The Wagered Wench (8 page)

Elsinora listened as patiently as she could to all this worthless gossip and then said, “So I daresay you were all talking of the Norman before I came in. What is the latest rumor? You may as well tell.”

There was no immediate reply. Bertha was plucking a goose and the others were equally busy about the cookhouse. A few looked at her as if she suddenly had two heads. On a stool beside the great hearth sat Alric the shepherd, a couple of his newborn charges nestled under his coat.

“The Norman helped out with the lambing as if he were an old hand at it. Wouldn’t be surprised if he once lived on a farm. Has no fear of hard, honest work. Strong as an ox.”

This was not the sort of news she meant to hear, of course. “He certainly has the manners of an ox,” she remarked dryly.

One of the maids stirring stew in the large iron pot hanging above the fire offered politely, “Peter Paulsson has made himself a new hen house, Elsinora. He’s very proud of it.”

Alric shifted uncomfortably on the little stool and nestled his lambs closer. “I know a good, steady fellow when I see one. And the Widow Browd is not the sort he’d look at.”

The maid by the pot of stew ceased her stirring. “What sort would he look at then?”

“He’s too good for any of you wenches,” replied the shepherd with an unusual amount of boldness. “He’s a man of quality and deep thoughts.”

“Hark at you!” Bertha laughed. “Deep thoughts indeed! He’s a man who never has much to say for himself. Like you. That’s why you like him so much.”

The chatter then turned to mocking poor Alric who, after his brief foray into expressing an opinion, quickly retreated again under his tortoise shell.

Frustrated by her failure to uncover anything wicked about the man who would soon be her husband, Elsinora stuffed more feathers into her sack with a vast deal of energy.

Yes she’d seen how other women tried to catch his eye, yet the Norman did not appear to notice. As Bertha said, he spoke very little. More often than not he was thoughtful, keeping the workings of his mind to himself. There was a certain, dreamy quality to his eyes, she mused, as if he looked through her and saw things that weren’t there.

Boots! Of all things to fight over.

* * * *

“It may seem strange to you, Dominic, but my daughter has this vexing notion that a man should wash his hands, clean his boots and brush his hair, before he comes to woo.” Gudderth tossed another chopped round of wood onto the fire and sparks flew up, hissing in a gold shower, falling to the cold stone where they quickly sizzled and died. “An odd idea, I know, but that is my daughter.”

Dominic nodded slowly. Yes, he saw she had some grand ideals and it was obvious he did not fit with them.

“It has not been an easy path for her,” the old man went on, lowering his seat to the bench beside Dominic. “She lost her mother when she was but a child and my own guardianship has not been as strong as it perhaps should have been.” He laughed sheepishly. “I concentrated on my only and beloved son, Edwy, for many years. When he died suddenly I was quite lost. I have been—unwell—since then.”

“For all her beauty, all her fine points, she can be a stubborn, obdurate girl. Untrusting.” Gudderth added with a sigh, “She is her mother’s daughter, aloof to strangers and frosty to those who attempt closeness.”

Frosty? Hmmm. Not once he thawed her out properly. She already showed great promise in that regard. He pondered the idea of asking Gudderth what he thought his daughter’s “fine points” were exactly. From what he’d seen she was mostly vain and proud, although he suspected this was all on the surface. He had yet to mine for the secrets she guarded.

He glanced down at his boots, thinking of the stinging nettles he’d found shoved down into them when he pulled them on that morning. And he thought of his saddle bags, emptied out and filled with dung. Someone really didn’t want him there.

“You will treat my daughter with kindness, I hope.”

He turned his head and looked at the bent old man beside him. “I swear I shall never harm a hair on her head, nor tolerate any other person to cause my wife hurt.”

“Good…good…” It seemed as if Gudderth barely heard. He stared into the fire, lost in another world, or memories of the past.

Dominic had those too, when he let them in. But they hurt. He tipped his head back to drain his cup of cider, flushing that pain away.

* * * *

When the day warmed, he took a stroll up to the highest peak and looked out over the churning sea one way and, in the other, to the cluster of homes in the valley. Puffs of smoke belched through holes in the thatched roofs below and then drifted in the breeze, stretching like horse’s tails in mid-gallop. The earth beneath his feet breathed steadily, a living creature awoken fully now from winter. He could almost imagine the new, spring grass curling up over his boots, kissing them with dew as he strode along. There, in the distance, he could see the fields where oxen pulled the plow, churning the earth in rich brown lines. He turned his face up to the sky and sniffed. A faint tint of manure, followed by ash from the fires, competed with the smell of damp mud and fresh grass. From somewhere not too far away, floated a sweet fragrance of early blossom. Then there was the sea over his shoulder. A salty spray that misted the air and seemed to find its way into his skin, seeping into his pores.

He stopped for a moment and looked out over the sea, then back to the village. This would be the perfect spot for a fortress, he thought. A castle. It would be expensive and time-consuming. It would require much manpower and skilled labor too.

He should send a message to Mortain for builders and reinforcements. The Count must be wondering where he’d got to, unless no one missed him. That was a possibility—until they needed some heavy work done for which no one else had a taste. Then they’d look for him and wonder what became of dependable Dom. Well might they wonder, he mused.

Dominic Coeur-du-Loup had just taken more land for the Norman cause and he hadn’t even raised his sword this time to do it. Just a pair of crooked dice.

* * * *

The wedding ceremony was delayed because the Norman sent for a Prior all the way from Exeter. He also took it upon himself to explore the countryside for a suitable place in which their vows could be said. In the end he settled upon an ancient, roofless stone hovel on the cliff’s edge. He said it was the closest thing to a real chapel and he ordered it filled with little candles.

