At the sudden entrance of Nicholas, Kathryn and Rolf, all activity ceased. The women rose and dropped into deep curtseys.
“Jeanne-Marie, Yvette.” At Nicholas’s call, two women separated themselves from the rest and approached the threesome. “Mesdames, c’est mon epouse, Madame la Duchesse.”
“Madame la Duchesse,” they murmured, curtseying again and touching their foreheads to her outstretched hands before rising to stand before her. “Enchantée, Madame. Bienvenue a notre atelier.” They were dressed in plain gray woolen gowns, covered with white aprons that were stained with various colors of dye.
“Jeanne-Marie and Yvette are from Ypres,” Nicholas explained to Kathryn. “As are nearly all of the women here, although some are from Ghent. They are a guild of master weavers that I brought here to make cloth.” At Kathryn’s questioning glance, he continued. “It seemed ridiculous to me to sell our fine English wool to France and Belgium, only to have to buy it back from them in the form of cloth. ‘Could we not make our own cloth?’ I asked myself. And the answer was, of course we can make our own cloth. So, here we are, making our own cloth.” He turned to Jeanne-Marie. “If you would be so good as to give us a brief explanation of what we are seeing…” He let his voice trail off.
“But, of course, Your Grace,” Jeanne-Marie said, dropping another curtsey. She gave Kathryn a shy smile. “Zees ees ze carding room,” she said in heavily accented English, encompassing the chamber with a wave of her hand. “Zees procedure cleans dirt and debris from ze wool and, ehm…” She rubbed her thumbs and first two fingers rapidly together. “Eh, fluffs ze fibers so we can speen eet eento yarn,” she continued, as she led them through the next chamber, where half a dozen women were seated at spinning wheels. “Wheech ees what zese women are doing.” She paused long enough for Kathryn to marvel at how fine the yarn was that they were producing, before leading them through the next door into a much larger room. “And zees ees where ze yarn ees dyed.”
Around a dozen or so young women, laughing and chattering in French, were busy stirring large bundles of yarn in enormous cauldrons hanging on tripods above open fires. The wooden paddles they used were nearly the size of boat oars. All around the walls, brightly colored skeins of yarn hung dripping and drying from long wooden pegs. “Once ze yarn ees dry, we wash eet,” Jeanne-Marie continued, “mais doucement, vous entendez, ehm…gently…to get reed of ze excess dye. Zen, once eet ees dry, eet gets woven eento cloth.”
When they emerged into the next room, Kathryn gasped. Sunlight streamed into the room through skylights in the ceiling. More women were seated at dozens of looms of varying sizes, weaving cloth of wool and fine linen. The noise was nearly deafening—the clacking of the wooden treadles, the solid thuds of the beater bars, the sibilant hissing of the smooth wooden shuttles, passing so rapidly through the threads of the warp, they were almost invisible.
“Berwick has always been known for the quality of its wool,” Nicholas practically shouted into Kathryn’s ear above the din. “Within the next few years we will also be known for the quality of our cloth. Soon Berwick Cloth will be found in all the finest homes in England.”
Kathryn looked around, in awe of her husband-to-be’s entrepreneurial spirit. Jeanne-Marie and Yvette gave a brief explanation of the types of cloth being woven on the various looms, including two Jacquard looms recently smuggled out of France, where rich crimson damask fabric was being woven from the finest Egyptian cotton.
As Kathryn, Nicholas, and Rolf were preparing to leave, Jeanne-Marie and Yvette presented Kathryn with a deep green woolen mantle, made from cloth woven right there in Weaver’s Lane. The furrier had lined it with the finest beaver pelts, sewn so skillfully the seams were invisible.
Moved beyond measure, Kathryn could barely stammer out her thanks as tears filled her eyes, thickening in her throat. Impulsively, she hugged the two young women, who blushed and ducked their heads modestly.
As they emerged from the weavers’ building, they found their horses waiting for them, held by the grooms. Nicholas boosted Kathryn into the saddle, and the three of them cantered back through the village and up the hill to the castle.
When they arrived at the barbican, there came a shout from the allure atop the outer gate. “Your Grace!”
“Aye, Brendan?”
