by Sandra Hill
“I went to a fair one time where they had a dancing pig.”
She had managed to get out of the linen and was adjusting her bed rail, which was by now half off one shoulder.
He walked over, grabbed the neckline and yanked until it was torn right down the middle.
She gasped. “Why did you do that?”
“Because you annoy me.” And, truth to tell, all your blathering is annoying me, too.
He crawled up onto his side of the bed, facing away from her, and pulled a linen sheet up over his body to the waist. There was no fire, but it was not overly cold tonight.
“This side of the bed is sticky,” she observed.
“I know.” If she keeps on talking, I am going to stick a wad of linen in her mouth…or something else. Hmmm.
“Change sides with me.”
Are you barmy? “Nay!”
“Well, if you think I am going to beg, you are more demented than usual.” He heard rustling noises and assumed she was laying her bed linen over the top of the damp spots. She cursed once, then twice.
What now? “A problem?” he inquired without turning over to see for himself.
“’Tis too wet. And sticky.” Without glancing her way, he could tell that she was now standing. “It seeps through everything.” When he said nothing more, she finally asked, “Where shall I sleep?”
With a long sigh of exasperation, he turned over and lifted the sheet next to him.
Muttering her disgust, she started to climb up.
“Take off that bed rail afore you strangle yourself.”
“If I do, you are not to touch me.”
He rolled his eyes. Right now, the only touching that appeals is you, naked, over my knees, arse pointed northward, being paddled with my palm. Much as that image appealed, he decided to save it for another day. “Breanne, Archbishop Dunstan and his cohorts are on their way here. Geoff came to give me the news. I have spent the last three hours making arrangements. I need sleep now.”
“You lout! Why did you not tell me that to begin with?”
Mayhap I was too blistering angry with you. Mayhap I had more important things on my mind. Mayhap your wagging tongue put me off. He shrugged and bided his time while she worked her way around the honey spots and under the linen.
He gave her only a second to relax and let her defenses down. Then he rolled over on top of her.
“You promised not to touch me.”
“I did not.”
“Well, do not.”
He was already working her hair out of its damp braid and adjusting his body so that his cock was right where he wanted it to be. It felt as if there was moisture where his staff was resting, but just to make sure, he tested her female channel with a finger. “You are wet for me,” he hooted out with a joyous laugh, holding said finger up for her to see.
“Nay, I am not. ’Tis just dampness from my bath.”
“You took your bath hours ago.”
“How do you know that?”
“My spies told me.” He put his finger into his mouth to taste, then declared, with deliberate irksome glee, “Woman dew. Wet for me.”
“That is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen.”
“Really? When I think of disgusting, I think of…” He told her about a form of bedplay that was, in fact, more disgusting.
She clicked her jaw shut when she realized she was gaping. “You said you needed to sleep.”
“I do, and the best way to insure a good sleep is to tup first.” Before she had a chance to protest, he lifted her hips and plunged inside.
He had not intended to do that. Really, he had not. He was just going to tease her. So, now what do I do? “Shall I stop?” Oh, please, say nay. Be amenable for once. He rubbed his chest hairs across her nipples. Just once.
“Do not dare.”
He smiled, but then he recalled something. With a grunt for his self-inflicted pain, he withdrew from her.
“What are you doing?” She tried to pull him back by tugging on his buttocks, but he remained rigid outside her body.
“I recalled that I told you just moments ago that I would not swive you again until you begged. Are you ready to beg?”
“Hah!”
Betimes drawing a battle line was not a good decision. He was having second thoughts, but his pride would not allow him to give in. Putting his back to her, he said, “Sleep well, m’lady witch.”
“You cannot fool me,” she said, smacking him on the back. “You will not be able to rest, now that you are aroused, until you are sated.”
“I can always pleasure myself…unless you are ready to beg.”
“Not a chance!” Then, “How dost one pleasure oneself?”
He began to laugh and could not stop, even when she battered his shoulders with her small fists.
