2
Kassia shrugged out of her ermine-lined cloak, folded it carefully, and laid it across the saddle in front of her. It was much too beautiful to wear, she thought with a smile, remembering her father’s sly looks when he presented it to her on her last birthday. She had teased him that it was a gift for a princess and not a simple maid living in the wilds of Brittany. As for her nurse and maid, Etta, she had tisked behind her hand, claiming the master was spoiling her baby, but Maurice had only laughed.
Kassia raised her face to the brilliant sun. It was a beautiful spring day, with soft puffy white clouds dotting the blue sky, and air so pure and clean and warm that she couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough. She turned slightly in her saddle and looked back toward Belleterre. Her eyes glistened with pride at the sight of the four round towers that rose proudly to formidable heights, guarding the surrounding countryside like massive sentinels. Thick gray stone walls, aged to mute grace over the last hundred years, connected the huge towers, forming a large square atop the rocky hillock. Belleterre was not only her home but also a strategic fortress, commanding the River Morlaix. No enemy could sail from the sea up the river without the soldiers of Belleterre knowing of it. And no enemy could escape detection landward, no matter how stealthfully they tried, for the castle commanded the highest hill in the area. As Kassia gazed beyond the thriving town of Morlaix, toward the sea, she remembered the stories her father had told her of the violent past when powerful men had fought to gain control of Brittany. Belleterre had survived, for even the stoutest war machines had faltered and failed before they could draw close enough to harm Belleterre with their flaming balls of fire. Siege was their only fear and her father would remind them of it every year when the crops were safely stored. Kassia, every bit as fine a housekeeper as her grandmother had been, would ensure that the outbuildings were well-stocked with wheat and fodder, the meat cured, and enough flour and salt purchased to withstand the forces of the King of France himself.
Thomas, one of her father’s squires, reined in beside Bluebell, drawing Kassia from her thoughts. “My lady,” he said, pointing to the east, “a group of men is approaching. We should return to Belleterre.”
She nodded, remembering her promise to her father, and urged Bluebell into a canter back to Belleterre. She smiled, thankful that he would be home within the week. Home with enough wine from Aquitaine to last him a decade! How she had teased him, chiding him about the red lines on his nose from too much drinking. He had believed her until he had stared closely into a silver mirror and come after her, bellowing. She had felt so guilty that she had allowed him to trounce her in chess.
Pierre, the porter, raised the portcullis, and their small troop rode into the inner bailey. As always, Kassia felt a sense of accomplishment when she viewed the cleanliness of the outbuildings and the well-swept cobbled ground that slanted gently downward to the outer bailey so that rain could not collect and stagnate. There was no filth, no untidiness in her home, and all who lived within the keep were well-fed, and clothed in stout wool. A group of children were playing near the large well, and Kassia waved gaily to them. They also were a part of her huge family, and she knew each of them by name. “We live in a rabbit warren,” her father would complain with a smile. “Sometimes I cannot even relieve my bowels without someone about.”
“Thomas,” she said after he had helped her to dismount, “have Pierre close the gates until we know who our visitors are.”
“Yes, my lady,” Thomas said, unable to entirely keep the worship from his voice. He was Kassia’s age, and his father held sizable lands to the east, but he knew, sadly, that Kassia regarded him as a brother. It was just as well, he thought, turning to speak to Pierre, that he would win his spurs within the year. He did not think he could bear to be around when her father gave her in marriage to another man.
“Damned whoreson!” Pierre spat, watching the dozen riders approaching Belleterre. “ ’Tis that miserable Geoffrey de Lacy. I recognize his standard. It should be a weasel and not a proud eagle. How I’d like to tell the lout to keep his hide away from Belleterre and my lady!”
“I will see what Kassia wishes,” Thomas said.
But Kassia had heard, and she called to him to open the gates. Geoffrey was her cousin, son of her father’s sister, Felice. Evidently his strident, altogether disagreeable mother had not accompanied him this time. Thank the saints for one small favor, she thought. If only her father were here! She climbed the wooden stairs to the outer wall and watched Geoffrey draw his small troop to a halt at the base of the hill. He was richly attired, as usual, in dark blue velvet, and she imagined that his pale blue eyes were assessing the worth of Belleterre. She chewed on her lower lip, wishing she could refuse him entry. But, of course, she could not.
