“In England men are not such fools.”
“Still so harsh,” Charles said blandly. “Let us say, Graelam, that one must suffer a wife’s inquisitiveness if she is to suffer his dalliances.”
“A woman should have no say in a man’s affairs,” Graelam said, impatience clear in his voice. “If I remember aright, you were surrounded in England by ladies who wanted naught but to share your bed.”
“Aye,” Charles said, his eyes growing soft with memory. He sighed deeply. “Alas, a man grows older, and must take a wife.”
“I would beat any woman who dared infringe on my wishes, wife or no. A woman is to be soft and yielding, her duty to see to her master’s pleasure and bear him sons.”
“And your dear young wife, my friend? Is she gentle and submissive enough to suit you?”
Graelam was silent for a moment, seeing the gray death pallor of Kassia’s face. “She is what she is,” he said shortly.
“I can almost pity the girl,” Charles said, feigning a deep sigh. “There is no chivalry in Englishmen. I hope you did not rip her apart on your wedding night with that huge rod of yours.”
“Maurice de Lorris sends his greetings,” Graelam said abruptly. “And his continued pledge of fealty.”
“As does his beloved nephew, Geoffrey de Lacy,” Charles said softly. “Geoffrey, until your arrival, Graelam, had convinced me that he should have Kassia de Lorris’ hand. He also pledged fealty and . . . other things.”
“Then he lies,” Graelam said calmly. “I have visited his keep, Beaumanoir. His serfs are ragged wretches, what men I saw appeared swaggering louts, and his mother—”
“The less spoken about Lady Felice, the better,” Charles interrupted.
“—and I would willingly dispatch Geoffrey de Lacy to hell as meet him.”
“I imagine Geoffrey will feel the same way—until he sees you, that is. He is brave enough, but not stupid. ’Tis odd what you say about Beaumanoir, for Geoffrey possesses wealth. Lord knows he is lining my pockets. Very well, Graelam de Moreton, what’s done is done. You have my official sanction and I accept your pledge of fealty. Breed many sons, Graelam, for the line of Belleterre is a noble one, old and proud.”
Graelam bowed his head, and if Charles chose to think it silent agreement, it was his right. The only way he could hold Belleterre after Maurice’s death, Graelam knew, would be to kill Geoffrey. The thought gave him no pause of regret.
“Now, my lord Englishman, tell me about your adventures and how you gained your riches. Mayhap I can still relieve you of some of them.”
Graelam obliged him, recalling the long, desperate months in the Holy Land, and the outcome, the Treaty of Caesarea. “The Holy Land is replete with fools, Charles, greedy fools who care naught for anything save filling their coffers. They ignore the misery and death that surround them. The treaty”—he gave an ironic laugh—“will protect the fools for another ten years. As for my riches, my lord duke, I gained those in a raid on a Saracen camp.”
He looked into the swirling red wine in his goblet and shook his head, not wanting to share that particular adventure with Charles.
He said abruptly, “And you, how many sons now carry your proud name?”
“I am cursed with three daughters and but one son. Ah, Graelam, the adventures we shared! Do you remember that merchant’s daughter in London, the one with the witch’s black hair?”
“Aye, the little tart nearly exhausted me!”
“You! Ha, ’twas I who shared her pallet and her favors!”
“You rearrange the past to suit yourself, my lord duke.” Graelam rose from his chair and proffered Charles a mock bow. “But since you are my liege lord, I will not trifle with your fanciful memories.”
“You are a dog, Graelam,” Charles said. He lowered his thick auburn brows and said in a sly voice, “Do I take it as the new bridegroom you will remain chaste during your visit here?”
Graelam refused to be baited, and gave Charles a crooked grin. “I have no taste for the pox, my lord duke. My carnal needs can wait.”
The duke roared with laughter. “Ah, Graelam, I cannot wait until the evening dinner to see how you avoid the amorous advances of all the ladies! Alas, I am weak of flesh. I will have my chamberlain show you a chamber.”
“I must leave on the morrow, Charles, but I gladly accept your hospitality this night.”
“Back to your blushing bride, huh?”
Graelam paused but an instant. “Aye,” he said. “I must get back.”
Graelam was markedly silent the following morning when he and his men left St. Pol-de-Leon. The coast was barren, battered ceaselessly by the merciless sea winds. Jagged cliffs rose to savage splendor about the rock-strewn beaches. There were no bushes or flowers to soften the bitter landscape. Graelam was impervious to his surroundings, his thoughts on his encounter the previous evening with Geoffrey de Lacy. The great chamber with its huge trestle tables held enough food to supply Edward’s army in the Holy Land for at least a week, Graelam had thought. The duke had taken great delight in introducing Graelam to Geoffrey de Lacy, enjoying the other man’s rage, for enraged he was, Graelam saw.