The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (25 page)

"Ah," Langfrid said with a smile, "so she did come to you. I am well pleased. I instructed her to go to you with her questions, knowing you would have the answers."

Richard could only stare at him blankly.

"Is it not well that Isabel is so resolved to do her duty?" Langfrid said with a toothsome smile.

Richard found the idea of being Isabel's duty less than pleasant, but Langfrid, having never been a husband, would not understand. Richard said nothing in response to his question.

* * *

When the sound of their footsteps had faded toward the inner bailey, William and Rowland, who had experience of wives, did understand. And they enjoyed a fine and quiet laugh over their tankards of ale within the brewer's cottage.

"I wish him well. It is not an easy task to train a wife to enjoy the pleasures of the marriage bed when she is determined not to," William said as they left the hut.

"He faces not the same challenge," Rowland said. "Though Lady Isabel carries wounds which only a man can inflict."

"You know something," William stated.

Rowland shrugged. "Only what any man can see. She loves him. According to the gossip, she always has."

"And how would loving a man now her husband wound her?"

"Have you forgotten that she snatched him from the abbey?"

"Aye, I had forgotten. But he seems determined now to be Lord Dornei. In all ways."

"Now," Rowland smiled sadly. "The bedding was last night."

"But they have been married two days..."

"As I said, the bedding was last night."

William winced. "That would hurt a woman's heart. And her pride. How did he spend his wedding night? Do not tell me 'in prayer,' for I shall not believe you. She is a fair damsel and would set any man's blood afire."

Rowland remained silent as they climbed the hill back to the tower. The gate was open, the bailey quiet.

William looked askance at Rowland. "He spent the night in prayer?"

"Aye," Rowland answered.

"He is either a fool or the most self-disciplined man I know."

Rowland smiled and said, "I believe he is both."

"And what of Henley?" William asked as they crossed the bailey. "What have you learned of him?"

Rowland's face grew solemn and he dropped his dark-eyed gaze to his toes. "Henley plays a game with Richard—a foul and unholy game."

William frowned. "Richard is not fond of games."

* * *

"It is a game, a courtly game," Ulrich insisted as he polished William's shield. "'Tis no shame in it."

"'Twas no game," Edmund said stiffly.

"Not as you played it, no," Ulrich said.

When Edmund looked up from the polishing of Richard's helm, his eyes dark with anger, Ulrich laughed and punched him in the arm.

"All men and women play this game, 'tis no sin," Ulrich said. "You must not make it more than what it is."

"'Twas she who made it something," Edmund grumbled.

"You are betrothed?" Ulrich asked. "As is she?"

"Aye."

"Then what more can it be?" Ulrich grinned. "You are promised. What words and looks are shared within Dornei's walls remain here. No one is harmed."

"If all know 'tis a game," Edmund said slowly in comprehension.

"Aye," Ulrich said cheerfully. "'Tis a fine way to spend an afternoon, I can assure you."

He winked.

"And how does your lord look upon your activities?"

"Why, my Lord William," Ulrich said with heavy pride, "was master of this game before he wed, and now he plays the same with his wife. They are most happy."

"He plays at love with his wife?" Edmund said, forgetting his polishing completely for the moment. "I cannot see the purpose in that. I am certain Lord Richard would frown on such frivolity."

"Well," Ulrich shrugged, continuing his polishing, "your lord was recently a Benedictine. My Lord William is French."

"Ah," Edmund said. It answered all.

* * *

"'Twas a game to me, that is all," Aelis said.

"No game has such consequences," Elsbeth said.

The two stood together in a corner of the hall, arranging flowers in a terracotta urn. The sun shone through the wind hole, bringing with it a fresh breeze full of the smells of damp and fertile earth, rain, and early blossoms. 'Twas a happy smell after the long cold of winter, which smelled only of wood smoke and sweat and melting snow. The two girls made a striking pair, if any cared to look, one so fair and one so dark, one full and lush, the other slim and fragile. Yet Elsbeth was not fragile. There was a hard core to her that few bothered to see. Aelis knew that, of the two of them, she was the more easily bruised, no matter that she was the bold one. She was bruised now, still hurting and confused after the afternoon's unexpected battle. That she had been the cause still shocked her.

