‘Your skin is finer than silk,’ he muttered, trailing little kisses down her breast bone and across each breast. His hand never left her bottom, his palm rubbing over the soft mounds, his fingers circling each cheek until she felt dizzy with a building excitement that seemed to begin in her loins and extend in a whirling, stomach-buzzing sweep to her breasts and throat and lips.
‘Guillelm!’ Her legs stiffened and her bottom raised in response as he touched her in a way no other man had ever done. Almost stunned with these new feelings she reached out for him, her groping fingers freezing in a moment of delicious shock as she encountered his hard maleness.
‘Do not touch me now,’ he groaned as if in pain, moving back from her slightly, out of her reach but still within his. ‘You are entirely too sweet and this is a journey that’s better if we go together.’
His other hand relinquished her breast and dipped lower, fingers stealing softly between her legs to the tight black curls where Alyson had never before been caressed.
‘Please —’ she gasped. His big hands, one covering and smoothing over her bottom, the other spiralling still more deeply into her most intimate place, were dissolving all sense of place or time or even shame. She clung to him, lifting her mouth to be kissed.
‘I do not think I can bear this,’ she whimpered, surfacing after a long, passionate embrace. She felt herself hovering on the edge of something explosive and at the same time sweet; as if she might die but be glad of the dying.
‘Trust me, Alyson,’ Guillelm whispered. ‘Please trust me.’
His voice and his kiss calmed her, though the sweet tension remained and grew tauter. He was above her now, smoothing back her ravelled hair, kissing her breasts, always touching her as he moved his body over hers, never crushing her with his weight but giving her time to familiarize herself to this change.
‘I do trust you,’ she said, her answer ending in a strangled intake of breath as his fingers pleasured her again.
He moved closer, encouraging her now to wrap her arms around his middle, breathing teasingly into her ear as their thighs collided. Alyson felt as if she was in a golden haze, with the firelight and Guillelm’s tantalizing kisses and his hard, blazingly warm body covering hers. Her sense of expectancy increased as she felt him lower himself into her, her body pliant and trusting, her eyes open, gazing into his.
He growled something in Arabic she did not properly hear and then began to move within her, kissing her deeply.
Alyson felt a sharp, brief pain and then only a luscious, melting joy, wave after building wave. Sensual and overwhelming, it caught her up, sending her on a dizzy, speeding journey of devastating bliss. She heard Guillelm shout her name and saw his face tense and then flame into an exultant, almost savage release.
Clasped in each other’s arms, they tumbled together over the brink of delight into ecstasy.
Snug in Guillelm’s embrace, Alyson stirred early the next day. In the pinky-grey pre-dawn light and the dull orange glow of the sunken fire, she watched him sleeping, wondering at everything that had happened.
Their union of last night—had it finally laid Guillelm‘s demons to rest? Were they now truly husband and wife? The holy church stressed that the sin of lust should be fought. So had they come together in love or lust?
Surely we came together in love, she thought. She had told Guillelm she loved him. He had spoken of his love for her and although he had not said the words, ’I love you’, his every action showed it.
Then why does he not tell you? A new voice started up in her head, sounding like the sneering whine of Petronilla. Dismissing the voice, Alyson concentrated on Guillelm.
In this pre-dawn light he looked younger, almost a youth, although there was a strong shadow of golden stubble along his jaw. His lashes curled against his tanned lean cheeks like wisps of the finest silk. His bright hair was longer than when she had first met him, spiking in little tufts over his ears and beyond where he wore the collar of his mantle... when he was wearing it. At the moment he was wonderfully naked, bundled together with her under his cloak, which certainly did not cover much of him, sprawled out as he was in sleep. She nuzzled his bare shoulder, wondering what it would be like to kiss his slumbering mouth.
Almost as if he had sensed her thought, Guillelm tightened his grip around her middle, then relaxed with a sigh of wakefulness and opened his eyes.
‘Good morning.’ Rolling her on top of him again, he kissed her forehead, then her mouth, re-covering her carefully with his cloak. ‘You slept well, I trust?’
