by Anita Mills
Curious, Catherine moved next to him and peered down. The yard was filled with red-shirted Rivaux men. She scanned the mesnie until she saw him. He was unmistakable with that black hair and the long red overtunic blazoned with the black hawk of Rivaux across his chest. Even as she looked down on him, he raised his head, and she felt her heart lurch in her chest. “I see my husband and his men, Papa,” she sighed.
“Aye.” Roger slid his arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “Your husband, Cat—the man who will protect you and give you your sons and daughters, the man who will hold your fate in his hands. And what hands they are, sweeting, what hands they are. You see down there a man capable of holding all I will leave you for you and your heirs.”
“He…he did not want to wed me, Papa. He came back to me because Henry willed it.”
“I do not know what was between you ere he returned, Cat, but I have seen what passes between you since. God’s teeth, but there’s not above a dozen women in all of Normandy who can claim to have anything like it with their husbands. Aye, I recognize the way he looks on you—’tis as I have ever looked on Lea.”
“You mistake the matter, Papa.” She looked down at Guy, then back at her father. “There is no love between us.”
“There is fire, Cat—there is fire. It gives you the means to make him love you, if you will but be just.” His voice lowered and he nodded. “Aye, and you know he did not mean to harm Brian. Believe me, if he had, Guy of Rivaux would not have knocked the wind out of him—nay, he would have knocked the life out of him.” He squeezed her shoulders encouragingly. “Your sister would have counted herself fortunate to have been given to Guy. As it is, she leaves the Condes to do her duty to a husband whose life ebbs from him so slowly that he is prisoner to his poor body.”
“You knew?”
“Nay. I would have found the means to delay until he was dead if I had even suspected. But once I saw him, I knew he was not the boy I met before the betrothal.”
“Linn did not want me to tell you.”
“I spoke to her of it yesterday after Brian took his fall. I have promised her that she shall have the choosing of her next husband—’tis all I have the power to do for her.” Roger looked down at Catherine’s upturned face and gave her a twisted smile. “’Tis strange, is it not, that I can amass lands and wealth, but I cannot give your mother a son, nor my daughters happiness? I have prayed to God for the one, to no avail, so mayhap he will take pity on me and grant the other.”
“Oh, Papa!” Catherine turned into her father’s arms and buried her face in his plain linen tunic. His strong arms closed around her and he held her silently, smoothing her dark braids against her back. All of her life, he’d stood for her, cared for her, and loved her. Now her fate rested in another’s man hands. Sniffing back tears, she sought solace one last time from her father. “I will make my peace with Guy—I swear,” she promised against his hard chest.
“Good.” He stroked errant strands of hair back from her temples. “I’d not worry about you while I am in England.” Releasing her reluctantly, he gave her a gentle push toward the door. “Now, be gone with you before I weep also. Your husband waits.”
Catherine paused on the first landing and wiped her face with the back of her hand. She knew not how she’d regain Guy’s goodwill, but she’d not do it with red eyes and a wet face. Resolutely straightening her shoulders, she started on down.
“Cat…”
“Sweet Jesu, Brian, but must you always lurk on stairs lying in wait for me?” she complained even as her face broke into a tremulous smile.
“I’d wish you Godspeed, Cat, but I’d not make matters worse for you with your lord. God’s blood, but he is a man I’d not want to anger.”
Her eyes searched his face. “You are unhurt from yesterday—truly?” she asked.
“Aye.” He caught both her hands and held them. “I got what I deserved, Cat—the fault was mine. When I heard everyone jeering at me for the first pass, I was determined to hit it the next time rather than pass again. It was a foolish thing to do.” Leaning closer, he planted a chaste kiss on her cheek. “Godspeed, Cat. God willing, I will be a lord in my own right when next we meet.”
“Come down with me.”
“Nay, I’d speak to your father. He goes to England to see to Harlowe, and I’d not have him go alone—Earl Richard was like a grandsire to me also. And while I am there, I will go to see my mother and seek her blessing. Too long I have hated her for what she made of me.”
