The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (22 page)

Elsbeth stood on tiptoe to see out the wind hole into the bailey. She was fortunate in that the men were staying in a small area to do their fighting; her view was unobstructed, even by the rain which felt like a cooling mist.

"His concentration was broken and he was felled by the dark one. Now he fights Lord William," Elsbeth said, not taking her eyes from the battle in front of her. When last she had looked away, Isabel had scolded her most roundly.

“They rest while he has none," Isabel muttered. "It matters not to me," she said loudly, for Elsbeth's edification as well as her own.

And it did not. It was what a woman could expect when she chose a husband from among the abbey brethren. Now, if there were to be a battle of chants, she would wager that her husband would win most resoundingly.

If he could not fight and fight well, he would lose all. And what would that matter if she had no child to gift with the lands and manors and towers won through the years?

She needed a child. Dornei needed an heir.

The clang of weapons was sharp, even within the chamber, and she forced her mind away from Richard's mock battle and onto her real one. She had to get with child. She had to get pleasure from the marriage bed to get with child, according to Father Langfrid.

He could be wrong. He was not married. He had no child.

She would not proceed without further information; she would not ask pleasure from Richard if she could possibly avoid it. She would not let Richard touch her if she could possibly avoid it.

"Elsbeth," she said slowly.

"Hmm?" Elsbeth answered, keeping her eyes to the action in the bailey.

"Have you ever heard that a wife must receive pleasure in the marriage bed to get with child?"

Elsbeth turned to face her, her eyes wide, her mouth silent.

"Have you?" Isabel prompted. Elsbeth's mother had given birth ten times; she must have told her daughter
something
before sending her off to her fostering.

"Yea, my mother told me that was so."

"Did she?" Isabel asked in disappointment and rising despair. Why had no one ever told her these details? The answer was that her mother had died while she was very young, too young to be told the truths of the marriage bed. Ida had been her father's wife during the years of her fostering. And Joan? Joan could not speak about the acts of marriage without a goblet of wine in her grasp.

"Yea," Elsbeth answered. "It was why she was three years barren before my eldest brother took root in her womb. After him, she bore a child nigh on every year."

Three years!
She did not want to try nightly for three years. She did not even want to live with Richard for three years. Let him go back among the monks where he could pray and dream of Bertrada.

The sound of blows could be heard, stronger now, and then the sound of a body hitting the damp earth.

Isabel was on her feet and partway to the wind hole before she made herself turn aside. She was finished with making a fool of herself over Richard. Elsbeth was facing the wind hole, her expression startled. Isabel inched forward, completely against her will, and asked, "Is Richard... well?"

Elsbeth turned, her face still and white, "It is not Richard, but Edmund and Ulrich, and it is not a battle but a brawl, Isabel. They look to kill each other."

Isabel tossed aside her vow of disinterest and hurried to the wind hole.

* * *

They battled, churning the soft earth into mud, their footing becoming precarious. They did not note it. They battled on, as only two young men with more heart than brains will do.

It did not last long.

William blocked a swordblow that would have bloodied Edmund and sent Ulrich's blade flying through the air to land in the mud. "Hold, boy," he commanded his squire.

Ulrich, trained to heed that one voice, obeyed, his body panting and quivering with the effort. But he did obey.

Richard tossed Edmund to the ground with a swipe of his hand and held his own sword to the lad's throat. Edmund swallowed hard and studied his lord. Richard's expression was severe, his black brows pulled low over his dark blue eyes, his breathing heavy with suppressed anger. Edmund had raised arms against a guest of Dornei; death could be the payment for such ill-advised action. To his credit, Edmund awaited his lord and said naught in his own defense. Content that Edmund would hold in place on the ground, Richard scanned the crowd that watched them. When he saw Aelis, looking both shocked and excited, he spoke. To her.

"Shall he die, girl? Shall we give the troubadours fodder for a stirring tale of two squires who came to blows over you? He should die for attacking a guest without provocation," Richard said, his voice carrying easily over the rain and the horror of what he was suggesting.

The vast bailey was still. None spoke. Richard looked down again at Edmund. He was white, the color of summer clouds, his eyes huge and bright and the only color in his face.

"His attack was not unprovoked, Lord Richard," Ulrich said, his voice a quaver on the air, as thin as a shaft aimed high and far, yet he spoke in Edmund's defense. "I bear Edmund no malice."

It was valiantly done. William had a worthy squire and had trained him well. Would that he could say the same of Edmund.

"What say you, Aelis?" Richard prodded, still awaiting her response. "Was this unchivalrous attack unprovoked? Do not you yearn to see just a little blood spilt on your behalf this day?"

Lady Joan elbowed Aelis hard in the ribs, urging her to speak. Shaken and trembling, she did. "Draw no blood, my lord, I beseech you. Edmund bears no fault." Her voice broke on saying his name, and her shoulders shook with emotion.

Richard had the answer he sought.

Richard looked down at Edmund and whispered hoarsely, "You have trusted your heart to a woman and she has stolen your honor. Remember this hour well, boy."

