by Anita Mills
“And now?” It was more croak than question.
She wanted to face him, she wanted to touch him, but the thought that he might rebuff her held her back. Moving closer, she spoke to his shoulders. “I would still be wife to you and none other. Even if I cannot have what my parents have, I’d be your wife. I’d lie with you, I’d bear your heirs for you, I’d hold your lands for you when you are absent from them, I’d—”
“Stop it! ’Tis what you think I would hear!” Using anger for his shield, he spun around to face her. “Do you think I am such a fool that I can be swayed with words? Nay, Catherine—not when these eyes have seen you with him! Not when these ears hear his name on your lips almost daily! Think you I did not see you in his arms after Tinchebrai?” He took in her stunned expression and nodded. “Aye, I was with the prisoners that day, Catherine.”
“Because I knew him! ’Twas of you I asked! I feared you were dead! Belesme came for me, urging me to flee with him—he said the day was lost!” Tears spilled onto her cheeks and ran unchecked down them. “Sweet Mary, but you wrong me!” She moved closer, clenching her hands at her sides, and stared upward into his flushed face. “Did you never think how ’twas for me? Belesme said he knew not if you had fallen, Guy. And after I escaped him by rolling beneath a wagon, Curthose’s camp was overrun by common soldiers bent on ravishment. I hid until I saw a knight in Maine’s colors, and then I ran to him, not knowing if he would save me or take me. ‘I am Catherine of the Condes,’ I told him, and he brought me to the king. I did not see you there, but I saw Brian, a boy I had known all my life, Guy. Aye, I threw myself in his arms—I admit it, but ’twas because I was frightened for you.” Taking an angry swipe at her tears with the back of her hand, she drew up to her full height and lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “But I swear to you that I never did anything to dishonor you or me, Guy of Rivaux—with God for witness, I swear it.”
He knew she spoke the truth in that at least, but it was not enough. He closed his eyes against the remorse he felt.
“Nay, look at me! I am not done, Guy. Would you hear more of that day? Would you know that I went to King Henry to beg for mercy on you when I knew you lived? Would you know that he refused to listen, telling me that I would be given to Robert of Caen anyway, whether I willed it or not? And would you know that I begged a silver mark that Brian could ill afford to lose, and I used it to bribe your guard that I might have one last meeting with you ere you left Normandy?”
“Stop it. There is no need—”
“No need? Nay, there is every need! Have you forgotten that ’twas you who refused to see me? ‘He said that King Henry forbids it,’ ” she mimicked the guard. “Aye—and I knew ’twas you who turned me away, for I’d already bribed the fellow. I knew then that you did not want me, that Curthose had forced you to take me against your will, and I expected you to recant the marriage. But you did not. For five years—five years, Guy—I was neither wife nor maid in my parents’ house, and I did naught to dishonor you!” Despite her best efforts, the tears flowed freely now. Her voice dropped again as she continued, “And then you came back, and—”
“I saw you on the wall with Brian FitzHenry the day I rode in, Catherine.”
“Aye, and would you know why? Because we had quarreled over what we would be to each other. Despite the fact that my husband did not want me, I could not bring myself to give my body to anyone else—not even to Brian.” She paused for some response and was disappointed. “’Tis most strange you should speak of that, Guy, for ’twas then that I knew I did not bear him the love of a woman for a man, that he was brother to me and nothing more,” she continued finally. “Aye, and he knew it also.”
“I believe that not,” he muttered. “For how can you explain that he set himself against me from the time I rode in until the day I left, Catherine? How is it that he gibed and goaded until I accepted his challenge on the quintains? And how is it that you ran onto the field to aid him when he fell?”
“Jesu! I cannot believe that you are so thick-witted, Guy of Rivaux! If Brian FitzHenry chose to challenge you, ’twas for my father rather than for me. Aye, you may stare if you choose, but ’tis true. In all of his years at the Condes, Brian has ever striven to achieve my father’s skills as a knight, but he has not the body or the temperament for it. In truth, I can see now that ’twas my father’s son he wanted to be rather than my husband. He came back to the Condes because he had no place, and ’tis the only home he has ever known. Neither his mother nor his father values him, Guy, but my father does.” She stopped again, looking up through watery lashes to see if he listened.
