Lady of Fire (9 page)

Roger curled up and felt sick.

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Eleanor sat pensively in the high-walled garden at Nantes, her thoughts wandering from those around her. In the background, her sister Margaret's still-sharp tongue could be heard in gossip with her sister Adelicia. But she was not attending what they were disputing. Old Herleva, now half-blind and more than a little deaf, sat in a corner on a low bench, working her needle with a deftness born of feel rather than sight.

It seemed strange to be sitting there after so many years had passed. To Eleanor, there was an aura of unreality to the scene—it was as though all that had passed since had happened to someone else. Her thoughts turned to that day when she'd been so frustrated with her stitching just before she'd heard the fight. Her ears harkened for a sound of it even now. And the Old Conqueror—she and Roger had met him that day—a day that had indeed proven fateful for both of them in more ways than one. Well, Roger had prospered since, and if men dared to call him "the Bastard," it was with the respect they'd used with "the Conqueror." Even Belesme seemed to have a measure of respect for Roger. He'd made sure that her brother was absent from court when he'd asked for her.

Belesme. A shudder passed through her at the thought of him. In the weeks since she'd agreed to Roger's mad scheme, she'd tried very hard to blot out any thoughts of the Count of Belesme. Now, outside the walls of Fontainebleau, she felt exposed and unprotected. Indeed, in the absence of Roger and in the frantic preparations for her trip to Rouen, Eleanor felt herself being pushed into a maelstrom from which there was no real escape. Everywhere she was surrounded by signs of preparations for a marriage that she fervently prayed would never take place. Belesme had written a stiffly worded letter and sent her a large heavy necklace set with round green stones, a pretty, expensive necklace that she likened to a slave yoke when she tried it on. Margaret, in her envy, had voiced Eleanor's fears by deciding aloud that it must've come from the neck of a dead woman somewhere. And Mabille, Count Robert's mother, had written her a letter couched in such sweet words that it was repulsive. Welcoming her "dear daughter Eleanor," the countess had sent ells of a rich new fabric that the French dubbed "Flames of Fire" for its shimmering iridescence. It was truly beautiful, but Margaret had managed to dampen Eleanor's spirits about that, too, pronouncing it "probably poisoned—she poisons everything, you know."

As for Gilbert—her father had all but avoided her since she'd returned to Nantes. While he would spare no expense on her marriage, he wanted little enough to do with his eldest daughter. Perhaps it was because he felt some pang of guilt when he looked on her, or perhaps he wished to avoid any reproach over his selling her to save his own skin. Not even the convent walls had obscured the gossip about how Belesme had backed him into desperation, how he'd pushed Gilbert off first one piece of land and then another until there was naught left but the city of Nantes itself. Cornered, with no place left to run to, Gilbert had clutched at Curthose's offer of mediation with the feeblest of hopes, only to be relieved to find that Belesme would settle for Eleanor and leave him in peace. When reminded that she had been given to God, Gilbert offered first Margaret then Adelicia, but Belesme was adamant—he'd have Eleanor and none other—or he'd hang Gilbert's head from the gates of Nantes. Not that her father was not still afraid of his future son-in-law. In a moment of rare conversation with Eleanor, he'd confided that he'd sent for Roger to accompany them to Rouen. He still feared to cross land held by the count's allies—particularly since the impending betrothal had been kept quiet on both sides to prevent vassals from feeling betrayed by this meek settling of a long and violent quarrel. "But with Roger at my side," Gilbert had gloated, "none will dare touch me. And when Robert of Belesme is bound to me by blood, none will dare gainsay me."

"Really, Papa?" she had responded. "And when I am wed to him, I wonder just how safe you are. He does not appear to be a man overgiven to waiting to rule."

She could tell that she'd given him food for thought there, but she had no real hope of his standing up to the count. Her thoughts turned yet again to Roger. Where was he? What was he doing? Did he think to arrive only in time to take her to Rouen? Had he changed his mind about saving her from Belesme? No—not Roger, she reassured herself for the hundredth time. He would stand firm when all else failed. He'd not given his word lightly, and he meant to keep it, she was positive. But too often she awoke from nightmares where he lay, his blood drenching the dust beneath him, while a laughing Belesme stood over him, calling him a bastard. Ah, if he would only come, surely everything would be all right.

