Fire Song

  Kassia did not admit her overwhelming relief at Etta’s words. She still shuddered at the thought of standing before them in her travel-stained clothes. It appeared that her husband had protected her.

  “Etta,” Kassia said abruptly. “Where is Lord Graelam? Is this not his chamber?”

  “He is in the hall, speaking, I believe, to the Duke of Cornwall. All the others have retired, thank the Lord!”

  Kassia shoved the trencher off her lap. “My bath, Etta. I will not face him again looking like a dirty urchin. Nay, do not argue with me! I am not ill!”

  Graelam sat in his ornately carved chair across from the Duke of Cornwall, a goblet of wine in his hand. The hall was quiet at last, with but the two of them.

  “St. Peter’s bones, Graelam, this has been a fine day!” the duke said acidly, his thick gray brows drawn ominously together.

  “Aye, it has certainly been a day I shall not quickly forget.”

  “This girl, Kassia de Lorris—”

  “Lady Kassia de Moreton,” Graelam said quietly.

  “Aye, ’tis true you only saw her once?”

  Graelam nodded. He felt oddly exhilarated, as if he had just fought in a battle. “She was near death. I would not have recognized her save for my ring and her short hair. Her hair had been shorn, you see, from her fever.”

  “She is quite young, Graelam,” the duke said thoughtfully. “Aye, quite young. You never bedded her.”

  Graelam arched a thick black brow. “Indeed, my lord.”

  “Then you can still be rescued from this mess,” the duke said. “Annulment. The marriage was never consummated. ’Twill be an easy matter, and the girl will soon be on her way back to Brittany.”

  Graelam looked thoughtful, then said slowly, “Belleterre is an impressive holding, my lord duke. The keep is magnificent, the lands rich. Upon Lord Maurice de Lorris’ death, it will come to me. If you will, the girl is as much an heiress as Joanna de Moreley.”

  “But she is French!”

  Graelam merely cocked an incredulous brow at the duke.

  “You will not have this travesty of a marriage annulled?”

  Graelam stroked his fingers across his jaw. “I will speak to the Lady Kassia again tonight. Tomorrow, my lord duke, I will tell you my decision.”

  But the Duke of Cornwall was not finished. His incredulous fury had calmed, but he still felt the fool, a feeling he did not appreciate. “I do not know why you couldn’t have told me of the damned girl,” he growled, “and your ridiculous midnight marriage.”

  “As I said, my lord duke,” Graelam said patiently, “I believed her dead. What reason was there to tell you?”

  “I cannot believe you prefer her to Lady Joanna,” the duke continued, ignoring Graelam’s question. “She has not half Joanna’s beauty. Indeed, she looked like a skinny boy, and a dirty one at that.”

  “She has been quite ill,” Graelam said mildly. “Some food will fill her out and a bath will take care of the dirt.”

  The duke knew he was losing, and it galled him. Abruptly he said, “What if her illness rendered her barren? Ah, I see you had not thought of that!”

  Graelam did not immediately reply. He was seeing Joanna’s distorted features, hearing her venomous words. Even a barren wife would be preferable to that shrew. “Nay,” he said finally, “I have not given that any thought as yet.”

  “You must,” the duke snapped, rising from his chair. “Give it much thought, Graelam, before you make your decision. You told me yourself that your only reason for marrying was to breed sons.”

  “Aye,” Graelam said. “That is what I told you.”

  Graelam saw the duke to his chamber, then drew up suddenly outside his own. By God, he thought, his wife was within. His wife. He quietly opened the door and stepped inside. He blinked rapidly at the sight of Kassia in his wooden bathing tub. He could see naught but her thin white shoulders. Slowly he backed out and firmly closed the door. At least the girl didn’t appear ill.

  He returned after some fifteen minutes. “My lady,” he said softly, not wishing to frighten her.

  Kassia jumped, dropping her tortoise shell comb to the floor. She tried to rise, but Graelam waved her back into the chair. He glanced at her old nurse and curtly nodded toward the door. “I wish to speak to your mistress,” he said.

  The duke, Graelam thought, would perforce change his opinions if he were to see her now. She looked like a small impish child, with her great eyes staring at him, unblinking, and her short damp curls framing her pixie face.

