Fire Song

  “But your arm,” she said in a shaking voice.

  “I took a fall when Demon slipped, ’tis naught. Such a welcome, and I was away but four days.”

  She laughed and hugged him. “When I was told you were approaching, I ordered water taken to our bedchamber for your bath. Or would you prefer some ale first? Come, my lord, and I will attend you.”

  He smiled at her tumbling excitement. “I will follow in a moment. First I must see to Demon. I fear his hock is bruised.”

  “May I help you, my lord?”

  Graelam turned to Evian. “Well, boy, you are looking fit. Aye, come with me. My lady, soon.” He added, dropping his voice. “ ’Tis more than a bath that I desire.”

  He grinned at the rush of color to her cheeks, patted her shoulder, and strode toward the stables, Evian trying valiantly to keep pace with him.

  “You are looking well, my lady,” Guy said, drawing her attention from her husband’s retreating figure.

  “What? Oh, Guy!”

  He mocked her gently. “You are not concerned about my health, my lady?”

  “You, sir,” she said with a scolding frown, “are but a worthless knave! It is your responsibility to see that my lord comes to no harm.”

  “True,” Guy sighed. “I fear Graelam’s thoughts were on other things, thus his clumsiness. He is the only one of us who has shucked off his fatigue like an old cloak, and all at the sight of you, my lady.”

  Kassia laughed disclaimingly but turned pink with pleasure at his words.

  “I see Blanche hovering about like a disapproving abbess,” Guy observed.

  Kassia’s smile faded somewhat.

  “Has she been a trial to you, my lady?”

  “Nay, truly, ’tis just that she . . . well, she is unhappy, Guy.”

  “I imagine she tries to treat you like an unwanted guest,” he said shrewdly. “Graelam should find her a husband, and soon.” But something deep within him hated that thought. Damn her, he thought, irritated at both himself and her. Why couldn’t she let go? But he knew the answer to that. Blanche was strong-willed and determined. She could see no other course open to her.

  “She spends much of her time in the chapel,” Kassia said. “I fear she is praying not for a husband, but for ways of doing me in. But enough of my woes, Guy! What happened at Crandall?”

  “All went just as Graelam thought, and I will leave your husband to tell you about it.”

  “No fighting? No attempt at treachery?”

  “Nay, ’twas revoltingly tame.”

  “You may be disappointed because there were no heads to knock together, but I am relieved! Just you wait for supper. ’Tis my major accomplishment in the four days you have been absent.”

  “Strung that varlet Dayken up by his worthless heels?”

  “Nay, but I did discover that one of his assistants, a poor fellow who spent most of his time being kicked about and cursed, is really quite accomplished. ’Tis he who now does the cursing!”

  The roast pork was tender, well-seasoned, and altogether delicious. Graelam saw that Kassia was regarding him for all the world like a child waiting for her parent’s approval, her own food untouched. He sampled the other fare with negligent thoroughness whilst he talked with Blount.

  “The merchant Drieux would settle at Wolffeton, my lord,” Blount said. “He of course brings some dozen or so men with him.”

  “And their families?”

  “Aye, my lord. As you know, we need no more labor in the fields or in the mill. Our wheat production already exceeds our needs.”

  “I know it well, Blount. What we do need is money and the ability to trade our excess wool. Prepare a charter. I will meet with Drieux when it is done to settle on terms.”

  “If it is successful, my lord, it is likely other craftsmen will make their way here.”

  Graelam nodded, then turned to Kassia. “Did you procure some new wine, my lady? I believe I find something of an improvement.”

  Her lips tightened until she saw his dark eyes were alight with laughter.

  “The merchant Drieux, you know, my lord,” she said demurely. “He wished to be in your good graces. The wine is from Bordeaux.”

  “You lie as fluently as do I,” Graelam said, smiling at her.

  “But imagine how fluent I shall be when I have gained your years, my lord!”

  Blount, trying to hide his gasp, said quickly, “Nay, my lord, ’tis not the wine that is different. My lady but jests.”

