Lady of Fire (39 page)

"Aye. Once it came to the Holy Father's attention, there was little question. I fear Durham was intimidated by Count Robert's presence and did not want the consequences of ruling against him—thus he swayed the legate to argue for a referral to Rome."

"Prince Henry was right," Eleanor murmured, "for he advised us to go to the Holy Father in the beginning."

"Now, child, you can return to your lord and bear this child in wedlock," the abbess told her.

"You know?'

"Aye, I have seen the sickness." She reached out to Eleanor with a bony, veined hand. "I shall pray you make a better wife than nun." When she caught Eleanor's surprised expression, she added, "Aye, I have come to see you were not destined for this. Thank God you were not destined for Belesme, either."

Unable to cope with Stephen's good news and the abbess' unexpected kindness, Eleanor threw herself into the startled Mathilde and gave full vent to her emotions. Tears flowed freely now. Mathilde hesitated and then closed her thin arms about the girl and allowed herself to stroke the shining braids.

"There… there . . ." she soothed. " 'Tis over, Eleanor, and you are free to love where you will—you will go home to your lord."

Stephen concurred. "Aye—'tis nearly settled. When the weather warms, you will be sent to Rouen in William Bonne-Ame's care to await Lord Roger's arrival. I doubt it should be above five or six weeks before you are reunited with your husband." Stephen nodded to Mathilde over Eleanor's head. "I have discharged my lord's duty for now, but I must needs ask your hospitality for myself and my companions until 'tis warm enough to ride. I would not spend another day like this in my saddle."

"You are welcome to stay as long as 'tis necessary, Sir Stephen," Mathilde answered graciously. "And I do not doubt that Eleanor will welcome the company. Too long I've watched her struggle to find amusement here."

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Eleanor rolled linen bandages listlessly, her attention scarcely focused on the conversation of those around her. Trude worked patiently beside her and talked of her gratitude for being allowed to stay with the nuns. Winter sunlight filtered through high windows, giving the mistaken impression that there was warmth outside. And still she waited—waited for something to happen that would signal her release back into the world.

She missed Roger terribly—so much so that she thought she could bear it no longer—and yet no word had come from either Rouen or England that she was actually to leave the abbey. Two weeks ago the weather had cleared and Stephen of Exeter had ridden out to take his news to England and left her behind to wait. She stopped to touch her nearly flat abdomen and wondered idly how much longer before she would feel the child there quicken. Already to her it had life and being—so much so that in moments of solitude on her bed she would speak to this son she carried. If only Roger could share in her love and hope for the child—if only he could be with her…

"Riders!" someone called from the bell tower to those below. "Riders!"

Before anyone thought to stop her, Eleanor was up and running for the courtyard eagerly. Surely this would be her escort to Rouen or at least would bring word of the archbishop's plans. But no sooner had she cleared the doorway than she heard cries of, "Belesme! 'Tis Belesme!" Climbing quickly to the wall, she stared unbelieving at the column of mounted men making their way toward the almost unprotected abbey. Above them floated the hated green standard of Robert of Belesme.

"Get the priest! Tell Reverend Mother!"

Nuns were running in panic everywhere and shouting at each other. Eleanor stood transfixed and helpless for a moment and then knew she would have to flee. She came off the wall and ran for the stable that sheltered the work animals and the few ridable beasts belonging to the abbey. It was cold and she wore no cloak, but she had no time to go back for one. She bridled and saddled the nearest horse and threw herself up on its back.

"Lady Eleanor! You cannot—you'll freeze!" Trude cried out as she rode into the courtyard.

"Better to freeze than die in Belesme's hands!" Eleanor yelled back. Digging her heels into the horse's ribs, she urged the beast out the west gate. From what she'd been able to make out, Belesme came armed, and that meant he and his men rode heavy with mail. Hopefully, that would prevent fast pursuit.

While not so bitter cold as it had been, the air was still chilly. She shivered and hovered closer to the animal's back as she picked her way down the narrow path to the woods behind the abbey. At least there, she would have the cover of trees to break the wind and to obscure her from pursuers. Once in the thicket of dead and naked trees, she stopped to consider just where she could go that he would not find her. The nearest shelter would be the huts of the villeins who worked Fontainebleau's lands for a share of the crop, but that would be the first place she could expect Belesme to look for her. Yet she dared not go deeply into the woods for fear of becoming lost and then freezing when nightfall came. And in spite of having lived some seven years of her life in the abbey, Eleanor had never explored any of the surrounding countryside to know what lay out beyond what could be seen from the abbey walls.

