Lady of Fire (2 page)
Authors: Anita Mills
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Historical Romance
Roger frowned, his blue eyes narrowing at Henry's words. He moved protectively toward his half-sister, but stopped when he saw nothing but open friendliness and teasing in the prince's expression. Instead, Roger tweaked the toe of Eleanor's shoe for attention. "Lea, if I am to meet Belesme, I would wear your favor."
She flushed with pleasure at the request given as gravely as though they were knight and lady. Nodding, she removed the enamel brooch she wore pinned to her shoulder. Leaning as far as she dared while Henry held her waist, she tried to pin it in the rough wool of Roger's tunic. The task completed, she kissed him solemnly. "May my token bring you good fortune today, brother."
Prince Henry nudged his horse away. As they began the climb up the rocky road, Eleanor strained to watch as Walter de Clare began divesting himself of his mail and his gambeson.
"Do not fear for him, little one," the prince reassured her. "While I doubt very much that your brother can best Belesme—I doubt anyone can—you may be assured that my father will not let the boy come to harm."
It was then that the full import of the day's event came home to Eleanor and she fell silent. For Roger, gaining a place in William the Conqueror's household was a great honor. For Eleanor, it meant losing the person dearest to her heart. She tried hard to focus on the thought that it was at least an opportunity for him to make his way in a world that denied him an inheritance. Besides, had he been a legitimate son of a noble house, he would have fostered at seven or eight. At least she'd had him a lot longer than most sisters had their brothers with them.
"Why so silent, Demoiselle? You were full of words back there."
"I… I shall miss my brother," she managed.
"My sisters could scarce wait to see me gone," Henry told her conversationally, "and I thought much the same of them. My sister Adela has the temper of a viper."
Eleanor spoke before she thought. "It cannot be the same for you, Your Grace. Your father does not hate you for being a girl, and I am sure that your mother did not hate you either. My parents have never forgiven me for that which I cannot help. I suppose that is why Roger and I have always meant so much to each other—we are both despised for what we were born. Only he, Dame Glynis, and my old nurse care about me. And I love Roger above all things." Her shoulders began to shake slightly.
"Demoiselle, you weep too soon. Your brother will be back often enough to visit, I promise you." Henry's words only seemed to increase her anguish, causing him to try another subject. "Even if your lot is unhappy for the moment, little one, it will not be too long before you will be betrothed to a lord that loves you." He shifted his arm to cradle her against him. "Nay, sweet child, none could look upon you and not love you."
"You are kind," she sniffed, "for you do not know me. My lord will most probably beat me because I cannot sew and I have not the least ability in household accounts."
Her innocence brought forth a fierce desire to protect and comfort her. "Believe me," Henry told her, "when I say that such accomplishments are commendable but have little to do with a lord's love for his lady. A man can pay to have his sewing done, and he can get a steward and a seneschal to run his household. On the other hand, it is a rare marriage contract that yields a beautiful wife."
"Your Grace—"
"Demoiselle, you may call me Henry—come, I am not much older than your brother. Can we not be friends?"
She half-twisted her body to look at him. The friendliness in his face was unmistakable as she studied him. Unlike his father, he was not dark. His open countenance was framed with light brown hair cut straight across the forehead in Norman fashion, and his eyes, while brown, were not nearly so dark as the Old Conqueror's. But it was his easy smile and gentle manner that made her think that this surely must be the best of
"I am but seventeen and yet to be knighted," he continued. "While there is some small difference in our ages, I hope your brother and I may become friends. Perhaps we will both be able to visit you, and mayhap my father will order you to court when this quarrel with France is done."
She leaned her head back against his chest much as she would have done with Roger. As the prince's arm tightened protectively around her, she was suddenly struck by the picture of impropriety they must present. She tried to sit upright before any could see her, but found herself held so tightly against him that she could feel his heartbeat.
"Your Grace… Henry," she protested, " 'tis unseemly that you hold me thus—though the fault is mine."
He relaxed his arm reluctantly. "Nay, Eleanor, the fault is mine."
"The black-haired one—the one called Robert—I didn't like him at all," she changed the subject to safer ground. "Is he always like that?"
