by Ling, Maria
"I'll train him for you and gladly," Hugh said. "When he comes to serve you -- and don't think I'm inclined to spare him that honour -- you won't have fault to find with him."
John's laughter ceased. He watched Hugh, alertly, with new speculation in his eyes. "You're getting fond of the boy?"
"I like his touch," Hugh said. "And what he does to his mother."
Stephen flinched. "You go too far," he said.
"Let him," John said. "He's under my command, I take full responsibility. Well, you can have the lad until I come for my money. Then you'll hand him over to me. Trained to your liking or not. I need fighting men, not boys for bedding. Have a girl or two for that, if you must."
"Send them to me any time you wish," Hugh said. Though he hoped it wouldn't come to that. Two waifs under his protection was more than enough.
A frantic hour ensued, while the force got itself into order. Finally they marched away, and Hugh was left in command of his own stronghold.
He had plenty to do. The Flemings had done a fine job of repairing doors and walls, but it could only be a temporary fix. Now he must plan something more permanent. Which meant choosing and felling and seasoning wood, getting hold of master stonemasons and setting them to work, sending out scouts to watch for enemy movements, organising supply parties and giving them careful orders not to deplete the countryside entirely. He needed stores, and he'd rather have them within the walls than not. But he refused to let any of his subjects starve, and besides -- as he'd pointed out to John de Bois on occasion -- starving peasants couldn't grow crops.
He set to work in the morning, and it was dark by the time he ascended the steps to the lord's chamber. He'd decided to keep that arrangement, he didn't much care for the room behind the great hall. Above, the room was more spacious, and the windows somewhat larger to allow for a view of the countryside and any approaching force. He'd ordered clean sheets, and food and water for lady Rowes and her son, he hoped they'd been comfortable enough in his absence. The men would sleep in the great hall, once the trestle tables had been cleared and carried aside. It made better sense in any case, he wanted them ready to emerge into the bailey for immediate defence at need.
She looked tired, he thought. Worried and worn. But she sat up, with a candle for company, while her son slept comfortably enough on two bales of straw.
She looked up as he entered, and the ghost of a smile flitted across her face.
"They're gone," he said. "I am in command here now."
"I saw." She glanced towards the window that overlooked the bailey. "They're not coming back?"
He couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth. "No," he said. "Not any time soon, at least." He struggled out of his armour, pulled off his boots and slumped onto the bed. Weariness engulfed him, he struggled to stay afloat. "You've been treated well?"
"Yes."
"Good." He probably ought to reassure her, he thought, say something pithy, show himself her friend. But he was too tired, the words he struggled to form slipped away and sank into the darkness at the back of his mind.
"Go to sleep," she said. Mary, his wife. "You look like you need it."
He did. "You'll be safe next to me."
"I know." She blew out the candle and began to undress, he could hear the rustle of cloth in the dark. Thought of her body slipping out of its concealment, of bare skin under nothing but a shift. Abruptly he was awake, more than awake, he wanted nothing better than to take her. And she was his wife, he had the right to do so. No one would question it, not even she.
But she trusted him. That was worth something. He was loath to break that trust.
She slid into bed beside him, a light weight next to his own, warm body under thin linen. He wouldn't sleep tonight, he realised, didn't matter how tired he was -- and he was tired, bone tired, his body ached for sleep and craved satisfaction, both at once, he was caught between them and utterly, hopelessly awake.
Mary turned over, cautiously, he felt her breath against his throat.
"I haven't told you," she whispered, "how grateful I am."
"Don't." If she did he'd make use of it, he knew he would, he'd make her repay him in kind. "It wasn't for you. Or the boy either. It's an old debt, you might say. I failed to protect another child once. I want to make it good now. It's got nothing to do with you."
"Oh." She was silent for so long he thought she must have fallen asleep. "I see," she said at last. "Well, I'm sorry for your hurt. And I'm thankful you chose us to make it good."
