Norman's Captive

by Ling, Maria

  Which maybe told him that taking a mistress along was the answer. He'd picked up girls as he went, there were always some available for a tumble, especially if he won his bouts. They all loved a victor, not so much a beaten man who'd lost both horse and armour. That was part cause of Guillaume's snarling, too, no doubt. Though he should learn from Geoffrey, who'd mastered the look of noble suffering to the point that girls swarmed around him whenever he lost. Which hadn't made him waver, not yet, though he sometimes looked a little forlorn in victory.

  Roland shook himself. He missed it already, and they'd only left a week since. But he could see Leofe riding alongside him to the next one, she'd been more comfortable on that pony than he'd feared. And her sister, eh, they could drop her at some convent on the way, or maybe Geoffrey would charm her if his taste ran to English girls. Roland hadn't seen him with one, couldn't hazard a guess, though he'd never heard him ask after a girl's parentage either. Unlike Guillaume, who could always recite the descent of each of his tumbles at least five generations back. Obsessed, the man was. And foul-tempered, too.

  Leofe shifted on the bed. Roland realised he'd been staring out the window again, well, he didn't want to make her uncomfortable. But he watched her now, as she got up, a little uncertainly, looked around as if for something to do. Or for a piss, he realised, as she pulled the pot from under the bed. He could turn his back on her for that. Did so, watched the movements of crows as if they held some great fascination for him, turned over the notion of a travelling mistress in his mind. An English mistress, he didn't know how Geoffrey and Guillaume would take to that, having her alongside them. Though they hadn't raised much objection as yet.

  He'd have a friendly word. See if it bothered them. Offer the sister, if either of them cared to take a shot. And if she could be settled enough to make an honest choice. Let Leofe handle that, maybe -- or Alice, he could talk to her without the barrier of language, and she knew what was involved, better than these two. So he guessed, at any rate, from Leofe's clumsy attempt at seduction.

  Which made him smile, now. She'd tried her best, poor girl. And she'd followed willingly enough where he led, she'd be easy to train to his own tastes. Which was itself a seductive thought. He'd never had that, he reflected, someone who knew him beyond a few days, knew what he wanted and how. Never known how to give that, either, it was all discovery on both sides, which was fun, certainly, he had no complaints, but even so --

  She made his mind run along strange paths, Leofe did, new paths, untrodden by him.

  She came up to him now, he could hear her light step behind him. Felt her hesitation, she stood within reach, he could turn around and take her into his arms. But he wasn't going to, had no reason to rush her and no will to do so either. Let her relax by stages, understand that he wasn't a brute like the men she was used to, for all he fought his way through life. Fought against men, armed and trained like himself, not children and women with neither weapons nor skill. Only a coward would do that, and cowardice was a crime no one had ever accused him of. The only charge he'd resent, too.

  Leofe took a step closer, he could sense the warmth of her body near his back. Then she laid her hands very lightly on his shoulders.

  He turned then, as if startled, smiled up at her. Drew her down onto his lap, she came willingly and with ease, no fear waited in her eyes. The sleep had done her good, she looked calmer, refreshed, though her battered face tinged purple and the scabs lay dark against tanned skin.

  He kissed her forehead and her temple and her hair, stroked her arm, held her gently. Just to let her get used to his touch, or so he told himself, she might not know what a caress could be. She settled against his chest, her head leaning against his shoulder, and she watched the open countryside as if striving to see whatever he saw.

  He wished he could talk to her. Though he didn't have much to say. What there was between them, must be settled by touch. Hers and his, he'd let her lead the way. Time was on his side.

  Although he could probably hurry things along a little, if she was that way inclined.

  A quiet knock on the door came to his rescue. Alice poked her head in.

  "I have a small meal ready downstairs," she said. "If you care to come."

  Leofe rose, waited, looked to him for guidance. Alice spoke again, in English this time, Roland listened hard and thought he caught the word for bread. Which was progress, of a kind. With daily and diligent practice, he might converse with Leofe about Flanders meals. For what good that would do him. No, he was better off teaching her French, despite her painful mangling of his beautiful mother tongue.

