Lady of Fire (14 page)

"Roger, how came you to join with Belesme, anyway?"

"Believe it or not, he came to me, Lea, because he would punish Fuld and he had not the men. His troops still fight in the Vexin for Curthose under de Mortain's command. And, to be truthful, I have to admit I was glad enough to see him." Roger's mouth drew into a wry smile. "Aye, his very reputation gives him an edge in battle."

"Fuld thought he'd come to make an end to you, and I was afraid that between them, they'd kill you." She shook her head at the memory. "But when Fuld saw you parley with Count Robert, I think he knew he could not survive."

Roger came behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. With his thumbs he began massaging above her shoulder blades. She relaxed under his touch, leaning forward and closing her eyes.

"Let us speak no more of Fuld or Robert, Lea. We leave this accursed place in the morning, and move on to Rouen. Once there, I can send my messengers out to people I have positioned along the way of our escape. God willing, we shall be in England by August, and we can put Belesme and all of this behind us."

"I pray he does not hunt us down like rabbits, Roger."

He stopped working on her shoulders. "I am not without resources, Lea, once we are in England. And Henry will ever stand our friend."

"Sweet Jesu, I hope so."

By noon, the castle was secured, and many of its inhabitants slept to make up for a short night. It was peaceful inside due to both Roger's and Count Robert's forbidding any further looting, destruction, or killing of prisoners. But in the town below, it was a different case—Belesme's men fell upon the citizenry with a vengeance, robbing, raping, and killing. Finally, Aubery woke Roger to tell him.

"My lord…" He shook him. "My lord, there is pillaging in the town."

"Unnnnh?" Roger tried to rouse from a deep sleep, but it was too much effort. He rolled over and pillowed his head with his arm. "Ummmmm."

"My lord!" Aubery shook him more insistently. "Wake up, my lord!"

Roger finally pulled himself to a sitting position on his pallet and eyed his squire irritably. "Well?"

"My lord, Belesme has let his men loose on the town! They ravish and kill at will, and we are powerless to stop them without engaging them in combat."

"What?" Roger was fully awake now. "By all saints, 'twas agreed to spare the people, for they provisioned us whilst we waited to take Fuld." Roger pulled himself up and reached for his tunic. "Damn his green eyes to hell! Cannot he keep his word one day?" He shrugged on his tunic and pulled on his chausses, wrapping them so hastily with his cross-garters that they bagged at the knees. Briefly he considered the wisdom of putting on his mail, but decided that Belesme would probably be unarmed and in bed. He contented himself with picking up his broadsword.

"Where did he quarter?"

Aubery pointed above the hall where they billeted. "He took Fuld's chamber as his own."

"Jesu! And where does he expect Lea to sleep? Nay—don't answer."

"He didn't say, but surely he would not dishonor your sister with you here."

"Robert would do anything," Roger reminded his squire grimly. "He would not have harmed the townspeople, either, or so he said. Spawn of devil and witch, he has the Talvas taint! Sweet Jesu! And Gilbert would give Lea to him!"

Aubery's eyes widened as Roger purposefully buckled his scabbard belt. "What will you do, my lord?"

"Confront him!" Roger snapped. "God's teeth! What did you expect me to do when you awakened me? Well, do you come to witness, Sir Squire—or are you as afraid of him as the rest?"

Stung, Aubery retorted, "I go where you go, my lord."

Roger found the Count of Belesme fully awake and engaged in going over the list of Eleanor's repossessed bridethings. "Your father is most generous," he murmured even as Roger cleared the last step. It was uncanny that he recognized his visitor without seeing him.

Roger came straight to the point. "My lord, the townspeople have claimed my protection, and I have given it, yet your men are there now looting and raping those who helped us."

"I wondered how long it would take you to come up." Belesme turned around and allowed his green eyes to flicker over Roger. With an exaggerated shrug he seemed to dismiss the complaint. "My men have sat overlong, FitzGilbert, and the means of taking this stronghold has deprived them of the means to slake their blood lust. You would not have them put the garrison to sword because your sister is here, would you?" He turned back to his list. "Until they are satisfied, I can do nothing with them."

"You lie!" Roger placed his hand on his sword hilt.

Belesme spun around. His eyes flashed anger and then veiled themselves. He noted the sword and raised an eyebrow. "You find me unarmed, FitzGilbert."

