by Anita Mills
“You do not even know if he wants her.”
“Have you not seen how men look on her?” Eleanor countered. “Nay, but he’d be a blind fool not to want Catherine of the Condes.”
Lying back down beneath the warmth of the covers, he stared upward, his expression distant and preoccupied. There was so much to be considered beyond what she asked. His hand found her arm and stroked it absently as he pondered the problem. If Guy of Rivaux had loved Cat as he himself loved Eleanor, he could have accepted the marriage easier, but there’d not even been a word between them in nearly five years. Who could know what had happened to him in those years? Mayhap he had a leman, or several even, and mayhap he was content to leave Catherine where she was. And certainly Henry would not want him back. Finally, he mused aloud, “I doubt it could be done, Lea, even if I willed it. It was one thing for Henry to wed her to his own son, for he would have been providing for one of his bastards, but ’tis not likely that he’ll want to see Cat bear a child not of his blood who can hold Harlowe, Nantes, and the Condes. He would fear too much power coming to one person.”
“He allows you to do it.”
“Aye, but I’ve not inherited all of it yet. Think on what he did to de Mortain—he said one earldom was enough and he pushed him into rebellion. Now de Mortain lies blinded and castrated somewhere in one of Henry’s keeps and no doubt prays to die.”
“But Henry loves you, Roger.”
“Aye, but he is no fool, Lea—he may fear my heirs.”
“But would you accept Rivaux for Cat if Henry could be brought to allow it?” she persisted.
“If I do not, you’ll give me no peace.” Reluctantly he nodded and sighed. “Aye, I suppose I would have to, wouldn’t I? But I doubt ’twill happen.” His brilliant blue eyes met hers and warmed anew. “Now that you have won in this, I can think of things I would rather do.” Turning to envelop her in his arms, he nuzzled her hair, murmuring softly, “Ah, Lea, but you’ve not changed in all the years I have known you—thou art soft and small, but you have a soul of fire and a will of iron.” Sliding a hand down over her bare back to trace the outline of her hip, he murmured, his breath warm and intimate above her ear, “If I knew not you’d carried ten babes, I’d not believe it, for you are as slender as a young girl.”
Her pulse quickened at his touch and she clung to him, moving closer to mold her body to his, feeling his body come alive with a desire to match her own. “This time,” she whispered into his shoulder, “I’d not have you spill your seed—I’d bear a son for you still.”
“Nay.”
“But the Church teaches ‘tis not right.”
“I’d not risk losing you—and it grows harder for you with each year.” To stifle her protest, he bent his head to possess her mouth, knowing he could make her forget for a few moments at least that she’d given him no son.
“Sire, I would speak with you, if ’twould not displease Your Grace.”
The king looked up from scanning writs prepared for his seal, to find Eleanor of Nantes in the doorway of the bedchamber. Her hands were laden with fresh linens for his chamber, carried before her like a shield. Involuntarily his mind harked back nearly twenty-six years to when he’d first seen her, a young girl of twelve standing in the field at Nantes. He’d wanted her then for wife, and the wanting had not abated in the intervening year. Even as he watched, she laid aside the folded cloths and approached to kneel at his feet. Her braids, interwoven with gold threads and fastened with embroidered silk, brushed against the hem of his long robe, and he could remember how her hair had once looked, rich and dark, cascading like a heavy silken curtain down her back. Despite four live girls and six dead babes, she was beautiful still, so much so that she could yet take his breath away.
“Nay, do not kneel to me, Eleanor.” He spoke softly.
“Sire, I would crave your aid.”
He rose, the fur border of his long gown touching the floor beside her braids, and leaned to raise her. “Nay, but between us there is no need for such ceremony,” he told her as his hands clasped hers. “And there is naught that you can ask that I would not willingly give to you.” When she did not proceed immediately to explain what she wanted, he turned to his chamber servants, ordering, “Leave us.”
Her eyes widened and stories came to mind of the many women who’d betrayed husbands to lie with him in exchange for royal favor. Her concern must have been evident when he turned back to her, for he shook his head. “Nay, I am not one to place no value on a loyal vassal, Eleanor. But if it worries you what any will think, we may walk apart below, where all may see but not hear us.”
