The Craftsman

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The Craftsman Page 9

by Fox, Georgia


  Wulf took a step without looking and tripped over the bowl of water, stubbing his toe. He cursed. “Where is my wife this morning?” he demanded of the sneering old woman.

  “Where else? Tending to your sister. Fetching and carrying. Like a servant.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “She’s always been that way. Putting other folk before herself. Fair wounds me it does to see her so used.”

  “She will not be used badly here,” he replied sharply. And then he couldn’t resist adding, “As long as she behaves herself with me.

  Joan sniffed, turning her lip up again. “Behave herself? There’s not a wicked bone in that woman’s body.”

  “There was last night.” Wulf chuckled. He reached over and pinched the end of her hooked nose. “And there will be again tonight.”

  The maid looked astonished and for a brief moment he thought she might laugh. But she recovered well, slapping his hand away with her apron. “You! Scoundrel!”

  “Don’t you worry about your mistress. She’s in safe hands with me.”

  “She’d better be, young man. Now for the love of all that’s holy, put some clothes on.”

  * * * *

  Emma was relieved to see Deorwynn looking rested, chattering and smiling more, less fear clouding her big brown eyes. After helping the young woman wash in a bowl of scented water, Emma dressed her in a clean shift and guided her back into bed, plumping her pillows and rubbing her feet. Deorwynn had protested that she had a maid to help her, but Emma gladly took the opportunity to be useful. Since Henry died she had not felt so needed—only in the way, a burden. Now she could put her acquired nursing skills to practice again.

  “You must eat to keep your strength up for the baby,” she said, setting a tray of food in Deorwynn’s lap. “It won’t be long now until the birth, I daresay.” Emma had been present at several births over the years and knew the signs to look for. She might not have given birth herself, but she’d assisted a few babes into the world and that made up for her own loss a little.

  “I hope ‘tis not long.” Deorwynn spoke through a full mouth of bread and cheese. “The sooner this Norman brat is out of me the better—oops…” She looked up guiltily. “Sorry. It’s easy to forget you’re a Norman, too.”

  Emma smiled. “Won’t your child be both Norman and Saxon?”

  “Yes. Poor thing. I hope he has my brains and my husband’s good looks.”

  “What if ‘tis a girl?”

  “Oh it can’t be. My husband is quite certain this one is a son. He won’t take kindly to a girl.” She sighed. “You know how men are about their offspring—the importance of sons. Though I know he’s all talk. He’d love a girl just as much. Another woman in the world to adore him.”

  Yes she knew how men were. Of course, any child was better than none. At that thought she turned away to the window, gazing out at the expanse of pale blue, cloudless sky, while she steadied her expression again.

  “I was hungrier than I thought,” Deorwynn exclaimed from the bed behind her.

  After a moment, Emma said, ‘Tell me about Raedwulf. What was he like as a boy?”

  “Quiet, deliberate and careful in everything he did. Much like he is now. I was only six when my father sent me away to a convent for safe-keeping. Wulf was fourteen, but I remember he always looked after me, protected me. I was closer to him than to any of my other brothers for they were much older. He always stood up for me against them—and against father’s temper, too, from time to time when I crossed it.”

  Emma turned slowly to face the young woman on the bed. “I thought he was deaf and mute when I first met him.”

  Deorwynn chuckled. “Mute? Oh he makes himself heard when he wants to be. As far as deaf—well, he hears only what he cares to hear. Like all men.”

  She nodded. “I see that now.”

  There was a pause. “I hope all was well on your wedding night, Emma.”

  “Yes.” Emma clasped her hands behind her back and studied her toes, afraid she might be flushed, although she couldn’t feel heat in her face. She certainly ought to be blushing.

  Another pause and then Deorwynn remarked, “That was quite a wild storm last night, was it not?”

  “Indeed.”

  * * * *

  As she came out of the chamber, carrying Deorwynn’s empty tray with the wash bowl balanced on it, she found Wulf waiting, thick arms across his chest, a scowl darkening his brow.

  “What are you doing, Emma?” he demanded gruffly.

  “Tending you sister,” she replied, surprised at his tone.

  “You are not a servant here. You are my wife.”

  She shivered slightly at the masterful way he said it. “I know that.”

  “Then there is no need to wait on my sister hand and foot. She has a maid.”

  “I like doing it.”

  His scowl eased. She passed him. Wulf followed, his steps heavy behind hers. Why was he following her about? She did not expect him to take any concern over what she did with her day.

  “I thought you would be in your workshop by now,” she flung over her shoulder, wanting him to know she would never keep him from the work he enjoyed.

  He said nothing, but Emma imagined she could feel the heat of his gaze on her spine, trailing downward to her hips and buttocks. It was as if he touched her with his hands, although he was too far away to reach her.

  “The sky is blue and clear today,” she muttered.

  “Aye. The storm cleared the air.”

  But did it?

