Almost Innocent (12 page)

Since their marriage, Edmund had lived the life of a warrior. He had slept in ditches and hedgerows, in castles and abbeys; on one occasion, exhaustion had overtaken him in a doorway of a sacked town and he had slept deeply amid plundering troops, fired buildings, screams of the ravished and wounded. He had seen men bludgeoned and hacked to death on the battlefield; he had bludgeoned and hacked to death in his turn. He had fought hand to hand with nothing but a dagger, had known the headiness of bloodlust and the incandescent glory of victory. He had witnessed torture, gratuitous slaughter, dreadful injuries, unjust executions, and he accepted them as necessary in the business of war, a business that he now knew would be his for as long as God preserved him.

He had had many women in that time, whores for the most part . . . except for one. But he tried not to
think back on that deed. He had confessed and done penance and was shriven. The memory should trouble him no more. He knew nothing of virgins and nothing of ladies, and his nakedness in the presence of this delicate, willowy, utterly silent girl both stirred and disconcerted him. Her mute attentions thrilled him, and he knew it was because she was his wife. Wives were not whores, and the submission they made to their lords was of a very different order from that made for coin or kind.

She turned from him when he had finished washing, folding the towel carefully, paying most deliberate attention to the creases, smoothing the damp material repeatedly, hesitating to replace it on the chest and thus indicate that her task was completed.

“Magdalen!”

The voice at her back was low but emphatic, the hand on her shoulder hard as he turned her to face him. She read the passionate message in his eyes, blue like those of his uncle, and she quivered like a kitten taken too soon from its dam. She was overwhelmed with terror at the potential power of such passion, at the contemplation of the force in the warrior’s body, at the sense of her own frailty in the face of such superior strength. She thought of the way Guy de Gervais had looked at his lady, the softness of his speech, the tenderness of his touch and kiss. She did not know—how could she?—of the years of passion Gwendoline and her lord had shared, of the vigor of their healthful, youthful couplings, of the many times Guy de Gervais had poured forth his lust and need upon the delicate body of his wife, and she had accepted it in love and as love’s gift. Magdalen knew none of these things, only the need for gentleness and her fear of an unleashed power in an unknown man.

Edmund pulled her against him, one hand circling her waist, flattening against her buttocks, his other
hand pushing up her chin as his mouth came down upon hers. She could taste the wine on his plundering tongue; clamped to his body, her breasts were painfully crushed. A great lassitude swamped her with the knowledge that she neither could nor should do anything to alter the course of the next minutes. It happened to all women at some point, unless they took the veil or, like Elinor, were permitted to settle for spinsterhood as the pensioner of a male relative.

She fell back on the bed beneath the weight of his body, felt a hand under her gown, urgent, scratching her thigh in haste and need. She shifted her body to release the gown bunched beneath her, anxious now simply to be done with this, hating the roughly probing hand yet knowing absolutely that he intended her no harm, bore her no ill will, would not hurt her if he thought to avoid it.

But he did not think. It did not occur to him to behave with Magdalen any differently than with any of the other women he had enjoyed. He knew no better.

When it was finished, he rolled away from her and fell instantly into a deep sleep induced by a week’s hard riding, wine, and the body’s fulfillment.

Magdalen eased her bruised body on the sheets and stared dry-eyed into the winter gloom of the chamber. The candles had not been lit, and only the fire’s flicker enlivened the gray dimness. Her gown and surcote were twisted under her, the rich material scrunched into a hard ridge in the small of her back. Gingerly, she got off the bed, shaking down her clothes. There was blood on the sheet where she had been lying. At least her husband could rest easy in the incontrovertible evidence of his wife’s virginity, she reflected, walking softly to the door, wincing at the soreness between her thighs.

Quietly, she unlatched the door, stepping out into the passage, closing the door behind her with an uplift of relief. But the relief was short-lived. In the peace and
solitude of the passage, tears of reaction sprang to her eyes, and she leaned for a moment against the stone wall beneath a flaring torch.

