by Mia West
And yet Arthur had known what he really needed and drawn him to the practice yard. It disconcerted him sometimes to think how well the cub seemed to understand him. Arthur had admitted once that he’d wanted Bedwyr for a long time; Bedwyr supposed that meant Arthur had watched him, studied him even. He’d been a thoroughly dull subject, he wagered. Still, Arthur often anticipated his needs before he voiced them. If the man ever turned that same sort of studious eye on others, he would make a formidable strategist.
That was a thought for future days. The only person he wanted Arthur studying now was Bedwyr himself. He wasn’t the only one stealing glances; he caught Arthur doing the same as the evening reeled toward its conclusion. The higher the moon rose above the mountains, the more it happened, and Bedwyr found it increasingly difficult to look away each time. He felt like a boy again, compelled by a dare to stare at a bonfire until his eyes watered, so that the ghost of it remained on the backs of his eyelids when he finally blinked.
Even when Bedwyr looked away, Arthur was there, branded on his mind’s eye, tall and strong and waiting for him.
~
When night had draped the revelers for a few hours, they decided enough was enough, that all newly wedded couples should be off to their marriage beds to create more Cymry, and a chant arose in the meadow. Uthyr smiled, raising his hands indulgently.
“Let’s go, then.”
Bedwyr tugged at Elain’s wrist to pull her to the front of the crowd.
“Eager?” she teased him.
“You aren’t?”
“I only hide it better,” she said, even as her eyes sought Gwen among their neighbors.
Arthur’s house was closest. Uthyr stopped the throng before it and made a speech, mostly a ribald suggestion that the young couple build their first fire immediately, but he couldn’t resist telling the day’s visitors that he’d gifted this house to his daughter and new son-by-law. He received the expected applause for his generosity, but when he made to move on to Bedwyr’s new house, Bedwyr stopped him. Uthyr turned, slightly unsteady, eyebrows raised.
“You wish to say something encouraging to your shieldmate?”
“No,” he said, his pulse ticking in his fingertips, “I wish to make a gift.”
His father nodded, pleased. “Excellent. It’s the day for it.”
Bedwyr scanned the assembled crowd until he found Cai. “Thank you for guarding my blade today. You did so for a long time before today, too, and I haven’t forgotten.”
Cai frowned but nodded.
Bedwyr tipped his head toward the other end of the village. “There’s a new house down the way meant for me. I’m giving it to you.”
Cai’s eyes grew wide in the moonlight as their neighbors clamored with the news. “But I’m to live here,” he said.
“Now you have a new house to yourself,” Bedwyr said.
Cai looked from him to Uthyr, whose face had settled into a much more sober expression.
“And where,” Uthyr said to Bedwyr, “do you plan to take your bride? The shepherd’s hut?”
The crowd tittered.
“He and Elain will share our house.”
Uthyr’s attention snapped to Arthur.
“It’s too grand for us,” Arthur said, “even if Gwen and I fill it with babes. I wish to share it with my shieldmate and brother-by-law.”
“And I’ll be glad to have the help of another woman,” Gwen added, “especially one so kind as my sister-by-law.”
Uthyr stared at each of them in turn, and Bedwyr held his breath. When his father spoke again, his voice had the even quality he used to mask anger. “Where is the Myrddin?”
A murmur ran through the villagers as they located the old woman among them. Her apprentice, Arthur’s younger sister Mora, guided the Myrddin’s steps forward. When Mistress Mabyn stood before Uthyr, he raised his voice. “Because these weddings today hold great significance for the future security of our people, their unions will be verified.”
Verified. Bedwyr looked at Arthur, who stood very still, gaze pinned to his warlord.
“Mistress Mabyn,” Uthyr said, “you’ll accompany my daughter and son-by-law into their bedchamber and remain there to confirm that their marriage is consummated.”
Bedwyr’s gut tightened. Arthur still wouldn’t look at him.
Gwen leaned toward their father. “Ta, is that—”
“Master Matthias?” Uthyr called, cutting her off.
