by Robyn Carr
Her conscience cried out to her that she was a mere spoiled babe without the strength of conviction a woman must own. Haughty, spoiled, and selfish. Her life was not her own; her future was ruled by dower lands and political considerations. Edrea, whom she admired more than any other woman, would not bemoan the cursed dowry, but wisely use it for what good it could bring.
There needn’t be love to form a marriage, she thought dejectedly. She could be no more sure that Boltof or Wharton would have loved her. She let her hands run down her sides, curving toward her slender waist and trembling slightly as she considered the consummation. She remembered Royce’s boldness in the dark gallery. The fear of it bit her deeply.
She mused on a woman’s obligation to bear children and see them raised. Edrea had never complained that it was not her wish. She brought forth her sons with love and nurturing that spoke of great joy. Nor did she complain of the trials of raising her fiery-haired daughter, though Felise was sure her trials were many. Quite to the contrary, Edrea lamented that Felise had not been born of her own body.
“Come, my lamb,” Vespera said, her patience renewed. She drew Felise away from the hearth. “A dry gown and some rest will help more than you realize.”
Once the thick feather quilt had been drawn up to her chin and the candles extinguished, Felise’s thoughts were likewise kinder and more tolerant. The embers still glowed in the fire and wind passed through the corridors with a chill whistle, a melody that lulled her. If the time is come, she lay thinking, I would rise to it as a woman and have no more of these childish complaints. I pray God delivers me with some tenderness to my fate.
***
The Chaney house was a merchant’s dwelling; Master Chaney had achieved success rare for one of his class. His wool was known as the finest and softest, drawing a good coin and barter. Nine sons, all married and fathers of their own children, drew the trade further and took the cloth to France. In their elder years the Chaneys were able to enjoy the manor house, humble by the standards of a noble dame, rich by the measure a commoner used.
The house boasted seven rooms and a stable and sat upon an enviable plot of land. Close to the city, yet free of its clamor and filth, the house was hugged by full brush and trees. The Chaneys employed four servants, fully owned as many horses, and grew or raised all their food.
When she arose, it was the savory smells filling the house that Felise noticed first. Her chamber was empty. Vespera and Daria had not only left the room, but their pallets were gone as well. She rose and went to the window rather than the door, pulling aside the heavy curtains and opening the shutters. The sun was high, marking noon, and the sky had cleared. The chill persisted, but the damp ground was covered by a thin blanket of snow.
Felise admired the grounds on which the unpretentious house stood. There were no gardens, fountains, or stone-laid paths, but it was obvious by the cleared yard and cleanliness that the place was loved. She hugged herself against the cold and scanned the yard, spotting a line of footprints in the white sheet. Following them, her eyes fell upon Royce. He had walked a great distance from the house to where a dense copse of trees lined the property. He had one foot resting atop a stump in a relaxed stance, looking at nothing in particular.
She could see his breath swirling about his face, yet he wore no heavy wrap. Donned in simple chausses, leather tunic, and soft leather boots, he did not resemble the roguish knight. His lack of chain mail did not diminish his size. Even at a great distance his height and breadth were obvious. She toyed with her hair while she studied him. In the absence of weapons strapped to a heavy belt, he looked more like the carpenters or smiths in her father’s towns. A sudden irony occurred to her: he did not fear her flight or an abduction by one of her suitors, for he carried not so much as a knife at his waist.
He began to walk toward the house, his head down and his stride even but slow. The aura of command was missing from his approach. If anything, his movement spoke of melancholy. Her heart sank abruptly. She knew well enough how to scorn the advances of a lusty knight; she had no experience in dealing with a man who did not want her.
She quietly pulled the shutters closed and went to the hearth to blow up the fire and place a new log atop the embers. This was barely done when the door opened. Vespera entered first, followed by others, and a rigorous afternoon ensued.
