Fire and Steel

by Anita Mills

  “Holy Mary,” Catherine breathed. “Does Papa know?”

  “I am certain he does not.”

  “Oh, Linn, I am so sorry. I—”

  “Nay. Do not waste your pity on me, Cat. ’Tis Geoffrey who bears the pain of dying.” Aislinn broke away and stepped back.

  “And you are not afraid—do you not fear to contract his malady?”

  “He says he has had it some years now, and no others have gotten it.”

  “But can he…? That is, is he able to…?” Cat’s voice trailed off.

  “Can he get a son?” Aislinn supplied for her. “I know not, but he can try.”

  “And you can accept that?” Catherine asked incredulously.

  “I gave my pledge before God and Holy Church, Cat. And now that I know what is wrong, I understand how it is for him. I mean to be a good wife to him if his father will let me, and when ’tis over, I will return to the Condes.”

  “Oh, Linn!”

  “Nay, do not weep for me. God willing, my son will rule Mayenne so that it does not go to the Angevin.” Her eyes met Catherine’s soberly now as she added, “Aye, and I will choose for my next husband a man strong enough to hold Mayenne if I am given a son.”

  “I do not care about Mayenne, Linn, I care about you. You cannot—”

  “I will do anything to thwart Anjou, Cat. So long as he threatens King Henry, he threatens the Condes. Besides, Geoffrey needs me.” Cocking her head to listen to cries of “Rivaux! Rivaux!” outside, Aislinn reached for Catherine’s hand. “By the sound of it, they salute your husband. Come, ’tis time we saw what ’tis he does.”

  Catherine followed her almost numbly, wondering how her sister could accept what had been given her. Had she been the one to wed Geoffrey, she doubted she would have managed to be so calm, but then, Aislinn was the sweetest-tempered of Roger de Brione’s daughters. But that was not saying much for the tempers of any of them. For a fleeting moment she wondered what her father would do if he knew how Hugh of Mayenne had cheated them, but then she realized there was naught he could do now. She thought of going to her mother. But Eleanor would only be heartsick for Aislinn, a bride going forth from the Condes with a doomed husband, and there was nothing she could do about it. Catherine decided that if Aislinn thought herself able to accept Geoffrey, then she should hold her tongue.

  Every guest, every man-at-arms, every idle servant stood gathered along lines drawn through the grass on either side of the practice field. At one end a group of younger men, squires from the Condes, Mayenne, and Rivaux’s retinue, gathered to admire the sword that had bested Belesme nineteen years earlier, while older men of the household examined the famed Doomslayer as William de Comminges explained the strange inscription on its blade. After the stories of Guy’s Welsh campaigns, there was considerable curiosity as to whether it bore peculiar powers. Catherine shielded her eyes and scanned the field for her husband.

  Hugh of Mayenne saw them and stepped over to greet them. It took all of Catherine’s will to keep from spitting in his face for what he’d done to Aislinn. Through his deceit, he’d knowingly given her sister a husband who would die.

  “Ah, but you are late. Rivaux has made twelve passes at the quintains, striking true every time.” He gestured to where boys set up the revolving target used to practice two squires at once. “He split it in two the last time and they have had to put another in its place. God’s blood, but I’ve lived forty-four years and seen a blow like that only once before. Aye, and that was when Belesme was in the Old Conqueror’s train—he wagered his horse he could shatter the one we kept at Bayeux. One blow, he said, and we were fools enough to doubt it.” His black eyes were intent on the memory. “He came down the field spurring so hard the ground shook beneath our feet before he hit his target in the center. There was such a noise that we thought he’d been unseated and trampled, but when the dust cleared, the board had been shattered, broken off the iron bar that held it, and straw was everywhere. I’ve not forgotten the sight, nor the horse I lost over it.”

  He turned to stare where Catherine saw Guy astride his horse. “I’d not thought to see such force in a man ever again, but methinks young Rivaux might rival him. Sweet Jesu, but he may even be as tall as Belesme.”

  “Aye, Guy Longshanks, I have heard him called,” Roger’s bailiff murmured. “But he’d never have beaten my lord even ten years ago.”

