Fire Song (Medieval Song 2)

“Aye,” Graelam laughed, “and you’ll know every inch of me.”

He drew back the cover and studied her plump white body. “Aye,” he said, his dark eyes caressing her, “every inch.”

He fondled her and kissed her, pleased that her breath tasted fresh. Her soft flesh was silky and giving beneath his fingers and his mouth. When she was throbbing and hot, he pressed himself between her open legs. She sheathed him to his hilt, wrapping her legs about him, drawing him even deeper, and he realized vaguely, not particularly displeased, that she was as experienced as any whore. He reared back, thrusting deep, and felt his body explode. He rolled off her onto his back. He wondered if her soft cries of pleasure had been real or feigned.

“My lord?”

“Aye?” he said, not turning to her.

“May I rest with ye the night? ’Tis cold and the storm frightens me.”

“Aye, you may stay.”

He felt her fingers running through the thick tufts of hair on his chest. “But expect, my pet, to be awakened during the night. My appetite for you is but momentarily sated.”

Nan giggled and stretched her length against his side, hugging herself to him. She had pleased him, she thought. Now life would be better for her. Aye, much better. She smiled into the darkness at the thought of the sour looks Lady Blanche would cast her. The old bitch wouldn’t dare to touch her now.

“Well, Graelam,” the Duke of Cornwall said as he tilted his goblet to his mouth, “I have seen several wenches’ bellies swollen with child.”

“And you’re wondering if it is my seed that grows in their bellies?”

The duke shrugged. “It matters not. What does matter is that you have legitimate heirs for your lands, not bastards.”

“Ah,” Graelam said with a crooked grin, “I was wondering when you would tell me the reason for your visit to Wolffeton. Not, of course, that I am not delighted to greet you.”

The duke was silent for a moment. He and Graelam were alone in the great hall, sitting opposite each other next to the dying fire. The trestle tables were cleared of the mountains of food from dinner. The jongleurs Graelam had hired were long in bed, as were all of Graelam’s men and the duke’s.

“I have heard from Edward,” the duke said. “He and Eleanor are still in Sicily. I carry the responsibility for his children whilst he must travel. And England’s coffers pay for his adventuring.”

“I have certainly paid my share!”

“That you have, my boy.”

“It is because of your strength and honor, my lord duke, that Edward need not come running back to England to fight for his throne. The barons are content. England is at peace. He knew great disappointment in the Holy Land, and if he chooses to travel to mend his weary spirit, so be it.”

The duke sighed, raising an age-spotted hand. “Aye, ’tis true. Edward has grown into a fine man. Men follow him and trust him. Once I feared that he would be weak and vacillating, much like his poor father.”

Graelam said quietly, “As much as you hated Simon de Montfort, my lord duke, ’twas from him that Edward learned his administrative ability. It held us in good stead in the Holy Land. There is no doubt in any man’s mind that Edward the king can be trusted and obeyed. He is also a valiant warrior.”

“Aye, I know.” The duke shook his white head. “I become an old man, Graelam, and I am weary of my responsibilities.”

“And I weary you with this late night. Perhaps, my lord,” Graelam continued, a glint in his dark eyes, “before you retire, you would care to tell me the reason for your visit.”

“I have found you a wife,” the duke said baldly.

Graelam was not surprised by his words. Indeed, during the past five years, the Duke of Cornwall had upon several occasions presented him with likely heiresses. Graelam cocked his head at the duke, saying nothing.

“Her name is Joanna de Moreley, daughter of the Earl of Leichester. She is young, comely, rich, and above all, appears to be a good breeder. ’Tis time you wed, Graelam, and produced heirs for Wolffeton.”

Graelam remained silent, staring into the graying embers in the fire.

“You still do not hold Lord Richard de Avenell’s daughter dear, do you?”

“Nay,” Graelam said. “Do you forget, my lord, the Lady Chandra wed Sir Jerval de Vernon? He, not I, managed to tame her. To my ultimate relief, we all parted friends.”

“So I hear,” the duke said dryly, “which brings me back to the Lady Joanna. Do you deny that you have need of heirs, Graelam?”