Splendor, page 2
“So a few skirmishes arise now and then,” Geoffrey said with a shrug. “Tempers flare, then they are quickly soothed. ’Tis naught but posturing on both sides. In my opinion, Stephen’s authority is no less secure than it ever was. Besides, as two of his barons, we stand to gain far more than we ever have. Stephen is not as strict as was his predecessor.”
“That is my point,” William snapped. “Where Henry Beauclerc was forceful and resolute in his actions, his nephew, Stephen, is weak and indecisive. As for the term we, you had best change that to the singular. I am content with what I have. But I fear you are not. Greed, Geoffrey, is part of Satan’s scheme. Beware your immortal soul, my friend, or you might find it lost.”
Catherine noted how her future father-in-law’s gaze had narrowed on her sire. “Milords,” she said, her hands falling on her father’s shoulders. “Such political talk is far too cumbersome, especially at a time like this. Our guests are enjoying themselves. And so should we.”
“You’re right, Daughter,” William declared. His large, callused hand patted hers. “The night is indeed for merry-making. Come. Sit. There will be no more ‘cumbersome’ talk, as you call it.”
While her father was speaking, Miles had risen from his chair. “And what, Catherine, do you know of politics?” he asked.
“I know that Stephen has a generous heart. Because he does, he tries to please everyone at once. For that reason, he is perceived as being weak. He might be wise to take a stand. His position as king could depend on it.”
“A stand? Against whom?” Miles asked. “Those who support him?” He chuckled. “Catherine, you are such a delight, but I fear your woman’s reasoning is not very sound. No man would be so foolish as to make enemies out of his friends, especially Stephen.”
Catherine frowned. Her “woman’s reasoning”? He made it sound as though she were a dunce simply by virtue of her gender. She felt Miles’s touch. He lifted her hand from her father’s shoulder, upward to his lips. His light kiss brushed over her fingers.
“Do not wrinkle your brow so, Catherine. It mars your exceptional beauty,” he stated, his gaze penetrating hers.
Catherine was instantly captivated by the alluring look in Miles’s dark blue eyes. Her stomach fluttered with excitement as her heartbeat quickened, and the disparaging remark was quickly forgotten as images of their forthcoming marriage bed flashed through her mind. Heat flamed from her neck upward to her cheeks, for Catherine knew her thoughts were anything but maidenly. She immediately feared the consequences of such a fantasy.
“Lustful” was what the chaplain would say when she made her confession tomorrow. Ten days’ penance, starting with her wedding day, would undoubtedly be her reward.
Was feeling desire for one’s future husband really a sin?
The question rolled around in her mind. Knowing that the castle priest was quite strict in his views, Catherine debated whether or not she should meet him at dawn. Though she desired to ease her conscience, thereby coming to Miles not only pure in flesh but pure in spirit, something told her she might be wise to forgo confession altogether.
From his position at a lesser table, Rolfe ignored the jovial throng of several hundred that feasted in the great hall and concentrated on the betrothed couple seated on the dais. A wooden partition stood at their backs, separating them from the hustle and bustle of the kitchens. The sable-haired bride-to-be, in particular, held his interest, had done so for the past hour.
A waste of woman’s flesh, sweet and soft, he thought in disgust as he watched Catherine de Mortain from over the rim of his cup. Certain she was the one he’d seen at the window, he decided she was indeed fair, but Rolfe wondered if she possessed all her wits. To marry Miles would be a grievous mistake. A cowardly husband would afford her no joy, only a passel of spineless sons.
But the beautiful Catherine’s future happiness was of no concern to him. What did concern Rolfe was the forestalling of tomorrow’s nuptials. Opportunity was all he needed. He prayed the occasion presented itself, and quickly, else all would be lost.
Rolfe swilled his wine, then grimaced at its bitter taste. But the wine was no more bitter than the feelings he held for the comely Catherine’s betrothed.
Memories of the road to Antalya filled the field of his mind. His heart began to hammer, and raw fear erupted inside him, just as it had on that day five years before, when he’d faced the prospect of his own death.
