“I have failed you then? I feared as much when you left as you did.” She sat up next to him. “I did not know what you wanted, my lord. I promise to acquiesce to your…needs the next time. If you tell me how to change what I did wrong, I will do as you ask.”
She would be the death of him yet. “Cate, you did nothing wrong.” Her doubtful expression told him that she did not believe it to be so. “You were the only one showing any sense tonight,” he said, turning to face her. “You were right to stop me from taking that step in the heat of passion, without thinking of all the consequences.”
“You do not want this marriage then?” She held her breath, no doubt waiting for his repudiation.
“No, ’tis not that. You seemed to read my doubts as easily as you read Latin, Cate. I do not like things between Christian and me to be unsettled. I do want the king’s acceptance of you and his confirmation of my titles and lands. I want to do nothing that will threaten this union, and if waiting to consummate our betrothal, waiting until the king pronounces me holder of the Dumont estates, is necessary, then that is what we will do.”
“Until Caen?”
“Until Caen. I want nothing to undermine our marriage.”
“Nor I,” she said in a whisper.
“Let me hold you.” He nearly bit his tongue when he realized how close to a sexual request his words were. If she noticed or objected, she did not say, and did not hesitate to come into his embrace. Smoothing her hair away from her face, he waited for her to relax against him.
Although she seemed accepting of his actions, he knew she did not understand what had happened between them. Her body had reacted to his touch, but he was certain that Cate’s mind did not grasp the whole of it. Geoff wanted to reassure her that she was in no way lacking, nor had she acted inappropriately in the physical matters between them.
“I would speak to you about tonight, Cate. You need to know that what happened between us and the arousal you felt was something I hope is always there for you.”
“But I screamed. Surely ’tis not acceptable between husband and wife?”
“It makes a man feel powerful indeed to draw that sound from a woman. Your sounds increased my own pleasure, Cate. Do not hesitate to give them to me when we finally complete the passion that has started between us.”
The memory of that noise, the keening sound that had started in her throat and moved through her and out as his mouth brought her to climax, was as intoxicating as the best wine from his vineyards. Nay, the sound of it and the look of wonderment on her face and the smell and taste of her essence as it poured forth had been more invigorating and exciting than anything he could think of.
The part of him that wanted to bury itself in her made it known that these thoughts and words were as arousing now as she had been earlier. Shifting on the bed so that it was not so evident, Geoff knew he must speak of it no more.
Cate had other ideas. “Would you tell me what else is to happen between us? The reverend mother did not have much guidance for me in this matter, due to the rushed ceremony, no doubt.”
Nothing could squash a man’s desire so quickly as thoughts of the reverend mother counseling Catherine on matters of the flesh. He shivered at the connection, one that should simply not be thought of in the same breath. Nuns. Sex. Nay, not together. More comfortable now that his manhood had relaxed, he tried to speak nonchalantly about the final step they would take.
“When we reach that part of passion again—after you scream for me once more…” he said, enjoying the blush the crept up her neck onto her delicate cheeks. “After that, I will put myself inside you and release my seed there.”
She gazed at him and he saw the look of enlightenment as she remembered his release beneath her earlier. “Will that hurt? I have heard women speak of the pain.”
“I confess to not having bedded any virgins in my sordid past, Cate. I, too, have heard that there will be some small measure of pain and a bit of blood to mark the taking of your maidenhead.”
He could not ever remember having spoken words of such candor with anyone before. Men did not speak of this, not with each other, not with women. But her questions, asked so forthrightly, deserved answers.
“A virgin’s blood,” she whispered.
“Aye. ’Tis the proof of your virginity. But I swear I will try to make the pain a slight one, one that you will not remember for the pleasure. Be not afraid of that moment, for it will pass quickly between us.”
She moved closer to him and smiled. “I am not afraid.”
“Can you forgive me my blunders tonight?”
“Only if you forgive mine.”
“Then we are at peace?” he asked, wanting to be certain that no worries would mar the rest of their journey.
“We are at peace.”
“Give me your scream again,” he ordered through the darkness that always surrounded her.
He thought she screamed in pain, but hers was one of pure fury. She had fought the fear and confusion for so long, but this outraged her to the depths of her soul. Although she hated him to think that she submitted to his wishes, she did scream again. Her body shook with it, her throat burned from it and her soul felt the defeat that it meant.
She had lost everything that she held dear. Her family, her home, her name—all gone now. The only thing of value left to her had just been stolen from her. And he laughed at her pain and her anger.
“Give it to me now and I will stop this.” She knew he lied, as he had each time. “Scream and then tell me your secret. ’Twill be over then.”
He reveled in her loss, and she could hear the pleasure he gained from it. As she felt the wet touch of his fingers on her breast and her cheek, and smelled the metallic odor of spilled blood, she knew that he marked her with her own. As on a hunt when those on their first kill are marked with the blood of their prey, he smeared her with her own.
“You will give it to me. Never doubt that you will. No one can save you—there is no one left for you. And without your maidenhead, you have value to no one. You will always be mine.”
The darkness pulled her in and she screamed no more.