  “Mayhap aye, mayhap nay, but I’d not try to match either of them.” Cat turned at the sound of William de Comminges’ voice. “Every fifteen or twenty years, there is born a man to rival the best one born before,” the older man observed. “In my time, ’twas argued whether ’twas Lord Roger or Robert of Belesme.”

  “And now?” someone behind Catherine asked him.

  “Now ’tis Rivaux.”

  “Nay, ’tis still Belesme,” someone else argued. “When he fights, you can see Satan in those green eyes of his.”

  The two-armed quintain was in place, sending a hush of expectation through the crowd. Catherine stared to where Guy sat at the end of the field. He was bareheaded, but his body was protected by a stiffened leather hauberk visible over a plain linen tunic. Even as she watched, he took the lance from Alan and adjusted it for balance in his hands. He saw her and lifted one hand in salute.

  “Sweet Mary!” Aislinn gasped beside her.

  Reluctantly Catherine tore her eyes away from her husband to follow her sister’s gaze. There, at the opposite end of the field, Brian FitzHenry hoisted himself into his saddle and took a lance from Roger’s squire. Laying it across his saddle, he leaned down for his helmet. Catherine’s heart rose to her throat as she realized what he meant to do: he’d challenged Guy of Rivaux on the quintains. Done right, it was an exercise of skill to be appreciated, with one man coming at the target from one side, hitting hard enough to spin it, and the other man catching the other side as it spun. But Brian was no match for Guy—he was nearly a head shorter and his arms lacked Guy’s reach by a full hand-breadth. Mutely Catherine turned to appeal to her father.

  Aislinn was not so silent. “Nay, but Brian cannot—Papa, do not let him! ’Tis too dangerous!”

  “Aye,” Roger agreed grimly. “But as it was Brian who issued the challenge, I can scarce interfere. And ’tis not as though they meet each other in combat.”

  “’Tis but sport,” Hugh of Mayenne assured her. “They do but hit different sides of the quintain. Aye, if he were to cross swords with Rivaux, I’d fear for the bastard, but as—”

  “His name is Brian FitzHenry,” Catherine informed Mayenne evenly. “And he bears the blood of the Conqueror, lest you forget it.” Turning back to her father, she urged him, “You can stop it, Papa—this is the Condes and you are lord here. I’d not see Brian try this.”

  “I’d look at the quintain—walk apart with me,” he responded, ignoring her appeal. Drawing her arm through his, he started toward the target. Leaning closer, he shook his head. “You must not interfere in this, Cat, nor can I. If there is a dispute between two men, ’tis better settled here with a quintain between them than with weapons directed against each other. Brian challenged Guy, Cat, daring him to try—even calling him a coward when he demurred—nay, but ’tis time Brian learns he cannot stand behind me and taunt.”

  “But—”

  “But nay,” he silenced her. “Let him be a man.” Reaching the heavy wood-and-straw target, he checked the iron bolts that held it to the center post. His hand rotated the cross-piece carefully. “Aye, I’d not see him do it either, but mayhap he will learn to hold his tongue and cease idle boasting.” His blue eyes were serious when they met hers. “And do not think that being your father makes me blind, Cat, for I know why he does it. And I know why Guy accepted.”

  “Papa—”

  “You cannot tempt two men who would have you, Catherine, without making them rivals.”

  “You do not think ’tis for me they do this, surely not, when…” She stopped, aware now that Guy had jammed on his helmet and
waited impatiently for the field to clear. “Papa, ’tis not so. Brian leaves the Condes for you. It is your love he would have.”

  “He has it.” Looking down the lines drawn in the grass, he shook his head. “Unless I mistake the matter, that is not what Rivaux thinks.” He grasped her elbow and directed her to the side. “Come on, I’d not be trampled.”

  Guy of Rivaux and Brian FitzHenry faced each other across the wide expanse of the practice field and waited for the signal. Catherine had watched the squires do this dozens of times, missing their targets more often than not, but she had an awful foreboding about this meeting. Aislinn caught up to them, her own face creased in concern. She did not like contests of violence and she doubted she ever would, but she too was uneasy about Brian’s challenge. He had not the skill of Rivaux, and it was far too easy to miss the quintain. The thought of a lance carried too close made her blood run cold. An accident or misdirected blow might well kill one of them. What if Brian thought to gain Cat through treachery? Or what if Rivaux thought to dispose of a rival?

