Fire and Steel

by Anita Mills

  “I think you have Aislinn to thank for what he has become. He’d have her, you know.”

  “He has but to ask.”

  “I’d tell him.”

  “Nay. You and I will leave him be, Guy. ’Twas my mistake from the first—because Henry did not love him, I sought to ease his life. But life is hard and harsh and cruel, and it served him ill to protect him.”

  Once they had Belesme trussed like a pig for roasting, Guy’s and Roger’s men raised him to stand on hobbled feet. He stared past them at Guy and Roger, and for the briefest of moments his eyes warmed and the harsh lines of his face softened before it became cold again.

  “You should have killed me,” he told Guy as they dragged him past.

  Guy watched him go and felt relief. It was over and the Devil of Belesme had been taken. Roger knew and did not care. In a few days’ time, after they saw Henry again at Rouen, they would go to the Condes. He still had to face Catherine, and he was still more than a little afraid of what she might think of him, but he would do it.

  “I wanted to kill him, but I could not,” he said aloud.

  “You are what he could have been, Guy.”

  Once the camp was secured, Guy sat brooding beside a small fire, his thoughts on Robert of Belesme. He’d both fought with and against the man, he’d been used by and had triumphed over him, and now it was nearly over. He had but to take the man almost none knew for his father back to Rouen for Henry’s justice and reap the rewards of what he’d done. He now could see Robert for what he was: a tortured, violent man determined to destroy himself and everything in his path. Even the lurking fear that Robert was Satan incarnate had faded when ’twas a man he dragged from the burning tent.

  It would be a long and bitter trip back to Rouen, with all of Normandy demanding Robert of Belesme’s head for his crimes, and Guy had no doubt that they would have to fight to keep possession of their prisoner every furlong of the way. And Henry would be waiting to mete out his justice with as little mercy as his father, the Old Conqueror, had done. Aye, he’d spare Count Robert’s life, consigning him to years of imprisonment as a blinded, castrated, empty husk of a man. Guy picked up a stick and broke it before casting it into the fire, where it caught and was quickly consumed by the flames.

  Guy rose from his solitary fire and stretched his tall frame, his face red from the illumination of the campfire in the dark. Kicking dirt over it, he snuffed it out and turned to the tent where Belesme was held. Even now, the man drew him as much as he repelled.

  “I’d speak with him alone,” he told the two guards within the tent.

  Seemingly asleep, Robert of Belesme lay on a straw-filled pallet with his eyes closed, but after the others left, he struggled to sit and face Guy. The light from the lone candle was so faint that his green eyes appeared black.

  “You risked your life thinking you saved me from hell.” He spoke low.

  “’Twas you who once reminded me, ’tis forbidden me to kill you. I’d not have your soul weigh on mine.” Guy moved closer to stand over his father. His heart thudded and he wondered why he’d come.

  “You’d be forgiven. Hell holds no terrors for me, Guy, for I have lived in it already.”

  “You know not what is on the other side.”

  “I have glimpsed it often enough—I have seen it written in that last moment on a thousand faces.” Belesme managed a bitter, twisted smile as his eyes met Guy’s. “But ’tis strange to hear that from your lips. Mayhap the monks did less than I thought.”

  “Why did you come to Rivaux?” Guy asked suddenly.

  “You are my son—I wanted to share what was common between us before ’twas over. It was a boasting, I suppose, for I took pride in what you had become,” Belesme admitted. “And I wanted someone to know that whether I lived or died, I had won.”

  “Won?”

  “Aye, I kept my promise to Eleanor. My blood—my son—will rule Nantes.”

  “You cannot know that.”

  “I have seen the babe, Guy. ’Tis a direct line of blood, mine and hers, that will rule Gilbert’s lands.”

  “’Twas madness, my lord. A hundred things could have changed that ere it ever happened.”

  “Aye, but it did not.”

  There was that arrogance, that overweening pride that Guy remembered about him from those days when they’d both served Robert Curthose against Henry. And, in a different way, he shared that pride and arrogance.

  As if he could look into Guy’s mind, Belesme nodded. “Aye, we fought together once. I suppose I should even think it fitting that ’twas you who brought me down at last.”