  ***

  "You looked comfortable together," Alice said. "Afterwards. I always think that's a measure of any relationship."

  "What?" Leofe blinked at her. They'd stood outside the house to watch the men ride away, gone back inside to clear away the remainder of the meal. Settled to embroidery, in Alice's case -- she laid fine dense stitches along lines drawn by her maid on thin linen, Leofe watched with awe and wonder over her own crude mending. To basic stitching, in her sister's case, basting together the pieces of a shift. She made a terrible job of it, too, Leofe decided to unpick it all at the first opportunity and remake it herself. Her sister was usually a competent seamstress, Leofe didn't know what had unsettled her so -- unless it was the effects of shock, a reaction to a day both terrible and terrifying.

  "After a fuck," Alice said, with simple honesty. "Anyone can take a tumble with anyone, pretty much. And before, well, if you're both excited, there's a tension there that's -- " She broke off with a small private smile. "But afterwards, when you're both relaxed, that's when you take the true measure of things. I thought the two of you looked good together."

  "We didn't," Leofe said, blushing, urgent to secure her innocence, embarrassed to admit her incompetent attempt at seduction. It hadn't worked, either, he'd left her to sleep, returned afterwards, let her alone. Just sat by the window and waited -- for something, for her maybe, she liked to imagine that it might have been that. "We didn't, er, well." She couldn't spit the word out, certainly not with Alice's negligent ease.

  "Oh," Alice said. "I see. Well, there's rags and padding if you need it. I'll make sure you get plenty of water carried up."

  "What?" Leofe repeated, dumbfounded.

  "If you're bleeding," Alice said, with that fearless innocence. "You'll want to stay as fresh as you can. Though I'm surprised Roland balked at that. Henry never does."

  "I don't want to hear this," Ymma said.

  "You should," Alice replied. "I imagine Roland will turn you over to one of his companions. If he's pleased with your sister, that is. You'd best learn all you can."

  "That's disgusting," Ymma said, then winced at their stares. "Um. I mean...wrong? Anyway, I don't want to...well." She glanced around in obvious desperation. "Your groom was very kind."

  "My -- " Alice's forehead creased with the exertion of thought -- "groom?"

  Her maid slipped out a long continuous stream of sounds. Leofe wondered what could be so significant that it mustn't be spoken in English.

  "Oh," Alice said. "Really? Well, he's a good man. At least I believe so. One of Henry's. But I really think you can do better, dear." She studied Ymma. "Mind you, being English -- " She gave a slight, hopeless shrug.

  "I'm English, too," Leofe pointed out, as mildly as she could.

  "True," Alice admitted. "But Roland doesn't seem to mind. It's sweet that he's so particular. That won't last, believe you me. But for now, I'd say it's a good sign. Just be sure to make it up to him once you're clean."

  Leofe gave up. She could explain, but really she felt embarrassed enough as it was. "I'm not very experienced," she admitted. "Actually, not experienced at all. What should I be doing?"

  "Oh, just let him lead," Alice said. "Men like to. It helps them imagine they're in command."

  "I will." She could do that, easy enough, it wasn't as if she had any ideas of her own.

  "And pretend to enjoy it
, even if you don't," Alice said. "It reassures them. Only not too much, or they'll get frightened. They're delicate creatures, men."

  "Really?" Leofe hadn't had much experience of that, either.

  "In their feelings, I mean," Alice said. "Their pride is so easily dented, poor things. It's why they have to strut around all the time and convince themselves they're important. Just, you know. Be amenable to whatever he suggests. A little reluctant at first, that's quite acceptable, he'll enjoy bringing you around. At least Henry does."

  "God," Ymma said, and slammed her hands over her ears.

  "They're coming back tomorrow," Alice said. "See if he's bolder then." She gave Ymma an uncertain look. "I don't really encourage flirtation among my staff. But since you are a guest -- "

  "She won't," Leofe said with a glare at her sister. "We're not that sort of -- well, at least we weren't."