"Sister!" Margaret's sharp voice betrayed her annoyance. "Really, Eleanor, but you ought to have the manners to listen when someone speaks to you."

Eleanor flushed guiltily. "Your pardon—I wasn't attending."

"Well," Margaret conceded with mock graciousness, "I suppose we can forgive you for thinking of your bridegroom. Were he mine, I should be worrying also."

"If you must know, Maggie, I was wondering about our brother. I cannot understand how it is that we have not heard from him."

"I care not if we ever hear from him," Margaret sniffed, "for 'tis little enough help he gave Papa when Belesme sat at out very gates. We could hear the screams of the peasants being tortured until we could not sleep."

"He came once, Maggie," Eleanor answered as evenly as she could, "and Papa left him to fight the battle alone. He came in Papa's defense, and Papa ran, Maggie. Whatever you would say of our brother, he is no fool. He had no land of our father, but he came that once. Why should he have come again?" Her voice dropped lower to avoid disturbing the now-dozing Herleva. "He lost thirty good men whilst Papa saved himself. No, Maggie, Roger has no shame for what Papa brought on himself."

" 'Tis our father you fault," Maggie sniffed, much as she had done as a child.

" 'Tis our brother you fault, Margaret."

"Half-brother. Son of a Saxon whore." Margaret would not leave the subject be. "And if he had come to our defense, Belesme would have been routed. Much as I dislike him, I have heard what men say of him. If he can fight for Curthose and for Prince Henry, he can fight for his father. Then we should not have come to this pass, sister, and Papa would not have to squander what we have left on a dowry and marriage goods for you.
I
could have a husband, Eleanor, were it not for your precious Roger."

"Well, if it rankles you to be unmarried, Maggie, you may have Belesme and
all
my dowry. I shall be happy to stand aside for you."

"Nay. He didn't ask for me—and I'd not wed with him if he did."

"Then shut your evil mouth, Margaret." All eyes turned to Herleva, who had roused herself enough to follow the conversation. "If you've no husband, look to your father."

They were interrupted by the sound of a rather large retinue clattering into the courtyard beyond the interior wall of the garden. Eleanor lifted her skirts and stepped to a low bench to reach a dip in the crenellated wall. The men riding in wore surcoats of soft blue and carried a blue-and-gray standard. The leader was unmistakable to her. "Roger!" she squeaked in excitement even before she stepped down. "He's here!" she shouted to everyone as she made for the gate.

"Aye," Margaret muttered nastily, "go after him like a wolfhound bitch in season."

"Margaret"—Eleanor paused in mid-step,—"you have an evil mind to match your evil tongue. 'Tis a pity you are not marrying Count Robert, because I think you would be well-matched."

Without waiting for a rejoinder, she fairly ran into the courtyard where the men were dismounting. Roger just had time to hand Aubery his helmet and his gloves before she was in his arms. Purposefully he set her back from him a step and bent to kiss her gently on both cheeks, his lips barely brushing her skin. His blue eyes warned her even as he drew away.

"What…?" She was confused and disappointed. This was a different Roger even from Fontainebleau.

"You look well, sister."

She licked her lips nervously, not liking this grim stranger who stood before her. "I am well, my lord brother. And you?"

"Well enough." He glanced up to where Gilbert had descended the narrow tower steps. "I never thought to return here again."

"I suppose not."

"My son!" Gilbert enveloped the stiff stranger in a bear hug, kissing him warmly on both cheeks and then on the mouth. "How left you the Condes? Is it as rich a fief as I have heard?"

"Rich enough." Roger's eyes surveyed the gathering crowd until they lit on old Herleva. For her he reserved the warmest greeting. He smiled and hugged and kissed the old woman until she fairly glowed from the attention.

"Put me down!" she squealed in delight as he lifted her and swung her around a couple of times. "These old bones break easily, boy!"

"Ah, Herleva, you never change." He grinned down on the rotund little woman. "What greeting is that for the boy who wanted to grow up and wed with you?" he teased.

"I grew old."

"Does this mean you won't consider my suit?" he asked in mock injury.

