Desire

by Amanda Quick

  7

  The silvery fog that shrouded Desire on the morning of Clare’s wedding was seen as an ill omen by virtually everyone on the isle. The murmurs of concern began among the small group of female servants who helped Clare bathe and dress.

  “The recluse said this day would be dimmed by cold smoke from the fires of hell,” one of the women muttered. “She was right.”

  “‘Tis merely a bit of fog,” Clare said. “It will be gone by midmorning.” She stood patiently while her best gown, a vibrant blue-green in hue, was slipped over her head. The long, deep sleeves of the dress were turned back to reveal the brilliant yellow lining. The neck and hem were embroidered in yellow and white silk thread.

  “I trust my lady is correct.” Eunice had been a serving maid in the household since the days of Clare’s infancy. She did not hesitate to voice her opinion. She adjusted a silver circlet around Clare’s hair, anchoring the delicate gold net in place.

  “All will be well, Eunice.”

  “Do not be so certain, my lady. Everyone knows how ye threatened to deny the Hellhound his rights in the bedchamber. I warrant he’ll not tolerate such defiance. I fear for yer very life.”

  “If you are referring to our small argument yesterday morning, calm yourself,” Clare said airily. “My threat was spoken in the heat of anger. I intend to accept Sir Gareth as my husband just as I have accepted him as lord of this manor. I have already told him as much.”

  “Saints be praised.” Eunice sighed with relief. “Everyone on the isle will be well pleased to learn that, madam. ‘Tis for the best, y’ll see.”

  “That’s what Sir Gareth says,” Clare said dryly.

  “Now, then.” Eunice cleared her throat. She glanced quickly to the left and then to the right, apparently assuring herself that the other servants were busy delving into the carved chest on the far side of the chamber. She leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Just in case there is a bit of a problem tonight, I want ye to take this.”

  Clare glanced down at the tiny, cloth-wrapped object Eunice thrust into her hand. “What is it?”

  “Hush, not so loud. ‘Tis a small vial of chicken blood.”

  “Oh, no, not you, too, Eunice.”

  “There, now, not another word, madam. ‘Tis neither here nor there, as far as I’m concerned. What’s done is done, and it weren’t yer fault, whether the man was Sir Nicholas or that grand knight ye lost yer heart to last year.”

  “But Eunice—”

  “The thing is, men as proud as the Hellhound tend to get fair exercised about this sort of thing. A man such as he will want to be assured that his lady’s honor is as unstained as his own.”

  “An interesting thought.” Clare grinned. “Mayhap I should make a speech at the feast to assure everyone that I shall go to my marriage bed at least as virginal as my husband.”

  “’Tis nay a matter for jest,” Eunice grumbled. “Just promise me y’ll keep the chicken blood close to hand tonight. Sprinkle a bit on the sheets afore morning and all will be well.”

  “I must remember to ask Sir Gareth how he intends to prove his virginity to me.”

  Unfortunately, the gray mist did not evaporate by the time the wedding ceremony took place. Clare felt the chill through her wool cloak as she rode her palfrey slowly through the crowded street.

  She head the murmurs on all sides and knew that Beatrice’s prediction of disaster had spread far and wide. Every villager, every fanner, every member of the convent had heard it.

  “Smoke from the fires that burn in hell….”

  “They say the mist is the color of the crystal stone in the Window of Hell”

  “The same color as the Hellhound’s eyes. ‘Tis an ill omen”

  “Our lady should never have defied him” Alice the brewer crossed herself as Clare rode past. “I pray he will not murder her in her bed tonight”

  Clare ignored the comments. She kept her eyes on the church door, where Gareth waited for her. He had ridden to the church ahead of her, accompanied by all of his men in a grand procession that had impressed the villagers.

  He was good at that sort of thing, she reflected. He knew how to make his presence felt. Gareth could alarm or intimidate or amaze at will. He was adept at the extravagant, very calculated gesture when it suited him.