The healer stepped forward. “Yes, my lord?”
“You’ll perform the same duty for my son’s marriage bed, wherever that is tonight.” When Matthias nodded in silence, Uthyr’s dark gaze slid to meet Bedwyr’s. “We must do everything to ensure the stability of our region.”
Blood beat in Bedwyr’s ears. His father knew his marriage couldn’t be consummated, not in a way that would result in a child—the only reason for this public sort of confirmation. But Master Matthias didn’t know. Any report the healer made to Uthyr would be counterfeit, and Uthyr was leaving it to Bedwyr to explain why to Matthias. Sticking the knife in hadn’t been enough; his father’d had to give it a sharp twist. Elain’s hand pressed his arm as she curtsied to Uthyr. Bedwyr barely managed a nod.
Uthyr looked to Arthur and Gwen and received the same. Then he took a deep breath and turned to Cai. “And you, young buck. I suppose congratulations are in order. Or should I bestow them upon your parents for being rid of your overgrown arse?”
Their neighbors laughed, and Cai nodded, befuddled by his unexpected good fortune. “Yes, my lord. I’m sure they’re glad of it.”
“I’m glad of it!” Mora exclaimed, and everyone laughed again.
Uthyr grinned at her and then opened the front door to the house. “In you go, then, newlyweds. May your evening be fruitful.”
Arthur and Gwen stepped inside, followed by Mora and Mistress Mabyn. Matthias gestured for Bedwyr and Elain to cross the threshold together. As they did so, Bedwyr glanced at his father, but Uthyr was occupied listening to some joke their fellow warrior Huw was telling him. Uthyr’s mouth had relaxed into grim satisfaction.
As usual, he’d found the advantage in a situation and used it ruthlessly.
As Bedwyr entered the house he’d grown up in, Arthur was standing in the doorway of his new bedchamber. He looked as blade-struck as Bedwyr felt. Served them right, he supposed, for ambushing his father as they had.
That didn’t make it any easier to turn toward his own chamber and hear Arthur’s door scrape shut behind him.
Chapter 13
Arthur felt numb as Gwen escorted old Mistress Mabyn into the bedchamber. She helped the Myrddin settle on a stool in the corner. Silence fell among them.
Gwen met his eyes over Mabyn’s milky gaze and then glanced toward the door and back.
Would the old woman notice if Elain came into the room?
“Smells like the Pen y Ddraig in here,” Mabyn commented. She sniffed again, once in Gwen’s direction, once in Arthur’s. “My sight is nearly gone, but my other senses lack for nothing.”
Gwen looked at him again, and he shook his head.
“Of course, mistress,” she said. “May I bring you a drink?”
The old woman waved a gnarled hand. “Get on with you. Babes don’t create themselves.”
“Yes, mistress,” Gwen murmured.
Arthur turned away to give her some privacy. He took his time undressing, removing his belt and setting it aside. Next, he lifted off his shirt, hanging it on one of several pegs on the wall. There had to be twenty—who could fill that many pegs?
You’re about to climb into bed with Gwen. You don’t know what you’re doing.
He did know how this worked, in theory. His father had explained it to him when Mora was born. But this was Gwen. He didn’t think of her this way. And blood on the bedding wasn’t going to be enough—the Myrddin was too blind to see it. They were going to have to go through with this. What if he touched her wrong? What if he couldn’t do it? Had that ever ha
ppened—had the Myrddin ever had to report that a bridegroom had seized up?
Didn’t really matter. Lord Uthyr demanded it happen.
Closing his eyes, Arthur unlaced his trousers, imagining Bedwyr was doing it for him. The brush of his knuckles sparked a flicker of lust.
Then the Myrddin coughed, an extended, phlegmy series of hacks that ended when she spat on the floor, and the spark died.
He removed his boots, trousers, and stockings and, having nothing left to remove, turned to Gwen.
