The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (19 page)

What comfort with Richard as husband?

Tears sprang fresh and fell from her eyes; she did naught to stop them. To what purpose, when they only fell again? Never had she imagined that marriage to Richard would bring anything but joy and yet now she knew that she would never feel joy again. Joy had flown by her, to stay out of reach until she was caught up in the clouds with Christ. Would that she could fly now, fly away from here, out over the fields and forests until Dornei was just a dark speck on the sodden horizon. God, let her fly away. Away from all her misery. The Lord seemed of a mind to answer her prayers; perhaps He would answer this impossible request for deliverance.

Yet, if her fortune ran true, she would be caught, hooded, and kept chained to her master's hand. As she was now chained to Richard throughout this life. Such joy at the thought yesterday; such sorrow today.

And all because Richard loved another.

Isabel turned from the window and all thoughts of escape and pressed down the pain that rose like the sun to sweep through her, burning away all hope of happiness.

He loved Bertrada.

The words would not cease repeating themselves in her mind to echo in her heart.

He loved Bertrada.

It was sin at its most blatant. He could not love Bertrada, not in that way, not with touch most intimate and kiss most profane. Courtly love, yes; such was allowed, even encouraged, but never this. Never adultery. Incest.

How had it come to this? Where was the boy who had caught her cheating at chess and laughed at her deception? To marry Richard had been to marry the only person who had caught hold of her heart, understanding her thoughts and moods as no other. He was the man she had wanted even when he had cast her off, for she had believed—nay, she had known—that he loved her. There had been no hope for them, and so he had turned from her though he had loved her. And she, not strong enough to turn away from the sight and presence of Richard, had loved him.

The Richard she had loved could never have committed so foul a sin, the Richard she loved was honor and duty and purpose most resolute. The Richard she loved...

Isabel sighed and slid off the bed to stare out of the wind hole. The Richard she loved did not exist. She had created him, created him out of fair looks and lean visage, out of dreams and sighs and girlish memories. He did not exist, this man she had loved so long from so great a distance. She could not love a man who would so foul his vows of honor and duty, who would kiss a young girl with such passion while bedding another.

Yea, there lay the heart of her misery. He had lied to her. All had been lies. The bond she had believed they shared beyond any two people in the world—a lie. His laughter—a lie. His purity—a lie. His devotion to duty and perfection and accomplishment—a lie. The very character of the man she had set her heart on—a lie that tore her heart from her to be cast out of the wind hole, to fall and fall and shatter. All had been a lie. His kiss had been a lie and she had believed him. Nay, more than believed, she had set her world around him, he the sun to her every day. It had all been deception and deceit. He had lied to her with every breath and every step and every reluctant glance. She had seen and watched and studied only him, the world shrunk to him and his deeds. What dark deeds he had committed while she watched and saw only what she wished to see.

He loved Bertrada.

The feeling of being trapped weighed heavily, crushing her more completely with each painful realization. She had been betrayed. She had been a fool.

He had never loved her. He had never wanted her. Yea, he had kissed her, probably out of pity at her foolish and naive infatuation with him. She saw that now, now that she cared to see the truth of all his years of avoidance of her, of his carefully downcast eyes, his mumbled responses, his running retreat whenever she had tracked him down. But then, she had not cared to see. She had seen only Richard. Richard had seen only Bertrada.

Even with his confession, it was impossible to think of them together, though she could not drive the shadowy images from the deepest corners of her thoughts. It was impossible to believe that the man she had held in such high honor, who carried himself with such pride, had stolen the virtue of Henley by soiling his wife. Small wonder he had fled to the abbey. No matter how deep his fall into sin, Richard was a man of honor—this she knew though all the evidence spoke otherwise. She could not have been so far wrong in her knowledge of him, could she? Was he not a man who valued honor and duty above all?

How hard and fast she clung to the lie of her memory when the deceiver Richard was stood before her. He had sinned with Bertrada. By his own lips, he had confessed it.

And such a sin. Having been given by his father into Henley's household, Richard had become part of that house, his honor bound to Malton and to Henley. His sin had stripped honor from them both. He had defiled his lord's marriage bed.

He had defiled hers.

This Richard she knew not. This Richard was not the husband she wanted. How well would God hear that prayer?

The sun had topped the trees, lighting the day. The trees, washed clean yesterday, shimmered green in the morning sun, their color darker, truer, than just yesterday. So much could change in a day.

She turned from the wind hole and walked across the stone floor, ignoring the cold seeping into her feet; such small discomfort as cold feet she could easily ignore. Opening her trunk, she lifted out the first bliaut that came to her hand; it was old, a gown of her mother's that had been reworked for her years ago. The soft red of the finely worked wool brought a smile to her lips; such lovely memories she had of seeing her mother in this gown. She had been a child, easily tucked under her mother's arms to bury her face in a warm bosom, her problems small and her mother's love a great bastion against all pain and all disappointment.

It was the perfect gown to wear on such a day as this, for now she was no longer a child. She had left the naive child she had been on the soiled sheets of her marriage bed. The child Isabel had died with the same blow that had killed her love—nay, it had been mere infatuation—for Richard. That Isabel, foolish and hopeful, was dead. It was a woman who faced the day, a woman who would not live in the lie of dreams. A woman who did not love Richard.

Chapter 18

He had heard her tears. Any who had an ear to hear would have heard her heart-wrenching sobs and pleas of the night before. His had been such an ear.

He had not dared intrude upon them, their conjugal duty a private thing that required no human intervention, but he had prayed that God would be merciful and Richard gentle in his dealings with Isabel.

He was not certain how God had answered his prayers.

When Isabel exited her chamber, he would be waiting, to offer comfort if needed.