Struggling awake, Catherine sat up and fought to breathe. Her screams and the voice still echoed in her head, and she looked around the room for its source. A few beams of moonlight came in through the shuttered window. Enough for her to see that the room was empty but for her and Geoffrey. And he slept next to her, snoring lightly even as she shifted and moved.
It must be the excitement of the journey and her exhaustion that caused such strange wakenings. Gathering her hair over one shoulder, she lay back next to Geoffrey and allowed his warmth to soothe her frayed nerves. She turned on her side and he followed her, curving around her and holding her close. She felt no fear as he held her, so she knew it must be some bad dream. Soon, she felt the pull of sleep once more and let it come. As it did, she also remembered something from those dark times.
She was not a virgin.
When Geoffrey finally claimed her, he would find no virgin’s blood, no proof of her virginity, for she had lost it already. She could not bleed again, even for him.
Would he forgive her if she could not remember it?
Chapter Fifteen
The winds of autumn would come soon and bring coolness to the land. September would begin, and with it would come harvest time in England. From the sight of so many knights and fighting men amassed in Dover, she knew it would bring war to Normandy and France. Word was out that King Richard was mustering troops for some action on the Continent, and the hunger for war and its rewards spread even before their arrival in the northernmost of the Cinque Ports.
Their journey through Sandwich had been slowed by the presence of so many fighting men and their followers. The overflow of people camped along the road, for the inns and rooms of Sandwich were filled. Geoffrey had sent his man ahead to speak directly to the constable of Dover Castle.
As a nobleman on the king’s business, Geoffrey told
her they would have suitable accommodations before their voyage and a prompt delivery over the Channel in one of the ships reserved for the king’s use. If Geoff worried over the numbers of travelers on the roads or in the town, he said nothing to her. By the time they reached the gates of Dover, Michel was there with directions to their lodgings and an invitation to dine with the constable, Lord Reginald, at the castle that very evening.
Her only worry was her lack of clothing, but Geoffrey would not let her dwell on that. And with the sea in front of her and the saltiness of the fresh air reviving her spirits and her travel-worn body, she looked forward to the rest of this trip with some anticipation.
When they arrived at their rooms, Geoffrey surprised her with a new chemise, a kirtle of blue with a matching surcoat trimmed in gold and blue, his colors, and veils for her head. How he had managed this while on the roads, she knew not, but she appreciated his thoughtfulness and care. Now she could attend the dinner at the castle without worrying that she would shame him with her appearance.
Finally, with the help of a maid and the escort of Geoffrey and his men, she arrived at Dover Castle. The edifice sat on the plateau at the top of the cliffs and commanded an impressive view of the Channel below. Entering through the gate, they proceeded to the keep and its main hall, where the meal would be served. With so many traveling through Dover, the event promised to be a loud and raucous one.
The surprising thing about it was the appearance of the dowager queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine. All activity halted at her entrance, and Catherine watched in awe as this legend among all of England—nay, the world—walked unaided up to the high table and took the seat of honor at the right hand of the constable. Nigh to four score years she had lived, and even in her dotage she was a woman of strength and, as gossip would have it, unflagging determination to hold together the Plantagenet kingdom and provinces. Once the queen was seated, Geoffrey tugged on Catherine’s hand.
“Come, love. We must take our seats and not delay the queen’s meal.” He pulled her along the edge of the hall toward the front.
“Wait, my lord. You cannot mean for us to sit…there?” She nodded to the table on the dais, at which the highest ranking of those present sat. Then she noticed the spaces to the right of the queen. “Surely you jest.”
She had never met Eleanor, neither here in England nor in Anjou as a child. And she was not certain that she would ever be prepared to meet her. What did one say to the wealthiest and most influential woman in the world? Someone who had defied kings and popes, who had gone on Crusade and who had married two of the most powerful kings of England and France?
“Cate, our place is there.” Geoff looked at her and must have seen her fears, for he stopped and whispered to her. “You are Catherine of Blaye, the betrothed wife of the Comte de Langier, and must be seated as such. Come.”
The pounding in her head increased with every step forward. Her palms were growing wet and she felt beads of perspiration gather and roll down her back. She would not be able to do this. Even for Geoffrey.
But he did not slow his pace or stop. She gathered her gown in her hands and walked up the steps and then at his side as they approached the table. Instead of stopping at the empty chairs, he escorted her to Eleanor, as was appropriate. He bowed, and Catherine dipped into a deep curtsy as Geoffrey introduced her.
“Your Grace. May I present my betrothed to you? This is Catherine of Blaye, though lately of Lincoln.” He turned to her and began to introduce Eleanor by her titles.
“Catherine, Her Grace, Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, Countess of Poitou—”
“Geoffrey! The girl has eyes in her head. She knows who I am and needs not hear all of those acclamations. Here, girl, let me see you.”
Catherine stood and moved closer to the queen. Eleanor reached out and, with a heavily bejeweled finger under her chin, lifted Catherine’s face to hers. She dared to meet the gaze of the queen. Eleanor smiled at her boldness.
“A beauty, my lord. Although she is not known to me.” The queen turned Catherine’s head to one side and then the other, examining her closely for any signs of familiarity. “Her parents?”