“Four riders, my lord, approaching the village post-haste.”
Nicholas frowned. “No outriders? No colors?”
“Nay, m’lord. One of them would seem to be Eric Fordyce.”
Nicholas let out the breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding, a look of satisfaction on his face. Finally, praise God. Eric had succeeded in his mission. The Earls Lyndsley and Fairbourne, and the Duke de Brienne had all answered his summons and were here to help. He turned to Kathryn, cupping her cheek with one gloved hand. “Sweetness, go with Rolf back to the keep and await me in the solar. I won’t be long.” He gave her a swift kiss and a reassuring smile.
Swallowing hard, she nodded and spurred Bella forward, followed closely by Rolf on Mester. When they arrived at the Keep, Rolf dismounted quickly, tossing Mester’s reins to a groom as he came around to lift Kathryn from Bella’s back. Their eyes caught and held, and for one long, shimmering moment, they seemed frozen in place, like a tableau, him reaching up, as if in supplication, her leaning forward and reaching down as if in benediction. The look that passed between them was so sizzling, so heated, Kathryn feared the very air would burst into flames.
Then he lifted his hand to palm the side of her face.
She held her breath, carefully not looking at him, trying desperately to ignore the sudden, inexorable longing that swept through her, demanding that she press her cheek into his hand so warm against her face. With great effort, she forced herself not to turn her head and press her lips against his warm palm. Blessed Virgin! I’m going straight to Hell.
She sat there, stock still, eyes closed, not breathing. Her body was quivering, a seething mass of unrealized hungers and needs and feelings she could neither explain nor control, nor deny. Feelings she did not dare express. Feelings that surely did her no credit. Feelings for Rolf.
Her womb clenched, sending more hot juice dripping down her inner thighs, already wet and sticky. Just in time, she managed to prevent a whimper from leaving her throat. This has to stop! This is wrong! But, part of her mind argued with itself, how can it be wrong when it feels so right? How could a loving God be so cruel and capricious as to allow her to be in love with two completely different men, if it wasn’t right?
Oh my God! Her eyes flew open in horror. Her hand flew to her mouth. Oh my God! I’m in love with Rolf! Blessed Virgin, this was far worse than she ever could have imagined. This wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t infatuation. This was love! A love as powerful and all-consuming as the love she had for Nicholas. And no matter how sternly she lectured herself, this was something she was never going to get over, and it was never going to go away. Holy Mary, Mother of God! This was a disaster!
“What is it, yndling?” Rolf asked, frowning up at her, watching the play of emotions cross her face. Tenderly, he brushed one long finger over the curve of her cheek. It tore at his heart to see her looking so…so…lost. “What has thee so overset, min skat?”
She jerked her gaze to his, unable to hide her agony. “I—” Stunned into silence, she simply stared at him, her thoughts in total chaos. How on earth could she possibly explain this to him, when she didn’t even understand it herself? And how on earth was she ever going to explain it to Nicholas? Nicholas, the love of her life. Nicholas, without whom she would shrivel up and die. Nicholas, whom she loved from the bottom of her heart, from the depths of her soul.
Exactly the same way she loved Rolf!
Oh. My. God!
All of a sudden it was difficult to breathe. Her lungs were heaving, in a desperate attempt to pull in enough air to keep her from suffocating. How can this be? I’m in love with two men! Blessed Virgin, I am certainly going straight to Hell!<
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“Come, yndling,” Rolf murmured, the blue of his eyes so dark and deep, she feared she would drown in them, “I will see thee safely inside.”
Bracing herself mentally, she leaned forward and placed her hands on his broad shoulders, trusting him with her weight as his large hands spanned her ribcage just beneath her breasts and he pulled her down out of the saddle and set her on the ground in front of him. For one brief, heart-stopping moment, his hands tightened and she feared he would pull her into an embrace. An embrace she knew she must resist. He released her and her knees sagged.
The tall, lanky Dane reached out to steady her, then, changing his mind, he lifted her up in his arms. Just in time, he stopped himself from bending his head and kissing her on the lips. By all the gods! She felt so good in his arms. So right. He wanted to twirl her around and kiss her breathless until they were both dizzy and laughing helplessly.
