Guillelm did not return that night. Alyson had no idea where he slept. She did not sleep at all and in the morning when she rose she felt a thousand years old.
Gytha, bustling in with congratulations, took one look at her and shooed the other maids out.
‘Not all wedding nights are smooth,’ she observed, when they were alone.
Alyson did not want to admit that hers had been a disaster, although she knew that tongues would be wagging soon enough. Someone no doubt would have heard Guillelm on the stairs and be eager to tell.
Mortified, Alyson wanted to dress in her oldest clothes, spend the day out in the lean-to with her potions, but she knew that was impossible.
‘You will win him back, my bird.’ Gytha smoothed out the already smooth pillows. ‘There is a wise-woman I know near Olverton Minor, within sight of your father’s manor. She lives in the woods there, close to the road between Olverton Minor and Setton Minor, almost a recluse except for her family, but Eva is a very experienced lady in all areas of marriage and menfolk.’
Alyson shook her head. ‘No more charms or potions, Gytha,’ she said. ‘It must be love and trust, or nothing.’
She flung back the sheets and rose, a new energy and will pounding through her. I will lie with Guillelm, she vowed to herself, astonished at her own brazenness, but determined none the less, And on my own terms. Heloise may have made him chary of women and of himself, but with me he will be healed and whole.
She would save their marriage. She would seduce him back.
Chapter 11
‘I heard about your vow.’
Guillelm did not pause in his stoking of the bath-house fire. He had sent the other men and servants out, but Fulk had entered as if he had a perfect right to be there.
‘Do you not think it a sign from God?’ Fulk continued, in that pious, smug way of his. How had I not noticed this aspect of him before? Guillelm thought, depressed anew. In everything it seemed he was a poor judge, wilfully blind. The only skill he appeared to have was in killing.
‘Yes, it is a sign—of my own inadequacy. Boil, damn you,’ he added under his breath to the already steaming tub of water. He longed to be clean, to feel clean. ’I want no one here with me now,’ he growled. He had not forgotten or forgiven Fulk over the man’s mean trick with his wife’s diadem.
His wife—what a reckless dream that had been! Heloise was right: no woman wanted him.
‘Go!’ he snarled and Fulk paled and went, backing out rapidly and skidding down the bath-house steps.
Guillelm hurled more logs into the fire. Presently he heard the door creak and bawled, ’Out!’ without turning round.
‘Where shall I put the towels?’ asked an achingly familiar voice.
He spun round and there she was, Alyson his wife. Even as he gawked at her, longing to beg her forgiveness, to snatch her into his arms, to drag her with him into the steaming bath and frolic there until the water turned cold, his tongue felt nailed to the roof of his mouth. What could he say? He had failed her so badly.
She smiled and he was smitten afresh, more stunned than he had been that time in Outremer, when a stone from a sling had struck him on the visor of his helmet and he had almost blacked out. There was no fear of his losing consciousness now, but certainly she mazed his wits.
‘I shall put them here, shall I, my lord?’
Nimbly, she arranged her armful of towels by the side of the great tub, scattering something on the lapping water that instantly perfumed the bath-house.
‘An old remedy, lavender,’ she explained, lifting her skirts to tread lightly over the flags towards him. ’I have spearmint, too, for our teeth and breath.’
‘Our teeth?’
She did not answer, merely passed straight by him, close enough for him to feel the swish of her robe against his legs, and lit two beeswax candles from the torch. She placed these on the stone shelf beside the tub, where most bathers put their trinkets, or goblets of wine.
‘I find that bath-houses are always a little gloomy, even in summer,’ she remarked. ’Do you not think the candles add cheer?’
They did, and they put a glow into Alyson’s face, warm shadows on the vaulted stone roof of the bath-house and a flickering play of lights on the water. They added little light, if truth be told, but something else instead, a sense of being in a dream.
Guillelm cleared his throat. ‘You have done this before?’
She divined his real question at once and answered with the devastating directness of an armoured knight on a full-tilt charge. ‘With your father? No. Indeed no one, unless you count girlish fancies.’ She looked directly at him, her storm-coloured eyes darker than the rarest sapphires. ’I have imagined doing this with you, dragon.’
