by Anita Mills
“By the Blessed Virgin, you’ve got to stop her!” Gilbert called out to the outriders. “Catch her ere she harms herself! Or the babe!” Alarmed by her sudden action, he spurred after her. “Catherine! Catherine! There’s naught you can do! Oh, Holy Mary, stop her ere Belesme sees her,” he prayed aloud as he rode.
Gilbert’s men, unused to seeing him ride toward trouble rather than away from it, rallied and followed with their weapons drawn. To a man, there was not one of them who did not feel for Catherine and who did not want revenge. If Belesme indeed came from Rivaux, there’d be little chance her husband survived.
“’Tis Belesme, you fools!” Gilbert shouted as some of them passed him to pursue the green-shirted men. “Catherine! Catherine! Hold up, I say!”
But she cleared the hill ahead of him and headed into the river. Her horse floundered a moment, giving Gilbert the fright of his life, and then found its footing. The thought that Roger de Brione would have his head if anything happened to her made him brave enough to follow her. But she’d chosen a deeper place to cross and he dared not chance it in full mail. Still shouting at her to stop, he rode down the bank to the shallows and splashed across. By the time he reached the opposite bank, she’d turned toward Rivaux.
“Nay! Catherine, you cannot! ’Twill mark your babe! God’s teeth! Are you deaf and daft, girl?”
Ahead lay the timbered wall with its partial stone surround. Despite her fears, she looked to the gate, fearing to see Guy’s head there, bearing that gaping grimace of death so common to those who died under torture. But the pikes above the gate were empty and the bridge was drawn. Above her, she heard someone shout, “’Tis the Lady Catherine!” and almost immediately the iron-and-timber draw began its creaking descent.
Behind her, her grandsire still pursued, splashing out of the water and yelling for her to halt. Afraid that he would stop her, she kicked her horse again and made for the lowering bridge, jumping the small gap even before it clanged into place against the iron moorings, and crossing into Rivaux itself.
“Lady Catherine! What the…?”
“William, where’s Guy—where is he?” she shouted hysterically. “I saw Belesme and…” She choked, unable to go on, as the old man reached for her. Weak from illness and emotionally exhausted from her fears, she clutched at his shoulders and buried her head in his woolen overtunic as he set her down. “Eh now, lady, there is no—”
“Cat! Sweet Jesu! How came you here?” Guy had been on the stockade wall on the other side when he’d heard them lower his bridge, and he’d come running across the courtyard and bailey. She stared blankly at him for a moment, and then, disentangling herself from William de Comminges’ clumsy embrace, she threw herself into his arms, babbling that she’d never thought to see him again. He closed his arms around her and clung to her as much as she clung to him, rubbing his cheek against the top of her head and murmuring, “’Tis all right, Cat…’tis all right, love,” over and over while she cried.
“Lord Guy!” Gilbert reined in at the sight of him and stared, feeling very much the fool. Nonplussed, he looked around him at the men who’d stopped working to watch the strange sight of their lord and lady embracing in broad daylight. His gaze lit on William and he demanded testily, “You—fellow! I’d have the tale from someone—what in God’s name goes here?”
William looked over at Cat and Guy before turning his attention to Gilbert. “Naught’s amiss—not now.”
Guy stepped back shakily for a closer look at Catherine, unable to believe he held her in the flesh. “God’s bones, Cat, but I thought to never see you again. Let me look on you.” Then, seeing her pallor and perceiving that she was thinner than when she’d left Rivaux, his face creased in concern. “You have been unwell.”
“’Tis nothing.”
“Nothing!” Gilbert exploded behind her. “Nothing, you say! God’s blood, my lord, but do not listen to her! For two weeks and more, she’s not been able to keep food in her stomach, but she would not rest until I rode to Belvois—and when I left her at Nantes, she came after like a damned wolfhound tracking its prey!” he told Guy with feeling. “And then we saw Belesme, and she thought the worst. ’Twas Christ’s own miracle that she did not die crossing the river, I tell you! Look at her—she is more than half-drowned! Aye, if the babe is unmarked after this, ’tis but that he bears the blood of Rivaux!”