‘Extremely, thank you,’ Alyson stammered, conscious again of her own nudity and blushing under her husband’s intense, knowing stare. Lying on top of him, she could hardly fail to notice his rapidly increasing arousal, nor her own response to his long, sinewy body. But it wasn’t even morning!
‘We should go,’ she began, willing herself to move but failing miserably when Guillelm smiled at her.
‘Everyone at Hardspen, if they have any sense, will still be in bed. As we are, I believe.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Rather an eccentric couch, I know, but comfortable, I trust?
‘Alyson?’ Guillelm touched her cheek with his fingers. ‘Have I shocked you with this? Do you truly wish to rise? Because if you do, then we will.’
He would do this for her. He would forgo his own need. He trusted her choice. Was that not caring? And love?
Then why does he not say the words, ‘I love you’?
Chapter 24
Alyson and Guillelm returned to Hardspen in the mid-afternoon, wandering back to the castle by way of a high, winding droving road that avoided the flooded river plain and water-meadows. They did not hurry and Alyson was glad that Guillelm seemed in no more haste than she was to go back to their everyday lives.
As they approached the main gate, it opened and a lone rider with another two horses on long leading reins cantered out to meet them. Alyson felt a prickle of cold temper, mingled with unease, run down her back as she recognized the riderless horse as Caliph, and the glossy black mare as her own Jezebel.
Fulk jumped down from his irritable bay stallion and began talking at once, his nasal voice raised to a half-shout, as if he intended that others should hear him, as well as Guillelm.
‘My lord Guillelm, you are needed. I know that you left word where you were yesterday, you and your lady, but my messenger did not find you at Setton Minor and you have been sorely missed. Thomas of Beresford left for his manor this morning. The nuns of St Foys have also left. Their sister house at Warren Applewick, some three and thirty miles from here, have offered them a permanent sanctuary at their convent. Some of the knights of the Temple are their escorts on the journey.’
‘That is noble and kind,’ Alyson put in, determined not to be ignored. Fulk wore no helm today, or Armour; he had mud-spattered leggings, a badly-dyed scarlet mantle, his grey hair was greasy and uncombed and he had not shaved, but he looked altogether too pleased with himself. The red pimples across his nose and cheeks seemed bigger and more noticeable than ever and his thin lips seemed locked into a steadfast half-smile.
Holding Caliph’s reins out to Guillelm, Fulk deigned to glance at her, but addressed Guillelm.
‘The leader of the Templars staying with us, Sir Michael of Normandy, wishes to have urgent speech with you, my lord. It concerns the safety of your very soul.’
‘What?’ Guillelm was already laughing.
‘What?’ Alyson’s prickle of tension flared into alarm. She wanted to ask What have you done? but knew she would have no true answer from Fulk. Conscious that with Sir Tom leaving Hardspen she was without a doughty ally, she now asked, ‘Where is Sericus?’
‘Abed, lady. I heard a rumour yesterday that he had taken a chill.’
‘Steady, Alyson.’ Guillelm squeezed her shoulder, misunderstanding the depth of her concern. ’If Sericus is out-of-sorts he will doubtless enjoy your fussing, but we shall see him hale and thriving again, hopping about the castle.’ He turned to Fulk,
his look less kindly. ‘Never mind this nonsense of souls, hand my lady her horse and help her to mount. Do you expect her to walk into Hardspen while we ride?’
‘Nay, Guillelm,’ said Alyson quickly, distressed at the thought of Fulk touching her, ‘Sir Fulk was merely being a little tardy through prudence, as at the joust.’
‘Before God, you are right,‘ Guillelm muttered, recognizing her point immediately, along with the reminder of his own jealous antics. ’Fulk, I beg your indulgence.’
‘There is entirely no need,’ Fulk said, very affable, bowing and handing Alyson the reins to her horse. ’If you will permit me?’
He did not say My Lady, Alyson realized. A tiny thing, but one that deepened her growing sense that something was very wrong. If Fulk was up to no good again, then he had chosen his time well, with Sericus ill, Sir Tom gone and the nuns of St Foy’s going. Pretending not to notice Fulk’s outstretched hand, she pulled herself deftly onto Jezebel’s back and took a moment to arrange her skirts.
