by Claudia Dain
Ardeth would have been so disappointed in her.
Yet the world Ardeth had prepared her for had been all of Gautier and none of Hugh. Her mother had known naught else. Her mother's lessons had been true in a world ruled by Gautier, yet for a heart ruled by Hugh, they would not serve at all. Perhaps that was the final truth.
And perhaps this falling was not so hard a fall when two fell together, their very souls entwined about their hearts.
"If there be any man who has seen enough of Elsbeth's blood, that man is I," Hugh said softly, trying to cheer her. When that failed, he said, "He touched only the part of you he could reach, little one. Your soul he could not reach. The part of you that is eternal was never in his grasp. That is why you cannot remember. God has given that as His gift to you, a proof that Elsbeth is innocent and clean. Accept the gift and do not search in shadows, Elsbeth. Let lie. Let lie, little one," he whispered, holding her in his arms under the outstretched arms of Christ.
"What of my prayers? He said he touched my very prayers," she said, beginning to shake from her spine until her teeth chattered together at the force.
"He lied," Hugh said. "Only God can touch our prayers. And the prayers of Elsbeth, Prayer Warrior, are very dear to Him. Is that not so? Do you not defeat me at every prayer in our competition?"
"Do not mock me," she said, hanging her head. "He always mocked me. I would not see him in you."
Hugh dropped his sword to the stone and took her hard into his arms. "I would be whate'er you ask. Tell me never to jest again and I will walk in frowns. Tell me to lift my face unto the sky and I will gladly drown in English rain. Tell me to love you all my days," he said, urging her face up to his, "but, nay, do not ask me that, for that quest is done. I love you, Elsbeth, and will for all life."
"Men say such things," she said, shaking her head in teary dismissal, "and such things are never meant, especially not to me. I know what I am."
"Mine, Elsbeth," he said. "You are mine. For now and for always. What more do I need to know?"
"Why would you want me, knowing what you know? Did I not keep saying I was unfit? Did I not speak true?"
"Did I say I wanted you?" he said, his smile weak and lopsided. "I need you, Elsbeth. I need you beyond all things this world can give. Beyond air, beyond sun, beyond rain, beyond the very blood of my heart, I need you. All polished words of chivalry have flown from me, there is only this hunger and this need to have you in my life and in my arms."
Elsbeth had no answer beyond the tears she could not stop. He pressed her to him, crushing her body against his own, his hair tangling with hers, golden strands, wet with rain, twining with curling black; shadow and light. Memory and truth.
They stood so and loved. Loved against kings and kingdoms. Loved against all and still loved on.
"That is lust, I think, and you will not die of it," she said at last, sniffing back her tears and smiling crookedly, leaving her past in the past. Letting lie, as he had urged.
"Churlish woman," he grumbled with a grin. "Then live your life at my side and prove me for a liar if you can. This is a game I will win, little wife. I cannot lose. Unless I lose you," he whispered against her brow. "That I will not do, no matter what else is lost."
"Jerusalem," she said. "What of Baldwin?"
Hugh rested his chin on the top of her head, his arms lightly about her, and said nothing for a while. It took some time for him to say farewell to Jerusalem and Baldwin and all he loved in far-off Outremer. It took some time for him to banish all the golden glories of his dreams to be buried in the dark quiet of Elsbeth and England. It took some time. Perhaps a moment.
"Baldwin will forgive," he said softy, his eyes lost in the shadows of the stone. "And Jerusalem... Jerusalem will fall. Yet I choose Elsbeth."
"I would not ask it of you," she said, bowing her head into the shadow of his arms.
"You would ask nothing of me, and there is so much in me to give. Let me give this to you, Elsbeth, a gift to us both," he said. "You are my Jerusalem, little one. You are all I seek in this life. You are every honor and every prize. It is your name I want linked to mine. Let me be no more Hugh of Jerusalem, but only Hugh, the heart and blood of Elsbeth. Having you, I am content to have nothing more. But I will not live on having less."
