by Sarah Hegger
“I am afraid he looks like a lustful one.” Sister tugged her bliaut off. She brought Alice her nightrail and slipped it over her head.
Beneath the garment, Alice wriggled out of her chemise. Sister insisted on modesty at all times. “I see my wedding nightrail survived the moths.”
“Indeed.” Sister bent and snatched her chemise. “I laid it amongst layers of bay leaves, in case you would have need of it again. The devil employs wanton waste to his own ends. Our Lord frowns on excess.”
Alice pushed her arms into the sleeves. Aye, she had worn it but once when her last husband had joined her on their wedding night. The linen retained its pristine white, the tiny blue flowers she had embroidered along the neck as perfect as when she had stitched them. She had not worn a new gown for her wedding, so it stood to reason she would not wear a new nightrail. Lady Faye had worn the most beautiful gown of deep blue samite, and Beatrice just as resplendent in emerald green. Alice would wager silk felt sinful and soft, like a constant caress on the skin.
She removed her wimple and handed it to Sister, who arranged it on the clothes tree beside her bliaut and chemise, ready for her to don in the morning.
With deft fingers, Sister braided Alice’s unfortunate hair. In open defiance to its brazen red, her hair grew thick and wavy, almost touching the back of her thighs when unbound. She only freed it long enough for washing. Such a color hair spoke ill of the morals of its wearer. Devil’s hair, Sister called it. Alice’s burden and her shame. Secretly, when Sister was not about, Alice left her hair free. A tiny act of vanity that would bring Sister’s wrath down on her head if she knew.
Icy flags chilled Alice’s feet as she padded to the bed and eased beneath cold linens. She would grow warm soon enough. Straw poked through the thin pallet, and she wriggled to get comfortable.
“Get yourself with child.” Sister stood at the foot of the bed. “The purpose of marriage is to bear children. This”—she waved a thin hand at the bed—“is an evil to be endured until the Lord blesses you.”
Alice tucked her cold hands beneath her thighs. Teeth chattering, she managed no more than a nod. She should have braved the lecture and requested a fire. Only when her father made one of his rare visits did this rule get broken. Father preferred the comforts of Yarborough over Tarnwych.
“I will wait until he finishes with you.” Sister shuddered as she studied Alice. “Remain steadfast, my child.”
The door shut behind Sister with a muted thud. A small taper on the washstand flickered in the draft. Shadows clung to the corners of the chamber, making ghostly patterns on the unadorned walls.
Alice tucked the covers beneath her chin and waited.
The peacock ruts with a dull brown wren,
Fa, la, la, la la.
* * * *
William’s bride, so tiny he could tuck her in his pocket, left the hall with a gaggle of women. Amidst the bright yellow, green, scarlet, and blue silks the others wore, the lifeless brown wool of Alice’s gown stuck out like dog’s ballocks. In the rearguard strode the nun who seemed never more than arm’s length from his new wife. Emaciated, the nun’s habit bound her twiggy appendages together.
Wed. Not yet bed, and the gnawing dread in his gut had him grabbing his wine goblet.
“Well.” Roger drew the word out on an exhale. “It seems you’re done for, brother o’ mine.”
“She seems mild tempered,” he said. Alice had barely said a word above nay to wine and aye to water since they’d exchanged vows. Somewhere there existed a custom more agonizing than wedding a stranger, but he had not yet heard of it.
Roger adjusted his “good” tunic where it strained at the shoulder seams. “Meek even.”
“Perhaps.” William never assumed anything when it came to women.
“Not…that beautiful.” Roger sipped his wine.
William almost laughed. His brother lacked a glib tongue in his arsenal. “Not quite plain, though.”
“Aye.” Roger nodded a touch too heartily. “And definitely not ugly.”
“Indeed.”
A dour serving girl refilled their wine goblets.
“Why in hell did you agree to this?” Roger lost his battle for further diplomacy, and yanked at his tunic until the stitches ripped.
William feigned a carefree shrug as if he hadn’t asked himself that very question, for the last fortnight. “A man must marry. She will make as good a wife as any other. Indeed, better than most. She has land, and her father may have enough influence to restore our family’s good name at court.”
Roger pursed his lips and stared at their father.
Sir Arthur sat beside Lady Alice’s father. A big, rough-boned man, Sir Ivo had the look of a wild boar. For certain, too hearty a man to have sired little Alice.
“God’s bones but it’s cold. Thank God we leave tonight.” Roger huffed a cloud of white breath into the air. “You’ll freeze your ballocks off getting your wedding tackle out.”
In the gaping maws of all eight hall hearths, miserly flames eked out tepid heat against the bone chilling cold of a northern winter. Barely three days into October, and already William smelled the bitter ice on the air.
“I would have a word with your lady about the fare.” Roger poked his eating knife at the thin slithers of mutton on his trencher. Plain fare and in meager supply, suitable for an army on the move, but not for a wedding feast.
