Authors: Anita Mills
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Historical Romance
Lady of Fire (4 page)
Stung, she retorted, "I did not—I have not even mentioned him before. Roger, what ails you?"
"You sup with him tonight—share his trencher even. Have a care, Lea."
"A care for what?"
The blue eyes were serious. "Sweet sister, you are very beautiful and already show signs of ripening into a woman. Henry may be but seventeen, but he already has one bastard to his credit. When he looks on you with favor, ask yourself why—is it because you are sweet and good? Or is it because he would have you?"
"Roger!"
"Listen, Lea. I am nearly sixteen and I too feel the stirrings in my blood. He may be a prince, but he is the same as me."
She was aghast. "You make it seem so base. Roger—" Her eyes were wide as they sought his. "You do not think of me like that, do you?"
He appeared to consider his words carefully. "I love you, Lea—I always have—I always will. I would protect you whatever the cost and I would never harm you."
"And your lady wife will hate me."
His mood changed abruptly. He rolled up into a sitting position and pulled himself up with a low-hanging branch. Giving her a hand, he spoke lightly. "I doubt I have a lady wife, Lea, unless she's much like you."
She bent to retrieve his dirty shirt from the grass. The coarse feel of it reminded her that soon he and all of his things would be gone from Nantes. Her resolve to show him a brave face crumbled.
"Oh, Roger! I cannot bear to see you go," she wailed as she threw herself against him. "I swear I cannot stand it!"
"Would you have me stay?" he asked softly as he enveloped her in his aching arms.
"N-no," came the muffled reply before she broke into sobbing.
"Shhh… shhh," he murmured as he stroked the thick dark hair. "Lea, I would I never had to leave you—that it could always be just us—but there's no help for it. Here I am nothing, just another lord's by-blow—there I have a chance. Duke William fights a war, Lea—think on it. Even a bastard with no inheritance can be knighted and rewarded on the battlefield. With all of England,
"The Duke grows old," she whispered against the hardness of his chest.
"Aye—and leaves three snarling sons to fight for all he has won. If William lives not to care for me, one of his sons will." He held her back a little, speaking earnestly and searching the tearstained face for understanding. "Lea, look at me! Behold a bastard to lowly to be a lord and too good to be a stableboy. Is that what you would have me?"
With heavy sigh, she looked away. "Nay. It is wrong of me to tear at your heart for what you must do."
His hands slid down her arms to possess hers, pulling her close again. "When I am gone from you, I am still your champion. Once knighted, I will not hesitate to wield my sword in your behalf and to hold for you that which is yours. When Gilbert dies, you may have need of someone to hold for you and yours against those who would despoil your inheritance."
"It seems so very far away and such a long time."
"Aye. And one day you may not even need me. You will be wed to a lord someday, who may be strong enough to hold Nantes."
"I don't
want
to marry!" she cried with unaccustomed force.
"Lea, you will have no choice. God knows, I don't want you given to just any lord."
"If I wed, I will be as accursed as my mother!"
Roger held her closer. "Nay, Lea, any man would love you." Abruptly he released her. "We'd best get back. By now, I should be lucky to be the tenth fellow in the bathwater."
"Ugh."
"I am not so highborn as you, Eleanor of Nantes. While servants labor to drag heated to water you, I take my turn in the same tub with all but the scullery.
"Well, when you are become a great lord, I will see you have hot water and fresh towels, and I will bathe you myself," she promised.
The castle was crowded and everywhere she turned, Eleanor encountered strangers come to share the Maying with Gilbert. She picked her way along the covered walkway to the banquet hall with her skirts held above her ankles to avoid any spittle on the floor. She was dressed unusually fine even for a festival. Upon her return, her father had summoned her with unwonted joviality and presented her with a choice of her mother's jewelry to wear. Moreover, he'd given her an exquisitely embroidered surcoat which she wore low over a silver-threaded gown of ruby samite. The sleeves of her dress were fitted at her wrists with tiny silver bows, an unusual decoration created by Glynis. Even Herleva had outdone herself for her charge. Eleanor's hair had been brushed until it shone, then strands had been selected on her crown and woven with silver threads that ended in bows halfway between crown and shoulder.
