Lady of Fire (10 page)

"Art uncommonly foul-tempered, sister," Adelicia told her from behind.

"Aye," Eleanor sighed. "Oh Lissy, leave me be—'tis not your fault."

Just then she spied Roger's squire crossing to the cistern. Without a word, she strode purposefully to the stairs and made her way down.

Adelicia shook her head over her sister's strange behavior until a new thought occurred to her. It came suddenly that perhaps Eleanor still cherished memories of Prince Henry. Though she had been only seven at the time, she could still remember that there was much talk of a match between them before Eleanor had been sent away. And now her poor sister had been promised to that awful Belesme. Adelicia crossed herself three times even as she thought of the hated name.

Beneath the window, she could see Eleanor catch up with Aubery, and she watched with interest. Already she had taken a fancy to the handsome young squire. She could see him drop to one knee in obeisance to her sister, his gilded head bent low.

"Lady Eleanor." Even as he knelt, he mumbled, "Art a vision or flesh, lady?" No sooner had the words escaped his mouth than he felt like an idiot for saying them. In his years of service with Roger, he had never been able to face her without feeling like a fool. Indeed, there was something about her that seemed to make all men fools—even her own brother.

Her laughter above him was pleasant. "Today, Aubery, I am more nightmare than vision. Look to yourself—'tis you who are as fresh-scrubbed as an angel. I'll warrant every maid in this pile of stone envies me my speech with you."

Relieved, he rose and faced her. "How may I serve you, Demoiselle?" he asked respectfully.

"I would have Roger's direction." Impulsively she laid a hand on his arm. "Tell me—is there something wrong with him? Does he seem different to you?"

"Aye." Aubery looked at his feet, uncertain as to whether to discuss his master with her. "Aye. He is like a man obsessed—and so he has been since Fontainebleau." When she did not say anything, he blurted out, "He would have you safe, Demoiselle—I fear he thinks of little else."

"Where is he now?"

"The chapel."

"My thanks, Aubery." She lifted her skirts and picked her way across the uneven cobblestones in the direction of the chapel. The squire looked after her and shook his head. They were an odd pair, his master and the Lady Eleanor.

She found him alone. Apparently his prayers were nearly done, because she could hear only the last words as he whispered, "And deny not this hungry heart, O Lord," before she slipped down to her knees beside him. He looked up in surprise and then looked away.

"How long have you been here?" he asked quietly.

"I did but arrive."

He appeared relieved. "Lea, 'tis unseemly to intrude on a man at his prayers," he chided. But he was smiling with those brilliant blue eyes as he was used to do. Her spirits rose. "Did any see you come here?" he asked.

"Nay—I don't think so. Why?"

He looked around to make sure they were alone before answering, "We must be as other brothers and sisters, Lea, until this thing is done. We cannot be in each other's company as we would like—else how am I to convince Gilbert and Curthose that I will let you go to Belesme?" He searched her face for a sign of understanding. "No man who loves you as I do could possibly let him have you, Lea."

"But you've scarce spoken to me," she protested.

"Aye. You need to remember that most brothers and sisters barely tolerate one another." He frowned at her perplexed expression and sought to explain, "Think on it. Our affection for each other is so remarked that even the duke wanted me away from his court while he negotiated this marriage. Lea, if I am to be in Rouen for your betrothal, I must appear to accept it."

"Oh."

He possessed and squeezed both her hands, smiling and pleading at the same time, "Trust me, Lea."

"Roger, as long as I know you love me, I will do as you ask."

Her fingers were warm and slender beneath his own. It was an effort not to pull her against him and tell her the truth then and there. Instead, he looked away to hide the intense longing he felt. "I love you too well, Lea."

She returned to the solar in high spirits certain she would be safe, she would be secure. Impulsively she called for the gown the seamstress had just finished, for its brightness suited her mood. She'd intended to wear it in Rouen, but why waste it in a place where all the fine ladies would be gowned as well? Nay, better to shine as a dove among sparrows at Nantes, she reasoned. Besides, tonight she supped with Roger and Prince Henry, an excuse to bring out her finery. Adelicia had confided that Henry still liked her—let them all think she dressed for him. It was Roger she wanted to please.