Richard sheathed his sword and turned away from Edmund, leaving him in the mud. He would not insult the boy by playing nursemaid to him. Ulrich rushed over and offered Edmund his hand. Edmund, without hesitation, took it and was lifted to his feet. Heads down and shoulders together, the two squires left the circle of spectators, their voices low and confidential. Gilbert's booming voice scattered the rest of Dornei's folk until only William, Rowland, and Richard remained.

“They will be fast friends now," William said. "You dealt well with them."

Richard grunted away the compliment and asked the question that plagued him.

"And do you think young Aelis has learned not to play with men's lives? That was also my intent."

"You may have made her fit only for the convent," William laughed lightly.

"Not that one." Richard smiled slowly in return. "She is betrothed, and to a man past his prime."

"Ah," said William, "and so she tries her skill on squires."

"You call what she does skill?"

"William is from the Continent, where such skills, in man or woman, are highly prized," Rowland said in wry humor.

"Had I left those pups to try their skill, she could have tried her skill at needlework to flesh," Richard said, turning to walk toward the armory. His guests walked beside him.

"Nay, you dealt aright," William said. "Either the boys understood not her game or she did not. All are taught now."

"Pray God 'tis learned," Richard said, speaking from his heart.

Rowland and William, as was their way, shared a glance rich with meaning, yet said nothing.

Elsbeth found Aelis hiding behind the kitchen. She had been crying, which was all to the good as far as Elsbeth was concerned, but was past it now. She was hunched over, hiding her face against her knees with her hair as curtain to hide her shame. Still, Elsbeth would have her say.

"What did you do to drive them to a fit of arms? Could you not be well content to have them both vying for your regard? Did you have to spur them to combat?"

"I have just been pinched and scolded by Dame Joan," Aelis sniffed. "I do not need to hear more of it from you."

"Do you not?" Elsbeth hissed softly. "Hear yourself; you are sulky, not contrite."

"I was contrite with Joan," Aelis insisted crossly.

"A contrite heart does not turn sulky. What did you do?"

"I do not know," Aelis said, beginning to
cry
again, which cheered Elsbeth. "I only know it went too far."

"So you have learned something."

"I only wanted what Isabel has—the man she chose for herself instead of the man chosen for her. She pursued Lord Richard and now she has him."

"You believe your course of action hers?" Elsbeth said, seeming to tower over Aelis in a dark and slender rage. "Ask her if she encouraged Richard to blows with another. Ask her if all her dreaming got her the husband she wanted. Ask her."

"I shall."

Elsbeth left then, after giving Aelis a fresh square of linen for her nose. She knew what Isabel would say. She knew how miserable Isabel was.

Chapter 22

The moment Aelis opened her mouth and confused guilt poured out of her, Isabel understood that Richard's display in the yard had been for Aelis's benefit. And that it had worked. Her duty now was to finish what Richard had begun, so that such a display as had just occurred in the bailey would never be repeated.

"You think your attempts to avoid your marriage to Lord Ivo will be endorsed by me?" she asked sternly, "You thought amiss. Think you that you can arrange a contract for yourself with Edmund? Or is it Ulrich who now charms you? Have you forgotten that my marriage to Lord Richard was arranged by Lord Robert and the bishop himself? Think you I had any say as to whom or when I would marry?" When Aelis only stood shaking, her tears rolling down her pink cheeks, Isabel continued, "Nay, you thought not at all if you could think I would be happy that Richard's two brothers died. You are profoundly in error, Aelis. I did as I was bid, as so shall you. And with good grace, if you are wise."

She had not been wise, and look where it had landed her.

Aelis left with fresh tears upon her cheeks, and Isabel did naught to stem their flow. God willing, Aelis had learned. God willing, this would be the end of Aelis's constant flirtations.

Did Richard see Aelis in Isabel? Had she been as wayward? She hoped not, for she did not want Richard to think such of her, no matter how little she cared for him now.

And with such a man she had to provide heirs.

It would be a miracle of most amazing proportions, since she could not imagine allowing him alone in the same room with her.

But it was folly to torture herself with such thoughts when the day was still so fresh. Her duties awaited her. She did not have time, not anymore, to dream of Richard. She had her duty to sustain her, her duty as Lady of Dornei, which did include producing heirs.
Three years?
Could she abide Richard in her bed for three years? Nay, she could not and would not. Every word out of his mouth proclaimed his revulsion for her; every action and every look shouted his dismay at anticipating a lifetime with her. She would not take him into her bed, not for year upon year; he would have to do his duty by her more efficiently than that. Richard was a model of efficient and diligent duty; he would manage it more quickly than Elsbeth's doddering father. And then, the moment her menses ceased, he could take himself off, back to the chapel and to his beloved chants. Back to the chapel, to dream of Bertrada.

Yea, he would do his duty by her and she would do hers. She knew how to perform her duty as well as he.

And now her duty entailed arranging for baths for her guests. She was just moving to the stair, searching out the steward, when Joan rushed breathlessly into the hall. Isabel half expected her to turn and run off, as she had been doing all day. Clearly, Joan did not want to discuss the marriage night. They were well matched in that.

"Isabel!" she gasped, pushing back her wimple. "Dornei has guests."

"Yea, I am aware of that. Lord William of Greneforde and—"

"Nay, Isabel," she said, her voice thin and taut.
 
"'Tis Lord Henley who has come to Dornei."