Seed of the Broom

by Seed Of The Broom (NCP) (lit)

Ten he set off back towards the castle at a canter and Silver Lady was able to keep up. The horses were side by side but somehow the exhilaration had left her.

  Glancing at her husband, she saw that he, too, was thoughtful. Impossible even to guess what was on his mind. His moods were mercurial anyway. Nevertheless, this day had turned out better than she had anticipated after the happening of the previous night.

  “My lord,” she said, as he slowed his horse.

  “No,” he said. “My name is Efan…Ee-van.” He spoke it slowly. “My lord and my lady is for official company only.”

  “Efan,” she tried it out. It sounded pleasant on her tongue. “Efan at night, before bedtime, Richard and I play tables, will you not join us this night?”

  He frowned. “Tables, is it wise to teach a youth such things?”

  Kate laughed. “I did not teach him. He taught me!”

  “I see. But to encourage such things?”

  “He learned such at this father’s knee. Better not to deprive him of all his old habits, for that may make him restless and resentful. We play for buttons only. To ban him from the game will I believe taint it with a whiff of the forbidden. Forbidden things can be very exciting to the young. Better to see it as ordinary, so that other things may take its place. He is taken with archery and hawking now, whereas before…before you came, he spent much more time at tables.”

  “I do not know how to play,” he confessed and Kate smiled gently.

  “Then come and play. You will like it and Richard can feel that there is something that he may teach you.”

  He grunted an assent, then spurred is horse to a full gallop. Her excitable little gray was quick to follow, but she could not catch up, no matter that she gave a good try.

  Chapter Six

  There was little time to train Anne, or to attend to the accounts. Even less time to complete her tapestry. All time was taken by other pursuits. She was at the butts, competing with Richard and Efan; there were long leisurely rides, there was a peregrine for her to fly. Where there had been two at these pursuits, now there were three.

  Richard was excited and happy, running between them and for the first time, Kate sadly reflected, enjoying the adventure of being part of a family group, being sometimes the center of their attention. Eclipsed always by his brother, Richard at last experience the joy that could stem from being an only son.

  Kate saw in her husband other qualities, patience, kindness, a full sense of humor. She saw too, disturbingly, that he had grown deeply attached to the boy whom he believed to be her stepson. Not that that act had anything to do with the attraction. Richard’s charm, his innocence and at the same time good sense, his intelligence and spontaneity, had wormed its way into the lord’s heart. He adored the lad!

  Sometimes, in those giddy days it was even possible to forget who Richard really was. It was easier to believe the lies they had spun. If only those lies were the truth. Then they could, she was certain, forge some kind of decent life together.

  The unpalatable truth, though, troubled her mind. Anne was combing out her hair. It was soothing and should have relaxed her, but in the quiet, the truth of her situation came to haunt her. The problem of what to do for Richard, how the matter could be resolved. Dare she even contemplate continuing the lie, forgetting the past, welding a new life from the decay of the past? If no one came, could the game be played out forever? And more, did she wish that to happen? There was no answer, for it was not up to her. It was up to Richard and if others came to take him away, his sense of duty would lead him to support the cause but where…where would his heart be?

  Anne suddenly stopped running the comb through Kate’s long, thick hair. Her gown rustled as she curtseyed before running from the room. Efan stood just beyond the entrance to the chamber. It was late. They had played at tables and then Kate had retired.

  She had bathed and slipped into the new Indian sandal bed gown. For seven nights he had left her alone. Each night, in spite of their budding friendship, she had lain in dread of his coming to claim her.

  There were things, the Lady Anne had told her about marriage, which were unpleasant. “You think it is all joy, but for a woman there are matters that strangle all the joy out of married love.” Kate had not paid too much attention, for she had thought the Lady Anne to be complaining without just cause. Now she knew differently. This had to be what the Lady had meant--the pain the brutality, her flesh being torn asunder.

