Lady of Fire (41 page)

To Eleanor, the toneless quality in his voice was more frightening than his rage. "Nay…" She tried to keep her own voice calm while moving toward him. "You would kill me for what I cannot help, my lord. I have loved Roger all of my life."

"Then you love a dead man." Without turning around, he walked slowly to the steps, leaving her to stare after him.

Eleanor pondered his reaction and worried. For the time being, her revelation had cooled his ardor, but could it save her? She was an obsession with him, and he'd proven that he'd go to any lengths to possess her. And, supposing he let her live and she bore the babe in this grim fortress. Would he let the living proof of her relationship with Roger live? She had no faith that he would. Resolutely she dressed herself and decided to seek out Mabille.

It was not an easy decision. From all she had heard of the beautiful Mabille, the woman was a witch capable of anything. Sweet Mary, but the lady was at least forty and did not look half that. But mayhap she could reason with her, because one thing was certain—Count Robert might want her, but his mother did not.

She found Mabille almost by accident, glimpsing her red hair as she disappeared into the new building in the yard. Eleanor picked her way past workmen hammering inside the doorway and slipped inside unchallenged. The place itself was enough to make one stare. A great open hall with high, beamed ceiling and tall stained-glass windows occupied the entire front of the building. At either side of the huge room were hallways going behind. There was no sign of Mabille there so Eleanor forced herself to cross the room to the nearest passageway, where she found several spacious chambers. And, behind them, a covered walk led to the castle kitchens.

"What are you doing here?"

Eleanor spun around guiltily and faced Mabille, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. The woman was cold and haughty, her voice like ice. A quick glance revealed they were alone in the passageway between chambers.

"I came in search of you," Eleanor answered simply. "You would not have me here, Lady Mabille, and I would not stay."

"And you think I will help you?" Mabille asked disdainfully. "Nay—he would kill me."

"You are his mother—surely for the love he bears you, he could forgive," Eleanor tried. "Help me escape this place."

Mabille's green eyes glinted like glass. "Look around you, Eleanor of Nantes, and see what he has built for you." Her mouth twisted in hatred and jealousy. "For you," she repeated. "What we had was not good enough for the Demoiselle of Nantes—nay, he would give you everything. He would turn me out to have you." A wave of her white hand indicated the building that surrounded them. "For you, there had to be a palace." She spoke bitterly. "I would not help you if I could."

"I did not make him do any of these things—nay, I would not have him."

"Does it matter? He would have you. I am not enough for him."

"You are his mother still."

"I bore him—aye, in travail, the fruit of his father's lust. He nearly tore me apart with his birthing and I would not have another." Mabille looked away as though remembering some distant thing.

"But you are his mother," Eleanor persisted. "As I will be mother to the child I carry." She had the satisfaction of seeing the other woman start. "Aye—I bear my husband's son." She reached out to touch the white arm. "Please—aid me."

"Nay!" Mabille shook away and drew back. "I would see you in hell first!"

"But
why
? You do not want me here," Eleanor tried to reason, "and you could be rid of me."

The green eyes flashed. "Make no mistake about it, Lady Eleanor—I
will
be rid of you. Robert will tire of this passion soon enough and you will be gone, but you will not leave." With that cryptic pronouncement, the redheaded woman turned on her heel and walked away.

Eleanor pushed ahead of her and blocked her path. "You have not listened—I have no wish to take your place as mistress here!"

"You will not."

"Eleanor!"

Both women turned guiltily to face Belesme. Mabille recovered first and sneered. "The little fool thinks I would help her escape."

He paid her no attention, facing Eleanor instead. "I told you to stay away from her. Why must you always defy me?"

"I would leave!" she cried. "Jesu—are you both mad? You cannot keep me here! I have a husband and a family who will fight for me now. The Pope has ruled me his, and the Church will ride against you if you hold me. Even Curthouse will have to stand with him."

"And I tell you that even if the Old Conqueror lived and came for you, I would keep you. I'll hear no more of this!"

"Robert, she bears his child." Mabille gloated over her news. "You would not have her after that, surely!"

"I already know."

"Kill her then."

