by Jill Barnett
“That is not what I meant, and you know that.”
“Aye, I am jesting. For I feel no different. I am still me, Clio. Fine cloth and wicked jeweled daggers and huge pearl drops do not change who or what I am.”
Eleanor nodded. “You are a bride. Today is special if for no other reason than that. ’Tis something a woman lives for, waits for, dreams of.”
“Then should I not be more happy? Should I not want to shout from the tower that today is special?”
“I think perhaps you have more …”—the queen paused to search for a word—” more will than most women. The female masses would be pleased just to have the earl look at them, much less wed them.”
Clio thought about how she would feel if Merrick were to wed someone else. Her fists formed strong knots and she frowned.
’Twas not something she had thought about, nor something she liked to think about. She had come to think of Merrick as hers alone.
“I thought that might make you appreciate him.” Eleanor laughed. “You look like you have murder on your mind.”
“Do I?”
“You know you do.”
It felt good to laugh. It felt better to have this woman as a friend.
“Clio?”
“Aye?”
“You will be happy. I am certain.”
Clio wasn’t certain and wished she could feel as confident as Eleanor did.
“’Tis only that you like to know that you can do as you please. I can imagine that the thought of binding yourself to a man like Merrick is difficult. He is a strong man used to having his way.”
“Aye. He is. But I am used to having my own way, too.”
“I did not say that.” Eleanor grinned then, giving away the notion that she was thinking it.
“That I am stubborn?”
“I did not say that either.” She was still grinning.
“No, but Merrick did. And he was not pleased with me at the time.”
“Come.” The queen threaded her arm through Clio’s and guided her toward the doors. “Trust me. He will be pleased with you now.”
The king’s heralds blew their trumpets. There was a sudden stillness, a silence that filled the warm air with anticipation.
Merrick stood tall and tense in front of the chapel doors. With sudden clarity he felt the raw spectacle of this ceremony, the ritual of the sacrament of marriage, the importance of it, and for the first time in his memory, he was uncomfortable being at the center of such pomp.
For the briefest of moments he had a new and different sense of respect and camaraderie for Edward, who had endured so well his coronation.
Merrick sought to relax, but he could not.
Not even after he had taken deep breaths of clean air through his nose instead of his mouth so no one would notice. He felt winded and sweat was dripping down the back of his neck and through his hair. His pride made him fight to look cool and calm.
’Twas a vulnerability that almost frightened him, his reaction to this day; his reaction to this one woman. Because he could not control this weak feeling. It frustrated him and made him feel as if he were going into battle without his armor.
He was a warrior, a knight, his king’s man. He was an earl, for godsakes. He felt like a coward, one that wants to turn and run at the first sign of conflict.
He took another deep breath, yet all he wanted to do was throw back his head and give forth his loudest battle cry. Anything that would crack through the awkward quiet that seemed to him as if it went on and on forever.
But then, in less time than it took for his heart to beat, it came—the sound he had unknowingly been waiting for. The distant, clear song of silver bells.
A gasp went through the crowd and his breath stopped in his chest as if he had taken a blow.
She rode toward him on a snow white palfrey, a gift from the king and a symbol of her purity.
Yes, he thought, she was still a maiden … barely. He almost smiled to himself and felt a kind of peace when he stared at her. Suddenly he did not feel so very alone in this.
The palfrey’s mane and tail were braided with silver ribbons and bells, and sheer silver fabric decorated a bridal saddle tanned and bleached until the leather was the same color of the clouds in the sky.
The crowd, the same one that had milled around the courtyard only moments before, parted, forming a road in the middle of the inner bailey that led right to him, standing on the steps of the chapel with the huge arched doors just beyond.
Those silver bells rang and jingled and brought a sense of joy to the air, the way songbirds woke you on a clear summer day when the country was at peace and all was right with the world.
Around him the people began to sing:
Bring my love to me.
Lady-o, lady-o,
A bride she will be.
White horse, white horse,
My heart I give to thee
Lady-o, lady-o
For all eternity.
He listened to the song, a chant really. Its words and their meaning soaked into his head for the first time. He had been to other weddings, had chanted those same words himself since he was a mere youth.
But it had always been no different from the way he recited Hail Marys and Paternosters as penance. Just so many words he repeated again and again, so that after a while he only spoke by rote.
The words had never meant anything to him. Until today.
He stood there a little dumbfounded and confused, feeling emotions he did not want to feel. The horse brought her closer. The ringing of the bells grew louder and sweeter. He could see her face clearly now.
God, but she was beautiful.
And he thought with some humor and a little selfish relief that she looked more frightened than he was.
Her hair was smoothed back away from her face and she wore the jeweled circlet he had had made for her in Rome; the tiny pearl drops on the headpiece enhanced the green of her eyes. Those wide and smiling eyes that haunted his dreams and his days in the way no other woman ever had, or ever could have.
