Fire Song (3 page)

The rain, thankfully, had stopped during the night, and the sun was fast drying the muddy road by the time they left Beaumanoir.

“ ’Tis a relief to be away from that viper’s nest,” Maurice said.

Graelam cocked a thick black brow. “You gave as good as you got, Maurice. Indeed, I fancied that you were much enjoying yourself.”

“Aye,” Maurice said. “Felice has never bored me. I gave her two casks of wine for her hospitality and her . . . disappointment.”

“She is a most insistent woman,” Graelam said only.

As for Guy, Graelam found the young knight heavy-eyed, but he forbore to mock him.

They passed through hilly forests of oak and beech, cut through by gorges, ravines, and tumbled rocks. Untilled moors dotted with yellow gorse and purple heather stretched to barren summits, giving views of tilled green valleys beyond. Maurice grew more excited as they drew closer to Belleterre. “We are near the Morlaix River,” Maurice said. “You can nearly smell the sea. The soil is rich here, fortunately, and our wheat crops are plentiful in most years. We also have cattle and sheep aplenty, and their noxious smell and loud baas fill the air in the spring.”

Graelam nodded. “ ’Tis much like Cornwall,” he said. “The beggers also abound there. It is a difficult task to keep them out of the crops. God be praised that we grow most of our wheat and barley in a valley, protected from the salty air and the sea winds.”

Twilight was falling when they crossed the final rocky rise. “There”—Maurice pointed proudly—“is Belleterre.”

Belleterre was not a sprawling pile of stone, as was Wolffeton. Nor did its aura of strength lessen its beauty. Graelam’s military eyes took in its battlements and its prominence in the countryside and the river. Belleterre was a fortress of no mean value.

As Graelam turned to tell Maurice some of his thoughts, Maurice shouted, dug his heels in his destrier’s sides, and rode like a wild-eyed Saracen up the steep path to Belleterre. The rest of his men, save those driving the wagons, fell into line behind him, all of them shouting and waving.

Graelam said to Guy, “When you are within the walls, I want you to examine the fortifications. Wolffeton is in need of repairs. Perhaps you will learn something useful. As for me, I fear that I will be drinking a lot of wine and smiling at Maurice’s precious daughter until my mouth aches.”

“The girl Glenna told me that Kassia de Lorris is a gentle girl and possessed of considerable beauty.”

Graelam grunted. “I care not if she be as winsome as Queen Eleanor or a crone with no teeth,” he said.

As he rode under the iron portcullis into the inner bailey, he noted the winching mechanisms and the thickness of the inner walls with approval. The inner bailey itself surprised him. It was flawlessly clean and orderly. Even the cobblestones were set into the earth
on a slight incline so that rainwater would not collect. He was examining the outbuildings and the stables when he heard Maurice shouting at the top of his lungs, “Kassia! Kassia!”

There was something wrong. The many people who were in the inner bailey were strangely quiet, staring toward Maurice or talking in whispers to each other behind their hands. They had the look, Graelam thought suddenly, of sheep who had lost their shepherd. He dismounted from Demon and handed the reins to one of his men.

He looked upward at the huge keep, and the winding thick oak stairs that led to the great hall. Suddenly he heard an anguished cry. “Kassia!”

Graelam galloped up the stairs and found himself in a huge, high-vaulted chamber. He was vaguely aware of the smell of lemon, and sweet rosemary from the thick rushes that covered the stone floor. There were exquisite tapestries covering the walls next to a cavernous fireplace. He saw Maurice stride toward an old woman and begin to shake her shoulders.

“My lord,” Graelam said, closing his hand over Maurice’s arm. “What is the matter?”

Maurice made an odd keening sound and released the old woman. “ ’Tis Kassia,” he whispered. “I am told she has a fever and is dying.”

He rushed like a madman toward the stairs that led to the upper chambers, Graelam at his heels.

Graelam drew back when Maurice flung open the door to a chamber at the top of the stairs. The room was filled with a sickening sweet scent of incense, and the myriad candles cast long shadows on the walls. There were four women surrounding a raised bed. The silence was shattering. Two coal braziers burned next to the
bed, and the heat was stifling. Graelam found himself walking forward toward the bed.

Maurice was bowing over a figure, his rasping sobs soft and painful to hear.

“My dear child, no . . . no,” he heard Maurice say over and over. “You cannot leave me. No!”

