The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series)

by Claudia Dain

  "This is not defilement, wife, this is fulfillment. Trust me on that. I will not harm you. I will treat you with care, even now, when you have fought against every kind word."

  "Kind words you have to spare as you plow your heaving way past my blood," she said, closing her eyes and wrapping her arms about herself, hiding from his touch, though he touched her everywhere.

  "As I come into you, yea," he said, stroking her hair, kissing her brow and her closed eyes and the high rise of her cheek. "I will not harm you. I will do naught but what a man may do."

  "What a man may do?" she repealed on a shivery laugh. "That will be enough, will it not?"

  "Enough, enough," he whispered against her mouth. "Let me only love you. Let me teach you how little there is to fear. Let me find my way to you. The first of many findings. The first of many nights."

  "Always at night," she said, clenching her eyes closed tight. "Why is it always at night that men speak of love?"

  "Elsbeth?" he said, lifting her head with his hands. What did she say? Something rang harsh and loud within him at her words. This was more than fear of mating or even childbirth. This fear was old and grizzled, a knot of terror and dread that opened like a hungry maw within her heart.

  She kept her eyes closed and her body hard and stiff against his caresses. Yet she did not fight. For all her resistance, she did not fight. Driven by fear such as hers, she should have fought him like a snarling wolf.

  "You cannot touch me through my blood. God will not allow it. God has sent this to protect me," she said. "God will protect me. God will save me."

  "Elsbeth," he said in command, "look at me."

  She opened her eyes and stared at the wall; the stones made a pattern of shadow and light that was lost in daylight. The pattern of the stones could be best seen at night, if any cared to look. So much to be seen in the dark, if any cared to look. But none did. None ever did.

  "What has befallen you?" he asked. "What harm do you fear?"

  "Have you not told me, my lord? I fear death upon my childbed. I fear to die in bed," she said and laughed, the sound high and shrill with terror and tears.

  Her bliaut and pelisse slipped from her to crumple on the floor. She stood in her shift, her hair a tumble of dark waves around her shoulders, sheltering her, as if she stood alone in the world with only the curtain of her hair to shield her, warm her, protect her. How that she seemed so alone, so vulnerable? How that a woman, this woman, seemed so in want of defenses and so desperately in need of them?

  Her father had not told him of this. There had been nothing of this in Gautier's description of Elsbeth. Her form, her land, her piety had been discussed. Her reluctance to marry had been admitted. Her ultimate docility and submission had been assured.

  This was not willing submission. This was blank and blind terror and the inability to fight against it.

  Hugh took her in his arms and urged her to the bed. He said nothing. He did not know what to say in the face of such fear.

  She followed him, her body stiff and cold, but she followed him, allowing him to lay her down, to wrap the blankets around her, to wrap his arms over her, to hold her close. He listened to her breathing and her heart, his mouth against her hair, his tongue stilled at last. He knew women, knew the paths into their very hearts, but Elsbeth was a maze. He was confounded by her, lost in trying to know her, his very purpose buried in the warm depths of her. Yet he could not lose his way, forget his purpose, forget Baldwin. He must find his way into Elsbeth and, finding, find his way back out.

  "Have you relented, my lord? Will you release me?" she asked, her voice soft against his throat. "I have nothing to give you. There is nothing for you here."

  Nothing for him? Nay, she said it wrong. There was something for him in this place and in this bed; there was Elsbeth, and of a sudden that was all there needed to be. In just that moment, Elsbeth was enough and all that his heart could want.

  He pushed that want, that weakness, from him and Baldwin rushed back in to his proper place. There was only room for one in Hugh's heart, and Baldwin held that place with a firm grip. Elsbeth was but a shadow cast by distant cloud. She could not hold sway. Baldwin was his sun, and Hugh was from a land awash in sunlight. The clouds of England could not encompass him. He would not lose himself in mist and shadow. His vow was stronger than the woman in his arms.

  Yet he could not let her go.

  "Nay, little one, I have not relented. You are mine. I will keep you."