  Directly across from them, Cat could see her mother’s white face and she knew Eleanor did not like this contest any better than she did. Hugh of Mayenne stepped out for better visibility and waved the red cloth for both men to see. When they nodded, he lifted it and released it to float gently downward.

  Guy lowered his lance, positioning it for the hit, and spurred his big black forward. He’d not wanted to do this—he had no need to prove himself, he knew, but FitzHenry and Count Hugh had been determined. He was going to reach his target first. Leaning slightly to brace himself, he hit the crossbar, and as it spun from impact, he wheeled aside.

  Brian, faced with a spinning bar, drew off and made his pass, to the jeers of Rivaux’s men. Stung, he reined in short and prepared for another run. This time, he would be the first to hit his side of the quintain. He kicked his horse so viciously that he was nearly unseated, and then leaned forward, intent on the hit.

  Both men reached the target at the same time, but Guy of Rivaux’s greater strength gave him the greater impact. The quintain shuddered and split with such force that Brian was hit by the rebound. For a brief moment it looked as if his lance were hung up, and he raised in his saddle, reeling from Rivaux’s blow on the other side, and then, pitching sideways, he thudded to the ground as Guy thundered on down the field.

  “Brian!” Both Cat and Linn screamed at the same time, and before Roger could restrain either of them, they were running onto the field:

  Brian lay motionless in a heap, oblivious of the collective gasp of horror from the assembled crowd. Catherine reached him first and dropped to the ground beside him. Rolling him over, she tried to cradle his head, while Aislinn knelt to chafe his hands.

  “Make way, both of you,” Roger ordered as he too knelt. “God’s teeth! Will not everyone stand back?”

  Guy reined in at the end of the long field and looked back to see what had happened. Nudging his horse forward, he came up to where Brian lay. The younger man’s face was ashen and his eyes were closed. “Jesu!” Guy muttered, dismounting. Grasping Catherine, whose eyes were brimming with tears, he pulled her away by her shoulders. “Let me see to him.”

  “Haven’t you done enough?” she cried. “I think you have killed him!”

  Aislinn, her own cheeks wet, leaned to rest her head on Brian’s chest. “I do not hear him breathe.”

  For a moment Guy wasn’t attending. He stared in disbelief at Catherine, his hazel eyes almost green. To him, it was as though she accused him of trying to murder Brian FitzHenry. “Make no mistake, Catherine,” he told her coldly, “had I wished him dead, he would be. Nay, he has but lost his wind.”

  “You could have passed! You saw he would hit it!”

  “I saw naught but my target, Catherine.” Pushing her aside, he bent to look over Aislinn’s shoulder. “Get up,” he ordered her curtly. Roger, seeing he meant to assist Brian, pulled Linn off. Guy dropped to one knee and lifted his opponent’s head. Removing his leather glove with his teeth, he reached his free hand to raise one of Brian’s eyelids. Roger moved closer to ease the steel helmet off Brian’s head. “I think him but stunned,” Guy murmured. “Mayhap he hit his head when he fell.”

  “I did not see it.”

  Guy pulled Brian’s inert body up further and turned him over across his knee. His palm open, he gave several sharp blows to the man’s back. He was rewarded by a sudden gasp, followed by a gurgling sound, and then Brian began to retch violently. Guy pushed his head down to keep him from choking, and waited as the color came back slowly. Brian’s ashy clamminess receded, to be replaced with a flush. Guy nudged him off his knee and rose, letting him fall clear of his vomit. Meeting Catherine’s eyes coldly, he announced, “He lives. Tend him if you will.” Then, brushing past her, he walked from the field.

  As Catherine stared after him, she saw him pull his helmet from his head and throw it on the ground. His black hair shone like a raven’s wing in the sun, and he held his tall frame stiff and straight. He’d mistaken her meaning, and he was angered with her, she knew, and she wavered. She ought to go after him—her best instincts told her to do it—but she was de Brione. She had too much pride to run after a husband whose very coldness had sent a shiver down her spine. Brushing the tears she’d shed for Brian aside, she turned back. She’d wait for Guy’s anger to abate before she sought him out.