Guy de Gervais mounted the stairs at the far end of the passage. He was about to turn into his own chamber when he saw the figure, the ermine and ivory of her surcote glimmering in the torchlight. His immediate impression was of a limp and broken doll, and panic flared, turning his gut to water. He strode, half running, toward her, but she pushed away from the wall before he could reach her and began to walk slowly to the stairs.

“Magdalen.” He caught her arm as she made to pass him, her head lowered as if she did not wish to see him. “Magdalen, what is it? What has happened?”

She shook her head but would not meet his eyes. “Nothing out of the ordinary, my lord. I must go to my own chamber, if you please.” She pulled slightly at the arm he still held.

He maintained his hold for a second longer, trying to puzzle out her meaning. But of course it was obvious; he had just put out of his mind all thoughts of the inevitable conclusion to the couple’s departure from the hall. He let her go, and as she walked away from him he saw a bright spot of blood on the back of her surcote, and he cursed Edmund de Bresse for a clumsy, selfish, insensitive lout. Then it occurred to him that Edmund knew no better, and no one, least of all Guy de Gervais, had taken the trouble to educate him in such matters. Sensitivity did not make a warrior, and one did not attempt to sensitize a youth on the brink of violent death dealing. No, husband and wife must come to their own peace on such issues, as he and Gwendoline had done. He went into his own chamber.

Magdalen reached the room she still shared with her aunt on the second floor and rang the bell for Erin. She was struggling out of her mangled clothes when the maidservant hastened in. “I wish to bathe, Erin,” she said shortly.

“Yes, my lady.” Erin curtsied. “Shall I help you out of your gown before I fetch water?”

“If you please.” Magdalen ceased her struggles with the laces that had knotted themselves under her impatient and shaky fingers and allowed the girl to unravel them.

“Why, my lady, there’s blood on your surcote,” Erin exclaimed, tutting. “It is early for your terms.”

“It’s not that,” Magdalen said wearily. “Take the gown away and see if you can sponge it clean. It’s too fine a garment to be ruined after but three wearings.”

Erin pursed her lips but made no comment. She was not herself averse to a tumble with a lusty groom or servitor on occasion and had no difficulty reaching the correct explanation for the stained surcote. Her lady’s husband was returned victorious from the war.

Magdalen bathed before the fire, the hot water easing her bruised flesh. The bleeding had stopped, and she could find no signs of injury, so clearly she had suffered no more than the natural consequences of lost virginity. She contemplated the sense of violation that had accompanied that possession and decided that it was because for the man who possessed her there had been no sense of a person inhabiting her body. Well, Edmund de Bresse did not really know her yet, maybe when he did he would see her differently.

On that thought, she stepped out of the bath, allowed Erin to dry her, and selected a cotehardie of gold velvet with a matching gold brocade surcote edged in sable. The Duke of Lancaster’s daughter had been lavishly supplied with a wedding trousseau, most of which she had had little opportunity to wear during her seclusion in the wild border lands.

Dressed, her hair caught beneath a dainty jeweled cap, she left her room and went to Edmund’s chamber above. He was still asleep as she entered, but stirred when the door closed with a snap.

“My lord, it’s past time you rose and dressed for the
feast.” She approached the bed, her voice calm but strong.

Edmund groaned, heavy-headed now that the euphoria of the wine had passed. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand and blinked at the figure beside his bed. Then he remembered. He reached for her, intending to pull her down to him, but she jerked away.

“My lord, I am bathed and dressed for the feast. Shall I call for your squire?”

He frowned, sat up, then saw the blood, dried on the sheet beside him. He scratched his head and looked up at Magdalen, clearly at a loss for words.

“It is supposed to happen,” she said matter-of-factly, “when a maid loses her virginity.”

“Yes, I know that.” He sounded impatient and swung himself from the bed. “Come, I would have another fall, sweeting.”

She drew away from him. “You hurt me. I must heal first.”

He looked dismayed. “Hurt you? But none has ever complained of that before.”

“Maybe they were not virgin,” she said in the same matter-of-fact tone. “I will summon your squire.”

“I would wish you to sleep with me in this chamber,” he said, hesitantly now in the face of her calm assurance. “You do not appear to have your belongings in here.”

