Fire Song (Medieval Song 2)

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.”