hundred years ago. Albert had torn down the wooden fortress of the Saxons and had erected a stone castle that would defend the northern coast of Cornwall from any assaulting forces, be they marauding Danes or the greedy French. On stormy nights lamps were lit in the two seaward towers, warning off ships from the deadly rock-strewn waters.
In the distance he could make out the stonemasons repairing the seaward wall, eroded over the two centuries by the ferocious sea storms. The jewels he had brought with him from the Holy Land had brought a respectacle price, enough to repair the walls of Wolffeton, the outbuildings, his men’s barracks, and to purchase sheep, cattle, and a half-dozen horses. As for the great hall and the upper chambers, they had not changed much since Albert’s days. That had never mattered to Graelam before, but upon his return a month before he had found Wolffeton lacking. The long walls beneath the soot-covered beams in the great hall looked primitive and bare. The rough-carved trestles and benches, even his ornately carved chair, were equally bare, with no thick velvet cushions to soften their lines. The rushes strewn across the stone floor had not the sweet smell of those at Belleterre, and there was not one carpet to deaden the heavy sound of booted feet. There were, he thought ruefully, no comforts, even in his huge bedchamber. His long-dead first wife, Marie, had not seemed to care, nor did her half-sister, Blanche de Cormont. He was but growing soft, he grunted to himself, wanting the exotic luxuries he had grown used to in the east.
Rolfe, his trusted master-at-arms, had certainly maintained the discipline of Wolffeton during Graelam’s year away in the Holy Land. But there had been problems awaiting his return, problems that an overlord’s absence engendered. There were judgments to be rendered, feuds to be settled, laxness among the castle servants to be halted. Blount, his steward, had kept his records well, but even he could not force a greater production of cloth or discipline the wenches whose job it was to keep the castle in good order. But it gave Graelam a good feeling to be thrown back into the management of his keep and lands. The vast number of people who spent their lives at Wolffeton were his responsibility and his alone.
He thought again of Blanche de Cormont. He had returned to Cornwall a month before to find her wringing her hands when she saw him, tears shining in her eyes. He had not recognized her until she had reminded him that she was half-sister to his first wife. Soft-spoken, shy Blanche, a widow now and with no kin to take her in, none save him. She had come to Wolffeton some three months before his return home. Blount hadn’t known what to do with her, so she had remained, awaiting Graelam’s return. She was not old, perhaps twenty-eight, but there were faint lines of sadness etched about her mouth, and her brown eyes, when they rested upon him, were liquid with gratitude. Her two children, a boy and a girl, she had told him, her soft mouth trembling, were being raised by her cousin Robert, in Normandy. She, their mother, had not been welcome, particularly, she had added sadly, touching her hand to her rich raven hair, by Robert’s young wife, Elise, a woman jealous of her husband’s affections.
Well, Graelam had thought then as well as now, there was no harm in her residing at Wolffeton. She waited on him, served his dinner herself, and mended his clothing. It was odd, though, he thought, that the castle servants did not seem to like her. Why, he could not guess. She seemed unobtrusive enough to him.
Graelam’s thoughts turned to the Duke of Cornwall’s impending visit. King Edward’s uncle had always seemed like a second father to Graelam, indeed, more of a father than his own had been. Though the bond between them was deep and affectionate, Graelam devoutly prayed that the duke was not coming as his overlord to request his services. A year of his life spent in the Holy Land fighting the heathen Saracens was enough for any man.
With these thoughts, he turned Demon away from the cliff and rode northward back toward Wolffeton.
At the sound of approaching hoofbeats, Blanche de Cormont pulled the leather hide from the window opening in her small chamber and watched Graelam gallop into the inner bailey of Wolffeton, his powerful body gracefully at ease in the saddle. She felt a surge of excitement at the sight of him, and her fingers twisted at the thought of running them through his thick black hair. How alike and yet different he was from her husband, Raoul, curse that bastard’s black heart. She hoped he was rotting in hell. Like Raoul, Graelam expected her to serve him as unquestioningly as any servant, but unlike Raoul, he was a virile, handsome devil whose bed every young serving wench at Wolffeton had shared willingly. And, of course, Graelam hadn’t once raised his hand against her. But then, she thought cynically, she was not yet his wife. A wife, she knew from painful experience, was like any other of a man’s possessions. As long as she kept to her place and was exacting in pleasing her husband, she was treated as well as his hunting dogs or his destrier.
Blanche gnawed on her lower lip, wondering how much longer she should pretend the shy, self-effacing widow’s role she had instinctively assumed when Graelam returned to Wolffeton. Her first husband, Raoul, had painfully taught her that her high spirits, her occasionally stinging tongue, and her pride were not acceptable in a wife. And her stubbornness. She supposed she was being stubborn where Graelam was concerned, but she wanted him and fully intended to have him. A widow and a poor relation had no real place, her children no real home or future. Perhaps, she thought, it was time to give Graelam some encouragement, perhaps even slip into his bed, if she could find it empty one night!
