by Claudia Dain
How very beautiful they both were.
"Lord Hugh!" Denise called, running across the bailey. "Lord Hugh! We fed the villein babies, and I will pray that it does not rain!"
Hugh smiled, watching her run to him. With a whispered word, Raymond drifted away along the curtain walk, his head down and his gait measured. Why did he go, Elsbeth wondered, when the sum of his duty was to attend his lord?
"The two are connected," Hugh said with a smile, "but I cannot make out how. Shall someone not enlighten me?"
"Have you been in the armory all this time?" Denise asked. "Did you not fight?"
"You are to pray for no rain?" Hugh asked at the same time. "I will join you in that prayer, but we must be quick, for it starts even now."
The sky had grown thick with cloud, black and loaded with water ready to burst forth. As he said, even now the first drops splattered heavily and singly to the ground. Elsbeth stood and watched him laughing with Denise, grabbing her round the waist and lifting her to his shoulders. A most congenial man.
Why had he not answered Denise's question?
"To the chapel, then," he said, bounding off, Denise squealing in horrified delight. "We must hurry to our prayers and stop this flood. You are coming, are you not, wife? We go to pray, and you are ever eager for that."
"I will always hurry to my prayers," she said to his retreating back, "as a true warrior of God hurries to his appointed battle. You do battle, do you not, my lord?"
Hugh stopped and turned, his smile fading like mist in a chill wind. "Am I not battling now, little wife?"
"I see no arms, no shield, no raiment of war," she said.
"Ah, but I battle for the heart of my wife."
Her heart tumbled out of his reach at the words. He did strive to win her—she could feel his effort. And his success.
"And prayer is the way to win her?" she asked, striking to find his intent and his method.
"Prayer is the way to win all, Elsbeth. Surely a prayer warrior of your renown knows that better than I, a mere knight of Jerusalem."
Their eyes held, a measuring that left them knowing little more than they had at the start. He wanted her for some cause. She rejected his possession for some reason. And in spite of all, there was respect. Perhaps even fascination.
"I am getting wet!" Denise said. "We must be at our task."
"Aye," Hugh said, looking softy at Elsbeth. "We must certainly keep to our task."
Elsbeth said nothing. Her throat had closed at the look in his soft green eyes. She was his task; the winning of her, his mission. Yet why this was so she could not fathom.
The weapons of his battle she was coming to understand. He wanted her body, soft and willing beneath his. He wanted her heart clasped firmly in his hand. He wanted her as wife; in all ways, as wife. He was wooing her to win her, to have her, a fit wife for any man. For him. For now.
It would not be so. He would fail. She was unfit to be any man's wife, even Hugh of Jerusalem's. Even for now. She would not lose herself to that temptation, not even for Hugh.
She would convince him she was unfit. She had the time to do so; God had given her the time.
Even as she thought the words, she could feel the seep of blood at the edges of her padding. "I must away," she said. "I have an urgent task of my own."
"I will come—" he said.
"You must keep your divine appointment, my lord, and your promise to Denise. I have no need of you," Elsbeth said with a smile.
"Ah, Elsbeth, you have great need of me," he said. " 'Tis only that you do not yet know it."
"Come, come, I am as sodden as any cloak!" Denise squealed, her hands over her head as the rain began to pelt down in long strips of silver.
With a final grin, Hugh turned toward the chapel, away from Elsbeth, releasing her from the grip of his smile. Elsbeth turned and ran gently toward the tower stair, lifting her skirts in her hands. When she reached the stair, she turned back toward the chapel. Hugh was outlined there, Denise at his side. He grinned and raised a hand in farewell and then turned into the chapel.
It was with some dismay that she found herself standing in the rain until she could no longer see him.
* * *
"I did not think to see you today," she said.
"My time is not my own," he answered. "I come when I can. I look only for you."
"How can I know that?"
"You must take me at my word. My word is sound and true. You need only trust."
"Trust? A woman is a fool to trust a man."
"Where did you learn that doctrine?" he asked, smiling. "It is not sound."
