Fire and Steel

by Anita Mills

  “Sweet Mary, but I hope you do not mean to greet your guests with such a face, Linn,” Catherine chided from the doorway.” ’Twill be remarked that you appear to mourn rather than rejoice in your marriage.” Coming into the room, she plopped on one of her mother’s cushions to watch Hawise weave strands of thread taken from the gown’s fabric through Aislinn’s thick chestnut hair. Then, sensing her sister’s agitation, Cat ordered Hawise away. “See to her chaplet—’tis in my chamber—and I will finish this.” Rising, she picked up several shiny threads and moved to start a new tiny braid at Aislinn’s crown. “Go on.”

  “Jesu, ’tis well you are a countess, Cat, for you speak as though you were born to be obeyed,” the younger girl observed.

  “Mayhap I was. Stand still, Linn.” Separating the hair with her fingers, she began almost conversationally, “Now, what is it that ails you?”

  “Nothing. God’s blood, but you are rough, Cat—you’ll have me sore-headed before you are done.”

  “Nay, and do not think to turn me from my question. You are as pale as cow’s milk. Is it that you fear to be bedded?”

  Aislinn pulled her head away and walked to the window to stare into the courtyard below. “I know not what I fear,” she admitted. “Mayhap I fear that I will never have what you and Maman have.”

  “No one has what is between Maman and Papa, Linn. And you are mistaken if you think that there is aught between Guy of Rivaux and me but the marriage bed itself.” Cat moved closer and touched her sister’s shoulder. “Come, ’tis time you were ready.”

  “At least you and Guy have words. Geoffrey does but smile at me!” Aislinn burst out. “Aye, I know not what I am getting!”

  “Geoffrey is kind, Linn—he will use you far more gently than I am used.”

  “And you think that is what I want? Nay, I want…Jesu!” she cried, unable to put it into words.

  Catherine remembered the fiery coupling between her and Guy and wondered if Aislinn could even guess how it was. “Do you understand what is to happen? Mayhap you are but overset, Linn.”

  “If you are asking if Maman has said aught to me—aye, she has. And I am not so ignorant that I have not seen the animals do it. ’Tis but that I cannot see Geoffrey do it! But then, I’d not expect you to understand—you who have Guy of Rivaux in your bed! Even Brian says Geoffrey is more maid than man, Cat,” she added in a softer voice.

  “You know not how it is. Aye, there is that between us, but when we are not in bed, we can do aught but quarrel.” Catherine sought the means to make Linn more satisfied with her husband. “Aye, Geoffrey is not like to treat you as I am treated, and for that you may be grateful. In the time I have known him, Guy has pushed me in the dirt, threatened to beat me, turned me upside down in the bathing tub and nigh drowned me, bedded me, and left me. And you are a gentler soul than I am—you’d not like it.”

  “You cut his face,” Aislinn reminded her. “At least you are well-matched in temper, Cat.”

  “Nay, we are not.”

  “Well, I would rather have your husband than mine. I’d even rather have Brian than Geoffrey.” Turning back to Cat, Aislinn managed a rueful smile. “’Tis unseemly of me, isn’t it?”

  Catherine shook her head. “But what would you do about Tyra and the others? You always chided me for a fool for saying the same thing.”

  “I’d do nothing about them,” she decided. “But were he mine, I’d tell him that I’d castrate him if any more wenches claimed to bear his babes.” Sobering, Linn asked Catherine, “But what of Guy? Do you think he warms his bed with others?”

  “I know not.” But then Cat remembered how he’d touched her, and the now-too-familiar longing came over her. He’d learned that somewhere, after all. Putting it from her mind, she sighed. “I suppose he does.”

  They were interrupted by Hawise returning with the chaplet, a delicately woven crown of spring flowers and gold ribbon that Cat had worked earlier. Lifting the gossamer veil of soft baudekin over Aislinn’s head, the woman nodded to Cat. “She is the prettiest bride wed in the Condes, do you not think?”

  “Aye, she is that.”

  “And as well you both know, I am the only bride ever wed here,” Aislinn retorted.

  “Well, then you will be the prettiest one ever to be wed here.” Cat laughed as she hugged her.

