Ned had collected kindling for a fire which glowed softly in the centre of the room. The door of their lodgings was ajar, in a futile attempt to clear the room of some of the smoke, and Ned leaned thoughtfully on the door frame. He was wearing Sir Jean’s fine woollen cloak which Gwenn had brought with her and given him, together with a bleached linen chainse and fresh tunic that his cousin had dug out of storage.
Gwenn held a reed taper to the tallow candle which Brother Dominig had jammed into a candlestand. The iron stand stood tall as a man, it was eaten with rust and had a crick in its stem so it leaned at a drunken angle. There were no other furnishings. When Gwenn lit the candle, the smelly fat spat and splashed onto one of the mattresses. A moth fluttered through the doorway, and was drawn inevitably to the fire. ‘Ned?’
Ned started. ‘Mistress?’
‘Please shut the door. It’s not getting rid of the smoke, we’ll be plagued with insects, and the draught is making this candle burn unevenly.’ The door closed softly. ‘Ned?’
‘Yes?’ Unbuckling his sword, Ned was wondering which mattress to sleep on. Carefully he placed his sword by the fire, with its guard undone so he could draw it at a moment’s notice. Whichever mattress he slept on, he’d want his sword close to hand. He picked the one nearest the door, lest the alarm bell rang in the night. He could not presume to lie with his wife after all she had suffered this day. It felt peculiar to regard her as his wife.
‘You cannot call me Mistress Gwenn all our married life.’
‘I know.’ Ned smiled at her across the flames, thinking how pretty she was in the fireglow. The shadows masked the strain on her face, and the kindly light lent a faint flush to her pale cheeks. His wife. ‘But habits cannot be changed overnight. Your father was insistent I kept my distance.’ He broke off, cringing at his appalling tactlessness. ‘Gwenn, forgive me, I did not mean to remind you...’
Her lips curved sadly. ‘I don’t need you to remind me, Ned. My father’s last moments are ever in my mind. You do not wound me.’ She sank down onto one of the mattresses. Ned stood by awkwardly, uncertain of his new role.
‘At least the mattresses are dry,’ she said.
Ned poked one with his foot. It rustled. ‘Straw?’
‘Either that or dried bracken. Lumpier than our old ones.’ Abruptly, Gwenn ducked her head and began fumbling with her braids, but Ned had seen the sudden sheen in her eyes, and knew it indicated tears. Before he’d given it conscious thought, he found himself on his haunches at her side, hands on her shoulders.
‘Gwenn, don’t check your tears. Cry. It might ease the pain.’
Her eyes met his, dark and watery, but she shook her head. ‘I...I mustn’t. What if the children wake? If they saw me weeping, it would upset them even more.’ She curled her fingers into fists, and her voice wobbled. ‘I feel as though I’m in a dream. None of this seems real. I need to think, only there are so many worries eating away at me I don’t know which to tackle first. Help me, Ned. Help me to think. I’m worried to death.’
Gwenn’s appeal having neatly defined his role, Ned knew where he was. In a companionable manner, he settled himself at her side, put an arm about her shoulders, and hugged her to him. The most difficult part for him would be trying to put out of his mind how much he desired her. That insidious chanting began in his mind. She is your wife. Your wife.
‘I’ve funds, you know,’ Ned was determined to ignore the insistent chorus, ‘so if that’s a concern, dismiss it. Your uncle gave me this. It’s yours. Give me your hand.’ He dropped Waldin St Clair’s purse into her palm.
‘Waldin gave you this? Sweet Mother, it’s heavy.’ Gwenn untied the strings and gaped at an astonishing hoard which included small pennies from the Breton mints of Rennes and Nantes, some of the more valuable English silver pennies, deniers from Tours, and even gold bezants from the distant Byzantine capital of Constantinople. ‘Waldin carried all this on his person?’
‘Aye. It’s the prize money of a champion. When Sir Waldin described the tournaments to me, he told me he reckoned it safer on his person than hidden elsewhere. He liked to know where it was. He threw it at me in the heat of the battle.’
‘Guard it for me. It could see us to Jerusalem if need be.’ Gwenn glanced at the bundle which contained her grandmother’s statue. She might not have to sell the gemstone at once. ‘Ned?’