"Nay, but—"

"But?" Elsbeth said in disapproval.

"But it was so nice when it was just a game," Aelis said wistfully. "Edmund is young and his looks are so fine. And he rides with such style. And who else is there for me here? Gilles?" she snorted.

There is your own betrothed," Elsbeth scolded. "Think you Lord Ivo would be cheered knowing you cavort with Edmund while he waits for your maturing before making you his bride?"

"I am not cavorting."

"You will call it what you will," Elsbeth said, snapping a blossom off in her irritation, "but it is not seemly. Nor is it wise. Where is your contrition?"

"I am contrite," Aelis said. "But I am also bored. How wrong can it be to trade looks with Edmund?"

"You saw how wrong it was this afternoon. Would you have him killed to ease your boredom?"

"Nay," she said. But she said it with less conviction than she had an hour before.

"What of your duty?"

"I will do my duty. I will marry Lord Ivo when the time is upon me," Aelis said stoutly, and then with a tentative smile she remarked, "But it is not upon me yet."

* * *

Isabel walked the rooms of Dornei, checking for dust, rodents, mildew, and fresh linen; never again would she assume that all was well and well attended within her domain. The servants needed constant watching, even with Robert in his post as steward. The man could only be in so many places, and his primary concerns lay with the food and its presentation. The general condition of Dornei fell to her; she was Lady of Dornei and it was both her right and her duty.

Fairly certain that no more questions regarding the details of the marriage bed would be forced upon her, Joan walked at her side, suddenly eager for conversation.

"You are busy today, Isabel," she said. "Marriage seems to have changed you."

"I would say that I am fully prepared to meet my duty as Lady of Dornei," Isabel said, bending to check under the bed in Lord William's room. There was no dust, but there was a gauntlet. His, it was to be assumed, and therefore Ulrich's responsibility.

Joan laughed easily as Isabel left the chamber, closing the door behind her. “There is a duty that I remember most fondly from my own married state."

"What duty is that?" Isabel asked, walking toward the stair tower where a small pile of dirt had been pushed into a corner. Unacceptable.

"Very amusing, my dear," Joan chuckled. "Richard is very handsome, as you well know, and your lifelong attraction is no secret, as well as being no mystery. What a waste it was when he joined the Benedictines. I tell you, many a woman sighed in anguish over that decision. 'Twas a loss to us all, such a man clothed in abbey cloth, hidden away from appreciative eyes. I do not have to belabor the point with you, Isabel. You have a fine man as husband. I am certain you must thank God every hour that you are compelled to perform your marital duty with such a man."

Isabel was scarlet by the conclusion of such a confidence. She had preferred Joan when she had been awkwardly silent; this level of confession was impossible to tolerate. Why did people suddenly seem to think they needed to bare their souls to her?

"I do not," she said. "I do not find any joy in that duty."

"Spoken like a bride," Joan said, giving her a quick hug. "I had forgotten. With Richard's diligence, that will change, my dear. And soon, I think."

Isabel did not think it would, not soon, not ever. She could hear again Richard's strong and determined voice repeating,
I
do not want to touch you. I do not want to kiss you.
Nay, she was not eager to endure that ordeal again.

Not when she still wanted his touch and ached for the passion of that long-ago kiss, desires which rose despite her resolve not to be caught in the lie of Richard again. How to keep her heart and her pride intact when he preyed upon the desire for him that lived still in her memory?

Oh, aye, bathing him had been the worst torture he could have devised. He likely did it apurpose. He knew how he looked. He knew she had yearned for him for a lifetime. He knew that he could command her to touch him, to run her hands over his skin, to feel the tight and taut strength of him, and that she must. But she could not command him to touch her in tenderness. She could not command his heart to want her. She could not make him love her.

Three years.

She could not. She could not endure three years of his nightly possession and his daily presence when he gave her no part of himself. Worse, he gave his heart and his desire and his dreaming to another.

Endure it she could not, yet she wanted a child. Only Richard could give her one.

