Fire and Steel

by Anita Mills

  “At least Curthose and his brother talk now,” Hawise reminded Catherine. “Mayhap it will be as before and Henry will go back to England with naught but more of Curthose’s gold and another piece of Normandy.”

  “Sweet Mary, but I begin to care not about either of them,” Cat complained restlessly as she paced within the narrow confines of the tent. “Whilst they parley and posture for each other, I have naught to do but sit and sew and sleep. I would that I were a man,” she finished irritably.

  “That would leave me little to wait for, would it not?”

  She spun around at the sound of his voice and her face flushed. He was standing at the raised door flap, his silk tunic wilted from the mist and drizzle, his black hair clinging damply to his forehead. Even as she saw him, he ducked low to enter, and her heart thudded at the look on his face. He bore ill news, she was certain, and she feared to hear it. To cover her feelings, she thrust a piece of unused cambric at him. “You’d best dry yourself, my lord.”

  His divided eyebrow shot up in surprise at the sudden tartness in her voice, a tartness at variance with the fear in her eyes, and he made no move to take the cloth. Instead, he walked over to pick up the undertunic Cat had been working and held it up to his shoulders, looking downward at the tiny blue stitches.

  “You do this for me?” he asked quietly, raising his eyes to hers.

  “Aye.” She colored again, embarrassed by the warmth that had sprung into those strange eyes. “That is…well, there’s naught else to do, and…I thought I would try…”

  “I thank you for it.” Folding the shirt carefully, he placed it on a closed clothing box. “God’s bones, but I am weary, Catherine, and there’s so much to do ere we sleep,” he muttered as he dropped his tall frame onto one of the small benches they’d brought with them. Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned his head back against a sturdy tent pole.

  “Where’s Alan? Hawise, see if you can find Alan,” Cat ordered. “We’ve got to get my lord out of his wet clothes ere he takes a chill.”

  “Nay, he and William are counting men and equipment for me to ensure all is ready on the morrow.” Opening his eyes again, he nodded to the maidservant. “But I would have you leave us—I’d be alone with my lady for a while.”

  “But it rains,” Cat protested. “Where is she to go?”

  “Nay, not now. Even the mists clear—’twould seem God grants us a good day for battle.”

  “I will bring supper from the pots,” Hawise cut in quickly. Packing away her mending, she bobbed a hasty obeisance to him, her own heart heavy at the sound of his words.

  Catherine stared blankly. “For battle,” she echoed as what he’d said sank in. “Oh…nay!” she gasped in consternation. “ Nay!”

  “Aye.”

  Guy waited until the maidservant had left before he dared to look again at Catherine. And when he did meet her eyes, conflicting emotions warred in his breast, with part of him wanting to know if she cared and part of him wanting to reassure her. Given the circumstances of their marriage, it seemed almost too much to hope that she could someday come to love him, and not…His thoughts trailed off, his mind unwilling to admit the likely outcome on the morrow.

  “They talk no longer, then?” she asked finally.

  “There was little to say,” he admitted wearily. “They met outside the keep, Henry with Anjou and Maine at his side, the duke with Belesme, the Atheling, de Mortain, and myself. ’Twas pleasant enough at first as each asked after the other’s wife and spoke of nothing to the point. Then, at Belesme’s prompting, Curthose dared to ask what Henry expected to gain from making war in Normandy. The king blustered about, saying that the Church and the baronage were tired of misrule, and then finally offering to let Curthose keep half the revenues of Normandy during his lifetime, with Henry ruling the duchy, and then ’twould all go to Henry and his heirs on the duke’s death.”

  “Sweet Mary! Jesu! He would make no provision for Sybilla or William the Clito? Nay, but…”

  “Aye. Curthose has no choice but to fight.”

  “What did Belesme say? And de Mortain?” she wanted to know, her eyes still wide with the shock of Henry’s insult to his own brother.

  “What could they say? Neither of them would fight for Robert of Normandy if they had the choice, but if Curthose loses, they lose all they have. Henry made it plain enough in England that there’s no place in his kingdom for them—and they know ’twill be the same in Normandy if he rules.”

