It was usual at these events on the eve of a wedding to play a joke upon the bridegroom, or urge him into a dare to prove his manhood. It was decided by a few that to ‘tar and feather’ the hapless groom about various parts of his body would be a splendid jest. The tar was made up in the kitchen, a busy place as the Cook hurried to prepare all the food for the feasting tomorrow. Amidst much laughter a harmless mixture of raw egg whites, honey, flour and vinegar was whipped up in a large bowl, the feathers plucked from a goose hanging in the larder. Yet somehow, whether by accident or a-purpose, the whole jape went awry. It was later alleged that someone—and there were only two suspects, one of whom claimed to have been busy with a dancing girl in the bailey—added real tar purloined from the armoury.
Remy was far too drunk to appreciate what was going on, but he did manage to prevent the rowdies from ‘tarring’ him about his private parts and they had to make do with his chest and his head. As far as Remy was concerned the joke was not particularly funny and he fought the howling jackanapes off with a few cuffs and elbow pokes, but when they seemed intent on ripping open his chausses, matters turned nasty. A brawl erupted. Remy knocked out two guests within quick succession but he was abruptly yanked out of the fray by his brother-to-be and Lord Robert, who feared his wife’s wrath should the groom appear at the chapel door on the morrow with a black eye at best, a broken nose at worst.
They retreated to the bathing alcove in the kitchen, where hot water was poured and engaged in much jovial scrubbing while the mess of feathers and ‘tar’ were removed. Laughter quickly died when the concoction could not be shifted and Remy started to bellow his fury. Hands on hips, brows creased in puzzlement, the men stood about staring at Remy, a peculiar sight with his hair all clumped in black spikes and his chest no better off. Someone suggested goosegrease, another linseed oil and both were tried in a vain attempt to rid Remy of his unwanted adornments.
‘Fetch Elwyn,’ instructed Lord Robert of Nogood.
Reluctantly Nogood went upstairs and tapped upon the solar door, only to be told that she had retired to bed with her mistress some hours ago. Nogood retreated, fearing that the ladies would ask him why he sought her out. For some long, thoughtful moments he stood before Lady Beatrice’s door. What to do? he wondered in an agony of indecision. At last, he dropped to his knees and gently, carefully, creaked open the chamber door. On hands and knees he crept across the floor, until he reached the pallet upon which Elwyn slept, at the foot of Lady Beatrice’s bed. With great stealth, he gently shook the maid awake.
Elwyn nearly jumped out of her skin with fright when she saw Nogood hovering over her. Mindful of Beatrice asleep in the big bed—it had been no easy task getting her settled this night—she did not utter a sound, but with a great sigh left her warm pallet, struggled into her kirtle and went with Nogood down to the kitchen.
‘Oh, my Lord!’ Elwyn held both hands to her mouth when she surveyed Remy standing half-naked in the bathing tub, disconsolate and red-raw on his chest and shoulders from the furious scrubbings that had failed to remove the sticky stains of black tar. There was no amusement in Elwyn as she stood staring at him. And then she announced, ‘The only way is to shave.’
‘Not my head!’ protested Remy, aghast.
‘Everything!’ Elwyn sent Nogood off to fetch a razor and she began rolling up her sleeves, shooing from the alcove all the worthless spectators. She lathered up soap into a thick foam and spread this on Remy’s chest.
With plenty of soap, hot water and a sharp blade Elwyn managed to scrape from his skin every last speck of tar. Unfortunately most of his hair went with it. Feeling as naked as a newborn babe Remy rinsed and dressed. She thought he was about to weep as he complained, ‘I look like a Hun mercenary. When Beatrice sees me tomorrow she will either laugh herself sick, or run from me screaming in terror.’
Elwyn refrained, when she woke in the morning, from telling her mistress what awaited her. Beatrice was jittery enough as it was and Elwyn feared that just about anything would cause her to dig her heels in and refuse to go through with the ceremony. She insisted that Beatrice have a bite to eat and a little warm milk infused with valerian to soothe her nerves. Then she set her mistress down in a chair beside the open shutters and had Beatrice read her Psalter out loud, in particular Psalm 101.
‘I will sing of your love and justice; to you O Lord I will sing praise. I will be careful to lead a blameless life…’
Diligently Elwyn attended to her ablutions, making sure there was plenty of hot water, scenting it with her favourite lavender and rose petals, brushing out Beatrice’s hair until it gleamed and, finally, dressing her in the beautiful golden silk kirtle. It fell in soft folds about her slim figure, the V-shaped neck banded with pale cream and honey-coloured ribbons and perfectly displaying her delicate collarbones and slim throat.