“That has naught to do with me.”
“Oh…aye, it does,” she countered. “Look through Brian’s eyes, if you will, and see how it is when an admired knight rides in to your house, sits higher than you at your lord’s table, beds the girl you once thought to wed, and gains favor with the man you love as a father. Brian envies you, Guy, but not for the reasons you think. You have everything in his eyes, and he has nothing. You should pity rather than hate him.”
It was as though he’d turned to stone. She scanned his face for some sign that he believed her, that he cared for her. His flecked eyes betrayed turmoil in that they were neither green nor gold, but his face was oddly arrested. Yet, whatever thoughts troubled him, they were his alone. She reached out across the abyss that seemed to separate them and then dropped her hand without touching him. She’d done her best to keep her promise to her father—she’d laid her heart almost naked before him—and there was naught else that she could think to do. If he cared not enough to listen, she had lost. Defeated, she turned to leave, hoping that he would say something to stop her, but there was only silence.
It took all of his self-control to let her go. She’d told him nearly everything he’d ever wanted to hear of her, and yet somehow it was not enough. Wearily he walked back to pick up his cup and refill it. The table was littered with the tax tallies of what Rivaux had paid Henry in his absence, and Guy reluctantly sat down to count them again. He’d boasted to William that he would build Catherine a keep greater than the Condes, and yet ’twas far from certain that he could even meet his obligation to Normandy. But Henry knew Rivaux had been raided. Perhaps if Guy applied to have his taxes postponed…His thoughts trailed off, turning yet again to her. He could not think of aught else, it seemed.
Leaning forward to brace his head with his hands, he tried again to concentrate on the slender notched sticks of wood, but found the task too difficult in his state of mind. He was just too tired to make sense of them, he decided. He ought to go to bed. Reluctantly he pushed back and straightened up, reaching for the wine. His hand stopped in mid-reach—nay, he’d had enough to drink already.
He isn’t there, Guy. He isn’t there, Guy. He isn’t there, Guy. Her words echoed like a pulse in his ears, beating over and over again until he squeezed his eyes to distract his thoughts from it. Rising, he stretched and looked at the cluttered writs and tally sticks on the table, only half-seeing them. I was prepared before Tinchebrai to be wife to you and none other. Jesu, but she left him no peace. Try as he would, he could not keep the image-of her in Brian FitzHenry’s arms from his mind. He’d been tired and sick at heart over the loss of the battle, and then to see Cat in Brian’s embrace…Nay, he’d not think on it—it was too painful still. Did she think to fool him with her words here this night?
I would still be wife to you and none other. Even if I cannot have what my parents have, I’d be your wife—I’d lie with you—I’d bear your heirs for you… Catherine of the Condes had cost him everything once—his lands, his wealth, almost his life. He saw her again as she once was, a girl of thirteen bent on escape from him. His fingers reached to touch the scar on his cheek—aye, she’d marked him then. She’d marked him then. She’d fought him with her claws and her wit until she’d been forced to wed him, and then, seeing the battle against her marriage lost, she’d accepted him with good grace. I was prepared before Tin
chebrai to be wife to you and none other. And suddenly he had to admit that she meant it. Five years of bitterness dissolved as those words echoed again in his mind. Catherine of the Condes—the beautiful Cat—was his in name and fact. He fingered the scar on his face, and for the first time in days, he could smile. Just as surely as she was his, shed marked him for hers also.
Despite his aching muscles and his awful fatigue, he felt suddenly elated. Catherine of the Condes wanted to be wife to him. She who had had everything was willing to take him with nearly nothing. Even if I cannot have what my parents have… Few people ever had what was between Roger de Brione and Eleanor of Nantes, and he could never be like her father, nor was Catherine like her mother, but there was a fire between them as great as any man had a right to dream of. He reached to lift one of the torches from its holder in the wall.
