Lady of Fire by Anita Mills Read Free Book Online

Gilbert's face seemed to crumple. "Oh, God… Mary!"
    Roger and Henry picked up Lady Mary and laid her on a bench. She was breathing heavily and sweat poured profusely from her forehead. As the prince pressed a towel against her damp face, he called, "Where is the lady's chaplain?"
    Menservants cleared the way and carried her on the bench past the stunned and horrified guests. William nodded to Gilbert. "I'll come with you for witness."
    Eleanor paced the floor of her father's chamber in anguish. One by one, her sisters, her mother's relatives, even her mother's tiring women had been summoned to bid farewell to her. Yet none had come for Eleanor. Even as dawn began to creep rosily across the dimly lit chamber, she still waited. Old Herleva dozed by the brazier and left the girl alone with her thoughts. That Mary could not be brought to love her daughter did not mean the daughter did not love her. Guilt for her very existence weighed heavily on Eleanor.
    "Lea." Roger stood at the top of the stairs.
    "Is she…?"
    He shook his head. "Soon, I think. Would you go to chapel with me?"
    "You don't think Papa will send for me? No—I suppose not," she sighed. "Aye. Mayhap I should pray."
    "Don't wake Herleva," he advised in a whisper as he reached to take her hand. He half-led her down the narrow, steep stairs in the semidarkness. At one turn, she lost her footing on a closed bowman's slit and pitched forward. From there to the bottom, Roger carried her. The passage below was deserted and pitch dark where the heavy iron torchholders had not been replenished during the night.
    "Lea…" Roger drew her against him and wrapped his arms about her, whispering softly, "It is not your fault, lovey, that she could not accept what God gave her. Whatever happens to you, to Gilbert, or to anyone else in this household, you are not to blame."
    It was so like Roger to know her thoughts and to bring them out into the open. With a wrenching cry, she buried herself against him and began to sob. He held her quietly for a long time, allowing her to vent her hurt and anguish. Then rocking her against him, he began to whisper over and over, "Cry until you can cry no more, little one."
    Slowly the racking sobs subsided into gulping hiccups and then into wet sniffs. "Roger," she managed at last, "what will I do without you now?"
    He stepped back a little bit, but could not see her face in the darkness. He groped for words to explain what would happen to her, to soothe the blow of Lady Mary's final revenge on her unwanted daughter. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, uncertain how to tell her and unwilling to have her hear from Gilbert.
    "Lea…"It was no use—she'd take his news pitifully no matter what he said. Finally he reached again for her hand and began walking to the empty chapel. "Come pray with me, Lea."
    Although neither Gilbert nor Mary was particularly religious, they had made great show of their devotion to Holy Church and no place reflected this outward display more than the chapel at Nantes. As though to tempt God to send him a legitimate son, Gilbert had spared no expense. Cloth of gold and crimson velvet paneled the narrow walls and draped the altar, while Italian windows of extraordinary beauty arched their stained-glass scenes to the sky. Rings of spring flowers decorated the backs of chairs carved and fitted into the wall. And behind the altar, a gilded statue of Christ, flanked by statues of the Virgin Mary and St. Catherine, was illuminated by purest wax candles. And in the base of Christ's statue, a special chamber held a reliquary of a saint.
    The dawn filtered softly through the many-colored windows, casting strange and beautiful images on the flagstone floor. Eleanor knelt on the cold floor and began to pray for her mother's soul. Roger knelt beside her and tried to compose his thoughts for the task facing him. Eleanor half-turned and was awed by the halo effect of the light on his blond head. Surely this must be how a man