by Ashe Barker
Chapter Eighteen
“Do you intend to sleep the entire day away, little maid? Father Peter will take it amiss if we keep him waiting.”
I mutter something and attempt to roll onto my side. It is a struggle, my body is swollen to a point where I am convinced I might burst and even the simplest manoeuvre is a complex undertaking. My back aches, my legs refuse to carry me more than a few yards at a time. Rising from a chair is a challenge and getting out of bed unaided has become a forlorn hope. I inform my tormentor of that fact as I burrow down into my pillow again.
Piers is undeterred. “Linnet, it is our wedding day. I fear you must make an appearance.”
“Can I not be married by proxy?”
Piers chuckles as he drags the blankets from my body and eases my legs over the edge of the bed. “I know you. You would not wish to miss this. Give me your hands and I will help you to sit up.”
I grumble as he assists me into an ungainly sitting position, though he is correct in his assumption that I would regret not being present for my own wedding. Still, I cannot resist protesting further.
“I am sure I could remain in my bed. After all, I could get married in my sleep now, I have done it so often.”
“Ah, yes, three weddings in just over a year. It is an achievement for even the most enthusiastic of brides. Still, if Father Peter does not see fit to take issue I doubt anyone else will.”
I sigh, resigned to the inevitable. Piers will not resort to a spanking to ensure my compliance, not whilst I am pregnant. Apart from anything else, there is no way I could lie across his lap in my present state. I have arrived at the conclusion that this is something of a pity since a spanking from Piers might be painful while it is happening but always concludes most satisfactorily. I am cautious about mentioning my regrets as I will not be in this delicate condition for much longer and Piers will certainly remember my ill-judged words.
For this morning though it is clear my husband-to-be is intent upon having his way and I can only procrastinate for so long before he will become more insistent. I have no desire to play host to a finger of ginger before my wedding, so I muster my most pleasing smile for him.
“Please, would you ask Agnes or Joan to come in? I will require their help to prise me into my gown.”
“Soon, my sweet. First though, I have something else in mind for you to help raise your flagging spirits.”
“Oh? What is that, my lord?” I look up at him, privately wondering—and not for the first time—how I managed to tempt not one but two St. John brothers into marriage. Ralf was handsome, my golden prince. I adored him but Piers is every bit as attractive. I love him too but it is different. More perhaps.
Over the last few weeks I have come to admire Piers and to rely on him. He has met the catastrophe of Ralf’s death with fortitude and courage, offering leadership and certainty to a castle wallowing in heartbreak. He has grieved, I know this because he has shared my bed every night since the funeral and in the privacy of our chamber he has wept for his lost brother. As have I. There is a gnawing emptiness here, a chair unfilled, a space vacant.
But as each day has passed Piers has grown in stature, assuming the full authority of the earl, wrapping the cloak of sole responsibility around his shoulders. There is a strength here, a growing sense that all will be well. Piers will make it so. I love him more with every passing day.
“Lie back, close your eyes, and relax.”
“I was lying down. Until you came in and—”
He stops my protests with a kiss. “Hush. Lie back, little maid.” He eases me back down onto the mattress, then lifts each of my feet in turn to place them on the edge of the bed. My knees are bent and he takes hold of them to ease them apart. I know what is coming now and sigh my pleasure.
However much I might deplore my current inelegance, Piers’ worship of my body is undiminished. He rolls my night rail up around my distended abdomen and leaves a trail of kisses along my inner thighs. I hold my breath as he nears the soft curls at my centre.
“Ah, little maid, so eager.”
“Yes, my lord.” I no longer see any merit in denying the obvious. I have not done so for months.
“I intend to wait until you are my countess before I fuck you again but I believe your grumpy disposition will benefit from some relief prior to the ceremony. Would you agree?”
“You are most kind, my lord. Yes, I do believe that would help my current mood.”
“How would you like it, Linnet? What would you like me to do to you?”
“You will choose, my lord. You always do.”
“On this very special occasion, my sweet little bride, I will take instructions from you.”
“I do not understand? What do you want from me?” Can he not just touch me? Lick me? I would have no strenuous objection to a pre-wedding fuck if he so desires.
“I want you to tell me what you want. I want you to wallow in your naughtiest, most disgraceful, sluttish fantasies and tell them to me.”
“I cannot.”
“Oh, but you can, little maid. Where would you like me to touch you?”
“You know where.” I glare at him, my frustration mounting.
He lifts one eyebrow and bestows a supercilious smile on me. “Mayhap I will need to send word to Father Peter to inform him that we are delayed. I find myself in no hurry, Linnet. We shall wait here, your legs splayed, your cunt drooling with your need, until you come around to my way of thinking.”
“You are without shame, sir.”
“I am, ‘tis true. The question is, Linnet, how long will it take for you to become shameless too?”
I emit a furious snarl but it is to no avail. He returns to his task of tracing a line of soft kisses along my inner thigh, occasionally brushing the lips of my quim but never enough to ignite the quivering passions seething there.
The outcome is a foregone conclusion.