  In spite of the chill in the air, Clare’s palms grew damp on the palfrey’s reins. She met Gareth’s solemn, watchful gaze and prayed that she had done the right thing when she had chosen him as lord of Desire. Her future and the future of her people hung in the balance.

  Gareth did not take his eyes off her as she rode forward to meet him. When she brought the palfrey to a halt, he dismounted and walked toward her.

  His massive hands were strong and sure around her waist as he lifted Clare down from the saddle. Without a word he led her to the church door, where the priest waited.

  Clare took a deep breath and prepared to say the vows that would forever link her fortunes and the fortunes of Desire with those of the Hellhound.

  An hour later, in front of the large crowd that had assembled in the great hall, Ulrich opened a massive chest. He lifted out the contents with an air of solemn ceremony. A shimmering rainbow of silks spilled from his hands.

  The throng gasped appreciatively.

  “My lord’s gifts to his esteemed bride,” Ulrich announced in ringing tones.

  One by one he held aloft long, lustrous lengths of rich fabric from the East. Bolts of crimson silk shot through with gold and silver threads were unwrapped and displayed. Lengths of green silk as dark in hue as precious emeralds appeared. Yellows and oranges the shade of brilliant sunsets streamed forth from the chest. The variety and colors of the exquisite materials seemed unending.

  The villagers roundly cheered their approval as they inspected the Hellhound’s costly bride gifts.

  Everyone was duly impressed. The oohs and aahs cascaded through the hall. Neighbor murmured to neighbor in tones of deep satisfaction. It was clear to one and all that their lady had chosen a wealthy lord.

  And apparently a generous one.

  The silks were followed by casks of valuable spices. Saffron, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, cumin, and pepper were presented. Again the crowd roared its appreciation of the respect their new lord was showing to their beloved lady.

  Clare listened to the comments of her people. They were well pleased. The villagers knew that their lord’s wealth reflected directly on the entire Isle of Desire. The inhabitants would be bathed in the glow of his prestige and power.

  On a more practical level, Gareth’s personal wealth was insurance that people would continue to prosper under his governance.

  “A bastard born, yet he has won great riches for himself by his own hand,” John Blacksmith said to a farmer. “’Tis a good sign.”

  “Aye.” The farmer bobbed his head sagely. “He’ll take good care of these lands. Lady Clare chose well.”

  John chuckled. “‘Tis not clear who did the choosing. If you ask me, Lord Gareth took a hand in making her decision for her.”

  Clare wrinkled her nose, but she gave no other indication that she had overheard the remark. She was not entirely certain she could refute it.

  When Gareth’s gifts to his bride had all been properly displayed and suitably admired, yet another chest was brought forward. New murmurs of excitement rippled through the crowd. When the second chest was opened, a great pile of coins was revealed.

  The cries of wonder turned to whoops of delight when it became clear that the coins were to be handed out to the villagers.

  “Your husband, it would seem, does not come to this marriage a pauper,” Prioress Margaret observed quietly. She stood next to Clare and watched as Gareth’s men handed out a coin to everyone in the manor.

  “Aye, he brings the wealth he earned as the Hellhound of Wyckmere,” Clare said. “And he does not mind displaying it, does he?”

  “A great lord must display his wealth and power. How else
will people know of it?”

  Clare sighed. “He had money enough before he married me. But he did not have lands.”

  “Now he has those, too.” Margaret looked at her. “Are you content with this marriage, my daughter?”

  “‘Tis done,” Clare said quietly. “There is no point in debating the matter now.”

  “‘Tis not quite done. There is still the business of your wedding night.”

  “As to that, I assure you I have everything in hand.”

  Margaret cleared her throat. “There is gossip that you lost your temper with your new lord yesterday morn and threatened to deny him his husbandly privileges tonight.”

  “‘Twas a foolish challenge,” Clare said distantly. “He made me very angry and I made certain statements which I have since withdrawn.”

  “I am pleased to hear that. You are a woman of strong passions. You do not always govern your emotions as well as you govern your lands. Now that you are a married woman, you must exert more control over yourself.”

