THE AWAKENING_A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

  Laura glanced at the bed whose rose petals upon white linen was so lovely it was almost a pity only Tina who had scattered them, the priest, and the newlywed couple would look upon them.

  Almost a pity. Such relief Laura had breathed when Lothaire announced his wife and he did not require an escort abovestairs. Much to the disappointment of many a reveler, they were denied the tradition of crowding the chamber with as many as could fit so they might witness the bride and groom being put to bed.

  When Laura had looked questioningly at Lothaire, he had murmured, “For Clarice. And you.”

  Minutes later, the door opened and Lothaire entered. His feet were bare and body covered in a tunic that fell just below his knees to reveal muscular calves, but what made her stare was his dark blond hair around his shoulders. She was accustomed to it slipping free of its thong, but never had she seen it entirely loosed, not even when they were younger. And how it shone, as if his squire had persuaded him to remain seated long enough to comb it through many a time. It made her fingers long to feel it.

  She was so captivated she did not realize he might be similarly affected by her appearance until he halted before her and she looked up. And saw there the young man who, done with watching the clouds pass, levered onto an elbow and blotted out the sky as he gazed upon her below him. Then kissed her.

  She was certain he wanted to kiss her now. But it would have to wait until the priest withdrew.

  “My lady wife,” Lothaire said low.

  “My lord husband.”

  Father Atticus cleared his throat. “Methinks it time the bride and groom were abed.”

  Wondering what she had revealed of herself, not only to Lothaire but this man of God who believed she had betrayed his lord with another man, Laura dropped her chin.

  A hand cupped her elbow, but it was not her husband’s.

  “Come, Daughter.” The priest guided her to the side of the bed farthest from the door, the same she had stretched upon last eve until Clarice and Tina slept.

  As she lowered to the mattress amid rose petals and settled into the pillows stacked against the headboard, Lothaire did the same on the opposite side.

  Father Atticus pulled the top sheet from where it had been folded at the foot of the bed, covering Laura up to her waist, then strode to the other side and covered her husband. “Let us pray.”

  Laura bowed her head. To her surprise and gratitude, the priest did not ask the Lord to remove from the bride any taint of promiscuity. And much too soon the blessing of the bed was done.

  “My lady.” Father Atticus dipped his head. “My lord.” He turned, extinguished the candles save the two on the bedside tables, and exited.

  Alarmed by how dim it was, though not so much she would be unable to see Lothaire clearly once she resolved to look at him, Laura held her gaze to the door. And nearly snatched her hand from beneath her husband’s when he covered it.

  “Laura?”

  It sounded like a question, but surely not, for what had he to ask? In the eyes of God, Church, and all those present for the ceremony, she was his to do with as he pleased. And she was to be meek and obedient.

  Only when he gently pried open her fingers did she become aware of having made a fist of them.

  “Three weeks,” he murmured as he slid his fingers between hers and settled their calloused pads against the heel off her palm. “They passed too slowly. But not for you, hmm?”

  She looked sidelong at him, wished what must be done this night did not have to be done, that she could curl against his side and fall asleep with the beat of his heart in her ear.

  “This is not as once I imagined,” she said. “Not that I expected it to be.”

  He sighed. “Though it was not to have been this way, there is naught for it but to go forward.”

  She jerked her chin. “Then let us.”

  Keeping hold of her hand atop the sheet, he turned onto his side and set his face above hers.

  She closed her eyes, but when he did not kiss her, she raised her lids. “What is it, Lothaire?”

  “I like looking at you. Ever I have.” He leaned closer, and his wine-warmed breath made her shudder, then he brushed his lower lip up hers. “Kiss me, Laura love.”

  She stopped breathing. Ten years. Ten lonely, aching years since he had called her that. Though it could not mean the same as it had then and never would in so great a measure, it gave hope there would be enough crumbs of love in the years to come that she might gain a piece of the whole.