“If you will not tell me, I will ask Amicia.”
“Good. Perchance you will then give me a demonstration later.”
“How would I…I mean…never mind.”
Amazingly, he did fall asleep, only to awaken near dawn with a sleeping princess snuggled up against his back…her knees behind his knees, her mons behind his buttocks, her breasts against his back. She would hate herself for crossing the line.
If he were chivalrous, he would slip out of bed and let her sleep, unaware of how, even in sleep, she sought his body. That is what he should do, but, never having been chivalrous to any great extent, he instead put a hand over her hand which was cradling his ballocks and spoke over his shoulder.
“Ooooooh, Bre-aaaaanne!”
He was not entirely loathsome…
Breanne was impressed.
Just as she had come to the conclusion that Caedmon was a stubborn, lackwitted, lazy, loathsome troll of a man, albeit an accomplished lover, she got to see him in a new light. From the instant he had embarrassed her in bed by proving that she had been the one who could not keep her hands off of him, he had changed before her eyes. He was now an efficient, in-control, no-nonsense master of Larkspur, a warrior at heart.
He had Hugh at his side everywhere he went, whilst Breanne took charge of the other children, gladly, especially since there was an air of fear about the place. Archbishop Dunstan was a powerful man, some said even more influential than the king. If he was not pleased, Larkspur could suffer. And Breanne could not help but feel she and her sisters were responsible for this dire situation.
She had the children looking clean and well groomed after a battle at the bathing house early this morn. The three terrors…Kendrick, Oslac, and Joanna…were particularly difficult. You would think she had asked them to peel off a layer of skin, when all she had insisted on was a good scrubbing.
Putting two fingers in her mouth, she let loose with a most unfeminine whistle, and, amazingly, the children all lined up in order of height. It was a trick Gerard had taught her. Unfortunately, she had not yet mastered the trick of keeping them in place, and they soon began to scatter.
“Wait!” she shouted.
In an attempt to evade Dunstan’s scrutiny, she was about to lead them all on an “adventure” outside the castle grounds, down by the river. But first she stopped in the kitchen to put bread, cheese, oat cakes, and apples in a leather bag. Amicia and her helpers were all in a tizzy, dressing the deer one of the hunters had brought in, along with two ducks and a brace of rabbits. Another man handed the cook a string of fish.
“I could use yer sister now,” Amicia remarked to Breanne.
“I would offer to help, but Caedmon asked me to take care of the children. Make them presentable. Keep them out of the way.”
Amicia nodded. “Wish we could all go hide fer a sennight or so. I hear the God-man hates wimmen.”
On that happy note, Breanne went through the open corridor to the great hall, where her group awaited her. Her heart swelled seeing how nice they looked with their grubby faces washed and their hair slicked down. Every one of them, except Piers, was scowling with discomfort at the new garments they had
been forced to wear.
“No grumpiness today,” she said cheerily. “We are going to have a good time.”
Kendrick said something that sounded like “Bugger good times.”
“I wanna go swimming,” Joanna demanded. “And catch some frogs and roast the legs. Yum!”
Yecch!
“Las’ time, ye made the fire too big, and Gerard whopped yer bottom,” Angus said gleefully. “Ye could not sit down fer a whole day.”
Joanna stuck her tongue out at Angus.
Piers was hunkered down on his little haunches watching a spider. She took his hand quickly before he decided to put the creature in his mouth.
Oslac broke wind apurpose, just to show her who was really in charge.
Beth and Mina blushed with mortification. If they could disown their brothers, they surely would.
Alfred and Aidan were making buzzing noises. Apparently rumors were rife this morn about honey and swiving, as evidenced by sticky bed linens. Not that the twins knew what swiving was, but they clearly understood it was a forbidden subject, and therefore of interest.
