Lady of Fire Read Free

of them. My sister Adela has the temper of a viper."
    Eleanor spoke before she thought. "It cannot be the same for you, Your Grace. Your father does not hate you for being a girl, and I am sure that your mother did not hate you either. My parents have never forgiven me for that which I cannot help. I suppose that is why Roger and I have always meant so much to each other—we are both despised for what we were born. Only he, Dame Glynis, and my old nurse care about me. And I love Roger above all things." Her shoulders began to shake slightly.
    "Demoiselle, you weep too soon. Your brother will be back often enough to visit, I promise you." Henry's words only seemed to increase her anguish, causing him to try another subject. "Even if your lot is unhappy for the moment, little one, it will not be too long before you will be betrothed to a lord that loves you." He shifted his arm to cradle her against him. "Nay, sweet child, none could look upon you and not love you."
    "You are kind," she sniffed, "for you do not know me. My lord will most probably beat me because I cannot sew and I have not the least ability in household accounts."
    Her innocence brought forth a fierce desire to protect and comfort her. "Believe me," Henry told her, "when I say that such accomplishments are commendable but have little to do with a lord's love for his lady. A man can pay to have his sewing done, and he can get a steward and a seneschal to run his household. On the other hand, it is a rare marriage contract that yields a beautiful wife."
    "Your Grace—"
    "Demoiselle, you may call me Henry—come, I am not much older than your brother. Can we not be friends?"
    She half-twisted her body to look at him. The friendliness in his face was unmistakable as she studied him. Unlike his father, he was not dark. His open countenance was framed with light brown hair cut straight across the forehead in Norman fashion, and his eyes, while brown, were not nearly so dark as the Old Conqueror's. But it was his easy smile and gentle manner that made her think that this surely must be the best of
Normandy
's sons.
    "I am but seventeen and yet to be knighted," he continued. "While there is some small difference in our ages, I hope your brother and I may become friends. Perhaps we will both be able to visit you, and mayhap my father will order you to court when this quarrel with France is done."
    She leaned her head back against his chest much as she would have done with Roger. As the prince's arm tightened protectively around her, she was suddenly struck by the picture of impropriety they must present. She tried to sit upright before any could see her, but found herself held so tightly against him that she could feel his heartbeat.
    "Your Grace… Henry," she protested, " 'tis unseemly that you hold me thus—though the fault is mine."
    He relaxed his arm reluctantly. "Nay, Eleanor, the fault is mine."
    "The black-haired one—the one called Robert—I didn't like him at all," she changed the subject to safer ground. "Is he always like that?"
    "Always. The young Count of Belesme is excessively proud, excessively cruel, excessively vain. No one likes him and everyone is afraid of him. He's Mabille's spawn."
    "Mabille?"
    "They say she's a witch." Henry crossed himself with the hand that held the reins even as he added, "I do not put much store in such tales, but she is said to have poisoned Robert's father. There are other things said of Robert and his mother that I dare not tell you."
    "What things?"
    "I say too much. What I have heard is unfit for your ears. Suffice it to say that my father is the only thing Robert of Belesme fears. When he is gone, I fear the Devil will be loosed."
    "And you, my lord—are you afraid of him?"
    He shrugged behind her. "I? I am not much the soldier, Demoiselle. I fight if I must, but I'd rather not. I have not the quarrelsome nature of Curthose and Rufus. Besides, as the youngest son, I have little enough to fight for." There was a