  The chapel was hot as the small crowd come to witness the marriage took their seats and waited. From the side door Catherine watched her father escort Aislinn to the altar railing and step back. Leaning over, he straightened out the long train of the shimmering gown and whispered something to his daughter. How very like her father, Cat thought with a pang. He had loved each of the girls Eleanor had borne him without reservation, taking pride and pleasure in all of them. It was as though he never admitted wanting the son Eleanor had tried so hard to bear for him. Aye, and even King Henry chided him for not marrying them early where it would give him the greatest gain. And now, when he could delay no longer, he was sending Aislinn from the Condes regretfully. Soon Catherine herself would also be leaving. Thinking how little she would see of them after she left, she felt a lump form in her throat and she had to turn away.

  When she could bring herself to look again, Geoffrey of Mayenne had joined her sister before the altar rail. Even though he was half a head taller than Aislinn, he looked pale and frail beside her, his pallor accentuated by the bright blue tunic he wore. Involuntarily Cat gazed across the small chapel to where Brian sat in a tunic of the same color, and she could not but note how vital and alive he looked in comparison with Geoffrey. How she could have ever envied Linn’s gentle, sweet-tempered lord was beyond her. She almost pitied her sister for her marriage bed now.

  The clear, high-pitched voices of the small boys’ choir floated through the air as people shifted on their hard seats and watched Geoffrey take Aislinn’s hand. Cat’s mind harked back to the day in Rouen when she’d wed Guy of Rivaux with as much pomp as Duke Robert could manage in such haste. Sybilla’s ladies had envied her so, showing their jealousy in petty ways, for there’d been not a maid among them who would not have willingly changed places with Catherine of the Condes that day. Aye, and Guy would have nearly made two of Geoffrey even then.

  The singing ended and the Condes’s chaplain began by asking who gave Aislinn in marriage. Roger’s voice was low, almost muffled in answer, and Catherine had to strain to hear him. Her eyes traveled to where her mother sat, still and pale, beside the Count of Mayenne. There’d once been such hope of the marriage, this union between powerful families, but the wedding had been postponed more than once, first with Geoffrey’s father pleading the boy’s illness, and then with Roger’s growing reluctance to give his daughter to the slender, almost delicate boy. But in the end, under pressure from Henry and Mayenne both, he’d given in and sent Linn’s dowry to Mayenne. Cat watched her mother struggle to hold back tears as Geoffrey repeated his vows to Aislinn.

  Outside in the courtyard there was the sound of a late arrival, probably someone who’d traveled far and encountered trouble on the way. Cat glanced toward the door curiously and then shrugged it off—whoever it was had all but missed the wedding anyway. Aislinn’s voice rang clear in the chapel, drawing Cat back to her. Sweet Mary, but there’d be none to know of her sister’s misgivings, Cat reflected with pride: Aislinn was a de Brione through and through.

  Their vows taken, the couple knelt for blessing, and the priest signed the Cross over them. Catherine was absorbed in watching and did not hear Guy come up behind her until he laid a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “I’d thought to be here earlier, but my horse was overtired.” Nodding dumbly, she dared not turn around for fear he would see just how very glad she was to see him. She’d not have him know what his touch, the sound of his voice, could do to her. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe and tried to master her racing heart. Stealing a look upward, she could see he was still dressed for traveling, in dusty woolen tunic, braichs, and boots. His black hair was in windswe
pt disarray above those flecked eyes of his, but to her he was the handsomest man in Christendom. As if he read her thoughts, he grinned, exposing those fine, even teeth. “I forwent the mail so I would not embarrass you—I thought surely if there was a safe place in Normandy, it would be in Roger de Brione’s lands.” Turning her back to the ceremony with his hands on her shoulders, he pulled her against him and breathed deeply of the rosewater scent in her hair. “I’d not forgotten how delicious you smell, Cat.”

  23

  The sounds of men cheering loudly somewhere in the field beyond the keep slowly penetrated Catherine’s consciousness. She came awake reluctantly, stretching lazily, savoring how good she felt, and reaching to touch her husband. “Sweet Mary, but…” she murmured, stopping with the realization that he wasn’t there. Rolling over, she scanned the room curiously to find he’d already gone. She sank back against the pillow with a sense of disappointment—she’d wanted to watch him waken, to see those strange, beautiful eyes of his open, to ruffle that black hair back from his face, and to trace that straight profile of his as he’d done hers the night before. Aye, she admitted with a satisfied smile, and she’d like to do more than that with him.