Her gown was white samite, the color of the clouds hovering on the high hills of Brecon, and threaded with pure silver threads that made it look as if she were wearing the streaks made by falling stars.
His mind flashed to that night long ago in the desert, when he and the other soldiers had witnessed all those stars shooting across the sky. A night, one hauntingly miraculous night, that had stayed in his memory for so long ’twas almost as if it were yesterday.
At that instant a low breeze caught her long silver hair and blew it forward so that curling strands of it covered her breasts and hung down past the white saddle. The thought that she was to be his wife, his alone, almost paralyzed him.
Then she was there, before him, looking down at him and waiting for their life together to begin. He stepped forward and put his hands around her waist. Her look softened, and she did not look so frightened. He smiled then, for the notion that she felt safer with him made him proud.
As he lifted her off the horse, she placed her hands on his shoulders. For just a moment, their eyes met and all the emotion, this massive depth of something unnamed, passed between them with a sharp pang that was almost painful in its intensity. ’Twas was so strong and real and seemed to pierce into some part of him that Merrick never knew existed.
Still reeling a little, he concentrated hard so that he could set her gently on the steps to the chapel. He waited, taking two deep breaths, then he looked down at her and held out his hand. Together they walked toward the chapel, where the archbishop waited to perform the sacraments of marriage.
Sunlight caught in a window and blinded him for a moment with its brightness, but it did not matter if he were blind, for all that was in his head was the image of his bride.
And years from now, when his sight was weak and his limbs not so strong, when his black hair was gray and his grandchildren were almost grown, Merrick would still remember this moment as clearly as if it were etc
hed upon his mind by the very hand of God.
The look in her eyes, the smile on her lips, the secret bond that passed between them, for it was then, at this brief instant in his lifetime, that he understood God’s gift to Adam, and the Lord’s love of the man He created, for He gave him something more precious than gold or wealth or power, that most wonderful of all things.
He gave him a woman.
Chapter 32
Clio learned an important lesson that day about being a bride. She was kissed, fed, danced, pinched, or fondled by everyone. Everyone except her husband.
But she learned something else. For the two days prior to their wedding, her husband had ridden out, scouring the countryside for white flour.
There had been a special look in his eye when the servants rolled in a huge cake, a cake made with sweetened white flour and fresh wild strawberries. Atop the cake was a gilt bird cage with white doves, an exceptional symbol of romantic love.
Merrick had been watching her face when the cake came in, when the guests cheered and oohed and aahed. She could see in his eyes, he had done this for her. It was the most romantic thing and it confused her, made her feel strange and uneasy, yet made her want to be closer to him, to thank him.
She knew it was a rare man who truly cared about his wife’s pride. She thought she might do something foolish, like cry.
’Twas fortunate indeed that at just the right moment twelve acrobats formed a tower of balancing men shaped like a peacock’s tail, and drew attention away from her.
She slipped out the side doors and walked swiftly down a narrow flagged courtway toward the castle kitchens. Just a few quick steps and she was outside the keep in the fresh air.
In the distance, the moon was the color of amber and looked so huge and close she wanted to reach out and touch it.
She could hear the revelry, the cheers and the music. She had enough of dancing and laughing and being thrown from man to man for a kiss, a pinch, or to stomp on her poor toes.
Though she knew he stood there and could feel him watching her, she chose to keep her eyes closed, even when she could feel the heat from his body as it moved closer.
Something soft touched her cheek. She caught the sweet scent of a rose. “Hmmmm. I adore the scent of roses, Merrick.”
He said nothing, but she could almost see his smile when she said his name.
“You gave me a cake.”
“Aye,” he whispered. “You liked it.”
“Aye,” she whispered back. “Thank you. ’Twas the kindest and most precious of wedding gifts.”
He laughed softly. “You are the only woman I can think of who would consider a cake made of white flour the most precious of wedding gifts.”
She just smiled, deciding not to tell him that it was his thoughtfulness and the gift to her pride that meant so much to her.
He slowly drew the rose over her lips, then down her jawline and across her eyelids.
Feather touches. A lover’s stroke.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
He replaced the rosebud with his lips.
She loved his lips, his mouth, his taste. He kissed her softly, the same way he had touched her with the rose. She could taste the sweet potent cider flavor on his lips.
The moment he had sat down at the high table, he had made it plain to all that he refused to have any strong drink. Wedding or no. She supposed it had something to do with the night he made such bawdy rhymes about her.
“At this moment, sweet wife of mine,” he whispered in that low tone of his. “There cannot be another woman anywhere in the world as beautiful as you.”
It was odd that this time his voice sounded hoarse with an emotion she had never heard from him before. A deep sense of awe mixed with earthy desire that sounded as if it were slowly killing him.
Still she did not open her eyes, but let his lips love her slowly and tenderly, like the touches of a butterfly.
She ached to touch him and to open her mouth, but she wanted to prolong this tenderness, cherish it as a sweet memory of the day they wed.