The climb was steep and dark, but he was scarcely aware of it. In the solar, the single candle stand dripped melting tallow as the candle wick flickered and smoked in a sea of liquid. His eyes searched the square room for her until they reached the bed. Holding the torch away from the hangings, he looked down where she lay, curled with her back toward him.
“Cat…” Although she did not stir, he suspected she was still awake. He turned and tossed the flaming torch across to the empty brazier, where it popped and sputtered against the last floor sweepings that had been dumped there. Still clothed, he eased his body down behind hers and reached for her. “I would be husband to you and none other, Cat, I swear to you.” With one hand he smoothed her hair against the pillow, and with the other he clasped her closer. Choking back a sob, she turned against him, and he began kissing her wet face, tasting the salt of her tears.
27
Dawn came through the arrow slit like a shaft that widened as it crossed the floor, laying a wedge of light in the otherwise dim room. Catherine stirred slightly beneath the weight of his arm and then came awake. He still slept, his deep even breathing breaking the silence of the solar. And ’twas small wonder that he did, she decided as she remembered how they’d passed the night.
Easing her hair from beneath his arm, she propped herself up to study him. In sleep, his face was relaxed, his expression softer, gentler, reminding her of the way he’d looked before Tinchebrai had changed his life, before he’d become embittered over the loss of his lands. His black hair, where it lay against her own dark locks, was blacker than any she’d ever seen. Impulsively she reached to smooth the tangled fringe back from his forehead, and his breathing broke cadence, hesitating briefly before again evening out. His divided eyebrow gave him a faintly quizzical look in sleep, as though it disbelieved his dreams, and the scar she’d given him was white where it had healed into a fine, thin line. She regretted marking him now, for it was the only blemish on the handsomest face she’d ever seen. And as she watched him, she thought she detected a faint quiver at the corners of his mouth.
Taking the end of a thick strand of her hair, she leaned closer and tickled his nose with it. She was rewarded with a twitch that told her he was far more awake than he wanted her to think. Bending her head to brush his lips with her own, she was unprepared for the quickness of his response. His flecked eyes flew open and his arms came up to imprison her against the hardness of his chest as he wholeheartedly answered her kiss, tasting, possessing, plundering her mouth with his tongue. It happened so suddenly that she collapsed over him, a prisoner to his awakening desire. His arms tightened and his hands explored her body hungrily, sliding over the bare shoulders, back, and hips to elicit an answering passion.
Afraid that Hawise would come to awaken them, Cat tried to push herself up. “Nay—not now,” she managed to whisper even as she felt him stir beneath her. It was a mistake, for shed given him access to more of her body. He half-lifted her higher, raising her breasts above him and teasing a nipple with his tongue until it hardened. “Hawise…” she protested feebly as she felt again the intense desire that radiated from his touch.
“Shhhh—the door is barred,” he murmured against her breast before he began to suck.
Her back arched as her hands supported her body over his and her legs straddled him, giving her a false sense of power, of control over the strong, virile man beneath her. She would savor what he was doing, she would enjoy giving him leisurely access to her, and she would prolong the exquisite feel of him as long as possible. But even as she felt him rise against her, her own body betrayed her with its need. Already she wanted more of him, wanted to urge him to touch her there, and she felt the wetness that gave her away. She would have rolled over on her back and spread her legs eagerly, but his hands held her hips.
“Nay—I’d look at you, Cat.”
His voice was soft and intimate, sending new shivers of excitement through her. Her eyes, which had been closed to concentrate on the feel of what he would do to her, opened slowly to look down on him. His black head was visible only from the top as his mouth teased and tormented her breasts, tasting first one and then the other. His hands positioned her hips over his as his mouth moved upward to murmur against the hollow of her throat, “Would you learn to ride, Cat?”
