The Craftsman

by Fox, Georgia

  “But how do you know?” Deorwynn winced, one hand on her lower back. “I could die. If I die, will you take care of the babe Emma?”

  She swallowed hard. There was a time when all she could think about was having a child of her own. The loss, the failure had raked at her heart like cruel, sharp witches fingernails, digging in each time she heard of another woman’s child born. It was not that she envied their happiness or hated them for doing what she could not. She hated herself, despised her body for failing in that task for which it was made by God. What was the purpose of her life, she’d thought then, if she could not have children? In time, slowly, the pain had dulled. It came back occasionally with a sharp wrench of the gut, but most of the time she kept it locked away. No one, she was quite sure, wanted to see her mope. She had no time for mopers herself.

  “Of course I will help take care of your child, Deorwynn. But you are not going to die. You are strong, young and healthy and you have people here who love and care for you. Now go to bed and rest.”

  “But it’s afternoon!”

  “And you’re exhausted. That will do the babe no good will it? You need all your strength for what is to come. Now go to bed. Don’t get up for a few hours at least. I’ll send some food and drink up to you.”

  Slowly the young woman nodded and then began to walk up the steps to her chamber, helped by one of the maids. She stopped, looking back. “You are the first person who has been able to tell me what to do, Emma. My husband tried, my brother tried, my maid tried, the midwife tried…you have a very persuasive, motherly way about you.” She grinned. “I shall call you my mother hen.”

  Emma winced. Mother hen? Yes, she supposed she did seem like an old hen to that cheeky young girl.

  Guy Devaux suddenly appeared in the main doorway, looking for his wife. “Is she alright? Where is she?” He looked panicked.

  “She has gone up to rest. She is quite well, just a little hot and tired. ‘Tis no surprise in this weather.”

  The man seemed only partially reassured and hurried upstairs after his young wife. Emma went outside to order some refreshment for Deorwynn, as promised.

  * * * *

  The crowd thinned as the afternoon turned dusty and oppressive. The light yellowed and the air hung heavy with the promise of a storm. People and animals sought cooler spots in the shadows and some retired indoors. She found Wulf where she knew she would. In his workshop. Even on his wedding day.

  This time she knocked before she entered.

  “Your sister has gone to rest at last,” she said.

  “Aye. She’s a stubborn filly.” He looked up from his bench. “'Tis good you’re here, if she’ll listen to you. It’ll be pleasant for her to have an older, sensible woman about the place.”

  So they all thought her an old, sensible, mother hen, did they?

  But then she caught a little bit of a grin, partially hidden as he bent his head and pretended to be enthralled in his work. He was teasing her. This time she knew it.

  Emma sidled around his bench, hands behind her back. “Will my presence be pleasant only for your sister?”

  Now he showed a flash of strong white teeth as he darted her a quick, less timid smile. “Not only for her I reckon.”

  “Who else for?” she pushed, moving closer.

  “The other women here. One more of their kind about the place.”

  Eyes narrowed, she observed his profile as he turned back to the chair he worked on. “Just the other women?”

  “Soon the men will be outnumbered,” he muttered, eyes down.

  “You’d best hope your sister has a son then.”

  “Aye.”

  For a while she watched him work. They said nothing; the only sound was that of his file and chisel—the click and shuffle and scrape over the wood.

  “I suppose it’s different here to York,” he said suddenly. “I hear it’s colder there, up north, the land bleak and wild.”

  York. There it was again. Why did they keep asking her about York? She’d come from Colchester, not York. Had never been to York in her life.

  Her pulse slowed. She looked at the man hunched over his workbench. “Yesterday your sister called me Amias. Why?” She could hear her own heart beat as it tried to pick up the pace.

  He shrugged. “Was the name written on the king’s missive. Spelled wrong. Or my sister read it wrong. More than likely.”

  But what if it was not wrong? The note she’d received from the king had no name upon it, just a sternly penned order and his seal.