  Graelam turned a surprised look toward his steward. “ ’Tis the pork, my lord!” Blount continued feebly.

  Graelam felt something of a shock when he realized that Blount was trying to protect Kassia from his wrath, that he had, indeed, expected Graelam to be furious at his wife’s gentle teasing. But Graelam wasn’t angry. He had, in fact, been on the point of continuing the jest with his wife when Blount interrupted.

  “And the bread and vegetables and pheasant pie,” Kassia added on a laugh, wondering why the well-spoken, polished steward was fumbling about for his words.

  “I imagine,” Graelam said coolly, “that there is even an improvement in the apples. Do they taste redder, Kassia?”

  “Actually,” Kassia confided, leaning toward her husband, “I did polish yours on my sleeve.”

  Graelam claimed her hand and slowly raised it to his lips. “I doubt,” he said softly, “that this excellent meal—aye, I did notice, you may be certain—could taste as tempting as do you.”

  “Oh,” Kassia said helplessly as his tongue lightly brushed over her palm. She was thrown into confusion, but Graelam merely sat back in his chair and grinned shamelessly at her. He was relieved that his robe was full cut, for his body was reacting just as shamelessly to her.

  “He is bewitched,” Blanche muttered just loud enough for Guy to hear her.

  Guy turned thoughtful eyes to her flushed face. “You must cease this, Blanche,” he said finally. Christ, if only he had something to offer her! “Listen to me,” he continued in an urgent voice. “Kassia is his wife. That is an end to it. And,” he added, seeing that she would say more, “he appears quite pleased with her. How oft must I remind you?”

  “Things change,” Blanche said. “Aye, he will soon grow bored with her.”

  “ ’Twould make no difference in any case.”

  “Mayhap he would send her back to her father, or she would leave.”

  “I doubt, Blanche, that you will still be at Wolffeton should such a thing occur.”

  “You take her part too! Can it be, Sir Guy, that you are also bewitched with the skinny little—”

  “Blanche,” he said, now thoroughly irritated with her folly, “I would that your thoughts matched your outward beauty. Stop being such a bloody shrew!” Guy turned abruptly away from her, his eyes upon his master and mistress.

  Graelam bid an abrupt good night to his men, and rose, grasping Kassia’s hand. “At last,” he said, drawing her arm through his.

  “Does your arm pain you, my lord?” Kassia asked as she skipped up the stairs to keep up with him.

  “Nay, ’tis other parts of me that are in dire pain.”

  Concern washed over her face. “Pray tell me. If I cannot ease you, surely Etta will know of a suitable remedy.”

  “Presently,” he said.

  Once inside their bedchamber, he firmly closed the door and leaned against it, watching her. “I have missed you,” he said.

  “And I you, my lord.” She smiled up at him, but he saw that her hands were twisting nervously in the folds of her gown.

  “Four days and you fear me again?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, I do not fear you, my lord.”

  “I am relieved. You do know, do you not, how you will ease me?”

  Her eyes flew to his face. “Your arm!” she blurted out. “You will hurt your wound.”

  “There are few stitches to rend, and the bandage is secure. I would ask that you help me out of my clothes.”

  She did as
she was bid, saying nothing until he stood in front of her naked. His desire for her was obvious and she backed away. “Chess!” she exclaimed. “I am really quite good, my lord. Would you like to—”

  He cut her off, his brow knot in a frown. “Kassia, I do not want to play chess. I want you naked and in my bed.”

  She was a fool, she thought, to have wished him home so quickly. “My lord,” she said as calmly as she could manage, “I do not wish . . . that is, I cannot be naked!”

  His frown deepened. “You cannot still be sore from our last coupling. ’Twas nearly five days ago.”

  “Nay, I am not sore.”

  “Kassia, look at me!”

  She wanted nothing more than to sink into the fresh reeds beneath her feet and disappear through the floor. Slowly she raised her face, so embarrassed that she was trembling.