William drained his goblet. The wine had come from Anglesea, barrels and barrels of it from the depth of the Anglesea cellars where it had lain waiting to mark a celebration. Brought to Tarnwych by bullock train, it had provided the one bright point in his frigid wedding feast.
Cold, bleak, and as unrelentingly gray as the sky outside, his new hall resembled a tomb. Through the casement, blue water glittered from the lake beyond, the only color in a desolate view. God, what a depressing place. William snatched his goblet and found it empty.
Roger’s nudge almost sent him to the floor. “You look like you might need this more than I.”
William drained Roger’s cup and put it on the table. He motioned for the serving wench and her wine jug. Soon, the women would finish preparing his bride, and he would be called upon to swive his way into conjugal contentment.
Chapter 2
William opened the door to his wedding chamber. Frigid air greeted him in a rush. Stark as a crypt, and with only one taper providing a flicker of warmth in the miserable dark. Bare of adornment, with a few basic pieces of furniture the chamber lay free of the flowers and ribbons he would have expected for a wedding night. At the far end of the chamber, the bed hulked in shadow. A tiny mound in the center provided the only sign of life. “God’s bones.”
Alice stirred and then went still.
William didn’t fancy frostbite of the ballocks. The chill of the miserable hall was bad enough. “Why is there no fire?”
“It is not yet December,” she said.
Bugger that. William strode to the door and bellowed, “Cedric!” Getting the job done, and done well, deserved a scrap of comfort. “I’m bringing December a little early this year.”
Alice made a soft noise.
Cedric barreled through the door, his cheeks flushed. “Sir William.”
“Get some wood in here. Lots of wood.” Let them have some semblance of good cheer between them tonight. He marked no honey cakes to sweeten the bride’s disposition, no bridal broth to stiffen the groom’s resolve. “And wine.” Neither he nor his wife had eaten much at the feast. “And fill a platter. Do it fast, Cedric.”
“Aye, Sir William.” Cedric spun about, crashed his shoulder into the doorjamb, and careened into the corridor. Nice lad, Cedric, willing and eager, but not the brightest squire he’d trained.
Silence filled the chamber. “That was Cedric. My squire.” He chafed his palms together for warmth. “He means well, but you will have to overlook his clumsiness.”
Alice might have moved, but who cou
ld tell in this fitful light. She had barely glanced at him through their parsimonious wedding feast. Every time he had shifted closer to her, his lady had shifted away. Part of him had wanted to see how far down the bench she would edge to put distance between them. As his efforts would have driven her straight into the lap of that sour-faced old nun, he’d resisted the urge and set himself to putting her at ease. Their wedding night would require renewed effort.
“Indeed.” His voice rang. Had they no rugs to take the chill off the flags? Even the rats, it seemed, deserted Tarnwych for warmer welcome. “Cedric joined me recently. He is a cheerful sort, if you don’t mind the chatter too much.” He’d give his sword arm for a bit of Cedric’s meaningless drivel right now. “He is a good lad.”
He strode to the casement and peered into the night. On the far side of the lake, lights twinkled from the village. From the wisps of smoke ghosting on the night air, he guessed they had no December rule there. “Why December?”
She gave a small huff of breath. “It is cold in December.”
“It is cold now.” Sod the miserable North. Bad enough they played neighbor to those blasted Scots. Barren, gray, and cold. Very cold. He toyed with his breath, locking his jaw and sending white rings into the air. Half expecting a cracked tip, he crinkled his nose. He’d bedded more woman than he would admit to, unless Roger asked, and then he would even swell the number, because it irked his older brother no end. He could do this. Alice was a woman, much like any other, with all the parts he liked so well on others of her sex.
“Will you be much longer?” she said, startling him.
“Longer?”
“Aye.”
At least he would be spared his wife chatting a hole in his head. “Longer about what?”
She stayed silent for so long, he prepared to repeat his question.
“The bedding,” she whispered.
He spun from the window. Over the linens, two eyes glittered in the darkness. It might have been flattering if she hadn’t sounded so pained about the idea. A new experience to be sure, and his smooth address deserted him. “I thought we might get comfortable first.”
“I am comfortable.”
William strolled closer to the bed. She lay on her back, linens tucked beneath her chin. The rest of her, barely reaching half the length of the huge bed, stretched straight as a dead fish on the block. “You do not look comfortable.”
“I can assure you I am.” She glared at the canopy.
They had not made a love match, and a seasoned woman would not expect any professions of devotion from their arrangement. In time, they would rub together like a pair of comfortable boots. If not, a man need not hover about his wife for much longer than the begetting of an heir or two. But this? William pressed his lips together, biting back his laugh. She looked like a bedamned corpse lying there. A grumpy corpse, at that. Did she expect him to leap on her, rut around a bit, and dismount?
Her rigid face gleamed pale, so tense, he would wager if he plucked a hair she would vibrate. He settled a hip on the edge of the bed.
Her eyes narrowed, and she pressed her lips together.
