by Jane Feather
She fell back on the bed beneath the weight of his body, felt a hand under her gown, urgent, scratching her thigh in haste and need. She shifted her body to release the gown bunched beneath her, anxious now simply to be done with this, hating the roughly probing hand yet knowing absolutely that he intended her no harm, bore her no ill will, would not hurt her if he thought to avoid it.
But he did not think. It did not occur to him to behave with Magdalen any differently than with any of the other women he had enjoyed. He knew no better.
When it was finished, he rolled away from her and fell instantly into a deep sleep induced by a week’s hard riding, wine, and the body’s fulfillment.
Magdalen eased her bruised body on the sheets and stared dry-eyed into the winter gloom of the chamber. The candles had not been lit, and only the fire’s flicker enlivened the gray dimness. Her gown and surcote were twisted under her, the rich material scrunched into a hard ridge in the small of her back. Gingerly, she got off the bed, shaking down her clothes. There was blood on the sheet where she had been lying. At least her husband could rest easy in the incontrovertible evidence of his wife’s virginity, she reflected, walking softly to the door, wincing at the soreness between her thighs.
Quietly, she unlatched the door, stepping out into the passage, closing the door behind her with an uplift of relief. But the relief was short-lived. In the peace and solitude of the passage, tears of reaction sprang to her eyes, and she leaned for a moment against the stone wall beneath a flaring torch.
Guy de Gervais mounted the stairs at the far end of the passage. He was about to turn into his own chamber when he saw the figure, the ermine and ivory of her surcote glimmering in the torchlight. His immediate impression was of a limp and broken doll, and panic flared, turning his gut to water. He strode, half running, toward her, but she pushed away from the wall before he could reach her and began to walk slowly to the stairs.
“Magdalen.” He caught her arm as she made to pass him, her head lowered as if she did not wish to see him. “Magdalen, what is it? What has happened?”
She shook her head but would not meet his eyes. “Nothing out of the ordinary, my lord. I must go to my own chamber, if you please.” She pulled slightly at the arm he still held.
He maintained his hold for a second longer, trying to puzzle out her meaning. But of course it was obvious; he had just put out of his mind all thoughts of the inevitable conclusion to the couple’s departure from the hall. He let her go, and as she walked away from him he saw a bright spot of blood on the back of her surcote, and he cursed Edmund de Bresse for a clumsy, selfish, insensitive lout. Then it occurred to him that Edmund knew no better, and no one, least of all Guy de Gervais, had taken the trouble to educate him in such matters. Sensitivity did not make a warrior, and one did not attempt to sensitize a youth on the brink of violent death dealing. No, husband and wife must come to their own peace on such issues, as he and Gwendoline had done. He went into his own chamber.
Magdalen reached the room she still shared with her aunt on the second floor and rang the bell for Erin. She was struggling out of her mangled clothes when the maidservant hastened in. “I wish to bathe, Erin,” she said shortly.
“Yes, my lady.” Erin curtsied. “Shall I help you out of your gown before I fetch water?”
“If you please.” Magdalen ceased her struggles with the laces that had knotted themselves under her impatient and shaky fingers and allowed the girl to unravel them.
“Why, my lady, there’s blood on your surcote,” Erin exclaimed, tutting. “It is early for your terms.”
“It’s not that,” Magdalen said wearily. “Take the gown away and see if you can sponge it clean. It’s too fine a garment to be ruined after but three wearings.”
Erin pursed her lips but made no comment. She was not herself averse to a tumble with a lusty groom or servitor on occasion and had no difficulty reaching the correct explanation for the stained surcote. Her lady’s husband was returned victorious from the war.
Magdalen bathed before the fire, the hot water easing her bruised flesh. The bleeding had stopped, and she could find no signs of injury, so clearly she had suffered no more than the natural consequences of lost virginity. She contemplated the sense of violation that had accompanied that possession and decided that it was because for the man who possessed her there had been no sense of a person inhabiting her body. Well, Edmund de Bresse did not really know her yet, maybe when he did he would see her differently.
