Towards evening the landscape became less flat and they saw the thatched nave of a tiny barn of a church rising above them on a low hill.
"Where is the village that goes with this church?" Marc hissed, scanning the horizons. He gave her a quizzical look. "Do I pass as English?"
"More and more, except for your sword," Sunniva whispered back, "But —” She stopped, not wanting to raise the spectre of Bertolf having told people in this region about either of them.
He looked at her, his amber eyes clear yet warm. "We do not have many choices, and all are possibly evil ones." He inhaled deeply. "I can smell frost in the air. I do not think we should camp out again tonight."
He meant she could not stand a night of cold, Sunniva thought, ashamed of her own weakness. "If we make a good fire?" she ventured.
He smiled and took her hand in his. "Let us go carefully, and see. They may welcome us here. Wherever here is."
They made for the little church, standing in its shadow on the brow of the small hill. The roofs of a few houses appeared in a widening valley below them but Sunniva hung back. "Let us try the church first," she whispered. "If anyone is inside, surely they will be Christian."
Marc noted the "surely" but said nothing, remembering the pagan signals he had seen on the fens. He decided to go with her instincts and gently pushed open the heavy door.
"Who is that?" a voice called from within the square box of the church.
The lit stub of a candle was raised towards their faces and before the slender light was blown out Marc had a glimpse of a swarthy, bearded figure carrying both candle and walking staff.
"You are strangers," the voice continued.
"We are." Marc saw no point in denying it.
"We need your help, Father." Sunniva had more courage or faith than he did: she took a step forward, into the dark. Marc felt compelled to step with her, his fingers tight around the hilt of his sword.
"I see you need it." The voice had shifted to the left of Marc. "Come with me to my house: we can talk in comfort there."
The priest stalked past them both to the door, adding, "You are lucky I came to the high altar tonight for a candle. Most evenings I leave the church to God."
He opened the door on their astonished faces and left it ajar for them to stumble out after him.
The house of the priest was a simple thatched lean-to, built against the southern wall of the church. Inside, Sunniva saw a bed, a fire, a bubbling cauldron hanging over the fire and a row of tall pots standing at the end of the bed.
"I am brewing love philtres," the priest said, catching her look. "Both men and women use them and sometimes they ask about my God. I teach them a prayer to say when they drink the philtre: sometimes they remember. Sometimes they come to church at Christmas, or at Easter. They fetch me from the village if a cow is sick, or a sheep has trouble giving birth. They know they can trust me with their animals. But I am one of the Lord's warriors here. This is a Christian outpost, a small fortress in a sea of pagans. I built the church myself, from quarried Roman stones. I had a cross on the high altar, made of silver it was. The Lord inspired Bertolf Fen-lord to take it with him, the one and only time he came to worship here."
He smiled and re-lit the candle by the fire. "I need to measure out a final ingredient for my potions tonight and stir it in well, until the colour of the philtre changes. So I need candle light."
"You cannot do this work by day?" Sunniva asked, intrigued by how much the priest had told them, and how quickly.
"No, little maid. The pagans would not trust the potion if I made it under the sun."
"Are they all pagan here?" Marc asked.
"For the most part. Bertolf allows them to be so and sets no example for them."
"So you are Bertolf's enemy," Marc said.
"I prefer to say that he is no friend of mine." The priest nodded to his bed. "Sit down and let me work, then we can eat. I shall be glad of your company."
"What is your name, sir?" Sunniva asked.
"I am Father David," said the priest. "And you are Sunniva the Fair and Marc de Sens, or the gossip of the fens is wrong. Be at peace!" he added, smiling into Sunniva's startled eyes. "You are safe and welcome in my house."
They ate well that night: roast fowl and steaming wheat pancakes, washed down with mead. Father David blessed the food and he seemed very glad of someone to talk to. Sunniva guessed he was lonely and understood why he might be willing to shelter them, given her uncle's lack of support for his ministry. He was keen to draw them out and, when she told a little of her abduction and the "showing" of the dead fen-lander dressed in Norman clothes, he nodded vigorously.