  “But Curthose cannot win! We cannot win!”

  She’d come to face him, standing above him, her skin gone pale next to her dark braids. Gone were the gibes about Henry’s power and Curthose’s folly that she’d once cast at him, and Guy realized with a start that she’d said “we” instead of “you.” Despite the awful fatigue from hours of arguing in the duke’s council, he felt a sense of elation. Pulling her onto his lap, he folded his arms around her and brushed the top of her hair with his cheek. She stiffened briefly and then settled against his chest, and he reflected wryly to himself that two weeks and more of lying naked in the same bed had at least given them an easier relationship. “’Tis not of Curthose or Henry I would speak,” he murmured aloud above her head. “’Tis you.”

  She was very still in his arms, fearing to hear what he would say, savoring the strong feel of him as he held her, knowing that battles left men dead or maimed on both sides. When he made no move to speak further, she turned her head into his shoulder and felt the cold dampness of his ruined silk tunic. His arms tightened, holding her closer as though to both take and give comfort. His heart beat beneath her ear, and she knew suddenly that she feared to lose him, this new husband of hers. Irrationally, the memory of how they’d stood back that morning in the archbishop’s palace and watched as Lady Marguerite and others had examined the blood-smeared sheets came to mind and she suppressed a giggle.

  “It amuses you that I go to war, Cat?” he asked above her.

  “Nay—I was but thinking how they all pitied me for that poor pig’s blood—even William looked displeased with you.”

  “Aye, he gave me to know that I was not to use you thus again.” His voice, which had been somber, betrayed a shared amusement. “Jesu, Cat, but what made you think of that?”

  “I do not know—I suppose it is that I would not think of the other.”

  She was too near to him, and the warmth of her small body, the soft fragrance of her rosewater-rinsed hair, reminded him anew how much he wanted her. Her braids, neat and shiny and twined with gold thread, lay against his arm, and he had a nearly irresistible urge to unplait them that he could once again see that rippling mantle of dark hair spread out over her shoulders. But one thing could well lead to another and he dared not allow himself the thoughts that would crowd his mind. She was soft and pliant in his arms now, but somehow he knew she’d be all fire when he took her. But she was overyoung, he reminded himself. He closed his eyes to blot out the nearness of her, and still reeled from the effect of his thoughts on his senses. It was as though he could feel her lying beneath him, hear her moaning as her body opened to his. His own body tempted his mind until he argued within himself that he might die on the morrow and never know the pleasure of coupling with her.

  She stirred and tried to look up at him. “Art silent, my lord,” she chided. For answer, he opened his eyes and betrayed his desire. He felt rather than heard the sharp intake of her breath, but it was enough to bring him to his senses. Priding himself on the rigid control he had over mind and body, he pushed her gently off his lap. “I have to get out of these clothes, else I am like to take a fever from them,” he explained in a voice that was strained even to his own ears. “I would have you warm me some wine whilst I get dry.”

  Having both sensed and seen the effect she had on him, Cat was more than a little disappointed to have been pushed away so abruptly. She had more than a fair notion of what happened between men and women, particularly after listening to Lady Marguerite’s rather daunt
ing advice, and she felt an intense curiosity as to how it actually would feel to be possessed by a man. Besides, Guy of Rivaux was her husband, and she had to admit that she felt a very real attraction to him. Every night, she lay on their shared pallet, drawing warmth from his naked body, knowing he wanted her, and it was a heady feeling. More than once she’d thought that he would have given in to his desire had they not shared their small space with Hawise, William de Comminges, Alan and Arnulf.

  Reluctantly she crossed the open area to pick up a wineskin and an empty cup. After pouring the red liquid into the metal vessel, she thrust a poker among the coals in the brazier to warm it. While she waited, she turned to watch him. He’d already shed both his tunic and his undertunic and was reaching for the shirt she’d made him.

  “’Tis not finished, my lord.”