“Kassia, ’tis I, Geoffrey,” he called up to her. “May I take my rest for a while?” She did not even bother to call back to him, Geoffrey noted, his lips thinning with annoyance. Proud little bitch! Once he was wed to her, he would teach her manners. He could not prevent his eyes wandering lovingly over every inch of Belleterre as he and his troop of men rode slowly upward toward the massive gates. It would be his soon. He would be lord of Belleterre and away from his mother’s infernal harping and sharp tongue.
He straightened his shoulders, pasted a smile upon his face, and rode his destrier into the inner bailey to where Kassia now stood awaiting him. He had not seen her for nearly six months, and he felt a tingling of pleased surprise as he noted the soft curve of her breasts, more fully rounded now, more womanly. He admired her magnificent chestnut hair that caught the sunlight in its thick silken strands, falling in lazy waves to her waist. But he did not like her eyes, though they were a brilliant hazel, wide, and framed with dark thick lashes. They gazed at him too straightly, directly into his face, into his mind. She was forward for a woman; his damned uncle had coddled her, not teaching her h
er place. But on this visit Geoffrey had no trouble smiling as he viewed his future home and his future wife.
“Kassia,” he said, dismounting to stand beside her. “You become more beautiful with the passing months.”
“Geoffrey,” Kassia said shortly in acknowledgment, disregarding the caressing tone of his voice. “My father has not yet returned from Aquitaine.”
“Ah, it is not just your father’s company that draws me.”
“What does draw you, Geoffrey?”
His lashes lowered over his eyes, hiding their annoyed expression. “The lovely day, and you, my cousin. May I spend an hour with you? Unfortunately, I must return to Beaumanoir by evening.”
Kassia nodded, picked up her skirts, and led him up the winding stairs into the great hall. “I trust your mother is well,” she said.
Geoffrey laughed. “My mother is always in good health. She is particularly in fine fettle when I am about, a likely candidate upon which to vent her spleen.”
“Well,” Kassia said, bending a bit, “she treats you better than she treats me! Imagine her telling my father that I am far too young to manage Belleterre! As if I were some silly twit raised in a convent!”
Geoffrey relaxed at the honest laughter in her voice, and her eyes were twinkling in the most beguiling way. It was wise of him, he thought, to come here today. He would be the one she would wish to see when she heard about her father. He would have her, willing or unwilling, but he preferred her to want him, to accept him. The thought of forcing a lady was distasteful to him. She motioned him to a chair and he again noticed, with pleasure, the soft roundness of her breasts as she gestured with her hand.
“You have not grown taller,” he said.
“No, I fear it is my fate to forever be at the level of my father’s Adam’s apple. Would you care for some ale, Geoffrey?”
He nodded and sat back comfortably in the high-backed chair. It felt like home already. It was not her father’s chair, but nonetheless it was solid and intricately carved, and lasting, like Belleterre itself. He watched Kassia give orders to a serving girl, her voice gentle and pleasingly soft. “Kassia is like her mother, Lady Anne,” his mother would snort upon occasion. “Soft and spineless and without spirit.” But Geoffrey knew she was wrong. Kassia was gentle because she had been raised gently. She appeared soft because her father treated her with unrelenting affection. He doubted if anyone had ever spoken roughly to her in her life, except of course, his mother. But she had spirit, perhaps too much for a girl. His eyes drifted down to her hips. So slender she was. He wondered if she would bear him sons without dying in childbirth as her mother had. His own mother had informed him that Kassia was late in developing into a woman, and he winced, remembering her crude discussion of Kassia’s monthly flow of woman’s blood, not begun until she had passed her fifteenth year.
Kassia handed him a goblet of ale and a slab of cheese and freshly baked bread. “I am certain that Thomas will provide your men with refreshment.” She sat down across from him in an armless chair and looked at him with her direct gaze. “Why are you here, Geoffrey?”
“To see you, cousin,” he said, breaking off a piece of bread.
“My father would not approve.”
“Your father is wrong not to approve. I have never done him ill and he is my uncle, and I am his heir.”