by Zelma Orr
“What does a reeve do, Malvina, other than act as servant to King Henry?”
“Sir Stephen is not a servant. A reeve is important, a job few men can fill well. Sir Stephen is the best the king has ever had. And the king trusts him as his voice to the queen when they quarrel.”
Malvina brushed and straightened, smoothing Rebecca's hair, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.
“Now for the best part,” Malvina murmured, and reached into her apron pocket to bring forth a tiny bottle. She uncapped it and tilted the bottle against her fingers, then touched Rebecca's throat and in front of her ears. She took Rebecca's hand and turned it so she could rub the liquid inside her wrist. The soft, fresh fragrance floated on the air, and Rebecca inhaled deeply.
“Oh, it smells lovely, Malvina. What is it?”
Malvina laughed a bit breathlessly. “It will intoxicate your husband, m'lady, and make him your slave forever.”
In spite of her nervousness, Rebecca laughed. “I somehow doubt the truth of that.” She could not imagine Sir Stephen as slave to anyone, lovely scented perfume or not.
Malvina was busy adjusting the thin material of the gown, smoothing the fullness of the skirt over Rebecca's narrow hips.
Her voice was muffled. “You will see, m'lady. Sir Stephen will be quite affected by your beauty and the fragrance will make him enjoy you all the more.”
Enjoy me? What is there to enjoy? A thin body hidden beneath soft material and sprayed with expensive scent is still a thin body, an inexperienced body.
“Men always seek the companionship of women, Rebecca,” her mother had told her on several occasions. “It is as though they must prove they can attract their attention. Wives are not always the source of a man's pleasure.”
Sir Stephen was no different, Rebecca was sure. Even though married to her, he would seek the company of other women. He knew so many experienced, beautiful women. She was surprised to feel a stirring of dislike inside her at the thought of his being with another woman while married to her.
“There, Lady Rebecca,” Malvina said. “I will leave you now so your husband can come see his beautiful bride.”
Malvina was smiling, but Rebecca wondered at the look in the green eyes. They looked so—so accusing, as though she did not quite approve of her master's choice. She smiled at Malvina's retreating figure then sat on the bed to stare at her bare feet peeking from beneath her gown.
No matter Malvina's opinion of Sir Stephen's bride, it could never match the bride's own thoughts of how unlikely a union they presented. Sir Stephen had everything: looks, land, and money. Rebecca possessed none of these desirable qualities.
“Rebecca?” The door opened this time to admit Sir Stephen into the room.
Her head came up quickly, and she was forced to face her husband with nothing between them save the thin material of her night garment. She was now his to take, she belonged to him. She swallowed hard but could say nothing.
Sir Stephen hesitated, his eyes sweeping the small figure hunched on the side of the bed. He had taken off the braided silk waistcoat worn for the wedding ceremony and wore only a white shirt fitted neatly into black pants. Her frightened gaze took in his wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and hips, his long, tightly-muscled legs displayed well by the close fitting pants tucked into shining boots.
She chewed her lower lip.
“You look lovely,” Sir Stephen said.
He crossed the room and stopped a short distance from her, his eyes hidden as lowered lids allowed him to take in her slim figure, made to look fuller by the extra folds of her gown. One hand came up and touched the pearl nestling as though for warmth in the hollow of her throat. A smile lifted one corner of his mouth behind the thickness of his mustache.
Slowly, Stephen went down on one knee in front of her, picking up one limp hand from the bed. He held the small upturned palm to his lips, smiling into her widened eyes, and she imagined that the sadness she had seen was not quite so deep.
Suddenly, his body jerked, going rigid, and he frowned, his mouth straightened into a sharply defined line. He sucked in his breath.
“Where did you get it?” he demanded in a voice so cold it raised prickles on her arm.
Rebecca stared, first at her husband, and then at the hand he grasped tightly enough to bring pain.
“Wh ... what?” She trembled, amazed at the sudden change in his expression. There was neither sadness nor pleasure in the flashing blue eyes now.