“Rolf!” she cried, holding her body stiff as she pushed against his shoulders. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “People are watching! Put me down at once!”
“Nay, min skat.” His laugh was pure magic. “Thou dost feel too good. I may just carry thee around for the rest of the day.” Nay, not just the rest of the day. The rest of my life.
Then, putting thought to action, he did twirl her around and her resistance drained away. Her arms crept up around his neck and she buried her face in the curve of his leather-clad shoulder, inhaling deeply with a sigh of contentment. Blessed Virgin, he smells so good—tangy and spicy…like horses…and leather…and man. I wonder what his cock would taste like. Her womb clenched, spilling hot cream out onto her thighs. Merciful Mother of God, where had that thought come from?
Deeply ashamed, she felt the heat scorching her cheeks. Guilt swamped her, putting urgency into her voice. “Rolf.” She pushed against his shoulders a little more forcefully. “Rolf, have you taken leave of your senses? Put me down.”
Swiftly, almost abruptly, he did, stepping back and gesturing for her to precede him away from the horses and into the great hall. Head high, back stiff, she swiftly crossed the rush-covered stone floor.
As soon as she entered the solar, she whirled to face him, only to discover that he was no longer behind her, leaving her alone in the chamber, feeling indignant and frustrated and…incomplete. Without even bothering to remove her cloak, she sank down on the edge of the bed and gave in to the tears that had been threatening, weeping silently into the hands she lifted to cover her face.
By the blessed Virgin, whatever is the matter with me? How can I possibly be having these feelings for Rolf? I’m in love with Nicholas! I’m marrying him in two days, for mercy’s sake. ’Tis madness to be mooning about over another man like this. ’Tis wrong, completely wrong. I must, I simply must push Rolf from my mind. Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. Pushing him from her mind would be the easy part. Pushing him from her heart…well, that was another matter altogether.
* * * *
Not giving Kathryn a chance to be overwhelmed by the addition of three distinguished guests to the high table at dinner that night, Nicholas didn’t tell her about them until they entered the great hall and she saw them standing there. She nearly stopped, but Nicholas’s fingertips against the small of her back kept her moving forward. “Lady Kathryn,” he murmured as they approached the first man, “may I introduce Morgan Fordyce, Eric and Jamie’s father, the Earl of Lyndsley.” The elder Fordyce bowed low over her hand. “’Tis a pleasure, my lady. My son Eric could not stop talking about you on the journey here,” he said as he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “And now that I’ve met you, I can see he was not exaggerating.”
Blushing furiously, Kathryn stole a glance up at Nicholas, who was smiling at her indulgently. “You are too kind, my lord,” she murmured as the next man, Peter Bonhomme, the Earl of Fairbourne greeted her with the same gracious gesture, a brush of the lips across the back of her hand. Then it was Arthur Montague’s turn. The Duke de Brienne closed his large hands around her upper arms and pressed a kiss against each cheek.
Nicholas gave a thin-lipped smile. “Gentlemen, may I introduce Lady Kathryn Weston, Carrolton’s daughter.”
“Carrolton! He has a daughter? I didn’t know he had a daughter? Did you know he had a daughter?” The three men spoke in unison, looking from one to the other, shrugging their shoulders and spreading their hands in bewilderment.
Then Arthur Montague punched Nicholas on the shoulder, a blow that would have felled a lesser man. “Herron, you sly dog, where did you find this lovely lady?”
“I found her in my forest,” Nicholas replied baldly, “hiding from the man who nearly beat her to death.”
The three men gasped. “The hell you say!” Montague exclaimed.
“The truth I say,” Nicholas countered with a thrust of his chin.
“Her husband?” Morgan Fordyce asked, aghast.
“I am her husband,” Nicholas announced.
“You!” Three jaws dropped as this bit of information was absorbed in the shocked silence that followed.
“Aye. At least I will be in two days’ time. I realize this is short notice, but you are all welcome to stay for the wedding festivities. I can send riders to your homes to fetch your wives and anyone who might be interested in participating in the archery contest I have planned for Sunday.”
“Is that why you have summoned us here so urgently?” the Duke de Brienne asked, bristling. “To attend a wedding? And an archery contest?”