  “Like the young wolves with the old?”

  “Aye.” Robert’s eyes pierced like shards of glass once more. “I was wrong at Rivaux—the greater sin is letting me live, Guy.”

  “Do you fear Henry’s justice?”

  “Nay, ’tis hell for me either way. But you think yourself damned now for the blood I have given you. Kill me and atone for it.”

  “I’d not have your blood on my hands.”

  “Then put it on mine.”

  Guy looked down to where thongs bound Robert’s seared wrists and then to the chains that hobbled his feet. Across the small tent were what was left of his scorched clothes. Guy moved away to lift Belesme’s belt from the bench and remove the dagger. Returning, he dropped it blade-first into the ground beside his father and then silently lifted the tent flap and left.

  41

  The Condes looked much as it had almost exactly six year before, but to Guy of Rivaux it was no longer the awe-inspiring fortress he’d once found it. As they reined in and waited for the bridge to be lowered over the river-fed ditch, he scanned the walls for Catherine. At the windows of Eleanor of Nantes’s solar, Aislinn, Philippa, Isabella, and their mother waved brightly colored silk scarves that caught the summer sun, but there was no sign of Cat.

  Beside him, Brian FitzHenry removed his helmet and waved wildly to them and to the garrison that lined the top of the outer wall. A loud cheer of welcome rose as the bridge banged against its moorings to open the inner, more peaceful world within. Roger took the bridge first amid shouts of “Harlowe! Harlowe! Harlowe!” As Guy’s horse crossed beneath them, the chant changed to “Rivaux! Rivaux! Rivaux!” and Guy suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of belonging.

  The intense exhilaration of being there blotted out the earlier fatigue of their deciding to ride night and day from Rouen. The entire outer bailey was filled with shouting, cheering people as they rode in, and ostlers were pushed aside by the press of those who vied to touch the bridles, the horses, the tunics, and the mail of the men who’d caught Robert of Belesme. Brian slid from his saddle, only to be engulfed by the throng, lifted, and carried into the main courtyard. Guy, eager to see Catherine, edged his horse through the enthusiastic crowd before he dared to dismount. Ahead, he could see Aislinn running from the main hall portal. Brian struggled free of his admirers and stood uncertainly for a moment before opening his arms to receive her. And Aislinn, sweet and supposedly gentle Aislinn, astounded all who chanced to be looking by twining her arms around his neck and kissing him eagerly through her tears.

  “Sweet Jesu, but I love you!” Brian shouted at her to be heard above the din.

  Still looking for Catherine, Guy turned in his saddle and searched the crowd with his eyes. She stood across the courtyard, her babe in her arms, watching him with a misty smile on her face. Behind him, someone pulled Roger from his horse also, and Guy, fearful of being lost in the excited, milling people, chose to ride to her. Just before he reached her, she thrust the babe at a startled William de Comminges, and when Guy slid from his saddle, she reached up on tiptoe to dislodge his helmet and take it off.

  “I never wanted to kiss cold steel,” she told him as she tossed it onto the ground and stepped into his waiting arms. “Sweet Mary, but I have missed you,” she murmured into his shoulder as she rubbed her cheek against his surcoat and slid her arms around his waist.

/>   “I was afraid you were not coming to meet me,” he teased into the top of her shining braids.

  “I wanted you to see Richard, and I’d not have him crushed by the crowd.”

  “Richard? Oh…aye.”

  She jabbed at his back through layers of surcoat, mail, and gambeson. “Your son, Guy,” she muttered indignantly.

  “I did but think to tease you, Cat—’tis good to know you’ve still got your claws.” His arms closed around her, savoring again the rosewater fragrance in her hair, enjoying the feeling of her body against his once more. “Art the love of my life, Catherine of the Condes,” he spoke low above her ear.

  She hugged him more tightly and then pushed away. “Well, whether you would see him or not, Guy, you have to look at him. I went to too much trouble to give you this son for you to ignore him.”