“I’d not have Roger know I am here unless you grant what I ask,” she admitted quickly.
His eyebrow lifted, betraying curiosity, and his brown eyes were suddenly intent. “It must be a matter of some import, then.”
“Aye.” She hesitated, uncertain how best to approach him, knowing that her daughter’s future might well lie in her words.
She was close, so close that the smell of the perfumed oil he’d brought her as a gift wafted upward, intoxicating his senses. Of all the women he’d known, she was the only one he’d wanted desperately and yet had never lain with. And she stood before him a supplicant now. For the briefest moment he considered the risks, and once again his head ruled his heart. She was Roger de Brione’s wife—and she belonged to her husband heart and soul and body. Reluctantly he turned away to master his emotions.
“You must not fear to ask, Eleanor,” he spoke finally. “For twenty-six years your life has been entwined with mine in one way or another, and I’d not like to think you unable to speak your thoughts to me.”
“I am come to you, Your Grace, to seek justice for a man.”
Without looking back at her, he straightened the rolled writs on a low table. “You would accuse me of an injustice then?”
“Nay, but I think he has been punished long enough.”
Turning around, he met her steady gaze and sucked in his breath. “Who is the man?” he demanded.
“Guy of Rivaux.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. She was the last person he would have expected to come to Rivaux’s aid in anything, but she stood before him with a determined face and waited. “Why do you concern yourself for him? He is naught to you.”
“He is my daughter’s husband.”
“He wed her without your consent or mine.”
“Aye.”
“Then why do you care what happens to him?”
Eleanor clasped her hands together and pressed them into the folds of her skirt to gain courage. “Because Holy Church says Catherine is his wife, and naught we have done can change that, Your Grace. While he yet lives, she cannot be given to another, and she would have a man, I think.”
Henry thought of Catherine de Brione for a moment, bringing her image to his mind and seeing her as he’d once seen Eleanor. They were much alike in looks, and none could dispute that the girl had grown into a beauty to rival her mother. Only last evening he’d watched her tease and laugh with his son and had seen how Brian touched her when they’d danced to the pipers’ music, brushing close to murmur something that had made her blush. Somehow, he doubted that Cat of the Condes would welcome her husband back. He stroked his brown beard as he considered the problem. “Have you said aught of this to the girl?” he asked after a time.
“It would not serve.”
“’Tis a pity that she cannot come to my son, for I think them well-suited,” he mused slowly. “I should have bribed Bonne Ame to say she was never bedded.”
“Nay, I would have for her a constant husband.”
As his own lack of fidelity to his queen was well-noted by the number of bastards he’d gotten since, his marriage, he chose to ignore her last words, turning instead to the matter of Guy of Rivaux. “I can scarce afford to recall him to Normandy, Eleanor. Of all those who fight for me in Wales, he has been the most successful. Aye, but the marches are safer now than they’ve been since
my father first took England.” He moved to stare out the tall window into the courtyard below, watching for a time the ostlers leading horses out to be exercised in the fields beyond the walls. “Why can you not be as other women?” he complained with a sigh, his eyes still on the bustle beneath them. “Most will trade their bodies willingly for the favor of a royal fief for their husbands or a jewel for themselves. But you come to me offering nothing and ask for something I would not give. Have you not thought that I have enjoyed the revenues of Rivaux these past years? If I allow him to come back, he is like to sue for the return of his lands.”
“Sire, he did no wrong—he did but fight for his sworn liege. Let him swear his loyalty to you and come home, I pray you. And if you will not return the honor of Rivaux to him, then Roger will enfief him with something. Or you can confirm him as Gilbert’s heir, if it pleases Your Grace, and keep what you have taken from him. My father grows old and cannot live forever.”
“You bring Nantes to your husband,” he reminded her. Turning suddenly to look at her, he considered what she asked. “Have you spoken to Roger of this?”
“Aye.”
“And?”