In the echoes from the past, he could still hear the eerie cries reverberating through the valley as droves of Turkish raiders swept down from the hills, catching the unsuspecting Crusaders off guard. Incredibly, he could yet smell the sweat from the battle and the blood from the carnage that was left behind. Then Rolfe relived the greatest horror of all.
Away from the main troop of Norman warriors, the band of two hundred having allied themselves to the French king, was Robert de Bayeux, Rolfe’s lord and mentor. His own sire unknown to Rolfe, Earl Robert had been akin to a father to him. Beside the earl was the man’s son. To Rolfe, Francis de Bayeux was the older brother he had always longed to have, the friend and companion he had always desired. In their company was Miles d’Avranches, the one person whom Rolfe hated with a passion, and for good reason.
On seeing the heathen Turks streaming down on them, Miles had paled and fled, leaving both Robert and Francis to fight on their own. By the time Rolfe managed to traverse the expanse to their side, lifeless bodies lying in the wake of his sword and ax, he discovered he was too late. His only claim to a family lay dead, bludgeoned and maimed.
Rolfe’s stomach lurched at the grisly picture that formed in his mind’s eye. Swallowing hard, he quickly shut the door to the past. That the gutless Miles hadn’t recognized him was no surprise. Though neither he nor Miles had continued on the sacred journey to Jerusalem, their return to Normandy had taken separate paths. Even so, Rolfe was determined to keep his distance, just to be safe.
A shadow fell over him, and Rolfe looked up to see that Garrick had returned. “Well?” he asked once his companion was seated.
The knight lifted his cup to shield his lips from prying eyes. “The talk is about the wedding and the bride ale,” he whispered. “’Twould indicate they are still unaware Henry has invaded England.”
“Even Stephen may not yet know he is about to be dethroned. But it shouldn’t be long before he is faced with the truth.”
“Aye,” Garrick seconded. “Pray Henry is successful, for England’s sake.”
Both men lifted their cups in salute, then drank deeply. Grimacing anew, Rolfe wondered if everyone’s wine was as foul as his. Then again, his mood might be the cause of the sour taste in his mouth. “What about the two women?” he asked. “Will we find any help there?”
“The plump one is the Lady Catherine’s nurse—Eloise is her name. The younger one is Eloise’s niece. The girl is pitifully plain and terribly shy. Of the two, I’d take my chances with her.”
“If she is as shy as you say, I doubt I’ll get within ten feet of her before she seeks to flee,” he said, watching the girl in question.
“I’ve yet to know a woman who would willingly run from you. One glimpse of your wide white smile and her heart will melt. She’ll be wanting to thread her fingers through your tawny locks and press her lips to yours. With luck, her tongue will loosen as well.”
Garrick’s words drew a sharp look from Rolfe; the older knight guffawed. “There have been times, my friend, when I’ve missed the mark,” Rolfe said once Garrick had quieted. “I fear this might be one of them.”
“If you wish to discover if that is so, I suggest you act now. She’s headed behind the partition to the kitchens.”
Knowing this might be his only chance to glean the information he sought, Rolfe came up from the bench and moved away from the table. His gaze on the girl’s aunt, making certain she didn’t spot him, he strode the hall’s perimeter. When he reached the wooden screen he glanced at the betrothed couple, who were now only a few yards away from him. For some unexplained reason, the look of devotion that the sweet Catherine cast upon her future husband galled Rolfe. Dismissing the pair, he slipped behind the partition.
Rolfe kept to the shadows, watching and waiting for the girl to reappear. No more than a minute had passed when she came from the kitchens, two flagons of wine held in each hand. Her head down, she nearly collided with him as he stepped into her path. She stumbled back, wine sloshing onto her hands.
“Steady, sweet one,” Rolfe said as he gently caught her arm.
At the endearment, surprise showed on her face; then, her eyes downcast, she tried to twist from his grasp. Rolfe felt her tremors of fear, but he held her fast.