"Always. The young Count of Belesme is excessively proud, excessively cruel, excessively vain. No one likes him and everyone is afraid of him. He's Mabille's spawn."
"Mabille?"
"They say she's a witch." Henry crossed himself with the hand that held the reins even as he added, "I do not put much store in such tales, but she is said to have poisoned Robert's father. There are other things said of Robert and his mother that I dare not tell you."
"What things?"
"I say too much. What I have heard is unfit for your ears. Suffice it to say that my father is the only thing Robert of Belesme fears. When he is gone, I fear the Devil will be loosed."
"And you, my lord—are you afraid of him?"
He shrugged behind her. "I? I am not much the soldier, Demoiselle. I fight if I must, but I'd rather not. I have not the quarrelsome nature of Curthose and Rufus. Besides, as the youngest son, I have little enough to fight for." There was a faint trace of bitterness in his voice that faded as he added, "Alas, Demoiselle, we are arrived, and by the look of things, you have been missed."
"Gilbert, I tell you I won't have it! William the Bastard can order your service, but he cannot order me in my household!" Lady Mary's voice was shrill and strident, carrying well beyond the confines of her solar.
"Mary…" Gilbert of Nantes' tone was placating.
"Mary nothing! The boy is naught but stable fodder, and the girl shames us with her boldness! I say they can both live on bread and ale dispensed in the kitchen during Festival. I will have neither at my table!"
"And I tell you that Normandy demands their presence—before I could whip the girl for her unseemly behavior, William's whelp warns me, 'I'd not mark her were I you, for my father would have her sup with us tonight as reward for her bravery.' " Gilbert nearly strangled at the recollection of Prince Henry's coolness toward him. "Whilst you and I consider her overbold, the duke considers her brave, so we must hold our tongues. She sups with
" 'Tis you who curse her for not being a son!" Mary shouted back.
"Aye, but she may have some value to me yet, wife."
"Then let the little strumpet appear at supper and nowhere else—but I warn you, Gilbert, I'll not have your harlot's son in my hall."
"Nay, there's little enough harm in the boy, Mary, and 'twould seem he's caught William's eye. Walter tells me he means to take Roger into his service."
"The son of a Saxon whore?" Mary curled her lips in sarcastic disbelief.
"The grandson of a Saxon thane. He could be a credit to me yet."
"As much credit as the little strumpet, I'll warrant."
"Eleanor? Nay, whether you care to admit it, Mary mine, the girl's a beauty. I can aim high for a son-in-law, I tell you."
He could not have chosen his words with less care. Lady Mary was intensely jealous of the girl's looks and could not abide even the faintest praise of her beauty. "Husband, are you daft? She'll naught but shame you! What worth is there in a maid so lost to propriety that she'd mix in a common brawl? Let her go to a nunnery and cast about for a husband for Margaret. Nay, I've changed my mind. You will tell Duke William she is ill."
Gilbert's patience was strained. "By all the saints, but you are a fool, Mary. 'Twas her boldness that lets me look high.
"If you have her at our table, I'll not be there," Mary threatened.
Gilbert unclenched his fist and gave her the open palm of his hand across her cheek. She reeled from the blow, her expression one of shocked disbelief. Her hand went to her face as she screamed, "You hit me!"
"Aye, I did—and I'll do so again if you defy me. You listen to me, Mary mine! You've done naught but stand in my way since you came to me. You would have me disobey my liege lord to satisfy your meanness, wife. And what have I ever had of you?" His voice dropped to a menacing growl. "I'll tell you what—a lot of whimpering in your marriage bed and naught but three girls to show for thirteen years as a wife. You would taunt Glynis and make her life hell, but at least she knows how to make a son."
Mary's anger made her reckless. "Really, Gilbert?" she challenged. "And did she make one for you? I doubt it—I always have. Roger Bastard bears little likeness of you, my lord, yet you parade him around here like you are a randy rooster, flaunting him as a symbol of your manhood. Well, what of me? I've conceived three live and four stillborn girls, Gilbert, and if I've not borne a son, it's because you've not sown one." Her voice sank to a spiteful whisper. "Nay, husband, you do not have it in you to make a male child."