  A flush crept into her cheeks as she remembered how little attention either of them had paid to Aislinn’s wedding feast, or to her bedding with Mayenne, as the anticipation had built between them until, when at last they were alone, there’d been no need for words. Sweet Jesu, but she knew not why it was thus—there was no love between them—but she’d not imagined it could be like that with a man. Aye, it was not until they’d both found release from all-consuming desire and had collapsed in each other’s arms that he’d whispered sweet words to her. Looking down at the swell of her breasts beneath the covers, she remembered anew how his mouth had felt there, and she felt the tautening of desire. There was no mistaking it—she was the wanton wench he’d called her. But instead of chastising her for it, he’d seemed immensely pleased.

  “Lady Catherine?” Gerdis peered apologetically into the room. “Lord Guy said I was not to wake you, but—”

  “I am awake.” Regretfully Cat gave up her memories of the night before and sat up. “’Twould seem I have overslept.” Stretching to ease sleep from her bones, she added, “Where is Hawise?”

  “She tends your sister.”

  Aislinn. She’d scarce spared a thought for Linn, and yet now she could remember her lying silently in the bed while Guy and Brian had undressed Geoffrey. Even Brian had appeared to pity her sister, leaning to whisper encouragement rather than his usual bawdy comments, and Guy had murmured for Cat’s ears alone that “I pray he is not as ill as I think him.” She’d taken a second look at Geoffrey then and wondered if Guy were right—that it was illness that gave the boy his pallor. Certainly when the betrothal had been arranged, Cat’s father had not noted anything amiss, but that had been years before. Aloud she managed to ask, “How fares Linn, then?”

  “God willing, my lady, there will be an heir born to them.”

  Cat wished it were Hawise come to tend her—Hawise would not spare the earthy details of what had happened, but Gerdis, as Lady Eleanor’s serving woman, considered it beneath her to gossip with the daughters of the house. Sighing, she rose. If she wanted to know anything, she’d have to ask Aislinn herself, she supposed. At least Geoffrey had managed to consummate the marriage, though, or Gerdis would not have mentioned children. Holding her arms out for the woman to slip her chainse over, Cat wondered aloud, “I do not suppose you have seen my husband?”

  “Nay, but if you listen, you will hear of him,” Gerdis responded as she pulled the undergown down over Cat’s body. “There’s scarce anyone left inside since ‘twas said that your lord father and your lord husband would share their skills with Mayenne’s squires. Aye, even your lady mother watches them.”

  She should have remembered. One of the boys in Hugh of Mayenne’s retinue had begged to see Guy wield Doomslayer, and Guy had reluctantly agreed on the condition that her father would show his skill with Avenger, the famed sword he’d used against Belesme. How very like men, she reflected wryly: they would take any opportunity—even a wedding celebration—to demonstrate the violent arts of war. The noise outside took on meaning; apparently quite a crowd had gathered to watch two of the most skillful knights in Normandy.

  Gerdis selected one of Cat’s older gowns, saying “’Twill leave your good ones to impress your husband’s people in Rivaux,” and held it out for her approval.

  “Nay.” Her thoughts on Rivaux himself, Cat shook her head. He’d been back but one night, and she meant to make sure that he looked at none but her. “I’d wear the purple one.”

  Shrugging, the woman shook out Cat’s favorite gown and held it up to her. Catherine pulled it on while Gerdis lifted her hair from inside and let it fall over her shoulders. “’Tis lovely hair, Lady Catherine,” the woman murmured as she reached for Cat’s comb. “More’s the pity that it must be bound.”

  “Nay. Take the tangles and be done—I’d wear it down.”

  “’Tis unseemly for a wedded lady,” Gerdis reminded her.

  “I’ll cover it,” Cat promised. The cheers grew louder, making her impatient. “God’s blood, but I’d not stand here all day whilst you do my hair.”

  “Then sit.”

  “Where’s Hawise?”

  “She still tends your sister.”