A shy, timid virgin bride he could gentle out of her fear, slowly put her at ease, caress her until she opened her petals like a flower before the sun. He almost snorted at his bad verse. Even a reluctant bride could be gentled like a skittish yearling. What to do with an experienced, ill-tempered one, who looked as if she would rather chew nails than share his bed? Did she even have a smile buried deep inside her? He loved a challenge. “I do not, as a rule, sleep like I am about to be laid to rest. But if you recommend it for comfort, I will give it a try.”
She glanced at him and then frowned at the bed canopy.
“I wager you are warmer under there,” he said.
The door swung open and banged into the wall.
“I am back.” Cedric, laden with a large wooden board piled high with food, staggered into the room. Hair hung in his eyes. “And I brought help.”
A handful of serfs slunk in. Wood, more wood and—thank you, God—wine. William welcomed a little fortification.
The tallest serf stacked wood in the fireplace.
“I found some more tapers.” Balancing the heavy board with one hand, Cedric dug in his tunic front and produced a handful of tapers.
“Masterfully done, Cedric.” William gave him a nod of approval. The lad had shown the first glimmers of initiative.
Cedric beamed at him and righted the canting platter.
A serf struck a flint, lit some kindling, and thrust it beneath the wood. Orange flames licked at the wood and caught with a soft whoosh.
“And then there was light,” William said.
Alice gasped. Her frown deepened into a pinched expression of disapproval. Ah, a lady of faith, he presumed. Fitting, because the room resembled a monastic cell, and offered about as much welcome.
Cedric laid his platter down with only one loaf of bread dropped. He snatched it, wiped it on his tunic, and put it back on the platter. “Will that be all, Sir William?”
Leaning closer to his bride, William whispered out the side of his mouth, “Avoid the bread.”
“I am not hungry.” She shrunk further into the pillows as if afraid his breath might graze her skin. A lesser man would be feeling slighted about now. Unfortunately for Lady Alice, she had William of Anglesea in her chamber.
“But you must be.” William ushered the last of the serfs and Cedric out of the chamber. He poured them both a goblet of wine and carried it back. “You barely touched your dinner.”
She shook her head at his offer of a goblet. “I do not drink.”
“I noticed that at dinner, too.” Never one to miss an excellent wine, William sipped from his goblet and placed hers on the chest beside the bed. “Why is that?”
Her gaze flickered over him, light eyes, blue or green, he could not make out in the dark. “Drunkenness leads to lasciviousness.”
And thank the Lord for that. William hid his smile behind his goblet.
Still bound in the bed linen, she scrutinized him.
He wandered back to the food board. The cheese looked edible, and he carved a slice for himself. Verily, she didn’t look able to move. “Are you sure I cannot bring you aught?”
After a headshake, she went back to her study of the canopy.
William picked at the offerings on the tray. His lady did not drink, nor would she partake of any food, and she viewed him as an interloper in her chamber. To be fair, given that they had only met hours earlier, he could understand her reticence. For the most part, the ladies delighted in finding themselves in his company and took matters into their own hands. He drained his goblet, rejecting the idea of another. Any sort of victory here would require clear wits.
Bending, he unlaced his boots and slid them off. Next, he removed his embroidered wedding surcoat and laid it across a nearby clothes chest. Clad in his chemise and breeches, he padded to the bed. Thank God, the fire had taken the worst of the chill. Alice had left plenty of space on the other side of the bed, and he climbed up beside her.
A soft noise escaped her, and she went even more rigid.
Dear God, give him patience. Even his large conceit felt dented. He lay on his side, propping his head on his hand. She had a neat profile with a slight upward tilt at the end of her nose. Pale, thick lashes fluttered as she stared upwards. Not a pretty face, but her pleasant features bore a faerie-like charm. A gleaming, thick braid lay against the white pillow.
William took the braid between his thumb and forefinger. Glorious, rich copper and the weight of the braid in his hand told him of its length and thickness. The ends curled around the tie holding it confined. “Your hair is red.”
“Aye.” The delicate line of her jaw hardened.
“And very lovely, it would seem.”
“Red hair is the devil’s hair,” she said.
The vehemence of her statement startled him. William
knew many women who would lay down their lives for such beauty. “I beg your pardon.”
She growled and, finally, looked at him. The anger on her face left him wrong footed. “Red hair is the mark of a foul temper. Foul temper is the playground of the devil.”
God’s Bones, who had he married? So meek and silent beside him at dinner, cold as death lying in wait for him in their bed, and now glaring at him as if he were a hound of hell. “I think it is beautiful.”
She rolled her eyes on a huff. “My lord, there is no need for pretty words betwixt us. I am neither beautiful nor charming, but I am your wife. As such, we will lie together for the purpose of begetting a child. Can we please get to that part?”
Meet the Author
Born British and raised in South Africa, Sarah Hegger currently lives in Colorado with her teenage daughters, two Golden Retrievers and husband. Part footloose buccaneer, part quixotic observer of life, Sarah’s restless heart is most content when reading or writing books. Visit her website at www.sarahhegger.com, find her on Facebook, and follow her on Twitter