Gilbert reached out and grasped her chin painfully. "Have a care what you say to me, my lady, else I will put you aside. D'ye hear me, woman?" He released her and stepped back. "Now—Eleanor will sup with us and you will appear the proud parent. And if you beat the child and mark her, I'll mark you. As for Roger, you'll see him decently outfitted if you have to strip one of your fawning relatives to do it. I'll not send him to
He'd won his point. Mary stood before him with blanched face and enormous frightened eyes. Abruptly he turned on his heel and walked out, brushing past his eldest daughter on the winding stone stairs.
Eleanor had heard it all and, poised indecisively, tried to decide whether to go to her distraught mother or to follow her angry father. She finished climbing the few steps to Lady Mary's solar, where she found her beautiful mother still shaking, her hands held to her cheeks. Eleanor's first impulse was to reach out and comfort, but she drew back as Mary saw her. The hatred in her mother's eyes was unmistakable.
"There you are, you stupid girl! I hate you—get out of my sight!"
"Maman, please—"
"Get out! Whatever happens to me, you are to blame for it!"
His elation tempered by his aching limbs, Roger leaned forward on the bench while his mother tended the ugly bruises on his arms and torso. It had been a hard-fought contest between him and Belesme, one that the bigger boy had eventually won, but he knew he'd impressed those who'd watched with his own skill. And when the Conqueror had called the halt, he'd clasped Roger firmly by his sore shoulders and told him he could join the Conqueror's train, a signal honor even for the legitimate sons of great barons. Robert of Belesme had thrown his sword down in disgust at the news, but even he dared not defy Old William.
"There," Glynis murmured as she rinsed the cloth in the bowl of water, "you've nothing to stitch up at least. Now"—she set aside the water and dropped to the bench beside him—"tell me again how this came about."
"There's naught to tell, Mother, that I have not already said." He looked up into Glynis' blue eyes and read the pride there and relented. "All right, 'tis as I told you—I was practicing with the quintains where I'd set them this morning. Anyway, several others stopped to watch and then an older one, Robert of Belesme he is called, came up and said I belonged in a stable—that I was naught but a bastard, and a coward's bastard at that—and that they ought to throw me into the drainage ditch for daring to try a noble's sport. I had but the pole I was using for practice and he had a fine sword. Anyway, he would have done it had not Lea come running out to save me." He broke into a broad smile at the memory and nodded. "Aye, I would that you could have seen her, Mother. She marched right through them and faced Belesme, calling him a coward and forbidding him to do it. When they would hold her, she dared them to touch Nantes' daughter and they did not. Anyway, we did not hear the riders coming until this old man in mail rode up and demanded to know what was amiss. Lea would not let me get in a word as she told him about it. You cannot imagine our surprise to find that it was the Old Conqueror himself and he was most displeased to learn of Belesme's part in the matter. He had Walter de Clare give me his mail and his sword and told the young count he'd make it a fair fight. Jesu, Mother"—Roger winced in remembered pain—"But Belesme fought as though possessed by the Devil—I think he would have killed me had not Old William been there."
"But he did not, my son, and now you have your chance."
"Aye. Had it not been for Lea, 'twould not have happened." His face clouded at the thought of telling Eleanor he was leaving. Her life at Nantes was little better than his own, given Lady Mary's spitefulness. "She will take the news ill, I think."
"She is but a child, Roger—she will recover from the loss."
Somehow the thought was small comfort to him. For some perverse reason, he did not want to think of her not missing him—not that he wished her any pain—quite the contrary, in fact. But they had endured so much together that there was some special bond that he was loath to break at all. No, aside from Glynis, she was the most important person in the world to him. He shook his head. "Nay, I will not recover from the loss, Mother."
Glynis looked up sharply and frowned. "Mayhap 'tis a good thing you go, Roger. You and Eleanor cannot be together forever, you know. Soon she will be betrothed to a young lord and neither of you will have a say in the matter. Nay, mayhap 'tis better to part now and cry Godspeed to each other."
