by Zelma Orr
Stephen urged Rebecca forward, led her to the straight-backed couch and waited until she was seated before he answered.
“I paid my respects and gave Queen Eleanor news of Princess Alix ere we journeyed to New Sarum, Father. The king does not expect me to return for a fortnight yet.”
“Good. ‘Tis good.”
The minister's questioning glance rested on Rebecca.
“ ‘Tis well thou art home for the yuletide, my lady,” he said, and then stammered an apology. “I do not mean...”
“Thank you for your welcome, Father,” Rebecca said and smiled at his discomfort. She well knew his feelings. How many times had someone spoken of her being home, and then was stricken at his own words. “'Tis a comfortable place to be during the cold season.”
Stephen spoke of other things, and Rebecca lost interest as the men drank wine and discussed business. She leaned back in her chair and studied the results of Stephen's long days and weeks of labor on New Sarum.
The rooms they were in boasted rushes and sweet smelling herbs for the celebration of Christmas. Somewhere in another hall, voices were raised in song. The smell of baked breads, pies and cakes filled each floor of the big house. Outside, the wind blew and snow fell in big, feathery flakes.
Rebecca thought of Hugo and his band of jongleurs. They were to be in London for the yuletide season, but there had been no room in the royal houses because so many guests would be there. So the entertainers for Queen Eleanor and King Henry would be in the arena grounds where the wind whistled through tents and the ground would be frozen solid, and cold would cut through their blankets. Hugo and Margaret would not mind. Their arms would warm each other.
In the cozy comfort of New Sarum, Rebecca envied her friends.
“A prosperous and happy Christmas, Father Umbreth,” Rebecca said along with Stephen as the hour past midnight came. The young man went off to bed, and Rebecca started towards the door of the great hall.
“I would have you wait, Rebecca,” Stephen said.
She stopped but did not turn.
“For what reason, my lord?”
“It is Christmas. You must needs have a gift for the occasion.” Before she could say nay, he was by her side, holding out a small parcel wrapped in red-and-green satin ribbons.
When she only looked at the package, Stephen said, “Open it.”
“I did not purchase any such gift for you, Stephen.”
“Indeed, it is not needed, Rebecca,” he said, his voice impatient.
Rebecca bent her head. Even in this, Stephen hurried to get finished with her. Malvina must await his pleasure.
Trembling fingers moved over the ribbons, tangling them, but finally they fell away. In her hand was a flat crystal bottle with decorated top, a pale golden butterfly etched into it. The writing was in French.
Perfume.
She almost dropped the bottle, but bit into her lower lip and tried to work her fingers. The top came off. Already, she could smell the scent, like the outdoors in spring, like the wild violets near Richard's house across Papa's lands, like the honeysuckle and roses growing along the stone walls she and Aubin tended in Glastonbury.
It did not smell like the bottle Malvina gave her on her wedding night.
“Thank you, Stephen, and good holidays to you.”
“Is that all? Mayhap a kiss for the season.”
“I ... no, it is perchance not the time for...”
One hand curved around her arm, the other lifted her chin as Stephen moved against her.
“I will not be denied this,” he said and bent his head.
Rebecca clasped her gift to her as Stephen's arms closed around her. She would not respond. Let him have his kiss. For such an expensive perfume, he should have one kiss as payment, but she did not have to kiss him in return. She held herself stiff, willing herself not to feel anything, not to wish for that which she could not have.
Stephen's mouth was warm on hers, and she tasted the wine he had drunk. He kissed gently, rubbing his mouth over hers, letting his tongue touch lightly. She shivered at the feelings tumbling through her body, just at such a brief caress. She squeezed her eyes closed, clamped her lips together and refused to let Stephen's tongue inside her mouth. He kept nibbling, breathing his warmth into her. One hand moved over her hips, up and down, with each movement pressing her more closely to him. She tried to back away, but both hands cupped her buttocks, forcing her to stay as he pushed himself against her.