  Unfortunately she had a cousin called Amias.

  And her cousin, also a ward of the king’s, lived in York.

  It was a coincidence. Perhaps.

  Wulf lifted his head and gave her another of his smiles—shy, heart-warming, body-stroking.

  Emma caught her breath quickly, before she might feel tempted to say anything.

  It was coincidence. She was decided.

  There.

  Hands behind her back, she wandered to the window and looked out. “A storm comes.”

  “Feels like it. The rain will be good for the crops. The fields are fair parched.”

  And the fields weren’t the only things parched, she thought. “Yes.” Her face turned away from him, she rolled her eyes. Foolish talk about nothing. All she wanted was to get him upstairs. The thick, stifling air wasn’t helping her mood. It felt as if the sheer need to consummate this marriage was crushing her very bones. But what excuse could she use to draw him away from his beloved tools? She didn’t want to seem desperate.

  * * * *

  He wished she wasn’t standing there. In the light of the window her figure was outlined clearly and only made waiting that much more painful. Wulf had come here to work alone and in peace; to hopefully put the forthcoming night out of his mind for a while.

  Now she was close enough—if he wanted to reach out he could touch her. He could smell her warm, female scent now. It invaded his work space, competed with the wood shavings. Every slight whisper of her gown against the edge of his bench distracted his attention from the work at hand.

  There were hours yet to come before he could take her up to bed. It wouldn’t be right to rush her. This threatening storm wasn’t helping; it only added to the anticipation, the creeping sense of waiting endlessly for the rain to fall.

  Dear God the woman was stretching now, reaching up with both arms, moaning softly about the heat. She arched her back and his gaze slyly followed the deep hollow at the base of her spine, all the way up to the elegant curve of her neck; then back down to the lush bosom. He would like to copy that shape one day in his wood carving. His artist soul demanded he pay her tribute in the only way he knew how.

  She spun around and he hastily returned to filing an already smooth edge.

  He heard her light steps moving over the sawdust. “What are you making here?” she asked, stopping to examine another of his projects.

  He glanced over at it. “A crib for my sister’s babe. ‘Tis only just begun, but I’ll finish it when I’m done with this chair.” Wulf liked to keep several projects in progress at once so that he always had something to work on, something to keep his hands busy.

  “Better make haste then. She’ll need this crib soon.”

  “I’ve only been here four days,” he reminded her.

  “Of course. It must be very strange, Raedwulf, to be back here again after so long imprisoned. To find things so changed since you were last here.”

  Last night he hadn’t answered her question, this afternoon he shrugged and blew gently on the wooden chair seat, watching the dust fly. “Things change. I stay the same. Inside.”

  The sound of her steps drew nearer. “You missed your sister all those years no doubt.”

  “Aye. She was only six the last time I saw her, before our father sent her off to a convent. A year later the Normans came and I was imprisoned. Never thought I’d see my little sister again.” He stopped awkwardly. Sometimes his voice sounded too loud
in his own ears. Why would she care what he’d been through? She was probably only asking to make polite conversation—like last night, when she put up with Deorwynn’s chatter at supper. His wife was a polite lady, well brought up. She would suffer in silence if he bored her.

  “My brothers and I have never been close,” she murmured. “They all have busy lives and none of them need me. I’m sure they never think of me now.”

  He paused his filing. “How many brothers?”

  “Six. Four older, two younger.”

  “All my brothers died at Hastings. Fighting the Normans.” As soon as he said it, he felt his face heat up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  “Aye, well.” He returned to his work. “They never bothered much with me. I was the weak one, always stammering and tripping over things. Funny how I survived, eh? My poor father never recovered from losing his fine, strong sons and being left with me.” Again he bit his tongue. Why was he talking so much? He should shut his mouth, but something about her made it easy to spill his thoughts.