“I didn’t intend to startle you,” he told her. “Calm yourself. I mean you no harm. Never would I injure a woman who is as delicate and enticing as you.” Under his hand, her quaking eased somewhat. Timidly, she peered up at him; Rolfe offered her a smile. “What is your name?”
“C-Clotilde,” she squeaked, unable to look him full in the face.
“Clotilde,” he repeated in a whisper. “A beautiful name it is.” His smile broadened. “I’ve been watching you, Clotilde. And with great interest.”
“M-me? Why would milord want to watch me?”
“There is a gentleness about you that intrigues me. The women I’ve known tend to be shrewish and bold. A man grows weary of such unfeminine behavior. When he comes upon a maid who is both quiet and shy, soft and tender, he is taken with her straight off. ’Tis the same with me, Clotilde. As I say, you intrigue me.”
Rolfe watched as a blush crept across her otherwise wan cheeks. Her once lackluster gaze brightened.
“I—I don’t know what to say, milord,” she responded, now looking at him fully.
Though Rolfe felt guilty about using the girl this way, he nevertheless pressed on. “Say you will come with me so we can become better acquainted.”
He stroked her arm lightly. A shiver ran through her, and her blush deepened. Several servants grumbled their annoyance as they attempted to slide by them, their arms laden with trenchers of food.
“Come, Clotilde.” He urged her aside. “Let’s find a secluded spot where we may talk.”
Her look of expectation turned to one of regret. “I—I cannot. I have work to do.”
“Later, when you are through with your work, say you will meet me then.”
She shook her head. “I cannot.”
“Why?”
“My aunt won’t allow it.”
“Your aunt need not know. Please, Clotilde,” he implored, his fingers brushing the curve of her cheek. “Don’t deny me this opportunity. I’ll only be at Avranches a short while. Meet me tonight. Please?”
Leaning toward him, Clotilde moaned softly. Then, at the sharp call of her name from without, the spell that Rolfe had worked so hard to weave around her was suddenly broken; she blinked.
“My aunt!” she gasped. “She’ll chasten me with a switch if she finds me here with you.”
He caught her arm as she attempted to flee. “Later, then,” he insisted, refusing to give up.
“No. I must attend to the Lady Catherine.”
Again the girl tried to escape him, but Rolfe blocked her path. “When you are through attending your mistress, you could meet me then.”
“I cannot,” she replied in desperation. “I must be up well before sunrise.”
“So early? Why?”
“Clotilde!” Eloise’s voice sounded closer, sharper.
The girl looked to the wooden curtain, then to Rolfe. “The Lady Catherine is to rise early to make her confession in the chapel at dawn. I must help her dress. Please let me go. My aunt—”
“Clotilde!”
Rolfe ducked back into the shadows just as Eloise came around the barrier.
“What are you doing here?” the woman questioned sternly. “The guests are in need of more wine. Come!”
Rolfe watched as Clotilde scurried toward her aunt, then disappeared altogether. He waited, then rounded the divider.
As he headed back to his place at the table, he glanced toward the dais and noted that Miles and Catherine were missing from their seats. Suspecting the pair had slipped off for a private moment alone, he hoped they made good use of their time together; for after tomorrow, it would be a long while before they saw each other, if ever again.
Catherine experienced a familiar tingle in the pit of her stomach as she walked in silence beside Miles. They had escaped the hall to stroll the courtyard away from prying eyes. Though the cold night air nipped at her fingers and stung her cheeks, she hardly noticed its bite. The love she felt for Miles kept her warm, deliciously so.
Midway around the courtyard, Miles stopped. Leaning against the wall, he drew Catherine to him and linked his arms around her waist. “Tomorrow is the day for which we’ve waited, Catherine. Are you ready to accept me as your husband—in every sense of the word, that is?”
Catherine felt heat rise on her cheeks. “Aye, I am,” she answered softly.
“Good. For I shall expect many sons from you in the years to come.”
