The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series) (4 page)

BOOK: The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series)
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* * *

The chapel of Gautier's holding was against the east wall, a squat and dark building of stone and mortar scoured by wind and mossy with time. It looked like a stable. Hugh sighed and let his eyes find instead the beauty of the place. There was some small patch of brilliance, if one looked long and hard. He had. He had been in Warkham for a sennight, awaiting the arrival of his betrothed. The chapel did boast a splendid floor of cut stone and shimmering quartz laid in a design that awkwardly mimicked the brightly colored mosaics of the Levant. Still, it had a certain severe beauty, and he let the sight wash through him.

The chamber was quiet and still, the birds of winter cooing softly in the rafters, the air pleasantly scented by beeswax candles. It was a place to find God, to hear His voice amid the clamor of living. It was where he found Elsbeth.

She knelt in the nave, her dark hair a shining wave that flowed over her back. Her spine was straight and her head bent to her prayers. The sound of her voice was a soft murmur in the air, as pleasant and soothing as birdsong. He approached her softly, his boots silently marking his passage over the stone floor.

She did not look up. She did not stop her prayers. He had not expected such from her. A woman given to prayer would not mark the approach of a man, even though that man be her betrothed.

He watched her as he knelt at her side. There was a strength to her, a clarity of purpose that radiated from her eyes, a resolve that was unusual in a woman. She was small. And she was young. Yet those traits did not diminish her. A woman, this woman, would need her strength for what he planned to do in her life. Nay, he found no fault with Elsbeth. God and Baldwin had chosen well for him.

He bent his head to his own prayers, his words blending with hers to form a strange sort of spiritual song. If she heard it, she gave no sign. He did not think Elsbeth was given to showing signs.

In time, when the candles had burned down, their wax leaving smooth puddles on the floor, their prayers were silenced. Even Elsbeth, it seemed, could not pray all day. At least not while her betrothed waited at her side in her father's chapel.

"I have not yet bathed," she said, staring up at the rood. Christ upon His cross did not look down at them but cast His eyes upward, toward the Father and His reward. A fine lesson for them all in the way a man's eyes should be fixed upon the prize.

"I will wait," Hugh said, studying her profile. Her lips were full and her brow strong, yet her eyes were soft and deep.

The silence stretched out between them, a silence marked by nothing more significant than the sound of the wind in the rafters and the motion of the birds. Still, it was peaceful. Had he been born a woman, he might have found much solace in prayer and continual contemplation. But he was not a woman.

"I was not..." she began and then faltered.

He waited and did not press for more. Let her speak when she had found her words. Such gentle chivalry would go far with her, according to all Gautier had said.

"I did not pray to delay our marriage," she said, her eyes on the floor under her knees.

"I did not think you had. I would never think so ill of you, Elsbeth. I believe you to be a woman who does not give her words to the air, to be snatched off when the wind blows a different course," he said.

She looked up at him then, a fleeting look that showed first her surprise and then her pleasure at his words. Had she heard so few pleasing words in her life that these few would turn her head?

"Do you?" she asked and then turned away from him again, her eyes once more on the rood. "Do you know me so well and so quickly, then? Or do you only hope?"

"Perhaps it is only hope," he said, standing, giving her his arm to assist her.

She laid her hand upon his arm slowly, cautiously. It was their first touch, and well they knew it. Yet it was only a hand upon an arm. Only a hand, yet she hesitated. He could not fathom it. She had seemed more bold than to hesitate at this.

"And perhaps," he continued, taking her hand in his and laying it upon his arm, "perhaps it is that I trust. I trust in God, Elsbeth, as must you. I trust that He has gifted me with a bride who will suit. I trust that our lives will mesh, becoming one, as the Lord God intended. As Adam was given Eve, so I am given you."

Her eyes widened and she snatched back her hand. "Eve sinned grievously. Do not compare me to her, I beseech you. She did not do her husband any good turn that I can see. I would be better."

"It may be so," he said, taking back her hand and holding it in his, "and yet, she was fashioned for him and from him. And she peopled the earth, as God commanded. I find no fault with that."

"You are a strange sort of knight," she said, her dark eyes smoky with wonder.

"I am a knight of the Levant, Elsbeth. That is all I am," he said, meaning every word.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

She had listened to him, this man who would claim her, and tried not to drown in him. He was beautiful. His words were perfect in chivalry and in Christian courtesy. He was everything a maid prayed for, and he was to be hers.

She did not want him.

She tried to remember why.

By thinking of what was, of the hard terms and facts of her life and the counsel of her mother, Ardeth. That was the cure for muddy memory.

Her mother had instructed her for just such times as these. Hugh was a handsome man, and he called forth longings and desires in her that would not serve. Ardeth had taught her well what men did best in a woman's life; she had learned those lessons fully and so had no longing for the role of wife. The abbey was a kinder, safer life. 'Twas the abbey she desired, not a comely man from Jerusalem. So she must make him believe.

Yet why had he agreed to this betrothal? Why take Elsbeth to wife? There was an answer. There was always an answer, and it had nothing to do with Elsbeth and all to do with Elsbeth's worth.

Her father had taught her that.

Warkham was not the largest of her father's holdings, but it was still impressive. He was the holder of four great towers and two manors. A rich and mighty man who yearned to be richer and mightier still. His marriages had brought him more wealth, wealth in land and wealth in children. He had five sons and three daughters. He had known two wives.

It was her mother's dower land that made Elsbeth such an attractive mate. It was not her looks. It was not her deportment. No matter how Hugh looked at her. No matter what he tried to make her feel.

