Ellen was still puzzling over that a few moments later as she resumed her search for Llewelyn. But he found her first. “What did Davydd want?” he asked. “He did not vex you, did he?”
“No, he assured me he was on his best behavior, and I think he may even have meant it. I have a confession, though, Llewelyn. I do not understand your brother at all!”
“You think I do?” He gave a bemused laugh. “Who else in Christendom would name his firstborn son after the man he’d tried to murder?”
Ellen reached for his hand. “When Davydd ambushed me,” she said, “I was coming to ask you if you’d like to dance with me, and only with me, for the rest of the evening?”
“Actually,” he said, “I had a more intimate activity in mind. I think it is time, cariad, that we begin our private celebrating.”
“Now? Oh, Llewelyn, you want me to leave the dancing?” But Ellen could not carry if off; even as she pretended to pout, she began to giggle. “After waiting nigh on three years to celebrate with you, I do not think you have to talk me into it. But love, you know you cannot be the one to suggest it is time for the bedding revelries. I’ve never understood why people think it is so much fun to torment the poor bridegroom, but if you even hint that you’re eager to be alone with me, we’ll be lucky to get to bed by dawn. And if I suggest it, imagine the scandal! After all, I am an innocent maiden, and not supposed to think about what I’ve been thinking about all evening.”
He grinned. “You’re showing great promise as a wife, lass. But you need not worry, for I have a battle plan. I will need your help, though. I want you to look at me with heartfelt yearning, and the more attention we attract, the better. Can you do that?”
She nodded, but after one attempt at soulful passion, she started to giggle again. “I’m sorry, Llewelyn, I just cannot do it!”
By now he was laughing, too. “I can tell the wine has been flowing freely tonight! Let’s try it again…” Turning her hand over, he pressed a kiss into her palm. “Do you remember that song you fancied? ‘Come, mistress, mine, joy with thee, come, fairest, come, love, to me,’” he quoted softly, and by the time he was done, she looked utterly bewitched, and so bewitching herself that he lowered his mouth to hers. She came into his arms as if she belonged there, her lips parting under his as he prolonged the embrace, thinking he could get as tipsy on her perfume as she’d gotten on her wedding wine. But it was a private kiss in a public setting, ended by raucous cheering.
Llewelyn’s allies now did their part, though, as promised, Blanche and Edmund declaring loudly that it was clearly time to get these poor, lovesick souls bedded down for the night, and others at once took up the cry.
Ellen had been to many weddings, had known full well what to expect. But it was still somewhat startling to find herself suddenly encircled by laughing, clapping spectators, many of them drunk, some of them strangers, all clamoring in unison, “To the marriage bed!” She was grateful when Llewelyn slid his arm around her waist, and when he whispered against her ear, “Do you think there is something to be said for elopements?” she laughed, but she still kept close to his side as the wedding party trooped from the hall.
As Llewelyn and Ellen knelt by the bed, the Bishop of Worcester offered the traditional blessing, prayed that their marriage would be fruitful and that they would find favor in the eyes of the Lord. He then sprinkled holy water about, and gave a brief homily in which he reminded them that the Church expected its sons and daughters to refrain from consummating a marriage until they had allotted a proper time for prayer and meditation, trying to ignore the snickers and nudges from the audience as he did so. He made a speedy departure then, more from disapproval than discretion, but the end result was the same; freed of any lingering constraints, the wedding guests, all who’d been able to squeeze into the bedchamber, now crowded around the bridal pair.
Llewelyn surprised Ellen then, for when someone asked who was going to undress the bride, he cut off the predictable spate of offers by saying that he might be persuaded to give her a hand, and that did not seem like his sort of humor to her, not in public. He was naturally hooted down, and only then did she see what he’d had in mind. “A man cannot be blamed for trying,” he said, “but it is probably best that she gets to choose those who’ll attend her.”
