by K. E. Saxon
The feast progressed for twenty courses, during which pipers and harpists played. Afterward, a troupe of players acted out the ancient tale of how the blessed Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny, on which Scottish Kings accept their crowns was first carried from Hispania by the tribes of old and brought to the Hill of Tara on the Isle of Éire, then to Dunstaffnage Castle in Oban where ‘twas built into the wall, before finding its sacred place at Scone for Cináed mac Ailpín to be crowned.
When the play was done, the King signaled to Robert that ‘twas at last time for the couple to retire to their marriage bed. Robert let out a sigh of relief, but ‘twas short-lived. For, he had no sooner taken hold of Morgana’s hand and stepped off the dais with her, than they were both lifted from their feet and hoisted onto the shoulders of four of his clansmen. They were led away amongst a clamor of hearty well-wishes.
Robert gritted his teeth, but did his best to force a smile to his lips. Would this day ne’er be done? ‘Twas surely nearing the hundredth time he’d thought those words since first seeing Morgana this morn. All he wanted, all he had been able to think clearly on these past hours, was stripping her of that ridiculously ornate dress, as well as every other scrap of cloth between him and her naked flesh, and partaking once more of the lush bounty of her frame.
When they, and the boisterous ruck that carried them, were up the stairs and nearing his bedchamber door, Robert did a quick twist and jumped down from his clansmen’s shoulders. He rushed to stand in front of the portal with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs spread. “That’s as far as you’ll be going with my bride. Put her down. Gently.”
“But—”
“Nay.” Robert stepped forward and lifted his arms to Morgana. “Come, Morgana.”
Morgana didn’t hesitate. She reached her arms out and fell into his embrace. The clansmen were forced to let go of their hold on her.
Robert pressed his nose into Morgana’s soft moon-spun hair and took a deep breath of the fresh, clean scent of it. “Goodnight,” he said to his comrades and swung around, barreling them both inside the chamber, then slamming and barring the door behind them.
* * *
Robert scanned the chamber, thrilled to find it empty of maids. ‘Twas not until he’d barred the door that the thought had dawned that he may still have others to oust from their presence. Now, well pleased with their solitude, he folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the heavy oaken wood. The side of his mouth quirked with amusement—at her, at himself—as he watched Morgana begin to strip off her dress. All these hours he’d believed he’d be somehow dealing with a shy bride, that he’d need to maneuver a bit to get her naked again.
Thanks be to heaven, ‘twould clearly not be the case. Did she want him as badly as he wanted her? ‘Twas a thought to which he’d ne’er truly given time before, if a lady might actually feel real desire for him. Not just for the fucking, but for the man doing the fucking. ‘Twas rather a novel concept, but now the thought had taken hold, and ‘twould not let him go. He had to know if what she was feeling now was the common desire to mate that most had after getting a taste of the mad, orgasmic rhythm, or if ‘twas specifically him that she wanted inside her.
After all, she had run off with Guy de Burgh, he’d found out from one of his comrades. Which had sent a hot, violent jealous rage coursing through him. Another thing that he’d ne’er experienced before. There were many firsts for him where Morgana was concerned. Some pleasant, and some—like the jealousy—not so pleasant. “Did you fuck de Burgh?”
Morgana stood naked now and shivering a bit, as the fire needed tending. Her brow furrowed and she shook her head.
“So I’m still the only man you’ve allowed between those creamy thighs?” Robert’s eyes dipped to the apex of the appendages in question and then back up to his bride’s visage. Her eyes were wide now as she nodded her head. A lovely blush pinkened her cheeks.
Robert grinned. He’d gotten the truth from her, ‘twas evident in her aspect, as well as her bearing, and he liked the answer well. He kicked off his shoes.
With a short nod, he strode toward her, hauling off his tunic and shirt as he went. When he was no more than two feet away from her, he unlaced his braes and shoved them down, stepping out of them and kicking them aside in the next second. “Turn around and draw your hair o’er your shoulder.”
