“Yes,” Graelam said in a harsh voice. “So am I.”
He wheeled Demon about and dug in his heels. The powerful destrier bounded forward, and soon Belleterre was lost to view in a cloud of dust.
4
Charles de Marcey, Duke of Brittany, slouched in his chair, his thoughts not on the two knights squabbling before him, but on his wife, Alice, and her petulant demands. Always another jewel, or a new gown, always something! Damn her for a bitch, he thought irritably, shifting in his chair. She dared to berate him for taking a willing girl to his bed, when she, frigid witch that she was, refused him her favors. His sudden movement momentarily silenced the two knights, and they looked at him expectantly.
He waved his hand, frowning. “Continue,” he said shortly. And to his scribe he said, “You, Simon, are recording the . . . essence of this problem?”
“Aye, my lord,” Simon said, crouching again over the small table in front of him.
Poor Simon, Charles thought, he grows hunchbacked in my service. He sighed, wishing he were hunting, for it was a beautiful spring day, the air fresh and crisp. Anything but listening to squabbles about a keep small enough to fit in his hauberk! The two young men needed bloodletting and he wondered idly if he shouldn’t let them go at each other. He was aware that Simon was giving him one of his looks, damn the old man, and pulled his wandering attention back to the two men.
The morning hearings droned on. Charles informed the two knights that he would consider their respective claims and waved his hand in dismissal.
“My lord,” Robert de Gros, his closest friend and chamberlain said, approaching him. “An Englishman is here, claiming to know you. He says it is a matter of some urgency.”
Charles raised a thick auburn eyebrow and looked from Robert toward the doorway to the chamber.
“Graelam de Moreton! By all that’s holy!” Charles roared, leaping up from his chair. “I had thought we would be lucky and your hide would be skinned in the Holy Land!”
Graelam proffered a mock bow and strode forward, relieved that Charles remembered him and appeared glad to see him. “The Saracens cannot fell an Englishman, my lord,” he said.
Charles grasped him by the shoulders. “Do you never learn to show respect to your betters, Graelam?”
“Edward,” Graelam said smoothly, his voice mocking, “never had any reason to complain. How the devil did you know I was in the Holy Land?”
Charles laughed, buffeting Graelam on the shoulder. “Your King Edward has scribes to write letters, my lord, unlike the rest of his illiterate followers. I hear that you, Graelam, are one of the few to return with riches from the Holy Land.”
“Aye,” Graelam said, “perhaps even a jewel to ornament your wife’s lovely throat.”
“That,” Charles said, “is the best news I have heard today. Come, my lord, let us speak in private and I will hear this urgent business of yours.”
Graelam followed Charles from the suffocatingly ornate hall filled with chattering lords and ladies into a small chamber that held but two chairs and a single table. The court life Charles led was making him soft, Graelam thought, studying the Frenchman. Although he was but five years Graelam’s senior, lines of dissipation marred his handsome face, and a paunch was beginning to thicken his belly. But his thick auburn hair was unmarked by gray and his dark eyes were sharp with intelligence, his boredom of a few moments before replaced with interest. He certainly looked prosperous enough, Graelam thought, eyeing his rich crimson robe with its full ermine-lined sleeves.
Without pause, Graelam handed Charles the marriage contract. “I am wed to Kassia de Lorris of Belleterre. I am here to swear fealty to you as my liege lord and gain your official sanction.”
To Graelam’s surprise, Charles threw back his head and roared with laughter. “That sly old fox,” he gasped, tapping his finger against the parchment. “Ah, I cannot wait to see the fury on poor Geoffrey’s face!”
“Geoffrey de Lacy is here?” Graelam asked, feeling a tingling of anticipation.
“Sit down, Lord Graelam, and I will tell you about the nest of hornets you have stirred.”
Charles bellowed for wine, then eased back in his chair, his hands folded over his belly. “How timely your announcement, my lord,” he said blandly. “My coffers don’t yield enough.”
“They never did,” Graelam said dryly. “Unfortunately, the riches I gained in the Holy Land must be spent in reparation of Wolffeton. What I offer you in return for recognizing my marriage is a strong sword arm and fighting men to protect your lands. I am at your disposal, say, two months of the year. And, of course, a ruby perhaps for your wife.”
“Well, that is something, I suppose,” Charles said, sipping at his wine. From the corner of his eye he saw the serving wench hovering near the doorway, doubtless, he thought irritably, one of his wife’s spies. He turned a narrowed eye on the wench and she quickly disappeared.
“My wife,” he muttered, “likes to be informed of everything. I should not wonder if she knows when my bowels move!”
Graelam cocked a disbelieving brow. “You, my lord, under a woman’s thumb? You tell me that age will shrivel my manhood?”
“ ’Tis my manhood I protect!” He gave a doleful sigh. “I once believed her so lovely, so innocently sweet. And her body still tempts me mightily.”
“Your lady’s body is yours,” Graelam said, waving a dismissing hand. “Saint Peter’s bones, Charles, beat her! A man cannot allow a woman to rule him, else he is no man.”
“Ah,” Charles said, not offended, “thus speaks a man who has never known a tender emotion. Though,” Charles added, frowning into his wine, “the saints know that emotion lasts not long. The troubadours have done men a great disservice. Their verses make the ladies dream of softness and love, and a man, witless creature, plays the part to get what he wants.”