Fire Song (Medieval Song 2)

Kassia unconsciously touched her fingers to her own short curls. “I see,” she said, feeling suddenly miserable.

“Lady Joanna also has . . . strong passions,” Blanche continued. “In that, she was well-suited to Lord Graelam. He is a very demanding man, so I have heard. I hear the serving wenches gossip—only the comely ones, of course. He is evidently so large a man that he has hurt some of them. And, of course, he never tires.”

Blanche saw that Kassia was staring at her, uncomprehending. So it was true, just as she had heard. Graelam had not taken his young wife as yet. The thought of Graelam coupling with Kassia made her continue. “You are very small,” she said in a pitying voice, leaning close to Kassia. “I hope that you will be brave enough to bear the pain.”

“My lord is kind,” Kassia said.

Blanche heard the uncertainty and fear in her voice. Graelam deserved a shrinking wife in his bed, damn him. “Of course,” she said lightly, and rose. “Now that he is wed,” she added gently, “perhaps his other women will be relieved of their duties, for a while at least.” She knew she was being cruel, utterly mean, in fact, but she stifled her guilt at her lie, for her own disappointment was too fresh to bear in silent submission. She left Kassia, now parchment pale at her words, sitting rigidly in her chair, her hands twisting in her lap. At the very least, Graelam would regret not taking Blanche to his bed when she had offered herself to him. Perhaps, she thought, his innocent little wife would quickly come to despise him. It would be her revenge. She had nothing else, at least for the moment.

Graelam frowned toward Kassia’s bent head. She was pushing her food about on her trencher, paying no attention to her food, to him, or to anything else in the noisy hall.

“Why are you not eating?” he asked. “Are you feeling ill?”

Kassia looked at his huge hand lying lightly on her arm. He had introduced her formally as Lady Kassia de Moreton to all his men-at-arms, and all the servants. His wife. His possession. He would hurt her. She forced herself to look at him. She saw concern in his dark eyes, and blinked. Blanche had to be wrong. He was kind. He would not harm her.

“I . . . I am a bit tired, my lord, that is all.”

“You may retire in a few minutes. I will join you later.”

No! Her tongue touched her lower lips in her nervousness.

It was an unconsciously sensuous gesture and Graelam turned quickly away from her. He called out to Rolfe, his master-at-arms, “What have you heard of de Fortenberry? Has he kept to his own lands?”

“Aye, my lord,” Rolfe shouted back, above the din of voices. “The man is many things, but he is no fool. He knows you would burn his keep down about his ears if he dared to attack any of our demesne farms.”

“I have heard,” Guy said, “that Dienwald de Fortenberry buried his wife some months ago. Perhaps he would be interested in the Duke of Cornwall’s assistance in finding him another.”

Graelam merely grinned and said, “I wish another twelve or so men, Rolfe. Many men lost their masters in the Holy Land and have become no more than vagabonds.”

Kassia listened to their talk. She wished she could ask Graelam to direct some of his wealth toward the keep. She became aware that Blount, the steward, a cadaverous man of middle years who was once, she had heard, a priest, was speaking to her and turned politely to attend him.

Blanche slipped from the hall and made her way to her chamber. So de Fortenberry had no wife, she thought, hope beginning to stir through her. Nor did Graelam, not really, not yet. Despite what she had told Kassia, she doubted Graelam would take his young wife until he believed her strong again. She sat on her narrow bed picturing Kassia’s pale face at her words. If he were tempted, perhaps the girl’s fear would stop him, at least for a while. Unwanted tears spilled onto her cheeks. I am a wretched witch, she thought, yet I cannot seem to help myself.

Kassia’s fear had quieted. Her husband was still below in the hall discussing various matters with his men. He had gently patted her hand when she had excused herself, but he had appeared distracted. Surely he would not harm her. She tightened the sash of her bedrobe more tightly about her waist and snuggled down under the covers. She was nearly asleep when she heard the bedchamber door open. She sat up, drawing the blanket to her chin. Graelam entered, holding a candle in his hand. His dark eyes locked on hers from across the room.

“I had hoped you would be asleep,” he said.

She wanted to ask him where he was going to sleep, but the words lay leaden in her mouth. She said only, “Nay.”

“Do you miss Belleterre and your father?”

She nodded, praying he would not see her nervousness.

He set the candle down atop a chess table and began to take off his clothes. He had stripped to the waist when he heard her gasp. He turned to see her staring at him.

“Did you never attend your father or his guests in their bath?” he asked gently.

She shook her head.

“You have never seen a naked man?”

A chestnut curl fell over her forehead as she again shook her head.

Graelam was silent for a moment, watching her. He knew fear when he saw it. An unwonted stirring of pity went through him. He slowly walked to the bed and sat down beside her. He could feel her tensing, though she did not move away from him.

“Listen to me, Kassia,” he said quietly. “You are young and innocent. Your husband is a stranger, and you are living amongst strangers. You have also been very ill.” He paused. “Must you stare at my chest?”

Her eyes flew upward to his face. “I am sorry, my lord,” she whispered.