He was astonished that she could make him colour up, amazed at her words. She seemed shaken herself, for she laughed, adding, ‘Perhaps my early morning cup of sweet white wine was a mistake, but I needed something.’
She lifted her heavy plait of hair away from the back of her neck, draping it over her left shoulder while her fingers picked at the side-lacings of her gown.
‘Not to approach you, my lord,’ she went on, tugging off her belt and keys, ’I need no wine-inspired courage for that, but in order to free my own tongue—yes.’ She let the leather belt drop onto the flags and began to slide her arms from her wide sleeves.
In the half-light of the bath-house he had not noticed the colour or style of her dress but now he was all attention. ’Alyson, for pity’s sake —’ he managed to grind out, as she deftly shimmered out of her gown and hung it over one of the lower roof-beams.
‘A maid could help you bathe, if you prefer, my lord.’
There was a slight wobble in her voice that made Guillelm ashamed. She was being braver than he was, risking his rejection and his scorn. She is leading you on, as Heloise did, a treacherous whisper mouthed in his head, but he ignored that: the thought was unworthy of her.
‘You are all the maids I need,’ he said. ’But are you not afraid of wetting your under-shift?’
He winced inside, thinking his attempt at flirting too obvious, but she glanced up from undoing her shoes, grinned and snapped her fingers at him, mock-angry.
‘Shame on you, sir! Are you suggesting I am not neat-handed? Or would you do the ungentlemanly thing of dunking me into the water with you?’
She was out of his reach, or he might have done it there and then. ‘That is a very good idea,’ he said, striding across the flags. ‘Little scold.’
Barefoot and in her shift, Alyson stood her ground as he approached. Closing, Guillelm saw her hands come up, but not, as he half-dreaded, to ward him off. Her fingers fastened lightly on the lacings of his mantle.
‘It must take almost a bolt of cloth to clothe you,’ she murmured, not fearful but admiring. His mantle undone, she now tugged at his sleeve and he followed where she led, not daring to speak in case she changed her mind and whirled out of the bath-house.
‘Am I truly a scold?’
They were beside the tub now and her hands were on him, easing his mantle and under-shirt down to his waist. Her silken touch robbed him of answers: he could only shake his head.
‘So much,’ she said softly, tracing the golden threads, running her fingers through the rough matt of fair curls on his broad chest, the branching longer hairs running from his breastbone to his flat, hard stomach, the bits of fluff below his belly button. ’You are wonderfully hairy, dragon.’
No woman had ever said that to him. No woman had ever touched him as Alyson was doing: gentle yet searching, as if she could not learn enough of him. He felt healed by her hands, saved her clever, questing fingers, and at the same time helplessly stirred.
He closed his eyes and sank his head against the top of hers, kissing her forehead. Twin needs warred in him: to crush her into his arms and have her here at once, on the flags of the bath-house, and stay as he was, rigid in delight, scarcely able to catch his breath. There was the marvellous scent of
her: a mingling of rosemary and lavender and a baby-like sweetness, Alyson’s own ineffable essence. She moved about him like a sultry shadow, weaving her spell with her limbs—not only her hands now, but her legs, too, one winding about his as she balanced against his lean hips. And her mouth!
He gasped as he felt her lips upon his arms, his scarred forearms that for so many years had only known the feel of mail and the shock of sword-blows and yet now were tamed and stilled by the butterfly-light kisses of this girl. He trembled like a tree in a gale as her lips moved on, across the great arch of his ribs. Growing bolder, she used her tongue to flick and taste at the hair on his chest.
But not so bold. To Guillelm’s disappointment—and relief—she stopped, laying her head against his heart with a sigh. Cautiously, as if she was the wariest of creatures that he had ever hunted, he placed his arms about her, running his thumbs over the delicate bones of her shoulders. He could feel her taut sinews and the stretch of her thigh muscles, pressing against his. In her linen under-shift he could almost see her body—not quite, for the bath-house was, in spite of the torch and candles, still a place of shadows as well as light—but he knew her shape now, lithe and wiry, small-breasted and narrow-waisted, with sweetly flaring hips. She was still too thin, he thought, tracing the clear bones of her ribs with a pity and anxiety that almost made his forget his own hard desire, but then her right leg slotted a little tighter against his left and the intimate contact scorched him. He shifted slightly, trying to see her face, and she yelped.
