“I cannot help but understand you! You are a brute and a braggart, but I won’t believe you!”
He did not release her, but sighed deeply. “Perhaps in five or ten years you will come to believe me. Together, Blanche, you and I will build Chitterly into a great holding.” He chuckled, and leaned down to kiss her lips lightly. “Our children will never believe their mother a spineless wench.”
“You mock me, Guy,” she muttered, “and you are slippery as the wettest fish. I do not like you.”
“Nay, but you love me. I will accept that for a while. I trust that you will not go against my wishes.”
“You would likely beat me if I did.”
He touched his hand to her slightly rounded belly. “No, but I would find other ways to punish you.”
She buried her face against his shoulder. “I do not mean to say bad things, Guy,” she whispered. “I was just so . . . afraid.”
He kissed her temple. “But not now. Not ever again. And, love, I enjoy your fishwife’s tongue.” He felt her stiffen in protest, and quickly said, “Now I will take you to bed and make you forget everything but your passion and your love for me.”
The afternoon was clear and sunny, the air crisp. Lords and ladies were gathered in the huge tower courtyard to see the competition between King Edward and Lady Chandra de Vernon. Graelam left Kassia with the queen and joined Jerval de Vernon and his friend Sir Mark. There was much good-natured jesting and prodding until Jerval tore off part of his tunic sleeve. “An adequate favor for my lady?” he asked, and the men dissolved into more laughter.
“My lord is quite cocky,” Queen Eleanor said with a smile, “but I think he will soon become quite serious about it all. You watched Chandra practicing yesterday, Kassia?”
“She is unbelievable,” Kassia said. “I never dreamed that a woman could be so . . .” She sought vainly for a word.
“Complete?” Eleanor supplied.
“Perhaps. And she is so beautiful.”
“Actually, Kassia, her completeness came only when she fell in love with her husband. She was not always as happy as she is now.”
But her husband always loved her, Kassia wanted to say. Instead, she spoke of the match. “She is concerned that the third round will do her in. The distance requires a great deal of strength, and she says that only the king can shoot so far with accuracy.”
“Aye, I know,” Eleanor said. “I believe my lord insisted upon it. He does not like to lose.”
Kassia laughed. “At least he is honest about it!” She looked toward Chandra, who was laughing as her husband wrapped a piece of material about her arm as his favor. I would be like her, Kassia thought. If I could but learn a little of what she does so effortlessly, perhaps Graelam would admire me. She gasped at the thought of herself wielding a lance, riding a mighty war-horse. Nonetheless, the thought stayed with her.
Eleanor turned to speak to the Countess of Pembroke. Kassia looked about her and smiled at a slight, light-haired girl whose belly was rounded with child. “You must be tired,” she said. “Come and sit beside me.”
“Thank you. I do not have the energy that I used to have.”
Kassia felt a brief twinge of envy, then looked toward Chandra. “Does she not look utterly beautiful?”
“Aye. You should see her in her armor, though. ’Tis a sight that taxes the mind. I grew up with Chandra, you see.”
Kassia’s thoughts whirled and she said abruptly, “Were you at Croyland when Graelam de Moreton came to take her?”
The girl stiffened, but answered quietly enough, “Aye, I was there.”
“Did Lady Chandra truly hurl a dagger at Graelam?”
The girl nodded. She turned at the sound of a bright child’s laughter. “Ah, my daughter, Glenda.” She took the child from a nurse and lifted her in her arms. “Glenda, I would like you to meet a lovely lady.” She looked inquiringly at Kassia.
“Kassia is my name. She is a lovely child. You are very lucky.” Kassia gazed at the little girl’s thick dark hair, then into her large gray eyes. Suddenly Glenda leaned toward Kassia, her small hand clutching at the ermine of her cloak. The child laughed as she stroked the fur, and Kassia froze. The expression was Graelam’s.
“Are you all right, Kassia? You look very pale.”
Kassia gulped. “I do not believe I know your name,” she managed at last.
“Mary. My husband, Sir Mark, is yon, standing with Sir Jerval and . . . Graelam de Moreton.”
The pause in her voice boomed in Kassia’s mind. Was Mary a former lover of Graelam’s? It seemed impossible. Mary appeared so sweet, her face so gentle and innocent.