“My lord,” Graelam said, closing his hand over Maurice’s arm. “What is the matter?”
Maurice made an odd keening sound and released the old woman. “ ’Tis Kassia,” he whispered. “I am told she has a fever and is dying.”
He rushed like a madman toward the stairs that led to the upper chambers, Graelam at his heels.
Graelam drew back when Maurice flung open the door to a chamber at the top of the stairs. The room was filled with a sickening sweet scent of incense, and the myriad candles cast long shadows on the walls. There were four women surrounding a raised bed. The silence was shattering. Two coal braziers burned next to the bed, and the heat was stifling. Graelam found himself walking forward toward the bed.
Maurice was bowing over a figure, his rasping sobs soft and painful to hear.
“My dear child, no . . . no,” he heard Maurice say over and over. “You cannot leave me. No!”
Graelam moved closer and stared down at Kassia de Lorris. He felt a knot of pity in his belly. The pitiful creature was a parody of life. Her hair had been cut close, and the flesh of her face was a sickening gray. He saw Maurice clutching at her hand. It looked like a claw. He could hear her pained breathing. Suddenly Maurice jerked back the cover, and Graelam stared in horror at several leeches that were sucking at the wasted flesh of her breasts.
“Get them off her!” Maurice yelled. He clutched at the blood-engorged leeches, ripped them from his daughter’s flesh, and hurled them across the room.
The old woman, Etta, touched his shoulder, but he threw off her hand. “You are killing her, you old crone! God’s bones, you are killing her!”
The girl could be fifteen years old or a hundred, Graelam thought. He could even see the blue veins standing out on her eyelids. He wondered briefly what Kassia de Lorris had looked like before she had been struck down. Poor child, he thought, his eyes narrowing in pity on her face. He wanted to do something, but knew there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do. He turned slowly and left the chamber, the sound of Maurice’s curses and sobs filling his ears.
Guy was speaking in a soft voice to a serving wench. When he saw Graelam, he quickly walked over to him and said in a hushed voice, “The girl is dying, my lord. She came down with the fever some four days ago. She is not expected to last through the night.”
Graelam nodded. Indeed, he was surprised that she still clung to life.
“The serving wench thinks that the priest should be fetched.”
“That is Maurice’s decision.” Graelam ran his hand through his hair, realizing that Maurice’s thoughts were all on his daughter. “Have the priest brought here.”
He and Guy ate a silent meal, attended by quietly crying servants. Graelam wondered where all Maurice’s men were, but forbore to ask the servants.
“ ’Tis a rich keep,” Guy said, looking around the great hall. The trestle table shone with polish and there were cushions on the benches. “I am most sorry for Lord Maurice.”
“Aye,” Graelam said, his eyes resting a moment upon the two beautifully carved high-backed chairs that stood opposite each other not far from the warm fire. Between the chairs was an ivory chessboard, the pieces in place. He tried to picture Maurice and Kassia seated opposite each other, laughing and playing chess. His belly tightened. Damn, he thought, he didn’t want to be touched by the girl’s death. He felt suddenly as though he were trespassing. He was, after all, a stranger.
He found himself drawn to the chairs, and he eased himself down, a goblet of ale resting on his knee. He found his eyes going every few minutes toward the stairs. The priest arrived, a bald, watery-eyed old man whose robe was tied loosely about his fat stomach.
The time passed with agonizing slowness. Graelam dismissed Guy and found himself alone in the great hall. It was near to midnight when he saw Maurice walk like a bent old man down the stairs. His face was haggard and his eyes swollen.
“She is dying,” Maurice said in a strangely calm voice. He sat down in the chair opposite Graelam and stared into the fire. “I found myself wishing that you, my lord, had not saved me. Perhaps if I had died, God would spare Kassia.”
Graelam clutched Maurice’s hand. “You will not say that, Maurice. A man cannot question God’s will.” His words sounded glib and empty, even to his own ears.
“Why not?” Maurice said harshly. “She is good and pure, and gentle. It is not right or just that she be cheated of life! God’s blood, do you understand? I wanted you, the man who saved my life, a strong warrior who knows no fear, to take her to wife! To protect her, and Belleterre, to give me grandchildren! God be cursed! ’Tis an evil that takes her from me!”
Graelam watched helplessly as Maurice dropped his face into his hands and sobbed softly. He pictured the small girl in the chamber above and felt pity choking in his throat. He had seen horrors unimagined in the Holy Land, but it had been the utter waste that had disgusted him, not the actual misery of the people. He did not want to be affected by the death of one girl. By the saints in heaven, he did not even know her!
“Maurice,” he said urgently, “what will happen you cannot change. Belleterre is yours. If you wish it to remain yours, you must remarry and breed more children of your own. You must not give up!”
Maurice laughed, a humorless, bitter sound that made Graelam wince. “I cannot,” he said finally, very quietly. “I contracted a disease some ten years ago. It left my seed lifeless.”
There was nothing to say. Graelam closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair, only the sounds of Maurice’s ragged breathing breaking the silence of the hall. He felt the older man’s hand upon his arm and opened his eyes to see Maurice looking at his face with feverish intensity.
“Listen to me, my lord,” Maurice said, his fingers tightening on Graelam’s arm. “I will repay my debt to you. Belleterre is near to the coast and thus not far from your lands in Cornwall. Even if my Kassia’s blood cannot flow in the veins of Belleterre’s descendants, yours will. ’Tis noble blood you carry, my lord Graelam, and I would call you my son and heir.”
‘That is not possible, Maurice,” Graelam said. “I am an Englishman, and your liege lord would never grant me your lands. Nor do I deserve to have them. Maurice, I would have saved your life had you been a merchant! You must make peace with yourself, and perhaps with your nephew. There is no choice.”
Maurice’s eyes glistened with purpose. “Nay, my lord, attend me. If you wed my Kassia this night, you will be her husband and entitled to Belleterre upon my death.”
Graelam drew back, appalled. “No! By God’s teeth, Maurice, your mind is rattled! Your daughter is dying. Leave her in peace!”