  "Don't worry," Alice said. "I wasn't, either. It gets a lot easier after a while."

  ***

  The men arrived in the early afternoon, once Leofe and her sister had helped Alice and her maid -- Cecile -- to clear away dinner. This time they all knew where to go and what to expect, so Leofe found herself alone with Roland in short order, braced for whatever he wished to do with her. Which turned out to be a game of sorts, chess, that Alice had taught her that morning. Henry's favourite, apparently.

  She couldn't understand him. Unless -- she touched her face -- perhaps she was so disfigured he could not bring herself to take her into bed. Though it hadn't stopped him kissing her the day before. And why he would keep her, when she was clearly of no earthly use to him, she could not fathom.

  But he wished to play, so she did her best, and learned some new words from him too. At least one of which she suspected, from his tone as he uttered it, that she ought not to repeat. Of course, that was the one that best stuck in her mind. But she let him take her hand and replace the piece, and make some other move that she didn't see any better use for. His touch was gentle, she could imagine he'd be gentle in other ways too.

  She felt much better today, Alice's scented water and pale creams were taking effect. She'd slept well and deeply during the night, untroubled by dreams. Woken disoriented in the morning, in a room peaceful and fresh, and found bread -- and the acid water they liked to drink, she'd have to get used to it too -- set out on a small table near her bed. Ymma, she'd learned later, slept in the hall with Cecile.

  So she was rested, and mended, and could face the possibility of becoming Roland's whore with something approaching equanimity. She'd expected to weep at memory of yesterday's events, but they seemed distant now, remote and colourless, like mist-wrapped hills. What was here, was real. This room, with its wooden floor and clean linen and large windows overlooking the fields. This man, so strangely careful with her, frowning now over a board that made little sense to her eyes.

  He made his move at last, waited for her to reply. Turned dark curious eyes on her as she sat there, still, and watched him.

  "You," he said, and pointed.

  "I know." Even a faint smile hurt, so she withdrew it. But she found she liked just to sit here, looking at him.

  A handsome man, despite the dark hair and eyes. Mobile lips, expressive, and so delicate against her own. Fiercely strong hands that could yet soften into the most feathery caress. And the way he watched her, intently, but without hostility. She'd been waiting for that, she realised, for the sudden change into hatred and contempt. But it didn't come. Perhaps it would never come. Though her mind toppled at that thought, she wasn't ready to handle such a possibility. A man who neither hated nor loathed her, who didn't want to see her hurt. She couldn't imagine such a thing, though her mind groped for the shape of it. An angel's shape, she thought, if such creatures ruled in Heaven then it might be a place she could wish to be.

  He reached out, slowly, took her hand in his. Guided it to the board, hesitated. Just sat there, with his fingers wrapped around her own.

  Then rose, still slowly, and raised her up with him. Drew her close to himself, leaned down as if to kiss her lips, changed his mind. Touched his mouth to the side of her neck instead, down to the angle with her shoulder. Sudden pleasure ran through her then, so intense that she gave a small cry.

  She slid her hands up his back and pulled him tight to her, willed him to do it again. But he didn't, just smiled against her skin, she could feel the easy curve of his mouth. Then he released her, grinned down at her, as if he knew a secret joke he wouldn't tell.

  "Yes," she said, both thrilled and appalled to hear so definite a demand issue from herself.

  "No." He sat down again, nudged the board. "You."

  Oh, she thought, he was cruel, this one. But not vicious, not violent. Not mocking, even -- she searched his eyes for any hint of contempt, but found none. Just a light that made her grin back at him and bear the pain, and shiver in anticipation. Because it wouldn't be now, after all, not today, not until he was certain of something -- until she'd proved something to him. Maybe.

  And it was better, she thought, it was best that it shouldn't be now. She wanted it, with a strength that shocked her. But her face hurt, her crotch hurt, for all Alice's infusions and salves. It was better to wait.

  She sat down, composed herself as well as she could manage, made her move. Glanced up to see him still watching her, with such a look as she'd imagine between angels. A hint of it, maybe, she'd caught in Alice's eyes, when Henry took his leave.