“Yes, I shall choose straightaway,” Ellen said hastily, before anyone could object, for many of these women were total strangers to her, and some she knew but did not like. This was an intimate ritual, making a bride ready for her husband. It ought to be done amidst friends, and now, thanks to Llewelyn, it would be, for there were a few dissenting murmurs, but no outright opposition. People expected a certain amount of modesty in a virgin bride, and were usually willing to indulge it.
“I would be honored by the presence of the Queen,” Ellen said, and as Eleanora smiled and nodded, she shot Llewelyn a triumphant “Who says I am not a diplomat?” look. “The Countess of Lancaster. Dame Juliana. My kinswomen, Hawise Wake and Joanna de Bohun. Matilda d’Eyvill.” For a moment, her eyes met Elizabeth’s eager ones, and she hesitated, but not long enough for anyone to notice, before saying, “My cousin Elizabeth.” She had an inspiration then, added Maude Clifford’s name to the list, and was rewarded by a look of incredulous delight. “And last, but for certes not least, my new niece, the Lady Caitlin.”
It was left to Blanche to clear the chamber, which she accomplished with her usual verve. Servants had already lit a fire in the hearth, ringed the room in flaring white candles, and laid out sugared wafers and a flagon of mead, in deference to Welsh tastes. As the chamber had been made ready, the women now turned their attention to Ellen. Blanche and Juliana helped her out of her surcote and gown, and then the soft saffron hose, Blanche advising her that in future nights, she might want to leave the stockings for Llewelyn to remove, as men seemed to take particular pleasure in garters and silken wisps and the like. Sitting Ellen down by the fire then, clad only in her chemise, they began to brush her hair, to polish it with lemon-scented silk, while counseling her that men were, without exception, stirred by long, loose hair, doubtless because it was only seen like that in bed; so if she should be in the mood for lovemaking, she need only let her hair down and her husband would, as likely as not, suddenly discover that he was in the mood, too, without even being aware that he’d been prompted. Laughing, Ellen declared this was indeed an education for her, and far more interesting than any lesson learned in books.
It was proving to be an education for Caitlin, too. She’d been enormously honored to be included, for she’d not had much contact with her own sex; she’d never known her mother, and there was no mistress of her uncle’s household, only concubines who came and went and rarely paid her any mind. It was a revelation now to discover that women could be as fascinated by carnal matters as men, but as she carefully folded each of Ellen’s bridal garments in turn, her bewilderment was increasing.
“May I ask you something, Lady Ellen?” she blurted out at last. “The Bishop said you ought not to lay together this night. But you and my uncle…it does not sound as if you mean to abstain?”
As the laughter subsided, Ellen said hastily, “Ah, no, Caitlin, we were not laughing at you, truly we were not. It is rather complicated, lass, for the Church sees lust as a grave sin. We are taught that its pleasures are suspect, that chastity is the ideal state, and Christians ought to lay together only to beget children. That is why the Church places so many restrictions upon the carnal act, declaring it sinful during Lent or Advent or on Sundays or holy days, whilst a woman is pregnant, or when she has her flux.”
“And why,” Blanche chimed in, “the Church warns that husbands and wives must always guard against finding too much joy in each other, admonishing us that lovemaking ought to be done in the dark, not in daylight, and only in one position, with the man on top.”
“And do people obey these prohibitions?” Answering her own question then, Caitlin said thoughtfully, “If they did, would they not have far fewer
babies?”
“Yes, lass, they would indeed. The problem is that people find it hard to resist their carnal urges, and for the very reason that the Church seeks to suppress them, because of the great pleasure they give. Or so,” Ellen added with a grin, “I’ve been told! I am not saying that Christians do not try to heed the Church’s strictures, but I suspect that they often fall from grace. My brother Amaury told me that when he was studying to be a priest, they were taught not to be too specific when preaching against sins of the flesh, lest they give their parishioners ideas!”
