“You would not be burdened with a wife unknown to you. You will have only the responsibility of Belleterre. What matters it to Kassia if she is wed before she dies? What matters it to you?”
Graelam hissed out his breath, his body hard and coiled with tension. “I will not marry the child! I buried one wife, I will not wed another only to bury her within hours! See you, Maurice, ’tis madness, ’tis your grief!”
Maurice drew back in his chair, but his eyes never wavered from Graelam’s face. “Hear me, my lord. If Kassia dies unwed, my own death warrant is signed. Geoffrey will not wait for my body to rot with age. He will take what he believes is his. But with you as Kassia’s husband—”
“Widower!”
“—widower, Geoffrey will find himself helpless against a powerful English nobleman! I cannot save my daughter, but I can save Belleterre! Marry her, Graelam, then you will go to the Duke of Brittany and swear your fealty to him. I ask nothing more of you. You can return to England with naught but honor, and the promise of rich lands for your sons!”
Graelam rose swiftly from his chair and paced to and fro in front of the older man. “You do not even know me!” he said, striving for cool reason as he came to an abrupt halt in front of Maurice, his arms folded over his powerful chest. “I was a stranger to you until less than a week ago! How can you trust your lands to a man who could, for all you know, be the biggest scoundrel in all of Christendom?”
“I would rather trust my fortunes to an unknown scoundrel than to a known one. Be you a scoundrel, my lord?”
Graelam gritted his teeth. “Leave be, Maurice. If you fear your nephew, I will kill him for you before I leave Brittany. Does that ease your mind?”
“Nay,” Maurice said quietly. “Belleterre must have its lord, and he must be strong, ruthless, and a fearless warrior. You must be the future Lord of Belleterre.”
Graelam stared at him in stunned silence.
“Even now,” Maurice continued, “Kassia could be drawing her last breath. If you do not wed her, my lord, I will lose everything I hold dear in this wretched world. By all that’s holy, man, do I ask so much of you? I take nothing from you, only give! You do not lose your vaunted honor! You suffer no shame!”
It was not Maurice de Lorris’ passionate words that decided Graelam at that moment. It was the unashamed tears that streaked down his cheeks.
“Let us get it over with,” Graelam said.
Graelam held Kassia’s hand in his as the priest said his marriage lines in the early hours of the night. He felt the delicate bones and knew a moment of utter pain. Maurice’s scribe had hastily penned the marriage contract, and in the bleak silence of the stifling hot chamber, Graelam de Moreton signed his name and titles. He watched silently as Maurice guided Kassia’s hand over the parchment.
“My daughter writes,” Maurice said, his voice quavering. “I taught her.”
It was done. Graelam heard the soft rattling deep in her chest and knew that the end was near. Slowly he drew off his ring, thick pounded gold inset with onyx, the deep imprint of a wolf raised on its surface, and slid it onto Kassia’s middle finger. He closed her fingers into a fist to keep the ring from sliding off, and gently laid her hand over her chest.
“Come, my lord,” Maurice said. “There is much to do before I grieve.”
Graelam took one last look at his wife, then followed Maurice from the chamber.
“It will be morning soon, my lord. You must journey immediately to St. Pol-de-Leon, ’tis on the northern coast. The Duke of Brittany is at his castle there. You will only tell him that you have wed Kassia de Lorris and present to him the marriage contract.”
“I am known to the duke,” Graelam said. He remembered the powerful Charles de Marcey, a proud man, but a man Edward approved. Graelam had bested the duke in a joust. He wondered if de Marcey would remember.
Maurice’s eyes glittered and he rubbed his hands together. “Excellent! You must swear fealty to him. Kassia’s death will be kept a secret for as long a
s possible.”
“Very well, Maurice. I will return—”
“Nay! There is no need, my lord. I will bury my daughter and you will continue on your way.” He paused a moment, his eyes lowered to his gnarled hands. “I wish to grieve alone. I will be safe from Geoffrey, for your marriage will be proclaimed far and wide. I thank you, Graelam de Moreton.”
Graelam saw a tear fall on the back of Maurice’s hands. He felt a portion of his grief, but he knew no words to ease it.
“I wish you well, Maurice,” he said. He took the older man in his arms and pressed him tightly. “I will share some of your pain, my friend.”
“I thank you,” Maurice said again, and drew back, his shoulders straightening. “You must leave now. Godspeed, my son.”
Graelam halted his small troop to gaze back at Belleterre bathed in the crimson streaks of dawn. It was a magnificent castle, and he could not prevent the surge of pleasure that one day Belleterre would belong to one of his sons.
“Guy,” he said to the silent young knight beside him. “You know what has passed. I wish you to keep all to yourself. Ensure that the men keep silent also.”
“Aye, my lord,” Guy said. “I . . . I am sorry, my lord.”