He moaned her name and pulled her away from the wall, and against him. His mouth closed hot and open over hers.
She slid her arms around his strong neck and just hung on, dragging her hands through his thick black hair, gripping him and making him kiss her even harder.
Her tongue flicked into his mouth and stroked his teeth, tongue, and lips the way he stroked hers. His hands slid to her bottom and he lifted her and pressed her hard against his groin.
His mouth moved to her ear, where his tongue dove inside, wetting her ear. Then he sucked in a cool breath that sent gooseflesh and chills down her arms, legs, and spine.
She moaned his name, thinking he should stop licking her ears, but secretly begging him not to.
He stepped back and she felt the hard stones of the wall press into her shoulders and hips. He pinned her there with his body, pressing and shifting and moving in low slow rhythmic circles that made her want to crawl inside of him.
His hands slid down to her legs, jerked up her gown, and pulled her thighs around his hips so he could press that hard knot of him against her.
It felt so good that she rocked against it, wanting more and more.
He touched her everywhere. His thumbs circled and teased the tips of her breasts through the thin samite cloth, then moved down to stroke the backs of her bare thighs and buttocks.
He groaned her name over and over, then reached between them and drew his fingers across her nether lips, rubbing as she felt herself melting there, where her flesh was wet and raw with the need for his touch.
There where she felt as if she was about to shatter apart. Where she wanted his fingers, his mouth, and, oh, God, she wanted his tongue.
His hand left her feeling lost and empty. He jerked at the ties on his braies. Then he stopped suddenly, cursing under his breath. He took a deep breath and leaned his forehead on the wall next to hers, his breath harsh and panting.
“God’s blood,” he mumbled after a lifetime of breathing. “I cannot take you against the wall.”
“I don’t care,” she whispered, the need in her so strong that she had no pride and could not wait any longer. “Just do it. Now, Merrick, Take me now.”
He moaned her name.
“Do it,” she snapped.
“Clio …”
She gripped his hair in her hands and made him look at her. “Damn you. Take me now.”
The next thing she knew he swung her up away from the wall. She almost shrieked aloud as he flung her over his broad, hard shoulder and strode across the bailey.
Merrick,” she said in a harsh whisper, “put me down.” She bounced along, her only view was his lower spine and bottom.
“Hush.”
“Merrick!”
He kicked the stable door closed and walked back to the rear of the stable. He climbed up a short ladder to the loft.
“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”
He tossed her down into the soft fragrant hay and began to strip off his clothes as he stood over her. “I’m taking you in the hay.”
She burst out laughing and pulled off her shoes, pretending to fling them at him.
He was bare now except for his braies and he turned and untied them, then pulled them off.
She did so love him in that loincloth.
She fumbled with the silver belt, but he bent down and had it off of her before she could blink. He pulled her gown over her head, then knelt back on his heels and looked at her for the longest time.
It made her hot and dewy when he looked at her like that, as if he ate every inch of her with his eyes. He grabbed the hem of her shift and ripped it in two so quickly she gasped and instinctively grabbed at it.
“No,” he told her in the deep husky voice.
Then he leaned down over her and kissed her long and deeply. Her hands stroked down his back and pulled him on top of her. She tugged at the strings of his loincloth, then pull
ed one side free.
He laughed and twisted so he was bare and naked and ready for her. “Touch me,” he breathed into her ear before he tongued inside of it again.
Her hand touched him then, feeling his strange steely length, stroking the tip of him.
It’s too big, she thought, not realizing she had spoken the words aloud until Merrick froze. Then he began to laugh. “Just the words a man wants to hear, woman.”
“I don’t think this is amusing.” She shoved on his shoulders. “Let me see it.”
“Let you see it?” He laughed even harder.
She raised her chin, not liking that he was laughing at her. “’Tis my right. I am your wife.”
He held up a hand while he appeared to be trying very hard to control his stupid male hoots of laughter. Then, biting his lips, he rolled off her and onto his back next to her, giving her a full frontal view of him.
She studied his privy member for the longest time. Finally she looked down between her legs and frowned. “I don’t think so …”
And shaking her head, she began to scoot away.
Chapter 33
“No, you don’t, woman.” Merrick shot across the hay loft and grabbed her by the ankles.
“I’ve changed my mind.” She gave him a serious and direct look.
Her absurd sense of dignity made him want to laugh. “You cannot change your mind.”
“I shall take the veil,” she said with more arrogance than sense.
“Clio,” he said simply, trying not to laugh at her. “You are wed to me.”
“We can have the marriage annulled.”
His first instinct was to bellow that no one, not even the bloody pope, would dare annul his marriage. But he could see that she was truly frightened and not being just female and contrary. There was honest fear in her eyes.
It had been his experience that goading her a little, creating a challenge of some sort, would make her react, usually without thought to fear or sense. He let her stew, then asked her, “Is this the same person speaking who was begging me to take her against the wall of the keep less than half and hour ago?”