"Such pretty words," she said, shaking her head gently as the tears ran down her cheeks. "And so many of them. Can you not say it plain? I require no such speeches from you. Have I not said so from the start?"
Hugh released her to kneel before her. He was a golden glow of strength and force in the dark weight of Warkham. So he had always been to her. So he would always be.
"Then hear me, Elsbeth of plain speech," he said. "I will love you for all my life. I want no life that takes me far from you. Let Jerusalem fall. Let Baldwin curse me. Let us never make a child between us. So I will live with you, little one, satisfied to only be where Elsbeth is. First wife. Only wife."
Elsbeth smiled down at him and then laughed over her silent tears.
“This is plain speech? You promise to love me over words of Jerusalem and curses? You promise to love me yet not do the deed that makes a child? These are vows of love for courtly rituals of love. I am your wife, my lord. You need not flatter."
Hugh surged up from his knees and lifted her in his arms. Without a word, he carried her from the chapel and across the dark and muddy bailey.
"You are more churlish by the hour," he said, shaking his head in the dark of another soft night. She could feel his hair moving on the backs of her hands; it felt warm and golden even in the dark. "I do not know why I love you. What makes other women swoon, you find tedious. There is no finding my way with you. I am lost in dark Elsbeth and have no will to break free."
Elsbeth grinned as he kicked in the door to the hall and crossed the floor to the stair tower. The men of Warkham watched, the priest in their midst. Hugh slowed and faced them, Elsbeth held tight against his chest.
"I have killed your lord," he said to the men. "It was a matter of honor, and he was armed. My blood marks the wound he dealt before he died."
All eyes watched, and all hands were stilled at the pronouncement.
"My lord," Father Godfrey said, "all here know what befell in Warkham chapel. Raymond and Denise were not hesitant in declaring it," he said, holding his head high. "My shame is great that I could do naught during all the years of my time here. I came out of the abbey at Warkham's behest. I took the orders of the priesthood and was made to bear the burden of hearing his confession for these nineteen years. My burden was great, my lord, and there are few here who do not know of it, though I kept the honor of my vows."
"You knew what he did and you did not stop it?" Elsbeth said, and then fought the urge to hide her head when all eyes looked at her. They knew she had been fouled. Everyone knew. She felt stripped and shorn of all dignity.
"There were many who tried," Father Godfrey said, "but the manor courts in the time of King Stephen did little. Gautier was not the only man of those times to push past the boundaries of law and honor."
"So you did nothing?" Hugh said, his anger rising to heat them both. "In all of Warkham there was not a man among you who would kill this viper?"
"He was lord," Walter the miller said from the corners of the room. "What was there for us to do? Am I a knight? Do I have the skill of arms? Does this priest? Speak not to us of what we did not do," Walter said heavily. "We did all we could."
"Which was very little." Hugh said sharply.
"Do you think your wife was his only victim? He took my Allota, ruining her past all hope. She died from his attentions. She was but six. If I could have done something, I would have done it then, but he left Warkham and was gone for more than a year, bringing new men of blood with him when he returned to guard him well, they who knew not whom they served. I watched him when he dwelt with us, as did we all, and watched out for the girls of Warkham, trying to keep them out of his way. Some escaped him. Elsbeth, his own daughter, Go
d forgive, did not."
"Say no more," Elsbeth said. "Please."
"One thing more," Walter said. "I found you in the chapel once, your skirts torn and your thighs bruised and marked with blood. I held you in my arms and prayed with you for healing and for forgetfulness. I thank God with every Mass that the prayers of that hour were so well answered. Live on, Elsbeth. Give no thought to the man who bound you to his sin."
"Good counsel," Father Godfrey said. "Heed it well, Elsbeth, and forgive us if you can. We strove to find a path of escape, of justice, and could only pray that God would see it done. And so He has. He sent Hugh of Jerusalem to us and to you."
"What of the men who served this lord?" Hugh said. "The knights of Warkham—will they seek vengeance on me?"
"Nay, they knew not what he was. The knights of Warkham change upon the seasons as they come to know their lord. These knights will do nothing, now knowing what they know. All fighting upon Warkham soil is done," Father Godfrey said.