He dropped her hand and rose to tower over her. Her head went back to follow his height, and the coldness in his face only added to her uneasiness.
What in the world had she done?
“You will do me the courtesy of never using the perfume again. Do you understand?” The tall, straight figure actually shook, he was so angry.
“But ... but I ... I thought...”
“Then do not think.”
He whirled from her and strode to the door, disappearing into the hallway. An instant later, he reappeared and, giving her a thundering look, said thickly, “That was a stupid trick,” and yanked the door closed with a thud.
Rebecca looked at her hand, wondering what had offended Sir Stephen.
“Don't use the perfume,” he had ordered. But Malvina had assured her it would make her more appealing to her husband. She was surprised at the pain in her chest, pain of rejection. Not only did papa sell her off to a stranger, the stranger did not even want her after paying—what was it he said? “I paid well for you.” All of that land Sir Oliver loved, and Stephen gave it back in exchange for someone who resembled an elf. And wore a lovely fragrance he forbid her to ever use again.
A sharp sound came from her throat. She was unworthy of satisfying that male desire she read about in poems, that Lady Elizabeth assured her was topmost in men's minds at all times. Not even expensive perfume could make her attractive to a man such as Sir Stephen. His purchased bride was turning out not to be much of a bargain.
She looked down at her feet, covered now with the filmy material. She couldn't see her toes, and she wiggled them to see if they were as stiff as she felt. They moved, at any rate. Her gaze traveled upward until she looked straight down at the chest, its boniness hidden beneath layered folds of the soft garment Malvina had wrapped her in.
Malvina.
Rebecca's eyes narrowed. Had she known Sir Stephen would not like the fragrance she gave her? The odd light in the green eyes—she recalled the disbelief in those same eyes when Rebecca told her she was brought to Glastonbury to marry the owner of the Lambert property.
Was Malvina in love with Sir Stephen? Was she jealous of Rebecca? Had she done something that would displease her master and hurt Rebecca at the same time? It did not seem likely. Malvina was attentive and jumped to do Sir Stephens's bidding like any loyal servant. Surely she would not cause trouble on his wedding night.
Rebecca sighed. For whatever the reason, she had not pleased her new husband. She loosed the tie on her wrap and shrugged out of the garment, letting it fall to the floor.
Her wedding night.
It was not what she had thought it would be.
* * * *
Stephen found it hard to breathe as he stormed from Rebecca's bedroom. How did it happen she used the same fragrance as Mary? Two such different women he could not find had he looked all the lands and oceans of the world. Mary, her green eyes contrasting with hair the vibrant shade of an oak leaf in late autumn. Her soft, rounded body a wonder to see and a joy to touch, to kiss and caress as they shared their love.
What madness bade him accept this—this plain elf, this bony child, as payment for valuable lands? He should be horsewhipped for letting sympathy for Sir Oliver take the place of plain thinking. He could only believe that long hours of work for King Henry and extreme exhaustion had played a big part in numbing his brain.
I deserve that what I got, he muttered into the darkness. The pain subsided as he let thoughts of Mary fill him, remembered the happy laugh
ter always ready when he returned from long journeys, and the hours spent loving her. It was all gone, those times. Mary was lost to him forever and all he had left was the child using his favorite fragrance to enhance an unappealing body. Even for release of his male needs, he could not take her tonight.
Throughout the wedding ceremony as Father Umbreth cautioned them to love one another, he had been pleased to find his thoughts very much on Rebecca, wondering at the response he would get from her, questioning a man his age taking a virgin as he knew Rebecca to be. He did not have to ask. All he had to do was look at her to see the uncertainty. He had heard her sharp intake of breath as Father pronounced them man and wife, and he had bent to kiss her. It was there in the deep blue eyes, the wonder and distrust—and the fright.