Graelam moved closer and stared down at Kassia de Lorris. He felt a knot of pity in his belly. The pitiful creature was a parody of life. Her hair had been cut close, and the flesh of her face was a sickening gray. He saw Maurice clutching at her hand. It looked like a claw. He could hear her pained breathing. Suddenly Maurice jerked back the cover, and Graelam stared in horror at several leeches that were sucking at the wasted flesh of her breasts.

“Get them off her!” Maurice yelled. He clutched at the blood-engorged leeches, ripped them from his daughter’s flesh, and hurled them across the room.

The old woman, Etta, touched his shoulder, but he threw off her hand. “You are killing her, you old crone! God’s bones, you are killing her!”

The girl could be fifteen years old or a hundred, Graelam thought. He could even see the blue veins standing out on her eyelids. He wondered briefly what Kassia de Lorris had looked like before she had been struck down. Poor child, he thought, his eyes narrowing in pity on her face. He wanted to do something, but knew there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do. He turned slowly and left the chamber, the sound of Maurice’s curses and sobs filling his ears.

Guy was speaking in a soft voice to a serving wench. When he saw Graelam, he quickly walked over to him and said in a hushed voice, “The girl is dying, my lord.
She came down with the fever some four days ago. She is not expected to last through the night.”

Graelam nodded. Indeed, he was surprised that she still clung to life.

“The serving wench thinks that the priest should be fetched.”

“That is Maurice’s decision.” Graelam ran his hand through his hair, realizing that Maurice’s thoughts were all on his daughter. “Have the priest brought here.”

He and Guy ate a silent meal, attended by quietly crying servants. Graelam wondered where all Maurice’s men were, but forbore to ask the servants.

“ ’Tis a rich keep,” Guy said, looking around the great hall. The trestle table shone with polish and there were cushions on the benches. “I am most sorry for Lord Maurice.”

“Aye,” Graelam said, his eyes resting a moment upon the two beautifully carved high-backed chairs that stood opposite each other not far from the warm fire. Between the chairs was an ivory chessboard, the pieces in place. He tried to picture Maurice and Kassia seated opposite each other, laughing and playing chess. His belly tightened. Damn, he thought, he didn’t want to be touched by the girl’s death. He felt suddenly as though he were trespassing. He was, after all, a stranger.

He found himself drawn to the chairs, and he eased himself down, a goblet of ale resting on his knee. He found his eyes going every few minutes toward the stairs. The priest arrived, a bald, watery-eyed old man whose robe was tied loosely about his fat stomach.

The time passed with agonizing slowness. Graelam dismissed Guy and found himself alone in the great hall. It was near to midnight when he saw Maurice walk
like a bent old man down the stairs. His face was haggard and his eyes swollen.

“She is dying,” Maurice said in a strangely calm voice. He sat down in the chair opposite Graelam and stared into the fire. “I found myself wishing that you, my lord, had not saved me. Perhaps if I had died, God would spare Kassia.”

Graelam clutched Maurice’s hand. “You will not say that, Maurice. A man cannot question God’s will.” His words sounded glib and empty, even to his own ears.

“Why not?” Maurice said harshly. “She is good and pure, and gentle. It is not right or just that she be cheated of life! God’s blood, do you understand? I wanted you, the man who saved my life, a strong warrior who knows no fear, to take her to wife! To protect her, and Belleterre, to give me grandchildren! God be cursed! ’Tis an evil that takes her from me!”

Graelam watched helplessly as Maurice dropped his face into his hands and sobbed softly. He pictured the small girl in the chamber above and felt pity choking in his throat. He had seen horrors unimagined in the Holy Land, but it had been the utter waste that had disgusted him, not the actual misery of the people. He did not want to be affected by the death of one girl. By the saints in heaven, he did not even know her!

“Maurice,” he said urgently, “what will happen you cannot change. Belleterre is yours. If you wish it to remain yours, you must remarry and breed more children of your own. You must not give up!”

Maurice laughed, a humorless, bitter sound that made Graelam wince. “I cannot,” he said finally, very quietly. “I contracted a disease some ten years ago. It left my seed lifeless.”

There was nothing to say. Graelam closed his eyes,
leaning back in the chair, only the sounds of Maurice’s ragged breathing breaking the silence of the hall. He felt the older man’s hand upon his arm and opened his eyes to see Maurice looking at his face with feverish intensity.