And so it would remain. She closed her heart against all memory of Gautier, accepting God's gift of forgetfulness. Let the dead stay dead and let the living cherish the gift of life.
“That is well," Elsbeth said to all within the hail. "All is well," she said more softly, for her husband's benefit.
When she felt the rage within him tremble against his skin, she whispered, "Let lie, Hugh. All is past. Let lie."
Hugh shook his head at her and breathed out a sigh before kissing her tenderly on the brow.
"And if Elsbeth speak it, then so it shall be," he said. "If I would give you all the world, then I can surely give you this."
"Give me this and I will not ask you for the world," she said, running her hand against his cheek, loving him with a touch.
"Done," he said, staring into her eyes.
"One thing more I ask of you," she said as he started to walk to the tower stair.
"Aye, and did I not know that with a woman there is ever to be 'one thing more'?"
Elsbeth grinned and buried her face against his neck.
"Take me to bed," she mouthed against his neck.
He ran up the last few stairs.
The fire was lit, awaiting them. He set her on the bed and lifted off his tunic. She put out a hand to stop him and said, "Yet one thing more."
"So begins my torment," he said on a growl.
Hugh ran his hands through his hair and grumbled, eyeing her on the bed. She smiled up at him, unrepentantly amused.
"Would you try again? Would you try to tell me how you love me in ways that are pleasing to my ears?" she asked sweetly.
"Nay," he said, his grin sudden and wide. "I will not. I will show you. My words do not reach Elsbeth's heart. Perhaps my hands will serve her better."
"Your hands will serve me better? I think that is a man's reasoning," she said.
"Lady, I think you are right," he said, leaning down to her, clasping her small face in his hands. "Now let us see if I can make you faint again."
Epilogue
"Things were easier when you kept fainting," Hugh said.
"I did not faint!" she huffed.
"'Tis not a good time to argue, wife. I am very busy now."
"You are busy?" she snapped. "I can do this birthing with only Winifred to attend me. I am quite adept at birthings."
"Ah, but, wife, this is different, is it not?" he said, grinning.
Aye, it was. He had crossed the seas to bring to her the very best of midwives, cajoling the woman into settling herself in the damp soil of England when her roots were in Antioch; yet when Hugh was set on wooing, the woman was won. None knew that better than Elsbeth, and so Winifred attended her now and would stay for every birth beyond this first. The first was more than enough to occupy her.
She would have hit him most soundly if she could only move to reach him. The bulk of her stomach surged up and blocked even the sun. Even the moon. Even the very stones of Sunnandune. Yet it could not block Hugh. Nay, his face was looming above her girth, and he was grinning.
Well, he had good cause to grin. He was not the one with pains ripping through his very bones. Nay, she had that hard honor.
Though she could not help smiling when the pain eased. He was so very determined to have her laughing through her labors. And he was so very successful. At least for now. She knew better than he what was to come. No woman laughed when the pain was sharp and low and long. Nay, 'twas all of screaming then.
"You are not going to scream, are you?" he asked, frowning.
"I may, if it suits," she huffed as he wiped her brow with a damp cloth. "Give me the cloth," she said, panting. "It eases the nausea to have it over my mouth. 'Tis the damp cool, I think."
"The damp cool? By the saints, you are going to give me an English child! Confess it, Elsbeth! You are conspiring to bring forth a child of fog and rain."
"I confess," she said as another pain began to slide its way over her belly. "I confess to having an English child, but he is not formed of fog and rain. Which is a pity."
"Perhaps now would be the time for another woman to attend; even little Denise," Hugh said, speaking to Winifred. He knew Elsbeth would not grant him leave. "I am ill-trained in such business as this."
"Leave Denise to Raymond, my lord. I want only you here with me now. Were you not with me at the start? And besides, what need have I for another woman when a knight from the Levant is near?"
"Have I just been insulted or flattered? I cannot discern," he said with a jaded grin.