With bemused eyes, Elsinora watched his preparations for the wedding. Apparently he liked things done “just so”. He had a hand in everything and even chose the cloth for her gown—an impractically thin, light blue wool, softer than anything she’d ever felt and brought on a cart from Exeter along with the Prior.

“I shall catch my death of cold,” she exclaimed when he gave her the bolt of cloth to make her bridal gown.

He lowered his brows and his eyes looked shyly downward. “No you won’t. I’ll warm you.”

She shook her head, tut-tutting over the splendidly fine cloth, fearing it would show every stain. Glancing at his fingers she noted his ring was gone. It was true then. Alf had told her the Norman sold his ring to pay for that cloth.

When the monk finally arrived and they all trouped down to the hovel on the cliffs, a light drizzle of rain had begun. It glistened on the mossy stone and trickled down their faces, so they all glowed and sparkled in the light of all those little candles he’d ordered lit. The tiny flames puttered and wavered valiantly against the rain and surprisingly few were extinguished.

As the Prior began his droning recital, Elsinora clenched her posy of blossom in both hands and stared at this odd man, this Norman she was marrying. It had to happen one day, of course. She’d always known her fate, but for as long as possible she’d fought it, hoping for a miracle. Hoping her father might suddenly recognize her as a person in her own right. Foolish hope.

Now the moment was upon her. She was being thrust into this man’s arms.

He couldn’t seem to meet her gaze today, but looked instead at her newly sewn gown, studying it as if he counted threads.

The fresh scent of spring buds drifted all around her and the sea was a muted whisper today. It might have been a pleasant afternoon if not for the rain soaking through her shoes and pooling between her toes.

Her last day as an unwed woman. Later, she thought with a hitch in her pulse…later he would take her to bed.

She’d waited a long time for a swiving. Of course, there was Stryker Bloodaxe, always raring for a chance. But somehow it had never seemed right. As an unmarried woman she was expected to remain “intact”, but other folks expectations had never mattered much to Elsinora. No, she was accountable to God first and then her own conscience. This was what kept her from taking that leap—a mixture of fear and pride. Compounded by the fact that she’d never met a man she deemed good enough for her. The temptation, though great, had never been quite enough to cast her trepidation aside.

Now it would happen, whether she liked it or not. Anticipation skipped through her bones and rattled the locked cage in which she kept her heart. The choice had been taken from her. Why then was she not feeling as angry about it as she should? Her wicked curiosity was apparently stronger than she ever realized.

And she was attracted to him. Oh yes. She was not such a coward to deny it.

He had no manners and ate like a pig at a trough, but somehow she, Elsinora Gudderthsdottir, found him attractive.

His eyes finally met hers and there it was again, the distant gaze that reached beyond her and looked for ghosts. Did he see her at all, she wondered, or did he think of some other woman he knew once.

The service was over. As they walked back down the winding path to the great hall, the rain began to fall harder until the wedding party was drenched and Elsinora’s bridal garland of blossoms shattered, petals tumbling down her hair—left loose today at the Norman’s command. She clung to her posy of flowers, bending against a sudden gust of wind that almost swept her off her feet. It caught her skirt and slapped the thin, rain-soaked wool against her legs.

When the onslaught of wind held her to a sharp halt on the path, her new husband picked her up swiftly and carried her onward, without a word. His breathing was steady, his pace quick, despite the burden in his arms. As her hand rested on his shoulder she felt the heat of his hard muscle, evident even through the tunic he wore. Her fingers lingered a little longer than they should, until she remembered that people were watching, eager to see her tamed by the Norman.

Ha! That, she could promise them all, they would never see. He might bed her, but he would never tame her. Never. She withdrew her hand.

Inside the hall he set her on her feet again and, still without a word to his new bride, untangled the wind wrecked flowers from her hair. Minstrels brought from Marazion now began to play, filling the hall with a lively tune as the food was carried in and folk took their seats at the long trestle tables. Usually, Elsinora had the seat on her father’s left side, but today that spot was claimed by the Norman and he led her to the bench on
his
left side. No one but she cared, of course. Not even her father seemed to notice the loss of his daughter beside him. Instead he chatted merrily at her husband, quickly becoming inebriated.

“Try Elsinora’s wine, Dominic,” he exclaimed, summoning a maid with the jug.

She glared at her father. “He does not care for my wine,” she snapped, remembering how the Norman insulted it the night he first arrived in Lyndower.

Dominic turned his head to look at her. “Perhaps I might yet grow to have a taste for it, my lady Elzinora. I did not know it came from such fair hands when first I tasted it. Now I must have a new appreciation for the product of my wife’s labors. As she will have an appreciation for all mine. Soon.” Was that a devious gleam in his eye? She had no time to study it, for he turned his face away again immediately to talk with her father.

The villagers were soon dancing in the center of the hall, making a merry ruckus. Her head began to hurt. She saw the grinning faces whirl by, heard the stomp of feet, felt the rush of air that accompanied each couple. But the crowd seemed very distant, because all she could think about was the marriage bed waiting for her. It was the same bed that had belonged to her parents. Gudderth now slept on a smaller bed, having packed the bridal bed away in a store shed after his wife died. With great ceremony, he had brought all the pieces out and had it reassembled a few days ago. Now it lurked in wait behind a tapestry curtain at the far end of the hall. It was as much privacy as the newlyweds could expect. Gudderth had offered the use of his private chamber, but the Norman politely refused. He would not, he’d said to Elsinora, turn a sick old man out of his bedchamber, just to sleep with his new bride in privacy. Soon the couple of honor would be escorted to that bed amid many crude jokes and then the curtain would be drawn across—their only shield from the continuing merriment in the hall.