The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (9 page)

Look he may, but Elsbeth was not leaving.

"You have nothing hindering you from going to chapel?" he said hopefully.

"Nay, I am prepared," she said evenly.

"No need which calls you?" he pressed.

"None," Elsbeth answered without the softening courtesy of a smile. Isabel would not be left alone with Adam, of that Elsbeth was determined. Adam she did not trust. He was too handsome and his charm too bright. Elsbeth did not trust him and she never had. Isabel being married did not change that.

"Then I shall escort you both to Vespers," he said with a slight stiffening of his smile.

Elsbeth answered with a stiff smile of her own. Isabel paid scant attention to either of them.

The wind was strong within the walls, swirling down in frigid blasts, carrying last autumn's leaves in its grip. It was winter's last effort to retain sovereignty over the earth, yet spring had come; winter, no matter its erratic attempts, had lost the battle. Isabel placed her hand on Adam's arm in chivalric courtesy, her thoughts wholly occupied by Richard and his stubborn will as she shivered against a sudden gust.

With Elsbeth walking behind, Adam draped an arm around Isabel.

Distantly, Isabel noted the arm wrapped around her waist. Well, it was cold and she had shivered. It was a short walk to the chapel, which was huddled against the walls and separated from the tower by only a small orchard. She had not thought to wear a cloak on such a fine spring day. His arm did warm, though she had not given him leave, by look or word, to take such a bold step with her. They were almost to the chapel. He would remove his arm shortly.

And then he slid his other hand down her arm. From elbow to wrist he traced his path down the sensitive skin of her inner arm. It was wholly inappropriate. It was too intimate, too bold, and too casual; as if he had all the right in the world to stroke her. In truth, when she looked upon his face, he acted as if he had done nothing. That, more than the stroke, offended her. Did he think that because she was now a wife that her morals had relaxed? Did he think he had the right to
pet
her?

As she was forming the words to castigate him, Richard, with Louis and Nicholas behind him, stood in the chapel portal. The hot words she had been considering fell into the hardened mud at her feet. Richard looked furious. Nay, more than furious. Explosive. Intense. Passionate. Yea, he looked fair alive with passion. Not often had she seen such a look, and it intrigued her more than his expressions of solemn dignity or cool disdain, his favored looks for her.

It was wondrous what such a look did for her mood.

She understood immediately the power of jealousy. Never before had she attempted to spark feelings of jealousy in Richard; for one, none at Malton would have believed it. And, also, she had spent all her thought and time in capturing Richard's attentions. What time had she to pretend with another? Yet now, Adam had thrown himself in her path. And with what wondrous results.

Isabel, swallowing her fury over Adam's advances, smiled up into his well-formed face, allowing him to keep his arm around her waist, his fingers upon her. Certain of the intimacy of their pose and the brilliance of her smile, she looked over to Richard, her eyes guileless and bright. What would he do?

She had slavishly followed behind Richard for years, like a hawk trained to answer one call, trained to one hand. Thanks to God and Saint Stephen, she had netted the husband she had prayed for, but a disdainful and disinterested husband. Mayhap the spark of jealousy would prick his heart, releasing some matrimonial warmth. She was willing to take the chance.

She had married a monk. She wanted a man.

* * *

Richard saw in bursts, his rage flaring with each image: the male hand on her arm, the fingers lying lightly and possessively; the length of her dark hair brushing against the sleeve of Adam's tunic, wisps of black webbed against green of wool; the blatant invitation of her smile and the false innocence as she looked at him. Looked at him, her husband of hours. She displayed no maidenly blushes, no sheltered gaze, no outrage at being so intimately touched by a man not hers to claim. As shameless as Eve she was, as bent on destruction.

Just as Nicholas had implied but moments ago.

What had Isabel been about during his year in the abbey?

She was beautiful; dark and lithe and quick. Her beauty had been much commented upon at Malton. In the dark of the hall, the squires had talked of her, giggling their fascination, practicing their courtesy so
as
to win a smile from her; Isabel was quick to gift a smile. He had been there; he knew how much she was desired by any who saw her. And her desire had been for him, only him. Had been. Then. All had known she looked to him alone. All understood that Isabel might smile at them, but her eyes were all for him.

He had wanted her not. Did not want her now. Yet... yet... she was his wife, ordained by God, a covenant made between them until God should end it. Not Adam. Adam had not the right to Isabel.

He swallowed his rage and held it down, rendering it harmless, impotent, dead.

It was possession, not tenderness that drove him across the dirt of the yard to stand before Adam, breaking that illicit contact. It was duty that made him say, "I shall escort my wife to Vespers."

There was no tenderness, no fondness, in his laying claim to Isabel—there was only duty fulfilled. By God's law, he had been placed in charge of her, body and soul; she would not stumble into sin with him at her side. He would not fail in this. And he would not let Isabel fail. There would be no cause for repudiation and there would be no repudiation, no matter what Nicholas hinted. He would not cast Isabel to that. He would save her. Perhaps that was the reason behind God's will in arranging this marriage: he would guide her into righteousness.

With that thought lifting him toward heaven, Richard strode into the chapel with Isabel firmly in hand.

Chapter 8

Vespers became Compline. After Compline, most made for their beds. Richard kept praying. Isabel remained at his side. Richard had insisted, and she did not know how to resist without appearing an ungrateful and unloving child, so she did not resist. Hours passed, and the full weight of night fell upon Dornei. All were abed. All was still. The night pressed against her until she collapsed against its weight and fell, fitfully, into sleep. She only knew she swayed on her knees when Richard jerked her awake.

Nocturn came, was sung, and passed.