  He felt her sigh at that and bury her face against his shoulder. She rested, stilled for the moment.

  "I think you should reconsider. I am not fit to be a wife. Is it not proven even now? Let me go, my lord. You do not truly want me; you only want to win this battle in which we are engaged. I will give up the battle, giving you the victory, if you will only give me up. Let me go, Hugh."

  "Why should I not want you, Elsbeth?" he asked. His question floated into the darkness like mist, hovering, uncertain.

  She was silent long and then whispered, "Because I am God's."

  "How are you God's?" he said, holding her against him, silently urging her toward revelation.

  There was some darkness in her, some black terror that shaped her soul. He could not see it. Yet. But he would. He would find the heart of her, this little wife who carried so great a fear.

  "I am God's because I gave myself to Him long ago. 'He alone is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will never be shaken.'"

  "It is very safe, then, to give yourself into God's hand," he said softly. Did she not know she shook even now with fear? "He will protect you."

  "He promises to protect," she said.

  "And God keeps all His promises."

  She did not answer. She turned in his arms, and he thought she meant to free herself, but she only turned her face to the ceiling, hidden above them in shadows and night.

  "Does He not?" Hugh asked. "He keeps His promises well in Outremer," he said lightly.

  "Then tell me more of Outremer," she said in answer, her own tone a struggling match for his.

  Always she turned the talk away from herself, but he would not allow it. Not now.

  "You know me well," he said, smiling. "I could speak of Outremer and Jerusalem for days and nights unending. Yet I would rather speak of you, Elsbeth. I find you more compelling than even holy Jerusalem."

  "You need not lie," she said. "I would not dare to compete with Jerusalem for your attention."

  "I do not have the habit of lying, no matter what you may think," he said with a soft chuckle. "Jerusalem is full of wonders, yet so are you. You need not hide from me. I am quite engaged by you, even now. Just think how enthralled I would be if you merely put some effort into enthralling me."

  He could feel the easing of her, the opening into laughter, and was heartened by it. Her fear was running from her now, running back into the darkness from which it seemed to spring.

  "Do I want you enthralled?" she asked.

  "Of course," he said, turning her back into his arms, her head nestled beneath his chin. "If you are going to have a husband, it is best he be enthralled by you."

  "Am I going to have a husband?" she asked softly.

  "Aye, you are," he said. "For all your long life, Elsbeth. For all your very long life."

  They were the words of a promise, a promise he meant to keep. She would have a husband and it would be he; even when she left for her life in the convent, when her life was given to God and she became the bride of Christ, she would still be married to him. Their tie to each other could be broken only by death; he was content with that. Let her hide away behind abbey walls. That was what she wanted, and he wanted it for her, though he would not be free to marry.

  He had known from the start that this would be the way of it between them. They would marry, mate and part, each to his own purpose and future. No acrimony. No bitterness. No remorse.

  But now he knew her, and she touched something within him that he had not know
n was there, some tenderness, some longing that did not serve Baldwin, and what did not serve Baldwin would not serve at all.

  He did not know what course to take with her—to follow Gautier's counsel, to take her body and achieve what he must in the frigid North, then fly South to home and honor and legacy? Or to follow the hoarse whisperings of his heart, to wait, to hold Elsbeth in an embrace of tenderness and compassion for the dark shadow she held buried deep within her?

  He was uncertain which path to choose, yet he knew that in all the plans of men, little Elsbeth of Sunnandune was less than the smallest part.

  It was in his mind that she deserved better and more of this life. Yet he could do nothing; he could not change the world for her. He could not change destiny. He would not disappoint Baldwin.

  "Tell me of your fears, Elsbeth. I can feel your fear, a heaviness in your heart and soul, a burden that you should not bear in this life. Tell me all of it, for it goes beyond the childbed, that I may lift it from you."

  "You cannot," she said, her voice as blunt and hard as a mallet of iron. "It is beyond mending and beyond knowing."