“As my lord wishes,” she replied, gliding to the door. “I will return when you are dressed, and we will descend to the hall together.”

That night, and every subsequent one, she had slept beside her husband in a marital bed . . .

M
AGDALEN MOVED RESTLESSLY
on the velvet bench under the August sun, still puzzling over what could have caused her husband’s extraordinary performance in the joust. Since last January at Bellair, his passion for
his wife had become a powerful obsession. Far from moderating under the generally dampening effects of familiarity and unhindered opportunity for satisfaction, his ardor raged unchecked. Magdalen found this passion neither flattering nor unpleasant. He was her husband, as good as any and better than most, judging by what she saw around her. While it was true to say his nightly lovemaking afforded her little enjoyment, he certainly took pains not to hurt her anymore. But however ardent and eager he might be in the bedchamber, in matters of chivalry and knightly duty he was always clear-headed, ruthless, but rarely out of temper.

Her gaze drifted around the arena where preparations were being made for the final melee of the tournament. All the knights who had participated over the last two days would take part in this bout, divided into two opposing teams. She had been hoping all day that Guy de Gervais would ask to wear her colors, and she had a silk handkerchief in her sleeve, in anticipation of such a moment. But after the last awkwardness, she was disappointingly certain he would not make the courtly request.

In Edmund’s tent, Lord de Gervais surveyed the young man thoughtfully. “Why would you behave in such rash manner?”

Edmund’s lips set. “It was a matter of honor, sir.” His squire was rubbing a strong-smelling oil into his sword arm, bruised through the heavy armor plate by a blow from his opponent’s sword. He flexed the muscles, anxious there should be no reduced mobility for the coming melee.

“Explain!” Guy’s exasperation crackled. It was an exasperation based on his own concern. Gilles de Lambert was related by marriage to the de Beauregard clan, as Guy had just informed John of Gaunt. Had he attempted to force a quarrel on the husband of John of Gaunt’s daughter?

Edmund looked sullen, resenting this interrogation yet knowing that he was not entitled to. The Duke of Lancaster was his overlord, and Guy de Gervais was the duke’s representative. He sent his squire away with an uncharacteristically unmannerly oath.

“The Sieur de Lambert informed me that through my wife the de Bresse name was tainted with bastardy,” he said stiffly. “By such accusation, he sullies both my honor and my wife’s.”

Guy nodded. It was as they had suspected, then. The long shadow of the de Beauregards had fallen, finally. “How did you answer him?” he asked quietly.

Edmund flushed with remembered anger. “I gave him the lie. The issue can now be settled only in combat.”

It was so; and such combat must inevitably end in the death or maiming of one of the combatants. De Gervais frowned, considering. Edmund had appeared to have the edge in both strength and skill that afternoon, but not by much. It would be a close run combat if it were permitted to take place, and whichever way the sword fell, the repercussions would reopen wounds that would bleed across England and France.

At that point a page in the Lancastrian livery pushed through the tent opening. “Sieur de Bresse,” he said, bowing.

“What is it?” Edmund frowned his displeasure at being so unceremoniously interrupted.

“I bring a message from his grace of Lancaster,” the page said.

Guy rather thought he knew what the message was going to contain, and that it would infuriate Edmund, but he also knew it to be a sound move on the duke’s part.

“His grace forbids the participation of the Sieur Edmund de Bresse in the melee,” the page intoned. “He also forbids his attendance in the great hall of the Savoy for three days.”

Edmund whitened. The page, his message imparted, beat a hasty retreat. “I will not accept it!” Edmund raged.

“Do not be any more foolish than you need,” Guy advised. “It is a light enough punishment for your unruly behavior. Accept it with a good grace.” He left the tent and its fulminating occupant.

Edmund bellowed for his squire. “Help me out of this!” he demanded, indicating his hauberk.

“But . . . but the melee, my lord,” stammered the astonished squire. “It is to start within the quarter hour.”

“Not for me!” snapped de Bresse, still white with this fresh humiliation. How was he to explain his absence in the melee to Magdalen, who would be watching and waiting for her knight, expecting to take pride in his prowess? But she would know soon enough . . . Everyone would know of his punishment, and she would be shamed also.