by Anita Mills
It was a quick coupling, lusty and intense, one that left him satiated and sleepy. His passion spent, he rolled off the willing girl and lay quietly, staring upward in the darkness while he caught his breath. Beside him, she gasped for air.
“How are you called?” he asked finally.
“Giselle.”
“God’s bones, but you are a greedy wench, Giselle—I vow you’ve scratched my back till ’tis raw. I wonder that Hereford’s son kept his skin.”
“He said I was a cat,” she admitted with a giggle while her hand crept to rouse him again. To her surprise, he pushed her away and sat up.
“Nay, ’tis enough.”
His voice had grown harsh and she wondered what she’d done to anger him, for none other had reacted so. “You are displeased with me?” she asked, betraying her hurt.
“Nay.” He felt nothing now except an eagerness to be rid of her. To hide his disgust with himself and her, he slapped her rounded rump and pushed her to the side of the bed. “’Tis sleep I would have, for I ride out on the morrow. Seek me out in the morning and I will see you are well-paid for this night’s work.”
“Your man paid me already.” She rose quickly and groped for her clothes, pulling the gown on and tying the girdle about her waist. “My thanks, my lord,” she murmured as she turned toward the door.
He lay back, still and silent within the curtained bed, his thoughts faraway on another Cat. For nearly five years he’d fought to put her from his mind, and now ’twould seem that even Chepstow’s castle whore conspired to bring her back. Damn King Henry! Why had he not kept his vow to break the marriage? Why had he waited so many years, ignoring the matter, and now decided to send Catherine to Rivaux? Guy closed his eyes, willing his thoughts away from her, but she would not leave him. The image of her in Brian FitzHenry’s arms was still there, as fresh and hurtful now as then. He didn’t even want to see her again.
The sound of William’s pallet scraping across the floor as it was dragged into the room drew Guy from his reverie. “Nay,” he called out as he pushed himself up in the bed. “You are as tired as I am—I’d have you share the mattress. Your bones are more than twice the age of mine, after all, and I’d not see you too stiff to sit your saddle.”
“My bones are as good as yours, my lord,” William responded gruffly. Bending to reroll the pallet, he pushed it against the wall. “I thought you’d keep the wench most of the night,” he added. “Aye, I paid her to stay.”
“I sent her away.”
“Jesu, but the monks had you overlong, I fear.”
“I was weary—and once was enough.”
“Aye,” William conceded, “I heard her thrashing about and I’ll warrant that full half of the keep did also.” The ropes creaked as he sat on the edge of the bed to unwrap his chausses. “’Twill be good to get back to Rivaux,” he sighed.
“So we can cease fighting the wild Welsh to fight mine neighbors?”
“Nay—Henry rules Normandy with a firmer hand than Curthose did.”
“And leaves Church offices unfilled whilst he weds his bastards to his minor wards—aye, he is stronger, but at what cost? He let Belesme escape at Tinchebrai, and now he’s as powerless as Curthose to stop Belesme’s raids in Normandy.”
“He drove him out of Normandy,” William reminded him as he eased his body into the depths of the feather mattress. “Now ’tis only France that succors Belesme. And the day will come when he raids too far and is caught.” Turning his back to Guy, he lay on his side and contemplated the spitting fire in the brazier grate. “I worry more about how we are received by Roger de Brione than about Henry or Belesme,” he admitted as he stifled a yawn. “God’s blood, but I am tired, my lord.”
“I’d not go there save for the king’s command.”
William was silent for a time, and Guy began to think he’d slipped into sleep, but then the older man observed insightfully, “Nay, Catherine of the Condes is your lawful wife, and you cannot take another. If you would get heirs, ’twill have to be on her. And I’d not think the task unpleasant, for she is the comeliest little maid I have ever seen.”
“I would not speak of her.”
“But you would think of her.”
“I think of her as I saw her last, William, and ’tis not a pleasant thought. Aye—’tis strange King Henry gives her back to me now, is it not? Mayhap he seeks to cover her dishonor with a husband,” he mused aloud, finally putting into words his nagging suspicion.