The celebration of the wedding did not resemble a noblewoman’s in any way, for it was to be a quaint affair, much like that of a merchant’s daughter. There were no visiting dignitaries or village feasts or gathering of decorations. But the women were as invigorated in their enthusiasm as if this were a match between royal heirs. And further, as though the couple were in love and could bear the waiting no longer.
First there was a tray of food delivered to the bride, then a steaming bath with scented soaps. Daria washed Felise’s long hair and combed it before a blazing hearth, and even that sour maid had a manner light and gay. “Milady, will you wear the gown of your father’s colors, or choose another? The pity there’s no time for a bride’s frock, one to set off the shine of your hair ...”
Felise looked at her suspiciously out of the corner of her eye, wondering at her mood. Daria usually prattled a bevy of complaints at the snarls in Felise’s long hair. “It appears that your heart is swollen with some fancy love poem,” she said. “Do you forget no one is eager for this marriage ... least of all the man and woman hereby pledging?”
“Ah, milady, I only know the bride is beautiful and Sir Royce a high and handsome man.”
Felise turned to look at her fully. “You think him handsome?” she queried.
Daria rolled her eyes and licked her lips. “‘Twouldn’t pain me much to think on the bedding ...”
Felise, tense enough with these preparations and impatient with Daria as a rule anyway, reached behind her to where Daria stood with the comb and gave her a sharp pinch on the back of her hand, gaining a screech from the maid.
“Well, put it from your mind,” Felise said angrily. “‘Tis no concern of yours.”
Daria resumed her usual tight, pouting look and combed with her customary neglect for tenderness. Felise was slow to be drawn into a festive mood, but Daria was soon back to chattering in lighthearted glee about the handsomeness of Sir Royce and the aura of romance surrounding this secret wedding. Felise frowned darkly, wondering if she would ever in her life look back on this day with any fondness.
Vespera helped choose a gown of the palest green velvet decorated with a silver braid. Felise would have hidden her hair under a wimple, but the choice was taken from her when Vespera insisted that the glorious locks trail loosely down her back as would befit a young virgin. A sheer veil was gathered atop her crown and secured with silver pins. When her dressing was complete, three women stood about looking at her, each holding her breath, exclaiming on her beauty with their glowing eyes.
“A moment,” Isabel suddenly said, turning and fleeing from the room. She was back almost as quickly as she left, a folded garment in her hands. “I came by the cloth in a good trade, milady, and fashioned it as a sleeping gown for my youngest daughter. Take it for your own bedding. I can find more of the cloth.”
Felise tremulously reached for the garment, not sure if she was moved by this generosity or simply shook whenever the consummation was mentioned. She held the gown by the shoulders and it fell forth in a long, shimmering curtain of white. It was a soft, sheer linen, loosely woven and crafted with expert and loving hands. She raised her eyes to Isabel. “It is too precious,” she said. “I could not take it.”
“My lady, I would be honored if you would.”
“Thank you,” she said meekly, a vision of Royce rending it in his haste causing her to shudder.
“I have never seen a more beautiful bride than you,” Vespera said. She moved forward and, holding Felise’s shoulders, gently kissed her cheek. “With but the faintest smile, perhaps sir knight would be moved to tenderness,” she whispered.
Felise attempt
ed a smile, but her insides were knotted and her lips quivered. She looked at the women. “I pray forgiveness,” she said meekly. “I know my manner does not show that I am grateful. I know you try to make this pleasant for me.”
Isabel laughed softly. “Nary a bold bride,” she said with a light touch on Felise’s hand. “You will soon find there is little to fear. Even yon knight of Henry has some soft place, and you will soon find it. It is the knight’s desire to hide his weakness from the thrusting sword; yet a gentle word will lay bare his soul.” She smiled warmly. “Venture into his heart with kindness, Lady Felise. Come. If your knight is not impatient, he is blind.”