  They came down the stone steps and into the main hall where folk and dogs already milled about. Wulf suddenly walked around her and took the tray out of her hands. She was so shocked she could think of nothing to say. A few people watched them. They must be puzzled to see a man lightening a woman’s load, she thought.

  Wulf didn’t seem to care.

  “I’m going fishing, Emma,” he announced. “You will come with me.”

  * * * *

  He was dedicated to the cause, but his determination was little advantage. Up to his thighs in the stream, he promised her he could catch the fish with his bare hands if need be. He was, however, using a sharpened stick for a spear. And so far the fish had proven remarkably scarce.

  Emma, seated on the grassy bank, glanced down again at the empty basket. They’d been “fishing” for an hour at least, by the angle of the sun. Her husband’s pride would suffer a mighty dent if he did not soon fill that gaping basket with slippery victims. Shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, she watched him standing in the gleaming water and admired the shifting gold that patterned his naked chest. It wouldn’t matter to her if they came away empty-handed, for the sight of that splendid torso, lit up by the reflection of the water, more than made up for it.

  His long arms curved at his sides, spear at the ready. She held her breath.

  The spear was launched.

  Directly into his own foot. For the second time.

  Cursing, he hopped about in the water.

  “I think you might have more luck catching fish if you accidentally trod on them,” she murmured wryly.

  She didn’t think he’d hear above all the cursing, but he did. Wulf turned his head, glaring fiercely. And almost took his eye out with the other end of his spear.

  She couldn’t help it. A bubble of laughter shot up from her stomach, rolled across her tongue and spilled out over her lips.

  He sloshed his way over to where she sat and tossed his spear into the stream, where it floated away. “Think this amusing, wife?”

  Hands to her face she tried to stop, but it only got worse, welling up inside her, pouring out in gales of laughter.

  “I have a hole in my foot and you think it a great jest?”

  She shook her head violently and kept laughing. “You’re a skilled craftsman, Wulf, but you are no fisherman.”

  Suddenly he leapt out of the water. She scrambled to get up and run, but he captured her in t
he long grass and the bulrushes, his weight pinning her down, squeezing more laughter and breath out of her.

  “Yes I am a skilled craftsman,” he muttered. “One day I shall have a little wood shop and folk will come to me from miles around.”

  “I’m sure they will,” she replied, quite confident of it. She could already imagine hoards of housewives, using any excuse to get something new made, queuing up with their requests, eager to lay eyes on the legendary Wulf and swoon in his presence. He had no idea of course.

  “Now you must make amends for laughing at your husband,” he grunted, his eyes narrowed.

  Emma lay still beneath him. Laughter still tickled her throat. “How shall I do so?”

  “You shall kiss me.”

  So she did, her arms sliding around his neck, her lips kissing his right cheek, pressing against his sharp bristles. “Is that better?”

  “A little.”

  “How is this?” Another kiss followed—this one on his chin.

  “I am tempted to forgive you.”

  “Only tempted?”

  He turned his face, offering the left cheek for the next kiss, but at the last second he turned back and caught her lips with his. “Much better.” He slanted his mouth to hers, kissing her hard, pressing his tongue between her lips.

  “Two nights ago you said you didn’t know how to kiss,” she reminded him as their lips slid apart again and she licked his rough chin.

  “Two nights ago you said that bedding me was a duty.”

  Yes she had said that. How long ago it seemed now. “It is a wife’s duty.”

  “Joan tells me you meant to enter a convent,’ he said abruptly.

  She unclasped her fingers and her hands slid down over his shoulders to lay against his wide chest. “Yes.” A quick pinch of guilt made her close her eyes rather than look into his. She’d suddenly thought of her cousin, Amias, whose place it was likely she’d taken in this man’s strong arms. Would the error be discovered and her deceit exposed? Of course it would. It was only a matter of time.

  “Why would you enter a convent?”

  Emma opened her eyes. “I was not needed elsewhere.”

  He nodded slowly, his gaze caressing her face.

  A gentle breeze ruffled the long grass by her sleeve. Dandelion seeds drifted by in a soft cloud, and she could hear the stream rippling lazily by. She was so glad she was there in that moment that her heart swelled painfully. Oh she didn’t want to feel this. She couldn’t afford to grow so attached again. People got sick and died, minds changed, affections waned.

  Mistakes and lies were uncovered.

  It was not wise to give away too much of oneself.

  Wulf was fascinated with her now, but he was new to all this. How long could she keep his interest? She was not a fresh young woman. She was thirty. Plain. Infertile.

  It was glorious summer now, but in a few months harsh winter would set in and he would grow restless, as men, dogs, and horses did when confined indoors too long. Women would not be as reticent to keep him company as the fish in the stream today.

  But, on the other hand, she should make the most of this while she had it. Before the sky tumbled and he knew he had the wrong woman. Her barren state would easily render the marriage null and void, leaving him free.

  His hands were sliding up her outer thighs, lifting her gown and shift, his knees parting her legs. She lay supine under him, making no protest at the lack of preparation as he pushed into her, his breath on her neck, his hands spread under her bottom.