“Her parents are dead, Your Grace. They were distant cousins of Lady Emalie of Harbridge, and so Catherine has been ward to the earl and countess these last few years.”
“I hope not too closely related?” Catherine understood the reference to the concerns of consanguinity and affinity raised in both of Eleanor’s own marriages. The glint in the queen’s eyes as she asked told Catherine she was jesting.
“No, Your Grace. Just far enough apart,” Geoffrey added.
“Come to the solar on the morrow, lady. I would speak with you. You may accompany her, my lord.”
Eleanor turned back to Lord Reginald, and Catherine realized her presentation was over. Offering another curtsy before backing away, she breathed a deep sigh of relief that this first introduction was done. And what an extraordinary first introduction—to the queen herself! Geoffrey led her back to the seats assigned them and she sat down, barely noticing any of the food before her. She had met Eleanor of Aquitaine.
“Are you well, my lady?” he asked as he held out his cup to the serving boy. “You look pale to me now.”
“I have never met the queen, my lord. I admit to being somewhat overwhelmed.” She sipped at the cup he offered her. The wine, of excellent quality, moistened her dry mouth and throat.
“You did extremely well, for she invited you for a personal audience.”
Now Catherine did quiver, for what would she say to the queen? What could she say without revealing too much or the wrong thing?
Geoffrey grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. “Nay, Cate, worry not on this matter. I will be with you and all will be well for us.”
“Aye, my lord,” she agreed, but she was not convinced of it.
She realized, as Geoffrey offered her pieces of venison and pork, that these introductions must be done if she expected to be his wife. This would be her practice, her training for meeting the king and the other nobles in Caen. Once she’d made the decision to face this challenge straight on, the rest of the meal and even the night spent wrapped in Geoffrey’s arms raced by with great speed.
With immense delight, she discovered another gift of clothing waiting for her in the morning. This gown was a pale shade of green, trimmed with a darker one. Geoffrey was making such an effort that she be arrayed properly before the queen and other nobles that it touched her heart. An hour prior to noon, as directed by one of Eleanor’s ladies-in-waiting, they arrived and were directed to the solar.
Although not usually a place for men to gather with the women, the crowd in the solar this morn was a mixture of gender and class and origins. Catherine heard various dialects of the French tongue being spoken as she followed the servant. Latin, Greek, Italian, even some of the harsher guttural tones of those living in the Holy Roman Empire’s northernmost provinces. Eleanor drew them all to her for her wisdom, her power and, most important, her influence on her son, King Richard.
Catherine peered back and saw that Geoffrey was indeed following her, but the call of many others slowed his progress. She paused to wait for him, but Eleanor’s servant urged her forward. Not wanting to disobey, she continued through the long narrow chamber until she stood before the queen. Catherine sank before her in a curtsy, waiting until her name was spoken to rise and greet Eleanor.
“Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head.
“My dear Catherine, welcome to my gathering. Come, sit by me and help me to sort my threads.”
The lady nearest the queen handed Eleanor a large wooden box, which she passed on to Catherine. Surprised that the queen would perform such mundane duties, Catherine nevertheless took the seat designated and began to separate the skeins of threads by color. Handing them to Eleanor as she called for them, she soon lost some of her nervousness at this meeting.
“My lord Dumont is very different from his brother, is he not?”
<
br /> “Aye, Your Grace, in many ways he is.” Her fingers sorted through the lengths of embroidery threads as she spoke.
“’Tis most likely due to having different mothers.”
“Just so, Your Grace.” So long as the conversation stayed on these informal matters, she would be fine.
“Is he ready to take his place as vassal to the king in his own right?” Eleanor’s voice never changed as she shifted the questions to those of a much more personal matter.
“I believe he is, Your Grace. He has learned much from his brother the earl and from his tutors and other mentors. Especially in these last years, since the king’s agreement to give him the Dumont lands, enfeoffed to him alone.”
There was a pause and Catherine did not look up from her work to see if the queen was looking at her. Had she said too much?
“You have much confidence in your betrothed, Catherine. How long have you been acquainted with the younger brother?”
“I was taken as ward to the earl and countess nigh on three years ago, Your Grace. I live mostly at the Convent of Our Blessed Lady in Lincoln, but have visited Greystone and the other Harbridge estates often.”
Although the queen’s voice was soft and her manner one of friendly interest, Catherine understood the nature of this conversation. The queen was gathering facts for later use. Geoffrey had warned her of such methods on their travels to the castle, and had urged Catherine to tell the truth as much as possible.
“Your education, my dear. What did you learn from the sisters there?”
“I can read and write Latin and English fairly well, Your Grace. My skill with numbers is passing fair and I can play the flute with some modicum of talent.” She paused before going on, and lifted her hands before her. “And my work with the needle and threads is, as Mother Heloise and the Countess of Harbridge say, acceptable.”
“Are you fluent in the languages of the Continent? Langue d’oïl, for example?” the queen asked in that tongue.
“I can speak that, Your Grace,” she answered in the formal language of the Ile de France. “As well as the one you favor in your lands, the land of my birth,” she said, continuing in the langue d’oc that was so prevalent in Eleanor’s southern provinces. Her first lie.
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