  She stood, knew it was her duty to acquiesce, for this was the way of things. He came, gently fingering her hair, running fingers in a combing motion through the locks. “Lovely,” he said, “truly brown, as the nuts of Autumn, the nut brown maid of legend, that is you.”

  She could not meet the intensity of his green eyes, so rather than look away, she lowered her lashes over her eyes. His lips touched hers, fleeting, soft kisses that caused her own lips to part involuntarily, a flutter began in the very center of her stomach as he gave her a more lingering kiss, so gentle, feather light, yet demolishing the barriers she had erected between them. She could no longer stop herself from responding than she could hold back the tide. Increasing the pressure of her lips, allowing her arms to wrap around him, to press herself against those hard contours of his body that only a week ago, she had detested and feared.

  And it was joy and not terror that she felt when he lifted her off her feet and carried her beyond the voluptuous hangings to the vast intimacy of their bed.

  For a long time there were kisses and deep caresses, awakening an excitement inside her that was ecstasy and agony, that made her writhe and gasp and claw and sob his name… “Efan…” and to cry for something that would take her out of this state, that was paradise as well as a king of hell. Yet, still he touched and caressed, running his tongue around the pink pouting centers of her breasts, his hand smoothing across her belly and beyond, down onto the trembling petals, tenderly teasing, making her thrash against his questing hand. He bent his head, replacing his fingers with his lips, then with the tender thrust of his tongue. She gasped and sobbed and called for him to end the blissful agony…to release her…somehow…

  “Cariad,” he groaned the word, seemed to break whatever control he had maintained, he moved his head, his hands parting her threshing thighs, bending her legs at the knee and positioning himself over her, ever so slowly, entered her warm gushing wetness. She bent back her head, exposing the pale fragility of her throat, feeling at once the warm brush of his tongue. Then she was totally his. They were one and the same and there was no terrible pain but a delicious rapture. Eagerly she thrust herself up on him echoing his movement, riding a sensuous cloud. There was a nothingness and yet there was everything. She became aware of nothing but the thunderous applause of her body.

  Later, his body damp, he held her to him, quiet and still. He had smoothed her hair. A thousand questions tiptoed into her mind. Why, what, how? “I feel wonderful,” she said at last, his hand against her breast pressed very gently. “Efan,” she cried out his name. “Oh Efan.”

  He stirred beside her, sighing his contentment. Kate moved even closer to him, resting her chin on his chest, looking up at him, her eyes traveling the long length of his throat to where his chin jutted, her eyes traveling over the well defined contours of his face, the skin stained brown by the elements. The skin at the corners of his eyes where there were fine lines, was paler. He had strange eyes, large and long and slightly tilted at the corners.

  Who was his father? She wondered. His features were not coarse, his brow high and wide. His nose as imperious as the nose of a Roman Emperor. She realized with a warm gush, that it did not matter. It was only curiosity that had provoked her into wondering. She did not care.

  Aware of her scrutiny, he turned his eyes to look down at her, not moving his head or body, as if to do so would cause him too much effort. Gently she smoothed a hand across his chest, marveling at the strength beneath her fingertips, the hardness that contrasted her own softness.

&n
bsp; “What ails you woman?” he asked, his voice husky.

  “Nothing, everything!” She kissed the spot between his breasts, allowing her hand to run across the more vulnerable flesh of his belly. She had never touched another human being like this, felt their body, experienced the feel of another’s flesh. She allowed her hand to wander at will, down over his hard stomach. She felt the curling hair between his thighs, running her fingers through it and then below, as her fingers touched him…there…she felt the instant throbbing. Fascinated she moved her fingers gently until the hardness all but filled her hand. Cupping her hand around his maleness she heard, with a kind of wonderful sense of power, him groan deep in his throat.

  Instinctively she moved, sitting up and straddling him, moving herself against him His hands reached out, cupping her breast and pulling her down until he could take first one and then the other into his mouth. She felt the warm wetness spilling out of her as she moved herself against him. Without warning, he tipped her over onto her back, seeking her mouth and, finding it, thrusting his tongue deep inside. She followed his lead, teasing her tongue around his. His hands moved down her body, groaning as he felt her wetness and knew that already she was ready to take him.

