Fire Song (Medieval Song 2)

Graelam gave her a perfunctory smile, thinking absently that she was a gentle, accommodating woman. “Thank you, Blanche.” He wondered briefly if she knew herself how to manage a keep, for Wolffeton had certainly not changed since she had come here, and he had given her free rein within the keep. Perhaps, he thought, not wishing to be unfair, the food had improved somewhat.

Blanche retired to her small chamber, gently closed the door, and smashed her fists against the wall. How could he, she raged, be drawn into a marriage, and it not be to her! She had been too shy, too modest, she realized when she was calmer. She had not given him enough encouragement, and thus he saw her as a mere adjunct to his household and not as a desirable woman. Damn him! Her lineage was every bit as respectable as this Joanna de Moreley’s! The fact that she was not an heiress as was Joanna did not hold long in her mind. Graelam must be made to realize that she, Blanche, would be the right wife, the only wife for him. But Graelam had mentioned breeding sons off his wife, and that stilled her a moment.

She walked to the small window, pulled back the wooden shutter, and stared down toward the practice field. She saw Graelam, stripped to the waist, wrestling with one of his men. She could see the sweat glistening off his back, the twisting of his powerful muscles. Ah yes, she thought, she would teach this Joanna a thing or two! Her fingers clutched unconsciously on the edge of the window, as if they were touching Graelam. “Damn you, my lord,” she cursed him in a hoarse whisper.

Much later, when Blanche lay in her narrow bed, alone, she considered her son. She would write a message to her cousin and have him send Evian to Wolffeton. Once Graelam had met her son, perhaps he would forget his desire for his own son. After all, the boy was also his half-nephew. She realized that she was assuming she could still gain him as her husband. I will be his wife, she vowed softly, and if he still demands I bear him a child, I will do it. She hated the thought of the inevitable birthing pain and the bulk of a child in her body. For a moment she rebelled against her woman’s lot, against the sheer helplessness of it. Stop it, Blanche, she scolded herself silently. You have not won yet. But she would win, she had to. Her son’s future and her own lay in the balance. She fell asleep somewhat calmer.

The next morning Blanche had to contend with the servants, the pert Nan in particular. They had supposed, Blanche guessed, that she would become the future mistress of Wolffeton and had thus given her grudging obedience. She trembled with rage when Nan, the wretched little slut, said in a snide voice, “If ye want a new gown, mistress, ye’d best ask his lordship. Likely he’ll buy his new young bride anything, but his old sister-in-law, who will be but his poor relation . . . ?” Her voice fell away like sharp droplets of rain dripping off stone.

“You little bitch!” B

lanche said, her voice trembling, hating both Nan and herself for the truth of the wench’s words. She reached for Nan’s long braid, now clean from weekly baths, but Nan was faster. She scurried out of the chamber, laughing aloud.

“I’ll have you flogged!” Blanche yelled after her, knowing full well that it was an empty threat.

“The master won’t allow that,” Nan taunted her from a safe distance. “He likes me smooth and soft. He’ll not let ye beat me!”

“Slut! Just wait until your belly swells with child! You’ll see then how much the master cares about you and your soft hide!”

“He’ll give me a fine cottage and mayhap a servant of my own,” Nan retorted.

The other servants snickered behind her back, Blanche knew, but at least they obeyed her orders, albeit with the slowness of mules trekking up a cliff. She ground her teeth and bided her time until Lady Joanna de Moreley came, and Evian. Graelam had seemed reluctant to have her son come to Wolffeton, but Blanche had managed to cry pitifully, an altogether honest reaction, and he had finally agreed.

Graelam grunted and heaved as he helped the masons fit a huge slab of stone into place on the outer eastern wall of Wolffeton. He stepped back and dashed the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He felt exhilarated from the physical labor, for it had kept his mind off Joanna de Moreley’s impending visit, which he dreaded. He thought of the message he had sent to Maurice de Lorris several days before, and felt a spurt of unwanted pain for what had happened. He heard nothing from Maurice, and assumed that Geoffrey had made no move on Belleterre. Surely it could not be long now before Geoffrey found out about Kassia’s death. Belleterre was not that isolated, and over two months had passed.

Graelam stretched, enjoying the pull of his tired muscles, and headed toward the cliff path that led to the narrow beach below. The surf pounded against the naked rocks, splashing spray into wide arcs in the air. He stripped off his clothes and waded into the tumbling water. Feeling the powerful tug of the tide against his legs, he let himself be dragged forward with the outgoing waves. The water was cold, raising gooseflesh on his body, but he ignored it and plunged facedown into a high-crested wave.

Some minutes later he heard a yell from the cliff above him and turned to see Guy waving toward him. He started to answer, but a huge wave smashed against his back and sent him sprawling onto his face. When he fought his way out of the sea, his face smarting from the coarse rocks and sand, he heard Guy’s laughter. He strode onto the narrow beach and shook himself, much in the manner of a huge mongrel dog.

“My lord! Dress yourself before your bride sees you in your natural wonder!”

Graelam cursed softly. The girl was two days early. He did not doubt that his days of peace were over. He dressed himself quickly and strode up the cliff path.

“My lord,” Guy said, a wide grin splitting his well-formed mouth. “I fear the Lady Joanna will see us side by side and send you about your business.” Guy preened in his green velvet and patted his hand to his golden hair, his laughter ringing above the raucous sound of the seabirds.

Graelam didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he asked, “Is all in readiness for the lady?”

“Do you mean has Blanche swallowed the prune in her mouth and managed a welcoming smile?”

“If you had something to offer her, you larking, conceited buffoon, ’tis that lady you could take off my hands!”

“ ’Tis not my bed Blanche seeks, my lord!” Guy straightened suddenly, a slight worried frown puckering his brow. “ ’Twas a mistake allowing her to send for her son.”

Graelam felt thoroughly irritated. “For God’s sake, Guy, leave be. Blanche is comely and endowed with the proper shyness and modesty a lady should have. If I wed Lady Joanna, I shall find Blanche a husband. With her son in tow, it proves she is a good breeder.”

Many of the servants would applaud that decision, Guy thought. Blanche had not been overly patient with any of them, so awash was she in her disappointment. He felt a tug of pity for her, as well as something else he was loath to examine. He shrugged. It was none of his affair. He said aloud, “Nay, my lord, do not waste your ill-humor on me.” He paused a moment, then added, “there is but one thing that bothers me.”

“I suppose I must ask you what it is, else you’ll taunt me with your useless guile.”

Guy gave him his sunny smile. Their relationship was more in the manner of an indulgent older brother toward a younger sibling, not liege lord to one of his knights. “Why did you agree to this match when it so obviously displeases you?”

Graelam had asked himself the same question many times during the past weeks. “A man must have sons,” he said finally. “Now, let me meet my sons’ mother.”

* * *

Kassia walked slowly through the apple orchard, her face lifted to the bright sun overhead. She smelled the sweet scent of the camellias, hydrangeas, and rhododendrons she herself had planted, and heard the comforting drone of the bees in the hives just beyond the orchard. Hugging her arms around her body, feeling the sun warming her bones, she knew the joy of simply being alive.

Her favorite gown of yellow silk still hung loose, but it didn’t bother her. She smiled fondly at the thought of her father, ever watching her with worried eyes, encouraging her to do naught but rest and eat. She looked up to see her nurse, Etta, whose ample figure was now walking purposefully toward her, a bowl of something doubtless very nourishing and equally distasteful held in her hands.