  “How old are you?”

  Kassia stared at his abrupt, harsh tone. “Seventeen, my lord,” she managed at last. He continued to regard her, and Kassia touched her fingertips to a thick curl that fell over her forehead. “ ’Tis my hair.” She raised her chin. “Father told me I must not be vain. My hair will grow, my lord.”

  He wanted to laugh aloud at her pitiful show of defiance. Instead, he only nodded and walked to the bed. He saw her wary look, but ignored it, and sat down. “I saw your nurse below during the discussions. I imagine she told you what happened?”

  “Aye,” she said, nodding.

  Graelam saw her clutch her bedrobe across her breasts, her great eyes never leaving his face.

  “Are you cold?”

  “Nay, my lord,” but she pulled the protecting cover over her legs.

  “I am nearly twenty-nine, Kassia,” Graelam said. “A great, venerable age to one so young.”

  “My father is forty-two,” Kassia said. He saw the barest trace of a dimple near her mouth when she added, “ ’Tis Etta who is the venerable age, my lord. She is near to fifty.”

  Graelam was silent for a moment. “The Duke of Cornwall wishes to have this marriage annulled.”

  Kassia cocked her head to one side, and he saw her incomprehension. “I do not understand, my lord. My father told me that our priest wed us.”

  “Aye, but our marriage was not consummated.” Still she gazed at him with those great innocent eyes.

  “That means, Kassia, that I did not take you to my bed.”

  He watched a flush creep over her pale cheeks.

  “It means that we are not truly man and wife until I do.”

  He saw her pink tongue trail over her lower lip and her eyes flew to his face in consternation.

  “Are you a virgin?”

  “No man has touched me, my lord.”

  He was tempted to smile at the display of defiant pride in her wavering voice. He had never doubted she was a virgin, yet he had purposefully embarrassed her. He was not certain why he had done it.

  “Enough of that for the moment,” he said. “Now, you will tell me why your father did not send me a message that you lived.”

  “My father loves me, my lord. He feared that such news, until I was completely well again, would harm me. I did not even know you existed—save for my dream . . .”

  “What dream?”

  A slight flush warmed her cheeks. “I told my father that I had dreamed that another man had been near me. A . . . a man with a gentle voice.”

  Graelam had been called many things in his life, but never gentle. “Continue,” he said.

  “It was nearly two weeks ago that he told me of your message. But that was not all, my lord. My cousin, Geoffrey de Lacy, had somehow discovered that I was still at Belleterre and had not accompanied my . . . husband to England. He evidently convinced the Duke of Brittany that our marriage was a sham. My father feared that the duke would set the marriage aside and wed me to Geoffrey.”

  Graelam heard the tremor of fear and distaste in her voice. “Aye,” he said. “I know about Geoffrey.”

  Kassia sat forward, her voice earnest. “You must understand, my lord, it was never my father’s intent to harm you in any way. He much admires you. There was simply no time when your messenger arrived. He wanted to accompany me, but of course it was not possible. Whilst I traveled here to Cornwall, my father went to see the duke.”

  “Geoffrey is
dangerous, albeit a coward. He will not give in so easily.”

  “I know that, my lord. But my father told me you were a valiant warrior, that you would protect Belleterre if Geoffrey tried treachery.”

  “Do you wish to remain here at Wolffeton as my wife?”

  “Why, of course,” she said, her young voice strong and sure. She cocked her head at him. “If my father chose you for my husband, my lord, I would never gainsay his wishes. And,” she added, clinching the matter, “Geoffrey must never have Belleterre.”

  Aye, he thought, the girl would follow the devil if her father asked it of her. It disturbed him that she saw him through the eyes of her father. “You have ridden through my country, Kassia. It is not gentle, but savage and rugged.”

  “It reminds me greatly of Brittany, my lord. ’Twas the southern coast I found unlikely.”

  Graelam nodded and rose from his bed. “You will rest and not leave this chamber. I am informed by my betrothed’s father that they will leave on the morrow.” He paused a moment, his eyes sweeping over her. “And you will eat. You are still very thin; a strong wind could blow you away.”