She would wed Graelam and then bring her children to Cornwall. She missed them, particularly her son, Evian, a bright lad of eight years, but her decision to come to Cornwall was all for his sake. He would become Graelam’s heir, for Blanche intended to bear no more children. The pain of her daughter’s birth still made her grit her teeth. At least childbirthing hadn’t killed her as it had Marie, her long-dead half-sister. Blanche shook off old memories and turned away from the window. She would meet Graelam in the great hall, send the sullen serving wenches out of the way, and serve him some ale herself. She gazed one last time in her polished silver mirror, and curled an errant strand of black hair around her finger. I must please him, she thought, I must.
To her disappointment, Guy de Blasis accompanied Graelam. She was wary of Guy, despite his good looks and polite manners, for she sensed that he guessed her plans and disapproved. Still, she pasted a welcoming smile on her face and walked gracefully forward, her soft wool gown swishing over the reed-covered floor.
“Good day to you, my lord,” she said, smiling shyly up at Graelam.
Graelam pulled his attention from Guy and nodded. “I have news for you, Blanche. The Duke of Cornwall is paying us a visit next week. I do not know the extent of his retinue, but doubtless he will bring half an army with him, ’tis his wa
y. At least,” he continued, now to Guy, “the barracks will be finished, so his men will not have to sleep in the keep. We will go hunting again before he arrives. Let us pray we bag more than a rabbit.”
“A deer at least, my lord,” Guy said, “if we divide the men into three separate hunting parties.”
“Some ale, my lord?” Blanche asked softly.
Graelam nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. “Ah, and some for Guy too, Blanche.”
Blance saw Guy grinning at her, and she frowned at him, but she nonetheless left the hall, her discomfiture kept to herself.
Guy waited until Blanche was out of hearing. “Have you heard anything from France, my lord? From Maurice de Lorris?”
“Nay, but then, what would I hear? If there is a message ever from him, it will doubtless be to inform me that Geoffrey is trying to steal Belleterre from him. I pray that de Lacy will keep his treacherous sword sheathed until Wolffeton is fully restored.”
“I doubt he would try an outright attack,” Guy said dryly. “ ’Tis more his way to sneak about and hire men to do his dirty work.” He fell silent a moment, then sighed deeply. “That poor girl,” he said at last. “I, of course, did not ever see her, as did you, my lord, but the servants talked to me of her, as did her father’s men. They all believed her a sweet child and kind and full of laughter. Aye, ’tis a pity to die so young.”
Graelam pictured Kassia’s lifeless fingers held in his hands as the priest droned out the marriage words. He had only time to nod when Blanche reappeared carrying a tray with two goblets filled with frothy ale.
“Thank you, Blanche,” Graelam said, his tone holding dismissal. Blanche saw Guy quirk a fair eyebrow at her and for a moment she glared back at him. Damn him, he guesses my very thoughts!
“Certainly, my lord,” she said sweetly. “Perhaps, Graelam, when you have finished speaking with Guy, you can spare me a few moments? To speak of the entertainment for the duke.”
Graelam. She had used his name but the week before and he had not seemed even to notice her familiarity. Perhaps she was making headway with him.
“Perhaps this evening, Blanche,” Graelam said as he wiped the white foam of the ale from his upper lip. “I have a new mare to inspect.”
Guy laughed aloud, his eyes on Blanche’s face. “Do you mean, my lord, that lovely little Arabian, or that equally enticing little two-legged filly named Nan?”
“Both, I fancy,” Graelam said, and rose from his chair. “Nan you say her name is, Guy?”
“Aye. No virgin, but again, lovely as a rose whose petals sparkle with the morning mist. And quite young, my lord,” Guy continued, knowing that Blanche was listening to their conversation. It was not that he disliked Blanche, he thought, following Graelam from the great hall down the thick, well-worn oak stairs. She was indeed lovely, his body recognized that, but she felt she must needs playact with Graelam. Guy knew she wasn’t the meek, gentle creature she showed to Graelam when he had come upon one of the serving wenches in tears, a livid bruise on her cheek from the slap Lady Blanche had given her. He had told Graelam of the incident, but his master, after speaking to Blanche, had told him that the wench had deserved the slap for insulting his sister-in-law.
It was odd, Guy thought as he walked beside Graelam into the inner bailey, how his master enjoyed women in his bed, pleasuring them until they squealed with delight, but had little understanding of them outside his bedchamber. To Lord Graelam, women were soft bodies and little else, save for the one, Chandra de Avenell, Graelam had tried to steal and wed nearly two years before. But even that beautiful creature, though she had doubtless intrigued Graelam with her warrior ways, had been only a challenge to him, like an untamed mare to be covered and broken by a stallion. He suspected that Graelam’s black fury following his failure had resulted more from wounded pride than injured feelings. But now Chandra de Avenell was Chandra de Vernon, and Graelam had made peace with both her and her husband in the Holy Land. She was nothing more to him now, Guy knew, than a vague shadow of memory.
The wench Nan appeared none too clean, Graelam thought as he watched her, her arms pressed against her breasts to better entice him, as she drew the bucket of water from the well. Her thick long dark brown hair would be lovely were it not lank and stringy from lack of washing. Her face was a perfect oval and she smiled at him pertly.