Jostled by the crowd until she found a small open space, Eleanor came face-to-face with her brother's tormentor of the morning. She gave him what she hoped passed for her haughtiest look and moved to pass. He stepped directly into her path. She found herself staring straight into a fine green tunic embroidered with golden leaves. He left her little choice but to acknowledge him. She met his eyes coolly.
"Pray step aside that I may pass."
Up close, she could see that he was unbelievably handsome—tall, black-haired, with green eyes that flickered over her with calculated arrogance before he spoke. There was no warmth in them or in his voice.
"One day, Demoiselle, I will hold the fate of you and your family in my hands."
A chill ran down her spine, but she held her ground. "A brave speech for a boy, I think."
A black eyebrow rose. "I am older than Henry or the bastard you call brother. 'Tis you who are yet the child, Eleanor of Nantes, but I can wait." With the briefest of bows, he moved aside.
She swept past him and into the great hall. Catching sight of her cousin, Walter de Clare, she made her way to his side. Nearly twenty, Walter carried about him an air of worldliness that always impressed her. At her approach he took in her face, her form, and her gown, murmuring appreciatively, "Sweet Jesu Cousin, you have grown since I last saw you." He caught her hand gracefully and carried it to his lip "Were I not betrothed myself, I should apply to the Pope for a dispensation and take you instead."
"Pooh."
She linked an arm through his and drew him aside from his fellows. "Walter, have you seen Roger? I would warn him to have a care for Belesme."
Her cousin frowned and shook his head. "Eleanor if you would aid him, leave Roger be. He has won
"How?" she asked bluntly.
"Make him ask for your hand in marriage."
"Walter"—she shook her head in asperity—"you mistake the matter. Prince Henry and Duke William are merely being kind to me."
"Foolish child. Neither the Old Bastard nor his spawn is given to kindness unless it suits their policy. Look at yourself and look at this hall—think you Gilbert hasn't hopes of snaring a rich alliance with you?" Walter waved his hand expansively around the room. "This place has been scraped, whitewashed, strewn with fresh rushes and flower petals, and decorated with new hangings. Why, he's even replaced the rushlights with candles. And look at that gown you are wearing."
"He would not dare to look so high as
"No? He is Count of Nantes and you are his heiress. And
Just then they were spied by Roger and Henry. Both boys found their way through the crowd to Eleanor's side. Roger was freshly scrubbed and attired in a new tunic of fine-gauge blue wool. His blond hair was neatly combed and the faint mustache freshly shaved away.
"Brother, you are as fine as any lord," she teased.
"Aye"—he grinned back—"and I've acquired a new dagger." He fingered a jeweled scabbard that hung at his belt. "Prince Henry gave it to me."
Walter gave her a knowing look as if to say, "See?" With a flourish, he bowed over her hand. "Sweet cousin, Your Grace, Roger—I see a promising wench over there."
"Walter, you are betrothed!"
"Aye," he agreed amiably."But Helene is at Gerberoi and I am here."
He had scarce turned his back to leave when William's attendants appeared. Wearing rich robes and carrying staffs and censers, they parted the crowd before them with cries of "Make way! Make way, good people!" As a path cleared, another man wearing
The duke himself followed immediately, his thick, graying hair circled with golden leaves, his stocky body clad in a long robe of fine red silk girded at the waist with a gold chain. He clinked as he walked, for beneath his finery he wore mail shirt, boots, and spurs. Behind him, another servant carried his battle sword. In all of his years of fighting to hold his inheritance, William had learned to stay wary of an assassin's hand.
He was met before he reached the high dais by Count Gilbert and Lady Mary. Both knelt in obeisance at his feet. Gilbert was lifted up and kissed ceremoniously on both cheeks, while Mary had to rely on a retainer to raise her. And if she thought to receive the signal honor of mounting the dais on William's arm, she was sorely disappointed. His gaze swept the assembled nobility until it settled on Eleanor.
