Fire Song (Medieval Song 2)

“My lord,” Etta said, rising to face him, “she is overly tired and knows not what she says. She must have rest!”

Graelam smiled grimly, remembering how he had come to comfort her, to spend time with her while she mended. But her drawing words had wrenched anger from him. “I will leave her to your tender ministrations,” he said, and left the chamber.

“You must not say things like that,” Etta scolded her gently.

“Why? It matters not, Etta. Nothing matters, not anymore.”

The inked quill hovered over the parchment, but she knew she could not write to her father of the despair in her heart. She inquired after his health and the winter weather in Brittany, then detailed inanely all the household improvements she had made. She did not ask him about Geoffrey, knowing that if he were to plan anything, her father would send a message to Graelam, not her. She wrote nothing of the lost babe or the state of calm indifference that existed between her and Graelam. She had just finished sprinkling sand on the parchment when Blount entered the small chamber.

“You write your father, my lady?”

“Aye, ‘tis done, Blount.”

He looked at her and then down at the parchment. “My lord will read what you have written, my lady,” he reminded her in gentle warning.

She took his meaning well, but merely smiled wearily at him. “I know. There is naught within to anger him.” She rose and shook out the skirt of her wool gown. “Indeed, it is so boring, perhaps my lord will think it useless to send.” She walked slowly to the small window and drew back the wooden shutters. “It does not feel like the end of February. There is the sweet smell of spring in the air.”

“Aye, ‘tis uncommonly warm today.” Blount eyed his mistress, worry drawing a deep furrow in his brow. “Why do you not ride out, my lady?” he suggested gently.

“Perhaps I shall,” Kassia said, turning. “Aye, ‘tis a good idea.”

Though the weather was mild, Kassia dressed warmly, choosing a velvet mantle lined with miniver. A month, she thought, walking slowly to the stables, a month waging a war without fighting. She smiled grimly. She should be used to it by now. During her short marriage she had endured more bitter than sweet, and now the bitter seemed unending. She greeted servants and Graelam’s man-at-arms, all of whom, had she but noticed, held sympathy in their eyes.

Bran was in the stables. At the sight of her his face turned pale and he rushed to her. “My lady, you must forgive me! Those damned horses, and ’twas all my fault!”

Kassia raised a hand. “You will not blame yourself, Bran. ’Twas my decision to compete and my decision not to ride my mare. No, say no more. It is over and best forgotten. I am well again. Indeed, I am riding out now to enjoy the lovely weather.”

No one tried to stop her. She waved to the porter, but did not slow Bluebell’s gentle canter. The sky was a vivid blue with fleecy clouds drifting slowly overhead. The slight breeze grew stiffer the closer she drew to the sea. She threw back her head and breathed in the crisp, salty scent of the water. She guided Bluebell down the rocky path to the small cove, the place where Graelam had taken her so slowly, and held her so gently. No, she would not think of that. She slid from Bluebell’s back and tethered her to a bare-branched yew bush that thrust out of a rocky crevice.

Kassia walked along the beach, watching the water slowly rise closer as the tide came in. It was so peaceful here. If only, she thought, raking her hand through her hair, she could know this peace all of the time. She sat down on an outjutting boulder, tucking her feet beneath her to protect them from the encroaching waves that pounded against the lower rocks, spewing white mist upward. Her mind flitted to many things, always returning to Graelam and the bitterness of her life with him. She accepted that she loved him, knowing she was a fool to do so, but unable to change the feelings that seemed so deeply embedded within her. He would always blame her for losing the babe. After all, what else was she good for? She gave vent to a mirthless laugh. She should not allow herself to forget what excellent meals he and his men now enjoyed.

And he would always believe her guilty of trying to escape him and of freeing Dienwald. After all, had she not stupidly admitted guilt to him? All to spare further anger, further recriminations. What a fool she had been! Dienwald. His face formed in her mind and she did not allow it to fade. Peace, she thought; she could hope for nothing more now. Brittany and her father. The irony of this thought made her smile bitterly. She rose slowly to her feet and shook out her velvet mantle. Her idea burgeoned and she nourished it, not thinking for the moment how she would accomplish it. Her slender shoulders straightened and her chin rose with new determination. She thought of the barbaric necklace, and laughter gurgled from her throat. If Blanche could manage it, then so could she!

Graelam read the message from the Duke of Cornwall, bidding him to come to him. He frowned, for the duke gave no indication of any urgency. Damn, he was a warrior, trained to fight. Affairs in England had been more interesting when he was a lad. Aye, he would even be pleased were one of his neighbors to try some mischief. He sighed, wondering what the duke wanted. He decided to leave immediately, for there was nothing to hold him here. Having made his decision, he called Rolfe, gave instructions, then went in search of Kassia. She was not in their bedchamber, nor could he find her in any of the outbuildings. He saw Bran approach him and paused.

“My lord,” the man began, “I hear you search for Lady Kassia. She went riding, I know not where.”

Graelam felt his jaw tighten, for he had given orders to Osbert that she was never to ride out without his permission. The man had obviously disobeyed him. He was on the point of striding to the stable when he saw Kassia’s still face in his mind. She was not foolish enough to ride from his lands. Let her mend, he thought, let her regain her health and her spirit. When he returned from the Duke of Cornwall’s, he would go more gently with her. She had not, after all, known she was with child; though she had been foolish . . . Here his thinking stopped. She had tried to impress him, believing he would admire her if she could be like Chandra. He felt a gnawi

ng pain, and flinched from it. It made him feel uncomfortable, because it made him feel uncertain about himself and what he wanted. A man who was soft with women was weak and despicable. He shrugged, forcing his mind to picture her lovely body, the silkiness of her flesh, the warmth of her when he was deep within her. He would once again enjoy her in his bed and see her smile.

Kassia still had not returned when he left Wolffeton, twenty of his men with him. He instructed Blount merely to tell her that he was visiting the Duke of Cornwall and would return to Wolffeton soon.

He looked back at Wolffeton once before a steep hillock obstructed his view. He would miss her, he realized, but it was for the best that he be apart from her for a while. Being with her constantly made him want her. And it was still too soon. He wanted her well first.

Kassia felt a crushing emptiness when Blount, unable to meet her eyes, told her what Graelam had instructed him to. For a moment she could not seem to draw enough breath into her lungs. Graelam had left. He had not cared enough even to see her, to tell her of his business or when he would return. Any niggling doubts she had felt were gone. She cursed him softly, and it made her feel better.

She rode with Bran and an escort of six men the same afternoon to the village of Wolffeton. The merchant Drieux would help her. The small wrapped package would indeed be delivered as soon as possible to Dienwald de Fortenberry, Drieux assured her. That the package contained the necklace and letter to Dienwald would remain her secret.

To Bran’s pleased surprise, his mistress laughed deeply on their ride back to Wolffeton.

32

“Little chick, may I say that you have surprised me more than I ever believed possible?”

Kassia smiled at Dienwald de Fortenberry, quite unaware that it was a sad smile, one that tugged at his heart. “But you did come,” she said.

“Aye, though I was tempted to believe it another ruse on the part of that whoreson Sir Walter.”