Lady of Fire (7 page)

"Roger?" She had finished the cross-garters and was peering anxiously at him. "Are you all right?"

"Aye."

"Well, you will have to stand if I am to finish this. I cannot remove your braichs with you sitting."

He rose self-consciously while she undid the waist and let them slip to the floor. And there he stood naked before her.

"But you are beautiful. Roger, I never imagined a man to be beautiful."

He reddened uncomfortably, both pleased she'd found him pleasing and embarrassed by his own growing reaction. He had to get into the water. He turned away to hide himself and eased his body into the tub. Water sloshed over the sides and splashed against the stone floor.

"Where do I start?"

"Nay. You sit over there and talk to me and I'll wash myself."

"Nay, you are too tired." She picked up the soap and wet his hair, then worked her fingers through the thick, tousled blond waves. Unlike most Normans, his hair did not lie flat and straight across his forehead. He looked like she imagined angels looked except for the two days' growth of pale stubble on cheeks and chin. When she satisfied herself that she'd gotten it clean, she began to rinse the hair, first with the bath water itself and then with a pitcher of clear water set beside the tub. While she located a dry cloth for his head, he finished lathering his body. She filled the pitcher again from a larger one and started pouring it over his shoulders. His head was leaned back and his eyes closed again. Without thinking, she leaned forward and brushed his lips. His eyes flew open and he ducked his head.

"God's teeth, Lea! Do not do that!"

"Why? You are my brother."

"I am a man."

Stung, she set aside the pitcher and turned away. "I am sorry, Roger—I didn't mean it like that—I saw little enough harm." The dark eyes were brimming again with unshed tears as she fought against a lump that formed in her throat. "I would not offend you." She clasped her hands behind her back and walked toward the door.

With a sigh, Roger heaved himself out of the water and caught up with her. "Nay, Lea, you offend me not. 'Tis that you are such an innocent you know not what you do." Her placed a wet hand on her shoulder. "I am not all you think me, and I would not betray your trust in me. Indeed, I would live up to that trust and keep my faith with you." His attention was suddenly drawn to the yellow-purple mark along her jawline. "How did this happen, Lea?"

"Belesme."

He felt sick again. He could not bear the thought of Robert's touching her at all. "I swear I'll make him pay—I swear it!"

"Nay, if I can but be safe from him, I will consider he's paid."

"Henry and I are decided—I will take you to England as soon as I can make some arrangements for the disposal of my lands."

"England? The disposal of your lands? Roger, what are you saying?"

He dropped his hand. "Lea, I am too weary to tell all tonight."

"But what of your lands?" she persisted.

"I'll get them back when all's done," he answered aloud even while thinking he would if he lived to the end of his plans.

"When all's done?"

"Lea, leave me be! I tell you I am too weary to discuss it."

"Roger, I cannot let you do anything that would cost you your lands. I know too well the price you have paid for them with your sword and your blood." She walked behind him and touched again the ugly scar still forming on his back. "You have risked your life in other men's causes to get where you are."

That burning touch again. He jerked away in guilt. "Lea, I stand here naked and freezing whilst you would talk of land. Fetch me a tunic out of my roll.

"Roger, are you angry with me?" She unrolled the pack and smoothed out a white linen shirt. " 'Tis unlike you to be so cross."

He reached for the shirt and shrugged it over his head. "Angry? Nay, I tell you I am tired." Water spots formed on the garment as it absorbed the last vestiges of bathwater from his skin. He drew back his blanket and flopped onto the narrow cot. "Leave me be."

"You haven't eaten."

"I cannot." He closed his eyes and cradled his head. He could hear her move away. "Where are you going?"

"I am leaving you be," she answered simply.

"Nay, I meant it not like that. Sit with me."

With a sigh, she pulled up a falstool and sat down. He reached for her hand and held it tightly against his cheek. The bluish rings that hollowed his eyes seemed even more pronounced in the faint light. She would have leaned over and smoothed back the damp hair from his face, but thought better of it. Instead, she had to content herself with sitting quietly as his breathing evened out. Slowly his grip on her hand relaxed and he slipped into sleep. Only then did she dare brush back the rumpled hair from his temple.

"Oh, Roger," she whispered, "I would that I knew what ails you."