That provoked another burst of laughter. Caitlin was finding that it was possible to tell which of the women were more knowing about these pleasures of the flesh, just by the way they responded to these bawdy jokes. The Queen, the Lady Blanche, Dame Juliana, and her young stepmother Elizabeth had found the most joy in a man’s bed, she decided, and the Lady Maude none at all, for her laughter was forced, her face flushed. Caitlin wondered how it would be for her when it was her turn to be a bride; would she be as eager as Ellen? And she blushed then, astonished at her own thoughts, for there suddenly came into her mind an image of the young blue-eyed Englishman, the one called Hugh.
Now that Ellen’s hair had been brushed to a burnished gold and her lip rouge carefully blotted, she shed her chemise so she could be dusted with a fragrant powder. She allowed herself to be perfumed in some very provocative places, but balked at agreeing to rouge the tips of her nipples, blushing in spite of herself, shocked as much by the source as by the suggestion, for it came from the dignified, ever so proper Eleanora.
Seeing her discomfort, Blanche said swiftly, “No woman need worry about stirring male ardor on her wedding night. But I thank you, Eleanora, for the idea, and I daresay that so will Edmund! You cannot make me believe, though, that you, of all women, must strive to attract your husband’s attention. After eleven children? My heavens, dearest, if he paid you any more attention, the two of you would never get out of bed!”
Eleanora was unfazed by her sister-in-law’s teasing. She well knew how lucky was her lot when compared to that of most queens, for her husband not only found her desirable, he loved her. “I could not admit this to my confessor,” she said serenely, “but I do not see why it is a sin to want to please the man you love. And it is eleven and a half. With a surcote so fully cut, I could be about to drop twins and no one could tell. But I am indeed with child again, due in early spring.”
Eleanora’s intimates knew that she was pregnant, but there’d been no formal announcement as yet, and her news came as a surprise, therefore, to most of the women. There followed a flurry of congratulations, while Ellen calculated rapidly, realizing that if she conceived at once, she could give Llewelyn a son by summer’s end, a thought that—after nearly three years in limbo—seemed almost miraculous to her.
They were almost done now, performed the few remaining tasks with dispatch, tucking Ellen into bed, arranging her long tresses in tempting disarray upon the pillows, lighting a candle and placing it in one of the headboard niches, for—Blanche explained—there was something to be said for looking ere you leaped. They then poured Ellen some mead, one by one kissed her, and finally pulled the bed hangings together, enclosing her within a private cocoon of glazed Holland cloth.
Forgetting her resolve to forgo any more wine, Ellen sipped the mead, sought to banish her tension with deep breaths. If only she could close her eyes, then open them to find the bedding-down revelries were over, the men were gone, and she was alone in bed with Llewelyn. If only there would be no trouble. She’d heard too many tales of brawling and drunken rowdiness and crude practical jokes to be at ease, though. Guy had once told her of a particularly nasty wedding prank in which the bridegroom’s drink had been heavily laced with a strong purgative, and there were always stories circulating, usually unverified, of sleeping draughts being given to unwary bridegrooms, of wedding guests bursting in upon couples who’d neglected to bolt the bedchamber door. And always there was the risk of violence, for wine could be the most combustible fuel of all.
She’d just put the mead cup down on the floor by the bed when the men entered, making so much racket that it seemed as if half of Worcester had invaded her bedchamber. There was only a faint break in the bed hangings, not wide enough for her to see more than a blurred motion, a flash of color. And it was difficult, she was discovering, to hear all that was being said, for they kept interrupting one another, the words wine-slurred, the voices not always easy to recognize.
It sounded as if they were drinking a toast to Llewelyn, and she frowned, for if they’d brought wine in with them, it might be difficult to get them out; for reasons she did not fully comprehend, men seemed to think it was very funny to prolong the bridegroom’s suspense as long as possible. She’d always heard people jesting about being a fly upon the wall whenever some great drama had taken place; she felt like that now, an invisible spy in a foreign kingdom, one usually barred to women. Just within the first few moments, she learned some new slang terms for the male sexual organs, not as easily explainable as the more familiar cock, shaft, and lance—yard, stalk, baubles. And what she’d always suspected was confirmed within those same few moments, that drinking did not make men more amusing, it only made them think it did.