He thought of Lea with those great dark eyes and that thick dark mane of hair and felt an overwhelming protectiveness for her. No matter how they were separated, no matter how far apart they were, he knew he would feel the same about her. Finally he nodded. "Aye, mayhap you are right, but if I am ever in a position to serve her, I will."
"Would it be easier if I told her?"
"Nay. Without doubt, Gilbert will have given her the news even now. He is as swollen with conceit overt his as the cock on the wall." His voice betrayed his disgust. "It isn't as though he ever thought to do more than feed me and put a roof over mine head, Mother, but to hear him tell it, now that I am to join Duke William's train, my blood will tell. My blood will tell, Mama! Sweet Jesu, but who does he think he is? Can he not know how he is regarded? His cowardice is scoffed at from one end of
"My son, there is no need for shame over Gilbert." Glynis leaned closer to put a comforting arm around Roger's shoulders. "Aye," she murmured at his questioning expression, "you are not Gilbert of Nantes' son."
He stared at her for several seconds until he comprehended the full import of her words. "Not his son!" he echoed blankly. "But how can that be? I have lived in his house since my birth—he has acknowledged me."
"Aye, but you are not his son," she repeated firmly. "When he brought me to
"But you are his leman."
Glynis winced at the hated word. "I am his leman," she agreed, "but he was my second lover. Your father was a Norman and his keep is in England. I loved him once, believed in his lies, and went to him, but he betrayed me to Gilbert." Her mouth twisted and her voice turned bitter. "Aye, I was sold to Gilbert of Nantes even as I carried you in my belly, Roger."
"Sweet Mary! Mother, my father—
who
is my father?"
"Nay"—she shook her head—" 'twould serve no purpose in the telling. Let it be only said that you've naught to fear of cowardice in your blood. Your father, as young as he was, fought well against my people in the Wake's rebellion. Aye, and was rewarded with a Norman heiress."
"Then Lea is not my sister." The flat statement did not begin to reflect the sudden conflict of emotion he felt at the thought. For years it had comforted him to think of their shared kinship, but now… He dared not even think the impossible fleeting thought that came to mind.
"Roger, you will not tell her."
"Why?"
Glynis twisted and then smoothed the fabric across her lap. Raising her eyes to meet her son's squarely, she answered simply, "Think you I do not love her also? It is bad enough to have been her father's leman these many years, Roger, but to admit I lay with someone else also—can you not see, 'twould brand me the harlot in her eyes."
They were interrupted by the sounds of several men coming up the stairs to Gilbert's chamber. Glynis rose hastily and picked up the bowl of water. Roger shrugged his rough tunic over his head and pulled it down to cover his discolored rib cage. As Glynis finished tidying the clean-swept chamber, servants unknown to either of them rounded the last step and surveyed the room appraisingly. Apparently satisfied, one nodded to the others. "Aye, 'twill do—bring up his things." Turning to Glynis, he bowed slightly. "Art the Lady Mary?"
"Nay."
The man's gaze traveled over her with new interest, his eyes taking in the fineness of her clothing, his thoughts reaching the obvious conclusion. And even as his manner changed to her, she appeared to color slightly. Roger watched and wanted to wipe the knowing smile off the fellow's face. But at that moment he recognized the badge of
Having unceremoniously taken over Gilbert's own chamber, Duke William soaked in his great oaken tub. Glynis stood over him with a soapy rag, ready to assist in the ducal bath.
" 'Tis silly enough to think me incapable of washing myself," William grumbled, "but if you must do it, have a care for my eyes—they are not what they used to be, but I've still need of both of them."
Glynis' voice was soft and musical as she leaned to soap his battle-scarred back. "I've bathed many a man, Your Grace, and I've yet to blind any of them."
"You've a Saxon accent."
"Aye, I was brought over here during Hereward the Wake's rebellion—my father sided with the Wake. I long to go back, but there's naught of what I used to know still there."
Prince Henry rose for a closer look. "Can you be young FitzGilbert's mother?"
"Aye."
William looked up, his eyes squinting at her appraisingly. "Gilbert's leman, eh?"
"Aye."
"A pity he did not wed with you rather than Mary de Clare."
"I had nothing to bring him, Sire, and had I the choice, I should have refused." The musical quality left her voice and it became low and flat.