"Lea, trust me!" Roger's voice was low and intense as they walked within the walled garden.

"But I cannot do it!" Lea's voice rose in an anguished whisper. "Last night, you came and offered me hope. Today, you tell me I am to wed Belesme!"

"Nay, you mistake my words, Lea. I said you are to appear to accept the marriage. I must have you out of here if I am to succeed. Once you are in Rouen, you will escape and I will smuggle you out of Normandy."

"And if you cannot—I am wed to the Devil incarnate."

"I will—I swear. Lea, I do this for myself as well as for you."

"Because of your vow to me."

"Aye. That and other reasons."

"What if he forces himself on me before I can escape?"

"He won't." Roger fingered the dagger at his belt grimly. "I will see you are not alone with him if I have to make my peace with Gilbert to do it."

Eleanor stopped and studied Roger. She wanted to believe him—indeed, in all of their years, she'd never had cause to doubt anything he'd ever told her. In the years since his vow to her at Nantes, he had been faithful to his promises, visiting often and writing with such regularity that even the scullery had come to recognize his messengers by name. But this was a new and strange Roger that had come this time, an intense, irritable, almost desperate man intent on keeping his childhood vow to her. Oh, the brilliant blue eyes, the well-defined strong face, the tall, muscular body—all were as she knew him—yet there was something indefinably different. There was a grimness that had never been there before. She lowered her eyes to the ground.

"Aye—I trust you."

He seemed relieved. "Good. 'Twill be easier if I do not have to take you away against your will. You know I love you too well to let you go to Belesme or to let you rot here any longer. I am overlong enough as it is in keeping my promise."

"But what will happen to us?" She began to pace aimlessly again. "Have you considered that this course will destroy all you have—all that you have made for yourself. Curthose will surely hold the Condes forfeit—and he may even demand your life for this."

"So be it, then. Lea, 'tis not as bad as you would make it." He touched her lightly on the chin. "I expect Rufus to welcome us if for no reason other than to spite his brother. There's no love lost between them, believe me."

"And if he does not?"

"Nay—he will. But even if he does not, we are not done. I visited my mother at Abbeville and was told I have a powerful relative of mine own in England."

"But what if none will stand with us?"

"Then I will offer my sword to Byzantium and take you with me. I can fight Turks as well as anyone, Lea.

"And me? What of me?"

"I expect to find you a better husband than Robert of Belesme."

"Nay. I would rather go with you then become wife to some stranger."

"Well, mayhap by that time he will not be a stranger to you."

"Roger," she asked impulsively, "have you ever loved somebody?"

"I love you."

"I know, but that is different. I mean, have you ever
loved
a lady?"

He stopped abruptly. "Aye."

For some inexplicable reason, Eleanor felt her heart drop to her stomach. And why should he not? she rebuked herself. He is, after all, a man as well as your brother. "This lady—would I like her?" she asked casually.

"Sometimes. I know I find her enchanting, beautiful, kindhearted, and spirited."

"I see. Well, have you asked for her yet?"

"Lea, I have not had the means. Lowborn bastards cannot always love where they would choose." He plucked a flower and handed it to her. "My lady could have a prince if she chose. I doubt she would fancy me."

"Nay—any lady would be proud to call you husband, brother."

"I hope you are right."

Eleanor was torn between an intense dislike for an unknown lady and a curiosity to know more of a woman who could capture the heart of a man like Roger. "You are the Lord of the Condes now. Can you not ask as such?"

"I cannot. I have not the means yet."

"And you would lose everything for me." Eleanor shook her head sadly. "Nay, Roger, I cannot let you do it. You deserve happiness with your lady and I am safe enough here."

"I am your man, Lea."

"A foolish childhood vow, Roger. God will forgive you if you cannot keep it."

"Possibly, but I could not forgive myself. I have waited overlong to keep my promise to you as it is. But we speak of love," he chided lightly, "when we should be making plans. When does Gilbert come for you? Or does Robert come himself?"

"My father. I am to be in Rouen by the first of June."

Roger whistled softly. "So soon? The bridegroom must be impatient."

"Aye." Eleanor felt her mouth go dry even as she remembered the look on Belesme's face when he had undressed her. Involuntarily her hand crept to her still-discolored jaw.