She tried to say no and opened her eyes to give Stephen an angry look, but his eyes were closed, dark gold-tipped lashes lying on his cheek. She saw the heavy lock of hair falling to peaked brows, the straight line of his nose. She pushed on his chest with both hands, the bottle still clasped between them. Her efforts were useless.
She opened her mouth to speak.
Stephen's tongue instantly thrust between her lips, and one hand left her hips to fasten at the back of her head, holding her so there was nothing she could to do avoid his kiss. His tongue, hot and wet, slid along hers to the back of her mouth, striking gently at her throat. She shuddered as a hot feeling twisted from his seeking tongue to the place between her thighs.
“Ah,” Stephen whispered. “Ah, Rebecca.”
His mouth moved from hers to her ear where he bit the edge, and then his tongue slipped inside.
She whimpered, wanting relief from the heat of her belly and from the emptiness inside. She wanted Stephen, wanted his body to take hers, to give her joy as he took joy from hers. She wanted love from Stephen.
Her mouth opened to cry out, to beg him to stop, but Stephen was not to stop. His mouth closed over hers, his tongue forced her lips farther apart, flicked inside her mouth, along the edge of her teeth. Her dress felt tight over her throbbing breasts, and she wished for Stephen's mouth to take them and suck as only he could suckle, driving her from her mind.
Stephen groaned, and then suddenly, she was away from him.
The perfume was still in both hands, held in front of her as though to protect her rigid nipples. She stared up into his face; saw the tightened lips beneath his mustache, the stiff set of his shoulders.
“Goodnight, Rebecca,” he said. His voice was even and unruffled. His reaction that of one who had just kissed a child.
Her body grew cold in that instant, and she lowered her gaze to hide any feelings mayhap reflected there.
“Goodnight, Stephen. Thank you for the perfume.”
She turned and left him.
* * * *
Aubin came in and extinguished the candles save one on the distant wall near Stephen's bathing room. Stephen bade him a good yuletide and went to stand by the window, staring into the cold, windy, snow-filled darkness.
His body was taut, his arousal blood-filled and needing release. Release into Rebecca's body, wanting to fill her belly with his seed. He was losing his mind over his wife, his desire for her, his wish to talk with her, laugh with her as they did those years past at Glastonbury. He wanted her with a fierceness heretofore unknown, wanted to know that she loved him as he loved her. How long he'd waited to admit, even to himself, that he was madly in love with Rebecca. If he admitted to her that his love had grown and multiplied over the years, what would she say?
He shuddered.
Once he had given in to the hot feelings, had loved Rebecca as many times as he needed her, pouring his seed into her, leaving his son there, causing him to worry that he would lose both. He had lost the son, for truth, and just as well, Rebecca. She had not been happy after losing the child, had never given him love again as he had grown to expect from her.
And then, she had disappeared.
Now, another Christmas, she was back in his house, in his arms, but where was Rebecca's heart? Had she left it with Hugo? With the other minstrel—Stephen could not recall his name—but the strange-looking, red-haired one.
Rebecca was in New Sarem but not by choice. She was here because he had brought her here by force. She chose this life no mor
e than she had the one at Glastonbury when forced to marry him. But he had thought her happy at the big, cold house near Moon Cliffs. There had been many hours of loving her, of having her come to him with warm, wet lips and a slender, writhing body to satisfy his needs.
He looked down the front of his trousers to the bulging muscle and swore. Servants struggling to their rooms with too much to drink heard heavy footsteps on the stairs then the slam of the courtyard door as the lord of the new manor house sought surcease from his hot-blooded thoughts.
* * * *
Rebecca lay stiffly on the soft mattress of the new bed. Her mind would not rest but wandered back to those long ago days at Glastonbury. She'd been unhappy there, and she'd been happy there. It had seemed that happiness would last forever—that Stephen had fallen in love with her, enjoyed her company as well as her body, her endless questions when he returned from London, her generous response to his lovemaking.
Thinking back, she acknowledged that all of the love had been on her side, that Stephen had seemed caring because he had his way at all times. She didn't argue, she didn't demand new clothing or to travel with him, didn't refuse him when he came to her bed. She was the perfect wife and so he had no reason to be displeased with her.