‘Mmm?’ Gazing resolutely at the fire, Ned’s response was muffled. She is your wife. She is...
‘You could have run off with it,’ Gwenn said in a low voice. ‘You could have left us, and run off with a fortune.’
‘And leave you to face de Roncier alone? How could you say such a thing?’
The hurt in Ned’s eyes tugged at Gwenn’s heartstrings, and apologetically she lifted her fingers to touch his cheek. Her fingers lingered.
Ned held himself steady as a rock. He had to force himself to keep his eyes open, while concealing his feelings from her. He was certain she’d be frightened by them; the force of them frightened even him. He swallowed. Her fingers shifted, went to his hair. She was feeling the texture of it, stroking it, eyes shy, not driven by great emotion, he was well aware of that, but quietly, trustfully exploring. An ache started deep in Ned’s belly. His breath was coming unevenly. He strove to moderate it.
‘I count myself lucky to have so loyal a husband, Ned,’ Gwenn said, unmindful of the disordering effect she was having on Ned’s senses. Not for one moment did I doubt you. You’re a man in a thousand.’
‘Gwenn,’ Ned blurted, and could have cursed, for her hand fell away, ‘I wish I had a ring for you.’
‘I need no ring to remind me to keep faith with you. I’ve sworn to keep myself for you, and I’ll honour my vows.’
Ned’s arm tightened, and he looked at Gwenn’s mouth.
On her mattress three feet away, Katarin mumbled in her sleep. Gwenn’s expression changed. ‘Katarin’s one of my main worries,’ she said. ‘She’s not uttered a word since we left Kermaria.’
‘What?’
‘Katarin won’t talk. I can’t get a word out of her.’
‘She said something then.’
‘In her sleep.’ Gwenn got up and went to her sister’s palliasse. She tenderly stroked a strand of hair from the little girl’s face. ‘When she’s awake, I can’t squeeze a word out of her.’
‘She,’ Ned hesitated, ‘she wasn’t struck in the fight?’
‘No, she was with me all the time. No one laid a finger on her.’ Katarin muttered and threw off her covering. Gwenn replaced it. ‘I can’t understand it.’
Leaning on his elbow, Ned asked, ‘What’s she saying?’
‘I can’t make it out. She’s gabbling. Do you think she’s all right?’
‘If she can talk in her sleep, there can’t be much wrong. She will be in shock, I should think. Give her a day or two to come round. Soon she’ll be chattering away like a starling, and you’ll be wishing her silent for a space.’
‘I hope so. Oh, Ned. It is good to have you to talk to. I’d be in a terrible state, if I didn’t have you.’
‘The infant, is he alright?’
Gwenn nodded, and came back to Ned. She kicked off her short kid boots. ‘Philippe has the constitution of an ox. He doesn’t seem to have noticed anything’s amiss. He yells when he’s angry or when he’s hungry, but he’s soon soothed. He’s an amazing child. If we can but get him away from here...’
‘We will.’
Gwenn stood looking down at her husband. Dear Ned. He had been her only real friend for two years, and suddenly she found herself married to him. It was not easy to believe, but then nothing that had happened that day had been easy to believe. Her mind was too strained to think about the other, unacceptable events, it was best if she kept it fixed on her husband.
Ned smiled, took one of her hands and tugged. Gwenn’s knees bent. Their eyes met and Gwenn saw the flush on his cheeks. She lacked sexual experience, but she knew that the colour on his cheeks was not entirely du
e to the fire. Ned desired her.
‘Gwenn,’ Ned cleared his throat, but his voice remained husky, ‘if it would help you to talk about your father...’
‘Later, perhaps, not now.’
‘Where do you want to sleep?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ll sleep with you, husband.’
Ned released his breath on a rush, pulled off his boots, and opened his arms. Gwenn went into them as eagerly as a pigeon coming home to roost after battling through a tempest. The heat of Ned’s body was comforting, and at first she was content to be held, but every time she lowered her eyelids, images crowded in on her, violent, grisly, bloody images, that made her eyes flick open and chased sleep away. She felt dislocated, out of herself, and if it wasn’t for the feel of Ned’s cradling arms, and the comforting smell of his body... She closed her eyes and burrowed deeper into his arms. A likeness of her father, lying in a dark pool on the rushes, flickered through her mind’s eye. She shook it away and wound her arm tight about Ned’s waist. A heartbeat later, she felt the reassuring touch of Ned’s hand on her hair. She tried to relax, and closed her eyes once more.