  “You enchantress,” he cried and slid himself inside her, gasping as she rode up to meet him.

  * * * *

  “Go to sleep,” he murmured, much later as she lay still and yet awake in his arms.

  “I cannot, not yet,” she sighed. “I feel so, so touched by magic, that the night is enchanted somehow.”

  “Katy.” There was an edge of impatience I his voice. “There is no magic…”

  “But there is, Efan. Were you not lost in some other place? Were you here in this room? Were you not transported?”

  “Yes but…”

  “But what?”

  “That is the way of things, at the time. Now it is over, sleep now.”

  She unwrapped herself from around him, sitting and carefully and modestly tucking a fur around her nakedness. “I do not feel that it is over,” she declared.

  “I am immensely flattered.” He did not move but lay still. There was something in his tone, so calculated, sending out little darts to puncture her wonderment.

  “Do not be cruel to me Efan.”

  “I intend not to be,” he said matter-of-factly, “but you must be realistic.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? You sound just like Richard, why what, seeking out answers when there are none. You speak of enchantment, enchantment is for those who sing the ballads. The realism is that you are a warm woman. I am your husband, and not through enchanted circumstances, but because it was ordered.”

  “You called me enchantress,” she persisted, still longing for an answer that would delight her.

  “That was then, men say many things at that time.”

  “What are you saying?” The bubble inside her was slowly disintegrating.

  “Tell me, are we here because of love? Are we here because of our own volition? Would you have married me of your own will? Would I have married you had that damned Abbot not interfered? Of course not. We are not victims of love but of circumstances.”

  “Then why bother? Why be so tender, so loving?”

  “Because there is no pleasure for me if I am causing you pain.”

  “Is there not?” she said. Then why cause me pain now, but she asked the question silently. Oh not physical pain, but mental agony, destroying her bliss with every realistic word.

  “Last time it was not possible even to continue, not when I realized you were a virgin, that I had hurt you. It need not have been like that had I but known. It is better that you gain pleasure too, and it takes time for a woman to….”

  “Is that so?” she interrupted.

  “Of course. We are married. We will make children. Better the begetting is pleasurable, do you not think? And you have found, too, that you like it, have you not Kate?

  “I think I have found that I hate you.” She heard the snarl in her voice.

  “Ah yes, better the truth than enchantment. I know that you hate me Kate. I would you allowed your true feelings to flow, rather than hide them in talk of enchantment.”

  She flung herself away from him, burrowing deep into the furs, feeling the shameful rush of tears running down her cheeks. He had used her for the begetting of children and she, she had complied, willingly, sensually. Well she would never comply again. She might not be able to stop him, but she would never, ever respond to him again. She would see herself in hell first!

  * * * *

  It as the Abbot who brought the news on a foggy October afternoon. Seeking out the lady first of all and whispering I her ear. Caradoc watched moodily from his chair in the hall.

  Kate was by the fire, stitching shirts for the poor. She had felt chilled and out of sorts. Richard sat by he lord. They had come from a ride and were having a cup of heated ale. They could not see that the lady had trembled, or that she had pricked her finger so that blood dripped onto the fabric. She cast her work aside and licked her finger.

  “See how the priests fawn on ladies, Richard. They always take their part, preach against them as daughters of Satan often, but still cling to their skirts.”

  “You are bitter today,” Richard said lightly. “It is only that the Abbot is fond of Kate.”

  “Fond? Methinks more than fond. If Kate is not at the Abbey, then he is here. Wandering with her in the garden, talking…. What do they find to talk about? What do they do when she is there at the Abbey? I think that she missed her true vocation when she became a wife instead of a nun.”

  “They talk about books and music, and Kate, when she is at the Abbey discusses cures and disease and remedies with the Apothecary Monk.”

  Caradoc asked irritably. “Why do you not call her mother anymore?”