There was no church for the vows, nor choir of voices, nor communion. Royce and Felise knelt before a staircase in the merchant’s house while the priest spoke the words and blessed them. Royce’s voice was clear and strong, and while Felise willed hers to be equal to his, a tremulous whisper was her best effort.
They rose before the priest and Royce turned her, looking down into her eyes. She felt the warmth of his gaze, but the stern set to his mouth gave her to believe that though he was impatient for her body, he was no more eager for her companionship than she was for his. Then his lips lowered to hers and the searing hunger of his kiss left her breathless and weak. Her arms rose weakly to his and her cheeks blazed in embarrassment, for his display might better be confined to their private moments. As if the thought struck him at the same time, he broke his kiss quite abruptly, leaving her to look up at him in some confusion. She laughed awkwardly. “Patience, my lord,” she whispered.
The only reaction her words elicited was an angry frown. She could not fathom his moods. Something in his lips expressed wanting, yet his eyes were filled with contempt. This marriage obviously threw him into dour spirits.
A dinner was served to those present: the knights who had ridden with them, and the members of the household. It was a hefty fare of roasted meats, thick gravies, and breads. There was light conversation and plenty of wine, but no dancers, singers, or jesters. Felise ate her meal slowly, agonizing with each bite as the hour grew later. When Vespera rose from the end of the long feasting table and drew near her, she knew the time had come. Royce’s hand held his knife over his plate and she covered it with hers.
“My lord,” she whispered, an urgency to her voice. He bent closer to hear her. “I meant no harm. I do not mean to do you ill.” He looked at her in complete confusion. Her voice came in the meekest whisper. “Please do not hate me.”
His frown wrinkled deeper. “Hate you, madam?”
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but Vespera touched her shoulder and bid her come. Royce’s brow relaxed in understanding and he gave a slight smile. But Felise’s eyes showed only fear. She saw little more than a brazen leer. She rose to go to the fateful bedchamber.
Again there was a flurry of brushing, primping, dressing. She was ceremoniously seated in the bed, the covers drawn to her waist. The women then stood about. Royce entered with some of his men a pace behind him and stood just inside the door, looking across the room. He smiled appreciatively.
“I need no further assist,” he declared. “You may seek your pleasures in the hall; I shall seek mine here.”
Vespera approached him with nervous reluctance. “But Sir Royce, the king--”
“You may examine the bedding on the morrow, woman,” he said. Though he smiled rather roguishly, there was a strength of conviction in his voice that would brook no argument. “I am not a prancing stag inclined to mount my doe for your amusement. If you know the lass is pure, you will have little reason to doubt she’s been bedded.”
Vespera stared for a moment, wondering first whether he should be allowed to consummate the marriage privately, then whether she dared leave Felise alone with him. “The custom--” she began.
“There has been nothing of custom thus far,” he said flatly. “There were no violets and green herbs for my lady to walk upon, nor jugglers nor minstrels nor acrobats. Our contracts were not drawn, nor were there documents from her father or the king.” He paused and glared down on the nervous Vespera, eyes glittering with impatience. “I’ll bed the lass in private ... or not at all.”
She looked around and noted that his men had already accepted his dismissal and, however disappointed they were that they would have no chance for jesting and crude remarks, would not press him further. Vespera quickly withdrew, Daria and Isabel fast behind her.
Royce closed the door and barred it, making it clear he would allow no intrusion. He blew out two candles and leisurely approached the frightened creature in the bed. He had not considered what his break from ritual might cause her to think.
“Do you mean to harm me, monseigneur?” she asked.
“Nay, maid. You are a virgin?”
“You need not doubt my chastity, my lord. There has been no one to tread where you will.”
“You are afraid?”
She swallowed hard. “I am not a brave woman, but I do not fear you,” she attempted.
He smiled down at her, an almost gentle expression on his face. “We’ll have it done, Felise. I am not the heathen you judge me to be.”