"I learned it here, in Warkham. And I find it most sound doctrine."
Raymond walked to the well and helped Jovetta with the water. She smiled up at him and then tossed back a thick strand of her hair. It was brown, darkening to black in the rain. He had not remembered the color of her hair. He had only remembered her smile and the bright shine of her eyes.
"Our doctrine differs. In Jerusalem, a maid trusts a man, if he be honorable."
"If he be honorable," Jovetta said, carrying the water to the kitchen. "The same is true here. Are you honorable, Raymond?"
"If you have to ask, then my cause is lost with you before it is begun," Raymond answered. He was safe in his answer. Jovetta wanted too much to play at love. She would not abandon him so quick as that.
"Aye," she said, looking up at him, her gaze direct. A challenge. "It is."
And with a smile, she left him in the rain. Raymond stood in the mud looking after her. This was not how the game was played. This had most assuredly never happened to Lord Hugh.
"Wait," he said, running after her. Jovetta had reached the kitchen door when he caught up to her. She stood on the threshold, out of the rain, forcing him to remain drenched by it. "How that you discard me with such an easy nonchalance, Jovetta? I had thought—"
"You had thought to play at love with me, Raymond. I am no girl," Jovetta said. "I do not play at love. None at Warkham play at love."
"'Tis a fine art and a better entertainment," Raymond said. "There is much courtesy in such gaming. I could teach you—"
"I have been taught the games a man can play by other men, in other times," she said, her voice brittle and cold, as cold and sharp as pelting rain. "I play no more games. If you want me, say so."
"I want you," Raymond said, stunned by the look in her eyes. Her eyes, now that he looked, were blue. Blue like a stormy sea, dark and restless.
"I know," she said and turned, going into the kitchen, leaving him in the rain.
Chapter 15
The meal was done, the prayers of Vespers said, Denise tucked away on a pallet in the solar, the candies flickering wildly in the gusts of wet wind that came through the wind holes when Hugh looked at Elsbeth across the chessboard.
"It is time to bed," he said.
His eyes glowed green, hotter and more intense than the hottest fire; his hair was a gleaming helmet of gold, like ripples in golden sand. She did not want to go to bed with him. Rather, she did want to go to bed with him, but she should not want to. Chess was a more palatable way to spend an evening with Hugh of Jerusalem, and she hated chess.
"Should you not pray? It still rains," she said, staring down at the board. She could not think whether she should move her queen or her pawn.
"I have prayed. If God decides in His wisdom to send rain, I will not oppose Him. My boots are ruined anyway."
"You are weary of praying. Let me take that mantle from you. I will pray away the night. If God wills it, you will rise to sunshine and white clouds." Let him think that it was all she wanted, prayer and more prayer. It was a better way to spend her life than trembling for a man.
Hugh laughed and lifted her chin with his hand. "You will not pray away the night, little wife. You will spend the night with me. I am more than certain God wills that."
"I know God's will for me better than you. What has He revealed to you that He has not revealed to me?
"
"Only that a wife's place is within her husband's embrace," he said softly.
"I still bleed, my lord," she said, tossing back her hair, freeing herself from his touch.
"I am still a husband, my lady," he said. "I have needs."
"I am not fit to meet those needs." She never would be. He had to see the truth of that.
Hugh laughed. One of the dogs came over to sniff him in curiosity. Hugh petted the dog's head and then sent him off with a careless wave. He probably would do much the same with her. His curiosity was up; he would touch her, come to know her, and then wave her off when his interest had cooled. Even the dog looked morose at having been sent away from Hugh. Would she fare better?
"Oh, you are, little wife. I shall teach you all manner of ways to meet my needs."
One of the men-at-arms snorted into his ale. Was it not just like a man to embarrass her so?
Elsbeth lowered her head. "This conversation is not prudent."
"Nay, it is not," he agreed, standing. "What is prudent is for us to leave this company and make for our chamber."