Her tiring women were surprised and more than a little dismayed, but it did not matter. She pulled on the gown and then sat for her maid to plait her thick dark hair with threads of gold and then knot the braid into a crown on the top of her head. Even as she rose, she heard old Herleva's gasp as the woman came into the solar. Her whole body appeared to be arrayed in light, from the fitted undergown of cloth of gold to the overgown sewn from the fabulous material Mabille had sent. Mother Mathilde would have been scandalized to see her now, she decided as she looked down to where the undergown dipped into a V that almost reached the crevice between her breasts. She turned around, swirling the shimmering fabric with its iridescent reds, greens, and golds.

"Demoiselle! You wear your wedding dress!"

"Nay, I have chosen another for that—I would not waste this on Count Robert. Besides, I dress for my brother and the prince tonight."

Herleva drew her mouth into a thin, disapproving line. "Be careful, little Eleanor, that you tempt not where you would not."

"You speak in riddles, old woman," Eleanor chided. "If you would scold me, out with it!"

"Why do you seek to rouse a man's passion when you dare not satisfy it?" Herleva asked bluntly. "Do you wish to be another of Prince Henry's lemans? 'Twas not for that that I taught you."

"I've no wish to lie with him. Oh, leave me be! I know not what I want!"

The old woman nodded knowingly. "
I
know what you would have, Demoiselle. Who knows—mayhap it will come to pass."

"More riddles?"

"Nay—the truth." Herleva shrugged and retired to the alcove where she kept her cot.

Unwilling to face Margaret and Adelicia in her new gown, Eleanor made her way to the great hall early. As she entered the passageway between living quarters and hall, she reflected it was much as it had been those years ago when Gilbert had freshened it for that fateful May Day. She reached the place where Belesme had accosted her and stopped. There he'd foretold that he'd hold the fate of her and her family in his hands. Who could have guessed then his powers of prophecy?

"God's teeth, Lea! Where are you going dressed like that?"

She spun around to face Roger. His eyes lit up as he took in her appearance, and then he frowned. Inexplicably, his change in expression hurt and angered her. "I am going to sup, brother," she retorted.

"Nay—I think not." His hand touched the bottom of her neckline. "You'll have Henry panting after you like a hound after a bitch, and I won't have it, Lea." He took her hand and pulled her back toward the solar stairs. "Wear discreet clothes when you sup with Henry, lovey, because it takes little enough to inflame his passions as it is."

She pulled back. "Roger!" she protested as she dug in her heels to stop him. "What is the matter with you? You have not the right to order my appearance."

"Not too long ago, you said you'd do as I ask. Change your gown."

"Nay. In this you sound like a jealous husband and you are wrong! I see little enough harm in dressing to please a prince. Why should I save this for the likes of Belesme?"

"Take care, Lea"—Roger lowered his voice and bent his face to within inches of hers—"that you do not take yourself where I cannot help you. Right now, Henry is full of noble intentions where you are concerned. Tempt him and he is likely to take you to his bed before he considers the consequences."

"You make him sound like a rutting beast."

"Sometimes he is. He is but a man, after all."

"Really, Roger? You are but a man, after all, too."

"Aye, and sometimes I am ruled by my passions, also."

"Roger, you told me that I would have to have a husband."

She was unprepared for his reaction. He reached out and shook her as one would a small child when one was furious. "Don't be a fool, Lea! Your chance to wed Normandy's son has passed. He would not openly defy Belesme for you, but he is not above a little dalliance before your wedding. Do you understand me?"

Hot angry tears welled in her eyes. "Aye—I understand! Now that I am out of Fontainebleau, you would rule me!"

He dropped his hands. "Rule you? Lea, I would protect you, and tonight you need protection from your own designs." He turned to stalk off.

"Roger,
Please
!" A lump formed in her throat. "Please do not quarrel with me—I cannot bear it!" She stood rooted to the floor. "Very well—I will change my clothes if it pleases you."

He stopped, but did not turn around. "Nay, Lea—I would not want to rule you," he answered tonelessly. "You are a woman grown—follow your own mind."

"Turn around and
look
at me!" she implored.

"Nay. I have said my piece."