“And after that?”
“I have already written to my father. I suppose much will depend on what he would have me do.” He managed a faint smile. “Aye, and I told him that I did not mean to hang on his purse, either, but would have a chance to earn my way.”
Already Catherine could hear the sound of the huge iron grate creaking upward as the bridge strained downward. She knew she dared not tarry longer, for Guy and his men were impatient to leave the Condes. She gave Brian’s hand a quick squeeze and stood aside to let him pass her. “Godspeed,” she repeated softly to his back.
“Catherine! Catherine!”
She could hear Guy calling to her from the yard, and she hastened on down. When she emerged into the open area of the yard, most of the men were already mounted. Her mother, who had been standing beside Hawise’s horse giving the maidservant last instructions for Cat’s comfort, hurried across the courtyard to bid her daughter farewell. Blinking back tears, she kissed Cat on both cheeks, murmuring, “God love and care for you, dearest child. Mayhap we will meet again at Christmas, if Henry keeps the feast in Normandy this year also.” Stepping back, she shepherded Philippa and Isabella, both solemn-faced over the news of Richard of Harlowe’s death, forward to say goodbye. “God be with you, Cat,” Pippa whispered, kissing Catherine on the cheek. But Isabella was curious about what would happen now that their grandsire was dead. When she leaned closer to make her farewell, she whispered, “Gerdis says that one day you will be a countess three times over—Nantes, Harlowe, and Rivaux. Will you truly?”
In spite of her heavy heart, Catherine could not hide a smile at Bella’s childish curiosity. “Aye, I suppose I will.”
“Well, ’tis most unfair of you—you should let me have one of them.” Then, brightening at a new thought, she asked, “Since you are gone, and Linn leaves on the morrow, may I have your bed? I tire of sleeping with Pippa.”
Catherine turned her youngest sister toward the pack animals and pointed. “See that one? It carries my bed with me. Now, kiss me, you greedy creature, and have done before Maman hears you.”
“We have to leave, Catherine.”
Her pulse raced at the sound of his voice as he came up behind her, and she could not suppress the shiver of excitement she felt in his very presence. Aye, she’d make her peace with him if he’d let her. Looking up at his impassive face, she could see he was already helmeted and ready to ride.
“Aye,” she managed through suddenly dry lips. “Will you mount me?”
There was a faint quiver at the corner of his mouth at the remembered phrase. “I take leave to warn you, Catherine, that I do not tarry on the way this time. Alan!”
The squire took the reins of Catherine’s bridle from an ostler and led her horse to her. Guy leaned to cup his hands courteously and waited for her to step in them. She caught at her pommel and put her foot in his hands just as Bella blurted out, “But where is Brian? You cannot leave ere you speak with Brian, Cat—you cannot!” Catherine could have cursed as Guy’s body went rigid for a moment. He threw her up unceremoniously and turned to William de Comminges.
“Is all in readiness?”
“Aye, my lord.”
Guy’s eyes met Eleanor’s briefly and his face softened slightly. “I did but hear of the sudden death of Earl Richard, my lady, and I am heartily sorry for it. Please convey to Lord Roger that I stand ready to aid him should he need an ally to claim his patrimony.”
“I thank you, my lord. We do not expect any di
fficulties, since King Henry confirmed the inheritance when he ascended England’s throne.” With a significant glance at the keep around them, she added, “’Tis Normandy I fear, for Roger will be gone much of the time now.”
“Nay, there is none to challenge Roger de Brione in all of Normandy,” Guy protested. “And the Condes can withstand nearly any assault.”
“There is Belesme.”
“He has not the means anymore,” he reassured her. “Aye, he is but a tool of France and would not attempt the Condes.”
“I pray you are right.” Eleanor smoothed the silken fabric of her gown against her legs and looked away. “’Tis foolish of me to fear him yet, is it not?”
“Nay, not foolish, but you must not think of him now. If ever you fear for your safety when your lord is away, send word to me, Lady Eleanor, and I will come.”