"Well, it is not much time, but we shall be there. Here is what I would have you do. You will write to Robert and tell him…"

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Robert of Belesme dismounted stiffly and forced his aching legs to walk the fifty paces across the uneven cobblestones of the courtyard at Belesme. Stiff, tired, and sore, it seemed that everything ached at once—legs, back, and head—from the ride in from the Vexin. Yet, for a man of uneven temper, his spirits were remarkably good. Things had gone well in the past weeks and he'd been able to push Philip back a little. He ought to be well-rewarded for his efforts. He stopped by the cistern and removed his own green-plumed helmet and pushed back the mail coil from his damp black hair. A page hastened to draw him a cup of water, which Robert used first to slake his thirst and then to wash the dust and sweat from his face.

Drying himself with a corner of his green surcoat, he straightened up to look above at his mother's solar windows. He caught the movement of green gown there as she turned away. It was odd that she had not come down to meet him after so long a separation. Even as he began to climb to the solar, he felt a sense of unease that he refused to acknowledge.

She still stood at the edge of the tall, narrow window slit. Poets wrote of her fiery red hair and her green eyes that were supposed to tempt men's souls, but there was little enchantment in Mabille's eyes as she turned to face her son.

"Nantes!" she spat out without greeting. "Robert, how could you?"

"Ah—'twould seem you received my message, Mother." He stepped into the open area and kicked the door shut behind him. "I tired of fighting Gilbert and came home."

"Aye. In a month's time, and by way of the Vexin."

"There are advantages to the marriage, Mabille. My son will rule Nantes."

"Your son? Nay, Robert,
you
could have had it for yourself. There is more to it than that."

His memory flashed to Eleanor, remembering her as he'd last seen her standing nearly naked in the abbess' chamber. "Aye." His mouth curved into a slow smile as he recalled her. "I would have the girl."

"Daughter to Gilbert and sister to your sworn enemy, Robert. Are you daft, boy? Grind Nantes beneath your heel, and take the girl if you will, but do not marry her." Mabille's voice rose and fell in the cadence of reasoning, but he knew there was more to her objections than her words would betray. She was lovely, his mother, and she was evil.

"A man must have sons, Mabille, and I will get mine of her."

"A convent-bred girl, my son?" Mabille's mouth twisted into a sneer. "Tell me, Robert, does she know what you would have of her? Has she felt the fury of your body, or borne the mark of your teeth in her flesh as I have? Nay, she cannot be a match for you."

"She will be my wife and my lady, Mother, and how I use her concerns you not." He reached out and cupped Mabille's chin, meeting her eyes until they wavered. "She is very beautiful—the most beautiful girl I have ever seen."

"Robert, don't tease me." Mabille's face changed as she put her hand on her son's arm. " 'Tis not like you to have a care for a pretty face."

"She is so beautiful," he persisted cruelly, "that I have carried her image in my mind since I was eighteen, and so I will carry it as long as I breathe."

They were not alone in the solar. A couple of the young men Mabille always kept around her hovered on stools near a low brazier. Oblivious of them, she twined her arms around her son's neck and put on her most seductive smile. "Ah, Robert, what need have you of another woman when you have me?"

Robert looked across the room at a boy hardly sixteen and read the message of jealousy and sorrow on the young face. It was so like Mabille to flaunt one lover in front of another. She pressed her body suggestively against him, molding the contours of her body to his. "Art an even better lover than your father," she murmured softly.

He knew he should have sent her to dower lands long before. There was that about her that sickened even the Devil of Belesme. Roughly he jerked her hands down. "I doubt you even can remember my father, Mabille, for 'tis so long since you gave him poison that you've had a thousand others since." He nodded to the pathetic boy. "If you have need of service, call on him—I've no taste for it anymore."

She came at him then, her fingers curled like talons, scratching and clawing. He tried to fend her off by catching her hands before resorting to a blow that sent her reeling. She gained her balance and came at him again, gasping, and raking at his face with her nails. He caught her easily about the waist and carried her to the bed, dropping her like a sack into its midsts. She lay there waiting.

"Don't ever do that again," he growled as he straightened up. "I've done with your tricks and your wiles—'tis a wife I need, and not some old woman crawling into my bed," he taunted her.