Elsbeth let the water of her bath slide over her skin, warming her. It was a chill day, dark and damp, the wind coming from the sea to the east and heavy with the smell of saltwater. She had missed the smell of the sea during her time at Dornei with Isabel. She would never see Isabel again. Her life as a bride would not require it, and her life as a nun would prohibit it. Nay, Dornei and all her people were past and could not be resurrected. Her future was in a different direction and bore a different name.

Hugh of Jerusalem.

He was a man who knew too well the words to woo a woman. How else to explain the way his words had touched her heart as surely as his hand had touched her own? His touch along with the words of warmth and welcome, had sparked a response in her that was only and always to be avoided. They were temptation and Hugh their wielder, though she would grant that he had not planned what he had aroused in her.

Aye, aroused.

For at that touch, that simple touch of hand to hand, her vision had clouded and her step faltered. 'Twas too simple a thing to cause a fall, the touch of a man's hand upon her own, though his hands be as callused and hard with fighting as her own were soft with prayer. She could not fall from a touch. Not even if the man be Hugh of Jerusalem. Not even for her betrothed.

Most especially not for her betrothed.

Elsbeth rose up out of the water, cold now, and reached for a length of linen to dry herself. She was clean and fortified with prayer, ready to say her vows and bind herself to the man chosen for her. Chosen by Cod, according to Hugh, and therefore accepted with peace and humility.

Could any man be so humble as all that? Even a man from Jerusalem?

He was a knight, first and last, a fighting man, a man of blood, as the church named all who fought their way through life. He was a man of blood, not heart, not soul... nay, she sinned by even thinking the thought. All men had souls, the most permanent part of their composition, enduring after all else wasted away in death. Yea, he was a man of soul, but so was she. And she did not yearn to be bound to a man of blood, no matter the gentleness of his words or the compassion in his eyes. Or his beauty.

It would have been a blessing if they had lied about his beauty.

He was so golden, so resolutely and perfectly golden. Even his eyes, as green as boughs in winter, held tiny flecks of gold in their deepest depths. A golden man with a golden name.

Hugh of Jerusalem. He dwelt in the land of the Savior, had walked in the very streets where Christ Himself had trod a thousand years ago. Surely, to even touch the stones where Christ had walked was to be transformed into holiness. And so it seemed, for Hugh was bathed in holy righteousness that shone out from his vibrant eyes.

Yet, he was still and always only a man.

But such a man.

He was close as a brother to Baldwin himself, the King of Jerusalem. He had been at the siege of Ascalon, or so the troubadours sang. Side by side with Baldwin, they had won the city after a siege of six months. Stalwart and patient, quietly relentless, they called him, and so he seemed to be.

He was to be her husband upon the hour. Did she want a stalwart husband? Would even a patient man give her what she wanted?

She did not know, and no amount of praying would divine the answer.

How did he find her?

He seemed well content with what he had seen of her thus far. Aye, and she was well-propertied, that was the extent of her attraction. The world was most predictable, once it was reasoned out. She would give him what he wanted: property. And she would then get what she wanted: a way out. He could give her that. He would have no need to withhold it from her. His place was in Jerusalem, his name made in this life, his course set. He had no need of an English wife.

She could be patient as well as any man.

If only she did not have to be a wife. Yet, to be the wife of Hugh might be an easier task than to be the daughter of Gautier. Hugh had to be easier to manage; none could be more difficult than her father. How best to manage a man? She had never learned the answer to that, though Isabel had tried to show her. Her mother's counsel had been easier: Learn to manage yourself. That she could do.

With that thought in mind, she considered what gown to wear. Shivering in the linen wrapped around her torso, she dug through her trunk. The undergarment she had been searching for seemed to fly into her hand with a will; she chose to see it as a sign of benediction. Her choice was a wise one, God be praised.

Over her white linen chemise, she wore a pelisse of rich and vibrant red, the wool supple, the neckline and the narrow wrists decorated with a pattern of flowing leaves in creamy yellow. Her bliaut followed, a simple garment of flawless white, much like the surcoat Hugh wore. She arranged about her hips a girdle of golden rings; she would not wear a jeweled girdle. She would not come to him glittering and eager, her hips, the mark of her ability to breed, outlined, a sparkling temptation. She was just as holy as he, her garments and her soul just as pure as his, though she had lived her life in England.

He would not best her in holiness.

Her hair she brushed until it shone in waves to the middle of her back. About her head she fastened a headband set with small and modest garnets. It was her only adornment, worn in honor of their vows. Or so she hoped he would see it.

She was no beauty, but she was arrayed as one. A holy and untouchable wife. A woman with the scent of holy incense in her hair instead of perfume. Let him find a way to deal with that.

She would get what she wanted from him. She would, though he be her husband, though he be Hugh of Jerusalem.

* * *

Her father's wife awaited her in the hall. Emma was not much older than Elsbeth, with dark hair and blue eyes and a quick smile. She was also many months with child. Emma was happy about the imminent birth of what she was certain was a son. Gautier was not certain and, until he was, he was not overmuch interested. Emma still smiled.

"Are you frightened?" Emma asked.

"Nay, I am not," Elsbeth answered. She was not frightened. She was determined. Stalwart. Serene. She had hoped that it showed.

“That is good," Emma said. "I was frightened, and I was foolish to be so. You will be most content with such a husband, Elsbeth. Your father has done well by you."

He had also done well by himself, but Emma was not the sort of person to understand that. Pointing it out would not fit with Elsbeth's determination to appear serene and otherworldly.

"I am content," she said. It was what was expected of her and would serve her well if Emma repeated this conversation to Gautier. Which she likely would.

BOOK: The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series)
3.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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