Fire Song (Medieval Song 2)

Kassia’s mind was reeling with her father’s completely unexpected news. She had a stepmother! She watched a graceful woman of some thirty-five or so years walk toward them. Her hair was as black as a raven’s wing, her eyes a soft brown, her complexion fair. There was a questioning smile on her face.

“My love,” Maurice said, releasing his daughter. “This is Kassia, come for a visit!

”

“How very lovely you are!” Marie said, holding out a beautiful white hand. “Maurice speaks so much of you— and your husband, of course.” She gazed around expectantly.

“My husband did not accompany me,” Kassia said, feeling tears choke in her throat. She would not make a fool of herself in front of her father’s new wife!

“No matter,” Marie said complacently, as if a wife traveling without her husband were the most common occurrence. “I hope we may be friends, Kassia. Come, my dear, I will take you to your chamber. You must be weary from your journey.” She smiled gently at her husband. “We will join you a bit later, Maurice.”

“You are quite a surprise,” Kassia said frankly as she accompanied her new stepmother up the winding stairs to the upper chambers.

“Your father and I just returned to Belleterre three weeks ago. I believe he intended to send a message to you and your lord in the next day or so. Oh dear, I had hoped we would have a few moments of quiet!”

Three children, two young boys and a girl, were racing toward them.

“My children,” Marie said, lifting her dark brows in comic dismay. “I fear now we shall have little peace.”

“They are beautiful!” Kassia exclaimed as she stared down at a doe-eyed little girl of about seven years. The two boys hung back. “How very lucky you are.”

“Now I am,” Marie said quietly. “Gerard, Paul, come and greet your sister. And you, Jeanne, make your curtsy.”

“Oh dear,” Kassia said, bursting into merry laughter. “I am overcome!”

“My lord, there is an encampment ahead.”

Dienwald drew in his destrier. “Are they French? Did you see a standard?”

“Aye, my lord. Three black wolves, upright and snarling against a background of white.”

Dienwald shook his head, bemused. “The Wolf of Cornwall,” he said softly. Graelam. Well, he had told Kassia her husband would come after her. It would be easy enough, he thought, to ride unseen around Graelam’s camp. It was on the tip of his tongue to give that order, but he did not.

Graelam stretched out on his narrow cot, pulled a single blanket over himself, and commanded his weary body to sleep. Tomorrow, he thought, watching the lone candle spiral its thin light to the roof of the tent, he would see Kassia. His fury at her disappearance had faded, leaving only a numbing emptiness within him. He though again of her message, and it chilled him. “You must not worry about my safety, my lord,” she had written, “for I will be well-protected.” By whom? he wondered, but the answer gnawed clearly in his mind. She had hired Dienwald de Fortenberry once; likely she had done it again. “It is likely that my father will not blame you for my failure. Belleterre will doubtless be yours in any case. I trust, my lord, that you will find a lady who will please you.”

And that was all. Nothing more. Did she really expect him to let her go? Did she really think so little of herself that she believed Belleterre the only reason he had kept her as his wife? Damned little fool!

He gave not two farthings for Belleterre at the moment. He wanted his wife. He wanted to beat her, kiss her and crush her against him. He wanted to hear her tell him that she loved him, that she forgave him. He laughed mirthlessly. How he had changed, and all of it wrought by a skinny little girl whose smile would melt the heart of the most hardened warrior. Except yours, you fool! Until now.

Graelam heard a soft rustle as the tent flap raised. He sat up, instantly on guard, and reached for his sword.

“Hold, my lord Graelam,” he heard a man’s deep voice say. He saw a flash of silver steel.

“What is this?” Graelam growled, not loosing his fingers from his sword.

“I mean you no harm, my lord. I am not your enemy. I have too healthy a wish to keep my body intact.”

“Who the devil are you?”

“Dienwald de Fortenberry. Your wife spared me the only other opportunity I had of meeting you.”

Graelam sucked in his breath, his eyes glittering in the dim light. So he had been right. The bastard had taken Kassia back to her father. “Just how did you get past my men?” he asked, his voice coldly menacing.

“A moment, my lord. I beg you not to call for you men. I have no wish to run you through.”

Graelam released his sword, and Dienwald watched it fall to the ground. “Thank you,” he said. He looked at Graelam de Moreton closely. He was naked, save for the blanket that came only to his loins. He was a powerful man, his chest mightily muscled and covered with thick black hair. Dienwald could see the ribbed muscles over his flat belly. Aye, he thought, a man women would admire, and desire. His eyes roved over Graelam’s face. It was not a handsome courtier’s face, he thought, but it was strong, proud, and at the moment harsh, the dark eyes narrowed on Dienwald’s face. His mouth was sensual, the lower lip full, his teeth gleaming white and straight. Dienwald was probably a fool to take this chance, slipping into this man’s camp, but he had decided it was a debt he owed to Kassia. He shook himself from his examination, aware that Graelam was studying him just as closely.

Graelam eyed the man. His features are the color of sand, he remembered Kassia telling him. It was true. “What do you want?” he asked coldly. Oblivious of his nakedness, he rose and poured two goblets of wine. He quirked a black brow toward Dienwald.