  "I can lift any burden, and nothing under God's sky is beyond knowing," he said. "Only tell me and I will strike it from you, splintering it past all power. It is the nature of a husband to perform such acts," he said, stroking her hair, pulling her against his chest. "I would be a worthy husband for you. I would not leave you to face this alone."

  "A worthy husband," she repeated. "Is that what you are? And am I a worthy wife?"

  "I am, or would be, and you are. You are a wife most worthy, beyond the worth of any woman I have known."

  "Have you known many women, then?"

  "Are the wives of England so different from those of Outremer that they would hear of other women in the heart of their marriage bed?" he said on a smile, stroking her hair, soothing her. "I will not compare you to any woman, Elsbeth. You are unique, beyond comparison."

  "All things may be compared," she said. "I am a woman, flawed, imperfect. Unfit, if I could but convince you of it."

  "You shall never convince me of that," he said. "We shall fit together very well, you and I."

  Elsbeth sighed and turned within his arms, facing away from him. "You are very certain. Is there never any uncertainty in you, my lord? Can there be naught which gives you pause or causes you to stumble?"

  "Nothing in this bed, surely," he said, urging her to lightness and the casual intimacy of two bodies bound by vows and sheets.

  "Spoken like a man," she said, smiling.

  "So you have noticed, then, that I am a man? I had wondered. You have seen scarce proof of it in—"

  "In the heart of this marriage bed," they said in unison and then laughed softly.

  Into the silence of that momentary peace they fell, resting in the falling, easy in each other's arms. After a time, Elsbeth said, "Will you take me against my blood? I bleed on, my lord."

  Hugh considered. He felt the hitch in her breath and the rigid stillness of her as she awaited his answer. Did she fear him? He did not think so. Did she fear the act of their joining? Perhaps. That was a fear he felt, though muffled by darkness and shadow. Yet all maidens would have some fear of that bonding and its momentary pain. It may have been that Elsbeth feared only defilement at being taken during her blood time. The church was clear that to enter a woman's womb at such a time was to enter into sin. Would he cast them both into sin to please Gautier?

  Nay, he would not. Elsbeth was worth more than Gautier's greedy pleasure. Elsbeth was his wife now; he would see to her. Let her father finally relinquish her into his hand, as was right and good by all church doctrine. Aye, that was the course he would take and follow to the end.

  "I will not," he said, pulling her into his arms, his mouth against her hair, "though you try me sorely, little wife. I want you." He felt her shiver in his arms and pulled her in closer to his heat. "Yet I will wait until your time is past. Rest for now, Elsbeth, while I pray for patience and endurance. How long do you bleed, little one; how long must I wait?"

  After a pause, she said, "A week, my lord."

  "A week? I think a few days must serve, Elsbeth. And I think I will also pray against your most certain prayer that God extend your time."

  She stilled, holding her very breath, and then chuckled. He joined her, laughing at her fears from the safety of the dark.

  "Then we shall see whom God listens to best, my lord."

  He heard the confidence in her voice and smiled. She was so certain, his little prayer warrior, of besting him at this game of prayers. Did she not know that God would heed the prayers of a knight of holy Jerusalem first and best?

  Well, she would find out in time.

  Chapter 18

  The night was shortened considerably by the arrival of two cold little feet and a cold nose pressed against him.

  "Can I sleep with you?"

  "Of course you can," Elsbeth said, turning to take Denise in her arms.

  Of course Elsbeth would invite the child into their bed. Was she not ever and always seeking barriers to put between them?

  "I think it is more proper for you to find your own bed, Denise," he said, running a hand through his hair. "This bed is... occupied."

  "I was in my own bed, but I... woke up." Denise said. "Why can I not be in yours?"

  "Yea, why can she not?" Elsbeth asked, pushing her hair off her face and facing him. Even in the dim light of a fire struggling for air, he could see Elsbeth's scowl.

  Hugh got out of bed, as naked as when he had climbed into it, and bent to put more logs on the fire. The room was as cold as a frozen pond but without the beauty.

