Fire Song (Medieval Song 2)

“Kassia,” he murmured softly. “Do not cry, poppin. All will be well now, you will see.”

“I do not deserve you,” she said, sniffing back the hated tears.

“Well, we are even, for your husband does not deserve you.” He patted her back and released her. “In the morning, poppin. Everything always looks brighter in the sunlight.”

Kassia smiled. It had always been one of her father’s favorite sayings. She turned to go, when his voice halted her in her tracks.

“Do you love Graelam?”

She turned slowly back to face him, and Maurice sucked in his breath at the tragic sadness in her expressive eyes. She said very quietly, “I am sick with love for him, Papa.” She gave a harsh, derisive laugh that made him wince. “I am a fool.” She turned quickly, lifted her skirts, and fled up the stairs to the upper chambers.

Maurice stood still for many long moments, listening to her light footfalls on the stairs. He had met Marie and lost his heart to her. How could any man not do the same for his daughter? Was Graelam so hardened a warrior that there was no giving, no softness in him? Maurice shook his head and walked slowly to his chamber, knowing that Marie would be there in his bed, ready to comfort him with all the kindness in her heart.

There were no more conversations with her father. Kassia knew she was purposefully avoiding him. She saw the questions in his eyes when she chanced to look at him, but it was too soon. The pain was too sharp within her. She spent the next day to herself, walking about Belleterre, searching out all her old childhood haunts. She

spoke to all her old friends, savoring their words, for they evoked happier times, when her life was simple and filled with love. How odd, she thought, walking up the steep wooden steps to the eastern tower, that she had always taken everyone’s love and approval for granted. Several times the servants had come to her with questions, out of long habit, she assumed, and she had sent them to Marie. She had no intention, just as she had assured her father, of wresting the management from her new stepmother.

She gained the watchtower and threw back her head to savor the gentle breeze from the sea and the bright afternoon sunlight on her face. She heard the men-at-arms joking with each other on the practice field. In other days, she would have skipped happily down to watch them, never questioning that she was welcome.

Her eyes widened at the sight of a group of men riding toward Belleterre. Her heart began to pound, and her breath grew short. No, it could not be he! Still, her feet moved along the walkway toward the great gates of Belleterre. She stood motionless, watching the clouds of dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves. She recognized Graelam’s standard, recognized his mighty destrier. He looked utterly resplendent in his silver mail and black velvet surcoat. He had come. But why? To assure himself that Belleterre would still be his upon her father’s death?

She stood directly above the gates, looking down at her husband as he halted his men. She heard Pierre, the porter, shout down, “Who are you, my lord? What do you wish at Belleterre?”

She watched Graelam jerk off his helmet and pull back the mesh hood from his head. “I am Graelam de Moreton. I have come for my wife,” he shouted upward, his voice firm and commanding.

Kassia felt a wave of dizziness flood through her. It could not be true, she thought, doubting it even as it passed through her mind. Her husband was a possessive man. Had her leaving him hurt his pride?

“I am here, my lord,” she shouted down at him, leaning forward so he could see her.

Graelam looked upward, and to her consternation, a wide smile crossed his face. “Madam wife,” he called up to her. “I trust you are well after your harrowing journey.”

“It was not at all harrowing,” she said coldly. “Dienwald was most careful of my well-being.”

There, she thought, let him realize the truth. She waited to see the fury turn his face to stone. His smile, to her utter surprise, did not falter.

“Have your men open the gates. My men and I are weary.”

She stood a moment, irresolute. He had but a dozen or so men with him. He could not force her to return with him. Her father would protect her. She called to the porter. “Allow my lord to enter, Pierre.”

She found herself smoothing her hair, wishing that she was garbed in a more becoming gown. Fool! she chided herself. It matters not if I look like a dairy maid. She flung back her head, her chin up, and marched down the stairs to the inner bailey.

He rides in like a conquering master, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she watched him. Her chin rose higher.

Graelam drew Demon to a halt some feet from his wife and dismounted. He handed the reins to one of his men, then looked back at her. It was not going to be easy, he thought, so pleased to see her that he had to hold himself back from grabbing her and crushing her against him. He was aware of men and servants closing about them, all of them ready to club him to death if he threatened her in any way. Their show of loyalty pleased him.

“My lady,” he said, halting in front of her.

“Why are you here, Graelam?” she asked without preamble.

“It is as I said, Kassia. I have come to bring you home to Wolffeton.”

“There was no reason for such an action, my lord. I assured you that you would not lose Belleterre.”

“I do not give a flying damn about your father’s possessions, my lady,” he said very softly.

Her chin rose even higher. “Dienwald de Fortenberry brought me here. I paid him with the necklace.”

“Aye, I know it well.” He reached out his hand so quickly she had not time to jerk away from him. He cupped her chin in his palm. “Your pride pleases me, wife. Now, I would like something to drink, my men also. We have ridden hard this day.”