"Oh, flattered, surely," she said as a pain built and washed over her like slow fire.
"Come, tell me," he said when the pain had passed, leaving her limp and drowsy. "We made this child that day in the wood, did we not?"
"What day in the wood? You have an appetite for woodland rompings, my lord. I lose count."
"You must remember. I know you must," he whispered as Winifred felt her belly and pressed to feel the babe's head. It was low and turned. All was well, to judge by her look. "It was May Day last, the only day that month without a cloud to mar the sun. You cannot have forgot."
"I remember it was cold," she gritted out, holding fast to his hand.
"I remember only the sun."
"You would. 'Twas I who was bared from nipple to knee."
"Ah, so you do remember!" he said on a chuckle. "I think that was the day this child began. You screamed loud and long upon your release. I remember a flock of birds flew up in terror at the sound."
"I remember that one of them left the white signs of its terror upon my head," she said, throwing the cloth at him.
It hit him in the face squarely. Still grinning, Hugh bent to freshen it and then placed it, damp and dripping, over his wife's mouth. She breathed in deeply, her nausea quieted.
"There is a chance, then, if this child be conceived in light and sun, that he be more of Outremer than England."
"I wish only that he be of smaller head," she said before the pain overtook her.
"Would you take some ale?" Winifred said, holding the cup to her mouth. "'Twill soothe."
"I would he were out of me. That would soothe better," she said, grasping the cup and drinking down a swallow before the next pain assaulted her.
"Not much longer, little one," he said, rubbing his hand down her thigh in a long caress. "He comes."
"He comes too slow and too hard," she said. "If I had the strength, I would..."
"Would what?" he asked.
Elsbeth smiled weakly and lay back on the mattress. "Sleep. Do you think I will sleep ever again?"
"Not for another year, at least."
"Oh, husband, you are cruel. A lie would have been sweeter."
Hugh shrugged and grinned and watched as Winifred spread Elsbeth's knees to feel of the babe between her legs. There was so much fear in this room; he bantered with her to keep the dark at bay. There was so much to fear. If he lost Elsbeth, the sun would die.
"I only repeat what my sister told me," he said. "She may have lied.
But I do not think so; there was too much prideful anguish in the telling."
"Can you see the head?" Elsbeth asked.
"Yea, dark and wet and only just coming," Winifred said.
"What do you need of me?" Hugh asked the midwife.
"I need you to take my place on this bed," Elsbeth gritted out as another pain struck her fast and hard.
"That is a prayer I will pray God does not heed," he said, kissing her knee as he stroked her legs. They were trembling. She was trembling. And cold.
"What color is my skin?" she asked, suddenly deeply afraid. Why was she cold? Emma had been cold.
Hugh looked up from the progress of the babe and stared into her eyes, comforting her by his very calm. "The same color as when I first described it to you, little wife. The color of rising dough, warm and golden white, though now there is the flush of berries on your cheeks and chest. A repast for any man."
"I look of stout health?"
"You look robust," he said. "If you were not otherwise occupied, I would take you now."
"Not for another year, at least," she said, sinking back onto the bed. "I quote."
"Oh, wife, you are cruel. A lie would have been sweeter. And truer," he said, grinning. "I quote."
"You misquote," she said.
"He comes," Hugh said, bending down to watch, his head lost to her sight and only his shoulders visible.
"Hurry him, if you would," she said, and then she screamed. The pain was unlike any she had expected. Sharp. Deep. Long. And then done.
"The head is out," Winifred said. "I have him by the neck. Slippery, like an eel, he is."
"By the saints, he is all of England, this one. All wet and soggy," Hugh said.
She could feel something coming, coming, and then it was out and the child sliding with it.
"God above!" Hugh roared "A great spill of water has just come washing out of you, Elsbeth!"
"'Tis the water of the womb. 'Twas trapped behind him," Winifred said.
The pain was a shifty receding memory, praise God above. "Is he out?" Elsbeth asked.
"Aye, she is," Winifred said, handing the babe to be clutched to Hugh's chest, the cord a twist of blue and red.