  It didn’t take long for his cock to find its rhythm, filling her to the hilt. Wulf kissed her cheek and her ear.

  “Emma, I like this very much. Do you?”

  She wanted to laugh, but in a desperate way, with so many fears and doubts spinning about in her head. And so his question went unanswered.

  Her legs clinging around his hips she welcomed him in again and offered her lips in a kiss that prevented the need for any reply.

  * * * *

  As they came up over the hill, they were joined by Thierry Bonnenfant who rode on horseback, a string of dead conies hanging from his saddle. Clearly his hunting had been more successful. Wulf tucked his empty basket behind his back, irritably swinging the leather strap around his shoulder. He looked at his wife and caught her eyeing Thierry’s plunder. No doubt she would not laugh at Thierry as she’d laughed at him half an hour ago.

  The other man dismounted to lead his horse, conversing easily with Emma, charming and never awkward. Never falling over his words, so they came out brusque and clumsy.

  Wulf had been about to take his wife’s hand as they walked back toward the castle, but now he held back, thinking she would not want him clutching at her with his great paw. Mounting him was a duty, he remembered again, pressing his lips tight. She didn’t do it because she liked it. She merely suffered in silence.

  But last night, in the storm, she was daring, reckless, savage—almost another woman. What would her proud, cantankerous maid think of that?

  He still could not make Emma out. Her grain led him one way and then another.

  When they got back to the castle he went directly to his workshop, with much on his mind, and stayed there until supper.

  Later, entering the great hall, he saw his wife chatting with Thierry, enjoying the other man’s charm as most women did. They talked of France, sharing memories from their childhood. He sat heavily beside his wife and she turned at once to smile at him. Until she saw his expression.

  “Is something amiss?” she asked.

  He shook his head, a gesture that answered her and also chided his own thoughts. What was this sudden pang of jealousy? She was his wife, was she not? According to law she was his property now. There was nothing to fear. Not her love for her first husband, or the envy of other men. She was his now. Further easing his temper, she took his rough hand in hers and raised it to her lips. Surprise and pleasure jolted through him, left his insides in a tangle.

  “You have been busy in your workshop,” she whispered. “I did not want to disturb you there again.”

  He sighed, looking at her elegant, smooth hands wrapped around his fingers. “You may disturb me as often as you chose, wife.”

  A slight puzzled frown crossed her brow. She looked especially beautiful this evening, he mused. There was more vibrant color on her face and her hair sparkled with fire, putting the candlelight to shame. She wore a slender circlet of silvery white stones around her head. Mother-of-pearl, he realized, after studying them for a moment. Just like her eyes, those beads constantly changed shade as she moved her head. They seemed alive and breathing. Her gown was lush dark green, made of some fine cloth that felt like powder under his fingers. Expensive no doubt. Her first husband had been a rich man and Emma was from a noble family. Wulf knew he could never give her material things like that. All he had was himself and his craft.

  “I made something for you today,” he said softly.

  “You did?” Her eyes widened.

  Wulf reached inside his leather jerkin and brought out the wooden peg he’d fashioned that afternoon.

  Emma looked at it. “That’s…very nice, Wulf. Thank you.” And she smiled, clearly not having any idea what it was. Or what he meant to do with it.

  He laid it in her hand. “Feel how smooth it is. I spent hours filing it.”

  “Yes.” She ran her fingers over it. “One would hardly know it is wood.” She examined the narrow, rounded end and then the flat circle at the broader end. “Is it for winding thread around? Or is it something for my hair? I know, ‘tis a new buckle pin for my mantle.”

  “‘Tis a mould for something I made in wax.”

  The arch of her brows became more pronounced. “In wax?”

  “A wax cock to fill your lovely arse.”

  Turning crimson, she stared down at the wooden peg in her flat palm.

  “While I fuck your pussy,” he added, just incase she might be in any doubt.

  On her other side,
Thierry Bonnenfant leaned forward to admire Wulf’s handiwork. “’Tis a superior piece of craftsmanship. What is it for?”

  “My wife’s arse.”

  Emma’s heightened color drained fast. She closed her hand around the item and glared hard at Wulf, a mute warning he decided to ignore, having seen her nipples peaking excitedly through her gown again and the subtle widening of her pupils.

  “Ah, excellent,” Thierry exhaled over her prim shoulder. “It will increase her pleasure and stretch her for cock at the same time. Ingenious.”

  “Show him it,” Wulf urged.

  “No.”

  Wulf sat back, arms folded. “I thought my every wish was your command, dutiful wife?”

  He watched her bite her lower lip in mock humility. Naughty wench. He could feel her excitement already. His shaft twitched and grew in his breeches.

  “Show Thierry the mould I made for you. Unless, of course,” he paused, “you do not want your present later.”

  Her coppery lashes fluttered against her cheeks. Slowly her fingers unfurled to show Thierry the implement.

  “Let him hold it.”

 

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