She stood reluctantly, her gaze going again to the man who had snorted in laughter at her. Her father was at his place at the high table, holding his goblet in both hands, staring down at her and her husband. His gaze was intent. He had lost a wife in the first hours of the day, yet she did not think he looked sunken in grief. Nay, he looked to be plotting. She knew him well; he was most definitely plotting. She wanted to be very far from her father when he was in such a mind. She wanted to be equally far from Hugh when he was determined to act a husband.
"I am most tired. I was up with Emma last night, and this has been a day of grief," she said, reaching for an escape.
"I know you are tired, little one," he said, wrapping an arm about her waist. "I will not press you."
"That is well, my lord," she said in obvious relief.
"At least, not too hard and not too long," he finished.
Two men-at-arms laughed, one burying his face in his folded arms. Prayer in the quiet sanctity of the chapel was infinitely better than this public humiliation. Did he think to shame her into compliance?
"Hugh!" her father said. "A word?"
It was an escape of sorts, even if it did come from Gautier. She was too determined to fly to be choosy. God could use even Gautier, she supposed.
"I shall be about the hall," she said, slipping away as Hugh looked at Gautier.
"I shall find you," Hugh said.
He would certainly try, of that she was certain.
Hugh walked up to Gautier as Elsbeth slipped out of the hall. Gautier looked terrible, tired and disheartened. He had lost a wife and child that day, and Hugh supposed he looked just the way a man should look in such a circumstance. Gautier offered him a cup and the wine, which Hugh accepted.
"You are still in pursuit of her," Gautier said.
"I am," Hugh said.
"How goes the chase?"
Hugh shrugged. "I have no complaints. Elsbeth is a beautiful woman. Any man would be glad of her."
"When you get a child of her, then you will have reason to be glad," Gautier said, taking a swallow of wine.
"This has been a black day for you. My grief does not match yours, but Emma was a fine woman. I grieve her death, and that of your babe."
"Emma was as all women, neither better nor worse," Gautier said.
"Then you have been blessed with fine wives in your life, Gautier," Hugh said, choosing the higher path in this conversation. "Tell me, what was Elsbeth's mother like?"
Gautier looked off into the middle distance at the smoke that hovered in the firelit hall.
"Ardeth. She was brown-haired and clear-skinned," he said, "and came with rich Sunnandune in her hands. A good match for me and a good mother, though she gave Elsbeth some odd notions. She birthed ten children, mayhap eleven, before she died. A woman of passion, once I had taught her to taste of it. That is what I remember of her."
A short list for the woman he had taken to his bed and into his lineage. Still, such was the list for many a woman. Daughter, dowry, wife, mother, death; what else was there for a woman?
He knew. There was one thing more. The bride of Christ. A woman could marry herself to God and never know the joy of motherhood. Or the pain. And death.
Of course. He understood why Elsbeth wanted him to find her unfit, why she wanted a life without the knowledge of a man's touch and a man's possession. She feared the pain and risk of childbirth. A worthy fear, if he could judge. Her mother had died but two years past in childbed and now Emma this very day, the same cold and bloody death. And Elsbeth there to witness both. The two women of her father's choosing had both died the same way. Would she not fear to come to the same end? Aye, Elsbeth would have cause to fear what came of the heat of the marriage bed.
"You have not taken her," Gautier said.
Hugh pulled himself away from his speculations. "Not until her blood stops."
"Take her now," Gautier whispered, his eyes glazed red with smoke and wine.
"In her blood? 'Tis not done."
"All things can be done," Gautier said, "if a man be a man. You know the battle you are in with her—prepared you well for that—but I can see what you will not. You soften," he said on a sneer. "Your heart softens for her. You will not see it done. She will unman you if she has not already done so."
"I am not unmanned. I am a man, and the man for this," Hugh said. "In all ways and in all times."
"Are you?" Gautier asked, looking askance at Hugh. "Perhaps your squire would tell a different tale."
"I do not comprehend you," Hugh said. The man was drunk on wine or grief, he knew not which. He spoke in circles that no hawk could track.
"Do you not?" Gautier asked with a crooked grin. "Ask Elsbeth if she comprehends. I'll warrant she sees what I see and fears what I fear, knight of Jerusalem."