Now she could see the gold flecks in his eyes. One hand moved beneath her to test the wetness there, and when she moaned in ecstasy, he waited no longer, easing her upward only enough for his body to enter hers. She reared back, gasping, and then settled over him, feeling the exquisite, indescribable pleasure of having him inside. When she dared look down again, his eyes were gold with his own pleasure. “Ride me, Cat—ride me,” he urged her as his hands stroked her hair, her back, and her hips with restless eagerness
For answer, she began rocking back and forth, her brow furrowed in concentration at the sensations that tautened her belly and made her eager for more. Her hair fell forward like a silken curtain between them, and still he watched her, enjoying what she would do to him. “Move, Cat—move,” he whispered as he began to rock in rhythm with her. “Move.” Biting her lip, she leaned forward to tease him with her breasts while moving ceaselessly as the tension built between them. Her brown eyes were almost black with passion, and her breath came in rapid rushes as she labored to bring herself release, driving against him now, pitching and rolling her hips until he could be passive no longer. He grasped her hips with both hands and thrust upward in mindless need until he heard her cry out again and again and again before she fell to lie on him, quivering to receive the flood of his seed. He held her close, her knees still locked at his side, and he tried to catch his breath.
“Sweet Mary,” she whispered between parched lips as her head rested against his shoulder. “You must think me wanton.”
“Nay—I think you the joy of my heart, Cat.”
She rolled off him and he let her go, half-turning to watch her. Lying with her eyes closed, she was silent for a time as her breasts heaved beneath her tangled hair. Finally she spoke, this time quietly. “What am I to you?”
“You are my wife.”
“I’d be more than that, Guy.”
He could see her swallowing still to calm her ragged breathing, and he knew what she wanted of him. His fingers combed the straggling hair back from her face with unaccustomed gentleness. He hesitated, still afraid to say the words that would give her power over him, until she opened her eyes and met his gaze soberly. “Aye—I love you, Cat,” he murmured softly, knowing he meant it, knowing that words were words and, spoken or unspoken, they did not change the fact she already held him in thrall to her.
“I feared to disgust you, that you would think…”
“Cat…Cat…” He reached to pull her closer. “Disgust me? ’Tis I who should disgust you! The more I have of you, the more I want—nay, ’tis delight I feel. ’Tisn’t every man who gets a woman like you.” A slow, almost foolish smile spread over his face. “Aye, I love all of you—your face, your hair, your eyes, your skin…even your claws. And ’tis not an easy thing for me to say it, Catherine of the Condes, for I know not what you think of me.”
“I think I have loved you since before Tinchebrai. I was disappointed that you thought me too young,” she admitted. “I did but fool myself with Brian, for I did not want him this way.”
For once, Brian FitzHenry’s name meant nothing to him. Cat—his Cat—had just confessed to loving him, and nothing else mattered. He settled back into the luxury of the feather mattress and cradled her against him with his arm. Rivaux would be rebuilt, his lands would again make him wealthy, and his sons would be powerful. With Catherine of the Condes beside him, all things would be possible.
When Hawise came up the stairs to call them, Cat started to rise, but he held her fast. “Nay—I’d hold you longer, love.”
The hall was swept bare, the trestle tables and benches taken outside to be scrubbed thoroughly, and the walls whitewashed even to the arched supports. Cat surveyed the results with pleasure, thinking she’d show Guy that she was as competent a chatelaine as her mother. Directing boys sent over from Guy’s castle at Belvois, she set them to work removing caked grease and refuse from the floor with knives. Outside, the din of workmen was almost deafening, as some labored to pull up the charred remnants of the old wall while others hewed timber for the new one.
Drawn to the courtyard for a sight of him, she stood watching as bare-chested men worked in the early-summer heat to rise and set heavy posts. Her husband was among them, working side by side with his villeins, carrying, pushing, steadying, and bracing timbers. The muscles that had been used for swinging heavy broadsword, mace, and battleax now rippled in common labor. From time to time he stopped to wipe his dripping hair back from his face with his forearm, but then he returned to his task with more enthusiasm than any of his peasants. Inside the new stockade wall, others worked to pull down the rest of the once unfinished stone shell, loading the rough-quarried rocks onto carts and then drawing those carts beyond the wood-staked outer perimeter.