  She leaned up, set her lips on his, and holding tight to his one hand, slid her other hand around his neck.

  “Laura,” he rasped and pressed his mouth so hungrily to hers that what she had felt when they kissed in the chapel seemed but a shadow of this. Here in their bed, this exciting, dizzying, wondrous kiss was just the beginning. And she would not fear the end of it.

  This was Lothaire. Her Lothaire. Forever and ever and—

  His hand was sliding up her calf as it raised the hem of her chemise, stroking the back of her knee, splaying her inner thigh.

  Too soon! She was not ready for this nor the weight of his chest upon hers. Though not so heavy she could not draw breath, still she could not breathe—would surely suffocate if she did not get him off her.

  She pressed back into the pillows, cried, “Pray, cease!”

  He stilled. “Laura?”

  She opened her eyes, found his—not Simon’s—face above her. She yet felt the prey, but there was little of the predator about him. Indeed, though his breath was fast and shallow and color high, it was not anger upon his brow. It seemed concern.

  If only that were enough, for her to lie back and be the dutiful wife as she had vowed to be and needed to be for Clarice, Lothaire, and Laura Soames.

  “I am sorry,” she gasped. “’Tis just…”

  The concern on his face drifted away, and as he raised himself and removed his hand from her thigh, anger moved in. “Do you think me still the boy who thought himself a man? That I cannot please you as well as your lover—or ought I say lovers?”

  The first of his question broke the skin, the second cut to the bone, and the hurt of it found shelter in her own anger. “I have been with one man only, and he did not please me—was not even half the man you were ten years past.”

  Though Lothaire no longer touched her, he remained above her, supported by hands pressed to the mattress on either side. Thus, by swaying candlelight she saw the effect of her declaration—the easing of his jaw, the gathering of eyebrows that told she had thrown open doors to questions best saved for another time and place, and the narrowing of eyes that searched hers for answers.

  Still, she was unprepared when he said, “Who was it?”

  Oh tongue, she silently bemoaned, what have you done?

  “Tell me and let us be done with it, Laura.”

  She set a hand on his jaw. “I will, but this night of all nights let us not speak of it. I did not mean you to stop. Truly I did not. I but wish you to go slow.”

  “I would know his name.”

  “On the morrow I will tell it.”

  He closed a hand over hers, drew it from his face, and pressed it to the mattress. “I will not make love to my wife whilst there is another man with us.”

  “There is no one here but us. I see only you.”

  She heard the grind of his teeth, then he growled, “Tell me.”

  The return of his anger relighting hers, she said, “Your bride is meek and obedient as called to be. Now do what you must and be done with it.”

  His face darkened further, then with a sound of disgust, he dropped onto his back.

  And there they lay side by side until he said, “If I am so disagreeable you are reviled, you should have refused the queen.”

  She turned her face to his, saw his forearm was on his brow, eyes on the ceiling. Wishing she had been able to hide her fear, hating she gave him cause to believe he repulsed her, she said, “As told, Lothaire, I am glad it was you the
queen chose, not…”

  He turned his eyes upon her. “It is no compliment to be favored over a deviant, Laura. Do not try to make it one. All I wish to know is why, feeling toward me as you do, you spoke vows. And do not say you had to make a home for Clarice. You did not.”

  She sat up. “You know we could not remain at Owen after Donnie—”

  “You could have made your home at Castle Soaring where Clarice was content.”

  Laura stared, understood.

  “Aye,” he said. “Lady Beatrix told me she and her husband offered their home to you.”

  She nodded. “They did, but I could not accept.”

  “Why?”

  “I could no longer be a burden to others, and I wanted Clarice to have a home of her own so never would she be owing to any. As a wife, I could earn our place by keeping my husband’s household and…”

  “Suffering his attentions?”

  “Nay!” She reached to him.

  “Do not, Laura!”

  She snatched her hand back.

  “You wish to know what I am inclined to believe?” he said.