"The tattooed men are Bertolf's most loyal followers: he allows them free rein in the marshes, to worship what idols they wish. Bertolf was evil to kill one of his own men in such a cause." He frowned, then brightened. "And you, my lady? Now that you are free, what is your will?"
"Mine?" Sunniva was startled by the question and she automatically glanced at Marc. "To care for my people, I suppose."
She blushed, feeling that a feeble response, but the priest smiled.
"Well said!" He handed her another spit-full of roast fowl and pushed his stocky body off the bed, moaning a little and rubbing his knees. "This damp from the fen leaches into your bones. Now you must excuse me, both of you. I have an errand to run before we turn in for the night."
"For sure," Sunniva said quickly, wondering all the same.
Marc wondered, too, and he made no bones about following the priest outside. "Forgive me for asking, Father David, but where are you going?" he asked in a low voice.
"To fetch my little Christian flock, what else? You need witnesses if you are to marry." He thrust his bearded chin at the taller man. "You want to marry her, I take it?"
"Of course! But Sunniva has had many shocks of late: I need her to be sure it is what she wants."
The priest laughed, clapping him surprisingly hard on the back. "Believe me, man, it is! I have seen the way she looks at you, and t'other way about."
"But I have had no chance to ask her! What if she says no?"
"I asked her," Father David answered calmly.
"What!"
"When she held the candle for me over the last jar-full of potion."
Marc recalled them standing close together, their heads bent low over the jars. He felt the breath stop in his throat. "What did she say?"
"Yes, you idiot! And that without any love philtre! You two are one soul, right enough, and over-ripe for marriage."
He strode off into the dark, calling over his shoulder, "Finish your supper, and keep that lass of yours warm. We shall have a bonny wedding here, before the night is done!"
Marc returned to the lean-to in a happy daze to tell his spectacular wife-to-be the news it seemed she would already know.
It was the strangest wedding Sunniva had ever attended, and the most joyful.
She wore the Norman gown because she had no other, and kept her hair uncovered and unbound because Marc loved her hair. The service was conducted by the light of two slim candles, inside the tiny church.
Her wedding was witnessed by three old men, a young mother suckling a baby and a rounded, brown-robed matron who carried a small black and white dog with a cyst healing on its front leg. The young mother gave Marc one of her finger rings to be their wedding ring and, when Marc placed the narrow copper band on Sunniva's finger, the tiny church rang with applause, quickly stifled by the grinning priest.
Beside her, Marc looked as dazed as she felt, and his smile was the broadest she had ever seen. He kissed everyone, even, in a distracted moment, the little dog.
Father David hugged them at the door to the church, before opening the door and pushing them outside. "Go on to my house. It is yours tonight. Here is something for you." He thrust a parcel at Sunniva and shook his head at her thanks and protests. "It is a pleasure, my lady, and my Christian duty besides! Now go off, the pair of you, and do not concern yourselves
with me!"
Marc did not need telling twice. He swept his bride high in his arms and carried her over the frosty ground to the little lean-to at the side of the church. Inside, a spark of fire still burned that flared into life as Marc added more wood.
"Happy Candlemas, my wife," he said, as he laid her onto the bed.
"Happy Candlemas, husband," Sunniva answered, twisting a lock of hair in her fingers. "Though, to be fair, I do not think it is quite time for Candlemas yet, unless I have missed or miscounted more days than I know."
"Contradicting me already?" he teased.
"Not for the world!" she exclaimed, then relaxed when she met his eyes. "Only when you wish me to," she added, slowly kicking off her shoes. "Or when you make a mistake. Or when I please."
She was a saucy little madam, sitting barefoot in the middle of the made-up bed, fire-light sparkling in her hair and eyes.