“He said that you would not do it,” she admitted. ‘ ‘But I cannot accept that you would punish a man who fought honorably, refusing to break his oath to his duke at the risk of his life. If you will not grant me this now, Your Grace, I pray you will think on it.”
“Eleanor, you scarce know Rivaux,” Henry chided gently. “What care you whether he is here or there?”
“I fear for Cat,” she answered simply. “I would not have her dishonored by Brian or anyone else. I have watched them together and can see that he would have her.”
“I can send Brian back to England, if ’twill please you.”
“Nay.” She shook her head. “’Twould not end the problem for my daughter. Cat nears eighteen, Sire—would you deny her the love and comfort of her own lord because they once were forced to wed? As ’tis, she is neither wife nor maid whilst her sisters wed. And do not suggest the convent, I pray you, for she has not the temperament to be content in such a place, and I would not send her away.”
“Aye, and she is heiress to much.” Already Henry’s mind worked, turning over the fact that neither Eleanor nor her mother had borne any living sons. If Catherine of the Condes gave Rivaux none, Henry could control the disposal of Rivaux, Nantes, Harlowe, and the Condes. At worst, he would have a say in the marriage of any daughters, and at best, he would see some of the lands revert to royal authority. Rivaux’s revenues had declined steadily in the young count’s absence, making it not nearly so profitable as it had been at first. Exhaling heavily, he nodded. “I will think on it,” he promised her, knowing that he would sign the writ on the morrow. If he could not give Catherine of the Condes to his own son, then he’d see to it that he at least gained the loyalty of young Rivaux. “And if you would not have Roger know of this, you’d best go,” he added regretfully.
After she left, he stared unseeing at the pile of writs on the table. No matter what she’d asked of him, he knew in his heart that he would have granted it. Aye, but if fate had given him Eleanor of Nantes, he was certain he’d have had no need for any other. And there was a time when he could have gotten her for wife, a time when he’d mistakenly let his reason overrule his heart’s desire. But that was long ago, and he’d gambled right in the matter, he told himself, for he’d gained England’s crown with his quick thinking and the loyalty of the English people with his marriage to his cold Saxon princess.
Resolutely he reached to unroll a parchment and forced himself to read the grant of a small fief to the family of Monthermer. When his clerks returned, he’d dictate the return of Rivaux to its count.
15
“Art Guy of Rivaux?”
Guy, still astride the big black horse he favored for traveling, looked down at King Henry’s messenger and nodded, leaning to receive the parchment case the fellow held up to him. God’s bones, but it was mere chance that he’d been found, for in the past week he’d come from Chester all the way to Chepstow, stopping in between at Belesme’s old keep in Shrewsbury and at Ludlow to rally the marches against another Welsh rising. Laying his metal-scaled gloves across his saddle in front of him, he wrenched off his helmet and tossed it to Alan. Tired unto death nearly, he tapped the parchment from the cylindrical case and unrolled it, scanning it quickly while those around him fell silent at the sight of the king’s seal affixed to the end.
William de Comminges watched anxiously as Guy read the writ, and saw his jaw tighten ominously. Nay, but there could not be ill news—not when Guy had been in his saddle day and night for months on Henry’s behalf. Finally, when Guy muttered an oath that bordered on blasphemy under his breath, William could stand it no longer.
“By all saints, my lord!” he exploded. “There’s none to serve him better than you have done!”
Guy looked up and shook his head. “Nay, he summons me home for reward—I am to go to the Condes for Catherine and then to mine own lands.”
“And you are displeased?” William asked incredulously, his own face breaking into a broad smile at the news. “God’s eyes, but I’d not thought to ever see Rivaux again, my lord.”
“Aye,” Guy agreed grimly, “but I’ll warrant there’s more to tell than is written here, for ’tis not like him to give anything for nothing.”
“Mayhap ’tis his conscience,” Alan ventured.
“After five years?” Guy’s eyebrow rose skeptically and he favored his squire with an ironic smile. “Nay, ’tis more like that he’s bled all there is from my people and would give me back what he cannot use,” he decided cynically.