She kept to the edge of the forest, staying no more than twenty feet from cleared fields, and followed the path of the clearing. She was finally rewarded by the sight of another of the Conqueror's abandoned churches. Allowed to overgrow as part of his game reserve, it could barely be seen from open ground. She urged the horse toward it and hoped the place still had walls enough to provide some shelter.

Rounding the corner, she was grateful to find that all walls still stood and that much of the roof was still intact on one side. She dismounted and led the animal into the corner that faced against the wind. Just the shelter of the wall seemed to warm the air somewhat. A quick glance around told her that she would have to make do with what she wore—altar cloths and hangings had long since been carried off. No benches remained, either, but then, she had no means of making a fire and could not risk the smoke. She sat down to contemplate her chances for survival.

If she could but wait until dark without freezing, she could ride along the road until she reached one of those crude huts she'd passed when she was brought back to Fontainebleau. Mayhap she could beg a night near a fire at least. She hugged her knees to her and thought of her child. If for no other reason than the heir she carried, she had to survive. She chafed cold hands against the rough wool of her day gown and huddled closer to the wall. Her horse backed closer to shelter itself.

It was a long wait for darkness, a wait unbroken by the sight or sound of anything except the few movements of her or the horse. The temperature began to drop even before the sun lowered in the sky, and Eleanor had to admit to herself that she could not last until it set. Cold and numb, she rose and stood on limbs that were almost too stiff and painful to use. She hobbled slowly over to the horse and managed to pull herself back into the saddle.

The wind had died down mercifully, but the dip in temperature still threatened survival. She forced her mount out onto the open road and gambled it would be deserted. She had scarcely come into the open before the sound of horsemen told her she had made a grievous mistake. Half a dozen men led by the green-cloaked Belesme came into view almost immediately. A frantic kick to her horse's ribs coupled with a strong yank on the bridle caused it to rear. Before she could react to control it, she lost her seat and was thrown to the ground. She rolled away from flailing hooves and lay in a heap in the cold dirt. Tears of anger and frustration scalded her cheeks while she waited.

He reined in and dismounted. She thought briefly to feign injury and closed her eyes. She could hear the clink of his spurs and his mail and the crunch of his heavy boots on the rough road as he came to stand over her. Looking up through veiled lashes, she thought he seemed ten feet tall. He reached down and hauled her up roughly. She sagged like a limp rag. The flat of his hand struck her across the face, the mail of his glove cutting into the numb flesh of her cheek. She reeled away, only to be caught and shaken savagely until she thought her bones would come apart. Her eyes flew open and she raised her arms to protect herself. With one last furious shake, he let her fall to the ground again.

"Fool!" he shouted above her. "You might have frozen!" He nodded at a boy who'd ridden up beside them. "Piers, get blankets and tell the others we camp here. I would have a fire and food before the tent is set."

"My lord," the boy protested, "can we not go back to Fontainebleau, since we have found her?"

"Nay—can you not see she is nearly done? Besides, we are already on the road to Belesme."

"Belesme," she repeated foolishly.

"Aye." He turned his attention back to her. "What did you think to do—kill yourself to thwart me?" he asked as he pulled her up.

"What does it matter?"

"I ought to let you freeze," he muttered, "but too much of me would have you still." He unfastened his fur-lined cloak and wrapped it around her. "Here—you will be fortunate if you do not suffer in the lungs for this."

She would have liked to recoil and to repudiate the gesture, but the cloak was warm with the heat of his body. She shivered and pulled it close. Nay—let him freeze, she decided.

"Where were you going?" he demanded.

"I sought safety."

"Out here and alone?" he gibed.

"My lord, I claim the protection of Holy Church—I ask to be returned to Fontainebleau at once."

His laugh was harsh and derisive. "I see no church here, Eleanor."

"You know I am under Holy Church's protection already!" her temper flared momentarily. "You defy the Holy Father in this!"

"An old man in Rome," he scoffed. "I have had enough of the Church! They would beggar me with the promise of you and yet they have not delivered."

"You perjured your soul in London! They will damn you for this!"

"D'ye think I care? What would they give me that I cannot get for myself—heaven? Nay, I am Talvas—Mabille's spawn also—there is no heaven for me."

"My lord…" Piers brought up a couple of blankets and hesitated. He did not like to inject himself into any of his lord's quarrels, but he knew Belesme wanted the blankets.

"Oh… aye. Is the fire started?" Robert's manner changed abruptly.

"It smokes a little so 'twill soon catch, my lord. Would you bring her closer?"

"Aye—she is nigh frozen." Robert threw another covering over her and pushed her toward the others.

He brought a steaming cup of spiced wine to her. "Drink it," he ordered curtly. She took it and sipped, burning her mouth. " 'Tis hot, but will warm you inside," he added at her discomfiture.