“Listen to me, my lord,” Maurice said, his fingers tightening on Graelam’s arm. “I will repay my debt to you. Belleterre is near to the coast and thus not far from your lands in Cornwall. Even if my Kassia’s blood cannot flow in the veins of Belleterre’s descendants, yours will. ’Tis noble blood you carry, my lord Graelam, and I would call you my son and heir.”

‘That is not possible, Maurice,” Graelam said. “I am an Englishman, and your liege lord would never grant me your lands. Nor do I deserve to have them. Maurice, I would have saved your life had you been a merchant! You must make peace with yourself, and perhaps with your nephew. There is no choice.”

Maurice’s eyes glistened with purpose. “Nay, my lord, attend me. If you wed my Kassia this night, you will be her husband and entitled to Belleterre upon my death.”

Graelam drew back, appalled. “No! By God’s teeth, Maurice, your mind is rattled! Your daughter is dying. Leave her in peace!”

“You would not be burdened with a wife unknown to you. You will have only the responsibility of Belleterre. What matters it to Kassia if she is wed before she dies? What matters it to you?”

Graelam hissed out his breath, his body hard and coiled with tension. “I will not marry the child! I buried one wife, I will not wed another only to bury her within hours! See you, Maurice, ’tis madness, ’tis your grief!”

Maurice drew back in his chair, but his eyes never wavered from Graelam’s face. “Hear me, my lord. If Kassia dies unwed, my own death warrant is signed. Geoffrey will not wait for my body to rot with age. He will take what he believes is his. But with you as Kassia’s husband—”

“Widower!”

“—widower, Geoffrey will find himself helpless against a powerful English nobleman! I cannot save my daughter, but I can save Belleterre! Marry her, Graelam, then you will go to the Duke of Brittany and swear your fealty to him. I ask nothing more of you. You can return to England with naught but honor, and the promise of rich lands for your sons!”

Graelam rose swiftly from his chair and paced to and fro in front of the older man. “You do not even know me!” he said, striving for cool reason as he came to an abrupt halt in front of Maurice, his arms folded over his powerful chest. “I was a stranger to you until less than a week ago! How can you trust your lands to a man who could, for all you know, be the biggest scoundrel in all of Christendom?”

“I would rather trust my fortunes to an unknown scoundrel than to a known one. Be you a scoundrel, my lord?”

Graelam gritted his teeth. “Leave be, Maurice. If you fear your nephew, I will kill him for you before I leave Brittany. Does that ease your mind?”

“Nay,” Maurice said quietly. “Belleterre must have its lord, and he must be strong, ruthless, and a fearless warrior. You must be the future Lord of Belleterre.”

Graelam stared at him in stunned silence.

“Even now,” Maurice continued, “Kassia could be drawing her last breath. If you do not wed her, my
lord, I will lose everything I hold dear in this wretched world. By all that’s holy, man, do I ask so much of you? I take nothing from you, only give! You do not lose your vaunted honor! You suffer no shame!”

It was not Maurice de Lorris’ passionate words that decided Graelam at that moment. It was the unashamed tears that streaked down his cheeks.

“Let us get it over with,” Graelam said.

Graelam held Kassia’s hand in his as the priest said his marriage lines in the early hours of the night. He felt the delicate bones and knew a moment of utter pain. Maurice’s scribe had hastily penned the marriage contract, and in the bleak silence of the stifling hot chamber, Graelam de Moreton signed his name and titles. He watched silently as Maurice guided Kassia’s hand over the parchment.

“My daughter writes,” Maurice said, his voice quavering. “I taught her.”

It was done. Graelam heard the soft rattling deep in her chest and knew that the end was near. Slowly he drew off his ring, thick pounded gold inset with onyx, the deep imprint of a wolf raised on its surface, and slid it onto Kassia’s middle finger. He closed her fingers into a fist to keep the ring from sliding off, and gently laid her hand over her chest.

“Come, my lord,” Maurice said. “There is much to do before I grieve.”

Graelam took one last look at his wife, then followed Maurice from the chamber.

“It will be morning soon, my lord. You must journey immediately to St. Pol-de-Leon, ’tis on the northern coast. The Duke of Brittany is at his castle there. You
will only tell him that you have wed Kassia de Lorris and present to him the marriage contract.”