  She nodded. As he turned and strode away from her, she felt a wave of guilt that she had taken his bedchamber. He opened the chest at the foot of the bed and drew out a blanket. Without looking at her again, he left the chamber. For the first time he was real to her, the man who was her husband, the man who now controlled her life and her destiny. She felt no fear, for after all, her father had picked this man for her. She slid down under the warm covers and quickly fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Graelam wrapped the blanket closer about him and pressed his back against the stone wall. He had dismissed all the men and servants from the great hall to ensure privacy for his conversation with the duke. But now they were back, and he had had to step carefully over the snoring men. The lord of Wolffeton, he thought with a crooked smile, sleeping on the floor! And all for the scrawny child who slept in his bed and was his wife.

  9

  Graelam leaned against the northern stone tower and watched Thomas de Moreley’s retinue disappear in whirls of dust over the rocky hill toward St. Agnes. He found, somewhat to his surprise, that Joanna’s departure had lifted almost a physical weight from his spirit. She had eyed him glacially as she sat her palfrey in the inner bailey, her gloved hands clutching spasmodically at her riding whip.

  “I bid you Godspeed, Joanna,” he said calmly.

  Joanna quivered with humiliation and rage; he could see it clearly in her face as she had spat at him, “And I wish you to hell, Lord Graelam, you and that skinny little slut you claim as your wife!”

  Graelam shook away the image of Joanna, clapped Arnolf, the porter, on his stooped shoulder, and quickly made his way back to the great hall. It was early and he found he was ravenous. He bellowed for food.

  “A blessed escape,” Guy said blandly as he seated himself across from Graelam at the trestle table.

  Graelam swallowed the crunchy heel of bread and downed the remainder of his ale. “Perhaps,” he said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “One woman is much the same as another,” he added on a shrug, disregarding the relief he had felt upon her departure. “Joanna would have suited me, eventually. Her body was pleasant enough. Should you like me to talk to the Duke of Cornwall for you, Guy? Mayhap you would make Lady Joanna a suitable husband.”

  “I would take to my heels,” Guy retorted, laughing. “You speak of a wife like one of your destriers, my lord. Surely a woman is not an animal to be broken.”

  “Mastered, Guy.”

  Guy said quietly, “What if the lady is already as gentle as a soft summer rain?”

  “Without guile you mean? I have known but one woman who was as true as a man, and she, Guy, was about as gentle as a viper!”

  “Ah, Lady Chandra de Vernon.”

  “Aye, a prince among women.”

  “Your . . . wife, my lord,” Guy said suddenly, his eyes gazing beyond Graelam’s left shoulder. He rose quickly. “I bid you good morning, my lady.”

  Graelam swiveled about to see Kassia standing at the foot of the stairs. In truth, he had forgotten about her. She was looking toward him hesitantly.

  “Come,” he called to her. “We will start fattening you up this instant.”

  He could not be certain, but at his hearty words, he thought a blush stained her pale cheeks. She is graceful, he thought, watching her walk toward him. She was wearing a gown of soft blue wool, belted at her narrow waist. Her short chestnut curls glistened in the morning light and for a moment he wondered how soft they would feel in his hands. He frowned at the thought, for as she drew closer, he saw that she appeared very fragile, her delicate bones too prominent. He felt an unwanted surge of guilt, for he saw her suddenly as she was at Belleterre.

  Kassia saw her husband’s frown and her steps slowed. She saw a sympathetic smile curl up the corners of Sir Guy’s comely lips, then, unwillingly, she turned her eyes back to her husband’s harsh countenance.

  “My lord,” she said shyly, and proffered him a deep curtsy.

  “You are well, my lady?” Graelam asked, his eyes on the curls that caressed her small ears.

  “Aye, my lord, quite well.” She nodded to Sir Guy and to the dozen men-at-arms who sat at another trestle table, staring at her with open curiosity. She did not see Stephen or any of her father’s men.

  “Stephen, my lord?”

  “He has already broken his fast, my lady,” Sir Guy said, “and is seeing to the supplies for his return to Brittany.”

  “He . . . he plans to leave soon?” She turned wide, questioning eyes upon her husband.