  “I told you that our coupling would not hurt you again.” He heard himself speak the words gently, reassuringly. It bothered him that she did not want him.

  “I know,” she said quietly. “I would willingly come to you, my lord, but I cannot. Please, I—”

  He burst out laughing, and grabbed her, pulling her tightly against him. “You are silly, Kassia,” he said. He cupped her face between his hands and lowered his face to kiss her. He felt her start, as if in surprise, and for a moment she responded to him. Then she stiffened, a small cry of distress muffled in his mouth.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, smiling down at her, “it is your monthly flux, is it not?”

  She nodded, mute with embarrassment.

  “That is no problem, you will see. Come now, I will help you undress.”

  She stood still as a stone.

  Graelam slowly loosed his hold on her. He guessed that her embarrassment could not be easily overcome. He felt his desire fading. Oddly enough, he did not want to force her, did not want to ease himself in her body without her feeling equal need for him. “Do you feel discomfort in your belly?” he asked her gently.

  “Nay,” she whispered, “ ’tis not that, my lord.”

  “I know.” He sighed and stepped away from her. “How much longer, Kassia?”

  “Another day or so.”

  “Come to bed when it pleases you,” he said. He sank down into the soft feather-and-straw mattress and forced himself to turn on his side away from her. When she finally slipped into bed beside him, she was wearing her bedrobe.

  He turned and pulled her against him. She was rigid as a board. He kissed her gently on her forehead.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered against his chest. “ ’Tis just that I have never spoken of such things, save with Etta.”

  “I am your husband,” he said. “You must learn to speak to me of everything.”

  “That is what my father said.”

  “Your father,” Graelam repeated blankly.

  She did not reply and Graelam continued to stroke her back. “You see,” she said finally, propping herself up on her elbow, “I did not become a woman for a very long time. There was a count from Flanders who saw me at Charles de Marcey’s court when I was fifteen, and asked my father about marriage. ’Twas Etta who told my father that I must have more time. He was upset with me for not telling him myself. But I was so ashamed.” She burrowed her face into the hollow of his neck.

  “What happened to the count?” Graelam asked.

  “Once Father and I returned to Belleterre, I worked very hard to convince him that I was indispensable to his comfort. He forgot the count.”

  “And will you prove yourself just as indispensable to me?”

  “Of course,” she said, and he could picture the impish smile on her face. “Did not your wine already taste better?”

  Graelam grinned into the darkness until his mind finally convinced his body, still vividly hungering of her, that he must wait another day . . . or so. “Perhaps we will play chess tomorrow night,” he said.

  Graelam stepped into his bedchamber, a frown on his face, for he was worried about Demon’s still swollen hock. Also Nan had purposefully brushed her body against him, an invitation clear in her eyes. It had angered him that his body had leapt in response. And there was Blanche, sobbing her heart out against his tunic. He sighed, drawing up at the sight of Kassia, so immersed in her sewing that she did not hear him. He drew closer, a reluctant smile appearing on his lips at her look of intense concentration. His eyes fell to the garment in her lap, and his smile faltered, then disappeared entirely. It was a singularly beautiful piece of burgundy velvet that he had brought back from Genoa.

  “What are you doing?”

  Kassia jumped, jabbing the needle point into her thumb. “Oh!” she cried, and quickly licked away the drop of blood before it fell to the velvet.

  “I repeat,” Graelam said, pointing to the velvet on her lap, “what are you doing with that?”

  “I wish you had not come in so stealthily, my lord! Now I am found out!” She smiled winsomely up at him, and felt her smile crack at his continued scowl.

  “I do not recall having given you permission to rifle my trunk and make yourself free with my belongings.”

  She cocked her head as was her unconscious habit, but he felt no tug of amusement, not this time. “Well?” he demanded.

  “It did not occur to me, my lord, that you would be . . . upset at my taking the velvet. It is a lovely piece and I thought—”

  “What is mine is mine,” he said coldly. “If you wished to make yourself a new gown, you should have asked me.”