  24

  Summoned to her mother’s solar, Catherine was surprised to find only her father there. He was standing, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the ostlers help Rivaux’s men ready their horses in the courtyard below. The Roger de Brione who turned to face her looked older than she could ever remember seeing him, and his blue eyes were reddened as though he had been crying.

  “Maman?” she asked fearfully.

  “Lea is seeing to food for your travel to Rivaux, Cat.”

  His voice was husky also, having that quality of suppressed emotion. Catherine knew something was terribly wrong and yet she dared not speak until he told her of it. The sunlight caught in his ruffled blond hair, reflecting off the silver that mingled there. He was but forty-two and still strong. Cat stared at his handsome face, discovering new care lines about his mouth and eyes that she could have sworn had not been there yesterday. His eyes appeared to study her as though he sought to remember her forever.

  She could stand it no longer. “Papa, ’tisn’t as though we shall never meet again. You will come to Rivaux, and I will come home.”

  “Aye, but we do not know what God’s mercy will bring us, Cat.” Clearing his throat of the huskiness, he sighed. “Word has but come from Harlowe this day—your grandsire Richard of Harlowe lives no more.”

  “Oh, Papa!” she gasped. It seemed but lately that she’d seen him, the last time he and her grandmother had been in Normandy. Instinctively she made the sign of the Cross over her breast and murmured a silent prayer for the repose of his soul. “But how…?”

  “His horse reared, throwing him against his pommel. What he injured, I do not know, but my mother’s confessor writes that he suffered three days ere he died.”

  “Sweet Mary.”

  “Aye. He was a good father to me once we were met,” he mused aloud. “I have oft regretted that I knew him not when I was a boy. ’Tis impossible to compensate for all those lost years, Cat.” He turned back to the narrow slitted window. “I go to Harlowe with a heavy heart, little one, not knowing how you or Linn will fare in your new homes. I would to God that you’d make your peace with Guy ere you leave here.”

  “Papa—”

  “You are my eldest born, Cat—my most precious child—your flesh is made from mine and Lea’s. You are the triumph of our love over Belesme, over Gilbert, over Curthose, over everything, Cat. When you go forth from the Condes, you take part of me with you. I cannot aid Linn in what she faces now, but I’d try to make your life easier.”

  She swallowed hard. “Nay, Papa, but you’ve naught to worry with me,” she man
aged through the ache in her breast. “I am your daughter in all things.”

  “Are you? I have never been too proud to acknowledge when I have been wrong, I think, but you have set yourself against your husband over what happened yesterday. The fault was Brian’s—or perhaps mine for allowing it to happen—but there was naught Guy of Rivaux could have done to prevent what befell Brian.”

  “I…” She stopped, remembering how cold Guy had been since the accident. He’d lain rigid and distant in the bed they shared, too angry to speak. And for once, she’d been sorry that he had such control over himself. Aye, if he’d railed at her, or even beaten her, she could have found the means to explain, to apologize for her hasty accusations. But in the face of such coldness, she was afraid he would not listen. “Nay, I cannot. He—”

  “Catherine.”

  He seldom called her Catherine save in anger, but he did not appear angered so much as saddened. She wished he would turn around and look at her so that she could try to put what she felt into words. Instead, she stood numbly and waited for him to go on.

  “I was displeased with Guy of Rivaux—I admit the fault,” he continued after a time. “I wanted to wed my eldest daughter, my heiress, where I willed, and Robert Curthose and Guy of Rivaux robbed me of that privilege. When Eleanor argued that you were neither wife nor maid and that you needed your husband, I reluctantly agreed to it, but I was prepared to hate him. Not because he is young and I grow older, not because he is strong and men sing of him as often as of me, not because he is a count and I am not—but because he would take you from me, Cat.” He stopped again and leaned against the stone, his eyes intent on the black-haired young man who paced the cobbled yard. “Aye, but I had not seen him then, Cat. Come here,” he commanded. “Stand beside me and tell me what you see.”