Catherine’s blush deepened. “Only sons and no daughters?” she asked.
“Of course daughters. Once our eldest son weds, how else can other lucrative marriages be formed? The right alliance, whether it be political or monetary, is all important to me. Without daughters, it would be nearly impossible to achieve.”
In the dim torchlight illuminating the courtyard, Catherine examined Miles closely. His statement surprised her. Never would she have thought that he would look upon his own flesh and blood as mere chattel—not when he’d made every effort to treat her as his equal. “You mean if each of our daughters approves of the match, don’t you?”
“I, alone, shall decide such matters.”
“Surely, Miles, you will consider each of their feelings in the matter. Besides, the Church says that no man or woman may be forced into a marriage he or she does not want. If you are not careful, you could find that, one by one, our daughters will reject the men you choose. I, as their mother, will have to stand behind their right to refuse.”
“Despite what the Church says, those in charge have a tendency to look the other way in these matters, especially if, by doing so, they profit.” Miles chuckled. “As I recall, your father was the one who made the decision about our betrothal. He insisted that we wed, did he not?”
“Yes. He insisted. But perhaps I should clarify something. You weren’t the first who wanted to contract for my hand in marriage. My father considered me in all such proposals. If he’d been unfeeling, the way many fathers are, I would have been wed by age twelve. I can assure you, had I not found you to my liking, there would have been no betrothal, Miles. I’d have sequestered myself in a convent before marrying a man I could not abide.”
“I fear, Catherine, that your education has made you too independent for your own good. Had your father sent you off to such a convent at an early age, as most fathers favor doing with their daughters, instead of keeping you at home as he did, you would probably be less outspoken and more demure. In case you aren’t aware of it, the latter is considered a virtue among women.”
Catherine bristled. “Is that what you hope I shall be once we marry? Demure?”
“It would be appealing at times.”
“It is unlikely I shall change once we are wed. So do not fault me because I was educated the same way as a man. I cannot help that my father chose to keep me at home. In fact, I am glad he did.”
“I don’t fault you. I am simply saying, that because you were educated in such a way, you have a tendency to make all decisions on your own. As your husband, it is my right to make them for you.”
“I will allow, Miles, that it will be your right once we are married. But I would hope you would consider my feelings before you make any decision that affects me or our children. Otherwise I fear we will have words over the matter, whatever it is.”
“Catherine, since we met, have I not always considered your feelings?”
“Yes,” she conceded. “At least most of the time.”
“And when have I not?”
“Last week, when you wouldn’t allow me to go on the hunt with you.”
“Your safety was at issue. A boar hunt is dangerous. You know that as well as I.” He shook his head, then sighed. “Let us not quarrel on the eve of our wedding. If it will ease your mind any, when the time comes for our daughters’ betrothals, I’ll listen to their concerns before making any decision.”
“Do you swear this to me?”
Miles looked down on her. He remained silent for a long while. When he spoke, he said only, “Come. The moon will soon be rising. Let’s climb to the wallwalk and watch it from there.”
Catherine allowed Miles to guide her to the stairs leading up to the battlements. As they ascended the steps, she contemplated his refusal to swear to his words. Twice tonight she’d seen a side to Miles that he’d kept hidden from her.
He is not what he seems.
Eloise’s words tumbled through her mind, and for one brief moment, Catherine wondered if her nurse could be right. Just as quickly, she shoved the thought aside, attributing Miles’s mood and her suspicions to naught but nervousness over their forthcoming wedding.
“Well?” Garrick questioned when Rolfe reached the table.
“Come. Let’s make our way outside.”
Once in the courtyard, Garrick asked, “Were you able to question the girl?”
“Clotilde? Aye,” Rolfe said as he scanned the area. Movement along the wallwalk caught his attention.
“And?”
“In a few hours we’ll gather our mounts and leave the castle.”
“ ‘Leave’?” Garrick repeated, a frosty mist showing on his breath. “Have you given up?”
“No. We’ll position the horses in the wood. You’ll await me there.”