Green eyes met green eyes, but it was Mabille who wavered when he answered, "Nay, I cannot."

"She will bring your death."

"Nay—her next child will be mine. When Roger is dead, I will send this one to his father for heir, but I will keep Eleanor." He reached for Eleanor and pulled her roughly by the arm. "You have no business with my mother. Come away before you mark your babe."

Eleanor made the sign of the Cross over her breast and nodded. "Aye—I should not have come."

"Mabille, you will take your meals in your chamber and stay out of Eleanor's sight until I can provide escort to your dower lands."

"You dare not send me away—nay, you dare not!"

"I cannot have you both here and rest. You will be packed within the week and ready to leave."

Mabille grasped his sleeve and fell to her knees. "Robert, this is my home. You cannot do this! For what we have been to each other, let me stay!" Her voice rose shrilly as she pleaded, "Do not send me away for your dark-eyed whore."

"Witch!" He struck her with his free hand across the face. "You'll not call her thus!"

"Your whore!" she shouted.

He struck her again. This time Eleanor wrenched free and ran for the doorway to escape the confrontation between son and mother. "Mother of God!" she cried out at the sight of Piers de Sols. "Stop them!"

He came running to her aid. Eleanor leaned against the side of the building and caught her breath before explaining. "Count Robert and Mabille fight in there."

"God's blood!" the boy muttered under his breath. "I would that he sent her away."

"He sends her." Nausea gnawed at her belly and the courtyard before her floated. She closed her eyes and held to the wall. "Please… stop them before she is killed."

"Nay. They are like two fighting dogs, Lady Eleanor, and when they are separated, they turn on he who intervenes." His brows knit in concern as he watched her. "Besides," he decided, "I think you have the greater need of me just now."

"Nay, I am all right," was all she was able to get out before violent retching sent her to her knees and she was sick. Piers stood helplessly waiting for her to stop and then tried to wipe her face with his sleeve. "Get my lord!" he yelled to a startled sentry. "He's inside there!" He pulled Eleanor over to sit on one of the stairs and felt her clammy forehead. "Jesu, lady, but you are sick."

"Nay, 'tis from the babe—'twill pass."

"Holy Mary!" He sank to the step beside her. "Does my lord know?"

"Aye." She closed her eyes and tried to stop the spinning courtyard. "Some women have it only in the mornings, but it seems to strike me at any time. I have heard it is a sign that I carry a son."

His quarrel with Mabille forgotten, Robert ran toward them. One look at Eleanor's ashen and damp face stopped him cold. He pushed Piers aside impatiently and sat beside her to brace her.

"She is better now, I think," Piers offered.

"Better? You call this better?" Belesme cut loose with a string of blasphemous oaths that cowered those around him. "Eleanor, listen to me—you cannot go on like this. I am going to carry you up to your bed and then send for a physician from Rouen."

"Nay," she protested wearily. "He will tell you 'tis the child and that it will pass in another month or less."

"I have seen men broken in torture that did not vomit thus. Here—let me get you up."

He lifted her effortlessly and carried her toward the tower. "Piers! Get watered wine and stale bread! I've brought more than one stomach around with those."

He climbed the stairs, kicked open the door with heavy boot, and thrust her onto the bed, ordering brusquely, "Do not be getting up until you are better. And do not defy me in this, Eleanor. I swear I did not bring you here to die." He pushed the heavy bed curtains aside and leaned over her to slide a pillow under her head. "Piers will come and we will get something into your stomach and you will lie still until it settles."

"I never thought you to be skilled with the sick," she muttered.

"Nay, but I have revived those who would faint on me often enough that I know the means of dealing with it."

It was strange to hear him admit matter-of-factly that he brought around those he tortured so they could endure more. She shuddered at the implication and rolled onto her side away from him. He patted her awkwardly and drew back.