Rushing down the stair tower, leaving Joan behind her, Isabel tried to ignore the low slanting of the sun's rays. Endure it again? She must. Dusk was fast upon her.

She would not endure it waiting, waiting for the sun to creep down the sky, waiting for the birds to fly to their nests, for the dogs to curl upon the hearth, the men to sit and game before the crackling fire. She would not wait. She had her duty to occupy her.

What duty awaited her now?

Richard always seemed busy about some task. Surely there were tasks which depended upon the Lady of Dornei; the hall was clean, the laundry fresh, the tapestries beaten. Yet the menu awaited. Isabel sighed happily, her duty discovered. The menu for tomorrow must be planned today, the spices sorted and chosen, the meat prepared, the dough set to rise. Yea, much called to her from the kitchen; she had her duty before her.

With a sprightly step, she made her way down the stair into the dark recesses of the undercroft. The spices were stored here under lock and key, and the Lady of Dornei held the key. She jangled them in her fist, enjoying the heavy ringing; they were the sign of her authority over her domain. She alone would unlock the chest that stored such flavorful treasure. She would carry up what was needed for tomorrow's meal. Let Richard read his accounts; she was in charge of the larder. No longer would she unrepentantly pass the duty on to Joan, who had taken it when Lady Ida died; it was her duty and she would perform it.

In the still and quiet undercroft, lined with trunks of fabric and spice, she gazed about her. She had played here as a child, an act of daring, for it was a forbidden place to any who did not have the authority to trespass here. A dark place, which swallowed the feeble light of the torch she carried as it swallowed sound. All was subdued, the sounds without coming as if from a far distance, muffled by dirt and stone.

Isabel shook off her mood and placed the torch in a ring set into the stone. She had the authority to be here. She was Lady of Dornei.

For so many guests, both welcome and unwelcome, a fine table must be prepared. Capon with eggs would suit, and it required saffron, sea salt, pepper, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves. And for the creamed fish, saffron and ginger as well. Chicken pasties were a favorite of hers, and she added more ginger and black pepper to her mental list. It was the season for spring greens, and she liked them best without seasoning.

She did not know why she had put off this duty. It was most pleasurable. Isabel loved a hearty meal as well as the next and planning what savories she would put in her mouth tomorrow was a thrill. Having made her choices, she proceeded to collect them. ‘Twas not a great task; the spices were delicately packaged in small sacks, her mother's invention to prevent spoilage from damaging the lot, and one which had become Dornei tradition. She was turning to take her torch when she gasped and took an involuntary step backward.

She was not alone.

Adam awaited her, a smile on his lips. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, blocking the stair, trapping her.

Trapping her? It was a foolish thought birthed by her childhood fear of the undercroft. There was nothing to fear from Adam. In truth,
he
should fear
her,
had he not disobeyed her instruction to go to Braccan? She could feel her irritation rise just looking at him, so confident and handsome and nonchalant. Richard never had the bad taste to look so... so condescending.

"Why are you angry, Isabel?" Adam asked, uncrossing his arms and coming toward her. "Because I am here or because I left?"

Such arrogance; Richard might be proud, but he was never arrogant.

"Richard cast you out of Dornei. You should not be within Dornei walls now," she said, clutching her bags to her breast and lifting her chin decisively.

"But what do you want, Isabel? You are the Lady of Dornei."

No matter how great the chasm between herself and Richard, she would not suffer Adam's clumsy attempts to wedge the gap wider. Moving to retrieve the torch, she answered, "I want what my husband wants. He has said you are not welcome in Dornei. Heed him. You are not."

Adam only smiled, his smile as wide as his obvious disbelief, and blocked her approach to the torch. Very well, she would leave it and send Robert down for it later. She had not forgotten Adam's amorous attack nor the insult such liberties implied; she did not want to remain in the most isolated part of the tower with him for a moment longer. When she darted toward the stair, he stalked her, stopping her, trapping her.

Aye, she was trapped. She could call it what it was. Had she ever thought Adam charming? She could not remember. Was she afraid? Nay, but her anger grew with each affront to her person and her dignity. This was not a game she cared to play.