"Is that the truth of it?" Marc murmured. He picked up the mystery parcel and rolled it along the bed to her, then grabbed her as she leaned forward to retrieve it. "You can always trick a woman with presents!" he chuckled, tickling her fiercely.
"Ah!" she cried, her face creasing, and he released her at once, at which she charged him with her shoulder and knocked him flat on the bed. "And you can always fool a man!" she giggled.
Her laughter stopped as he ran his hands under her gown, caressing her legs and feet. "That is not fair," she said.
She had an adorable pout, he thought, kissing her lips and drawing her down onto him. "Behave," he warned, sliding her off him and winding one leg around both of hers.
"Because it is our wedding night?" she breathed, placing one of his hands upon her breasts, a bold move which delighted him. "Or because you would tickle me some more?" Her blush was scorching as the fire.
He did tickle her then, just to hear her giggle again. She wriggled beneath him, not struggling too hard, stopping when he lifted her left hand and kissed her wedding ring finger. "I am so glad we are wed," he said.
"As am I. Shall we see what the priest has left us?"
"Little mercenary!" Marc yawned with relaxation and dragged the parcel close. They untied it together and lay the revealed objects between them.
"What are they?" Sunniva asked at length.
"Some kind of jewellery?" Marc hazarded. He picked up one of the many strings of threaded beechnuts. It felt light and smooth in his hand.
"For fruitfulness, perhaps?" Sunniva wondered in return. "Beechnuts to symbolize fertility? Perhaps the holy father does the same for the pagans in his flock, as another way of trying to win their trust."
"Think of it as his blessing," Marc said. He did not want her to consider the priest too much, not least because he did not want her to remember at this moment that they were in Father David's bed.
The father knows and approves, he told himself. Does not the Bible say we should be fruitful and multiply?
Sunniva lifted up one of the long strings, the dried beechnuts rustling softly between her fingers and drew it over Marc's head. "It looks well on you," she said, blushing all the more. "I feel like a little girl, playing at wearing jewels."
Perhaps that is the point, so that we play in our love, Marc thought, threading a string of beechnuts through Sunniva's hair. She in return "crowned" him with another thread, looping the ends around his ears. He obligingly wiggled his ears, causing her to collapse onto the bed in fits of laughter.
He wound another string around her middle, drawing the ends over her stomach.
She wrapped a thread about his forearm.
"I dare you to wrap a string somewhere else," he teased.
She smiled and moved in on him again.
Later, lying naked in a messy, easy heap together, crushed beechnuts spilling into their hair and over their bodies, Sunniva said, "I wonder if Father David knows anyone who can sell us horses?"
"I am sure he does." Marc kissed her. "I shall ask him tomorrow."
"I can sell my hair to pay for them."
Marc sat up with a jerk. "You will not! I still have some coins, and even if I did not, I would not have you cut your hair."
Sunniva wagged a finger at him. "Or else?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Stop trying to provoke me, wife."
She knelt up against his back, wrapping her arms around him. "Why should I stop, husband?" she whispered, skimming her hands across his chest and stomach, her fingers circling and spiralling, tracing each rib and muscle in turn.
His head tingled as every part of him became yet more alive and sensitive. He smelt her own body scent against his own skin and grew more aroused, reaching behind himself and mirroring her caresses with his own.
She cupped his balls, her slim, work-roughened hands driving him to the brink of explosive pleasure.
"Harder!" he panted, twisting about and winding his arms around her.
He entered her kneeling up and they writhed and moved together in the ancient mating dance of woman and man. Though he tried to hold back to prolong the exquisite moment for himself and her, her sweet, pliant body stormed his senses and he surrendered to her utterly, shouting as he came.
"That was so lovely." Sunniva snuggled against him and it was so tempting to drop down into the bed, into blissful sleep, but he knew her needs had not been completely met.
"Roll over," he whispered.
"It does not matter, Marc. I love it when you lose yourself in me. Truly, it does not —”
He stopped her protest with a long kiss and put her on her hands and knees, slipping one hand between her legs to finger her intimate place while he cupped and circled her buttocks with his other hand. In moments she was gasping afresh, lifting her bottom higher to meet his hands.
