Lady of Fire (6 page)

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"Jesu!" muttered young Aubery de Valence. "I've served him two years and more—and I've never seen him like this."

"Aye," groused his companion. "I've known him since he was naught but a bastard whelp, and I've never seen his temper so foul. God's teeth! He would ride us all to our graves. And for what, I ask you? To visit his sister, he says. I've half a dozen of 'em, not a one could drag me out like this."

"Not just any sister," Aubery reminded, "but the Demoiselle of Nantes. Many remark her beauty—e'en my lord Henry. 'Tis said the Conqueror marked her for a royal bride, but her lady mother marked her for the Church."

"E'en so, Lord Roger carries on about her more like a lovesick swain than a brother." Hugh de Searcy cleared his throat and spat upon the ground. "God's teeth! Look at him—'tis scarce minutes since we've rested, and he's ready to ride on."

If he heard the grumblings of his squire and man-at-arms, Roger FitzGilbert gave no sign. Instead, he impatiently checked and tightened the girth of his saddle. Without so much as a word, he swung up an jerked the bridle so savagely that his horse reared. De Searcy, de Valence, and the others chosen to accompany him scrambled for their own mounts, only to find themselves already left behind.

"I've a mind to let him ride unattended all the way to Fontainebleau with naught but that curst temper for company," Sir Hugh told all who could hear him even as he eased his aching bones into his own saddle.

"Nay, Hugh—'tis little enough he directs at us, my lord. 'Tis himself he pushes the hardest of all." Jean Merville pushed back his thick rust-colored hair and jammed his conical helmet on his head, pausing to adjust the nasal over his nose. "And if he pushes us, he must have his reasons. I for one follow him whither he goes—I am so sworn." Using a stirrup for leverage, he swung his thick-set mail-clad body onto his horse. "Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand, he's the best lord a man could have"

Roger rode on, seemingly oblivious of the fact that his entire retinue was falling farther behind him. In the two days since Henry had arrived at the Condes with the news that Robert of Belesme had demanded and been promised Eleanor of Nantes in marriage, Roger had thought of naught else. With scarce a thank-you for the prince's effort, he'd ridden out, leaving Henry to entertain himself out of the Condes' larder. And in the space of those two days, the shock and horror had not abated. He still could not think of Eleanor and Belesme together without becoming violently, physically ill. Lea—she haunted his dreams and gave him no peace, anyway. Lea—beautiful Lea—so small, so delicate, so finely made. His free hand gripped the pommel of his saddle as he fought another wave of nausea. Nay, she could not go to the Devil when she belonged to Roger. He closed his eyes as the very world seemed to sway with revulsion.

He'd had no sleep. That first night, he and Henry had sat up until even the rushlights were gutted. They'd argued and they'd schemed until they'd convinced themselves it was yet possible to save Eleanor. And now it was up to him to convince her that all was not lost. He goaded his horse to yet a faster pace. Through pain and exhaustion, he could only focus on the fact that this night he would see Lea and renew his pledge to her. Her face seemed to float before him. "Nay, Lea," he spoke aloud, "I am still your man even to the end of my life."

"My lord! My lord!" Aubery's spurs dug unmercifully into his own mount as he sought to catch his master. "My lord! If you care not for us, have a care for that beast you ride!" The squire was breathless from yelling as he caught up to Roger. "By all the saints, my lord, but he'll not carry you much further." Aubery was gulping for air even as Roger became aware of him.

"I would reach Fontainebleau before sunset."

"Which day?" Young Aubery reached over and caught at the reins. "If we are reduced to riding double, I doubt we can make it before the morrow."

Roger looked down and saw the wet stains seeping through the embroidered trappings. Heavy lather glossed the powerful flanks and shoulders of his prized horse and flecks of foam spotted his own surcoat. He nodded. "Aye. We will slow to a walk, but we do not stop."

"My lord—" Aubery spoke with the ease of one whose relationship with his lord was secure—"is there aught you would have me know? Is your sister gravely ill?"

"She is well enough for now."

"Then what ails you?"

"I am afraid."

Aubery's eyes widened at the words. In the years since Roger had been taken into the Old Conqueror's service, his reputation for bravery and fighting skill was nearly unsurpassed. Nay, there was none better—save maybe Belesme. "Afraid, my lord?"

"Aye. I am afraid to see all of my dreams crumble when I do not know if I have the power to save them."