Until she became unhappy enough to run away.
She had brought Stephen's disapproval upon herself. It had been something she must do, get away from the husband who wanted nothing out of life that she did, who bore no likeness to the man she had married. It mattered not that she hadn't punished Stephen by her disappearance.
Her heart had shattered in the process.
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* * *
Chapter Nineteen
The snow stopped falling, and a weak sun tried to outrun the clouds, but the fields were like white glass. Wisps of fog, like silent ghosts, veiled the tops of trees back of the outbuildings. Workers with their heads wrapped against the numbing cold looked like small animals as they bustled about the courtyard on errands or chores that couldn't be postponed because of bad weather. Animals had to be fed and cared for, and ice had to be broken from the troughs in order to give them drinking water.
Rebecca longed to be outside, just anywhere, doing anything that would get her out of the house, out from under Stephen's watchful eyes, away from Malvina's knowing looks. Rebecca imagined that her maidservant knew every time Stephen made love to her, every time they quarreled, every move they made. And she resented it. Oh, yes, she fair hated the thought that she couldn't breathe that Malvina didn't know—and report it to Stephen.
Rebecca, standing near the wide window back of the ovens where servants hovered over simmering pots, saw the horseman enter the courtyard, saw the guards question him, then hold the prancing steed while the man stiffly dismounted. He rubbed his shoulders and back, slapped heavy gloves along his legs, and followed Aubin towards the house. He stomped his feet, and Rebecca imagined they must be near frozen. Aubin opened the courtyard door, and the two of them disappeared.
He brings ill tidings, she thought. ‘Tis not the time for travel nor visiting in the country. Travel is not done in severely cold weather unless there is extreme need. It means trouble for Stephen. Blackness seemed to cover the struggling sun, and Rebecca shivered.
She moved quickly, passing Malvina as she talked with cook near an open fireplace. Malvina made as if to speak, but Rebecca did not look at her. At the steps, she hesitated, and then gathering her skirts, she ran, reaching the upper hall before the stranger entered.
Stephen came down the stairs from the floor above hers, and Rebecca waited until he came close to her. Her breath caught at the way he looked at her, his eyes going over her figure in the full-skirted dress that hugged her small waist. Those eyes said he wanted her, and before long, he'd have her. His lips curved in a smile.
“What say ye, Rebecca?” Stephen said. “Art hurrying to greet me, mayhap?”
“ ‘Tis trouble the messenger brings, is it not?”
“Messenger? What nonsense is this?” He glanced toward the great hall below them, then back at her.
“There is a man coming, he brings ill tidings. Something bad. Stephen, you cannot ...” She wanted to stop him from meeting the messenger, wanted to beseech him not to listen to whatever tale the man brought. Of a certainty, it could only be bad news.
Behind her, Rebecca heard the courtyard door open, the shuffling of feet, voices raised in greeting, and then in question.
“I must see Sir Stephen,” the man said. “I have a message from the king.”
* * * *
Stephen and the king's messenger were behind the closed doors of Stephen's rooms a goodly length of time. Rebecca walked from the window to the staircase that led to Stephen's rooms.
Malvina came to her. “My lady, there is hot soup awaiting. You must eat.”
She shook her head, paying little attention to the maidservant. Whatever part Malvina played in Stephen's life wasn't important just now. Her worry was over what she would hear once the traveler had finished talking with Stephen.
“But, My Lady—”
Rebecca whirled. “Leave me, Malvina. I'll let thee know when I am hungry.” She didn't even watch the woman stare in astonishment at Rebecca's sharp words, didn't notice when Malvina went slowly back down the stairs.
When the door to Stephen's rooms opened, Rebecca stood by the steps, waiting with Aubin. She had not been able to remain in her rooms, had been unable to sit still, knowing something was wrong for such a visit. She waited anxiously for Stephen's words.
He and the traveler reached the bottom of the stairs where she and Aubin waited.
Stephen's eyes sought hers, and then moved to Aubin.