  Emma stepped closer and touched his arm with her fingers. As he always did, he’d rolled his sleeve up to work, so her fingertips touched his skin. “I am very glad you survived, Raedwulf.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was still being polite, proper and dutiful. Acting the part she was forced into. It was hard to imagine any woman finding him genuinely appealing, interesting company.

  The door crashed open and Thierry Bonnenfant almost fell in, evidently drunk, but still at the happy stage.

  “There you are! The newly wedded couple, hiding away from your guests.”

  As usual he must be trying to avoid his wife, thought Wulf. His sister had told him their marriage was a difficult one. There was a child born a few months ago and it was not Thierry’s, a fact the entire manor knew. But Thierry had married Sybilia because Guy Devaux didn’t want her. It was an awkward situation when Guy fell in love with Deorwynn instead of the woman he was supposed to wed. Thierry had saved the day by marrying Sybilia. He had also saved her from returning to her family, pregnant and unwed, but Sybilia was apparently not thankful for this.

  From what Wulf had seen of that woman she was a brat and once again he regarded Thierry with pity as the man slumped against his work bench and burped. “Well, Emma, how do you like your fine new husband?”

  “I like him very well.” There was something in her voice—a cool warning. Puzzled, Wulf shot her a quick glance.

  “Better than me, eh?” said Thierry.

  Wulf dropped his file. “What?”

  “She hasn’t told you about me?”

  Shoulders squared, Wulf looked to his new wife for an explanation.

  She was flushed, but more with anger it seemed than embarrassment, for her voice was firm. “Many years ago, when I was a child, my father promised me to the Bonnenfants.” She glowered at Thierry. “But he promised me to many fine families. It meant nothing.”

  “I would hardly say nothing,” Thierry muttered. “I took it seriously.”

  She gave a little snort of amusement. “You never took anything seriously, Thierry Bonnenfant.”

  Wulf looked from one to the other, but he didn’t interrupt.

  “You kissed me once,” said Thierry.

  Emma raised her brows high. “When we were ten.”

  The Norman pouted, falling against the work bench again and sneezing in a cloud of sawdust. “I always thought you’d be mine one day.”

  “Don’t sulk. You know you never wanted a wife.”

  There was a pause. Wulf thought it likely they were all pondering the Lady Sybilia just then and pitying Thierry.

  “Well, you are a fortunate woman, Emma, and he is a very lucky man. A marriage by arrangement seldom turns out to please both parties.” Thierry smiled drowsily. “You let me know Wulf, if your lady bride gives you trouble. Norman women can be a handful.”

  Wulf watched the other man admiring his wife and saw her eyes calmly assess Thierry in return. Bonnenfant was a very attractive man, not so rough about the edges as Wulf. And he had charm—something Wulf knew nothing about. Perhaps Emma would have liked him better for a husband, if circumstances had not put her fate into the king’s hands.

  Thierry would know what to do with a woman; he wouldn’t require instructions.

  There was no further conversation, for Sybilia appeared in the open door, angrily looking for her husband. Wulf was always surprised how such a face of outer beauty could be rendered ugly by the thoughts and intentions within it.

  “We should leave,” Sybilia exclaimed, surly and pinch-mouthed. “The sky darkens. A storm is upon us.”

  Thierry pushed himself upright as best he could. “Yes. The sky darkens.” He looked once more at Emma, then winked at Wulf and leaned closer. “Make the most of your time. Take my advice and slip away with your prize.”

  As Thierry and his wife left, a sudden gust of wind blew straw rushes in through the door and the first speckle of rain dampened the stones underfoot.

  At last. Rain.

  Wulf turned to his bride, but she spoke before he could. “Let’s go to bed. No one will notice.”

  She was right. Many folk were already drunk, or close to it. Most were dashing for shelter, gathering up food and jugs of wine as they ran beneath the bubbling clouds. They could slip away easily.

  A burst of rain rattled at the roof of the wood shed, as if God himself threw a fistful of stone pellets to scare them out.