  “Aye, my lady.” She could do without an admonishing speech on the importance of self-mastery today, Clare thought glumly. She had enough weighing on her mind as it was.

  “You must guard your temper whenever you are in your husband’s presence,” Margaret continued. “‘Tis obvious that Sir Gareth is not a man who will tolerate defiance in his wife.”

  “I have already heard this lecture. Why is it that everyone else seems to think she knows more about managing Lord Gareth than I do?”

  “Mayhap because the rest of us are older and wiser. Heed me, my child. If you would manage your lord, you must do so with a gentle tongue and a woman’s clever ways.”

  “Very well, madam. I shall heed your advice. You need not alarm yourself about my safety tonight. When the time comes, I shall welcome my lord into my bedchamber.”

  Margaret smiled complacently. “Marriage is difficult enough without starting it off by offending your lord on your wedding night. And since we are speaking of making a good beginning, I may as well give you this now before I forget.”

  Clare glanced down as Margaret removed a small, carefully wrapped bundle from a pouch that hung from the girdle of her habit. “A gift, madam? How kind of you. What is it?”

  “A small vial of chicken blood.”

  Clare choked back laughter. “I vow, I am going to be awash in the stuff.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are not the first one to give me such a thoughtful gift.” Clare stuffed the small packet into the little woven pouch on her own girdle. “I thank you, madam. I shall add it to my collection.”

  “Keep one of the vials close by tonight. Sprinkle a bit on the sheets before your lord awakes and all will be well.”

  “What would you say, madam, if I were to tell you that such a precaution is unnecessary?”

  “As to that, I make no comment,” Margaret said briskly. “You are a woman, not a young girl. You have carried out a woman’s duties and responsibilities here on this manor since you were twelve years old. I am well aware of your feelings for Raymond de Coleville and as far as I am concerned, whatever transpired between the two of you is your affair.”

  “Thank you,” Clare said. “But in truth, Raymond was a most chivalrous knight. He and I—”

  Margaret held up a hand to stop the tale. “As I said, the matter of your virginity is your business and yours alone. But husbands, especially knights as proud as Sir Gareth, seldom see such matters in that light.”

  “I disagree. I think they are quite capable of overlooking such small details when a woman’s dowry is sufficiently large.”

  “Heed me well, my daughter. Men, even the more intelligent among them, as I believe Lord Gareth to be, are fundamentally simple creatures.”

  “So?”

  “So, as long as they believe honor is satisfied, they are inclined to be generous and chivalrous, especially to a new bride. I would have you give your husband the gift that will content him most on his wedding night so that you, in turn, will find contentment in your marriage on the morrow.”

  Clare patted the new vial of blood that was safely stored in her girdle purse. “I must remember to say a prayer for all those noble chickens that have died for my honor this day.”

  “You’ll be eating some of them at the banquet.”

  The feasting began shortly before noon and carried on without pause throughout the afternoon and long into the night. Everyone on the isle was invited, from the poorest laborer to the plumpest farmer. Even the nuns of Saint Hermione’s partook of the extravagant array of food and ale along with everyone else.

  Although she had given orders to spare no expense, Clare was impressed, in spite of herself, with what Eadgar and the household servants had accomplished in such a short period of time. Elaborate preserves of turnips and carrots flavored with mustard seed were sent to the tables. Stuffed ducks, fragrant pottages, broiled fish, and honeyed chicken and pork tarts were carried to the hall in a constant stream from the kitchens.

  The celebration took on the boisterous mood of a fair. Children played games in the courtyard. Men told ribald jokes. Dallan entertained everyone with his tabor, flute, and harp. William helped himself to a bite from every serving plate in sight.

  The ominous fog which gripped the isle was forgotten as the river of ale and wine took effect. The main hall was crammed with people who drank toast after toast to the bride and groom at the head table.

  Out in the courtyard tables had been set up to feed those who could not be squeezed inside the hall. Braziers warded off the chill in the air.