Morgana did as she was bade. What was his game? Her heart pounded in her chest. Not with fear, but with anticipation. She’d been aware of him for hours, his heat, the abrasive touch of his large and calloused hand o’er hers, the muscular arm that brushed against her breast as he reached for this tidbit or that. Aye, she had spent long minutes imagining those same hands on her body, those same arms wrapped around her, as they had been those nights they’d been together at the hunter’s cot.
“Bend over and grasp your ankles.”
Morgana’s heart leapt into her throat. A convulsive swallow worked in her throat as she whipped her head around. Those were the same words her uncle had given her before he’d begun to mortify her flesh. And all knew, a husband had the right to beat his wife. Had she wed a brute, then, without knowing it?
“I want to see what damage your uncle caused you.”
Relief flooded her as her heart settled back into a less rapid meter. She nodded and bent low at the waist, taking hold of her ankles.
She jerked when the rough pad of a thick finger trailed o’er the outer flesh of her sex.
Robert bit back a growl. She was bruised and abraded there as well. Her back, buttocks and thighs had raised welts on them; some, where the skin had been broken and the healing had begun.
Morgana felt her canal grow heavy and damp with each stroke of her husband’s finger. The flesh ached a bit when he pressed on it, but she truly cared not. The pleasure he would give her, she had learned well, would soon override any discomfort she now felt.
“ ‘Twill be a chaste marriage bed this night,” Robert said under his breath.
Morgana straightened and turned. She took hold of his forearms and, shaking her head, wrapped them around her. Then, rising up on her toes, she kissed him full on the mouth as she settled her own arms around his neck at the same time.
Robert’s manhood jerked against her belly and her mons. She felt it grow larger still. His arms remained lightly around her, barely touching her skin. She crowded closer against him and rubbed her nipples into the wiry hair on his chest, her pelvis against his erection.
Robert’s will snapped. “Bend o’er the bed. Put a pillow under your belly.”
It took a moment or two, but after she was finally positioned the way he wanted her—he’d spread her legs a bit wider and lifted her arms o’er her head—Morgana at last began to be taken by her husband.
The first thing she felt was that same rough pad of his finger trailing lightly o’er the outer flesh of her sex before making a shallow dip inside her canal. He traced the dew he brought forth down to the sensitive peak and began a slow manipulation of it, sending hot and cold thrills coursing through her.
He continued in this vein for quite a while, but each time her limbs would begin to quiver, each time the muscles of her back and thighs tightened, he would withdraw a bit.
Morgana could feel her heartbeat pounding inside her sheath. She craved the release he was holding just out of reach. She was hot. Burning up. Moisture gathered on her face and neck.
Robert gently took hold of the outer lips of Morgana’s lovely red scut and pulled them open. Then he bent his head and ran his tongue along the scarlet inner lips, taking a slight detour to send his tongue inside her several times. She was saturated and the flavor was so sweet, so womanly, it made him drunk with the need to find completion inside it.
But not yet. He didn’t want to hurt her. Not after the beating she’d received. So he sent his tongue further south, to the hard nubbin he’d been teasing these past minutes, and flicked and softly sucked on it until he once again felt her muscles gather for release. He
sent two fingers inside her and massaged the inner walls. In the next second, they were tightening and convulsing around his digits.
Morgana caught her breath, her body strained and worked as she spread her legs wider still and began to move forward and back, clenching and releasing the blanket in the same rhythm as her sex.
He sent her over the edge twice more before he stood up and slid to the hilt into her.
On his third stroke, she was cresting again. She arched her back and rose up on her elbows.
Robert leaned forward and kissed her fevered, humid cheek and then took advantage of the position she was in by molding her breasts in his hands. As he rocked into the trembling, writhing fire of her, he tasted her, nibbling and suckling her earlobe before moving on to the soft flesh of her neck. He rolled her tight nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. “Aaahhh!” he cried out as her snug passage clamped around him even tighter. He tweaked and pulled at the taut peaks, sliding almost completely out before ramming himself high into her. He did this several times and, with each new thrust, he felt her tense before a shudder ran through her.