  Wulf held out his hand and his wife took it.

  Chapter Six

  Joan had apparently taken up an argument with one of men at the feast. She was so caught up with it that she didn’t see her mistress slip by, and Emma took advantage, knowing the elderly curmudgeon would only make a fuss. She would presume the Saxon forced her to bed before nightfall, but in truth their eagerness was shared. Explaining that to Joan would be akin to betraying the memory of her first husband, and Emma would never do that.

  As the rain pelted the dry, hot stone and sizzled like the fat on a pig roast, the newlyweds raced to their chamber in the south tower of the castle. They pulled aside the bowers of bridal greenery to wrench open the door and fall inside, tripping over their own feet and each other.

  “Raedwulf,” she managed finally, one hand to his damp tunic, “remember I said we must go slowly the first time. Take care.” She was thinking of that massive shaft, raring to take her.

  He towered over her. His lips parted, damp like the rest of him. “I remember, Emma.”

  Her name sounded warm on his tongue, different. It surprised her. She swallowed hard, choked suddenly with too much unwanted emotion. With rough fingers he moved aside a curl of rain-slick hair that had stuck to her cheek.

  “Show me,” he said. “But don’t take too long over it if you want me to be gentle, woman. I can’t wait much longer.”

  Her heart pounded, shaking in her fingertips. It was years since she’d had a man—lain beside him, had his weight on her, his length inside her. Stepping back, she turned around, showing him her laces. He needed no instruction for that. His fingers were dexterous, as might be expected of a man who worked with his hands. Her clothing fell away inch by inch and her skin breathed, every pore drinking in the scent of the man behind her. His fingertips brushed hesitantly over her shoulders and her spine.

  “You can touch me,” she urged, her voice husky. “Don’t be afraid.” She pulled her braid over one shoulder and began untying the gold thread, while he tugged her gown over her hips, letting it fall in a soft puddle at her feet. She wore no shift beneath it today, only fine woolen stockings. Joan had complained that she would get sweat on her gown if she wore no shift, but Emma had insisted. She’d wanted as little as possible to take off.

  Wulf’s large hands went immediately to her buttocks, cupping and squeezing. She heard a hollow groan and felt his breath on her nape. Her braid was only half undone, when he turned her to face him again and slid his hand between her legs.

>   “Emma,” he growled her name. “Show me what to do.”

  She led him to the large bed and laid on her back so he could look at her. His fierce eyes examined her, inch by inch. His hands explored, tracing the side of her face, down her neck, over her breasts. His fingertips circled her areolas and then trailed down her stomach, his palm resting there a while, before moving down between her legs. It was as if he admired a sculpture—a roman statue—working out how she was carved, while he looked into the mind of her creator.

  Someone had been in the chamber earlier to ready it and they’d closed the wooden shutters at the tall, arched window, but Wulf now flung them open. Rain drops spattered the stone ledge and the wooden floor. He came back to the bed, stripping off his own clothes, staring down at her nakedness, his face starkly handsome in the eerie light of the storm.

  His cock, she noted gladly, was already erect, straining upward and flushing a deep crimson. The walls of her pussy clenched in excitement, her dew flowing quickly.

  Wulf knelt on the bed and touched her nether lips again, stroking with his work-roughened fingers, parting her folds. “Lift your legs,” he muttered, gaze focused on her sex.

  She raised them both in the air, her arms hooked under her knees.

  “Shall I kiss you down there?” he asked.

  “If it pleases you,” she whispered in reply, breath catching in her throat.

  Wulf bent and pressed his hot mouth to her vulva. She jerked, lifting her bottom off the bed, curling her legs tight to her chest. His head moved lower and he kissed her anus in the same manner. His tongue stabbed out, wriggling between her cheeks, making her gasp out in surprise. Her last husband had never touched her there, not even with his fingers, let alone his tongue. He would not think it clean.