He had wanted to reassure her, to tell her he would be as gentle as he could, but he meant to take her for his wife that night. Her unwillingness would not matter. He wanted her with a heated need he did not try to deny. He could not recall when the first hint of desire touched him, mayhap when he finally accepted the fact he would have a wife in Mary's place, something he'd sworn would not happen. As he and Father Umbreth discussed the royal family, his eyes had strayed often to the small figure sitting nearby, and a curious thrill went through him, triggering a thoroughly male response as his body hardened.
The fragrance Mary used all their married life had come from Troyes, and had sharpened his already glowing passionate longing for her.
Where in hell had Rebecca found the one scent he could not abide on anyone but Mary?
He heard Tor's snicker of welcome as he strode toward the outbuildings. There was a soft bump as the great head of the stallion greeted him by nudging the door. Inside the stable, he spoke quietly as he threw a blanket across the broad back, and hooked the bit into his mouth. A moment later, he guided Tor into the moonless night and across the moor toward the cliffs standing like sentinels over the waters below.
He rode hard, finally pulling the stallion to a walk, both of them breathing rapidly. A light mist blew from Tor's nostrils as he slung his head, and Stephen patted the strong neck. He slid from the horse's back and leaned against him, staring into nothing. The breeze coming from the water chilled him, and it seemed he smelled the fragrance from Rebecca's small hand.
* * * *
She didn't sleep well and was awake early. She lay in bed listening for signs of others stirring in the big house. The thick walls deadened sound. There was only a little light in the room, and Rebecca slid from the bed to cross to the window. She unbarred the shutters and swung them open, shivering as the damp air struck her nude body.
It was dark cloudy, a misty rain falling, and foggy along the cliffs she could barely see in the distance. Turning, Rebecca found the clothing from the day before and slipped on the heavy blouse and skirt, stockings and shoes. She closed the shutters, picked her way to the door and pulled it open.
Two flickering candles dimly lit the hallway, but she could see well enough to reach the stairs. The huge chandelier lit the lower hallway. At the foot of the stairs, she turned toward the room where the harp stood. No one was in the room, but a bright fire crackled in the fireplace.
Rebecca turned as footsteps sounded behind her and was disappointed to see Malvina instead of Stephen.
The maid smiled with her friendly gaze going over Rebecca's figure.
“Good morning, m'lady. Did you sleep well?”
A knowing smile touched the full lips and avid curiosity brightened the deep green eyes.
Was there malice in the question? At the moment, Rebecca didn't care.
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “Is Sir Stephen about?”
Malvina's brows raised in surprise.
“I supposed you knew, m'lady. Sir Stephen goes early to check the workers and tools and to see what animals are ready for market.” A smug look settled around the older woman's mouth. “I should think a new husband would tell his bride where he was going. Or were you too busy to talk of such small details?”
Rebecca thought Malvina rather cheeky to mention such things, but she shrugged.
“I suppose that is true. Do you think Cook would have some warm bread and milk?”
“Yes, m'lady. She has a meal for thee.”
Rebecca ate in the big room where everyone dined, guests as well as the inside help. Wide fireplaces glowed at the end of the open area where meals were prepared and kept it pleasantly warm. When she finished eating, Rebecca drank the warm goat's milk and rose to leave.
“Thank you,” she said politely to the servants nearby.
They watched the new mistress of the house, wondering what she would demand of them. Sir Stephen demanded loyalty and hard work, but some of their friends and relatives were not so lucky. They were beaten for no reason other than the wife or lord and master needed someone upon which to vent anger. And so they wondered.
Rebecca strolled from the great room down a hallway and toward a bolted door. A man appeared in front of her and she stopped to look him over. Short, his face twisted by a scar from temple to chin, his mouth open in a wide grin, he blocked her way.
“Good morning to you,” she said, and took a step backward to see him more clearly. She smiled in answer to his grin. “I would like to go outdoors.”
“Of course, m'lady.” In contrast to his rough appearance, the voice was gentle and friendly. “My name is Aubin, Lady Rebecca, and I am at your service.”
He bowed low, and she could see the thinness of gray hair over a pink scalp. From her vantage point above him, his ears appeared pointed with white hair growing along the rims.