She began to move against him wildly, slamming her abraded, beautiful buttocks against his abdomen.
His own thighs and stomach began to quake in reaction. “Morgana!” he yelled, and then, in more strangled tones, “Blood of Christ!” as the first surge of ecstasy, the first, second, third bursts of seed went deep into her undulating womb. Finally, as the bliss he’d found inside her was ebbing, and just as had happened the first night—and the next night as well—a second, violent wave of rapture crashed through him. He jerked uncontrollably, yelling so long and so loudly that his throat burned from the strain.
A black mist invaded the edges of his vision. Before he swooned, he managed to move aside and crash face-first onto the bed beside her.
* * *
Morgana twisted her head and rested on her other cheek. Robert was asleep. Again. Was this common? For, tho’ she felt rather drowsy, she in no way wanted to sleep right now. Nay, she’d far prefer to spend a bit of time with her husband, now that no others were about. Make that her awake husband.
After another moment, she lifted herself up off the bed and went to the washstand in pursuit of a damp cloth with which to cleanse herself.
After bathing, she opened her clothing chest, which a servant had brought to Robert’s chamber sometime during the day, and dressed in one of her linen chemises. Afterward, she spent a bit of time folding and hanging up their hastily discarded wedding attire before building the fire higher and settling next to it with one of Robert’s shirts she’d found on a peg. It had a small tear in the sleeve and the hem was coming out. She’d mend it for him.
As she sewed, her thoughts remained on her husband. She was still in a state of shock, really. All these sennights, she’d pined for the man now sleeping peacefully on their marriage bed, but with no hope of having him.
Yet, within a matter of days, she’d not only become his lover, but become his wife as well! Morgana felt a song rise up in her, so strong, that she thought she’d expire from the need to release it into the air. She opened her lips and mouthed the words, straining and struggling to emit even the softest of sounds. But ‘twas no use. She rubbed the pads of her fingers o’er her throat to ease the strained vocal chords as she turned her eye to the man to whom she’d given her vows with only the nod of her head earlier that day. ‘Twould not be long, she knew, before he’d grow weary and angry with her for her lack of speech. What man wouldn’t?
And then he would find another lover.
All at once a new horrifying thought flashed through her mind: What if he sent her away? Sent her back to the nunnery to molder before she e’er had the chance to make a babe with him?
Or worse: What if he sent her back after she gave him an heir? Her heart wrenched at that thought.
“Morgana, come to bed.”
She jumped.
Robert’s voice was craggy with sleep and he hadn’t even opened an eye as he’d made the demand, but the fact that he wanted her near him forced her fears at bay and within seconds she was beside their bed, discarding her chemise. She shoved at him in a bid to get him positioned with his head and feet facing the right direction.
Tho’ he ne’er opened an eye, ne’er said another word to her, he must have understood what she wanted from him, for he crawled and rolled until he was settled with his head on the pillow at the other side of the bed. She gave a silent giggle and got in beside him. It surprised her when he immediately tucked her up against himself, his arm under her bosom and his lips against her temple.
Within moments, she was fast asleep.
* * *
Morgana awoke to the scraping sound of the hearthfire being tended. She opened her eyes and turned her head in that direction. ‘Twas her husband doing the deed. Blinking and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she wondered, was it dawn already? Her gaze tracked to the window. There was still no light coming through the shutters’ slats.
Robert lifted his gaze to her. “Get up and dress. We’re for my holding in a half-hour’s time.” He rose and went to the washstand. After rinsing the remnants of their lovemaking from his groin, he quickly dressed and walked toward the door. When he was nearly through the opening, he turned and said, “I’ll return in a bit. Be ready.” And then he was off, with not even a smile to soften his words.