  As the night deepened, the fire in the central hall threw a warm, golden glow over the raucous scene. Although she was seated next to him, the noise and merriment made it nearly impossible for Clare to engage in conversation with her new husband. She was, however, intensely aware of his gaze sliding intimately over her from time to time.

  The water clock at the far end of the hall had just marked the hour before midnight when Joanna caught Clare’s eye. It was time to go upstairs to the bridal chamber.

  For no apparent reason, Clare’s fingers suddenly trembled as she gripped her goblet. She put her unfinished wine down very slowly and looked at Gareth.

  He leaned toward her so that she would be able to hear him. “I comprehend that it is time for my bride to leave the hall?”

  “Aye, so it would seem.” Clare did not care for the inexplicable attack of unease that had just assailed her. There was nothing to fear tonight, she reminded herself, no reason to shiver in anticipation or dread. Nothing at all was going to happen. She had made her position clear to Gareth yesterday. He had not argued or raised an objection.

  They had an understanding. They would become friends before they became lovers.

  Lovers. The word sang in Clare’s head. She recalled the one kiss Gareth had given her and grew warm all over.

  Gareth rose to his feet. The laughter and the loud conversation ceased abruptly. A hush claimed the crowd as all eyes turned toward the head table.

  Clare knew that everyone in the hall was waiting to see what would happen next. It was time for her to carry out her end of the bargain that she had struck with Gareth. She must go to the bridal chamber with the air of a willing, welcoming bride.

  Gareth lifted his silver goblet and looked down at Clare. His gaze was brilliant and intent. Clare swallowed. Her smile felt shaky.

  Friends first. Then lovers.

  She could trust the Hellhound, she told herself. He would keep his end of the bargain.

  “I drink a toast to my fair and lovely bride,” Gareth said into the taut silence. He took a deep sip from the goblet.

  Cheers rang through the hall. The boisterous crowd pounded tankards on the tables.

  Gareth set his goblet down and drew the Window of Hell from its scabbard. The steel flashed in the firelight as he held the blade aloft just as he had the day of his arrival. A murmur of excitement rippled through the hall.

 
; “I am a fortunate man, for I have wed a most gracious lady.” Gareth’s voice carried to the farthest corner of the large chamber.

  A shout of agreement went up from the audience. Clare smiled wryly. The Hellhound really was very good at making the grand gesture.

  “Hear me, good people of Desire,” Gareth said. “Listen well, for I would have all those present here tonight witness that I give this sword, which had never been stained with dishonor, once more into the hands of my lady. This I do as a symbol of regard for her. She is now my wife. She holds my honor in her hands even as she holds my sword.”

  “Aye, aye”

  Another round of enthusiastic shouts and yells echoed from the stone walls, the revelers slamming tankards and knife butts against the tables.

  Gareth reversed the blade and presented the sword, hilt first, to Clare. “Know that I am well pleased in my wife.”

  The thundering yells of approval made it impossible for Clare to say a word. She did not know if she would have been able to speak had the hall been empty.

  For some reason, Gareth’s extravagantly chivalrous gesture, though she knew it to be carefully calculated for the effect it would have on the crowd, brought tears to her eyes.

  She took the heavy, crystal-pommeled sword from his hand and rose to her feet.

  Once more the hall fell silent in anticipation. Clare drew a deep breath and prepared to make a formal gesture of her own.

  She nodded at William, who immediately came forward down the aisle between a row of trestle tables. He carried a large bunch of dried flowers and herbs.

  “My lord,” Clare said, “in exchange for the honor and strength that you bring to us this day, I give into your safekeeping the source of the prosperity of our fair isle.”

  William went down on one knee and handed the fragrant sheaf of dried lavender, rosemary, roses, and mugwort to Clare. She took it from his hand and gave the ribbon-tied bundle to Gareth.

  Gareth looked down at the sheaf of flowers and herbs that were symbolic of the perfumed isle. When he raised his eyes, Clare was stunned by the fierceness of his gaze.