  Though she didn't want Roland to leave. She'd go with him, wherever he went, if he allowed it. Henry had said they were to stay for two or three weeks, what Roland's plans were after that she did not know. Back to his own castle perhaps, and she might come with him. Unless, she thought with sudden fear, he had his own mistress already established in a house like this, somewhere, and wanted only a tumble -- as Alice called it -- with a peasant girl before he was on his way.

  The thought chilled her, wiped the smile from her face. Roland's dimmed in response, he frowned, reached out and touched her hand. "Bien?" he asked.

  Which she could guess what it meant, from the way he'd used it before. "Yes," she said, and nodded. "I'm fine." Which she was, she could hardly tell him her thoughts even if he understood them. Because she realised, with startled horror at her own presumption, what she was asking of him. Or would ask, if he could understand. To be a lady, the equal of a Norman woman, to be set up like this in infinite luxury, whole rooms to herself and more food than she'd ever seen on one table. Clothes she would have dreamed of, had she ever thought such soft fabrics and vivid colours possible. A bed of her own, large and soft and warm. She'd never imagined a life like this, never known such things existed. And here she was, on the brink of asking -- of demanding -- that they were to be hers.

  Just as well she spoke no French, and he no English. He might hang her for the presumption alone.

  She made her move, braced herself against his faint sigh and shake of the head, let him correct her. Over and over, until she began to anticipate what his response would be, what he wished her to do instead. Eventually she found that his sighs lessened, that he ceased to take her hand and make it correct her moves. She thought then that she had it, that she was playing well. Until he vanquished her, with something of a flourish and the faintest of smiles.

  Well, at least he wasn't displeased with her. When Alice's knock came, he led her down the stairs with her arm drawn comfortably into the crook of his, seated her at the table with himself beside her, clicked his tongue at her as she began to eat. Showed her, with the same painstaking care, how he wished her to share the bread and meat set out before them, how to drink of the terrible brew. Wine, Alice called it. Leofe obediently repeated the word in both English and French, and suppressed her conviction that it was Satan's own piss.

  He displayed no sign of remembering that moment upstairs, until he was at the point of leaving. Then he leaned as if to kiss her, hesitated, met her eyes with a glittering look of his own. Mounted, and grinned
down at her, and raised his hand in farewell. She watched him disappear up the track, followed by knights, remained there staring into the trees long after Alice had turned back into the house. Wondered how much of a fool she was, to even think of offering more than her body, to think that he might care at all about her heart.

  ***

  She really was delicious. It had cost him not to take her, he'd wanted to, he'd struggled to concentrate on anything else after that moment. But there was a sweetness in it too, remembering the desire in her eyes, the urgency with which she'd pressed against him. She'd be everything he wanted, given time. A little time. Until the next afternoon, perhaps. Because although he gave himself a few moments of privacy, enough to release the worst tension, it wasn't enough. He wanted her. Badly.

  "Flanders," Guillaume said. They'd settled to backgammon in the great hall. Roland didn't like to confess he'd already played chess for a few hours and would have preferred to join the tiltyard practice. Keeping Guillaume sweet had become a major task, and Geoffrey demanded to be relieved of duty. So Roland caved. It was an opportunity to broach the subject with the man most likely to take offence. Might as well catch him in a good mood.

  "Why not?" Roland responded. "Give your bones a chance to knit along the way."

  Guillaume grunted assent. "Skip that other meet, then?"

  "Won't break my heart," Roland said.

  "Geoffrey's easy either way." Guillaume rubbed his wrist, wriggled the fingers, scowled. "This had better heal quickly."

  "It will," Roland said. He cast about for an opening, didn't find one. Decided to charge at the subject headlong. "You'll be fighting with the best of them. Picking up a few girls, too."

  "Clean ones," Guillaume said, and shot him an arrow look. "What did you do with the scraps?"

  "Dropped them along the way," Roland said. "Might pick one of them up again. Take her with us to Flanders."