She studied his face intently again, as though she sought to see what she’d fleetingly thought she saw before. “You fear him not, do you?” she asked soberly.
“All men fear him, but I think he can be taken.”
“You are very like him.”
His divided eyebrow disappeared beneath his helmet as he raised it, and the scar Catherine had given him tightened visibly. Eleanor, seeing the stunned looks around her, hastened to explain, “Nay, I did not mean you were cruel or ungodly, my lord. Even I, who fear him greatly, admit that his very presence strikes fear in his enemies and emboldens those who stand with him—that is the quality that I see in you, my lord.”
“We are enemies,” he managed curtly. “I’d not be like him in anything.”
“Maman, it grows late.” Cat leaned between them to kiss Eleanor one last time. “Tell Papa I will be his daughter in all things.”
“Aye, I suppose you will,” Eleanor sighed. “’Tis but your looks you have from me.”
“Art ready to sound the horn, my lord?” William asked.
“Aye.” Guy waited for Alan to bring his black horse closer, and then, one hand on the pommel, the other on his reins, he swung into his saddle. A boy scarce older than Philippa put the horn to his lips and blew the signal for everyone to fall into line.
“Godspeed, Cat!” the younger girls chorused.
“Wait!”
Guy reined in as Aislinn ran into the yard. She caught her skirts up from her ankles and made her way to where he sat his horse. “I’d have you take care of Cat, my lord,” she told him seriously. “Aye, and by your leave, I’d visit Rivaux when I may.”
“I’d make you welcome—and Geoffrey also.”
“Linn, ’tis I you are supposed to bid Godspeed,” Cat cut in.
“You know I pray you go with God, but he does not,” Aislinn shot back. Then, her lip quivering, she grasped Catherine’s hand. “Oh, Cat! I’ll not know how to go on without you.”
“Nor I without you, Linn. Godspeed—sweet Jesu, but I cannot do this! Linn…”
Guy was watching them curiously, his own emotions sharply divided. He’d never had a loving parent, nor a sister, and his brothers when alive had not bestirred themselves to even speak to him. Despite his anger with Cat, he felt both a stab of jealousy and one of sympathy, knowing he would have given all he had to be loved by his family. Seeing her anguish, he leaned to take her reins. “We have to leave, Cat,” he told her gently. “God care for you and yours, Lady Aislinn.”
25
The air was heavy with unshed rain, making his gambeson and undertunic damp and uncomfortable. Reining in to scan the hillocks ahead with a sense of foreboding, Guy leaned forward in his saddle and frowned. For the last several miles there’d been naught but destruction, with the remnants of burnt villages and idle fields to remind him that Belesme had been there wreaking his awful vengeance on Henry’s Normandy. It made Guy afraid to think of what he’d find at Rivaux.
“He did not leave much, did he?” Catherine observed quietly.
“Nay.”
“The poor people—to be left with naught. Jesu, but how could he do this?”
“He did not leave them, Catherine. I’ll warrant there’s not a living man in this valley,” he answered grimly.
“Would you rest the horses, my lord?” Alan asked him.
“Nay, I’d reach Rivaux ere it rains.” Clicking his reins, he nudged his horse forward with his knee.
Catherine stole a glance at him and sighed. In the three days since they’d left the Condes, she’d not had an opportunity to make her peace with him. And now she was in a strange place, an eerie place almost, with naught but him for succor, and the thought of living with a cold, angry man was almost more than she could bear. It was as though the fire between them had been banked, and she did not know if she could rekindle it. Four nights now, he’d turned his back to her to lie still and silent even when awake. Oh, there was that cold courtesy between them, as when he’d asked her ever so politely to move her leg off his, but nothing more. She, on the other hand, had lain beside him, her whole body aching with the wanting of him. How could he have desired her so intensely but days before, when now he all but ignored her? Her pride demanded the answer, but her heart was afraid to know. With every plodding step of her horse, the chill inside her deepened.
They crested a hill that formed part of a half-circle above a small river-fed valley. Cat stared at the ruined clusters of burned-out hutches that looked like blackened stumps amid greening grass. The fields around them were brown and untilled.