Guy’s hands tightened on Cat’s elbows, and for a moment she could not tell whether he supported her or she him. But when she looked up, she thought it was pain rather than joy she saw. Looking away quickly, she managed to murmur, “Aye, I’d thought to tell you when we were alone.”
Not to be put off, Gilbert of Nantes dismounted and pushed his way to Guy. “’Twas thought we saw Belesme, my lord.”
“Aye.”
Seeing no signs of a siege and no burning buildings, Gilbert was confused, but with his usual inborn resiliency once danger passed, he reached the conclusion he liked best. Beaming at his granddaughter’s husband, he nodded. “Then ’tis well she insisted we come, my lord, for he dared not tarry when he saw the men of Nantes. Aye, he’s on his way back to the safety of France, I’ll warrant.”
“With more food and mail than we could spare,” William snorted, “but, aye, he is gone at least.”
“And you are unharmed?” Cat asked Guy anxiously, almost unable to believe it could be so.
“He had not the time to spare roasting us—he thought he was pursued,” William lied hastily.
“And he was. Had I not had Catherine in my care, I’d have tried to take him,” Gilbert boasted, not realizing that every man in Rivaux knew him for the coward he was. Looking up at Guy, he gestured to Cat. “She’s been sicker than her granddam ever was, my lord—I pray it passes soon—but I’ll admit right now that there’s not many, man or woman, who’d make the ride she just made when she thought you dead.” Laying a hand on her shoulder, he leaned closer. “Aye, she ought to have been a son herself.”
“You are so weak you tremble, Cat,” Guy murmured as he braced her with his arm. “You belong in bed.” Without waiting for her protest, he lifted her and headed for the main portal of his hall. “Get the door,” he called out, and a dozen men vied to do his bidding. Over his shoulder, he told William, “See Gilbert and his men fed and his horses tended.”
“Aye, my lord.” William eyed the Count of Nantes with a hint of humor and nodded. “Aye, you come tell me how ’twas that you routed Belesme.”
Despite the steepness of the stairs, Catherine was light in Guy’s arms, worrying him, for he’d never seen her ill or helpless before. At the top of the steps he leaned to wrench open the door, kicking it wide with the toe of his boot. “Your gown is soaked,” he muttered as he set her down beside the bed.
“’Twas the river.”
“Aye, you risked too much to come here, Catherine.” He bent her forward over his arm and pulled at the lacings under her arms clumsily. “God’s bones, but I am a poor tiring woman after Hawise.”
“I can undress myself.”
“Nay. Look at you—you are sick unto death and chilled to the marrow of your bones. Here…” Lifting the back of her overgown, he pulled it up over her head and tossed it in a heap at her feet. He could hear her teeth chatter as he worked almost feverishly to undress her. Discarding her damp chainse, he thrust her between the covers of the bed and looked about for the means to warm her quickly. The brazier hearth was cold and the logs still damp from when they’d been brought in earlier. He sat on the bench beside the bed to remove his boots and then eased his body in next to hers, rolling to the center of the feather mattress and enveloping her naked body in his clothed one. “Got to warm you ere your lungs congest,” he murmured, settling against her.
He was big, he was warm, he was safe. She shivered and burrowed beneath him to draw strength and heat from him. Too exhausted and weak to think even, she closed her eyes and clung to him until she went to sleep.
Guy lay quietly, his wild, tumbling t
houghts in contrast to the stillness of his body, until he felt her relax and heard her breathing even out. For a day and a night he’d tried to tell himself that Belesme had lied to him, but in his heart he knew differently. And then he’d tried to tell himself that it made no difference what blood he carried, and again he knew it was not so—the name of Belesme was hated and feared throughout Normandy and England, and the blood was tainted with madness. The blood he would pass on to the babe Catherine carried within her—the blood of Belesme. A sense of aching loneliness washed over him, a loneliness he’d never thought to have again since he’d known for certain that Catherine of the Condes loved him, a loneliness made more terrible by the knowledge that he dared not tell her the terrible legacy he’d give their child. And there was fear also, fear that there was within him that which could somehow make him like Belesme—fear that Catherine’s love would turn to hate if she found him out. Aye, ’twas a bitter, dangerous secret he bore, one that would cost him his wife, his lands, and his life even. And he could not ease the guilt he felt, for there was none to tell of it, none who would not turn away from him in horror. ’Twas little wonder that he’d been so unsuited to monastic life—he was Satan’s spawn.