“My quim. Lick my quim, please.”
“My pleasure,” he murmurs and applies himself to that very purpose. He parts my folds with his fingers then feathers the tip of his tongue along my inner lips before plunging it into my entrance. My channel starts to convulse at once, the walls contracting around his questing tongue.
“Oh, sweet merciful heaven…” I arch my back, thrusting against his warm mouth as my delight soars. “This will not take long, my lord.”
He smiles up at me from between my spread thighs. “Father Peter will be most gratified. Is there more perhaps that I can do to please you?”
“Your fingers, sir. Put them inside me.”
“Ah, yes, an excellent notion. How many fingers do you think will be required, little maid?”
“At least three.” Yes, he is quite right. I am truly shameless.
“I see. Like this?” He plunges the requisite number of digits into my wet cunny, angling his thrust to rub against that sweet spot which sends me into convulsions every time. This occasion is no exception. I let out a squeal of pure delight as my body starts to spasm. My release is swift and powerful, the shudders and after-tremors continuing long after the intensity crests then ebbs. He uses his fingers and his clever, wicked mouth to tease and pleasure me, strumming my response from me as surely as my fingers draw the music from the strings of my harp.
At last it is over. I lie still, my breathing steady and my heart at peace. I am ready to marry my earl.
* * *
My third wedding is a grander affair than either of its predecessors. This is at Piers’ insistence. He says he wishes to eradicate any doubt as to my status in his castle or his heart. I am not aware that there is any such ambiguity but I enjoy the occasion nonetheless.
The ceremony is to be attended by noble guests from across the county. Lady Cecily of Darkenfield is here of course, with her husband and two children. She and I have become firm friends.
Piers even invited Lady Eleanor to make the trip from Wellesworth but she declined, claiming an aversion to travelling
in the heat of the summer. I do not lament her decision. We are, however, in the august company of the barons of Copeland, Gilsland, Kendal, and Appleby who are here with their ladies and a veritable army of servants and soldiers. Egremont is bursting at the seams, not unlike myself.
My gown is blue, a delicate robin’s eggshell shade trimmed with lace imported from Florence. Agnes has made a fine job of it, even managing to contrive a flourish at the front to accommodate my pregnant girth without making me look unnecessarily huge. My veil is fashioned from sheer silk gauze and flutters down my back; the gentle breeze of a late June morning plays with the delicate train as I cross the bailey to the chapel. Lady Cecily’s husband, Sir William of Darkenfield, has kindly agreed to escort me, whilst Lady Cecily acts as my maid of honour. We enter the tiny church, where Piers awaits me at the altar.
His eyes seek out and find mine as I make my slow, awkward approach. His lips curl into a soft, knowing smile and I blush as I recall my wantonness of just an hour ago. I am glad of the concealing veil which affords me a modicum of privacy within which to collect myself again.
I reach the front of the chapel and Piers takes my hand. He leans down to offer a chaste kiss to my cheek, taking the opportunity to murmur into my ear.
“I trust you will not leak your delectable juices onto this fine garment, sweet bride. ‘Twould be a pity to stain it.”
I gasp and do not deign to answer him.
A determined throat-clearing from Father Peter attracts our attention and proceedings are under way.
The ceremony is longer than that which marked either of my previous marriages but mercifully devoid of much in the way of kneeling and standing. Piers will not permit it in my current delicate condition and has even insisted that a chair be made available for me during the priest’s sermon. I am glad of it. My back aches this morning even more than it normally does and the baby is lying in a most uncomfortable situation low in my belly. At least he is still this day, a mercy for which I am ready to offer up thanks to the blessed virgin.
Father Peter utters his usual and much practiced words of warning, admonishment, and praise for the wisdom of almighty God for creating this holy state of matrimony. We all murmur our agreement in the form of heartfelt amens and much genuflection and at last the words are spoken over us which unite Piers and I for the rest of our lives.
I could not be happier. From the grin which lights his handsome features I suspect Piers is equally delighted. He kisses me, thanks the priest for his services, and leads me from the chapel.
We are halfway across the rough cobbles of the bailey when I am gripped by a violent clenching across my abdomen. I shriek and double up in agony.
“Linnet! Sweet Jesus, what has happened?” Piers gathers me in his arms and carries me the rest of the way back to the great hall. He sets me down in one of the large chairs which flank the massive fireplace and crouches before me as I clutch my middle again.
“My love, is it the baby?”
I have no experience of childbearing, do not know for certain but I nod anyway, frantic with fear. It is too early. My child is not due for another three weeks at least. Piers stands and hollers for his sister and for Joan and Agnes.
He insists on carrying me back upstairs himself, all the way cursing his own selfish stupidity in laying his lecherous hands on me earlier in the day. I am sure my two maids are exchanging knowing looks, though neither sees fit to make any comment. Lady Cecily is less restrained, treating Piers to a solid punch to the shoulder and accusing him of being an insensitive brute too ready to be led by his prick. He does not deny the charge.
