The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (33 page)

"I have all I need for what I must do," he said, his hand covering hers, stopping her tugging at her clothing.

"To die? Is that your plan? You cannot walk so willingly toward death. You cannot leave me. I am not conceived of a child. You have not done your duty to me. You cannot leave. Not yet."

She was crying, the tears falling in rich drops to stain her bosom, her voice tight with lost composure.

They stood alone apart from the others, the clouds near black and covering the sky, the smell of rain heavy and full upon them. They stood alone on that large plain, the tower of Malton a darker stain on the sky. They stood alone, and he would push her from him to stand with William and Rowland and Edmund and Elsbeth and all who were clean, as he was not.

"I must walk this path, Isabel," he said softly, "no matter what awaits."

"Why?" she cried, her eyes red and swollen, her cheeks white with fear. "Does she mean so much? Can you not forget?"

She hung her head then, her sobs coming from her heart, through her lungs, robbing her of air. Because of him.

"Nay, I cannot forget," he whispered. "Can you? Does she not stand between us always? Ever in your thoughts, even now?" Her face was milk white as she lifted eyes red with tears to his, her pain plain for him to read. In her greatest distress and distrust, she had the strength to show him her heart. Such was the strength of Isabel, the strength of a love that would not fail nor falter, though she lost herself in the giving. Bertrada never dreamed of such strength. "There is more of you in this than Bertrada."

"I do not drive you to this!" she said, angrily lifting her chin.

"Nay, you do not," he said, running his hand lightly over her hair. It was swept wild and high by the wind. "It is God Himself who urges me forward. This is my duty to God," he said gently. "Would you have me turn from it?"

Of all the things he could ask of her, to this she could give only one answer. She wanted to hate him for it, for all of it. For his sin with Bertrada and his determination to destroy himself and his arrogance in asking her to sanction his own destruction. More, the destruction of her dream. Yet had she not stopped living in her dreams? This was the choice before her, and she knew her duty as Richard's wife; she knew the duty Richard required of her and, through the pain of her own loss, found the grace to do it.

How had she come to love him so completely? Such selfless love she had not imagined when she had dreamed of loving Richard. This was love without gain. Love that was all of giving and loss and emptiness. Sacrificial love. It was the love of God in sending His son to certain death. As she now sent Richard.

How was it that such an unromantic love could fill her heart to breaking?

Her tears a remnant, she laid her hand upon his naked chest, feeling his heart pound and his blood pulse, feeling the heat of him, feeling the strength of his will, the force of his life.

"Nay," she said, her voice as strong as she could manage. "Do not turn. Only let me walk it with you."

He laid his hand over her own, a bond of hand to heart to hand. Their eyes met in full understanding, for when had it ever been that Richard could not read Isabel, and when had Isabel not known the heart of Richard?

"You cannot, Isabel," he said, his voice a caress, "though I would find joy inexpressible in your company."

It was the finest compliment he had ever paid her. And he had saved it to mark his death.

He turned from her and from them all, his hand slipping from hers with all the graceful departure of the sun melting away on the horizon. They watched him walk, his nakedness a wound upon a loving eye, in the chill wind that was blowing dry the cold spring earth. They watched him walk the track to Malton, half expecting an arrow to fly down and pierce him, but the sky remained clear of all but cloud.

It was when they watched the gates swing wide and Richard walk into the shadows of Malton that Rowland spoke.

"He is as a penitent on holy pilgrimage."

It was then that she clearly understood what had driven Richard into Malton.

With a muffled cry, she mounted and kicked her palfrey toward that still open gate. Richard would not be alone in his duty to God, not when it was her duty to stand by him.

Chapter 28

They followed her, naturally. It was their duty and so she did not begrudge them, but neither would she be talked away from her purpose. Her hair was lifted from her back to fly out behind her, the ends tangling upon themselves with as much nervous purpose as wringing hands. Her cloak was gone, the wind having taken it on a brief flight until casting it to earth, a length of green wool to mix with the brown mud of early spring. Her bliaut did little to warm her, yet she had not a thought for the chill wind that pressed against her frame. All thought was for Richard.

And then she was through Malton's gates, the memories closing on her with the iron force of manacles. It was all as she remembered it, though perhaps a bit more forbidding, or perhaps that was because of her purpose. She had to save Richard.

It had started.

Henley stood in the deep mud at the center of Malton's bailey, his posture bold and his manner sure. He stood within his own domain, where all within were sworn to him, and within this domain stood Richard, nearly naked, clearly penitent. Alone. Until now.

Isabel dropped from the back of her horse like a stone and rushed to stand at Richard's side. More slowly, her approach cautious and careful, Bertrada moved across the yard to join them, her favorite woman holding her elbow against a fall. All signs of age, yet Bertrada was not old—nay, she was as beautiful as Isabel remembered her.

Her hair was long and thick and blackest black; she wore it loose, always, a simple band at her brow holding all in place. Her skin was as pale as spring petals and as fine. She wore white, always, knowing that the color flattered her as no other, the fall of her dark hair all the darker and richer for the white that surrounded her slenderness. Her eyes were as black and shining as her hair; huge and expressive and thickly lashed. She was a woman to make a woman envy instantly; she was a woman to make a man sin. Aye, she was, and even as a child, Isabel had sensed that Bertrada knew her own skill and did not find fault with it.

Isabel had wanted to be Bertrada without having truly liked her; such was the power of her magnetism.

The walls of Malton were lined with bowmen and household knights, the yard quickly filling with squires and knights newly clubbed, cooks and blacksmiths, falconers and stablehands. Richard may have wished to walk into Malton alone, but he was not alone now.

He felt her at his side, this she knew, yet he did not turn from Henley. No matter; she was with him. He would not face Henley alone.