On that thought, she stepped out of the bath, allowed Erin to dry her, and selected a cotehardie of gold velvet with a matching gold brocade surcote edged in sable. The Duke of Lancaster’s daughter had been lavishly supplied with a wedding trousseau, most of which she had had little opportunity to wear during her seclusion in the wild border lands.
Dressed, her hair caught beneath a dainty jeweled cap, she left her room and went to Edmund’s chamber above. He was still asleep as she entered, but stirred when the door closed with a snap.
“My lord, it’s past time you rose and dressed for the feast.” She approached the bed, her voice calm but strong.
Edmund groaned, heavy-headed now that the euphoria of the wine had passed. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand and blinked at the figure beside his bed. Then he remembered. He reached for her, intending to pull her down to him, but she jerked away.
“My lord, I am bathed and dressed for the feast. Shall I call for your squire?”
He frowned, sat up, then saw the blood, dried on the sheet beside him. He scratched his head and looked up at Magdalen, clearly at a loss for words.
“It is supposed to happen,” she said matter-of-factly, “when a maid loses her virginity.”
“Yes, I know that.” He sounded impatient and swung himself from the bed. “Come, I would have another fall, sweeting.”
She drew away from him. “You hurt me. I must heal first.”
He looked dismayed. “Hurt you? But none has ever complained of that before.”
“Maybe they were not virgin,” she said in the same matter-of-fact tone. “I will summon your squire.”
“I would wish you to sleep with me in this chamber,” he said, hesitantly now in the face of her calm assurance. “You do not appear to have your belongings in here.”
“As my lord wishes,” she replied, gliding to the door. “I will return when you are dressed, and we will descend to the hall together.”
That night, and every subsequent one, she had slept beside her husband in a marital bed …
Magdalen moved restlessly on the velvet bench under the August sun, still puzzling over what could have caused her husband’s extraordinary performance in the joust. Since last January at Bellair, his passion for his wife had become a powerful obsession. Far from moderating under the generally dampening effects of familiarity and unhindered opportunity for satisfaction, his ardor raged unchecked. Magdalen found this passion neither flattering nor unpleasant. He was her husband, as good as any and better than most, judging by what she saw around her. While it was true to say his nightly lovemaking afforded her little enjoyment, he certainly took pains not to hurt her anymore. But however ardent and eager he might be in the bedchamber, in matters of chivalry and knightly duty he was always clear-headed, ruthless, but rarely out of temper.
Her gaze drifted around the arena where preparations were being made for the final melee of the tournament. All the knights who had participated over the last two days would take part in this bout, divided into two opposing teams. She had been hoping all day that Guy de Gervais would ask to wear her colors, and she had a silk handkerchief in her sleeve, in anticipation of such a moment. But after the last awkwardness, she was disappointingly certain he would not make the courtly request.
In Edmund’s tent, Lord de Gervais surveyed the young man thoughtfully. “Why would you behave in such rash manner?”
Edmund’s lips set. “It was a matter of honor, sir.” His squire was rubbing a strong-smelling oil int
o his sword arm, bruised through the heavy armor plate by a blow from his opponent’s sword. He flexed the muscles, anxious there should be no reduced mobility for the coming melee.
“Explain!” Guy’s exasperation crackled. It was an exasperation based on his own concern. Gilles de Lambert was related by marriage to the de Beauregard clan, as Guy had just informed John of Gaunt. Had he attempted to force a quarrel on the husband of John of Gaunt’s daughter?
Edmund looked sullen, resenting this interrogation yet knowing that he was not entitled to. The Duke of Lancaster was his overlord, and Guy de Gervais was the duke’s representative. He sent his squire away with an uncharacteristically unmannerly oath.
“The Sieur de Lambert informed me that through my wife the de Bresse name was tainted with bastardy,” he said stiffly. “By such accusation, he sullies both my honor and my wife’s.”
Guy nodded. It was as they had suspected, then. The long shadow of the de Beauregards had fallen, finally. “How did you answer him?” he asked quietly.