  "Because this bed is occupied," he said.

  "There is room," Elsbeth said.

  "Aye, I am small. You said it yourself," Denise added.

  This was getting him nowhere; two females were intent on fighting him for the right to stay in his bed. As to that, in other circumstances, with other women... Hugh shook himself out of that dream.

  "What awoke you?" he said instead, climbing back into bed.

  "I do not know," Denise said, burying her face against Elsbeth's side. "Something bad."

  "Something frightened her," Elsbeth said.

  "What?" Hugh asked. "You are in the safety of the tower. What can befall you here?"

  Elsbeth spoke before Denise could answer. "What does it matter? The night holds its own terrors, and fear does not know to stay away from strong towers. She should stay with us."

  "All night?" Hugh said.

  "Of course, all night. Why should she not?"

  "Aye, why should I not?" Denise said, turning from Elsbeth to look up at him, the hurt on her face readable.

  Why should she not? Elsbeth lay in his bed, cloaked in blood, fear, and now the arms of a child. Even with Denise gone, he would not take her. He could not, not as she was; 'twould be a betrayal of the trust he wanted from her.

  Let Denise stay. Nothing of import was going to happen in this bed tonight. It did not take a great blazing fire to see that truth.

  "Stay, then," he said to them both, and when Denise flung her arms around his neck, he grumbled, "but keep your cold feet to yourself."

  * * *

  Raymond found them the next dawning tangled upon themselves, arms and legs entwined, Denise's head on Elsbeth's breast, her feet tucked between Hugh's calves. Under all lay Elsbeth's hair, coiled and trapped beneath three bodies. Hugh was awake. He had been awake since the hour before dawn, thinking, considering, wondering.

  His head was pounding.

  Raymond came in quietly, as was his way, looked at the bodies on the bed, looked at Hugh and raised his brows in question. Hugh shook his head, rolling his eyes, and began the slow work of disentangling himself from the girls. They slept on as he eased from the bed and dressed himself.

  When Hugh and Raymond were clear of the chamber, with the door closed softly behind them, Raymond spoke as they descended the stair to the hall below. All was qui
et and empty at this hour, but that was but a momentary respite.

  "Why was she with you?"

  Hugh looked over at his squire and cocked an eyebrow.

  "She? You mean Denise?"

  "Aye," Raymond said tersely.

  "She was afeared. Some mishap, some danger, in the night. It was not you, was it? You did not torment her, seeking some revenge against her whilst she slept?" Hugh asked half seriously.

  "I? Nay, I would not waste a moment on that chit of a girl," Raymond said.

  "Not even for torment?"

  "My lord, I am no child—"

  "I am pleased to hear my squire is no child, though he can be baited like one," Hugh said softly, making his point "Now, what happened last night? Was anything amiss in the hall?"

  "Nay, my lord," Raymond said, chastened. "I heard nothing amiss throughout the night."

  "And when did you retire?"

  "Past Nocturn. All was quiet. Only Lord Gautier was still about, and he in his cups most deeply."

  "Not unusual for Lord Gautier," Hugh said. "And not unusual considering the loss he has sustained. A man often finds solace in wine when God deals him a blow."

  "Aye, my lord, though..."

  "Aye?"

  "Though he did not speak of his wife. He spoke of you and of Elsbeth. He insulted you, my lord. He wonders if it is in you to consummate this marriage."

  Hugh let out a breath and then smiled crookedly as he considered Raymond's face. "Did he? And did he also insult you, Raymond? Did he wonder if we share more than the bonds of duty?"

  Raymond's blue eyes burned hot as he answered. "Aye, my lord. He did."

  Hugh chuckled. "And what did you answer?"

  "I answered only that you would do all you have vowed to do."

  "Well done, Raymond. Well done."

  And so Gautier ranted on, insulting him, his squire, his very manhood. And what of Elsbeth? She who bled in her woman's time had her own father prodding him to breach her through her blood and naming him a sinner most venal because she was not yet breached. What manner of man did that, and to his own kin?