"Nay, you need a flesh-and-blood woman to warm your bones at night, my young lord. If you wed with me, you'd be complaining you had to warm mine." Unbelievably, the old woman was bantering back like a simpering young girl.

Margaret watched the scene with interest. It had been seven years since she'd seen Roger, and she was unprepared for the way he looked now. In the flesh at nearly twenty-three, he was incredibly handsome. He had grown and filled out to where he must strike desire in all but the dullest of females. She sucked in her breath as he noticed her at last.

"Ah—Margaret. Come give a brother a welcoming kiss."

Eleanor was stunned to watch him greet Maggie with more warmth than he had her. She had to turn away to hide her hurt and her jealousy. Something was very wrong with this Roger who rode into Nantes.

"Ahem." Eleanor turned to face a still-mounted rider. He wore no device, but she would have recognized him anywhere.

"My lord prince." She dropped a hasty curtsy to the ground beneath his horse.

"Fashion dictates that I raise you, Demoiselle, but you will have to be patient whilst I dismount. Think you to keep your head to the ground that long?" He grinned even as he swung himself out of the saddle and unsteadily balanced ride-weary legs on the ground. She raised herself just as he stood over her. His breath caught in his chest as he faced Eleanor in the flesh. Jesu, but she could stir a man. Small wonder that Belesme wanted her.

Gilbert pushed his way forward. "The prince, you say! How came you to ride behind my boy, Your Grace? 'Tis unseemly."

"I would have his homecoming more private, Count Gilbert. I did but ride this way with him for company. I am meeting my brother at Rennes and decided to come this far that I might see the Demoiselle of Nantes again. She is as I remember her." He drew her hand to his lips and kissed each finger lightly. Both Roger and Gilbert frowned at the gesture. Henry pulled the necklace he wore from beneath his plain surcoat. "See, fair Eleanor, I still have it."

"A trifling token, Your Grace."

"I value it highly and wear it for luck."

"Pay him no heed, Lea," Roger advised, "for he says pleasing things to all the ladies." It was the first time he'd used his special name for her since he'd arrived.

"Surely he does not wear a token for each one," she pointed out.

"Nay, if he did, he would not be able to raise his neck from the earth."

"Pay
him
no heed, Demoiselle. I may flirt with the ladies, but I have you in my heart."

"Enough of this prattle," Margaret asserted herself. "Brother, pray present me and Adelicia to the prince."

Presentations were made around and Gilbert shepherded Roger and his royal guest off to the bathhouse. Usually the lady of the household performed such a task, but Gilbert was having none of that—especially since Eleanor was the ranking female at Nantes and Prince Henry had such a reputation for dallying with ladies of noble as well as indeterminate birth. And it would be folly to send Eleanor to Belesme as anything but a virgin.

The rest of the morning passed, and much of the afternoon. Torn by doubt and confused by Roger's strange behavior, Eleanor paced the length and breadth of the solar anxiously. Could the brother who stayed so faithful during those long years of her confinement mean to abandon her now? Nay, he would not—he could not—he
must
not. But he was at Nantes and, except for that brief greeting, she'd not seen him.

He'd missed the midday meal and there was no sign of him.

Fourteen-year-old Adelicia came up the narrow stairs, bright-eyed and breathless, her chestnut hair wind-tangled. Catching sight of Eleanor, she hastened to share her excitement.

"I have been with Roger and the prince, sister, and have seen where you and he played beyond the walls when your were children! His favorite oak still stands as he left it. Oh—he is the best of brothers, Eleanor! He has offered to dower me so that I may wed."

"You've been with Roger?"

The younger girl nodded. "Aye, and with Prince Henry. He could talk of little else but you."

"Roger?" Eleanor asked foolishly.

"Nay." Adelicia shook her head in exasperation. "The prince, silly goose—'twas the prince who would talk of you."

"Oh."

Eleanor felt unreasonable pangs of jealousy as she faced her younger sister. In justice, she told herself, it should be Roger who angered her rather than Lissy. He'd shared her memories with others and had not bothered to take her with him.

"Where did you leave him?" she asked as casually as she could.

"Prince Henry or my brother?"

"Both."

"In the courtyard below, but I'll warrant they've gone by now."

Eleanor moved to the long, slitted window and looked down. The yard bustled with the activity of a great castle, but there was no sign of either man.