"You'll come to me when you tire of her, Robert—you always have. And she cannot keep you with her convent ways," Mabille panted. "You won't be able to beat her, else you'll have that brother of hers on your back. You'll sicken her with the way you would touch her and the things you would do to her."

"Sometimes I sicken myself, Mother, because I am your spawn." His green eyes lost some of their harshness as he thought of Eleanor. "Nay, I would use her gently to get what I would have of her."

"Robert…" Her voice was a plaintive whine. "Can we not…?"

Her meaning angered him as he drew back from her outstretched arms. "Nay, Mabille, can we not be as mother and son? You've enough boars to play to your sow without me. You, fellow!" he called out to the boy he'd been watching. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," was the sullen reply.

"Sixteen. And you share her favors with a dozen others, I'll warrant." He turned back to his mother. "Where do you get them? What fools send their sons to you to be schooled? Poor knights with too many mouths to feed—bastards not too nice in their tastes? Art a witch, Mabille."

"A witch that spawned the Devil," she reminded him. "And what of you—art so pure, my son?"

"I am your son," he answered bitterly.

She rose from the bed with a sigh. "I suppose we cannot help that which we are—I fear the blood is bad."

"Aye. And I would not have it touch my wife or my children." He reached out and gripped her shoulder painfully. "You will be courteous to Lady Eleanor if you see her, and you will hide your foulness from her—do you understand?"

"You are hurting me!"

"Aye. 'Tis my intent to do so." His fingers tightened until he felt he could almost snap the bones beneath the flesh. "If you ever tell her what I have been to you, I swear by the blood that flows in my veins, I will kill you with my own hands." He released her and flung her away from him, watching as she lost her balance and fell on all fours to the stone floor. "Be the dog you are when you are out of my sight." He towered over her, his fists clenched to control his anger. "But if you meet the Lady Eleanor, you will be pleased to be
Lady
Mabille."

"Robert—"

"And if you cannot do as I ask, I'll lock you up. Do you attend me, Mother?"

His tone frightened even Mabille. She half-crouched, watching him warily. Finally she nodded in acquiescence. He backed away, his body still tense from the confrontation. A heavy sigh escaped him.

"I am weary, Mother. I would have a bath and a meal before I press on to Rouen at daybreak." He passed a hand over his forehead, brushing back the thick black hair that hung almost to his brows. "Three days on the road leave me saddle-weary."

The boy helped her up, his hand resting challengingly on his poniard. Mabille knocked his hand away and shook her head. "Nay, Piers, he would carve your liver from your body while yet you live and then stand to watch your lifeblood drench the rushes. Go instead and get him supper."

Robert watched him leave before sinking to a bench near the slitted window. Mabille walked over and began to massage his neck and shoulders as though nothing had just passed between them. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and cup his chin with his hands.

"Is she really so very beautiful?"

He nodded. "Aye—I have never seen her like. She is smaller than you, with a dark, silken curtain of hair that hangs down her back, and great dark eyes that are like deep pools. Her skin is as fair and perfect as any I've ever seen."

"And you are besotted." Mabille's fingers worked up his neck. "She is still the daughter of your enemy."

"Mine enemies change as it suits me. I would cry peace with Gilbert—yea, even with the FitzGilbert—to get her."

"Ah—the FitzGilbert—what did he say to this marriage?"

"I know not
what
he said, as 'twas done secretly, but I know he stands against it." Robert stretched his neck to ease his aching head. "But he grows strong on his own. Unlike his father, he loses nothing that comes into his hands. For now, I would have him as ally."

Mabille changed the subject back to Eleanor. "This girl—were it not for… for this thing between us—would I like her?"

Robert ducked his head away from her hands. "When have you liked another woman, Mother?"

"Never."

"There is your answer."

"Will you bring her to see me?"

"Nay. And I would not have you at Rouen, either, for too many have spoken of us, Mabille, to let the tales die. I would not have it come to her ears." He could sense his mother's disappointment, but he shook his head. "Nay, send her a few ells of velvet or something, if you will, but do not go see her."

"You cannot hide me forever, Robert. She will come home to Belesme, after all."

"Aye—but you will not be here. You will retire to your dower lands, where you can continue your sick sports."