Even as well as he knew his master, William was nonetheless surprised by his lack of enthusiasm for Henry’s sudden generous gesture. Shaking his grizzled head, he could make no sense of it. But then, the Guy he’d known in Normandy had changed, becoming harder and harsher after the loss of his lands and his child wife, and that troubled William more than he dared to admit even to himself. With a warning look to Alan, he reached to lay a mailed glove on his count. “Aye, but Rivaux can be rebuilt even if ’tis gutted, my lord, and the king recognizes your marriage to the little maid.”
“Aye.” For a moment, Guy stared absently, seeing again Catherine as last he’d seen her, clasped tightly in Brian FitzHenry’s arms, her head pressed against the other man’s bloody surcoat. His eyes bleak, he collected himself finally and sighed. “Aye, I am bidden to take my unwilling bride.”
“When do we depart England?”
“He commands my presence in Rouen by Whitsunday, that I may take my oath of fealty there and be enfiefed anew with Rivaux.”
Whitsunday. The fiftieth day past Easter. William calculated the date in his head and nodded. God willing, they would be home at Rivaux with a summer for rebuilding whatever was needed, and hopefully they would have time to see that at least part of the crops were paid before winter came.
“But I would not leave here ere the Welsh come to terms,” Guy continued, musing aloud. “There are almost times when it could be wished that Belesme yet held Shrewsbury, for his very reputation kept the Welsh peaceful.”
“Aye,” William agreed dryly, “and he robbed and ravished both sides at will. Would you have that again?”
“Nay, I would not,” Guy admitted, “but I’d know peace ere I go.”
One of Chepstow’s ostlers claimed his attention with an insistent tug of the reins. Guy rerolled the writ, taking care not to tear off Henry’s seal, and slid it back into its case before handing it down to Alan. “Keep this that I may answer it.” Even as he leaned to dismount, he became aware of how very tired he was. His joints were stiff from days spent in his saddle, and his muscles ached with fatigue. He needed a bath, he needed food, and he needed a bed. And mayhap he needed a woman to blot out the memory of Catherine de Brione in Brian FitzHenry’s arms.
“He’s in Satan’s temper,” Arnulf complained to William as he emerge
d from the chamber allotted to Guy. Word had spread quickly through the keep that Henry was restoring Rivaux’s lands, and the result had been obvious when the castle’s tenant gave Guy a bed rather than a pallet in the main hall. “You’d think him displeased to regain his lands,” he muttered.
“I’d think him overtired,” William retorted. Grasping the elbow of the wench he’d found, he thrust her before him through the door. “There were not many to be had, my lord, but this one is clean enough.”
Guy turned around to see her, a young girl of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, still slender, with dark hair and dark eyes. She eyed him openly, obviously pleased with what she saw, and her mouth curved into a smile that revealed white, even teeth. For a moment his breath caught in his chest as he remembered Catherine. He moved forward to stare hard into the girl’s upturned face and then reached to lift the dark hair that fell over her shoulders. Unlike Catherine’s, it was coarse and heavy as he let it slide through his fingers, and it smelled of strong soap rather than roses. And a closer look revealed her to be older than he’d first thought.
As if she knew his mind, she shook her head. “Nay—I belonged to my lord of Hereford’s son as leman until he took Lady Bertrille to wive, but since, I’ve lain with the others.” Her dark eyes solemn now, she reached to loosen the gold cord that girded her waist and let it fall at his feet. Unlike the whores he’d known, she moved with fluid grace, lifting her arms to remove her gown and letting it slide down to join the girdle. She wore no undergown, and her flesh gleamed white and pink against the flickering fire in the brazier.
He stood transfixed, his mouth suddenly dry with desire, his body alive despite its earlier fatigue. “I would you left us,” he ordered William before he bent his head to possess her lips. Behind him, he heard the door close, and then the warmth of the girl’s response blotted all else from his mind. He would puzzle over King Henry’s summons and Catherine and Rivaux on the morrow, but for now he would seek ease, satisfying the hunger of his body.