Henley's look was smug, his tight and unpleasant smile telling that, though he did not understand the purpose of Richard's visit, by his visit he signaled his defeat. Such a scene—both Henley's crass superiority and Richard's restrained submission—caused a flood of memories to wash over her, memories she had left behind at Malton which, at Malton once again, rose fresh and unspoiled by time. Only the memories of Richard had she kept for herself, stoking and nurturing them as tenderly as a babe. Other memories now rose so violently that she fought the urge to retch.

They had been much alone, the two of them. Both young and fair, both far from home, for had not Bertrada been a wife newly made, and had not Richard been alone within the throng of Malton? Yea, a leader he had been, she had seen that aright, yet a boy alone; no bond had formed for him, such as the one she now witnessed in Rowland and William. All men needed such a bond, yet Richard had had none. Henley he had shadowed, and Henley had much relished the role of sun in Richard's life, both burning and warming Richard as his mood dictated. From Bertrada, from fair Bertrada, there had been only soft smiles and gentle words. Isabel had felt the proof of that herself; Bertrada was a soft and gentle woman, and it had caused Isabel many brushes against sharp guilt that she was not more like her.

She remembered how Bertrada had smiled and how Henley had watched and how Richard had stumbled. It had been no secret; now that she was a woman bedded, she could read the signs of desire and fulfillment. Henley had known.

Before she could speak, Richard growled, "I did not want you here, I did not want you to see this."

"The whole world may watch, but not I?" she flared. "Always you push me away, and you have yet to learn that I will not be pushed." Her anger was high and her eyes full of stinging tears.

Richard turned to her, his chest and shoulders a shield to hide her from the curious eyes of Malton. He would shield her when he stood naked and repentant in front of Henley? The tears overflowed, and she wiped her cheeks with her hands.

"I do not push you away, Isabel," he said. "I push you away from me. To protect you. I do not... I have never trusted myself with you," he finished, his eyes the blue of a moonless night, dark and soft and full of hidden pain.

Oh, aye, it made sense to her, now that she understood what he believed of himself. Rejecting her? Nay, he had been protecting her from the sin which he felt gnawing at him day and night; he thought himself as wild as any beast and had sought to protect her from being devoured. Could any man be so wrong about his own nature?

"How strange that is," she said with a smile more tears than mirth, "because I trust you. With all. Without fear."

"You have ever lacked caution, Isabel," he said smiling.

His answering smile was brief and then faltered completely as he turned again to face Henley. William, Rowland, the squires, and Elsbeth stood near the gate, unwilling witnesses to whatever Richard had planned. They did not know, but Isabel did. She knew because she knew Richard and the depth of his honor and commitment to God. Did any know Richard better than she? But she did not want him to do this, no matter that he called it his duty to God. Let him fulfill his spiritual duty in the abbey, away from her, locked behind abbey walls... yea, even that.

Her tears coursed down, a torrent that flooded her face. To be so discomposed in front of Henley and Bertrada was a worse humiliation than she had ever thought to bear, yet she could not stop. And she would not leave.

She would hand Richard over to Father Abbot herself if only he would not take this next irreversible step.

"You have gained entrance. What is your purpose here, Richard?" Henley asked in sarcastic courtesy.

"Go to the abbey," Isabel hissed, tugging on Richard's hand, ignoring Henley and all of Malton. "Give yourself to God in spiritual service. I will not hinder you."

Richard looked down at her, his hand strong and warm in hers, his countenance solemn. Never had he looked more determined or more broken in spirit.

"I ran to hide within the embrace of the abbey once before. I will not again," he said softly, his eyes for her alone.

"You must," she begged, tugging at him, trying to pull him from this path that must surely destroy him.

He took both of her hands in his and smiled, a smile so sad and so true that her heart stopped within her. Her tears stopped. Even the wind stopped. All was as still as a world in prayer to hear what Isabel had prayed her whole life to hear from Richard's lips.

"To do so I must leave you, Isabel. I will not give you up. Never again."

Joy and suffering twined as one and pierced her soul. He would not give her up. He would destroy himself in trying to keep her.

She did not want his destruction. She wanted him safe, even if it meant losing him. In that moment of selfless love, Isabel left the remains of her childhood behind forever. She carried a woman's love within her heart, a love sown years ago and which had taken many seasons to ripen, and she understood fully the weight of pain such love required.

No matter what happened to her, Richard must be well.

"Did you ride to Malton so that I could be privy to your mattress whisperings?" Henley scoffed. "If I left you to it, you would no doubt tumble her in the mud at my feet."

Richard turned to face Henley, his face set and resolute. "Nay, I am not a man for that, though I believed so for a time." Richard paused and let the implied accusation stand. Henley remained silent, though his eyes revealed his surprise at being contradicted on a point so carefully nurtured.

Richard was not the boy he had been. Henley had convinced him well, with lectures and taunts, of his lustful nature and lustful thoughts—thoughts common to all boys coming into manhood. Richard could see that now in Edmund and Ulrich; 'twas nothing more than a season which a man passed through on his way to maturity. But Richard had not had the counsel and company of other squires; Richard had only had Henley, and Henley had convinced him that his very nature was flawed.

Yet, still, he had sinned with Bertrada.

"Nay, Henley." Richard continued, "I have come to publicly confess and to seek your forgiveness. And if not that, your retribution."

The wind stayed silent and still, as if listening for Henley's response. Isabel commanded her tears to dry, for she would face Henley and Bertrada and all of Malton with as much dignity as her husband. He deserved no less and required so much more; yet she could not give him what he most needed: a clean heart and a spotless soul. Only God could give him that, and only God would think of using Henley as a tool for Richard's redemption.