She was already in the bed, the woolen cover tucked under her arms. When he stepped toward her, her eyes flicked from the Myrddin to him and down, taking in his nakedness, before meeting his eyes again. It wasn’t the hot gaze he’d imagined, the one that should have come from Bedwyr, who probably would have been holding the blankets back for him. He slipped under them as quietly as possible.
~ ~ ~
Master Matthias took a seat on the bench against one wall. Bedwyr looked at Elain, and she nodded. They sat down across from the healer.
“We can’t consummate it,” Bedwyr said.
A short, soft laugh escaped Elain.
Master Matthias looked from Bedwyr to her. “Do you need me to turn to the wall? I can do that, if you wish.”
“No,” Elain said, “it isn’t that we can’t consummate it. It’s that we won’t do so.”
Matthias’s eyebrows rose, and he turned to Bedwyr. “Because you love Arthur?”
Surprise flashed over Bedwyr’s skin. “Well—”
“And because I love Gwen,” Elain said.
Bedwyr looked at her, surprised. He’d thought to explain the particular mechanics of their situation. Of course Elain had gotten straight down to the true reason.
“And Gwen loves you?” Matthias asked.
“I believe so,” Elain said.
Slowly, the healer settled back against the wall. “Well.”
Bedwyr held his breath. Elain slipped a hand through his arm.
Incredibly, Master Matthias smiled. “You planned the house swap all along, didn’t you?”
Elain squeezed his arm. “Yes,” Bedwyr said.
Matthias chuckled. “I knew Arthur was up to something.” His face grew suddenly serious. “Arthur, and Gwen.” His eyes spoke concern. “They’re friends, you know. Almost since birth.”
“Like you and Mistress Britte,” Elain said quietly.
Matthias leaned forward and took her hand. “Elain. My son’s heart belongs to Bedwyr.”
His own heart pounded.
“One nerve-racking hour under Mabyn’s sharp hearing isn’t going to change that. Nor how Gwen regards you.”
Elain gave him a grateful smile.
“Besides, Britte and I had to marry. No one else would’ve had either of us.”
Bedwyr snorted, and Matthias grinned.
“So, what say we sit for a while and chat, and when a reasonable bit of time has passed, I’ll report back to Lord Uthyr?”
Bedwyr felt a twinge of guilt that Matthias would think he was lying to his warlord. But the healer knew as much as he needed to know just now. More than Uthyr, in fact, when it came to Gwen. It gave him a measure of satisfaction that Master Matthias held that advantage.
At this point, he would hold tight to any small victory.
~ ~ ~
Arthur checked on Mabyn. She sat on the stool, her hands curled over the top of her walking stick. Thankfully, she wasn’t staring at them. He knew she couldn’t see them, but he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to do what needed doing with her watching his every move.
He found Gwen looking at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “just in case.”
Her eyes grew wide. “In case of what?”
His ears felt hot from blushing. “In case I’m clumsy.”
“Oh.” She seemed to look at his shoulder. “That’s all right. Your mother said you might be.”
Old Mabyn chuckled from her perch.
Arthur sent her a dire look she’d never see.
Gwen’s hand on the side of his face redirected his attention. “She only said it as a general thing. That it was common among boys your age.”
“I’m not a boy.”
“Among men, then.”
He huffed through his nose. His mother knew nothing.
“She was very helpful.”
He ground his teeth. “Was she.”
“She was.” She leaned close and whispered, “She didn’t actually address me. She knows you, eh?”
He supposed she did.
Gwen smiled. “She spoke to Elain, mostly. Elain said later she hadn’t had the heart to stop her. Your mother’s intimidating, but behind the armor, she’s very kind.”
It made him unexpectedly glad that Gwen thought so. “What else did she say?”
Gwen shrugged. “We should take our time. Talk if we want to. If we need to. She told Elain it was a good thing that she and Bed were already friends. That she and your father were good friends too, when they married.”
“Gwen…” He tried to read her eyes. Had she somehow come to think this would turn into a marriage like his parents’ union? “We won’t…” He glanced toward Mabyn, then lowered his voice. “We’re not my parents.”