Edmund flushed with remembered anger. “I gave him the lie. The issue can now be settled only in combat.”
It was so; and such combat must inevitably end in the death or maiming of one of the combatants. De Gervais frowned, considering. Edmund had appeared to have the edge in both strength and skill that afternoon, but not by much. It would be a close run combat if it were permitted to take place, and whichever way the sword fell, the repercussions would reopen wounds that would bleed across England and France.
At that point a page in the Lancastrian livery pushed through the tent opening. “Sieur de Bresse,” he said, bowing.
“What is it?” Edmund frowned his displeasure at being so unceremoniously interrupted.
“I bring a message from his grace of Lancaster,” the page said.
Guy rather thought he knew what the message was going to contain, and that it would infuriate Edmund, but he also knew it to be a sound move on the duke’s part.
“His grace forbids the participation of the Sieur Edmund de Bresse in the melee,” the page intoned. “He also forbids his attendance in the great hall of the Savoy for three days.”
Edmund whitened. The page, his message imparted, beat a hasty retreat. “I will not accept it!” Edmund raged.
“Do not be any more foolish than you need,” Guy advised. “It is a light enough punishment for your unruly behavior. Accept it with a good grace.” He left the tent and its fulminating occupant.
Edmund bellowed for his squire. “Help me out of this!” he demanded, indicating his hauberk.
“But … but the melee, my lord,” stammered the astonished squire. “It is to start within the quarter hour.”
“Not for me!” snapped de Bresse, still white with this fresh humiliation. How was he to explain his absence in the melee to Magdalen, who would be watching and waiting for her knight, expecting to take pride in his prowess? But she would know soon enough … Everyone would know of his punishment, and she would be shamed also.
His cheeks burned with anger and mortification as he was slowly released from the great plates of iron that had encased his body. “Fetch my palfrey,” he ordered curtly, belting his surcote at the hip over the leather tunic. If he could not take part in the jousting, then he would leave the tournament altogether.
“Shall I accompany you, my lord?” the squire asked, holding the bridle as de Bresse swung astride his riding horse.
“No, I go alone.” He touched spur to the stallion, and the horse pounded away from the field, the sounds of clashing steel and the roar of the crowd coming from the lists adding spur to his own desire to leave the scene of his present shame.
Two men in brown leather jerkins, daggers at their belts, heavy staves in their hands, moved away from the massive trunk of a copper beech behind the de Bresse tent. Their horses, already saddled, were tethered a few yards away. It was a matter of a moment before they were mounted and cantering off on the heels of Edmund de Bresse.
Edmund veered away from the riverbank and toward the forest. He was in no mood to consider the dangers attendant upon solitary riding through a forest crawling with outlaws, fugitive serfs, petty thieves, and not-so-petty murderers with whom the land was riddled. He heard branches snapping behind him as he rode along a broad path in the dappling light thrown by the sun through the umbrella of leaves over his head, but the first prickle of unease did not disturb him until he had ventured away from the well-trodden path and into the green dampness of the inner wood.
The prickle of unease prepared him, however. He turned, drawing his sword, as the first of the two men jumped his horse out of the trees to the right of Edmund’s path. His assailant’s dagger swept down in a wicked curve, slashing Edmund’s shoulder, penetrating the leather gambeson, and he cursed his stupidity for not wearing his mailshirt. But the sword was in his hand, and he parried the next blow with sufficient force to unhorse the man. Then the other one came at him out of the trees, dagger poised, and he was locked in silent, vicious combat. The palfrey went down beneath him, screaming with a severed tendon, and he jumped clear just in time. On foot, he was hard pressed, embattled by the two men, one of whom remained mounted and wielded his stave from his superior position with bone-shattering, deadly accuracy. His head reeled from a massive blow, blood trickled into his eyes and poured from a gash in his sword arm. His breath came achingly from his chest, and he felt the cold, deadly certainty of imminent defeat. Backed up against a tree trunk, he parried blow after blow from the heavy staves, until agony rent his shoulder and the black cloud took him.