I would be mortified were it not for the cramping spasms now engulfing me at regular intervals and which rather focus my thoughts on other matters.
I am bundled into bed, my maids and Lady Cecily working in tandem to loosen my wedding gown and strip it away. Piers hovers at the edges of the room, for once in his life useless, superfluous, and uncertain. His sister suggests he wait down in the hall for news.
He allows himself to be ushered from the room, stopping only to mouth ‘I love you’ from the doorway. I start to respond in similar vein but my gesture is lost in an ear-splitting scream as the next contraction seizes me. The sound turns Piers’ face ashen and that is my last memory of his beloved features before Lady Cecily closes the door firmly against him.
It is up to us women now.
* * *
My baby emerges into a waiting world some sixteen agonising hours later.
“‘Tis a boy!” yells Joan. “A bonnie blond-haired lad, the very image of his father.”
I grope for the baby, only to have Agnes deposit him face down on my chest. I hug him to me, all memories of my recent labours evaporating at the first plaintive wail of my newborn son.
“We shall name him Ralf,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. Piers and I have not discussed this but it seems the natural choice. My joy is interrupted by an unexpected cramping pain as another contraction grips me.
“Oh, God,” I moan, “when will it end?”
Agnes peers under the bedclothes then turns to me with a sympathetic grimace. “‘Twill end when this second one is born. Ye’re having twins, my lady.”
Baby Ralf’s brother makes his grand entrance three minutes later. My twins are identical, naturally. I gather the second baby to me and wonder if two Pierses in the family might be too many. I shall ask my husband.
“Ah, they are fine boys both,” exclaims Cecily, “and so like my own dear brothers were as babies. I remember they made as much din, too.”
Both my babies are screeching at the top of their lungs, each seeming to be intent on outdoing the other. I shove one of them, I am not entirely sure which, onto my breast where he gropes for my nipple with unerring instinct. As he starts to suckle I attempt some ineffectual rocking to placate the other. The noise level drops a little but it is already clear to me we shall be requiring a wet nurse.
The door bursts open and Piers hurtles in. He ignores his sister’s attempts to convince him that he might prefer to wait until we are all more presentable, rushing straight across to the bed. He stares in wonder at the two blond heads, then as if by instinct reaches for the one not latched onto my nipple. The baby goes quiet, gazing up into eyes so like his own.
“Two. We have twins.” Piers is not usually one to state the obvious but I suppose he can be forgiven this once.
I smile up at him. “Yes. I thought we would call the eldest Ralf but I was not sure about the other…”
He offers me a perplexed smile. “Yes, of course. Which one is the eldest?”
“I am not honestly certain.” I look to my attendants for help.
“That one, I think.” Cecily points to the one feeding. “You had him in your right arm and—”
“No, it was the other lad,” says Joan. “Definitely. I saw you shift him across, just before you took the second one.”
“But, I held the first one whilst the younger was birthed, then I gave him back and…” Agnes falls silent as we all regard the newborn lads with varying degrees of consternation.
“Now you know how the rest of us always felt,” offers Cecily, “at least those who did not have the measure of you. These two will lead you a merry dance, I imagine.”
Piers refuses to be consigned to the hall again and instead amuses himself by cooing at first one baby then the other as the women scurry around cleaning first me, then the chamber. It is an exasperated new and already doting father who finally orders them to leave him alone with his family. He perches next to me on the bed as we arrange the now sleeping boys between us.
“I intend to petition the king as soon as he returns to England. I will relinquish the earldom in favour of—well, we shall work out which one—and seek guardianship of them both. There will be no problem. As their uncle and now stepfather, my claim will not be contested.”
“You may be their father.”
“I know that.
In the end it is of no consequence and far simpler this way. It will be many years before the new earl is old enough to take on his responsibilities so I will continue to run the estate and lands. By the time he is ready to assume control of Egremont I expect I shall be more than happy to hand it over and take my ease with my lady.”
“I doubt I shall have much leisure to look forward to if I am to produce twins every year.”
He pauses, considers this prospect for a few moments. “You are right, of course, though the good Lord may see fit to bless us with girls from time to time. You could dress their hair with ribbons of different colours—at least then we could tell them apart. Should I extend the castle?”
I lay my head on his shoulder, pensive suddenly.
“We will be happy, will we not? Just the two of us?”
He kisses my dishevelled hair. “Just the two of us? Can you not count, my lady?” He pulls me closer into his embrace, his expression more serious now. “A month ago I would have found that a difficult question to answer. Not now. I believe we will be fine, provided you can be content with just one husband. I intend to keep you well occupied if that will help.”
“I believe I could manage, my lord. I would not wish you to share me with another, if that is what you were considering.”
“I have never shared anything of value with any other man but my brother and I do not intend to make an exception with my beloved wife. You are stuck with just me, sweetheart.”
“And you with me. With us.”
“I am glad. And whilst on that subject, which boy shall we name for Ralf? I wonder about Richard for the other, in honour of the king.”
“Richard sounds good. And I believe you are right, one Piers in our household is quite sufficient.”
The End
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