"That can be remedied, my lord," Roger replied with an edge to his voice. "Unlike many around you, I am not afraid to face you."

"Then you are the greater fool in this room."

"Nay, my lord." Roger advanced a few steps to stand directly in front of Belesme. "Order your men back, or I will."

"And how do you propose to enforce such an order?" Belesme asked contemptuously.

"I have the greater force here," Roger reminded him, "and I will not hesitate to give the command that they enforce my promised protection by the sword if need be." He stared hard at Robert or Belesme, his face set and unyielding.

"Art soft as a woman," Belesme taunted before backing down.

"Justice is not softness, my lord, nor is cruelty strength."

The count walked to the arrow slit and called down to the courtyard, "To me! To me! To Belesme!"

The response was swift. Half a dozen men ran up the winding stone stairs to their master. For a brief moment Roger's neck hairs stiffened, but he held his ground. He drew his sword and waited. If Belesme meant to have him taken, he would take out the count first.

"Sheathe your sword, Bastard," Belesme ordered curtly before motioning one of his men forward. "Ralph, pass the word, death to murderers and ravishers." When the man looked at him in stunned silence, he snapped, "Aye, you heard me aright—I hang those who break FitzGilbert's peace. Go into the town and bring back those who pillage, and bring whatever villagers will testify against them."

"But—"

"Nay." Belesme waved aside any protest. "You heard me." Turning again to Roger, he spoke softly now. "You wanted justice, my lord—well, you can witness Belesme justice."

Roger felt sick as he observed that strange half-smile and realized the Belesme had his own blood lust to satisfy. And he would enjoy even the execution of some of his own men.

"You sicken me, Robert." Roger sheathed his sword and strode to the stairwell. "Lea pallets with me tonight for her own protection."

"Sometimes, FitzGilbert"—Robert's voice followed him on the stairs—"I wonder which of you is convent-bred."

Once he was clear of the steps, Roger's concern was finding a place for Eleanor. It was one thing to tell Belesme that she would pallet with him, but it was quite another to even consider her bedding down in the company of rough men-at-arms. In his mind he could see the effect she would have on soldiers who had no women of their own. Nay, it was better to preserve that distance, that chasm between great lady and commoner, than to let any see they had fought for a flesh-and-blood woman. On reflection, he reluctantly concluded she would have to stay in the cut-out chamber one last night, and that he would have to pallet between her and Belesme.

Unaware of the contretemps between Roger and the count, Eleanor finished ministering to the wounded of both men, washing and stitching ugly gashes received in the final taking of the stronghold, and then found clean linens for her cot. She came up the stairs unattended, her arms laden with the fresh sheets, and found Robert of Belesme. For an awful moment her heart seemed to have stopped. In spite of his earlier defense of her, she was still very much afraid of him. Her eyes widened in horror, betraying her as she stared at him, before she could recover her composure.

"My lord! Y-you startled me! I… I did not think to see you here."

He noted her fear of him and it angered him. "Don't look at me like that!" he snapped.

"Like what, my lord?" she asked as innocently as she could.

He dropped his eyes and looked away, lowering his voice until she could scarce hear him. "As though I would as soon take your head as your maidenhead."

"My lord," she spoke slowly and carefully to avoid angering him, "if I cannot conceal my fear of you, mayhap 'tis because of what has passed between us. When I was a child, you sought to kill my brother; when you came to the abbey, you laid heavy hands on me." Her heart raced at the expression in the strange green eyes as he turned back to her, and she involuntarily raised the linens to shield her chest. "Give me time, my lord," she offered, "and mayhap I will cease to fear you."

"Aye." He stared at her intently. She was composed now and her dark eyes did not waver under his direct gaze. His breath caught—despite her cuts and bruises, she still claimed great beauty, and she was soon to be his. The Old Conqueror's words echoed in his ears and fed his pride. "Eleanor…" He reached to touch her temple where an older bruise had yellowed, his fingers brushing back the errant strands of dark hair, and sought to convince her. "I am not a gentle man—I can be no FitzGilbert—but I would not harm you. Come to me, Eleanor, and give me sons of my body, and I will treat you as well as may be."

There was unmistakable warmth in the usually cold eyes. For a brief moment the handsome face dropped its guard and let her see a man beneath the cruelty. Had he been another, it would have been a heady feeling to know he wanted her for herself, but this was Belesme.