‘Mother of God, I have hurt you!’ he cried, dropping his hands from her as if she was more delicate than stained glass, but Alyson pressed herself closer, saying urgently, ’No, no! ’Tis my own vanity, see?’
She leaned back, and he cursed, seeing where one of her necklaces had dug into her throat. Although dressed in naught but her under-shift she seemed to be wearing every jewel she possessed—three necklaces, a golden belt and two highly polished copper bracelets. She was also wearing the silken veil he had given her, secured by a narrow silver coronet.
He kissed the raw place on her neck and she whispered something.
‘Sorry, bright-eyes, would you say that again?’
She blushed and pointed at the tub. ’Should you not be in there, my lord?’
‘For sure, my sweet, and you with me.’
Before Alyson had the chance to protest, Guillelm had ripped off his leggings, kicked them and his mantle away and scrambled into the wooden tub, lifting her with him.
‘Now,’ he said, as she struggled to catch her breath, ‘Do we chew this spearmint you mentioned?’
‘If you wish,’ she replied, which was in truth no answer at all, but her courage had failed her. She was in a bath with Guillelm and he was naked. Plans of seduction were replaced by a paralyzing shyness. She knew she was being foolish—worse, her seeming reluctance might reinforce whatever cruel tricks Heloise had played and convince him she did not want him.
‘Did you know many women in Outremer?’
The instant the question was out Alyson quailed—what was she doing? The very last thing she should be asking!
‘I am sorry,’ she stammered, reaching blindly past Guillelm for the comb she had left on the edge of the bath-tub. ‘That was wrong —’
‘You have done nothing. Truly. Why should you not be curious?’ In the shifting candle-light, Guillelm’s features took on a wry look she was recognizing as a form of deep embarrassment. ‘I was the same about Lord Robert, with less cause.’
He cupped his hands, lifted them, allowing the water to trickle through. ‘The women in Outremer feared crusaders.’ He answered without looking at her. ‘Me especially.’
And Heloise provided the coup de grace, Alyson guessed. Understanding this, she willed her limbs to move, but her legs would not obey her.
‘Come here, little one.’
Strong arms wrapped about her, lifted her through the water and then she was tight against Guillelm, him peeling her damp veil back from her face. ‘The silk looks well on you, even wet, but I would see all of your blush.’ He ran his thumb along her black eyebrows and over her cheekbones. ‘You colour up so beautifully.’
‘As do you,’ she managed to mumble in return, her eyes drawn to the drops of water beading on that wonderful matt of chest hair. Where was her soap? She had forgotten where she had put it and without that she could think of no other excuse to touch him. I have less wit than a wren near you.
‘Be glad you have any, for you often make me speechless,’ Guillelm answered softly, which made her blush harder than ever. She had not realized she had spoken aloud.
‘Good!’ Alyson could feel his calves against hers. The legs of a runner, she thought, tracing their lean long muscles with the toes of her left foot. Where was her soap? ‘I cannot have a man who talks more than I do, or how can you listen to my wishes?’
‘Wishes, eh?’
Alyson raised her chin. ‘Or commands.’
He gave a low whistle. ‘Is that how you think it will be?’ He lifted her closer to him so that she lost her footing and floated in the lavender- scented water, him laughing as she tried to kick him. ’This is one battle you cannot win.’
‘Maybe not, but I shall win the war.’ She stretched up and tried to kiss him on the mouth, missed and bumped noses instead.
‘Well, my lady, if those are your tactics —’ His lips unerringly found hers and he clamped her along the length of his body, his hands sweeping over her back, her sides, her breasts. She gasped and he kissed her more deeply, flicking his tongue against hers.
‘My Lord!’ A breathless Sericus, bedraggled and clearly distraught, limped into the bath-house and hastily turned his back on his young mistress.