“I think he gives her to you because Holy Church says he cannot give her to anyone else,” William declared flatly. “And I did not get in bed to speak all night when I must ride all day. God rest you now, my lord.”
“And you also.”
Guy turned away. His body felt heavy and his mind was weary beyond words. His problems would still be there on the morrow, he told himself, but then mayhap he’d be better able to face them. The room was chilly despite the fire, but the covers lay thick and warm over him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he let his mind wander, and as he drifted off toward sleep, Catherine of the Condes was bending over him, her rose-washed hair enveloping him.
It was some time before William slept. Long after Guy’s breathing evened out, the old man lay beside him listening and remembering the time when he’d hidden Lady Alys’ son under his cloak and ridden two days with the hungry, sodden babe to the safety of her father’s keep. It had taken the power of her family to save the child from the old Count of Rivaux’s rage, but the boy had proven himself worthy, and William had no regrets. Aye, and when Count Eudo had grudgingly ordered the boy brought out of the monastery to thwart Curthose, none had thought he could be made into a warrior—none but William. Aye, William remembered with pride, it had been a privilege to train one with such inborn skill. And now he only hoped that he would live long enough to see Guy’s own son come into this world, for the blood on both sides ought to make one of the best fighting men ever born.
16
The warm May breeze blew in across the wall where Cat walked to cool her temper and sort out the problems that plagued her. Belowstairs, she could hear Brian FitzHenry calling to her, his voice rising in anger. Well, she’d not go back, she muttered to herself, for he had not the right to press her as he did. “Lie with me—lie with me now,” he’d begged as his hands sought to unlace the sides of her gown. Well, she was no leman to be taken and left—nay, she was Catherine of the Condes, and she demanded more than a quick tumble in some dark and dank storehouse. Her face still burned with the humiliation of what he’d expected. Aye, she’d gone willingly enough with him, she admitted, but she had not thought he meant to lay her like a common wench. “You’ve had a man before,” he’d whispered hotly, his breath rushing in her ear, his fingers teasing her breasts through her gown. Even now she recalled the glitter of passion in his eyes, and a shudder of disgust made her shoulders shiver.
Turning to look out over the peaceful fields, their green rows lying in neat patches below the wattle-and-daub houses built in the shadow of the fortress, Cat breathed deeply of the clean air to rid herself of the moldy grain smell of the storehouse. Slowly her rage abated to mere anger, anger that Brian had dared attempt such a thing, and then to reason. Aye, the fault was not entirely his, she remembered guiltily, for had she not gone with him? And had she not laughed and teased with him, happy to have diversion again from her sister’s wedding, eager to show Aislinn and the others that she was desirable, that she held some power over men? Aye, and what power it was, for she’d gotten naught but Rivaux’s coldness and Brian’s furtive offer of passion despite her much-admired beauty. Let Aislinn and Pippa and Bella go forth from the Condes with husbands, contentedly facing lives in their own keeps, looking forward to bearing their husbands’ heirs. Cat would go on as always, daughter rather than mistress of her house, punished for the childish pride that had demanded proof of her virginity in the face of Sybilla’s censure.
A horn sounded beyond the fields and she wondered briefly who had o
btained her father’s permission to hunt. And then she was distracted by footsteps on the stairs behind her. Thinking that sentries came to watch, she turned back to face Brian. His face was sober now, his brown eyes serious in his rounded face, and for once she could see the resemblance to his royal father.
“Art unwelcome here!” she snapped.
“Cat—”
“Did you think to ravish me in my father’s keep?” Her rich overgown billowed out from her underchainse as she paced angrily before him. “Aye, and what if I’d conceived of you? Would you ride out and leave me to my shame? God’s bones, but I’d expected more of you! You grew to manhood here—you lived in this keep and ate at my father’s table these many years past, Brian! And yet you would tumble me as you did Agnes and Tyra, would you not?”