She sat at the high table at her father's right while Roger and Prince Henry shared a trencher on his left. It seemed the most miserable meal she'd eaten in many years. Her father barely grunted acknowledgment of her efforts at conversation and Roger never seemed to look her way. Occasionally she could sense Prince Henry's eyes on her, but that provided little comfort. Her sister Margaret prattled endlessly to Adelicia. She felt small and insignificant in her plain green gown.

"Damn, girl!" her father exploded. "You've drained the cup!" He refilled the goblet and turned his attention back to Roger and the prince. Aimlessly she stirred in more honey as Henry had taught her and sipped. She didn't feel like eating, and the sweet-tasting wine seemed to soothe her hurt.

The tables were cleared and the torches doused in all but a few holders as the hastily assembled musicians struck up a tune. Beneath the still-lit candle rings, jongleurs gathered to provide the night's entertainment. Eleanor rose unsteadily to her feet, but no one seemed to notice. She suddenly felt very sick.

The room spun crazily, making her close her eyes briefly for balance. The little food she had eaten seemed to rise uncomfortably toward her throat. She put a hand to her reeling head and realized that she would have to leave or disgrace herself in front of everyone. She motioned a serving boy over and nodded toward the doorway. "Please," she whispered before she had to cover her mouth.

The boy nodded and helped her from the room. At the doorway, he sent for one of her tiring maids. Eleanor leaned her head against the cold stone of the wall as she fought rising waves of nausea. The woman called Gerda came out and together with the boy supported Eleanor to the garderobe.

Prince Henry was the first to miss her when he turned around. In the dun light, he could see her being helped from the hall. Without drawing Roger's attention, he followed. By the time he reached her, she was within the garderobe retching. He stood helplessly with the servants and waited.

Finally, when the sounds stopped, he put his head to the door and called, "Are you all right, Demoiselle?"

"Aye," came the muffled reply.

He knew in a trice what ailed her—she'd had too much to drink. He'd experienced the same feeling far too often to condemn a girl fresh out of the convent. They probably watered the wine where she'd been. What she needed was a walk in the open air, he decided.

She was white and pasty when she came out at last, but she'd managed to spare her clothing. A shred of corn husk clung to a dampened tendril of hair at her temple. Before the servants could move to her assistance, Henry stepped forward and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping her face and pulling tiny pieces of husking off. He spit on a corner of the cloth and began dabbing around her mouth much as a mother would her child. The servants stood back in uncertainty, bemused at the sight of the Conqueror's son cleaning up their mistress.

"Get me some water," he ordered curtly. Both ran to do his bidding. "What you need, Demoiselle, is air." He put an arm around her waist and supported her against him. "Are you well enough to walk now?"

"Aye." She nodded weakly.

"Then let's get out into the yard."

He managed to walk her to the cistern and drew up a bucket. There was no sign of either servant now. Pouring water over the handkerchief and wringing it out, he washed her face. "Here—drink this," he told her as he proffered a dipper of water from the bucket. When she would push it away, he insisted, "If you will not drink, then rinse your mouth—'twill help. There's naught much worse than the taste of wine when it comes back up."

She nodded gratefully and tried to swallow the water. For one awful moment it seemed as though the cold liquid would hit bottom and make her sick again. She swallowed hard.

"Nay—spit," he advised. "Swallowing only makes it worse."

Slowly the waves of nausea ceased and she nodded gratefully. "My thanks, Your Grace. I fear I've made a fool of myself in your eyes."

"Because you were overcome with wine? Nay," he answered softly as he stared at her in the moonlight. "How can I fault you for what I have done so often myself?"

"Where's Gerda?"

"The serving wench? Gone for water, I think." He put her arm back around his shoulder and circled her waist. "Come, let us walk until your head clears, Demoiselle."

She was light in his arms, as light as a child, but there was nothing childlike about the firm, rounded breast above his hand. She was the most beautiful girl he could remember seeing, and they were alone. And she was sister to a man he considered friend. Resolutely he pointed her back toward the hall.

Her kidskin slipper caught on a loose cobblestone and she pitched against him. He caught her with his free arm and encircled her. She was warm and small and lovely. Instinctively he bent to kiss her, his lips just grazing hers at first; then, with a groan, he took possession of her mouth. As small as she was, she seemed to fit against him in all of the right places. His hands slid down her back, molding her to him even as the heat rose within his body.