Fulk however was not interested in what she was doing; he had planted himself even closer to Guillelm and was even now repeating his warning. She caught the words, ’soul’ ’your well-being’ ’Sir Michael’ and ’no time to be lost.’
‘Peace, man, we are coming,’ Guillelm interrupted, winking at her.
It was the last time she saw him truly smile for the rest of that day.
Entering the great hall, Alyson felt an outsider. The sense struck her instantly, even more forcefully than when she had been at Hardspen as a ‘guest’ of Lord Robert. There were no other women in the echoing, high-ceilinged room and the men sitting at the trestles, talking quietly, paring their fingernails, scratching for fleas, roughing with the dogs, were strangers. No Sericus, nor any of the other old-timers who knew her. No single man of Guillelm’s command except Fulk.
‘Our men are at the practice ground,’ Fulk explained, catching Guillelm’s questioning glance.
‘All our men?’ Guillelm seemed as suspicious as she was, Alyson thought, unless that was wishful thinking on her part. Staring at the knights ranged about the hall, she found herself missing even a rough flirt like Thierry. None of these Templars smiled at her.
They were drinking and eating nothing, she noticed. Instead, as she and Guillelm walked into the hall they stopped chatting and straightened on their benches, solemn as the keenest of novice students at a cathedral school, and all facing the dais.
From the rim of her vision she saw Guillelm touch the place on his belt where his dagger was, as he jerked his head up to scan the walls.
‘Where is the sword and shield of my ancestor, Thorkill of Orkney?’ he demanded, pointing to a patch of stones beneath a window-slit. There a faint outlining of fire-soot showed where these arms had recently been displayed. ’Why have they been taken down?’
‘They are here, my lord de la Rochelle,’ the leader of the Templars answered, pointing to a space behind his high-backed chair on the dais. ‘I ordered it done. These are pagan weapons. We are warriors of Christ.’
Sir Michael of Normandy, his face hidden—deliberately?—by the hood of his cloak, shot back his plain cuffs and gripped the arms of his chair. Almost as if he were lord here, Alyson thought, sickened by a dread that would not abate. She was horribly conscious that the nuns who could claim equal spiritual worth with these fighting monks had already set out for their new home, escorted ironically by a Templar escort, but there were still too many Templars left at Hardspen. She counted a score in the great hall and still had not finished as Guillelm spoke in answer to Sir Michael.
‘I am lord. Those weapons should not have been removed.’ Releasing her hand from his, Guillelm glared at Fulk. ‘What is going on?’ he demanded softly. Fulk did not answer.
As three men stood by the door into the great hall, barring the way, Alyson scanned the room, seeking another escape. Unless they could fly, there was none. She tugged urgently on Guillelm’s cloak, whispering as he lowered his head to her, ‘Can you throw my veil and this necklace through one of the window slits? Would that alert your men?’
‘It is already in hand,’ he whispered back. ’No harm shall come to you, I promise.’
‘Please, my lord. All will become clear.’ Sir Michael nodded his hooded head and several knights rose from their places. They placed two chairs in the middle of the hall and then withdrew.
‘Please, sit,’ Sir Michael suggested.
Guillelm handed Alyson into a chair but remained standing. ‘If I do not receive an explanation, Sir Michael, you will regret it.’
‘You mean, I will not live to regret it.’ Sir Michael answered, his smile visible even with the cloak hood and shadows shielding most of his face. ‘I have heard from your comrade of your prowess with all weapons, including knives. But think! If you hurl your dagger and kill me, my men will cut you and your lady down.’
His features etched into deep lines of harsh disgust, Guillelm turned to Fulk. ‘Will you escort your lady outside?’
Alyson drew in breath to protest, but Fulk stared at the floor-rushes and did not stir.
‘What price, Judas?’ Guillelm demanded, as his seneschal remained silent.
‘Lord Guillelm,’ Sir Michael interjected, ‘You must not think too badly of Sir Fulk. He serves a higher master than you, as do we all.’ He touched the red cross conspicuously embroidered on his mantle. ‘And in his concern for you, he turned to me for help. You are not yourself, Guillelm de la Rochelle.’
‘Say plainly what you mean, man,’ snarled Guillelm.