"Come sup with us, Demoiselle, and bring that son of mine with you. God's teeth, but I grow weak waiting for my food!" His voice was rough but incredibly he was smiling.
Henry offered his elbow and led her forward while whispering, "Head high, Demoiselle—I'll not let you stumble."
She was thankful that she was spared the close company of her mother and father, they being seated to the Duke's left while she and Prince Henry were place on his right. This meal at least she would be spared her mother's gibes.
Trenchers were placed on the tables, with two people to each one except for the duke, who had his all to himself. Once the cooks began the traditional parade of food, the hall lapsed into near-silence as people fell to the task of dividing roast pig, mutton, game birds, meat pies, stewed onions and peas, honey pots, rice, dates, and cheeses. At the high table, there was a servant for each couple and William's own squire served him with great ceremony.
Eleanor washed her hands carefully in a silver bowl, and dried them on a fine linen towel held for her by a servant. As dishes were passed, Prince Henry carefully placed some of each at both ends of the trencher, serving Eleanor first with the finest portions. Then he took a spoon and stirred honey into the wine cup they would share, explaining, "I find so much of this too sour to drink, so I save myself the first tasting anymore." He proffered the cup to her. "Try it."
There was mischief in her dark eyes as she took it. "So I am to take the first sip, and if I make a hideous face, you will add more before you try it."
"Mayhap—or mayhap I want to see if you like it."
She sipped and nodded, "Ummm…it is better."
To her embarrassment, her partner took the cup, examined it, and deliberately turned it to where her lips had been, taking care to drink from the same place. "I drink to the fairest lady in Christendom—nay, the fairest in the world," he amended extravagantly.
Walter de Clare shared a trencher with Robert of Belesme, an unhappy distinction caused by his lateness in seeking the table. From where they sat, they had an excellent view of Eleanor and Prince Henry. Walter could even see Henry cut Eleanor's meat up into dainty pieces for her, and his spirits soared. Surely a betrothal would come of the attention and the de Clares would share in William's favor. Without thinking, he poked Belesme.
"My young cousin seems to have caught Prince Henry's fancy."
"Aye," Robert of Belesme agreed amiably enough.
"A pity it is not Rufus, though, for she grows beautiful enough to be a queen."
Robert gave a derisive snort. "Art a fool, de Clare. William Rufus will never wed, I promise you. Holy Church does not sanction the liaisons he prefers." Robert dipped his greasy fingers in the water bowl and rinsed them. "And do not be pinning much hope on Henry, either. A twelve-year-old he cannot bed will not hold him in thrall for long. He'll be panting after a new wench at the next town."
Walter didn't like the tone Belesme used. "My cousin is no wench to be tumbled and Henry knows it."
"Ah, de Clare, they are all alike enough under their clothes." Robert speared a sugared date with his knife before fixing Walter with those strange green eyes. And for all
her
airs and tempers, the time will come when your fair cousin lies beneath me, moaning and panting for my seed."
Walter's hand went to the dagger he carried in his sleeve. "You forget you are speaking of my kinswoman," he warned.
"Nay, I forget nothing—ever." Robert's hand snaked out and grasped Walter's wrist, carrying it to the table. "I would not draw a blade on me, de Clare, else I wanted my lights carved out." His fingers were like a vise as they pressed Walter's palm open. The small poniard fell to the floor as Belesme abruptly released his grip.
"Roger will stand against you."
"The bastard?" Robert's lips curved scornfully as he considered Eleanor's half-brother. "Nay. You and the Demoiselle put too much faith in him. He will have too much honor to do what must be done. I, on the other hand, let nothing stand in my way."
Suddenly there was a commotion at the high table as Lady Mary rose clutching her stomach and screaming at her husband, "You foul beast—you've poisoned me!" Her face had gone white even as she cried, "A curse on you and all of your house!"