The fire burned down till it was only a dull cluster of stars winking gently in the centre of the floor. The candle hissed and guttered. Time crawled by, and neither of them slept.
Ned was tussling with an altogether different vision, but it disturbed his rest as much as Gwenn’s memories disturbed hers. He was imagining that Gwenn and he were naked. They lay pressed together, mouth on mouth. She loved him, and his hand was running down her smooth white skin from shoulder to thigh...
‘Gwenn?’ Ned whispered, unaware that the sound of his voice had banished yet another in a long line of ghastly horrors which were all Gwenn’s battered mind seemed capable of producing. She raised her head from his chest, and her loose braids tickled his neck. ‘Can’t you sleep?’
‘No. My mind’s going round like a wheel on a cart.’
Rosemary, Ned could smell rosemary. His hand moved down Gwenn’s cheek and came to rest on the small pulse in her neck. He could see it beating, and slid his thumb across it in a delicate caress.
Gwenn enjoyed the sensation, and it came to her that she wanted Ned to kiss her. His kisses would heal her hurts. He would bring her back to herself. He would bring her down to earth. But Ned would not kiss her, despite his desire, unless she encouraged him. Ned would not have forgotten that she had once told him her liking did not match his.
She closed her eyes. ‘I like that.’
‘You do?’ Ned repeated the gesture. He was holding her as though she were as fragile and precious as glass from Araby.
‘Mmm.’ Reaching up to Ned’s neck, Gwenn caressed him in the same way. Ned groaned and she snatched her hand back. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘Like it?’ He caught her hand, kissed her fingertips and replaced them on his neck. ‘I love it.’
Gwenn smiled. She had never seen a man look at a woman the way Ned was looking at her. All soft, and gentle, and so very open. Ned looked...vulnerable. Men did not always look at their wives in this manner. She was privileged to have Ned as her husband. The knowledge warmed her. A memory from happier times sprang to the forefront of her mind. She saw her uncle telling her she must take care with Ned Fletcher. She had heeded his advice and had thought she understood what Waldin had been driving at, but even so she had not realised the extent of the power she had over Ned. His happiness rested entirely in her hands. It was a responsibility she was happy to shoulder, for Ned was kind. Ned cared for her. Ned would help her look after the children. She would fight to keep him happy when he gave so generously to her. No harm would ever come to Ned from her, their need for each other was a mutual need.
Gwenn let her fingers wander over his neck, watching the play of expressions on his face. He groaned again, shut his eyes, and when they reopened, they were all but black. She felt a rush of tenderness for him. His love drove away the dark shadows. He healed her hurts. ‘Always look at me like that, Ned,’ she murmured.
‘I always have,’ he muttered, and pulled her close to his chest, ‘only you were never allowed near enough to see.’
Gwenn untied the neck of his borrowed tunic and ran her fingertips over the sprinkling of fair hairs on his chest. Tentatively, feeling as though she were in a dream, she pressed her lips to his skin. Ned’s breathing was becoming ragged.
‘Gwenn don’t.’ He sounded so hoarse she hardly recognised his voice.
‘Don’t?’ Gwenn rubbed her cheek against his chest, bemused at her own actions, but she could not stop. She had not realised how good it would be simply to cuddle Ned. He felt so nice, so warm and solid – so alive.
‘Please, Gwenn, you’re driving me to distraction!’
‘In what way?’
Another row of explorative kisses burned Ned’s throat. He took her wrist and tried, rather feebly, to push her away. ‘I...I think you know in what way.’
‘But Ned, I’m your wife.’
‘I thought to spare you your wifely duties.’
‘Honourable fool,’ she said affectionately.
Ned groaned.
‘You want me, don’t you?’
‘Want you? Sweet Christ!’
‘Then make me Gwenn Fletcher in truth, Ned. Please. Help me.’
Ned swallowed.