"My lord, if I am wed to you, and if 'tis the will of God, I will have no choice in the matter," she answered finally.

"I care not for God's will, Eleanor—'tis you I would have."

His voice dropped again, but this time there was a husky, intimate quality to it. His hand left her face and moved to her shoulder, lightly tracing the bones beneath her gown. Fighting the urge to recoil from his touch, she kept her eyes on his face while clutching the linens even closer to her breasts. Stepping back half a pace, she drew his attention to the sheets. "I brought these up," she murmured lamely.

"I already ordered the beds changed—I bring my own, Demoiselle." His hand made a contemptuous sweep of the room and a black eyebrow lifted as he noted the bed newly hung with green-and-gold brocade. "Aye—I would not sleep with Fuld's vermin."

"Oh." Her gaze traveled from the bed to the tiny chamber off to the side. "Then where…?"

"Your brother makes provision for you—though I doubt he can find any place safer. If he is so intent on preserving your maidenhead, he can sleep with me, but 'tis not likely he will."

Obvious relief flooded over her, irritating him again. Would her life always be tied so closely to Roger FitzGilbert's? Even as he sought to control the anger he felt, she slipped past him to place the folded linens at the foot of the cot. His body stirred as he watched her move about, her small, lithe body graceful and perfect. He sat on a low bench and kept his eyes on her while she stripped the filthy rags from the cot, dropped them into a pile on the floor, and began repacking the straw mattress. She was a joy to watch and she was going to be his.

"I would have you tend me."

The hairs at the back of her neck prickled in warning as she turned slowly around. "What?"

"I would have you tend me," he repeated.

"But you have already bathed … and Blanche—"

"Think you I would have her filthy hands on me?" he demanded harshly. "Nay—you tended FitzGilbert, did you not? Aye, I have bathed, but my shoulder pains me, Demoiselle. I would have you see to it."

"Your squire—"

"Is not here just now," he finished for her.

It was a simple enough request, one that was not uncommon, but she was loath to touch him. Even seated, he seemed large, overwhelming, and dangerous. Unconsciously she wet her lips and dried her damp palms against the skirt of her gown. She had no grounds for refusal—he'd offered her no violence this time—indeed, he'd fought Fuld Nevers to save her. Finally she nodded. "I'll get the unguent, my lord."

"If you mean that foul-smelling stuff they use here, I won't have it. Nay, my mother is skilled in the simples. You'll find hers on that table." He watched as her gaze traveled to where he indicated. "It won't hurt you to use it," he offered as an afterthought.

"Aye."

She moved to pick up the salve pot and then stood behind him uncertainly. "Which shoulder is it?"

"Above my sword arm."

"I did not think Fuld landed a blow."

"He did not, but I wrenched it pulling myself up the wall, and it pains me now." He leaned forward and pulled his tunic over his head, exposing a well-muscled torso. He was bigger, more powerfully constructed than she would have imagined from seeing him clothed. "Can you see anything?" he asked, his voice muffled by his tunic.

"Aye, you have bruised yourself, my lord." Eleanor dipped her fingers in the balm and prepared to touch her worst enemy.

"Wait—let me take this off." He finished pulling the tunic down over his arms and dropped it to the floor. "There."

She gingerly dabbed at the bruise, barely touching the discolored muscle until he urged, "Rub it in." Gradually losing her fear of him, she did as he asked, letting her fingers massage the oily substance across the shoulder. For a fleeting moment it occurred to her that he had skin like everyone else, and then she chided herself for thinking he would not—he was a man, after all. The stuff smelled good—it had the aroma of cooked cloves.

"There's another place in the front—must've scraped it."

"It surprises me that you would admit to pain," she murmured as she leaned to inspect the reddened area.

"Mayhap I wanted to feel your touch. It pleases me, Eleanor." Before she could pull back, he reached to grasp her nearest braid. With an almost painful jerk he brought her face even with his own. She dropped the salve pot and it rolled away on the floor as his other arm encircled her and pulled her onto his lap. She tried to lurch away in disgust, but found herself trapped. She ceased struggling and sat docilely while biding her time to catch him off his guard. And despite her outward calm, her pulses pounded and her stomach knotted in fear. "Pray release me, my lord," she managed in a cold voice.