Catherine moved trustingly against him, nestling in the hollow he’d made of his chest and belly and thighs. The arm he’d wrapped around her was beginning to tingle from its cramped position, so he eased it from beneath her and brushed over her hips and legs. In other times, touching her would have brought forth such desire in him that he would have been consumed by it, but now he felt that to touch her like that would be to defile her. Her skin was warmer beneath his hands now. Denying his own loneliness, he rolled away and rose from the bed.
Padding to a large chest, he drew out his warm furlined cloak and carried it back to spread over her. In a little while he’d have one of the kitchen boys bring up coals and start a fire in the brazier, but not just yet.
Voices from the common room below floated up as Gilbert of Nantes expounded on how Belesme had seen him and run. Unwilling to face the fool, Guy gathered up another cloak, wrapped himself in it, and sat on a bench against the wall, leaning back to indulge in yet another bout of self-loathing.
33
At first, Catherine thought she but imagined the change in him. There was so much to do ere winter set in: the continuing work on the outer wall, the restocking of Rivaux’s depleted larders, the counting of crops and men on all of Guy’s lands for Henry’s taxes—the list was overwhelming. But as she began to adjust to the babe within her womb and to take over again the running of the household, she began to worry over her husband.
He made too many excuses to be gone to Belvois and his other castles when she thought William could have acted in his name. And while he was always kind, courteous, and gentle with her, it seemed he used the babe as an excuse not to bed her, telling her she was not well enough. His temper was uneven to his men and to his servants, so much so that many preferred to go through her to him, and yet when she taxed him with it, his temper got worse rather than better. Even Brian, whose stay provided them with needed men, was not proof against Guy’s ill humor.
She sat on a cushion beneath the window, plying her still-indifferent needle and pondering her unhappiness, unaware that he stood just within the door. From time to time she looked out to the trees behind the walls and saw the few bright-colored leaves that now clung to otherwise empty, barren limbs, and tried to tell herself that it was but that she did not like winter, or that it was some malaise brought on by the changes in her body.
He watched hungrily as the graying light illuminated her dark braids and profiled her lovely face. She was becoming an obsession with him, an obsession in which his waking hours were spent torn between fear and desire and his dreams were haunted by her and Belesme. At night he lay beside her and struggled with a body that ached for her until he could not bear it. But it frightened him to get too close to her. Ever since Belesme had left Rivaux, Guy had thought of little other than how she would feel if she ever discovered the truth, and every time she looked at him now, he feared she would see something in his face or his eyes and know.
Finally, when he could stand watching her no longer, he jammed on his helmet and crossed into the room itself. Startled, she looked up, and the smile on her face froze at the sight of his mail.
“I am come to bid you Godspeed, Catherine.”
“Again?” Her voice betrayed her dismay. “But you have but been here less than a week, my lord.”
“Aye, but I go to Vientot—there is grumbling there over the taxes I levy for Henry.”
“Cannot William go?”
“Nay, he is needed here.”
She wanted to cry out, to scream at him that he was needed at Rivaux even more than William de Comminges, that she needed him. She bit her lower lip to still the trembling, and nodded, afraid to speak for fear of releasing a flood of tears. Vientot was the furthest of his possessions—it would be weeks before she saw him again.
“William will see to your needs, Catherine.” He stared helplessly, knowing he disappointed her. Finally he turned away. “God keep you safe while I am gone.”
“Wait!” The word escaped her involuntarily, but it turned him around. “Can you not…would you not come closer that I may kiss you farewell, my lord?”