‘I need to forget Gwenn Herevi. Help me look forwards, because if I don’t look forwards I will look back. And, if I look back, like Lot’s wife, I’ll turn into a pillar of salt. Help me, husband.’
Ned raised a trembling hand and stroked her cheek.
‘Kiss me, Ned.’ And, for modesty’s sake, lest Katarin should awaken, Gwenn reached for her cloak and drew it over them. Trustfully she twined her arms about Ned’s neck and waited for the touch of his lips. He was gentle, as she knew he would be, and his lips were soft. It was the second time Gwenn had been kissed, the last time had been with Ned’s cousin, and that had felt very different – exciting and not a little frightening. Ned did not frighten her. He was all reassurance. After a moment, she made to draw back, and immediately he loosed his hold as though he feared she was rejecting him. ‘I like kissing you, Ned.’
Ned’s eyes shone. ‘There are plenty more where that came from.’
They kissed again, and Ned’s hand slid over the curve of her hips and thighs, to the hem of her skirt. With his lips clinging to hers, he unclasped her belt and drew her gown and underskirt up to her waist. One of his legs found its way between her thighs.
Gwenn shifted on the mattress. ‘Show me what to do, Ned.’
Ned’s hand moved lightly over her waist, and Gwenn gasped when he reached her breasts. He pushed her clothes higher, and her mind clouded. It was bliss not to think. Blindly, she pressed closer to her husband and, in the absence of any direction from him, pushed one of her hands down the waist of his breeches and moved it gently over his buttocks. Ned groaned. Rightly taking this as encouragement, she pulled his hips to her, feeling the muscles cord and bunch under her fingers. He felt good, did Ned. Perhaps this marriage of hers would work in more ways than one. Perhaps what she felt for Ned could turn to passion...
As feeling took over, Gwenn’s thoughts became more tenuous. She was dimly aware that Ned was reaching for the ties of his chausses. Aware of a feverish impatience in him that she was half-beginning to understand, she assisted.
‘Gwenn, I don’t want to hurt you.’ Ned leaned up on his elbows, and she saw he was gritting his teeth in an effort to control himself.
She arched up and kissed his shoulder. ‘Ned, you’re too far away.’ She tugged his shoulders and that was that.
Ned fell into her.
‘Oh, Ned.’
Ned pushed once, twice, and then it was over, almost before it had begun. ‘Jesu, Gwenn, I’m sorry.’ Shuddering, and obviously shamed to the point of tears, Ned buried his face in her neck.
‘No need to apologise.’ Gwenn stroked the flaxen hair back from his damp brow.
‘I must h
ave hurt you.’
‘No.’
‘It was too quick. You didn’t...like it. Oh God, Gwenn, I wanted so much for you to like it.’
Cradling his head, Gwenn kissed a hot cheek. ‘On my soul, it was fine, Ned.’
‘I love you, Gwenn.’
‘And I love you,’ Gwenn responded, realising with a start that she did love him. Not in the way of the grand passions that the troubadours sang of, but she did, most definitely, love him. Who could know Ned and not love him?
She became aware of a sticky wetness seeping out of her. Ned’s seed. It had been over more swiftly than she had thought it would, and the whole process was a thousand times more...animal than she had imagined, but whatever deficiencies there were in Ned’s technique, his love more than made up for it. And as for her not liking his lovemaking – it had hurt a little, but Gwenn had expected that. She had been a virgin. She would grow to like it, in time.
Easing himself out of her body, and filled with self-loathing, Ned drew his wife’s hand to rest on his shoulder. He avoided her eyes for fear of what he might read in them. Gwenn would despise him now, assuredly. Grimly, he hitched his chausses back into place. He had spoilt it. His rushed, callow fumbling had left them both fully clothed, and he’d reached a climax the instant he had entered her. Last time Ned had had a woman – a whore in Vannes – he had gone on for an age. Why could it not have been like that with Gwenn, whom he loved? She must hate him...hate him...
Gwenn grasped his chin with cool fingers. ‘Look at me, Ned.’
Ned braced himself to meet scorn and instead found himself basking in smiling warmth. Gwenn leaned forwards and pressed loving lips full on his. ‘Good night, my husband,’ she murmured, and nipped his lower lip between her teeth.
The Stone Rose Page 35