Sir Michael finally drew back the hood of his cloak, revealing a long, faintly equine-looking face and an utterly hairless head. Alyson noted the marks of shaving on his narrow skull and the marks of fasting in his pale, gaunt cheeks, bloodless mouth and dulled, unblinking drab brown eyes. A pitiless ascetic, she guessed and, from the wary, cold glance he gave her, a man who disliked women as greatly as Fulk.
This dislike was confirmed by what he said.
‘This morning my men arrested a local female, a so-called wise-woman, Eva.’
‘You had no right,’ Guillelm ground out, his tanned face flooding with rapid colour. ‘The Templars may be a powerful order, but even their writ does not run in the borders of another lord’s lands. Justice is for the ruler of England, and for me, who holds these lands in the name of the sovereign.’
‘Which ruler, though?’ Sir Michael asked mildly. ’King Stephen or the Empress?’
‘You still had no right,’ Guillelm persisted.
‘In matters concerning religion and the church I have more rights than you,’ Sir Michael replied. ’The Pope will uphold my claim of jurisdiction.’
A spasm of scorn crossed Guillelm’s face. ’You would send petitions to Rome because of one local woman? What did she do, forget to bow as you passed?’
‘She is a witch, my lord. There is the very sign of evil upon her flesh: two red marks close to her ear, the place where Satan kissed her. She has been arrested and shown the necessary instruments of inquiry —’
By which he meant instruments of torture, thought Alyson, with a shudder.
‘She has confessed to her witchcraft and has named two more of her coven. Freewoman Gytha, a former nurse, and —’
‘Folly!’ Guillelm bawled. ’The women are no more witches than I am!’
Sir Michael shook his shaven head, steepling his fingers together on the smooth wood of the dais table. He was sitting at the high table, almost in Guillelm’s place, and he spoke with unconscious arrogance.
‘In your present condition, my lord, I find your assertion unconvincing. You have been clearly bewitched and by none other than that woman who sits beside you, staring at me as brazenly as any man.’
Sir Michael lifted something from his lap and placed it on the table with an audible snap. ’This potion was procured by your wife from the witch Eva to use against you. It was found amongst the possessions of the nurse Gytha, who is the confidant and gossip of your wife. Gytha confes
sed freely that the potion is witchcraft.’
Alyson freed her dry tongue and forced herself to speak. ‘A love potion, no more.’ She knew Gytha. Her poor old nurse would not have been able to resist the idea of a charm to help herself and Guillelm in bed. ‘Such things are harmless.’
‘Witchcraft,’ Sir Michael repeated with relish. ‘And evidence to be used at your trial.’
‘Think, Guillelm!’ Fulk broke in. ‘If she is found guilty of witchcraft, your own reputation will suffer unless you put her aside and annul this marriage. You may lose Hardspen!’
Alyson trembled at the threat, but not because of Fulk. Now surely was the moment where Guillelm would declare his love, where he would openly pledge himself to her. She looked up at her husband—after last night, her true husband—and willed him to answer.
‘I do nothing on your say-so, Fulk,’ Guillelm responded, without even glancing at her. ‘Alyson and I were wed in church. She is mine, my wife.’
Alyson gasped as, still glaring at Fulk and Sir Michael, he reached down and spread his hand across her stomach.
‘She is carrying my heir.’
That was it. No words of love. No public declaration of his feelings. Hard, practical reasons: she was his, and his brood-mare.
A tear rolled down her cheek and before she could prevent it or hide her distress from the corpse-pale, grinning head of the Templars, there came a thunder of knocking on the door and Thierry shouting, ‘Guillelm!’
‘Here and whole!’ Guillelm yelled, straightening to confront Sir Michael. ‘I am not so old nor so young as to fall into any trap,’ he said. ‘I saw dust by the jousting ground and sent a message.’
‘How?’ Fulk asked, flinching as he realized how far he had revealed his part in the Templar’s conspiracy.
Now Guillelm smiled, although to Alyson it seemed his face was no more than a mask. She sensed the dragon anger boiling beneath his grim exterior and, despite her own bitter disappointment and her renewed revulsion for Fulk, she trembled for the man. His punishment would be far worse than riding in full Armour for a day.
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 26