“Nay, my lords.” Nicholas shook his head, a sly smile on his lips. “To plan a funeral.”
“Faugh! You speak in riddles,” the Duke said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I have no time for games, Herron. Why are we here?”
Nicholas stroked his goatee thoughtfully before answering. “All in good time, Arthur. Meanwhile, the three of you must surely be tired and hungry after your long journey. I suggest we all go in for the evening meal. We can discuss business on the morrow, after we’ve all had a good night’s sleep.”
After a brief consultation, the three visitors agreed to stay and have their wives and families sent for, although the Duke de Brienne doubted his wife would agree to make the journey. Nicholas selected six of his knights and ordered them to leave immediately after supper, traveling in pairs. He then sent Roger de Vries, his household steward, to prepare graciously worded invitations to the three wives, apologizing for the last-minute nature of the notice, but hoping they would grace the wedding festivities with their presence.
After several rounds of toasts, dinner was served with appropriate pomp and ceremony, including sprightly music from the minstrel’s gallery and witty banter from Nicholas and Rolf that kept the mood light and the guests laughing.
Chapter Eight
“That went well, don’t you think?” Nicholas and Rolf stood side by side in the dim hallway, lit only by flickering torches, watching Ellen escort the three noble visitors to their chambers for the night. They waited until the light from the old woman’s candelabra disappeared around the corner before heaving a sigh of relief. Without so much as turning to look at his companion, Nicholas said, “What is troubling you, Rolf? I can feel how tense you are. And, pray, don’t tell me ‘naught,’ for I know that to be a lie.”
“I’m leaving, Nick.”
Nicholas was struck speechless. He simply looked at his best friend, his mouth open, unable to form a coherent sentence. Of all the things he had envisioned Rolf saying, this was definitely not it.
Rolf shrugged his shoulders diffidently. “Oh, I’ll stay until this business with Walford is settled. Thou knowest I would never leave thee in the lurch like that. But after it’s over, I’ll be gone.” His expression was bleak, resolute.
Nicholas stared at his best friend. “It’s Kathryn, isn’t it?”
Rolf shook his head.
“Isn’t it?” Nicholas demanded.
Rolf just sighed and looked down at his feet, but stubbornly refused to speak.
&nbs
p; “How can you leave her?” Nicholas demanded.
Rolf shot him a look. “How can I not?”
Nicholas gave him a considering look. “She loves you, you know,” he said quietly.
“Nay, she loves thee.” He shook his head, then let out a sigh. “She’ll get over it.”
“She’ll be hurt.”
“She’s your wife, Nick. Or she will be in two days’ time. Your wife! ’Tis bad enough that I’m in love with her. How can thou possibly ask me to stay and watch the two of ye? Watch how happy thou art? Watch thee touching her? Kissing her—?” His voice was abruptly choked off as he was swept by a tide of immense longing.
“But that’s just it,” Nicholas said urgently. “You don’t have to watch. You can be part of it. Part of us.”
“Nay, Nick,” Rolf shook his head vehemently. “She’s not like our other women. She’s no whore, for us to use and fuck and forget.”
“Nay,” Nicholas agreed, “she’s not. “She is a woman who loves deeply. She has the most generous spirit of anyone I’ve ever known. She’s also the most sexually responsive woman I’ve ever known. She has enough love for both of us. If you would just let me ask her—”
“Nay!” Furious, Rolf had to clench his hands at his sides to keep from striking his best friend. “Thou wilt say naught to her!”
Nicholas sighed, hanging on to his patience with both hands. “Rolf. We have been brothers—nay, closer than brothers—for over five years. I cannot just let you just walk away. I love you too much.”
“Thou must, Nick. I love thee more than anyone I’ve ever known—except for her. But I refuse to come between a man and his wife.”
“You wouldn’t be coming between us,” Nicholas argued. “Have you not been listening to aught I’ve said? You would be uniting us—all of us. You would be completing us. As much as I love her, there’s a part of me that knows something is missing. I think she feels it, too. That something is you. She has healed my soul, Rolf. She can heal yours, too, if you would but let her.”
Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 19