With a whooshy exhale of disgust, she led the little varmints out to the upper bailey, not unlike a goose with its goslings, then stopped dead in her tracks. It was too late. Archbishop Dunstan and his entourage had already arrived. With the outer door shut behind them, she pressed up against the castle wall with the children and, using hand signals, tried to sidle away. Unfortunately, one of Dunstan’s soldiers was eyeing them suspiciously. As if a woman and nine children could do them harm!
Caedmon, Henry, and some of the higher-ranking hirdsmen were bowing from the waist at Archbishop Dunstan as he dismounted. The horses were being led off to the stables. She had to admit, Caedmon looked godly handsome in a blue tunic with a gold link belt over black breeches tucked into knee-high polished boots. His dark hair had been trimmed and combed off his face.
“Welcome to Larkspur, Your Grace,” Caedmon said, leaning forward to kiss the priest’s ring.
I am not noticing the pull of fabric over his firm buttocks. Really. I am surely not that wanton. Well, mayhap a wee bit wanton. Aaarrgh!
The archbishop made the sign of the cross with two raised fingers over Caedmon. “May the Lord bless and keep you.”
Bless all of us, Lord. We are in deep trouble here.
The white-haired and white-bearded Dunstan had to be in his fifties. He was dressed in a simple cowled robe, but the fabric was of softest wool with an under-robe, or vestment, of finest Irish lace, peeking out at the wrists and neck and ankles, and the rope belt was threaded with strands of silver. A large gold crucifix hung from a heavy chain around his neck, and on his fingers were several rings.
A monk in tonsured haircut and coarser robe carried the elaborate, pointed headdress known as a mitre, which would be worn during official duties. Yet another priest placed a jewel-encrusted crosier in the archbishop’s right hand, the crooked shepherd-like staff being a symbol of his office.
The stern-faced archbishop’s eyes darted here and there, taking everything in. No doubt he would be able to report back to the king the exact condition of the keep right down to the number of soldiers and sheep for shearing. She could swear his rheumy eyes went wide on noticing the twining larkspur carvings she had made in the eaves of the pigsty. He probably thought they were some pagan symbols.
“Wouldst like to break your fast, Your Eminence?” Caedmon inquired. “I have set my cook to prepare a meal for you.”
Dunstan shook his head. “First we will say Mass in thanksgiving for our safe journey through this primitive land.”
Breanne could only be thankful that Caedmon had the foresight to set the housemaids to cleaning the small chapel this morn.
“The bathhouse is ready, if need be, and a private bedchamber for you,” Caedmon added.
Once again, Dunstan shook his head. “Mass first.”
No thanks for Caedmon’s thoughtfulness, just a judgmental haughtiness, as if any consideration was his due.
They were all walking up the step to the double doors leading into the great hall when the archbishop noticed her and the children, still propping up the wall. The children had the good sense not to misbehave, for once. “Who are they?” he demanded of Caedmon.
Caedmon did not even look her way. The grimness of his expression was telling to Breanne. He knew he was walking a fine line here. One misstep and he could lose all. “Those are my children,” he said, “along with Hugh here, my oldest.” He put a hand on Hugh’s shoulder.
“And the woman?” It was clear as a bell the disdain Dunstan held for women. His eagle eyes took her measure from head to toe. “Those fine garments are not of a housemaid.”
“This is Breanne of Stoneheim, daughter of King Thorvald.”
She bowed to the archbishop but, not sure of the protocol, did not dare try to kiss his ring.
“Stoneheim?”
“In the Norselands,” Caedmon elaborated, with obvious reluctance.
“A heathen Viking!” Dunstan’s nostrils flared with outrage. If she were closer, he might have tried to smite her with his staff.
“I believe she has been baptized,” Caedmon said before she could speak up and probably say something objectionable. He frowned at her in warning not to disagree with what he had said. What he did not know was that her father and all her sisters practiced both the Norse and Christian religions.
Something seemed to occur to Dunstan then. “Are you sister to Lady Havenshire?”
Oh, gods! Here it comes! “Yea, I am.”
“Is she here?” His eagle eyes scanned the surroundings.