Aubery stared at Roger. It was obvious that the man had passed the point of exhaustion and suffered confusion. Roger's usually well-tanned face seemed pale and drawn and his brilliant blue eyes were ringed with darkened hollows. Fatigue etched and deepened every line on his face.

"My lord, can we not rest?" Aubery reasoned quietly. "You are no good to her in whatever her distress if you cannot sit your saddle."

"Aubery, how old are you?"

"Seventeen, my lord, and well you know it."

"And full of reason, Sir Squire," Roger told him I tiredly. "Well, I suppose I knight you before you leave Fontainebleau."

"And you, Sir Roger," Aubery retorted, "make no sense. I have years left in your service ere I am knighted."

But Roger had ceased to attend. Ahead lay the ford that crossed onto the abbey's lands. Before nightfall, he could have his bed and see Lea. The ache that lingered beneath his shoulder blades seemed to lessen slightly as he nudged his horse toward the water.

"Come—we are nearly there."

The bells sounded at the approach of mounted horsemen, slowly at first and then increasing in intensity as Roger's standard was recognized. Mother Mathilde hastily completed her prayers and rushed to the courtyard as quickly as her old bones would carry her.

"My lord!"

He swung down from the saddle and took a couple of unsteady steps. Half a dozen of his men sprang to his aid, but he pushed them aside. "Nay, leave me be—I am all right."

"My lord—" Mathilde was alarmed at his appearance.

"Mother." He half-stumbled as he knelt. "I am come to see the Lady Eleanor."

"Roger!"

He used his broadsword for balance as he pulled himself up. Even as he regained his footing, she was in his arms. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she nuzzled a cheek against the roughness of woolen surcoat over chain mail. "Oh, brother, I knew you would come," she half-whispered into the folds she clutched.

Mother Mathilde did not know whether to be glad or exasperated at his sudden arrival. She'd been certain that Eleanor was on the verge of giving herself to Christ rather than the Count of Belesme. Surely, Roger FitzGilbert could see that it was the girl's only hope. Yet as she watched the two of them swaying in the courtyard, oblivious of all but each other, the old woman felt a sense of unease.

"Roger—" Eleanor looked up into his face. "Roger you are half-dead with fatigue. Aubery…" she called out to the squire, "Sir Hugh… Jean—look to your lord. Really, Roger, you are nigh to swooning on me."

"Nay, Lea. A bath, a little bread, and a bed—am I'll be right enough on the morrow."

Her eyes narrowed. "When did you leave the Condes?"

"I don't know—yesterday—the day before—I think."

"And you let him do this to himself?" She turned incredulously on Sir Hugh. "I know he sometimes lacks sense, sir, but you?"

"I tried, Demoiselle, but he would not listen."

"Reverend Mother, have I your permission to attend my brother?" It was a question in form only—not even a direct refusal could have stopped her.

Mathilde nodded. Long ago, in the first year or so that Eleanor of Nantes had lived in the abbey, the abbess had realized that there was a bond between brother and sister that neither separation nor authority could break. Well, let the girl have the comfort of her brother—soon enough, as Belesme's bride, there'd be no comfort on earth for her.

Roger made it to the guest chamber assigned him under his own power. Waving aside help from any of his men, he chose instead to lean only on Eleanor, a leaning that was more spiritual than physical. He could still give her a foot in height and nearly six stone in weight even without the benefit of some thirty-five pounds of hauberk and mail. She eased him onto a low bench and ordered the others to fetch a washtub from the kitchens.

"Tell…no,
ask
Sister Margretta for heated water, Aubery. And, Hugh, get linens of Sister Alice. You, Jean, help me get all of this off him. Tis no wonder he's tired." She turned to Merville and noticed for the first time the fatigue lines on his face. "Jean, you look nigh to death yourself. Well, if you can but draw off his boots, I can do the rest."

"Nay!" Roger's eyes flew open. "You aren't a servant. Besides, 'tis unseemly."

"I am your sister," she stated flatly. "Can you not see these men are as tired as you are? I, on the other hand, have little to do here but rest and pray." To emphasize her seriousness, she grasped the base of his helmet and removed it with a great deal of effort. It was well-fitted and did not want to come off, but finally succumbed to several twists and jerks.

"By the saints, Lea, but you are rough! Aubery has the hands of a child in comparison!"

"And I'll warrant Aubery has had more experience in such things," she agreed cheerfully. "I had no idea that it was so tight."

" 'Twould do little good if it weren't. If a blow can dislodge it easily, then I would be looking through the nasal or through the side."

"Oh."