In the lists, Magdalen looked in vain for her husband’s black and gold jupon embroidered with the falcon of de Bresse. She recognized de Gervais’s blue and silver, and immediately her husband’s puzzling absence took second place to her interest in the other’s prowess. Despite her professed scorn for the entire exercise, she was inordinately pleased and proud when Guy was one of the few remaining knights still mounted on the field at the end of the melee.
She leaned over the edge of the loge, applauding with the rest, trying to catch his eye. He rode over to make his reverence to the duke, and she hastily plucked another rose from the bouquet, intending to toss it to him. In her haste, she pricked her finger, the thorn driving beneath her nail. With a little whimper, she sucked her finger, and by the time she had recovered, the moment was past. He had received his lord’s congratulations and those of the ladies in the box, most of whom had showered him with their own flowery favors. Magdalen, seeing his attention now diverted to one of the duchess’s ladies, disconsolately dropped her rose to the floor of the booth.
She observed from beneath her lashes the elegant play between Guy de Gervais and the Lady Maude Wyseford. The latter was not much older than Magdalen herself and had been recently widowed. She was a matrimonial prize in the gift of the Duchess Constanza, and Magdalen regarded her this afternoon with great disfavor.
Guy saw the pout and ascribed it to her husband’s unexplained absence. There was little pleasure for a lady in watching a joust when her own knight was not participating. It was not for him to tell her of the duke’s decree, at least not in public. Indeed, rightfully, it was her husband’s prerogative, unless John of Gaunt chose to enlighten her. Dismissing the issue as being none of his business, he rode out of the lists, back to his own tent to divest himself of the burden of armor.
Magdalen waited for her husband to escort her back to the Savoy Palace. The tournament had taken place in the lists at Westminster and the crowd was dispersing quickly, anxious to be off the roads before sundown. The duchess, on being informed that Magdalen’s husband had told her to await his escort, left with the duke and those of her ladies who had not been claimed by their knights.
Magdalen waited for a very long time. The two pages in attendance tried not to fidget as the shadows lengthened and the men at work within the stockade completed their tasks. At last, she sent a page to seek out her husband in his tent while she remained in the loge in seethi
ng resentment, too angry and generally disgruntled to reflect that such lack of chivalry where she was concerned was most unlike Edmund.
The page found the Sieur de Bresse’s tent deserted. All around was bustle as the tents were struck and the pennants furled, but the knightly combatants had all dispersed. He stood in a quandary. His orders to attend the lady until Sieur de Bresse came for her had been most explicit, and his lord had a short way with disobedience, but at the same time he had a duty to the lady, who must be conveyed home with all speed before the sun finally sank beneath the horizon. It was with a surge of relief that he saw Lord de Gervais emerging from his own tent, a jeweled goblet in his hand. This lord held the duke’s authority over Edmund de Bresse and would know how to advise.
De Gervais listened to the boy’s anxious tale, then nodded and sent him back to Lady Magdalen, instructing him to wait with her until he came to the loge. He drank off the wine in the hanap, tossed the cup to his own page, and strode off to the duke’s loge. He guessed that Edmund had ridden off under such a burden of hurt pride and sense of injustice that he had completely forgotten about his arrangement with Magdalen. It was a perhaps understandable omission in the circumstances, but it was inexcusable nevertheless, reflecting poorly on de Gervais’s training of his nephew.
De Gervais found Magdalen in exceeding ill humor. She turned her anger upon him as if he were in some way responsible for her husband’s humiliating neglect.
He waited patiently until the tirade subsided for want of further fuel, then stated calmly, “If you have said your piece, madame, I suggest we take the road. It grows dark, and I have no men-at-arms.”
“Where is Edmund?” she said, deflated by his tone. “I do not understand why he would do this.”
Guy told her of Lancaster’s prohibition as they left the loge. “He was deeply distressed,” he said. “I would imagine he took his distress elsewhere and forgot all else.”