  “I will tell him when he is to leave,” Graelam said. He rose and it took all of Kassia’s resolution not to cower. Which was foolish, she scolded herself silently. He had been naught but kind to her, but he was so large, so forbidding, her skittering thoughts continued. “You will eat now, Kassia,” he said to her. “I must see to the Duke of Cornwall. He also wishes to depart today. Guy, take the men to the training field. With all the festivities, they have grown fat and lazy.”

  He strode out of the hall without a backward glance, leaving her to the mercy of utter strangers. Guy did not want to leave the shy girl, but he had no choice. He motioned to the men, smiled once again at Kassia, and left the hall.

  Kassia slipped into the smaller chair next to her husband’s. She glanced at the crusts of bread and the pale unripened cheese and shuddered.

  “ ’Tis not suited to ye, my lady?”

  Kassia tensed at the barely veiled insolence in the serving girl’s voice. For a moment she was totally bereft of speech. The girl was young, as young as she, and quite pretty, as rounded and plump as Kassia was thin. And, Kassia thought on a silent sigh, her hair was thick and long, flowing down her back.

  “What is your name?” she asked quietly.

  “Nan, my lady.”

  Kassia suddenly remembered a serving wench who had remained but three days at Belleterre. She had insulted Kassia, thinking the twelve-year-old girl too young to retaliate. Kassia now smiled at the memory. “Nan,” she said, “I would like a glass of fresh milk and three slices of freshly baked bread. As for this cheese, you may eat it yourself, or feed it to the pigs.”

  Nan stared at the little upstart. She was smiling sweetly, but there had been a tone of command in her voice that made Nan start.

  “There are cows to be milked, are there not?”

  “Aye,” Nan said, her eyes narrowing. “But there’s no more bread, not until this afternoon.”

  “Fetch me the milk and I will see to the baking of bread myself.” Kassia nodded dismissal to the girl, praying silently to herself that she would obey her. To her relief, the girl, after shooting her a venomous look, flounced away. Kassia forced herself to eat the cold bread left by her husband. She was aware of at least a dozen servants skulking about the hall, all wanting a glimpse of her, she supposed. Her housekeeper’s eyes took in the reeds scattered
haphazardly over the stone floor. They were not filthy, at least they didn’t offend her nose, and that was probably because of the wedding guests at Wolffeton. But they were dull, and there were no sweet-smelling herbs. She ran her hand over the table. It was badly gouged, old and battered, and this was the master’s table! She shook her head, shocked at the lack of care. The wood beams overhead were black with years of smoke and soot, making the hall even darker than necessary, and there was a feeling of damp and cold. Two old-fashioned lavers stood near her table. They had seen no polish in years, she thought. She wanted to set the servants to work immediately, but it was her husband’s face that stilled her tongue. He was the master here. Until he gave her permission to attend to his keep, she would be wise to keep her mouth shut. She closed her eyes a moment, wondering if her husband would indeed keep her. Annulment. He could set her aside, he had told her that himself, unless the marriage was consummated. She could not prevent the shudder at the thought. She was ignorant, but not stupid or blind. She had seen animals mate and knew that somehow men did much the same thing to women. But she had never seen a naked man, and thus was uncertain just how they accomplished the sex act. If mares could tolerate it, she thought, so could she. And, she realized, she must tolerate it to save Belleterre from Geoffrey. She became aware of the serving wench, Nan, standing at her elbow, and she flushed, wondering if the girl could see the terrifying thoughts in her eyes.

  “Yer milk, my lady,” Nan said. She set the goblet in front of Kassia, none too gently, and some of the warm milk sloshed onto the table.

  Kassia felt a spurt of raw anger, and she wanted to slap the insolent girl, or, she thought, personally plunge her smirking face into a pile of dung. There was probably a lot of that around! She was saved from a decision by the appearance of her husband, accompanied by an older, fierce-looking man, the Duke of Cornwall, she supposed. She turned to dismiss Nan, when she saw the girl’s eyes resting possessively and intimately upon Lord Graelam. Ah, she thought with no particular emotion, so that was why the girl was surly and insolent. She smiled and rose, curtsying deeply to the older man.