Her teeth still chattered even with her body warmly wrapped in the fur of his cloak. He set down his own cup and moved closer. "I pray you do not sicken before I get you to Belesme."

"I did not think you prayed at all, my lord."

"A manner of speech. Nay—I doubt He would listen to me."

The flames of the fire flickered and cast an eerie glow on the handsome black-visaged face. The pupils of his green eyes seemed to reflect the red and gold of the flames. Eleanor furtively crossed herself and turned away.

It was obvious that he was used to moving about in the conduct of his petty wars, for he came well-prepared. A group tent was speedily erected against a steep slope for protection against the wind, brush was collected to lay beneath pallets, and fur robes were spread over them. Several fires were set and blazed in a wide semicircle outside to warm the air and to provide cooking heat. Salted meat was unpacked and soaked in a kettle of water and potatoes and onions were added to it for a stew. These were no household knights come out for pleasure, but were seasoned soldiers used to force marches and cold ground. They gathered away from Eleanor and Robert while supper cooked and entertained themselves with ribald ditties sung without accompaniment.

If Belesme found her lack of conversation discouraging, he gave no sign. She rolled up in his cloak and feigned sleep while he sat and stared into the dancing flames. The worst of all her nightmares had come to pass now and she had fallen into Robert of Belesme's hands, but she would survive. She had to for the sake of Roger's heir.

She must've managed to doze, because the next thing she knew, Belesme was thrusting a small bowl of potage and meat at her and telling her to eat. She tried to push it away, but he was insistent. "I will not have it said I starved you. Besides, you need your strength—'tis a long way to Belesme."

She struggled upright and tried to take a bite. "My lord"—she shook her head desperately—"I would not go to Belesme."

"And I will not take you back."

"My husband—"

"Let the Bastard come after you," Belesme cut in contemptuously. "I'll not let you go again so long as there's breath in this body."

"He is no bastard!"

"Nay?" A black eyebrow shot up quizzically. "Bastard or not, his mother was Gilbert's whore."

"His father is Earl Richard."

"Aye, I have heard the tale, but I believe it not."

"I cannot go to Belesme!" She turned to him. "Do you not understand? I am wed to another, my lord—I am wife to Roger!"

"Nay—a widow soon enough," he growled back. "Eat your food and be still."

"I am not hungry for this."

"Eleanor"—his voice dropped in warning—"do not provoke me to violence this night. Would you have me beat hunger into you?"

"Nay," she sighed tiredly, "but I hunger not." He took out a small knife and began expertly to cut the chunks of meat in her bowl. Spearing a piece, he held it out for her. " 'Tis not what you are used to, but it serves," he told her. "Eat it."

With a sigh of resignation she did as he asked, taking bowl and knife and trying to eat. He set aside his own untouched and watched her. Her dark braids fell down her back like two thick ropes of hair bound with golden thread. Her profile was fine-boned and straight with delicate features and her eyes were as dark as any he'd ever seen.

"Do not stare at me!" she flared. "Jesu, but I cannot stand this game you play!"

"I like to look at you." He reached out and touched one of the braids. "I remember when you wore it loose like a maid, Eleanor, and I would see it thus again."

She shook her hair free. "My lord, what can you gain by taking me with you? Surely you must know that my husband and his father will stand against you—aye, and Rufus and Curthose, and Holy Church. You cannot win in this."

"Let them come for me then—they cannot take Belesme."

"I am not for you."

"I have wanted you since Nantes." He stared absently across the fire to where his men ate. "Aye, if the Church holds you to be his, I will make you a widow."

The food she'd eaten rose and gagged her. She fought the urge to vomit, but it was as though everything in her stomach rebelled at once. She struggled to her feet and ran to a nearby tree, where she leaned and retched until nothing but bile came up. Belesme shouted for Piers to attend her, and the boy ran up with a wet cloth for her face.

"Nay—'tis over," she managed when he began to wipe her forehead. "I am all right now."

Belesme kicked savagely at the fire, his heavy boot scattering ashes and live coals into the night air. It galled him to think the thought of him made her sick. "Put her in her pallet and see she is warm," he ordered curtly.

The boy nodded and helped her to the tent, where she stumbled in the darkness among the pallets. He pushed her to one near the side and got out another fur to cover her. She rolled in between the thick skins gratefully and closed her eyes.

When she awoke, the small tent was filled with the sounds of night breathing as those around her slumbered. The chill that had gnawed at her bones was gone, and her body was warm. They were packed into the sleeping area so that she lay between two she judged to be Belesme and Piers. Robert's arm lay across her, holding yet another blanket over the both of them, and his breath was oddly soft above her head.