Fire Song (Medieval Song 2)

“Thank you, Rolfe!” She gave him a radiant smile, and he was stunned at the pure sweet beauty of her face.

Rolfe waited now until she had shot her final arrow, then strode forward. He could see his breath in the still, cold air. Fallen leaves crunched under his booted feet. He worried that she would catch a fever, standing for so long in the silent winter afternoon. But he also knew that to say so would wipe the pleasure off her face. He said evenly, “You must hold your right arm more stiffly. Here, let me show you.”

He helped her until he felt the cold seep through his thick clothes. She must be freezing, he thought, and stepped back from her. “That is enough, my lady. My old bones need the warmth of a fire.”

“And some hot ale!” Kassia exclaimed happily. “For you too, Evian.”

Evian tucked her bow and the leather quiver beneath his arm, as if it were he who was practicing so faithfully. Rolfe had told him only that his lady’s practice was to be a surprise for Lord Graelam.

Kassia entered the great hall, a pleased smile still on her face. She drew up abruptly at the sight of Graelam, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her. He had returned the evening before from a visit to Crandall. He had not asked her to accompany him, and she had said nothing. It had given her nearly a week to practice without worrying if he would come upon her. She felt a deep, lurching pleasure as she stared at him. He looked vigorous, and splendidly male, his thick black hair tousled around his head. Her face became a careful blank at his harshly asked question.

“Where have you been?”

Her eyes fell. He had been so busy with Blount. It had not occurred to her that he would miss her, and she had practiced but an hour.

“Would you care for some mulled wine, my lord?” she asked carefully.

“What I would care for, my lady, is an answer from you.”

She raised her chin. “I was walking in the orchard.”

She saw the blatant distrust in his eyes, and hastened to add, “Evian was with me. I am thinking about planting some . . . pear trees in the spring.”

Graelam wondered why she was lying to him. Pear trees, for God’s sake! “Come and warm yourself,” he said, his voice roughening with concern. “Your nose is red with cold.”

She obeyed him willingly after she had given orders for some mulled wine.

“Sir Walter,” she said, relieved that Graelam did not question her further, “how fares he at Crandall?” It was difficult to keep the dislike from her voice.

“He is a bit overbearing with the peasants, but I doubt not that he will settle in.”

Kassia had hoped that Sir Walter would show his true colors to Graelam, but it appeared that he hadn’t yet. She said, “Did Blount show you the message from the Duke of Cornwall?”

“Aye, and it worries me. All his talk about growing old! One would think that with Edward safely on the throne, the duke would relax a bit and enjoy life.”

“He has no more responsibilities to keep him young. It would seem, as you have said, that once the heavy burdens are lifted, a man could enjoy his peace. But it is not so. Sometimes I think that Geoffrey and his threats of treachery keep my father healthy, though I pray it is not true.”

“Let us hope that your father has enough to keep him busy during the winter. If Geoffrey plans something, he will not execute it until spring.”

“How I pray that Geoffrey will forget his disappointment! I cannot bear the thought of Belleterre being threatened.” She moved closer to the huge fireplace and stared into the leaping flames. Her father and Belleterre had been the two constants in her life. Geoffrey had always seemed but a mild nuisance. Belleterre and her father were her refuge, even now, if Graelam no longer wanted her. Two tears spilled onto her cheeks and trailed quickly downward. She did not have the energy to brush them away.

“Stop crying,” Graelam said. “You are not a child, Kassia, and there is no reason to worry about Geoffrey.”

His tone sounded harsh and cruel to his own ears. Oddly enough, he understood vaguely what she was feeling. He cursed softly when she raised her face and looked at him with such hopelessness.

He gathered her into his arms, pressing her face against his warm tunic. “Hush,” he said more gently, his strong fingers kneading the taut muscles in her slender shoulders.

He felt a surge of desire for her. He well understood lust, but what he felt for Kassia was tempered with other emotions, deep, swirling emotions that he was loath to examine. Damn her, he thought, holding her more tightly. He had bedded several serving wenches during his stay at Crandall, hoping that the next one would give him release and wipe Kassia’s image from his mind. But after his stark passion had peaked and receded he had lain awake staring into the darkness even as the woman who had pleasured him lay sleeping blissfully beside him.

He felt the delicate bones in her shoulders, so fragile beneath his strong fingers. He closed his eyes, breathing in the sweet scent of her. No other woman smelled like her, he thought somewhat foolishly. He lowered his head and rubbed his cheek against her soft hair. Lavender, he thought. She smells of lavender. His hands dropped lower, cupping her hips. He felt her stiffen. He gave a low, mocking laugh and pushed her away from him. His voice was a familiar taunt. “I will not take you here, my lady. Dry your tears and see to our evening meal.”

Kassia brushed away her tears, cursing herself for desiring his strength and his comfort even for a moment. “Aye, my lord,” she said quietly, and left him. She smiled and spoke throughout the long evening, seeing to Graelam’s needs, while wishing that she could creep away someplace and shroud herself in the bleakness of her spirit. She listened to him speak to his men, listened to him laugh as they traded jests. He had not touched her the night before, and she knew that he would take her this night. She wanted him to take her, she realized, make her forget, if only for a moment. But not in anger. Not as a punishment.

She excused herself and went to their bedchamber. It took her some time to rid herself of Etta. She bathed in hot scented water, forcing herself to accept the conclusion she had fought against for so long. Pride and truth yield but empty misery. She thought of all her practice with the bow and arrow, and laughed aloud at her foolishness. Perhaps Graelam would admire her, but likely it would not bring him to trust her, to believe in her. Only a lie would change how he treated her.

When Graelam entered much later, she was lying in their bed propped up against the pillows.

“I had expected you to be asleep,” he said as he stripped off his clothes.