"What do you see?" Hugh asked, setting down his cup. "And what fear could Elsbeth have in regard to me? I have been patient. I have wooed her. I will have her, this she knows. All is as it should be."
"All is as it should be? You have not breached her. Perhaps it is not in you to do this thing. Perhaps I chose stupidly for my daughter when I chose a man from Outremer." Gautier took a sloppy drink, wine dripping down the sides of his mouth to his bearded chin.
"Our bargain was struck, and I will meet my part. I have more to lose than you, Lord Gautier, if this goes awry."
"More to lose?" Gautier said, his eyes glittering in the flickering light. "What do you lose, Lord Hugh? You have no land, no power other than what you won by my daughter's hand. You have naught to lose. You have gained all in gaining Elsbeth. No matter what befalls, Elsbeth will remain yours, and with Elsbeth, Sunnandune."
"Baldwin and Jerusalem encompass all I cherish and all I need, Lord Gautier. I lose Baldwin's trust if I fail here in my quest," Hugh said. "I would rather lose my life."
Gautier looked long at Hugh and then he laughed, a slow laugh that built to a roar of hard and bitter humor.
"You doubt me?" Hugh said, his hand on his dagger.
"Nay," Gautier said, laughing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I believe you well enough, and for that I pity my daughter. I am also sure your pretty squire believes you. I am even sure that my daughter, for all that her eyes are cast heavenward, is coming to understand where your... interests... lie."
In an instant, with Gautier's bleary eyes upon him, Hugh understood the depth and depravity of Gautier's charge.
"Of what do you accuse me?" he said. "Name it."
"Accuse you? I accuse no man. Nay, that is between you and God," Gautier said. "Have we not all sinned? Is one sin worse than another? Nay, I only wonder... can you meet our bargain? Will your cock rise for a woman when your pretty squire is so near? Can you breach my daughter? Can you make her yours?"
"I can. I will. And I am guilty of no—"
"Tell your confessor, not me," Gautier said, raising a hand to
stop Hugh's words. "Where you find your amusements, in what dark hole, is a matter for priests. I am no priest. I am a father who has wed his daughter to a man who has yet to rip her maidenhead from her. This you must do. Unless you are afeared of the smear of a woman's blood."
"I fear nothing," Hugh said tersely. "Not even you, Lord Gautier."
"Fear me? Why should you fear me?" Gautier said, shrugging and drinking again of his wine. "Are we not allies in this campaign? Do we not all gain when Elsbeth is your wife in fact and her heart and will in your keeping? All win, even Elsbeth, if you stay true to your course. Falter and we all fall."
"I will take her. I will make her mine. I will mold her will to my own and get from her what we both want," Hugh said. It was a vow. He would not fail.
"Then find her and get it done," Gautier said and then buried his nose in his goblet.
When Hugh was gone, Edward, Gautier's chief man-at-arms, left his place by the fire and came to stand at his lord's side.
"You heard what they said to each other over the chessboard?" Gautier asked, setting down his cup.
"Aye," Edward answered.
"And?"
"And he still fights for her. She is not breached, she is too skittish still for that, yet she is entangled in him, if I can judge," Edward said.
"Any man may judge that. 'Tis writ clear," Gautier said.
Edward said nothing. He waited, his eyes scanning the hall. Jovetta was in the corner, sweeping. He caught her eye and motioned with his head. She returned his look with one of her own and then nodded her agreement. All was set. When he had done his duty by his lord, he would do his duty as a man. Perhaps they would meet in the stables; the hay would be soft with rain, as sweet as any woolen blanket.
"Give him one day more," Gautier said, ending Edward's plans for the moment "One day to do what he has sworn to do. If he fails, kill him."
"What of his squire?"
"Kill them both. There must be no tongues sending this tale out of Warkham."
"Yet, even when he is dead, you will not have what you seek," Edward said.
Gautier looked up at him, his black eyes murky as pitch. "I will get what I seek. No matter who must fall."