She would have opened her mouth to deny it, but he turned from her and extinguished the other candles. He removed himself to a distant corner of the room to disrobe and returned to the bed, slipping in and drawing the covers over them both. His hands instantly grasped the shoulders of her gown to draw it down over her breasts. She gasped at the quickness of his work and heard his amused chuckle. “You would find it burdensome, cherie,” he said, swiftly pulling her into his embrace.
In naught but darkness, the fire providing only the meekest glow on the other side of the room, she was left to know him only as a warm shadow. They met skin against skin, his chest crushing her breasts, his hands roving up and down her back, pressing her so close that she feared she would not be able to draw her next breath. His lips instantly took hers. She was awed by the heat of his body, the strength and size of his hands, and her surprising lack of fear. It was perhaps the movements of his hands and body that lulled her, he seemed to expect nothing of experience from her, but went about his business with great confidence. There was an odd quickness within her that prompted her stomach to nip at her heart.
“Fair Felise,” he muttered hoarsely, kissing her ear, neck, shoulder. “You play the woman’s game well ... men are driven to battle to have you. Come, vixen, if you yield, show me ...” He took her hand and led it to his chest, showing her how to stroke him with the same familiarity he used on her. She clenched her eyes tightly shut, and though no one could see, her cheeks flamed. She shyly touched him as he would have her do, gasping in spite of herself when her hand found the swollen member that would end her maidenhood.
His breathing quickened and he pressed her down into the bed, kissing her now with renewed passion. He tugged at the gown to have it gone. His lips and hands boldly caressed her body; no part of her was to be left untouched. She gritted her teeth in apprehension and wondered how she would have endured this mating with spectators.
Slowly, from a deep place within her, she felt a new warmth. She trembled as a strange yearning possessed her; she leaned into his touch rather than steeling herself against it. She met his mouth with hers and held him closer, confused by her bizarre change of feelings but helpless to stop them. The heat of his skin against hers no longer felt alien. To the contrary, she thought she might suffer cold devastation if he released her.
He murmured her name, his voice thick and heavy in her ear, and she gave herself over to the rising passion. She yielded to him completely, feeling his hands demandingly grasp her hips. She craved more of him, hungry for his thrusts. Then the pain, blinding in its suddenness, caused her to arch in unconcealed anguish.
“Easy, my love,” he consoled, his breath rasping with his efforts.
Felise fell back into the bed, unmindful of his restrained movements. As the pain ebbed, she was aware of him again, cautiously commanding he
r body. But the irrepressible hunger was gone and she simply moaned her distress, humiliated by her earlier abandon.
When he had exhausted himself, he gently kissed her cheek. “You need not fear more pain, Felise.”
He rolled away from her and lay on his back. Within moments his breathing fell even and calm and she considered his presence beside her. What demon did he command, she wondered, to possess her so completely, then turn away from her so easily? Was a man’s life little changed by the heated coupling, while a woman’s whole world was traded for a new one?
It seemed hours that she lay quietly thinking on this. The fire burned low, leaving only a few orange coals to glitter in the dark. Her voice was the quietest murmur. “Do you sleep, messire?”
There was no response for a long moment, then he stirred slightly. “Nay.”
She sighed heavily, feeling tears begin to threaten. “I am sorry you were forced to wed me, my lord, but--”
“We share a bed, Felise. Can you not use my name?” he asked testily.
She choked on a sob at the sound of his impatient voice. “Royce ...” she sighed, a tear sliding down her temple into her hair.
“So on this day we were both forced. I will hold no grudge against you; ‘twas little of your making.”
Her heart ached with the desire to feel the gentleness of his arms about her again, if not to hear a kind tone in his voice. She had transcended passion and craved a softer touch, an earnest word. “Will we leave here soon?” she asked.
“Aye. To Segeland. Tis a sorry keep.” He sighed as if greatly disgruntled by her questions. “It needs a woman’s hand.”
“I will try to please you, Royce,” she said, humbling herself and seeking some favor in his eyes.