When he righted himself, Rebecca curtsied and watched his mouth drop open in amazement. “You are kind, Aubin. Now, please open the door for me.”
Before he could carry out her order, Malvina appeared.
“My lady, you cannot go out there. It is not done by ladies of this house.”
“And why not?”
Malvina looked flustered.
“I mean—I mean it is raining and there is mud underfoot.”
“I want to see the animals in the stables,” Rebecca said, thinking of the outbuildings noted the day before. Sir Oliver's animals lived in a lean-to attached to their house with only a walkway between living quarters and the smelly pens. Now she knew the reason she hadn't heard any animal noises. Sir Stephen's house was well separated from any other buildings, and she was curious to see what it was like on the outside.
"But Sir Stephen ..."
“You did say he is working, did you not? And will be back late?” Rebecca started
through the door Aubin held open. “I will return ere he does.” And she walked away from the protesting maid.
“Dost m'lady wish me to walk her to the stables?”
Rebecca smiled at Aubin. “No, I am capable of finding my way.”
She did not turn to see what he did, but had she done so, she'd have seen a silly, infatuated grin on the face of Sir Stephen's manservant. He liked his master's childish new bride. Her clear blue eyes, the wisps of blonde hair visible beneath the plain gray wimple, small white teeth gleaming as she smiled at him.
Yes, he liked the Lady Rebecca Lambert.
By the time Rebecca reached the stables, the rain had stopped, but her feet were wet and muddy. It did not matter to her. She crossed the pathway to a fence, leaned over it to peer inside, and found herself face to face with a young man pitching hay into bins.
Startled green eyes fastened on her face. Odd, she thought, how many green-eyed people live around here, and then she smiled at the stable boy who appeared to be about twelve years old.
“Good morning,” she said.
The boy gulped. “G-good morning, my lady.” He reached up to grab the old soft hat sitting low over his ears and snatched it from his head.
“What is your name?”
“B-Bundy.”
“Put your hat on, Bundy, before you catch cold,” she said. “Are there horses?”
“Yes, my lady.” He pointed. “In there.” As she started away, he said, “But, but, you cannot go...”
Rebecca was already pushing up the bar from the next stable. She had seen a handsome stallion, his hide only a shade darker than her hair, and she wanted a better look.
“Th—that is Tor, m'lady.” Bundy tugged on her sleeve.
“Tor? Oh, I like his name.”
Rebecca laughed, looking across the low railing separating her from the horse that blew through his nose and slung his perfectly shaped head upward.
“He belongs to Sir Stephen,” Bundy said.
“I thought Sir Stephen was out riding this morning. Why is he not on Tor?”
“He rides many horses. Tor is his favorite.”
“I think mine, too.”
Rebecca stepped closer and put out her hand. Between her fingers was a slice of the apple saved from her earlier meal.
“No, m'lady, no, do not...”
Rebecca was not listening. She stepped up on the lower rail of the enclosure, leaning so that her extended hand reached almost to the big horse eyeing her with a hostile gleam in his eyes.
“He is not friendly,” Bundy said and pulled at Rebecca's sleeve. “He bites.”
“Has he ever bitten you?”
“Many times.”
She turned to look at the boy. His eyes were wide, causing the pupils to look like purple grapes. “Why did he bite you? Did you beat him?”
Bundy moved his head side to side. “No, m'lady. Sir Stephen does not allow animals to be beaten. But Tor does not like anyone but Sir Stephen. Sometimes when I clean the stable and Tor is there, he nips the seat of my pants.”
Rebecca's delighted laughter rang out.
“You give him a good target, Bundy. He cannot resist. I will not present him with such a gift.”
She murmured directly to the animal in front of her, and he rolled his eyes, snorting. Rebecca chortled words at him, holding out the bit of fruit. Tor pranced, pawing the ground, swinging his head.
“I mean you no harm. And you cannot nip the seat of my pants, so come get the apple.”
“My lady?”