"You would cast me out?" Mabille's voice rose in incredulous shock. "Nay, Robert, you would not! You dare not!" She bent to wrap her arms around him, but he pushed her away and stood. "Robert, think of what we are—what we have been to each other."

"What are we, Mabille? Witch and Devil, as men say, or mother and son?"

"We are much alike."

"Aye, but I would not have it that way. Sometimes I curse the blood that flows in this body because of what I am."

"If I have ever loved anything, Robert, I have loved you." Mabille let her voice drop to a near-whisper. "And well you know it."

The boy called Piers returned with a tray and waited. Robert sat heavily down at a low table and began to eat even as Piers watched him. With the intensity of youth, the boy believed himself in love with the beautiful Mabille, and her cruelty hurt. Always before she'd reassured him that the other boys she lay with meant nothing to her, but the encounter with her son was an enlightening experience. It was obvious that Mabille now told the truth—if she loved anyone, it was her own son—a revelation that sickened Piers. Had he thought it possible, he would have driven his dagger into both of them.

Belesme seemed to become aware of his presence and turned his attention toward the boy. "Do you have a name?" he asked casually between mouthfuls.

"Aye. Piers de Sols."

"Your father?"

"A knight in the service of my lord Humphrey de Granville."

"You should be learning war, boy, instead of playing the rutting boar. 'Tis your sword arm and not your privates that will put bread in your mouth." Robert appeared to study Piers. "You look able enough to wield a sword—what would you say if I sent you to one of my vassals for useful training?"

"I wouldn't go!" The boy was alarmed. What if the Devil of Belesme intended to get him away from Mabille and have him murdered?

Robert's face turned cold and cruel instantly. "You'll do what you are told unless you would be flayed for your insolence. I've done worse for less," he reminded grimly. He pointed at Mabille and added, " 'Tis time you were weaned from her and repented of your sins."

"What care you about sins?" Piers cried out hotly. "Are you so pure you can judge others? I've heard you lie with both men and women, my lord!"

Robert came crashing to his feet, sending food and trencher scattering to the floor. With knotted fist he cuffed Piers against the side of the head. The boy's neck seemed to grow longer and then his whole body collapsed in a pile at Robert's feet. The count stood over him with a face contorted with fury, distorted into a mask of evil. He gave the boy a hard kick in the ribs with his boot. It was a sickening sound as the wind was knocked out of the slender body.

"Where had you the story?" Robert demanded. When he received no answer, he kicked again. "Where?"

"Have done!" Mabille screamed. "You'll kill him!"

Robert reached down and pulled up the retching Piers, shaking him like a sack of bones as he did so. "
Where
had you the story?"

"Y-you s-served with R-Rufus," the terrified boy managed before he brought up the contents of his stomach.

"So have half the men in Normandy!" Robert shouted. "Yet they've not such a taint!" His ringers closed about Piers' throat in a vise of fury. "By the blood of Belesme, I swear I have done many foul things, but I've never lain with another man!"

Piers' eyes bulged and his face took on a bluish, purplish hue. Alarmed, Mabille grabbed her son's arm and tried to break his grip. "Robert! Don't!" Tears were streaming down her beautiful face. "He knew not what he said! Please, Robert," she pleaded, "do not kill an innocent child."

"Child!" He spat out the word as he dropped the choking boy to the floor. "An innocent child! God's teeth! That's a wonder for you to say, Mother!"

Mabille sank to her knees and cradled the unconscious form of her youthful lover, crooning to him softly and trying to rub life back into his face. "You've killed him! D'ye hear? You've killed him!" She bent to kiss unresponsive lips. "Oh, Robert…why?"

Belesme looked at her strangely, the heat and anger fading from his body. "Nay, he's not dead, Mabille, for all he should be. Give him time to come around." He laughed harshly, his voice sounding odd even to his own ears. "Nay, I've tortured enough men to know the limits of life." He reached down and engaged in a tug-of-war over the inert body. "Give him up and I'll show you." He pulled Piers up and laid him across bended knee, giving the boy several sharp blows to the back. The youth coughed and began drooling mucus from his mouth. Slowly, color crept back into the pallid face. With that demonstration of life, Robert let him slip back to the rushes. "When he rouses, tell him he is to move his pallet to my chamber, and that he will serve me and none other in this household. If he runs, I
will
kill him."