The jokes were predictable and banal, most of them couched as helpful tips for the bridegroom. There was much talk about how best to ride a skittish, unbroken filly: without spurs, bareback, and with a bridal bit. Ellen wished she’d recognized the author of that last pun, for she thought “bridal bit” was a clever play upon words. But they were not making it easy for eavesdroppers; sometimes it sounded as if they were all talking at once.
“I want to say a few words, so cease your caterwauling!” She recognized that imperious voice at once, for it was Edward’s. “I know the Welsh are huntsmen, not farmers. But tonight I hope that the Prince of Wales plants his seed in fertile soil!”
There was laughter, and then Alexander took his turn, saying that a maiden without a man was like a ship without a rudder. Ellen was amused by that, but not by what followed, for he’d opened the floodgates to a wave of nautical jokes about sailing into friendly ports and dropping anchor in deep waters and keeping hard on the helm. Ellen sighed, wondering what the reaction would be if she entered into the spirit of things and called out that their jests were very unseaworthy. Blessed Lady, were they going to be here all night?
Someone had started to sing a lewd ditty about a tavern wench named Delilah, but fortunately he was too well lubricated to remember the words. That reminded the others, though, of the minstrel’s bawdier songs, and Llewelyn found himself fending off warnings about “broken blades” and offers to help if he discovered a treasure chest that could not be opened. His blade, he assured them, was in perfect working order, right easy to sheathe, and he had no need for locksmiths, already having the key. He sounded good-natured, but impatient, too, like a man who’d been talked into something against his better judgment and was trying to be a good sport about it, at least for a while.
Ellen had raised up at sound of his voice, now sank back against the pillows. Did any bride and groom truly enjoy being in the center ring of this circus? For a young girl like Caitlin or a woman about to share a bed with a man not of her choosing, it could be a very unpleasant experience. She did not think she was unduly modest, but she would have much preferred a quiet seduction for two. And she suspected that most bridegrooms did not really find it much fun, either. In some ways it was more trying for them, she decided, for male humor, as any woman with five brothers well knew, could be raw. God help the poor groom who could not flaunt an erection as he was being put to bed with his bride.
No, Llewelyn was right, there was something to be said for an elopement. Or a clandestine wedding. Her parents had been wiser than she knew, a secret ceremony with only the King as witness—much more pleasurable. And safer, for certes. She tried to imagine her fiery-tempered father submitting to gibes about his manhood and lewd jests
about his bride, could not even begin to envision such a scene without it ending in bloodshed. For that was the real danger of these bedding-down revelries, that a man was expected to smile whilst drunken strangers discussed his wife in terms that might lead to a killing if said outside the bridal chamber. It was true that some decorum was supposed to prevail; there was an unspoken agreement about what was permissible and what was not. But all it took was one fool who fancied himself a wit.
Much later, she would look back upon that moment and marvel at her own prescience. The jokes were getting raunchier, but sillier, too. Someone expressed the hope that Llewelyn’s plough would never furrow, and she had no idea what that meant. A voice that sounded like John d’Eyvill’s declared that a bell was useless without a hard clapper, and there was a jest she only half-heard about cocks and capons. And then the competing voices were drowned out by a sudden clanging, the sound a dagger hilt might make when banged against a wine cup. “Silence! Raise your cups high, for it is time to drink to the fall of the Castle de Montfort. May her defenses be breached, her drawbridge rammed, and her portals filled to bursting ere this night is done!”
Ellen could feel her face getting hot, as much with anger as with embarrassment. There was laughter, but not a lot, and then she heard her husband’s voice, a whip-lash of tautly coiled fury. “I have some advice for you, Clifford. Better that people merely suspect you of being a witless, illbred lout, than that you open your mouth and prove it!”
The Reckoning Page 48