Her wind-tangled hair blew across her flushed face and her eyes flashed indignantly, reminding him anew that she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever been privileged to see. He stood passively and waited for her to spend her anger. When she paused to catch her breath, he dared to meet her eyes.
“I did not think, else Id not done it,” he admitted openly. “But before you would cast me into the pits of hell for wanting you, Id plead my defense.”
“Nay—”
“You think I had no reason? Aye, I have lived here since I was but a small boy, Cat, and there’s none I admire and love so much as I love your father, but…” He could see her mouth open to interrupt him, and he shook his head. “Nay—let me say my piece ere you rail at me again. I have seen you grow from child to woman here, and I have seen the way you look at me also. I am but a man, Cat, and I’d have you—aye, I admit I have strong appetites—I am my father’s son in blood if not in birth.” He paused, scanning her face for some sign that she understood, and found none. Sighing heavily, he looked away. “What I would say to you, Catherine, is that ’tis not right to tempt where you would not. When I took you to the empty granary, I thought ’twas for what we both wanted. You let me kiss you and—”
“And you thought I would give my honor for a kiss,” she finished for him, her voice low. “Sweet Mary, but I’d not meant…I’d not thought…You knew I was not free to wed.” Mortified, she moved to touch his sleeve. “Brian, even if I wanted to lie with you, I could not. I have loved you these six years and more, but I am my parents’ daughter and I’d not shame them.”
“Do you love me, Cat?”
Uncertain now of the answer, Catherine stared into the plain tunic that covered his blocky shoulders. “Do you love me?” she countered. “Or would you be as your father and take me for leman, knowing what pain that would cause my mother and father?” Even as she watched, she could see him flush guiltily, and she knew the truth.
“There’s none to compare with you for beauty, Cat,” he answered slowly, admitting, “Aye—I’d take you for leman if I dared.”
“I am of better birth than that, Brian. I am heiress to this and Nantes and Harlowe, and there was a time when I thought to bring them all to you.”
“But you wed Rivaux and lay with him in the marriage bed,” he reminded her. “I would have wedded with you but for that.”
“Nay, you would not—you would not have defied your father’s wishes,” she accused. “I know now I was a fool to have expected that.” Her voice bitter, she turned away to stare unseeing into the distance. The horn sounded again, nearer this time, as a long column of mounted men came over the horizon. The sun caught the row of polished helms and glanced off them as from a line of mirrors. Cat squinted against the brightness, her attention caught by the red banner that waved stiffly in the breeze above them, disbelieving what she saw. As recognition dawned, her mind spun in shock, forcing her to grip the stone ledge for balance.
Brian watched the blood drain from her face and her eyes widen in horror. “God’s teeth, Cat, what ails you?” he demanded. Their quarrel forgotten, he reached to steady her on the high wall and followed her line of vision. “Are you all right?”
Still staring, she appeared not to hear him. “Holy Mary!” she breathed, her eyes on the knight at the head of the approaching column. “’Tis Rivaux!”
“Jesu! Are you certain?” He tried to make out the figure on the red banner, straining his eyes until he saw the black hawk, its wings spread for the kill. “Nay, it cannot be.”
“Aye, but it is,” she muttered grimly. As she pushed away from the wall, her manner changed abruptly. Her face set, she started for the stairs purposefully. “I know not why he is here,” she muttered under her breath, “but I’d have Papa send him away. God’s blood, but he cannot just ride in with no word after these many years.”
Eleanor faced her angry daughter across her solar and knew the task of placating Cat would not be an easy one. For once, Roger leaned back, his shoulders braced against the stone wall, his blue eyes watching as though he would say: I would watch how ’tis you mean to contend with what you have wrought.
“You knew he was coming?” Catherine demanded incredulously. “And you did not tell me?” She paced furiously, her color heightened ominously. “Nay, I’ll not see him!”
“Lower your voice else everyone hear you, Cat,” her mother ordered calmly. “And, aye, ’twas I who asked that he be pardoned.”
“But why, Maman—why?”
“Think you I have not eyes?” Eleanor responded, her voice still quiet. “Think you I do not love you too much to see your disgrace?”
