Fire Song (Medieval Song 2)

“You must welcome Lord Graelam de Moreton to the family,” Charles said jovially, his eyes alight with deviltry on Geoffrey’s pale face.

Geoffrey felt such fury that for a moment he could do nothing but think of the dagger in his belt. His long fingers unconsciously stroked the fine-boned handle.

“I have heard much about you,” Graelam said, studying Geoffrey as he would any enemy. Geoffrey de Lacy was about five years his junior, Graelam guessed, a tall, slender young man blessed with broad shoulders and a pleasing face. His hair was dark brown, but it was his eyes that held Graelam’s attention. They were a pale blue and shone from his face like slivers of blue ice. He wondered cynically, remembering Lady Felice’s randy disposition and dark coloring, if Geoffrey had inherited his features from his father or another.

He watched Geoffrey run his tongue over his lower lip. “I did not know,” Geoffrey said, his voice as icy as his eyes, “that my esteemed uncle knew any Englishmen.”

“Ah,” Graelam said easily, knowing that the duke was enjoying himself immensely, “I did not meet him until very recently. Indeed, I saved him from being murdered by a band of ruffians in Aquitaine.” Maurice’s conjectures were right, he thought, catching the flicker of guilt in Geoffrey’s eyes. And dismay and frustration.

Geoffrey realized that he must get a hold on himself, for the duke was standing near, all attention. He stared at the harshly handsome man who was regarding him with something close to contempt. How he would like to slit the English bastard’s throat!

“His gift to me,” Graelam continued coolly, “was Kassia’s fair hand and Belleterre. I shall . . . cherish my possessions.”

“Kassia is too young,” Geoffrey said, pain and fury breaking his voice. “She is innocent and trusting—”

“No longer,” the duke said, laughing, a leering gleam in his dark eyes. “Innocent at least. Lord Graelam is a man of strong passions, as I’m certain his young bride realizes now.”

Geoffrey pictured Graelam naked, his powerful body covering Kassia’s, pictured him thrusting between her slender legs. “Kassia was to have been mine,” he growled, unable to contain his rage.

“I suggest that you forget both Kassia and Belleterre,” Graelam said. “Your own keep, Beaumanoir, is much in need of your attentions. Of course, I did not see many of your men. Perhaps they were off elsewhere, following your orders.”

“You make insinuations, my lord,” Geoffrey spat, his hand going to his dagger.

Before he knew it his arm was caught in a grip of iron. “You, my puppy, had best forget your plans and disappointments, else I will break your neck. If ever Belleterre tempts you again, you will find yourself with your face in the dirt.”

Geoffrey tasted fear like flaky ashes in his mouth. Hatred boiled inside him, making him tremble. “You will regret what you have done, my lord,” he said. He ripped his arm from Graelam’s hold and strode from the chamber.

A fine drizzle began to fall and Graelam pulled his cloak more closely about him. He cursed, unable to keep the image of Kassia de Lorris’ ravaged face from his mind. He could still hear the soft rattle rising over her labored breathing. She was dead and buried now, poor child, beyond Geoffrey’s twisted desires. He found himself worrying about Maurice, and wondered if he shouldn’t return to Belleterre. But no, Maurice had been adamant. He had wished to grieve alone, and Graelam knew he must respect his wishes. He wondered how long Kassia’s death could be kept a secret. He imagined that within the year he would be returning to Belleterre to defend it from Geoffrey’s greed. He smiled grimly at the thought of running Geoffrey cleanly through with his sword.

5

Kassia was trapped in darkness. She realized that her eyes were closed, but she hadn’t the strength within her to open them. She heard a hoarse, whimpering sound.

“Hush, my baby.” She heard a soft, crooning voice, Etta’s voice, and she quieted.

She felt a wooden object pressing against her lips.

“Open your mouth, Kassia. ’Tis beef broth.” She did as she was bid. The delicious liquid coursed down her throat.

“Papa,” she whispered.

“Yes, ma chère. I am here. A bit more broth and you can sleep again.”

Maurice gently wiped the trickle of broth from her slack mouth and raised worried eyes to Etta.

“Time, my lord, ’twill take time. The child will live. She’s a de Lorris.”

“Aye,” Maurice said, his voice sounding as tired as he felt, “a de Lorris.” But Jean, his son, had been a de Lorris, and he had died. So young he was, so innocent and helpless.

He sat back in his chair, his eyes upon his daughter’s ravaged face. He wondered idly if the final absolution the priest had granted would serve her when the time came for her to really leave this earth.

“Fool,” he muttered to himself. “Your brain is becoming fodder for the cows.” He thought of Graelam de Moreton, and felt a shudder go through his body. He would not think of Graelam now, nor what that proud warrior would think or do when he discovered his wife lived.

“Papa?”

“Aye, poppin.”

“It is raining. ’Tis a marvelous sound.”