The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series) (10 page)

She did not want to be a wife. He knew that, and he found he could even understand it. But he needed her to be a wife, and so she was a wife.

A maiden wife.

But only for now.

Hugh left the soiled garments in the laundry and strode back across the dark bailey, the wind blowing hard against him, lifting his cloak into the night air. He had his weapons about him—food and wine and clean linen. Aye, he would win her, though she stayed a maiden for a while. There were many ways to claim a woman. To take her body was just one of many, and even that would come in time.

He trusted in God and in the perfection of God's will and time. He would take this other path. In fact, he could even find it in his heart to thank God for her blood on this of all days. Elsbeth was no common woman; this way was better, surer, truer. He would win her heart, and then her body would fall into his hands.

He had only to wait. And in the waiting, woo.

Hugh climbed the outer stair and crossed the noise and light of the hall, keeping to the shadows that bordered the room. Gautier watched him from his place at the high table, and Emma smiled to see him so burdened with homely gifts for his newly made bride. He ignored them both and climbed the twisting stair that would take him to Elsbeth.

With a knock, he entered.

"I am come," he said, pushing open the door.

She took the cloths from his hands and made to push him out again.

"Nay, I can assist," he said, setting the basket of food on the floor near the bed.

"Nay, you cannot," she said, pushing against his chest.

She was a little thing, and yet she sought to push him out of his own chamber. It was amusing, though he knew she would not see it so.

"How do you know?" he asked, placing his hands over hers. "Perhaps I can assist you very well."

"Do you hear yourself?" she said, looking up at him, her black eyes wide in disbelief. "I have done this for many a year, month upon month, as do all women. Not a one of us requires, needs, or wants assistance. Just the opposite. Leave."

"Leave?"

"Leaving would be a great gift, if you would give something of yourself for me to treasure. Leave. Now."

"Your manners are most strange," he said.

"You can instruct me later," she said, crossing her legs. "For now, just leave."

"Your will is my guide, Elsbeth. I will leave. I will return."

"Aye, you have mapped it most nicely. Please, now begin it," she said, pointing to the door.

With a grin and a bow, he left her. She was a most strange, most amusing woman. It was well that he had married her. She was the perfect wife for him in all her ways.

It was only left to convince her of it.

He stood still in the black weight of the stone that surrounded him. England was a cold place, cold to the eye and to the bone. Jerusalem was also made of stone, yet the stone was warm as honey to behold and hot to the hand. A warm, sunny place, the center of all Christendom. England was no Jerusalem. Yet was there not only one Jerusalem?

He knew no other home, had no other memories to cloud his thoughts or dim his purpose. A blessing, most assuredly. He could see all clearly in the white light of Jerusalem.

In England, all was dark with rain and cloud and mist, verdant green reaching to topple the sky. He felt smothered. He was half-blind with wood and sedge, his eyes reaching for a horizon he could never find. He had not seen the sunset for an age; he had not seen the sun in its shining glory for a month. Or more. The whole earth seemed gray and wet, or would if he lost the memory of Jerusalem. Jerusalem still blazed bright, if only in his thoughts.

Jerusalem and the dark lights in Elsbeth's eyes.

How that none here could see her beauty? She was not acclaimed as any great face. Gautier did not speak of her that way, mentioning no claim to beauty in the marriage bargaining. No troubadours sang of her dark power. No squires hung at her heels, groaning for the sight and scent of her.

A most strange place, England. All were surely blinded by the mist and clouds that hung so low, for Elsbeth was beauty as Jerusalem sang of it: dark, small, her bosom full, her black eyes intense with holy power and smothered passion. Her nose was strong and straight, her lips full, her brow noble, her skin without mark or blemish. In the Levant she would have been kept behind her father's walls; no man would have been gifted with the sight of her, for he would have surely fallen into temptation.

Yet he could not fall into such temptation. There was no temptation so great or beautiful as to make him forget holy Jerusalem and his vow to Baldwin, closer than a brother, honored as a king.