"Eleanor…"He hesitated as though trying to find the right words. "I have wanted you since that first day I saw you at Nantes." He paused, his green eyes serious. "Aye, I am everything you have ever heard of me—and worse—but I would not willingly harm you. I see you as mother to my sons." When she opened her mouth to protest, he stilled her impatiently. "Nay—let me finish. I am not given to pretty, courtly speeches, but I swear I have never seen your like." He rose from the bed and stared unseeing across the room for a moment. "I have my pride, Eleanor, but I would have you in spite of all. I meant what I said below to my mother. Your babe will be sent to Harlowe to claim its inheritance, but you will stay here. Learn to accept your lot and 'twill be easier for you."

"I could die easier."

Brutal, violent, and capricious, Robert of Belesme nonetheless cherished beautiful things, and nowhere was that more evident than in his castle. Indeed, he lived in the splendor of a prince behind those grim stone walls. There was nothing even in Eleanor's experience at Nantes or Harlowe to compare with what she saw when she picked her way behind Piers into Belesme's great hall. From the scrolled iron sconces instead of pitch torches to the tables laid with linen, it was apparent that Robert's home rivaled the palace at Rouen.

She soon discovered, however, that the company was less exalted than their surroundings. The poorest of the lesser nobility, those reduced to mercenary status, mingled with each other and with the richly attired members of Belesme's own household guard. As she passed by them, her face flamed crimson from the ribald remarks made about her. At one point, Piers rounded on a drunken fellow bent on accosting her.

" 'Tis the Lady Eleanor, Count Gilbert's daughter, you fool! Stand aside!"

Ignoring Piers, the man leered at Eleanor and reached to touch the rich brocade of her wide sleeve. His voice was thick as he mumbled, "Gilbert's daughter or Belesme's fancy whore—'tis no difference."

From out of nowhere, a knife cut through the air and sank hilt-deep in the mercenary's chest. His silly grin faded to the vacant stare of the dead and he pitched forward at Eleanor's side. She let out an involuntary scream that drew the attention of everyone in the hall, while Robert stepped from behind her to retrieve his dagger. When he straightened up, he swept the large room with angry eyes and demanded loudly, "Is there another who would slander Gilbert's daughter?" It was strangely silent as the men there watched their lord wipe his blade on a nearby tablecloth. Finally Belesme motioned to a serving man. "Clean up this mess."

Piers pulled the horrified Eleanor away, murmuring low for her ears alone, "There's none that will trouble you again at Belesme, my lady. Come—let me get you to your seat."

"Sweet Mary! Think you I could eat after that?" she asked as he led her to the high table.

"It's over," he answered simply.

His temper cooled, Robert joined her, casually dipping his bloody fingers into the small washbowl they shared. She watched him dry his hands on a napkin before beginning to carve the meat before him.

"You killed that man!"

"Aye."

"Because he said what the world will think if you keep me here?"

He shifted a slab of meat onto their trencher before answering, "He touched you. By rights, he should have died more slowly, but I was angered."

"You cannot kill everyone who will call me whore, my lord."

"Nay—I make it known that I mean to wed with you."

It was futile to dispute him on the subject and she had no wish to anger him further. Slowly, bite by bite, she forced herself to eat in spite of the curious stares around her. Much to her relief, Belesme seemed to be in a good mood. She glanced at the empty seat on the other side of him and thought of Mabille.

"Do you really mean to send your mother away?"

"I have sent ahead to prepare a place for her." He frowned at the thought of something. "But she will have to be well-guarded."

"Surely no one would harm your mother."

He gave a derisive snort and fixed her with those strange green eyes. "Nay—'tis not for her I fear. She will strike back if she can."

Eleanor shivered at the cold way he spoke of his own mother. Apparently her thoughts were transparent, for he nodded and told her, "In my twelfth year, I saw my father die by her hand. He was much as I am"—his voice turned harsh with the awful memory—"but she was his wife and he trusted in her. She gave him poisoned pudding and then watched hours while he died, his belly on fire. Then, while they were burying him, she took his squire to bed."

"Mother of God!" Eleanor breathed in shock at the story. Impulsively she laid a hand on the rich material of his sleeve. "It must have been terrible to you."

"Nay—I wished him dead also. There was no affection between us." He dropped his eyes to his arm. "Art softhearted, Eleanor of Nantes."

Self-consciously, she drew back. "I felt sorry, my lord. A man should love his son."