Alyson tried to break from Guillelm but it was like trying to escape the coils of a dragon: impossible. His body heat was like the blast of a furnace, making her thirsty and dizzy together. He could take me now with Sericus here and I would not object, she thought, appalled that she could be so wanton.
‘What is it?’ Guillelm grunted, sounding no more happy at this interruption than she was herself. ’Speak, man!’
‘The men were drinking last night,’ the old seneschal stammered, nervously licking his lips. ‘Some were drunk this morning and things —’
‘Things have become rowdy,’ Alyson finished for Sericus, sensing he was inhibited by her presence.
Sericus nodded unhappily. ‘One is on the battlements, with a sword. No one can get near him. He thinks we are the enemy.’
Guillelm sighed and lowered Alyson gently to the floor of the bathtub, rubbing his hand across his eyebrows. ‘That will be Thierry: he drinks and then he fights. Fulk cannot manage him?’
‘I do not know,’ Sericus said loyally. ‘Sir Tom asked me to come here.’ He bowed to Alyson. ‘Forgive me, my lady, I did not realize —’
‘No matter, Sericus, you had an urgent summons,’ Alyson replied, absently crossing her hands across her breasts. She was glad of the high sides of the bathtub.
‘Urgent indeed, if Tom told you to fetch me,’ Guillelm said, boosting himself out of the water. He tied a towel quickly round his middle and offered Alyson a hand, smiling slightly when she shook her head and paid close attention to her fingernails.
‘You must bathe without me, sweet,’ he said softly.
‘Of course,’ she said at once. ‘Take care.’
‘I will.’ Tugging on his mantle and with one shoe still unlaced, Guillelm sprinted for the door, calling over his shoulder, ‘Guard her, Sericus!’
Alyson waited a moment, hearing his pounding footsteps receding in the direction of the keep, and then she blew out the candles. ‘Now that my anxious husband has gone on ahead, we shall follow,’ she told her startled seneschal.
‘But my lady!’
‘I have vowed to remain close to Guillelm today, and I shall, whatever happens.’ As she did when she was preparing a particularly tricky potion, Alyson narrowed her eyes and chewed her lower lip.
’It may be that I can help him with Thierry.’
‘But the man is roaring drunk —’
‘Even so. Pass me my gown, Sericus.’
Chapter 12
Ignoring Sericus’ protests, Alyson dressed swiftly. On the way to the castle, she called to a kitchen maid and asked the girl to send a message to Gytha and Osmoda that a tub of fresh hot water was waiting for them in the bath-house. Why not? She knew that her old nurse would appreciate the chance to soak her aching joints and Osmoda would welcome the opportunity to bathe. Someone at least would reap the benefits of Guillelm’s work and her own.
Meantime there was an armed knight rampaging around Hardspen, convinced that all who approached him were his adversaries. She could hear Thierry as she rushed ahead of limping Sericus and ran up the narrow spiral staircase leading to the battlements.
‘Fight, damn you!’ Thierry was raging in French, ‘Come at me, pigs!’ He lapsed into Arabic and then into a long, incoherent bellowing, oblivious it seemed to his fellow countrymen yelling at him to stop, to put his sword down, to recognize them as friends.
Guillelm was already on the battlements. His voice was low, steady, comforting.
‘You are safe, Thierry. You have fought and won, Thierry. You are ever a brave and noble knight, who will do no wrong. You will know me, Thierry. When I walk across to you, you will know me as you know yourself. And you will be safe, I promise you will be safe.’
Alyson paused at the top of the stairs, allowing her eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight after pounding up the shadowy steps and to take in the scene. Her sudden appearance might inflame an already difficult situation and so she would keep out of sight, but she had to be sure Guillelm was safe. And if the chance came where she might help him, she would.
Thierry was on the highest part of the keep, crouching in a corner, below the arrow slits and crenellations and with two outer battlement walls protecting his back, a stocky, swarthy man whom Alyson remembered all too well from the time he had tried to kiss her. There were splashes of beer, vomit and wine on his leather jerkin and a huge jagged gash in his leggings. He had black and yellow bruises on his square chin and broad nose and strands of rushes in his greasy dark hair. He was armed with a sword and a dagger, brandishing both in front of him.
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 13