Breanne shook her head.
“Where is she?”
She shrugged. “Back in the Norselands, I believe.”
Dunstan pointed a bony finger at her and said, “I will speak to you after Mass, and you will tell me the truth, or suffer the consequences. Do you understand me, wench?”
How could she not understand him? He was practically spitting his displeasure.
Caedmon hung back as the group went inside toward the chapel, which could be entered both from the inside of the keep, or through an exterior door. “You did well,” he told her in an undertone.
“You jest. I did terribly. My voice shook, and my eyes probably belied my lack of honesty.”
“I will make sure to be with you any time you speak with the archbishop,” he promised. “Do not fear. This will soon be over, and we can resume our bargain.”
“Whaaat?” she screeched. “How can you think of that at a time like this?”
“Breanne, Breanne, Breanne! I think of that all the time.”
To emphasize his words, the rogue cupped her buttock and squeezed before anyone could notice.
Except for his children, who began to make bzzzzing noises.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When dumb men hear dum-dum-dee-dum…
It was late afternoon and the archbishop could be put off no longer. He wanted to speak with Breanne. Now!
Caedmon had to give Breanne credit. She had managed to make herself and the children nigh invisible. It could have been disastrous if he had had to cope with the antics of the bratlings along with the verbal traps set by Dunstan.
And there were traps aplenty, he had soon learned, when Dunstan revealed the primary reason for his visit. Despite his being joined at the hip with King Edgar and way too involved for a priest in the cesspit of royal politics, the archbishop was in the midst of a monastic revival in Britain, building churches, abbeys, and monasteries hither and yon. Probably trying to earn points with God toward sainthood when he died. In fact, he wanted to build a bloody damn monastery on Larkspur lands, as if Caedmon had land to spare. And even if he were willing to part with his Odal rights to a portion of Larkspur, that would not be the end of it. Next, workers would be required to help build the monastery. Then cattle and sheep for subsistence. Guardsmen to protect the clergy from raiders. Then the monks would be baptizing every living body in sight a
nd demanding donations in God’s name. Worst of all, having Dunstan or his minions so close would mean that Caedmon would have the church and King Edgar’s spies constantly looking over his shoulder.
He took Hugh with him in his search for Breanne. They finally found her down by the river, sitting on a blanket where food had been spread out. Piers was asleep beside her, his little buttocks up in her air, one of his thumbs in his mouth. Joanna and Kendrick were in the water, swimming, whilst all the others were playing some kind of run-and-hide game. Mina was the first to see him, and she made a running leap. He caught her up in his arms and kissed the top of her head where the hair was still damp, no doubt from her swimming, too. Beth was next. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her face against his abdomen. Aidan and Alfred had death holds on his thigh, on the other side.
Breanne looked up, then looked again. She appeared amazed at the affection his children showed toward him, or was it perchance his own affection toward them that caused her astonishment? The expression on her face soon turned to wariness, but was probably because of the way he had embarrassed her in bed this morn. By the saints! Was it only this morn that she shared my bed? It feels like a lifetime ago.
“You are summoned,” he said, disengaging himself from his children’s clutches. Holding out a hand, he pulled her to her feet.
“Archbishop Dunstan?”
“One and the same. He wants to talk with you. Immediately.”
She shivered, but then straightened herself as if gathering courage. “So be it.”
“I will stay with you, regardless of what he says.”
“What he says?” she repeated.
“He will no doubt try to question you separately from anyone else, in order to trick you.”
She moaned.
“Hugh, you will stay with the children. When it is time to return to the castle, go through the scullery. Whatever you do”—he was speaking to all the children now—“you are to stay out of sight and do not speak, other than answering yea or nay. Do you understand? This is important.”
One by one, they all nodded.
Walking back across the grassy field studded with fragrant larkspur, he put a hand to her waist, tugging her to his side. It was a sign of her nervousness that she did not swat him away. In fact, she looped her arm around his waist, as well.