  Guy’s eyes met William’s over her shoulder, and he read the pride in the old man’s face. “Aye, I’d see him. Come with me, both of you, and we’ll look at young Richard of Rivaux.”

  “Nay, I…” William held back diffidently as the infant squirmed in his arms. “You belong with your lady.”

  “Nay, William, but he’d not have either of us without your aid,” Cat protested. “Come on…” Her nose wrinkled as she sniffed at Guy, and she grinned. “If naught else, I’d have you help me get him out of all this steel and into a tub of bathwater. Sweet Jesu, Guy, but you stink,” she complained happily, threading her arm through her husband’s.

  William adjusted the babe on his shoulder, craning his neck to look lovingly on the black hair that covered its head. Smoothing his roughened hand over it, he held the babe’s back gently and followed them with the pride of a grandfather ready to display his greatest treasure.

  “’Twould be thought you walked on eggshells, Sir William,” Hawise harassed him good-naturedly. “Would you that I carried him?”

  “Nay.”

  Catherine turned to take her babe from him when they reached her tower chamber and held it out to Guy. “Behold Richard of Rivaux, my lord—’tis time you looked on him.”

  Guy knew a pang of fear as he took his son and stared down on the small face. The eyes that blinked solemnly and stared back were almost blue-black rather than the feared green. He relaxed slightly, allowing himself to exhale before he carried him to the bed. His heart beat faster as he unwrapped the swaddling bands to examine his babe. Richard kicked, exercising his legs and his lungs at the same time.

  “He has ten toes, Guy,” William observed dryly behind him. “Aye, and he looks much as you once did, so there’s hope he’ll be a handsome-enough fellow.”

  “He is a handsome fellow already,” Cat said, “and you’ve got him crying.”

  Guy lifted him gingerly to hold him to the window. “Aye, he is that. Hey, Richard, is this any way to greet your sire?” Jostling him gently, he watched his son give half a hiccup and stop. “Is he big enough?” he asked curiously.

  “They grow. Here, I’d take him before you drop him or curdle the milk in his stomach,” Catherine told him as she reached for the babe. “’Tis time he slept anyway, and you need your bath if you are to eat at Maman’s table tonight.”

  The Condes welcomed back its lord with a feast rivaling that of Easter or Christmas, and Guy was caught up in the gaiety that surrounded him. Eleanor, grateful to have Roger home at last, watched him with the air of a young girl and listened to him tell of how Robert of Belesme was finally taken. Brian paid little attention to anything but Aislinn, and finally Catherine leaned to whisper to Guy, “’Tis all but settled between Papa and King Henry—they will wed at Christmas.”

  “Roger and King Henry?” he asked with a lift of his divided brow.

  “Linn and Brian, dolt!” She laughed, then sobered. “’Tis good to have you back, Guy, and even better to see you tease me again.”

  His flecked eyes warmed with gold as they traveled over her. “Teasing is but one of the things I like to do with you, Cat.” He was rewarded with the slow flush that crept into her cheeks. Leaning closer, he whispered into her ear, his breath sending a visible shiver through her, “For ten weeks and more I’ve sat in my saddle, so tonight ’tis your turn to ride.”

  She had to close her eyes to hide the flood of desire that washed over her. It seemed that everything about him made her want him: his handsomeness, his strength, the incredible warmth of his body, those beautiful eyes when they met hers—everything. When she dared look sideways at him again, he was watching her appreciatively as though he knew her thoughts. A slow smile spread over his face, lifting the faint scar on his cheek. “Art more beautiful than mortal man has a right to expect, Cat.”

  Her hand reached to touch the fine line where it cut downward, and she felt the warmth of his skin and the faint trace of his freshly shaven beard. “I’ve always been sorry for it, Guy,” she admitted.

  “Nay, I’ve never minded it—it marked me for yours.”

  The rest of supper seemed interminable, but in truth it had lasted but two hours when Roger rose and stretched, saying he was tired and would seek his bed, but that anyone else was welcome to eat or drink his fill. Eleanor lingered behind but long enough to bend over Guy and murmur for his ears alone, “There’s none I’d rather have for Cat, my lord.” He looked up startled, thinking perhaps it was the wine, but she met his gaze soberly and nodded. “Aye, we share a pride in you, Guy of Rivaux.”