Morgana leapt to her feet and scurried to the washstand herself. She was just finishing her ablutions when the same lady’s maid, Modron, who’d aided her with her injuries before, scratched on the door before entering. “Your husband sent me up to put more of this salve on your flesh,” Modron said. She moved with a rather agile gate for one so aged to stand at Morgana’s back. Then, with efficiency, she proceeded to do just that.
Morgana shrugged. ‘Twas clear the servant was bound to do Robert’s bidding, whether ‘twas to Morgana’s liking or nay. Fortunately, Morgana was rather pleased to have a bit more salve on the tender marks the priest and her uncle had administered.
“Your husband has arranged for me to travel with you back to his holding, to continue as your lady’s maid,” the older woman said. There was a pause before she continued, “Does that please you, m’lady?”
Morgana looked back at the servant and nodded, giving her a warm smile as well. ‘Twould be a comfort to have another woman with whom she was familiar to travel with, to aid her as she got settled in as mistress of the keep. Mistress of the keep! Oh, dear Lord. How was she e’er to dispense such duties when she had no voice with which to command? Morgana bit down so hard on her lip, she tasted blood.
The maid’s gaze dropped to Morgana’s abused mouth and she cleared her throat. “When I was young and before my husband’s death, before I lost all to that greedy Norman King Richard’s proxy, Guillaume le Maréchal, I was mistress of my own holding in Cambria. If...if it please you, m’lady, I could dispense your bidding to your staff each day?”
Morgana felt a wave of relief crash o’er her. She gratefully nodded her head. Something about the older woman’s voice brought a long-forgot warmth, a sense of safety and comfort to her, calmed her.
Modron smiled. “Well then, ‘tis settled.”
Morgana had only just completed dressing a few minutes later when the door to the chamber was flung wide and her husband strode in. “Good. You’re ready.” He stepped aside and allowed several male servants to enter who quickly heaved the chests filled with clothing and other personal belongings onto their shoulders and walked back out.
“Your things have already been loaded on the cart,” Robert said to Modron. “My lady and I will meet you down in the courtyard in a short time.” With that, he swung the door open a bit wider and watched as Modron dipped a courtesy and scurried out of the chamber.
* * *
The alewife’s cot in the stews of Perth was already teaming with men and women that morn. In a shadowed corner, through the haze of hearthfire smoke, two men sat across from each other at the
end of a trestle table, both disguised in the rougher apparel of the lower classes.
“Did you get a good spy of her?” the man said.
The other man shrugged, nodded. “Aye. Good enough.”
“We’re to follow her to her new husband’s holding; somehow, get behind the gates. ‘Twill take a bit of time to arrange it so that there is no suspicion of our purpose.”
“Aye,” the other man said with a nod.
“And then we will devise another test, to see if her memory of us, of what we did, is truly lost.”
The other man scrubbed his fingers across his well-trimmed red beard as he thought o’er the man’s words. He nodded at last, saying, “Aye, ‘tis a good plan.”
The man did a quick scan of the smoky, raucous chamber, dipped a glance to his half-empty cup, took a long pull, almost in afterthought, then leaned across the table closer to his partner and said just above a whisper, “She has a dread of the song, this I know for sure, but no recollection of why ‘tis so...and no recollection of me, either, ‘tis clear, and no doubt because the disease I took from the whore two years past has left me with little meat on my bones and pocks on my face. But the earl is right to worry that a scheme is in place to rout us as the culprits of the ambush, so we will watch and wait, and scheme ourselves, and above all else: Not get caught!”
* * *
Robert shut the door and walked over to stand in front of Morgana. Before he’d completed his last step, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her. He tried to keep his embrace light, but when she slid up his body, pressing those lush breasts of hers against him as she went and opened her lips to him, he tightened his hold. He drilled his tongue into the soft, succulent orifice she’d proffered so sweetly and mimicked, in crude detail, exactly how fast, how deep, and how hard he wanted to plunge into her other delectable cavern. With first his tongue and then his cock.