“Aye.” He tried to keep his voice light, but he could not still the almost painful thudding of his heart. He moved closer to stand over her.
He was magnificent and forbidding in full mail save for his gloves, which were probably fastened to his saddle, since he did not like the feel of them in general. His new surcoat, the one Hawise had worked for him at Nantes, was even more impressive than the one he’d worn to court, for jewels winked from both the hawk’s eyes and its talons. But even shadowed by his helmet, his eyes betrayed a sunken, haunted look—another sign of what she already knew. He’d scarce slept since she’d returned to Rivaux.
“I’d see your face,” she managed as she rose.
“Oh…aye.” He dislodged the helmet and lifted it off his head to tuck it under one arm.
Before he had a chance to guard himself, she stood on tiptoe and circled his neck with her arms, pressing her body against his, and moving parted lips over his in invitation, kindling desire between them. His free arm caught her to him, molding her breasts and hips against the hardness of the cold steel mesh as their lips met and his tongue took possession of her mouth. To her, it was proof that at least she still had the power to move him.
“Sweet Jesu!” he muttered, thrusting her from him suddenly. “I’d not meant to do that.” Conscious of the need to escape or be lost, he stepped backward quickly and jammed his helmet on his head, twisted the nasal over his nose, and started for the doorway, leaving her feeling spurned.
“’Tis the babe, isn’t it?” she blurted out through tears. “You do not want the babe!”
He stopped, not daring to turn back. “What makes you say such a thing?” he asked finally.
“Because everything is different between us! And naught’s changed with me but the babe, Guy,” she choked, trying to stop crying. “And you have no right to treat me thus, for ’tis you who gave it to me—’tis your son I bear!”
“Naught’s different, Cat.” He closed his eyes for a moment to gain control of himself. “’Tis but that you are overset because of the babe, and your mind tricks you. All is well between us.”
“Nay, you’ll not blame me, Guy of Rivaux—not when you have changed! I…I…” She burst into tears, unable to continue.
“Aye, then ’tis me, and I am sorry for it,” he sighed. “But my men wait, and we will have to speak of it later. Godspeed, Cat.”
“You cannot keep leaving me! You have to tell me what is wrong!”
He had nearly reached the safety of the doorway.
“You love me no longer! You have another woman!” she flung at him.
He turned around slowly and shook his head. “Nay, ’tis not so, Cat. If anythin
g, ’tis that I love you too well.” He faced her across the wide expanse of the room. “But I must go to Vientot. You will be all right—I leave Brian and William with you.”
Cat’s eyes were still red when she emerged from her solar several hours later. She crossed the courtyard purposefully and walked the length of the new wall until she found Brian FitzHenry in an argument with one of the men from Belvois about the depth of an arrow slit.
“You have not the room for a crossbowman to kneel,” he told the fellow. “Nay, you misread the plans.”
“Brian.”
“Jesu, what ails you Cat? You should not be out here without a cloak—you’ll harm your babe.”
“You and my grandsire are the only ones who seem to care about it anyway,” she told him bitterly. “For all Guy thinks of it or me, I should have drowned in the river.”
“Make it a foot deeper,” he told the workman before turning back to her. “Now, Cat, what nonsense is this? Never say you have quarreled with Rivaux again?”
“Aye.” She met his eyes and nodded. Sighing heavily, she announced tonelessly, “I’d go home, Brian—I’d have you take me home to the Condes.”
“What?”
“Do not screech at me, Brian, please. I cannot bear it.”
“Have you taken leave of your senses, Cat?” he demanded. Then, lowering his voice, he took her by the arm and propelled her away from the workmen to tell her, “Nay, but I could not—’tis against the laws of God and man to interfere with what is between a man and his wife.”
“Those are strange words from you—how many husbands have you cuckolded?”
“’Tis different, and well you know it. I am not fool enough to cuckold Guy of Rivaux, if that is what you are offering.”
“I am not—I’d not be so base. What I ask of you is that you take me home.”
“To the Condes? God’s blood, but ’tis too far.”
“To the Condes…to Nantes…to Harlowe. I’d not stay here.”