Little Elsbeth, caught in the plans of men. Well, whatever came, he would deal gently with her. She deserved no less, though he could give her little more.

"Elsbeth, I await," he said, his hand pressed against the rough wood of the door.

She was as small as a cat and moved like one, seeking no man's notice, quiet in all her ways. Yet could he not feel her presence beyond the door? Aye, he could. She had a soft glow about her that shone even through an oaken door. Or so he would believe. His task was to woo her; he must not let himself believe in the wooing, no matter her solemn beauty or her shy and reluctant charm.

"Elsbeth," he repeated, running his hand over the door.

He would win her with gentle caresses of voice and hand. He would pray at her side without complaint or frown. He would smile on all her dark humors. He would wring a smile from her before he was done. He would make her pant with longing for his touch, his kiss, his body pressing into her own. Aye, he would. He would do all. He would win all.

"Elsbeth, let me come into you. This hall is cold and dark; there is no taper. You taunt me, little wife, for all the light is there with you. Come, share your warmth and light with me. I ask naught else—only let me come into you."

She opened the door and stood there, framed by firelight, her dark eyes shadowed as she faced him. She wore naught but her chemise, white as starlight, and he could see faintly the binding about her hips. Her black hair was lightly waved, even from the crown, and whispered around her face like the wings of a falcon, strong and sure.

Aye, she was temptation. Thank God above that he was beyond temptation though he stood before its opened door.

"You are afraid of the dark," she said.

"I fear not the dark. I only seek the light, as should all God's creation," he said, looking down at her.

It was an answer chosen to please her, and he watched her as she fought the surprised pleasure elicited by his words. Words of heaven, words of the divine and the eternal—they were the path into her heart. He had guessed this from his hearing of her; having met her, he knew this path was true. He could run this path in the dark, and even the cold, wet dark of England would not make him stumble. He was from Jerusalem; he had drunk such words as a babe from his mother. He had breathed these words of salvation and redemption in the very air of Outremer. This was a battle he could not lose.

"Then come, my lord. I would not have you lose yourself in the dark," she said, holding wide the door.

He came in, smiling. It was going well. There was no fear in her. Such was the way to start with a woman.

"All is well with you?" he asked. Her soiled garments were soaking in the bucket he had brought her.

"All is well," she said. "I do not need a helper in these things. I am a woman. This is my path to walk."

He picked up the basket from the floor and set it on the bed. The bed was high and the mattress deep, the coverings of linen and wool and wolf pelt. A fine, warm bed with a curtain of red embroidered wool at the head to keep away the cold damp of English stone.

"That is well," he said. "All is well with you, little wife, and all will be better yet, for I have brought us a repast to share in the quiet of our chamber. Food and drink for a pair newly made in God's sight."

"I am not hungry."

"I think you will be, and as your husband, I take my charge to provide for your needs most seriously. When you hunger, I will feed you."

"I will not hunger," she said.

There was a stubborn core of steel to her that only made him smile. He had not yet met steel that he could not best, and so it was with the steely heart of his wife. Or would be.

"If I say that you need food, then of course you shall take it. I only seek what is best for you. I only serve where I see need."

"Look again, my lord. I have no need which you must meet. All is truly well with me."

"Aye, I will not argue it," he said, opening up a hunk of bread and releasing the warm wheat smell into the close air of the chamber. "It is only that I am prepared for what might come and would do you only good service."

"Eat what pleases you, my lord. Serve yourself good and well. I will abide on my stool. Give no thought to me."

"Abide on your stool? Give no thought to you?" he asked, his dismay and horror greatly exaggerated. "Is this the husband I am to be, named so by my wife? I will not abide your sitting on a stool when a good, warm bed is well within your grasp. Come, Elsbeth, share this bed with me, for I can promise you, I have given much thought to you and will always do so."

He picked her up and set her on the bed as easily as he spoke of it. Her blood did not put him off; nay, he had seen enough blood to wipe away any thoughts of defilement at her touch upon his arm. There could be nothing of defilement in Elsbeth, no matter what the priests might say.