“My lord, ’tis Rivaux!” Alan shouted.
His pointing hand drew Cat’s attention to the remains of a fortress, a grim, broken shell that had been pulled down around a single square tower. Too stunned for speech, she sat, disbelieving what her eyes saw. This, then, was Rivaux, seat to Norman counts since the time of the Viking Rollo. This was her home. She barely heard the string of blasphemous oaths that escaped her husband as he too stared at the cornerstone of his patrimony. The first splat of raindrops came like pebbles from the sky, further dampening her already low spirits and increasing her misgivings about the place.
“Holy Mary,” William muttered behind her. “’Tis unfit for occupation. We’ll have to press forward to Belvois this day.”
Guy stared bleakly at the ruins of his ancestral home and shook his head. “Nay,” he decided, heaving a heavy sigh. “We rebuild it.”
“Surely you jest, my lord,” Catherine protested as the chilly rain beat down on them. “’Tis but burned sticks and broken stones! Nay, but I’d not stay in such a place.”
“Aye, you will,” Guy told her grimly. “Aye, you will.” Spurring forward, he left her to follow him.
“But there is no place to live there!” she shouted after him.
“There is the tower!” he flung back over his shoulder.
Tears of impotent fury mingled with those of humiliation as she stared after him. No matter how she had angered him, no matter what he might have thought she’d done, he had no right to treat her so. He had no right to bring Catherine of the Condes to this ruin and expect her to live in it. She raised her whip to strike blindly at her horse’s flank, but William de Comminges leaned across the pommel of his saddle to stay her hand.
“Let him go on, Lady Catherine,” he advised. “He needs to ride out his own anger at what Belesme has done.”
Her lower lip trembled and her voice quavered. “But I…I cannot…I would not…”
The old man still held her wrist, but the eyes that met hers were not unkind. “Aye, you can—you are Catherine of the Condes, lady,” he chided gently. “Think you your father—or your lady mother—did not face adversity? When he was thought to be naught but Roger FitzGilbert, your father made his way.” He released her wrist and unfastened the rolled blanket behind his saddle. “Lord Guy will rise again also. Here…” he told her gruffly, handing her the blanket, “wrap yourself, that you do not get chilled.”
I would be your daughter in all things, Papa, her mind echoed. I will make my peace with Guy—I swear. Straightening her shoulders, she sniffed back her tea
rs and reached for the blanket. What right did Guy have to bring her here? He had every right—he was her husband. Her dark eyes, still sparkling with unshed tears, met William’s solemnly. “My thanks,” she managed, nodding.
William’s face softened as he watched her pull his blanket around her soaked shoulders. Aye, she was a beauty, but there was more to Catherine of the Condes than the perfection of her looks. She was as unlike the Lady Alys as night unto day, he reflected with a sense of pride in Guy’s wife. Her hot temper had the power to reach into her lord and melt the icy bitterness that chilled him—she had the power to help Guy become what William knew he could be. She would be the fire that would temper his steel. Jiggling his reins to signal his mount to move, he gave Catherine that grudging smile of his. “Come on, let us see if we can but make the place livable.”
Catherine moved about Rivaux’s remaining tower, supervising Hawise’s cleaning. The place was little better than a swine wallow, she told her woman with feeling, and it could not all be blamed on Robert of Belesme. Whoever Henry had given captaincy of the place had left it filthy. Taking a broom herself, Cat pushed a pile of rotten rushes into a corner while she waited for one of Guy’s soldiers to bring up limewater for washing down the floor.
But it was Rivaux himself who carried the bucket. Setting it just inside the doorway, he stood to watch Catherine’s determined sweeping, and for a moment his face betrayed his hunger. She stopped to mop her brow and push back wisps of hair that fell over her forehead. “Sweet Mary, but I’ll warrant they fed the dogs here,” she grumbled under her breath as she leaned on the broom. “Put the water over there and help us get this stinking pile out of the way,” she ordered over her shoulder.