"Nothing makes it good."
"But you said -- " She broke off, wisely. "I understand. Good night."
He lay there in the dark, staring up an an invisible ceiling, conscious of her every movement and her every breath. Eventually he turned over as well, he'd meant not to, he should have his back to her. But she lay so close to him, so tempting. He might just put an arm around her, he thought, she'd let him do that the night before, and not from fear, there had been no tension in her then. It had all drained away, once she understood what he was about, he'd felt the recognition in her.
She fitted well under his grip, soft curves under linen shift. He snuggled close to her, not too close, he wouldn't harry her if he could help it. She smelled good, sweet and tempting and utterly delectable, he could --
No. He couldn't. Not if he wanted to face himself in the morning.
He lay as still as he could manage, breathed in the scent of her, tried to think of other things but failed.
Maybe she would let him, he thought. If he was gentle. If he --
Christ and all the saints.
Or she'd tense and push him away.
Or she'd tense and lie still and submit.
He'd hate that. He'd hate himself.
She'd hate him too.
But he could try, he thought. He could try. And if she did tense, if he felt the fear in her, he'd let her be.
***
Mary closed her eyes. She couldn't sleep, she was too conscious of Hugh's body just behind her own, carefully not touching. So careful, she thought, so mindful of her in every way. She admired him for that, and for the way he acted in front of other men, they were completely taken in by him, she was convinced of that. She'd been taken in as well, he'd fooled her completely. Except that somehow, some part of her, a hidden instinct deep within her mind, had always insisted he was not as he seemed.
Of course, if he pretended so well with them, he could be pretending with her now. Wait until he had her confidence and trust, and then --
And then what?
What could he be after, if not her surrender? Or her lands, maybe, such as they were, or her wealth, what little remained after the Angevins' exactions. She doubted her steward would send the money, she doubted he had a tenth of that sum at his command. She wished she knew what Hugh would do then, whether he'd turn on her after all, whether the man she'd seen with other men around was the real one, and this tender sensitive respectful husband in name only was merely an act.
Hugh turned over then, she felt his breath on the back of her neck, the heat of his crotch against her buttocks. She fought down a temptation to lean back against him, invite him to touch her. She'd never desired a man before, it was a strange and frightening sensation. But she did desire him, or at least the idea of him, she could indulge in the fantasy of a tender caring man for a husband.
But if she did urge him on, it would all come crashing down around her. She knew what a lustful man was, she'd hated the hurt and humiliation of it, the invasion of her body and her feelings and her mind. No -- she'd submit if he commanded her to, she could not do less than that, she'd promised before God to be his wife. But she wouldn't tempt him if those feelings were not already in him, she didn't want to be hurt and she desperately didn't want it to be Hugh that hurt her, she would never --
He put his arm around her. This was it, now, he'd decided to claim his rights, and she must let him, she had no other choice. At least Will was asleep this time, maybe that was what he
'd waited for, maybe he had shame enough within him to spare her child.
But he didn't do anything else. Just lay there with his arm around her, as if it was enough.
She waited. And waited. Still nothing.
Fear waned. He wasn't going to hurt her. Or take her, even. Maybe he just wanted to touch her -- maybe all he wanted, after days of fighting, was a moment's tenderness. A touch that was not a blow.
She could give him that. Not because it was his by right, although it was, but because she wanted to.
Mary turned, and her head smacked into his face as he leaned over to kiss her.
Hugh groaned. Mary flushed, she felt the heat in her cheeks. She'd caught him hard, he might almost think she'd attacked him. "I'm sorry," she said. Turned over fully, with her head held out of the way just in case, let her hands find his chest. "Truly -- I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He shifted under her touch, and his arm brushed against hers, she imagined he'd reached up to check his nose. "Nothing broken. That's what I get for approaching my own wife." She thought she could hear laughter bubble under his voice, but she didn't dare trust her intuition. He might be angry, she didn't know enough about him to tell.