  As far as Catherine was concerned, there was none but Hawise who could please her, and the thin-faced Gerdis considered herself too important to minister to her lady’s daughters unless told to do so. Most probably she’d chosen Cat this day because Cat was now a countess. Aye, but even in the Condes, there’d been a subtle change amongst the servants and men-at-arms once Guy of Rivaux had come for her. She was no longer “Cat” or “Lady Cat” as she’d been called as long as she could remember, for now even the seneschal, the bailiff, the butler, and the chamberlain addressed her as “Lady Catherine.” The comb caught in one of Cat’s tangles, almost bringing tears to her eyes. “Give it to me—I’d see Linn, anyway, and Hawise does not pull so much.”

  Shrugging imperturbably, Gerdis handed her the comb. “Do not forget your shoes, then. I’d not have you shame your mother with both your hair unbound and your feet bare.” Her birdlike eyes met Cat’s as she added, “Lady Catherine.”

  Comb in hand, Cat made her way to the chamber Aislinn had shared with Pippa and Bella before last night. For her second daughter’s marriage night, Eleanor had moved the two younger girls onto pallets in her solar, and left the bed to Linn and Geoffrey. The image of Linn as last she’d seen her, quiet and composed, watching her new husband, floated before Catherine. Poor Linn. Fate had not been kind to her in her chosen husband. And yet Cat could not but be proud, for there was not the least public display of distaste for Geoffrey—Aislinn was their parents’ daughter, above all.

  She found her sister seated on a bench having her waving chestnut hair plaited. If anything was amiss, she gave no sign, gesturing instead to Cat to come inside. “Ah, I have stolen Hawise, have I not? God’s blood, Cat, but what will you do when you go to Rivaux?”

  “Maman says I may take her with me. You may take Gerdis, sister.”

  Aislinn made a face and shook her head. “Nay, ’tis Tyra who goes to Mayenne with me.” Her brown eyes held Cat’s. “The fortune is all yours, ‘twould seem.”

  Cat eyed her curiously for a moment, seeking some sign of unhappiness, and thought she saw and heard a hint of wistfulness. “I’d not have Tyra if Maman told me to take her, Linn,” she told her. “If I could not have Hawise, I’d ask for Gerdis—or mayhap Agnes. I’d as lief not bear lira’s insolence—I’d have it beaten out of her.”

  “Mayhap I am not so unforgiving as you, Cat.”

  “Aye, mayhap you are not.” Noting that Hawise had finished with her sister, she sat down and held out her comb. Then, watching as Aislinn rose to look out the window, she added casually, “Where is Geoffrey?”

  “With
everyone else in the Condes—watching men play like boys with the quintains. I wonder that you are here when ’tis your husband they would see.”

  “I came to see how you fared.”

  “I am neither content nor discontented, Cat. My husband is kind and pleasant, and I managed to please him, I think.” Aislinn’s chin quivered as she turned back, and the expression on her face prompted Catherine to send Hawise away hastily.

  “’Tis plain all is not well with you, lovey,” she murmured sympathetically. “If he has mistreated you, we will go to Papa and—”

  “Oh, ’tis no such thing, I swear to you. ’Tis…” Aislinn’s face contorted piteously as she fought for control of herself. Sniffing back tears, she wailed, “Oh, Cat, I pray I may bear his heir while yet he lives!”

  Catherine was at her side in an instant, enveloping her sympathetically. “While he lives…?” she echoed faintly. “But surely it cannot be as bad as that—why would you say such a thing, Linn?”

  “Aye, it is. After…when ’twas done last night, Geoffrey told me how it is with him, Cat.” Aislinn spoke haltingly and then mastered herself. “He held me and…and said it sorrowed him that I would not know him as he once was.” Tears sparkled in her eyes but did not brim as she bit her lip to calm its trembling. “His limbs are wasting. He has less use of them now than even a few months ago, he tells me. The physicians Count Hugh brought from Bologna cannot aid him and offer no hope that he will improve. ’Tis why his father pushed for the marriage—he feared he would have to return my dowry to Papa and he’d have no heir if, Geoffrey dies—’twill go to Anjou. But if I bear Geoffrey’s babe, Mayenne may yet stay free of Maine and Anjou.”