  She was certain she would not like it, but it was not truly a question he asked.

  “I think you could not accept the offer to live at Castle Soaring because, unbeknownst to Lady Beatrix, her husband is Clarice’s father. And if that is not deterrent enough, despite what you would have me believe of the man who made a child on you, perhaps you love him still.”

  Laura’s belly churned so violently she feared she would be sick. She weathered silence beneath his regard, then said, “I do not understand why you think ’twas Michael. And again, I tell you it was not.”

  He sat up, turned to her. “The night at Castle Soaring, I was at my window when you and he returned from the outer bailey. I saw you go into his arms.”

  That was easily recalled, but not because of any passion between Michael and her. It had not been appropriate, but she had missed the brother he had been to her and been so grateful for his kindness that she acted on impulse. Here now proof of what had turned Lothaire cooler toward her and made him curt with Michael. She should have guessed they were seen and judgment passed on one believed to be free with her body.

  “Certes, you were not averse to his touch as you are to mine,” Lothaire pressed.

  “I was not because I do not fear his touch.”

  “As you fear mine.”

  “Yours is…” She dropped her chin, moved her gaze over the rose petals between them. “You want…”

  “I want to make love to my wife, just as he—”

  “I tell you he did not! He is not Clarice’s father and never has Lady Beatrix had anything to fear from me. Indeed, ’twas she who sent Michael to me that night when she thought me gone too long.”

  He considered her, said, “You deny you care for him?”

  “I do not. I love him as a brother.”

  Finding hope in the uncertainty in Lothaire’s eyes, she drew a calming breath. “I cannot fault you for thinking the worst, for that is my doing.” And Maude’s, she silently added. For love of the lady and gratitude for the home provided the woman’s illegitimate grandchild, Laura had not revealed the sin of Clarice’s conception was another’s—or mostly. As long accepted, she had been a party to it.

  She returned Lothaire to focus, glimpsed pain in his eyes. Though this should not be the time or place, she had made it so by not sooner telling him as Michael urged her to do.

  “But you are right in believing Lady Beatrix’s husband is more than a brother to me. He…” She dropped her chin, and he waited. At last as ready as she could be, she said, “Michael D’Arci is Clarice’s uncle. That is why he cares so much. That is why I do not fear his touch.”

  Her words shot through Lothaire, flinging themselves here and there in search of a fit. When it found one, he rejected it more quickly than he had done years ago. But though he once more sent it on its way, it returned and fit the hole even better alongside the boy’s slingshot, whatever had nearly struck Lothaire at the pond, and Laura calling out the name of Michael D’Arci’s younger half brother.

  Still, he said, “You would have me believe Simon and you… Him?”

  “Him,” she said softly.

  A moment later, he was off the bed, his back to her. Simon did fit, but as if forced into the hole. What was he missing? What would knock off the resistant edges? Unlike with Michael, Laura had shown no affection for Simon.

  “Lothaire?”

  He swung around and found her standing before him.

  “It was Simon,” she said.

  “You lay with that whelp—gave yourself to him? He of blond hair fathered Clarice, not he of dark hair like your daughter’s?”

  Her eyes lit with sparks rather than sparkles. “For the last time, I tell you ’twas not Michael.”

  “So you wish me to believe, and how convenient Simon is dead.” Though in that moment he realized he had yet to discover the nature of that death, he thrust the curiosity aside. “He who cannot defend himself can easily bear his brother’s sin so Lady Beatrix never learns the truth.”

  Laura’s face went livid, and he steeled himself for her denial, but she brushed past him.

  “Where are you going, Laura? It is our wedding night.”

  She halted, turned. “Then do the deed and make an heir on me that you may sooner seek better company elsewhere, just as your father did.”

  As he had allowed her to believe of him that day in the garden at Windsor Castle when she asked how many illegitimate children he had and he told he would leave it to her to discover once they wed.