  “Because I do not see her as a mother now, but as a thing that cannot really exist. I see Kate as a perfect sister.” Caradoc laughed a little. The lad was growing fast. He was tall, long legged and at the moment far too lean, growing too fast for his strength, Kate had said, giving him this and that to drink, some vile brew, Caradoc warranted.

  When she was not with the Abbot she was fussing over Richard, as well she might, for her own body gave no succor to his seed. Each month he waited, knew her days and went to ask, and always she shook her head. Anger now replaced his previous philosophical attitude, when he had thought that what was not there, soon would be. Now he stormed out of the room at that nod from her. All ran from him on those days. Even Richard was frequently hard to find at that time.

  “You may yet be my heir,” Caradoc spoke this thoughts out loud. “What do you think of that?”

  “I am content as I am. I have a horse and good food. What more could a lad ask for?”

  Was he offering honey filled words? Was he crawling? Caradoc despised sycophancy, but no, he saw the lad was genuine. He spoke from the depth of himself. Richard honest and personable, touched Caradoc’s cold heart. The damned Abbot though, he was sitting so close to his wife he would have strung him up had he not been a holy man. How he hated these holy men, befriending women and yet the next minute pouring scorn on their heads. He felt a rage burning through him.

  His mother came into the hall, red-cheeked from polishing and scrubbing, further increasing Caradoc’s exasperation. These women! Always they were doing as they liked. One acting like a serving woman, despite his order that she was not to do so, the other forever in the company of a holy man! Cold jade, he fumed. His mother seeing the Abbot, turned and came to him. Aye, she had no great love for priests and less for this one. His aristocratic bearing always made her feel inferior. She could not cope with him, though she never complained. Close to Kate, she would never do anything to arouse Caradoc’s anger against his wife. Always she took Kate’s part.

  Dame Caradoc sat on the bench, smiling up at her so, pretending she was not bothered by the Abbot’s continuing presence.

  “He’s here ag
ain,” Caradoc said.

  “Who is that?” his mother asked disarmingly. Caradoc merely smiled, a deep smile tinged with cynicism.

  “He is lonely, “ Richard assured him. “There is really only Kate that he can talk to. She understands books and things.” Richard yawned as if just saying the words bored him.

  “Good Abbot,” Caradoc called. The Abbot and Kate turned to look at him. “Come share a cup of ale before your journey home. Do you have any news with which to regale us?”

  The abbot stood, putting his hands inside the full sleeves of his robe. Kate joined him. She was very pale, her hair bound and covered by a gold net and cap. The only time she wore it free was in bed. That irritated him, too, because had told her she might wear it loose until she gave birth. He thought that at the rate things were going, had she left her hair unbound she would still be wearing it so when she turned forty!

  Kate looked not at Caradoc but at Richard, a frown puckering her brow, chewing her lip with her upper teeth. Her teeth were bright and white. His mother had told her of the hazel bark, a Welsh remedy for keeping the teeth white and healthy. Everyone had been cajoled into using it.

  “I have my lord. Travelers from London have come with much news.”

  “Indeed, then you may share it with us.”

  “The Queen gave birth to a son on September the l9th. They will name him Arthur.”

  Richard stirred, then standing from the bench, he crossed the hall. “What ails him?” Caradoc demanded.

  “I will go and see,” Kate said.

  “No leave him. Talk of childbirth bores him. So Abbot the House of York and Lancaster are united with his infant.”

  “I would seem that that is so,” the Abbot said mildly.

  “Good times then, and you wife, why do you look so glum, or is it envy that causes you to be so miserable?”

  “Envy, my lord?” Kate asked.

  At once he had an overwhelming desire to somehow move her. “How quickly this Queen has conceived the child. It is barely nine months since they married. How fruitful this daughter of York must be and how fortunate for the king that she is no barren woman. Indeed, a man cannot know when he marries, whether she be fruitful or not. Some may look fruitful, but the man can never be certain.”