  “I thought,” she began again, raising her chin just a trifle, “that I shared in your possessions, just as you share in mine.”

  “Your father,” Graelam said, his voice becoming even colder, “did me a great disservice. What is yours is mine, my lady, and what is mine remains mine.”

  “But that is hardly fair!” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

  “God’s bones!” Graelam muttered. “Just because I have allowed you to play at being mistress of Wolffeton—”

  “Play!” Kassia bounded to her feet, the precious velvet falling to the floor.

  “You will not interrupt me again, madam. Pick up the cloth. I do not wish it to become soiled. And remove your stitches.”

  She stared at him, so indignant that she could find no words. His kindness to her since his return was forgotten. “And what, my lord,” she said at last, her voice trembling, “did you intend the velvet for?”

  It was Graelam’s turn to stare at his wife. He had likely been a fool, he realized, to treat her so indulgently. And poor Blanche. Had Kassia treated her as unkindly as Blanche had sobbed to him? He gritted his teeth. “Pick up the velvet,” he repeated, “and let me hear no more of your ill-humored tongue.”

  Etta, standing still as a tombstone outside the bedchamber door, listened with mounting fear. Seldom had her gentle mistress ever spoken in anger to anyone. She launched through the open door just as Kassia, too angry to be afraid, shouted, “No!”

  “My baby!” Etta exclaimed, rushing toward her mistress. “Have you nearly finished with your lord’s tunic? He will be so pleased. Oh, forgive me, my lord! I did not know . . . my eyes . . . I did not see you.”

  Graelam was stopped cold. His eyes narrowed on the old nurse’s guileless face, then slewed back to his wife. Slowly he leaned over and picked up the velvet, spreading it out over his arm. He looked at the exquisite stitching, traced his fingers over the width of material, and felt a fool. Without raising his head, he said in Etta’s direction, “Get out.”

  Etta, clutching her rosary, fled the bedchamber, praying that she had saved her mistress.

  “It is a tunic for me,” Graelam said.

  “Aye. You are so large, and your shirts and tunics so worn and ill-fitting. I wanted you to be garbed as you should be.”

  He looked at her for several moments, trying to still his guilt. “You will ask me in the future,” he said, and tossed the velvet to her. “And, my lady, you will answer me honestly when I ask you a questio
n.”

  With those emotionless cold words, Graelam turned on his heel and strode from the bedchamber, leaving Kassia to grind her teeth and jab her needle into the velvet. Upon reflection, she knew she should have told him immediately that it was not a gown for herself she was making. But how dare he treat her so! Ill-humored tongue! Looking down, she realized she had set several very crooked stitches and jerked them out of the velvet, venting all her fury on the hapless thread.

  15

  Graelam stood on the ramparts, looking east toward rolling green hills. He had tried to concentrate on the administrative problems Blount had brought him: two peasants who wanted the same girl for wife; a dispute over the ownership of a pig; and a crusty old man who had wanted to sell Graelam his daughter. But it was no use.

  He turned westward and watched the sun make its downward descent. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, and he impatiently smoothed it out of his eyes.

  “My lord.”

  It was as if he had willed her to appear. Slowly Graelam turned to Kassia, standing some distance away from him, her head bowed.

  “My lady,” he greeted her, his voice clipped.

  “The baker has made some pastries I thought you would like—almond and honey, your favorite.”

  Graelam cursed under his breath. “Can you not come closer?”

  She obeyed him, but her step was hesitant. He watched the sunlight create glints of copper and gold in her hair. He felt a pang of guilt and it angered him.

  “I don’t want the pastries,” he said when she came to a pained halt in front of him.

  “I did not really come for that reason,” Kassia said, raising her head.

  She was pale and he saw the strain in her eyes. Damn, he had but chastised her for taking the cloth! “Why did you come?” he asked.

  “To tell you I am sorry. I should not have taken the velvet without your permission.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “I wanted to surprise you.” She looked at him searchingly, hopeful of some bending, but his face was impassive. “I meant no harm.”