  “Do it,” she prompted.

  He shifted his jaw, but it remained so tight it ached. “Were I one to force my attentions on a woman, I could not. You, my lady wife, know well how to cool a man’s ardor. Now be finished with your outrage and come to bed that all believe their lord and lady are pleased with each other.”

  “You are right. Appearance is everything.” But it was not the bed to which she retreated. She dropped into a chair before the hearth.

  Moments later, his stunned bride was in his arms. Halfway to the bed, she demanded he set her down and began to struggle.

  Lest her protests grow loud enough to be heard beyond the solar, Lothaire bent his head and captured them in his mouth. She stiffened before she began to go soft, but there was no time to discover if she would return his kiss. And no need.

  He lifted his head as he lowered her to the mattress. “Fear not, Laura. That was but to silence you for the sake of Clarice whom we would not wish to know the true state of her parents’ marriage.” He snapped the sheet over her, causing the rose petals to rise and scent the air before resettling on the bed where their marriage would not be consummated.

  “I want to hate you,” she said, tears in her voice as he snuffed her bedside candle.

  He did not answer until the second candle was out and it was he who made the chair his bed. “Certes, that would be easier for us both,” he said across the dim. “Mayhap in time.”

  She cried, so quietly he might not have known it were the bed’s frame not in need of tightening, her sobs poured into the pillow causing it to creak. When silence fell, excepting the occasional hiccough that made his chest ache, he vehemently wished he did not feel for her anything near what he had felt ten years past. But he loved her still.

  He dropped his head back, looked to the formless ceiling, ached that the promise of this day had been severed. Should he have rejected Father Atticus’s counsel and not shown the sword behind his back?

  Nay, better he know Laura’s lies now than later so they might sooner go forward. Now they were told, they could put Michael D’Arci behind them, his name never again spoken. And perhaps eventually Lothaire would not see that man in Clarice.

  Chapter 25

  It tempted, but she would deny herself until Lothaire departed the castle as surely he must though it was the day after their wedding.

  “Not now,” Laura sa
id as Tina combed a snarl out of her lady’s hair. “Mayhap an hour hence.”

  “’Tis done already,” the maid said. “The water is set to boiling and we may see the first pails arrive ere I finish fixing your hair atop your head.”

  “But—”

  “I promised a bath, milady, and so ye shall have one.” Her hands in Laura’s hair stilled, and she turned toward the open window from which no morning-after sheet was hung to prove the bride had come to her groom chaste—an impossibility in light of the girl who leaned in the embrasure taking in all manner of activity, the sounds of which included the clang of steel markedly different from the smithy’s forging. Earlier than usual, the garrison practiced at swords.

  “Lady Clarice,” Tina called, “might ye hasten to the kitchen and ask Cook for rose oil to scent the bath water?”

  Clarice, whose disappointment in her mother’s failed attempt to appear joyous was obvious, sprang around. “I shall.”

  “Nay,” Laura caused her daughter to falter. “Not roses. ’Tis already much upon the air.”

  Clarice’s drooping smile picked itself up, proof she had thought she would not be permitted to leave. “Then?”

  “Mint, if he has enough to spare.”

  The girl ran forward and kissed her mother’s cheek. “I am happy for you. And me. I quite like the father you have given me.”

  Laura’s throat constricted. “That makes me happy.”

  “And what of Lord…?” Clarice frowned. “May I call him Father now?”

  “I believe he would like that.” Hopefully it was so.

  “And what of Father? He makes you happy too, does he not?”

  Blessedly, Laura was prepared for the question. “He does. Queen Eleanor chose wisely.”

  Clarice gave a little laugh. “I shall thank her one day!”

  Once Laura was alone with Tina, the maid said, “What is amiss, milady?”

  “Naught.”

  “That ye would lie to your devoted servant!” Tina tugged at the crossings of the braid she had begun to work. “Tsk, milady.”