"Now." He settled back against the cushions, wrapped his arms around her again -- slowly. They both moved with ridiculous care. "Was that a warning, or an accident?"
"An accident, of course." She was on the point of giggles herself, nervous for more reasons that one. Fear and relief and humour and sorrow and that deep strange insistent desire -- it was too heady a mix for her, it fuddled her like spiced hot wine. "I would never dare -- " Fear won out, it chilled her, she felt her body tense.
"You wouldn't," Hugh said. "Would you." He sounded if anything disappointed. Mary frowned to herself. That couldn't be right.
"I know what's due from a wife to her husband -- " she began.
"Don't," Hugh said. "I'm going to sleep." He released her, then turned over with his back towards her. She just lay there, rejected and unwanted and on the point of tears.
"You wouldn't want a wife," she heard herself say, "who actually dared -- "
"I don't know," Hugh said. "I've never had a wife before. Try me."
"But you've had -- " She didn't know how to say this. She'd never been allowed to speak of it before. "Women?" she managed.
"No," Hugh said. "As it happens, no."
The silence that crashed down between them echoed far out into the night.
"Oh." Mary fought against a smile. And then let it bloom, it didn't matter, he couldn't see her anyway.
"Don't laugh at me," Hugh said, in so cold and curt a tone that her smile vanished entirely.
Her first impulse was to apologise. And then she thought: Why?
"I'm not laughing." She snuggled close to him, felt the muscles tense across his back, slipped an arm around his waist. She wanted to touch his skin, she had to fight not to let her hand drift down towards the edge of his shirt. "I've been married before -- " It seemed an age ago now, though in truth it was a matter of days since her husband died. She was well rid of him, she realised with sudden fierce hatred, he'd been a vile man. She'd hated him, all the time they'd been married, and she'd never dared admit it even to herself.
"And I haven't." Hugh sounded calmer now, his body relaxed, she tried a light caress across his belly. "And, yes. I could have taken someone. But I've never cared to force a woman. And the ones who'd try for advancement through such means, no. What can I give them? A farthing here or there, it means little enough to me, to them it's the difference between life and death from starvation. I'd rather protect their farms from ravage by troops, or if I can't do that, see that they come in for a dole from my own stores. If I can. Which I can't always, God knows." His voice was bleak.
"You're a good man," Mary told his shirt.
"Not that," Hugh said. "One hoping for salvation."
She rested her face against his back, breathed in the smell of him under blood and sweat and dirt. Her hand caressed his belly and chest, traced the folds of linen as they lay over hard muscles.
"If you don't mean what you're doing," Hugh said after a while, "stop now."
She let herself smile then, she couldn't help it. Let her hand continue its drift down over his hip and onto his thigh, touched skin to skin. Hugh let out a faint soft sound partway to a moan.
"Seriously," he said. "I mean it. If you don't want me to -- "
"I do," Mary ventured. And she did. Even if he hurt her. She just wanted to be close to him, wanted to be held.
"Christ Jesus," Hugh said. He turned over with infinite care, she drew back to give him space, they found each other with slow gentle touches. "I've got a fair idea," he said softly. "I've bred horses. But you may need to lead me at first. The last thing I want to do is hurt you."
"I'll show you how," Mary whispered. And she did, she took his hands and guided them each in turn across her body, closed her eyes and concentrated on experiencing his touch. Eased his shirt up and touched him, let her hands stroke and caress. Found his mouth with her own, he tasted of mellow summer sun, she didn't know how he managed that but he did. Drew herself up over him, raised her shift and knelt across him, guided him inside her.
"You do know," Hugh said quietly, "that we're breaking Church law here."
"I know," Mary said. But she wanted this, wanted it more than anything on earth. Salvation could wait.
"Not that I'm complaining," Hugh added. His voice caught, she could feel him struggle not to cry out. "If I'm to be damned, I'd want this to be the reason why."