“If she were bathed,” Graelam said to Guy, “I wouldn’t kick her out of my bed.”
“Nor would I,” Guy said, laughing.
“How many men have enjoyed her favors?”
“Not many, my lord. She was married quite young, when she was fourteen, to a young man who worked with the armorer. He died some two months ago from the wasting disease. According to my knowledge, she has kept her legs together, awaiting your return.”
Graelam gave the girl a long, slow smile, then turned away toward the newly repaired stables. “Now, Guy,” he said, “ ’tis time to see the four-legged mare.”
A gale blew in that evening, and the shutters banged loudly in Graelam’s bedchamber. He had spent the past two hours trouncing Guy in a game of chess and drinking more ale than was his habit. He was not overly surprised to find Nan lying in his bed.
Indeed, he thought, she did have lovely hair. It was now clean and shining and he wondered idly how long she had spent in a bathing tub to prepare herself for him. He strode to the edge of the bed and smiled at her as he stripped off his clothes. He watched her eyes widen when they fell to his swollen manhood.
“Ye are huge, my lord,” she gasped.
“Aye,” Graelam laughed, “and you’ll know every inch of me.”
He drew back the cover and studied her plump white body. “Aye,” he said, his dark eyes caressing her, “every inch.”
He fondled her and kissed her, pleased that her breath tasted fresh. Her soft flesh was silky and giving beneath his fingers and his mouth. When she was throbbing and hot, he pressed himself between her open legs. She sheathed him to his hilt, wrapping her legs about him, drawing him even deeper, and he realized vaguely, not particularly displeased, that she was as experienced as any whore. He reared back, thrusting deep, and felt his body explode. He rolled off her onto his back. He wondered if her soft cries of pleasure had been real or feigned.
“My lord?”
“Aye?” he said, not turning to her.
“May I rest with ye the night? ’Tis cold and the storm frightens me.”
“Aye, you may stay.”
He felt her fingers running through the thick tufts of hair on his chest. “But expect, my pet, to be awakened during the night. My appetite for you is but momentarily sated.”
Nan giggled and stretched her length against his side, hugging herself to him. She had pleased him, she thought. Now life would be better for her. Aye, much better. She smiled into the darkness at the thought of the sour looks Lady Blanche would cast her. The old bitch wouldn’t dare to touch her now.
“Well, Graelam,” the Duke of Cornwall said as he tilted his goblet to his mouth, “I have seen several wenches’ bellies swollen with child.”
“And you’re wondering if it is my seed that grows in their bellies?”
The duke shrugged. “It matters not. What does matter is that you have legitimate heirs for your lands, not bastards.”
“Ah,” Graelam said with a crooked grin, “I was wondering when you would tell me the reason for your visit to Wolffeton. Not, of course, that I am not delighted to greet you.”
The duke was silent for a moment. He and Graelam were alone in the great hall, sitting opposite each other next to the dying fire. The trestle tables were cleared of the mountains of food from dinner. The jongleurs Graelam had hired were long in bed, as were all of Graelam’s men and the duke’s.
“I have heard from Edward,” the duke said. “He and Eleanor are still in Sicily. I carry the responsibility for his children whilst he must travel. And England’s coffers pay for his adventuring.”
“I have certainly paid my share!”<
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“That you have, my boy.”
“It is because of your strength and honor, my lord duke, that Edward need not come running back to England to fight for his throne. The barons are content. England is at peace. He knew great disappointment in the Holy Land, and if he chooses to travel to mend his weary spirit, so be it.”
The duke sighed, raising an age-spotted hand. “Aye, ’tis true. Edward has grown into a fine man. Men follow him and trust him. Once I feared that he would be weak and vacillating, much like his poor father.”
Graelam said quietly, “As much as you hated Simon de Montfort, my lord duke, ’twas from him that Edward learned his administrative ability. It held us in good stead in the Holy Land. There is no doubt in any man’s mind that Edward the king can be trusted and obeyed. He is also a valiant warrior.”
“Aye, I know.” The duke shook his white head. “I become an old man, Graelam, and I am weary of my responsibilities.”
“And I weary you with this late night. Perhaps, my lord,” Graelam continued, a glint in his dark eyes, “before you retire, you would care to tell me the reason for your visit.”
“I have found you a wife,” the duke said baldly.
Graelam was not surprised by his words. Indeed, during the past five years, the Duke of Cornwall had upon several occasions presented him with likely heiresses. Graelam cocked his head at the duke, saying nothing.
“Her name is Joanna de Moreley, daughter of the Earl of Leichester. She is young, comely, rich, and above all, appears to be a good breeder. ’Tis time you wed, Graelam, and produced heirs for Wolffeton.”
Graelam remained silent, staring into the graying embers in the fire.
“You still do not hold Lord Richard de Avenell’s daughter dear, do you?”
“Nay,” Graelam said. “Do you forget, my lord, the Lady Chandra wed Sir Jerval de Vernon? He, not I, managed to tame her. To my ultimate relief, we all parted friends.”
Fire Song Page 5