  “I mean to wear it in hopes ’twill bring me good fortune. Besides, I doubt any will note whether ’tis done or not.”

  The poker sizzled and smoked when plunged into the cooler wine, and the pungent smell of hot metal permeated the tent. Cat waited until the cup itself was warm before withdrawing the poker and laying it aside. Carrying the heated wine to him, she held it out. “There’s honey or a small sugar loaf if you would sweeten it.”

  “Set it down.” Turning his back to her, he peeled off his braichs and his chausses, discarding them in a heap at his feet. Pulling on dry hose, he tied and gartered them while she waited patiently. Finally he straightened and gestured to the bench where they’d been. “Sit you down that we may talk, Catherine.”

  His flecked eyes studied her over the rim of his cup as he drank deeply to warm himself. But even as she sank gracefully to the seat, he was at a loss to put into words what had to be said. “I have made my will,” he announced with a suddenness that startled her.

  “My lord, there is no need—”

  “Jesu, but I would hear you call my name once before I die I am Guy—Guy of Rivaux—canst you not say it?” he flared harshly. “Nay, I am sorry, Cat—I’ve no reason to complain of you since we wed. If you cannot care for me…” His voice trailed off and he looked away.

  “My lord…Guy…” She groped to put into words that which she felt. “For good or ill, whether I chose you or not, you are my lord husband, and there’s naught to change that now, and…and I would rather be wife than widow.”

  Turning back, he stared at her. Her eyes were like dark pools that reflected the firelight in the dreary tent, and they met his squarely. “Jesu,” he breathed, feeling anew the intense longing. “Why could you not have been older…why could you not have been fifteen or older?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference.”

  “Aye, it does. But you will grow.” He moved to stand over her, his reason reasserting itself. “What I wanted to say to you, Cat, is that I cannot leave you much if I should fall, regardless of which brother wins. There are no males heir to my lands, so they will go either to Curthose or to Henry anyway. But it doesn’t really matter, for you are an heiress in your own right. I do not think Henry will fault you for this marriage, but if he does, you will have your father to stand for you still.”

  “Guy—”

  “Nay, let me finish. What I am saying to you, Catherine, is that you can carry none of Rivaux with you, as you are not with child—and even if you were, ’twould make little difference to Henry, for he’d want to punish my heir for what I have done. And what money I have had is gone to buy Curthose’s mercenaries, so there’s not much left for you, but William will see you have my mother’s jewels ere we leave in the morning.”

  “Nay!”

  “Mayhap they will add to your dowry—though I doubt Robert of Caen will care what you bring him once he sees you.”

  “Nay—you’ll not die! You’ll not! I would not speak of this!”

  “I hope I do not—nay, I mean to do my best to live, Cat, but I fight beside Belesme, and who is to say what may happen? He’s not forgiven me for taking you, you know.” A crooked smile twisted his mouth, and his eyes spiked green and gold. “Nay, but I have lived longer than mine enemies ever thought possible. And ’tis one way to shed an unwanted husband, if you think on it.”

  “You are not an unwanted husband!” she blurted out, and then, realizing what she’d said, she reddened. “Sweet Mary…that is to say…I’d not have you dead for what you could help no more than I—nay, I’d not.”

  “My lord?” William de Comminges lifted the tent flap and peered inside. “Curthose calls his council yet again.”

  “Again? God’s bones, but what can be said that has not already been heard?” Guy grumbled.

  Not daring to look at Catherine, William stared at the woven reed mat that covered the packed-earth floor. “Gilbert,” he muttered succinctly. “He does not want to fight in a lost cause.”

  Catherine sat motionless for a long time after they left, her thoughts warring with her loyalties. All of her life, she’d considered King Henry the best of the Conqueror’s sons, and deserving of Normandy as well as England, but now it was brought home to her that there would be good men sworn to die in Robert Curthose’s cause also. And one of the dead could well be Guy of Rivaux.