“See that Alwain is fed and given a place for two hours’ rest. Then give him a good horse and food to see him to London.”
He turned to go back up the steps, and then swung around.
“Come, Rebecca,” he said. “We need to talk.”
He placed his hand on her arm and walked by her side until they reached his door, then he stood aside to let her enter.
“Thou art right. There is trouble.”
Stephen walked away, stood with his back to her, a fist clenched against the wooden mantle, his head bowed as he stared into the bright flames.
“What dost the king demand now?”
Stephen turned and shocked, Rebecca stared at the sadness in his face.
“Sir Thomas Becket has been murdered by four of the king's knights.”
She swayed and gasped. Of all the horrors she would have imagined, this was too far from reality to believe. The king had not had problems before this, this outrage. What could this mean to Stephen? The queen? Their children?
What could be done after this to salvage the kingdom? Trouble, yes, she had known, but not this shocking murder. The entire kingdom has been taken with insanity.
“Oh, Stephen. Canst be mistaken?” She wanted to go to him, to take his head to her breast, and comfort him. How he must hurt for his beloved king and queen. Even if she did sometimes scoff at his loyalty, she knew that Stephen did, indeed, honor the royal pair.
“Nay. ‘Tis true. The king asks that I return to London. I must go, Rebecca.”
“No, Stephen. King Henry is frightened for what will happen once the people find what has been done in his name, but he will use you to shield himself. Let the king suffer his own penance.” She spoke quickly lest Stephen deny her the right to do so. “The men who killed Sir Thomas were trained and paid from the royal purse, and ‘tis the king, not you, who must see that justice is done. King Henry wishes you there to defend him against what he knows is coming. He deserves to face this trial without you to protect him.”
“Do not think to tell me what I shall do, Rebecca. It is a duty of the king's officers to serve him in troubled times as well as when things go right in the kingdom.”
“Why must thou be pigheaded? When has the king perceived that things go rightly enough that he doesn't nee
d you? Hast thou not been in the king's business, yea even his love life ..?”
“Be quiet, Rebecca,” Stephen said. “Thou art my wife, not my advisor. Thou knows nothing of running a country or of keeping the people content. King Henry is a great ruler, albeit he makes mistakes. He ascended the throne in greatly troubled times and has succeeded in restoring peace to the country. He has brought about a revival of learning, of using logic, given his subjects prosperity and laws to protect them.” His fists clenched and unclenched, his lips pressed together as though in pain. “My loyalty lies with the king because he has earned it.”
Rebecca knew Stephen spoke the truth most times, but this incident could turn black and deadly, and he would be caught in the middle. Danger was very real for anyone trying to intervene in such a crime as the murder of an archbishop. The king would be in danger, and so would Stephen. Why could not he see this? Why did he rush to the king's bidding even into danger?
“Mayhap his marriage to Eleanor did the king no harm since she was a rich heiress. The king's lifestyle has not suffered for this. And mayhap he thought if he were rid of Sir Thomas, it would leave him an easier road. His sins are being visited upon his head at last.”
“Thou art reveling in business far beyond your knowledge.” He rubbed his hands over his face, scrubbing at his eyes. “Leave my chambers, Rebecca, as I must prepare for my journey. I do not know for how long.”
Rebecca talked as though to herself even as she tried to convince her husband not to rush into dangerous problems.
“In truth, Sir Thomas deserved to be defrocked.” Rebecca spoke to Stephen's back as he turned away. “He condemned our jongleur performances as evil without cause. Really, Stephen, all religions should be banned as heresy.” She went on, ignoring Stephen as he swung around to give her a strange look. “I do think murder is going afar.”
“The archbishop's office is the highest of royalty's vast kingdom. What dost thou know about such things?”
Stephen stared at Rebecca, wondering at her education in the company of minstrels, gypsies, and jongleurs. She was an innocent, schooled to be sure, but uncorrupted by the politics of a kingdom. He wanted to protect her from such, did not wish her to be exposed to wrongs committed by those in high offices.