He smacked her round little rump, a few swift, light slaps that sounded very loud in the tiny hut, and she closed her eyes, lowering her head to the bed as her hands reflexively grasped the tumbled blankets. "Yes!" she hissed, "Yes, please!"
"Steady, my sweet," Marc murmured, and now he lifted her over his lap, spanking her and sliding his long fingers in and out of her, savouring how she groaned and squirmed over his knees, how she lifted her hips, offering her richly pinking bottom to his loving punishment. He watched her closely, careful to give pleasure, ready to stop and comfort if the warmth in her loins became sore, but she was meshed in the rhythm and spreading heat and happy yielding of the moment, gasping and moaning her pleasure.
As she raised her bottom ever higher he quickened the pace of his smacks and suddenly she stiffened and shuddered, a low, long cry issuing from her tautened throat. He switched at once to caressing her glowing haunches, feeling the gush of her pleasure as her sex opened and closed about his fingers. "Sweeting," he murmured.
She moaned anew and wriggled against his rising manhood. "Make love to me, Marc."
He entered her from behind, plunging into her. They came as one, calling each other's name, and swept into a richly dreaming sleep.
Chapter 35
Four days later, Marc and Sunniva returned to London and a hectic, happy reunion with Alde, Judith and Isabella in the Jew's house that Odo of Bayeux had appropriated for himself. Marc's mother Matilde had arrived from Brittany but Sunniva could not meet her yet — Matilde was out in the city when they arrived, down in the docks with Ragnar and his men, bargaining for fish.
"We shall wait for her," Marc said, sitting with all three of his nieces on his lap as Sunniva warmed her hands by the fire. She smiled to see them together, relieved that the girls were pink and thriving, sleeping and eating well — she knew that because they had told her.
But her meeting with Matilde was not to be. Scarcely had they settled, it seemed, than a herald from Odo appeared at the house to summon Marc and Sunniva to the new castle of London.
"Do not go!" Alde said, her face fierce in disapproval.
"We cannot ignore the wishes of Odo," Marc said, as Judith and Isabella set up a chorus of "It is not fair!" "You have just come!" "We want Sunniva to play with us!"
"And I will," Sunniva said, above the pouts and glowers and leg-kickings. "I promise. But your uncle is right. We must go. It is good manners."
"Good sense, too, with Odo's spies everywhere," Marc muttered, as they tugged their steaming cloaks onto their weary shoulders.
Closing on the motte by boat, Sunniva acknowledged that she felt no better about the new castle of London. It dwarfed the nearby houses and was littered with Norman masons, cutting stone and wood, building walls and ramps and teetering pieces of scaffolding, sending dust and fire-sparks everywhere. To comfort herself she touched her wedding ring, thinking how bright it looked on her hand.
Sitting beside her in the boat, Marc saw her looking and winked at her. "Not far now," he mouthed. Sunniva nodded, glancing at his strong, tanned hands and wishing it were night and they were alone. She loved discovering new ways of touching him, and adored his many ways of touching her. She imagined tormenting him with her mouth, kissing and licking him all over....
A shout from the riverbank interrupted her day-dream and she realized that Odo of Bayeux had come to the jetty to meet them.
"Well met, de Sens!" he roared across the water, "I knew you would get her back for us!"
He added more in French that Sunniva did not understand, the ends of his long cloak trailing in the frosted mud as he whirled his arms. Sensing Marc as stiff as a blade beside her, she was not surprised when he slowly stood up in the boat, putting himself between her and the burly warrior-bishop.
"My wife and I are glad to see you again, my lord," he said, his deep voice carrying above the constant din of the masons' hammers.
Odo's broad smile splintered like ice on a winter pail. "Married, de Sens? Already?"
"And binding, my lord."
"I do not recall that being part of our agreement."
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 54