  13

  Neither Catherine nor Hawise spoke much while they waited anxiously for news of how the battle went. Guy had been so restless in his sleep that Cat had slept very little also, and yet her anxiety was such that she was not tired. As the sun waxed higher in the sky, she forced herself to remember it had been but a couple of hours earlier when she’d helped Alan lace Guy’s padded gambeson and fasten his mail coif at his neck. He’d been different then, preoccupied with the task that faced him, and he’d scarcely spoken to anyone. There had been a grimness, a determination, and yet a fatalism about him that had made him seem so much older than his nineteen years. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and tried to pray. Sweet Mary, but to have seen him ride out in full battle dress, his face obscured by his polished helmet so all that she could identify was the scar that sliced down his cheek, and to know that he might well never ride back again.

  Mary, Mother of God, watch over this son of Normandy and keep him safe… Her lips formed the words silently, but her mind insisted in straying yet again to her memory. He’d seemed so tall, nearly as tall as Belesme, sitting astride his destrier with his long battle shield, its black hawk swooping across the red field, hung over his arm. And even now she could feel the coldness of the metal links in his mail as they’d pressed into her flesh when he’d leaned to clasp her as she bade him Godspeed. Holy Father in heaven, grant that he be spared… She tried to will herself to pray, but the possibilities of what could happen to him were too terrible to share even with God. Had she met Guy of Rivaux in another time and under other circumstances, she had not a doubt in her mind now that she could have loved him as much as she loved Brian. Brian. With a start, she realized that she’d not thought of him in days.

  In the distance, there was the sound of horses, battle horses pounding the earth hard. Cat looked up to see Hawise make the sign of the Cross over her breast and murmur her own swift, unintelligible prayer. “Please, Father, I beg you that my husband lives,” Cat whispered aloud as she grasped her skirts and ran outside.

  Climbing to the small hill where the supply wagons sat unhitched, she shielded her eyes against the sun and tried to see. At first the glare was too great, but as her eyes adjusted she could make out the green pennon of Belesme coming straight back through Curthose’s camp. On the horizon behind, mounted knights broke to pursue.

  Belesme himself was in the lead, his green surcoat unmistakable, and he was slashing his way through any who dared stand in his way, ally and foe alike. Horrified, she watched as a green-shirted man ran out, begging not to be left to Henry’s mercy, only to be cut down with a swift swing of Belesme’s sword. She stood transfixed, disbelieving what she saw, until she realized the count was riding for her. Her first thought was that he meant to kill her before he fled, but he lowered his weapon and reined in. A tr
emor of fear shook her and the hair on the back of her neck prickled in warning as he shouted at her.

  “Catherine! You must flee—Curthose is taken! Come on—there is no time!”

  Even as he spoke, he nudged his horse closer to her and reached down, his mailed and gloved hand grasping for her. She stood transfixed, paralyzed and numb, until his words sank in. “Wait! What of my husband?” she cried. “What of Rivaux?”

  “I saw him not—come on!” he urged her. “De Mortain is down, and Gilbert runs for his life.” He was breathless, casting quick glances at those who pursued to catch the hapless ostlers and cut them down. “Come on!”

  “Nay! I’d not go with you, my lord!” she defied as she backed away.

  “Do not be a fool! ’Tis not safe to wait!”

  He leaned further and tried to grab her arm. His mailed glove brushed her shoulder and caught in her gown. She felt the fabric tear even as she dropped to the ground and rolled beneath one of the supply wagons, and she heard him curse loudly. Praying to St. Catherine, she begged that he would not stop to come after her, and her prayers were answered. Mounted knights in the colors of Count Elias of Maine, one of Henry’s allies, called to Belesme to surrender. Shouting defiance, he wheeled his horse so sharply that it reared, spurred the huge animal viciously, and broke for the open ground beyond the camp. As Catherine crouched behind heavy wooden wheels, the horsemen thundered by in determined pursuit. By now, footsoldiers of the English fyrd were running toward Curthose’s camp eagerly, ready to divide the spoils of war, and the screams of panicked female camp followers mingled with the cries for mercy of Norman stragglers.