She looked as if she would speak and then thought again, closing her mouth and breathing deeply, a sigh to set all to rights and to keep herself still. She sat upon the bed, her legs tucked beneath her, resting on her heels. She looked a child, a dark and pretty child, yet her eyes were all woman. Dark, deep, and wary, they were. There was little fault to find in that, and he did not look hard for fault in her.

He broke the bread again and held out a piece to her. She did not lift her hand to take it, though her eyes never left his.

"It is fresh," he said. "I will confess to finding that I have a weakness for the bread of Britain. Levantine bread seems a pale, thin shadow compared to it."

"It is the ale," she said, taking a piece, a very small piece, while he spoke. "Ale is added into the dough."

"Ah, well, that explains all," he said, grinning. "I have ever and always liked the taste of ale."

"And who does not?" she said, her eyes smiling if her mouth did not.

They ate in silence for a while, the flickering of the fire the greatest warmth they shared. And yet the warmth between them grew with each passing moment. Intimacy was built on such moments of nothingness, a shared meal, a shared and easy silence. There were many paths into the heart of a woman, and he knew them, every one.

When the bread was gone, a memory marked in crumbs, they sat upon the bed, looking at the fire together. It was a small chamber by the standards of Jerusalem, and the fire's light all but filled it. He did not look at her, but could feel her eyes on him, skittering glances that touched him like a lance-point. He let her find her way, her eyes mapping him, and did not think to press her hard. Such glances were a maid's first exploration, and it went best if gently done. He left her to it, holding still while she studied him.

He knew what she saw: a man come into her bed, her chamber, and her life. But not into her body. Not yet. That should give her ease.

"Will you leave?" she asked, looking at the fire.

"What? Again?" he said, looking at her with a smile.

She smiled and ducked her head. "I only mean to say... there is naught for you here. Tonight. You know that. My courses run hard. This is a night of blood for me, and not my maiden's blood, which a man does prize to see."

"I would never prize to see any blood from you, Elsbeth," he said softly. "The ripping of your maidenhead will burn. It must be done, as God decreed, but I will take no joy in it." She looked into his eyes in more amazement than wariness; that was good, yet still she was wary. Well, she had been a wife for mere hours. Time would tear all wariness from her as her maidenhead would soon be torn. "Still," he said, "I do not count tonight a loss. There is much for me here, in this bed. There is you, Elsbeth. I would stay with you. You are the only gift I want tonight. Will you deny me?"

She looked down at her lap; her hands were folded there, and she studied them as if to see their inner workings.

"Do not deny me, little wife. I want to stay with you," he said, reaching out a hand to touch the wings of hair that framed her face.

"I will not deny you that which I can freely give," she said, still staring down into her lap. "Stay, if it please you."

"It will please me," he said. "It does please me."

She looked up at him, her eyes black holes of want in the shadowy light of the chamber.

"Because you please me," he said.

With just such drops, word by word, the hole in her heart would be filled.

* * *

She did not trust him. He worked a plan of his own devising, and where she fit, she did not know. But she trusted not.

Men used words as weapons, a careless entertainment upon which they sought to build a life. Well, if God could use men's steely weapons to win holy wars, that was His will and she would not fight it. But soft and silken words she would not allow to be cast about her; she would fight that. She was of stouter stuff than that and not a maid to swoon... well, mayhap there was some small bit of swooning in her weaker parts, but she would master that.

“Thank you, my lord. You are generous of spirit," she said. "If your generosity will continue, I must again ask for privacy to tend my female needs."

He did not fight her this time. She managed all quickly. She bound herself well, using many layers to stanch the flow, and to keep her private parts well covered and still private to herself. How they would sleep, she did not know. Would he strip bare and require her to do the same? She should have a thought as to what she wanted, so that when he pressed for his way in this, she would have weapon-words of her own, sharp and ready for his attack.