  “Nay, ’tis I who am proud to be kinsman to you,” he murmured to cover the intense relief he felt. If Eleanor of Nantes, who had suffered so much at Robert of Belesme’s hands, could find it in herself to accept him, Guy knew everything was all right.

  “I’d go up also,” Catherine whispered as soon as her parents had left. Her hand covered his, stroking it, tracing fire beneath her fingertips, telling him she desired him as much as he wanted her. He drained his cup and nodded.

  “Aye.”

  Furtive giggles and knowing looks followed them as they left, but Catherine didn’t care. Every fiber of her being, every bit of her body was alive with the thought of what it would feel like to be loved by him again. Already her thoughts had aroused her body until she knew it would be a fiery, intense coupling, quickly over, but followed by a more leisurely exploration of each other.

  The wet nurse held Richard, now asleep at her breast. When she saw Catherine and Guy, she covered herself and rose to lay the sleeping babe in his cradle. “He is as full as a tick at day’s end, my lady.” She smiled as she dropped a hasty obeisance. Looking upward to Guy, who towered over her, she added, “I sleep in the cutout chamber below. If you’d have me take him with me…”

  “Nay. If he wakes, we will summon you.” He moved to stare down at the sleeping form of his son, who lay on his stomach, his face turned to the side, his mouth moving as though he sucked in his sleep. The overwhelming innocence of the babe comforted him and brought forth a fierce, protective love.

  “Guy…” Catherine came up to stand behind him, placing her hand on his shoulder, and he turned into her embrace. “You think him beautiful, do you not?” she asked anxiously.

  “Beautiful?” He appeared to consider the babe a moment, and an unholy gleam warmed his eyes. “Aye,” he decided as his arms tightened around her, “and I’d like to make more like him, if you’d have the truth of it.”

  She leaned her head against him, knowing that once he kissed her there’d be no more words. “I’d have him be like you.”

  “Cat…” He’d meant to lie with her first, to seek the easing of his need for her, but he felt compelled to tell her. “I’d have him be like your father, Cat. There is that about me that you do not know. I—”

  “If you are going to tell me about your tainted blood, I’d not listen to it,” she told him softly.

  “You know?”

  “Aye, but it does not matter.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Nay—’twas Belesme himself. He was there when Richard was born—he cut the cord himself. I meant to write to you
of it, but there seemed no way to tell of it. But I knew, Guy. I knew when he let us live. I saw him look at my babe, and at that moment I thought I saw you there.”

  “Jesu! And you can live with that? You can—”

  “Shhhhhh.” She stopped his words with her fingers on his mouth. “Aye. I love you, Guy.”

  It was as though the final fear fell away, leaving his soul cleansed of its stain. She loved him and she did not care about Belesme. He looked deep within those dark eyes of hers and saw the mirror of his own love for her. His hand moved to cradle her head as he bent to taste of her mouth, taking what she freely gave. He had no more devils, within or without, left to fight.

  Author’s Notes

  The principal characters in Fire and Steel are products of my imagination, although I like to think that Catherine of the Condes and Guy of Rivaux and their supporting cast could have lived a life such as I have depicted.

  The character of Robert of Belesme is based loosely on a real historical person, Robert de Belleme, whose reputation and exploits have long fascinated me. Although little in-depth detail is known about his life other than when he lived, what lands he held, whom he married, and whom he supported in the struggles that ensued after William the Conqueror’s death, I could not pass up an opportunity to use him in Lady of Fire and Fire and Steel. The chroniclers of the day mentioned him often enough in passing that I came to wonder about a man whose extraordinary military abilities, political power, and great wealth were matters of record and yet were insufficient to prevent his downfall. His excesses of extreme cruelty in a violent and cruel time were such that his comings and goings between Normandy and England were reported in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles in the same light as famines, pestilence, and other natural disasters. He was hated and feared by king, baron, and commoner alike, to the extent that I once had a history professor say that there were those who believed that the English expression “the bogeyman will get you” came from Robert de Belleme and his raids.