She slept sometime between Nocturn and Matins, unaffected by his nudges.

The chapel filled at Prime, and she stirred. The air was soft with morning and birdsong, and the gentle light of dawn dimmed the candles to insignificance. She realized that her face was resting on the warm wall of his chest and that his arm was wrapped around her for support; it was comforting—and peculiar. Richard's embrace while he sang the office—an odd pairing of experiences. He was her husband and he was turning her into a nun. She had spent her wedding night in a chapel saying prayers. The only blood of the evening had been the blood of Christ. Her virgin's blood was still intact.

Upon realizing she had awakened, he put her from him. Yet she counted it as gain that he had touched her willingly.

The people of Dornei came into the chapel quietly. Of them all, only she and her husband had spent the night in prayerful vigil. And of the two of them, only her husband had stayed awake for the whole of it. The Mass that started each God-given day began, the Latin rising sweetly into the spring air. She stood at Richard's side, proud in her place as wife, though the night had not fulfilled her maidenly dreams of a wedding night. Still, if nothing else, it was obvious to all that she and her husband had spent the night together. She was a virgin, still, yet a wife, and Richard was her husband. Nothing would change that.

Truly, there was much to thank God for this day, her first day as Richard's wife.

He knelt beside her, tall and strong, a man to dream about. Worthy of every dream she had spent on him. His hair was dark, blacker than her own, and his eyes the dark blue of sapphires. His throat was fine and long, the veins that carried his life's blood thick and full. And his mouth—his mouth had fired her imagination as no other part of him had done in all her years of dreaming. She had experience of that mouth; she knew what fire could dwell there.

She twitched as she knelt at his side, her blood afire with longing and expectation. He would claim her today. He would mark her as his, as she had longed for him to do since a girl. Today the long waiting would end. God had given her Richard, and she would take the gift and gladly.

Richard looked down at her out of the corners of his eyes, his look disapproving as the Latin rolled over them, washing them in sanctity. She stilled her trembling and looked downward piously. Yet she was not pious. He could disapprove of her eagerness, but he was her husband, and a husband had duties to perform upon his wife.

Thank you, Lord, that a husband such as Richard had such duties to perform.

She hid her smile of satisfaction in a prayer.

After Prime, Richard left her quickly, no doubt because he sensed her eagerness. She did not question his departure. With Robert and Jerome upon his heels, he left to see to Dornei rents and contracts and the state of the larder. It did not matter to her how he occupied the daylight; he would be hers come nightfall.

And how would she spend her day? Why, in preparing for the evening. Tonight would serve as her wedding night, and she would be prepared for it.

And for Richard. In truth, she had been prepared for this, for Richard to touch her as a husband touches a wife, for years. She was more than prepared; she was eager. And for all Richard's monkish ways, she knew from past experience that he could be brought to eagerness as well.

Joan, Aelis, and Elsbeth followed her from the chapel. Richard was already lost to sight, but she was at rest; he was within the walls of Dornei and bound to her by holy covenant. Never again would she pine for Richard.

"Shall I fetch your embroidery, Isabel?" Elsbeth asked as they climbed the stair that hugged the lower wall of the tower.

"Nay, no embroidery today," she said sweetly, her thoughts wrapped in visions of the night. "But you may arrange for a bath; also a loaf and some ale. I will not leave my chamber today. Today I spend in preparation of my bridal night."

"A whole day to prepare for a moment?" Aelis asked with a grin.

Isabel looked at the girl, soon to be wed herself, and smiled, "A moment? Nay, it will take the whole night, if I have my way."

"It is Richard who will have his way with you, Isabel. '
Tis
the man's duty," Joan said as they reached the hall.

"Let him, then. I shall not stand in the way of his duty," Isabel said in mock seriousness.

They laughed as they made their way up to the lord's chamber, unslept in last night. Twould not be so tonight. Nay, that giant bed would serve well soon enough.

With jokes and laughter, they selected her bliaut while awaiting the arrival of the tub. A rich azure was the choice all agreed upon, the blue setting off her dark hair, with an undergown of aureate, the golden yellow making her eyes shimmer green, or so they all agreed. For jewels, a brooch of gold set with emeralds; she lacked a bridal ring, and this lack she wanted mended at the soonest opportunity. The goldsmith in the town could fashion something for them; she would discuss it with Richard, and they would walk the distance happily, chatting as they planned the design of the ring that marked her as his. She could see in her heart how it would be. It would be so, for was she not the most graced woman in God's domain, to have Richard for a husband?

The bath arrived, directed by Robert the steward. Isabel smiled her thanks and said, "Your lord has no more need of you this day, Robert, to let you attend the delivery of my bath?" Was Richard free of duty and waiting for her?

"He bade me attend as he is closeted with Jerome, Lady," Robert answered. "He reports that there is much that needs his attention concerning the collection of the rents."

Yea, the collection of the rents was important, but did her husband not wish to see her at her bath? Perhaps tomorrow, when the bridal night was past, he would overcome his monkish timidity and attend when e'er she did bathe. Yea, she could well imagine that it would be so.

Tonight would change everything.

Tonight, after the meal, they would share a bed, and all the intimacies of marriage would be theirs. There would be no excuses; she would not be put off. Her father was dead, his soul secure in heaven, his will assured. She was a wife; it had been his last command. Richard must claim her on the marriage bed or the church could annul their union. It would not happen. She would not lose him now, not after so many years and so many prayers sent into the bosom of God.

Standing before her ladies as they toweled her dry, she slipped into a memory that had sustained and entertained her for a year. A year ago on Whitsunday. The kiss.