Fire Song by Catherine Coulter Read Free Book Online Page B

swilling I will have a veined red nose!”
    She sipped the wine, enjoying its smoothness and warmth. “Papa,” she said. “I want a bath. I cannot continue to lie here and wallow in my own filth. Then Iwant to lie in the garden and feel the sun upon my face.”
    Maurice beamed at her, feeling his heart swell. “You shall have whatever you desire, poppin.” He wrinkled his nose. “You are right about the bath. That must be first.”
     
    It was a golden day in Cornwall. The sun shone hot and bright overhead and the stiff sea breeze smelled as sweet as the clumps of wildflowers that grew on the surrounding hills.
    Graelam felt utter contentment as he drew Demon to a halt at the edge of the sloping cliff and stared down at the white-crested waves that crashed against the rocks below. From St. Agnes Point, a sharp jutting finger of land, he had a view of at least thirty miles of northward coastline. The rugged cliffs gave onto land so savage and desolate that even the trees were stunted and twisted from the westerly gales that pounded them. Beyond St. Agnes Point lay the small fishing village of St. Agnes, as desolate and rugged and timeless as the craggy cliffs it hugged.
    Graelam remembered his hikes along the winding footpath below St. Agnes Point when he was a boy, exploring the caves and calmer coves that indented the coastline, and felt the savage beauty of Cornwall burn into his very soul. He turned in his saddle. Inland, beyond the ragged cliffs, were rolling hills where sheep and cattle grazed, and between the hills, in narrow valleys, farmers tilled the land. His land. His home. His people.
    Rising behind him like a rough-hewn monolith stood Wolffeton, fortress of the de Moretons since Duke William had deeded the lands to Albert de Moreton afterthe Battle of Hastings over two hundred years ago. Albert had torn down the wooden fortress of the Saxons and had erected a stone castle that would defend the northern coast of Cornwall from any assaulting forces, be they marauding Danes or the greedy French. On stormy nights lamps were lit in the two seaward towers, warning off ships from the deadly rock-strewn waters.
    In the distance he could make out the stonemasons repairing the seaward wall, eroded over the two centuries by the ferocious sea storms. The jewels he had brought with him from the Holy Land had brought a respectacle price, enough to repair the walls of Wolffeton, the outbuildings, his men’s barracks, and to purchase sheep, cattle, and a half-dozen horses. As for the great hall and the upper chambers, they had not changed much since Albert’s days. That had never mattered to Graelam before, but upon his return a month before he had found Wolffeton lacking. The long walls beneath the soot-covered beams in the great hall looked primitive and bare. The rough-carved trestles and benches, even his ornately carved chair, were equally bare, with no thick velvet cushions to soften their lines. The rushes strewn across the stone floor had not the sweet smell of those at Belleterre, and there was not one carpet to deaden the heavy sound of booted feet. There were, he thought ruefully, no comforts, even in his huge bedchamber. His long-dead first wife, Marie, had not seemed to care, nor did her half-sister, Blanche de Cormont. He was but growing soft, he grunted to himself, wanting the exotic luxuries he had grown used to in the east.
    Rolfe, his trusted master-at-arms, had certainly maintained the discipline of Wolffeton during Graelam’s year away in the Holy Land. But there had been problems awaiting his return, problems that an overlord’sabsence engendered. There were judgments to be rendered, feuds to be settled, laxness among the castle servants to be halted. Blount, his steward, had kept his records well, but even he could not force a greater production of cloth or discipline the wenches whose job it was to keep the castle in good order. But it gave Graelam a good feeling to be thrown back into the