She unlaced the sides of his plain surcoat, frowning as she did so. "You have not put your arms on here yet."

"Nay. I rise so fast in the world that I know not what to use there. I once thought to use the white hare, but Henry says I remind him more of a falcon than a hare."

"I should hope so. A hare sounds cowardly." She pulled the garment over his head and discarded it on the floor.

"A device is what one makes of it. I rather like the hare—quick, defensively colored."

"I am for Henry in this. From bastard of Nantes to Lord of Condes sounds like you have soared as the falcon, brother."

"Mayhap only to run like the rabbit, Lea." He closed his eyes to avoid her questioning look.

His mail shirt was of the new style, complete with coif to cover his neck and head. She loosened the fastenings at the shoulder and tried to draw it off. He raised his hands obediently to help.

"Careful. I have sweat so much that Aubery needs to polish it before it rusts."

"I know." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "In fact, you stink."

Hugh and Jean and a retainer she did not know dragged in a heavy oversized copper caldron from the scullery. It was already partially filled with steaming water. The men eyed Eleanor with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. They had little doubt that she'd never even seen a naked man before and were waiting for her reaction. As Hugh and Jean exchanged suggestive looks, Roger caught them and frowned.

"Leave us."

"But, my lord—"

"Take to your own pallets. Lea would have it that I've nearly run all of you to death today."

"But—"

"And I've not a doubt in my mind that her hands are gentler than yours, Hugh. Go on with you, but draw lots for who sleeps by the door."

Aubery hesitated, uncertain whether to suggest impropriety or not. Roger sensed his thoughts. "Nay, as she will tell you often enough, she is my sister. Besides, I have much to discuss with her."

Even as they drew lots for the watch, Eleanor continued divesting Roger of armor and clothing. Beneath the mail shirt he wore a stiffened leather hauberk, and beneath that, a heavily quilted gambeson. As she laid aside that last garment, she shook her head. "I should thank God that it is not July, Roger, else I could not stay in the same room with you. As it is, you are sweat-soaked enough. Look at your undertunic—'tis stuck to the hairs on your chest." The brilliant blue eyes were closed again, but he dutifully raised his arms to help her rid him of the shirt. He was bare to the waist. She stared in fascination—there were more muscles than when he had been fifteen—a lot more. The upper body strength required to wield broadsword, battleax, and shield corded his arms and shoulders with muscles. A jagged scar barely healed lay between a shoulder blade and his spine. She traced it gently with fingertips before bending to brush it lightly with her lips. An involuntary shiver coursed through him.

"How came you by this?" she asked innocently.

"Belesme. On the one occasion that I had to go to Gilbert's aid, I met him on the field."

"But this is your back, Roger."

"Aye," he agreed grimly. "Robert cares not how he gets me so long as the deed is done."

Belesme. The mutually hated name hung in the air between them, with each reluctant to acknowledge its presence. Finally she nodded. "He was here last week."

"Prince Henry told me."

Her voice dropped to a near-mumble. "He means to wed with me, Roger. I… I cannot do it! I do not think myself cowardly, brother, but I cannot wed with such as he."

He clasped her hand reassuringly and would have drawn her down next to him, but he looked into those dark eyes ready to brim with tears and he had to look away. The time was not yet. "Lea—Henry and I will see that you do not have to. But for now," he changed the subject, "I would have my bath."

"Nay"—she shook her head even as she knelt to unwrap his cross-garters. "I have thought much on it, Roger, and I am decided that I would prefer the Church to marriage with the Devil."

"Nay! Lea, it will not come to that. Let me rest but a little and I will tell you what we must do." Her head was bent beneath him so that he could look upon the shining dark crown of her hair. By the saints, but she was beautiful. With an effort, he tore himself away and tried to study the hanging on the wall. It depicted Satan tempting Christ. Her hands were cool and light to the touch, but they seemed to burn him wherever they brushed against his bare skin. He'd had his share of wenches—none lasting more than a day or two—but none had ever affected him like Lea. Why was it that that which is most unattainable is most desirable? All he knew was that ever since the day when she'd brought him to the Conqueror's notice, the same day he found out they shared no common blood between them, he'd yearned for her with something that went beyond mere desire. In his saddle, in his bed, on the battlefield even, she was never completely out of his thoughts. But now that Curthose had allowed her to be given to Belesme, it was time to act. And later, sometime when she was safe, he would tell her how he felt—tell her what he wanted most in this world—and he would hope against hope that it would be what she wanted also. But for now, he dared not risk telling her he was not her brother.