She moved on him, eased him into a slow regular rhythm that satisfied her without pain. Then she leaned over and kissed him, long and slow, her tongue caressing his. He grabbed her and pulled her to him with sudden force, rolled over so that she was underneath him and he was in control, began to move faster and deeper, just short of pain. She opened up to him and wrapped her arms around him, held him close as he shook and shivered in a spasm of ecstasy. Hugged him as he lay there, sweating and spent, smiled at the touch of his lips in her hair, kissed his chest and shoulder and throat. Realised in amazement that it hadn't occurred to her, even in that sudden burst of movement, to feel afraid.
***
"We'll fix the walls first," Hugh said. "Not much point putting a door up if there's a huge gap in the wall right next to it. But I'm having the doors made, two of them, outer and inner. This place will be defensible within a matter of days."
He stood next to her, tall and strong and confident, with one arm around her waist. Through the window overlooking the bailey she could see men swarm between the outbuildings, watch great stones be raised laboriously into position one by one as the work progressed.
"I don't want any more fighting," Mary said. She snuggled close to him, she loved the feeling of his arm around her. Will, held safe within her own arms, turned his face up and smiled.
"That's not up to me," Hugh said. "I'm charged with holding this place for the king. If the rebels bring a fight to us, we'll meet them. Simple as that. You want an end to war, talk to Robert of Gloucester. He's the man who brought it."
Mary didn't reply. She had nothing to say to that, couldn't understand why men insisted on killing and tearing down and destroying. It was hard enough to build, to give life and maintain it, to nurse it through sickness and into health. None of them had ever borne or raised a child, they didn't know what work truly was, they must needs prove themselves by tearing down the work of women. But she didn't say as much, she was awed by her own mutinous courage in even thinking it. She trusted Hugh, she was startled how much she trusted him, but only so far. He was a man, he would beat her if she displeased him, they all would. Every one of them. She had the best of them, but even he was maimed in soul.
She cuddled Will to her, determined that he must be different. A man of peace, a man of God maybe -- but not yet, not for many years to come, she wanted him close and safe and nurtured here with her.
"What's that?" she asked. She'
d let her eyes rest on the lush green of the forest, it was better than the devastation beyond the walls. Smoke rose from within the trees, she felt her heart twitch at sight of it.
"Clearances," Hugh said. "Your husband was thorough, John de Bois more thorough still. But I want a good open field around here. This place was taken once, and almost taken the second time. We'll need more warning in future. Everything within a day's walk is to be burned."
She pulled away from him. "What about the people?"
"They're free to leave," Hugh said grimly. "Not to be killed unless they resist, I've given orders for that. And they get a shilling each to see them on their way, it should help them buy food until they reach safety. That's all I can do."
"But it's their homes -- their livelihoods -- "
"Not my concern. I'm already known for openhandedness. Men like your husband, or my own lord, would put them to the sword just to silence them. Or have them shut in and left to burn within their own homes. I've seen it done."
She flinched back, stared up at him in blank disbelief. "You saw it and did nothing?"
"I'm sworn to serve my lord," Hugh replied. The face he turned to her seemed carved from rock. "What he commands, I do. Sometimes a little too hard or fast, if it brings a quicker end to the suffering. But war is not a game. That's why I hold against the Angevins -- why I'd fight for the king even if my own lord chose otherwise. Because they take pleasure in war, they bring it to every corner of God's earth, they'll never be satisfied until all of Creation has burned. You haven't seen their work in Normandy. I have. Lost such lands as I had there, it's all in Angevin hands now, what's left of it. I saw how they took it, too. Men like that should not be permitted to live. Why God allows it, I do not know. But I'll oppose them, to my dying breath I'll oppose them, and if you find fault with that you can join the Angevins in hell and I won't shed tears over it."
"Not with that," Mary said. Her lips were numb, she stumbled over the words. "But with your methods."
"Better than those of most men," Hugh said. "Believe it or don't, just as you choose."