Fire Song Read Free Page B

regretting his agreement to stay at Belleterre, even for a few days. This Kassia was likely a rabbit-toothed, carpy female, so unattractive that Maurice was courting him, Graelam de Moreton, an Englishman and a virtual stranger, as a possible husband for his daughter.
    But he liked Maurice. He enjoyed his wit and the outrageous tales he spun. He hadn’t even lost his sense of humor when the skies opened up and made the entire troop feel like drowned rats. And, Graelam knew, under Maurice’s skillful probing he had likely told him all Maurice wished to know. He wondered, smiling to himself, if Maurice would like to know that his first wife had had a wart on her left buttock.
    “As for that nephew of mine,” Maurice had grunted in disdain the afternoon before, “he’s naught but a worthless fool.”
    “Mayhap a dangerous one,” Graelam had said calmly.
    “Aye, ’tis possible,” Maurice had agreed. “Slimy bastard!” He had told Graelam about his son, Jean, a fine lad, who, he had long suspected, had been left todrown by the jealous Geoffrey. “He lusts after Belleterre, and his mother has encouraged him. She had the effrontery to tell me to my face that her son was my heir! My heir, all the while looking at Kassia as if she were naught but a fly on the ceiling! Aye, I know what is in both of their minds. Kassia wed to that malignant wretch and my sister lording it over everyone at Belleterre!”
    “Why,” Graelam had asked Maurice, “did you not remarry after the death of your son?”
    The veil of pain that had fallen into Maurice’s eyes had shaken Graelam, and he needed no words to answer his question.
    And now he would meet Maurice’s sister, Lady Felice, and perhaps the nephew, Geoffrey.
    Beaumanoir was a small castle, of little strategic importance, Graelam saw, set near the edge of a narrow lake. The water was dirty brown and churning, but had not yet flowed over its bounds. Nor did Beaumanoir appear to be a rich keep. The surrounding countryside was dotted with hilly forests of beech, oak, and pine, and the rain-drenched soil looked poor. He was aware of ragged serfs, shivering and miserably clothed in the inner bailey. He followed Maurice up the stairs into the hall, Guy at his heels.
    “Brother dear,” a tall woman said. “What a pleasant surprise. My, how very wet you are, Maurice. I hope that you will not die of a chill,” she added, her smile ruthlessly insincere.
    Maurice grunted. “Felice, this is Lord Graelam de Moreton. We are both in need of a hot bath and dry clothes.”
    She was a tall, slender woman, Graelam saw, and not unhandsome, even though she must be over forty. Her hair was hidden beneath a large white wimple.
    “Certainly, Maurice.” Felice glanced more closely at Graelam de Moreton and felt a quickening of blood in her veins. Lord, but he was a man, and handsome! Felice gave sharp instructions for her brother’s bath to a serving wench and walked toward Graelam, her hips swaying gracefully. “You, my lord,” she said softly, “I will see to personally.”
    This is all I need, Graelam thought, to be seduced by Maurice’s lustful sister in my bath. He was tired, and all he wanted was to drop in his tracks. Aloud he said, “You are all kindness, my lady.”
    He left Guy in front of the open fire in the hall, a shy serving wench hovering over him, and followed Lady Felice to the upper chambers.
    “Your son is not here, my lady?”
    “Nay,” Felice said. “He will be sorry to have missed his uncle.”
    If Geoffrey were behind the ambush in Aquitaine, Graelam thought, it did not appear that his mother knew about it.
    “I am certain,” Graelam said, “that Maurice is of the same mind.”
    Felice did not notice the sarcasm in his voice, her attention on lighting the candles in her chamber. “Ah my lord, ’tis not elegant, for I am but a poor widow.” Her voice rose sharply toward a cowering serving girl: “Betta, see that Lord Graelam’s bath is prepared,