She smiled. “I know that, fool.” She tapped his chest with a fingertip. “She only meant that it might be easier to be here together. Naked, you know. That we already know each other well, so we might be able to help one another.”
It made sense, as much as any of this made sense. Gwen knew him well. He supposed she’d know him a lot better before the night was over.
“Arthur?”
“Yes?”
She found his hand and slipped her fingers into his. “It’s only me.”
Her hand felt small, nothing like Bedwyr’s. “I know.”
She squeezed then, and the strength surprised him. “Kiss me?”
He was acting foolish. Any number of men in the village—and at least one woman—would be happy to find themselves in this bed with Gwen. Her hair spread out loose behind her, pale and shining in the lamplight. The tops of her breasts made soft, generous curves above the wool blanket. When he looked up from them, she wore a crooked grin.
“Strange?”
Yes. But he said, “No,” and smoothed her hair back from her face. Leaning in, he touched his lips to hers.
He held back. Gwen was a sturdy woman, could certainly hold her own, but everything about her felt softer than he was accustomed to. He didn’t go at her full-force the way he sometimes did with Bedwyr. He’d never tell her so because she’d never let him live it down, but he missed the sensation of a beard scraping his lips. Still, it was nice.
When he pulled away, she pressed her lips together. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then she snorted.
“What?” he demanded.
She grinned. “That was like kissing a cousin.”
“Kissed a lot of cousins, have you?”
Her eyes flashed. “A few.”
“Who?”
“Never you mind.”
“Then it didn’t happen.”
“Neither did that kiss you just gave me.”
If she only knew what he’d been holding back.
In her usual way of reading his mind, she said, “How do you kiss your other women?”
What other women? he almost retorted, but her fingers pressed against his lips, stopping him.
The Myrddin.
His other women.
Bedwyr, she meant.
“Harder.”
She nodded. “And?”
“Deeper.”
“So…”
He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, then flinched when hers came to rest on his waist. You’re thinking too much. He pulled her to him and tried again.
He was going to go slowly, be gentle. This was Gwen, after all.
But…she was Gwen, and she’d always known her own mind. She opened to him right away, seeking his tongue with hers, a
nd generally letting it be known she’d done this before.
He pulled away, but barely. “You’ve been practicing.”
Her silent laughter puffed against his lips.
“I wonder who.”
At that, her expression grew serious, and he wished he hadn’t said it. She’d rather be here with Elain, as much as he’d prefer Bedwyr. That had been the plan, a scheme they’d worked on for weeks and had thought they’d perfected.
They hadn’t expected Lord Uthyr to demand proof. He couldn’t remember such a thing being required before. Maybe Lord Emrys had demanded the same of Uthyr’s first wedding night, but none of them had been alive then.
He gripped Gwen’s shoulder. “We’re friends, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then we do this as friends.”
She nodded. “All right.”
“Did my mother have any other sage advice?”
“She said we should touch first. That it’s best if we both do so.”
“Best?”
“Mistress Britte said if either of us isn’t ready when we try to consummate, it could hurt.” She shrugged. “More than usual.”
“It usually hurts?”
She pulled back to study his face, as if she thought he was joking. “For the woman, yes. Do men not know this?”
He thought of the crude jests that went ’round at wedding celebrations, about a bride’s blood and turning her cries into songs. “I thought those were just stories. To tease people like us.”
“No, the blood is real, and some women have a difficult first time.”
“You won’t.”
She blinked, and he realized what he’d said. But she wouldn’t, not if he could help it.
“How do I make sure you don’t?”
Gwen laid a palm to his chest. “I only need to be ready. Your mother said I should be relaxed. And wet.” Her gaze slid away. “It happens when a woman feels pleasure. In bed. Or out of it, I suppose.”
This he’d heard of, from songs sung drunkenly around patrol fires. About women being wet for their men. Or moist. Or slick. Or dripping.
The songs were fairly descriptive.
Gwen took hold of his hand and guided it to her breast. “Start here.”