Isabel came out then, and from the look of her, she did seem in need of... something.

"Good morrow, Father," she said calmly.

"Good morrow, Isabel," Father Langfrid answered somewhat tenuously.

Isabel did not stop to chatter with him about her conjugal night. Isabel did not throw herself into his arms and sob out her confusion. Isabel did not grin and proclaim her victory to God and the world in claiming Richard as husband, true and proper. Any of these responses he would have expected, perhaps each in its course; yet Isabel did none of these. Isabel preceded him down the stairs, her head erect and her step stately; her mouth closed. Langfrid did not know how to speak to this Isabel.

"When you did not attend Prime, I—" he began.

"Nay," she interrupted, her dark hair flowing out behind her, lifted by wisps of wind as she descended the stair. "I was most fatigued. But do not fear, I said my morning prayers in my chamber. Let Richard have his treasured spot in the chapel."

Sharp words for a wife on the morning after her deflowering.

"I could not help but hear your tears, Isabel," he said gently, laying a hand upon her arm to slow and stop her descent. They were upon the hall, and he would not have this conversation in public. "I am here. You have only to speak out your distress to me—"

Isabel turned to face him, and he pulled away from her in surprise. Never had he seen such a look on a woman's face. But then, he had never been married.

"I am not in distress," she stated, her tone as flat and cold as her eyes. "If you would offer counsel and comfort, seek out Richard. He is the one in need, not I."

"But, Isabel—"

"Excuse me, Father, but I must be about my tasks. Meaningful work awaits me this day," she said and continued her descent, her step rapid and hard upon the stone stair.

Meaningful work? Such words, such intent, from Isabel rang sharply in his ears. Isabel's intent had always and only been Richard. What had happened in that bed last night? Isabel had directed him to Richard, so to Richard he would go; perhaps the comfort he longed to supply would be welcome there.

It was not to be.

Richard was in the hall, though not in his preferred corner talking accounts with Jerome. Nay, Richard was on his way out to the bialy, his visage as dark and forbidding as his hair in the welcome sun of a spring day.

"Good morrow, Father," Richard offered, his words hardly more than the barest greeting.

"Good morrow, Lord Richard," Langfrid said. "You were up early. The first in chapel for Prime, as usual."

"I spent the night in prayer. Father, as is my custom," Richard said, looking out into the bailey, clearly eager to be away.

"So?" Langfrid said. "Yet were you not... I thought I heard... did you not fulfill your marital duty?"

Richard turned to face him. Langfrid thought how odd it was that Richard's look matched Isabel's almost exactly; and he still could not read what he saw in their eyes.

"Did I not proclaim that I would?"

"Yea, but—"

"And I have done so. Isabel is a virgin no longer."

"Yet you went back to the chapel?" Langfrid may not have been married, but he knew this was not usual male behavior for a man recently wed.

"Yea," Richard answered curtly.

"But—"

"Excuse me, Father," Richard interrupted, "but I have much to do. Edmund!" he called across the bailey. "Find Gilbert and bring swords for a bout."

Richard strode across the bailey in the rough clothes of a man about to undertake a physical battering, his black hair gleaming and his carriage erect. Langfrid stood, open-mouthed, and watched, his thoughts whirling. Isabel in a hurry to set about her tasks as lady. Richard in a hurry to train in arms.

What
had
happened in their marriage bed?

* * *

The morning was still young and Richard was covered in sweat. He was sadly out of wind and stamina, but time and training would cure that lack. His battle skills would be honed, and he would once again attain the heights of prowess he had left behind at Malton. He would. He would achieve what he set his hand and his heart to; what he had mastered once, he would master again.

Why was Isabel not watching his progress?

His eyes scanned the perimeter of the tiltyard, searching for her without direct intent. She had always watched him train. It had always been so, since he was a youth of more joint than sinew. Always she had stood to watch him, her translucent eyes claiming him even if her voice did not. To hack and hew without Isabel to mark his progress... his eyes flicked away from Gilbert, scanning for Isabel.

"You look for a distant foe when you have one much nearer," Gilbert chided, laying a blow that Richard just managed to block with his shield.

He had to concentrate. He could not be looking for a flash of black hair and curve of hip when he faced a sword drawn and pointed. He could not and he would not. Isabel would come. Isabel always came.

"Riders come!" came a shout from the sentry atop the walls.

With the words, Richard imagined Adam, Louis, and Nicholas riding upon him to claim his holding. But nay, they would not be so careless with their lives. Even Nicholas would not be so bold as to return with Adam. Louis? What would Louis do? He did not know Louis well, though Isabel... nay. He cast that suspicion away from him. None knew Isabel as well as he. Last night had borne the truth of that.

All eyes turned to the sentry, waiting for his next words.

"'Tis Louis, with two knights and a squire unknown to me," he called down.

Louis. The name settled in his gut like a weight of stone. Louis had returned to Dornei with two knights unknown. Returned to Dornei or returned to Isabel? Of a certainty, Louis's loyalty did not rest with him. What errand required him to bring two strange knights within Dornei's walls?

Isabel flew across the bailey like a bird set to soaring flight, so eager was she to greet Louis and his escort. The insult could be felt even by a man who had so recently been a monk; she would fly to Louis and not to him?

"Open the gates, Odo," she called gaily, her eagerness plain for all to see.

The gatekeeper, Odo, looked down from his perch to Richard, waiting for his consent to Isabel's overeager demand that Louis be admitted. Richard could see the flash of irritation spark behind her eyes and could not summon the piety to be ashamed at the perverse pleasure her irritation gave him. She had wanted him as husband, did she not, and he would be a poor sort of husband if he allowed a man of questionable motives to ride gaily into his domain.