“I know not what you mean!”
“I have seen what passes between you and Brian, Cat, and it cannot be.”
“Because of Rivaux!”
“Aye, because of Rivaux,” Eleanor agreed gently. “Holy Church rules you are his, and ’tis time you went to your husband.”
Catherine stared and the color drained from her face. “You…you would send me away?” she asked as her mother’s meaning sank in. “Nay, I’d not go.” Turning to her father, she held out her hands in appeal. “Papa…Papa, tell her you’ll not let me go.”
He straightened his tall frame and met his daughter’s eyes soberly now. She was willful and she was spoiled, but he loved her beyond all save Eleanor, and it was going to pain him deeply to part with her. “Cat,” he began, groping for the words to explain, “you are a woman grown now—”
Sensing he meant to agree with her mother, Catherine whirled on Eleanor. “’Tis your doing, is it not?” Tears welled and spilled from her dark eyes. “And how, pray, did you achieve this?” she asked spitefully. “How did you persuade the king to pardon him? You may speak of how I look at Brian, my lady mother, but it cannot be any worse than the way King Henry looks on you! Think you I have not seen that also?”
“Cat!”
“I care not, Papa—’tis true!”
“Catherine, you will beg your mother’s pardon for the insolence,” Roger told her coldly. “You know full well that ’twas no such thing.” He moved forward to clasp her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “I’ve not beaten you once in the nearly eighteen years you’ve lived, but afore God, if you do not ask her pardon now, I will.”
“Roger, leave her be—she is but angry with me,” Eleanor cut in.
“Nay.”
Cat knew she’d gone too far even for an indulgent father, and she also knew her accusations were untrue. Swallowing hard, she looked at the floor and nodded. “Your pardon, Maman,” she managed low. “’Tis my accursed temper again. But I would not leave you and Papa—and I’d not go with Guy of Rivaux.”
“Did he mistreat you when you were with him before?” Roger asked in a gentler tone. “Tell me why ’tis you should not be given to your husband.”
“Because I’ve not even seen him in five years, Papa! Can you not see—he’s not sent so much as one message to us! And now he comes to claim me? Why? Because King Henry bids him take me? Because my mother thinks I should go?” she argued passionately. “Papa, I am flesh-and-blood woman, not a castle or a piece of property that can be left sitting until its lord returns!”
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“Aye, but he had much to trouble him ere he left Normandy, Cat,” Eleanor reminded her. “He lost his lands when Henry won, and there was naught for him but exile. And Henry openly challenged the marriage, as you remember, so ’twould have been foolish of Rivaux to ask to take you with him.”
“Nay, he did not ask.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I know he would not even see me.” Catherine closed her eyes against the memory of the humiliation of that last night. “Aye, he wed with me at Curthose’s bidding, but when the duke lost, Guy of Rivaux left me,” she admitted bitterly.
“Cat…Cat…” Eleanor sighed, and met her daughter’s eyes with sympathy. “You are his, whether you will it or not—and whether he wills it or not also. Put what is done in the past and live for now. See him as he is now rather than as you remember him.” Moving closer, she laid a comforting hand on Cat’s shoulder, murmuring, “You cannot wish to live your life here as neither wife nor maiden, growing older without the comfort of a husband and children. ’Tis time, lovey, to accept Guy of Rivaux.” Slipping her arm about her daughter’s stiffened body, she advised gently, “Learn to love what God gives you and do not yearn for what you cannot have. There’s naught to dislike in Lord Guy, Cat.”
“Cat, I have not the power to keep you from your husband if he wants you,” Roger spoke finally, “but if he beats you without reason or if he otherwise mistreats you, I will come for you. Aye—and with an army at my back, if need be.”
“Has he said he comes for me?” Catherine asked suddenly. “Mayhap…”
“He comes for you. Henry has commanded that he take you with him to Rivaux.”
“The king has commanded, and I am moved as a piece on the chessboard. Jesu, Papa, but what if Rivaux does not want me? What if he does but come because he must?”