Elwyn had fashioned a circlet of flowers—pink roses for loveliness, daisies for innocence, forget-me-nots for fidelity—laced with matching ribbons. She placed it upon the bride’s head and stood back to admire her mistress, quite speechless at the picture of loveliness that was Beatrice.
The morning had passed so quickly that Beatrice could scarce believe that it was time to go down to the chapel. She took several deep calming breaths, thanked Aunt Margaret and Joanna as they gathered about her and complimented her. With her rosary beads in one hand Beatrice descended to the hall.
The wedding guests formed two rows from the keep door to the chapel, between which Beatrice walked, accompanied by her brother, her aunt and uncle and cousin. The ground was strewn with petals and the knights raised their swords to form a protective arch over her head. Beatrice smiled to left and to right, surprised at how calm she felt. The great day had dawned. For so long she had awaited her wedding and she was determined now to enjoy it.
Upon the steps of the chapel several people were gathered. Sir Giles was standing as groomsman to Sir Remy, in the absence of his own relatives who were far away in Aquitaine; and, although notified, they would not know of the wedding for some many weeks to come as a messenger sped towards them.
Beatrice looked ahead eagerly. Her wedding gift to Remy had been a set of new clothes. A soft white shirt and an embroidered tunic in fine royal blue linen, with matching chausses and a belt of enameled pigskin. She faltered a little when she could not see him. She saw Father Thomas and Sir Giles, and a tall, broad-shouldered man who looked familiar, and who wore the clothes made for her groom, yet his hair was so close shaven you could see his scalp. He turned then to watch the advancing bridal party, and Beatrice felt a gasp escape from between her lips. Her eyes widened. It was Remy! Why had he shaved his lovely golden hair? He looked like a stranger. A cold, hard-faced, dangerous stranger.
Beatrice stopped. Something was wrong. She did not think that she could go on. Her eyes moved from examining his naked head and went to his face. She saw the anxiety mirrored there. She saw the colour flood his face, and then ebb to pallor as he watched her falter.
Hal gripped her elbow, and squeezed. He urged her onwards, and whispered in her ear, ‘There was a mishap last night. Do not fret, his hair will grow back again.’
Now they were by the first step, and Beatrice had to lift her gown with both hands and mount them. She lowered her eyes, careful that she should not stumble and make of herself a fool, but as she reached the top and came to stand beside Remy, she could not bear to raise her eyes and look upon him. Then, sensing his pain emanating from the warmth of his tall frame, she could not further increase his torment by ignoring him. She turned to him then and raised her eyes to his. Seeing the fear in his bright blue eyes, she smiled. Relief flooded his gaze and he reached out and took her left hand in the palm of his left.
‘You are so beautiful,’ he whispered.
A blush warmed her cheeks and there were murmurs of approval from the guests as they gathered nearer and watched the lovely bride and her handsome, if somewhat shorn, bridegroom. Some had feared this moment and there were many w
ith sore heads and queasy stomachs this morn, but at last the marriage ceremony began and Lady Beatrice was joined in holy matrimony to Remy St Leger.
Chapter Twelve
In the great hall of the keep the newly married couple sat themselves down in their places of honour upon the dais. Lord Henry called for a toast, and the company drank to the good health of Lady Beatrice and Sir Remy. Then the feasting began and servants brought in the first course, groaning beneath the weight of the trays piled high with oysters and mussels and crabs, jellied eels, lampreys, salmon and trout. One entire trestle table against the side of the hall was piled up with a veritable wall made from rounds of fresh manchet bread, sliced in half and to be used as trenchers, a fresh one per guest for each course. There would be six courses and the eighty guests leisurely enjoyed each one.
Beatrice picked at her food, aware of the nervousness that roiled in her stomach, her eyes often straying to the heavy gold band upon the fourth finger of her left hand, and to her new husband seated beside her. The first shock of Remy’s appearance had not quite worn off and each time she looked at him she was startled anew. He looked older, very much the hardened warrior who had won his spurs at a young age, and Beatrice wondered if she had imagined the tenderness that Remy had displayed in days gone by. Tonight, what would happen?
Remy was not ignorant of the emotions that plagued Beatrice. They were written plainly upon her face, obvious in her silence and the wary look in her eyes when he spoke to her. He repressed a sigh of frustration. He had hoped to see just an inkling of joy upon her countenance. He could not disguise his own satisfaction and jubilation knowing that now she was his wife. She belonged to him. She was his to do with as he wished. Or was she?
With these doubts and questions subduing the bridal couple, they rose with some reluctance when called upon to initiate the first dance of the evening. A band of minstrels had been engaged by Lord Henry and they played a pretty tune upon their lutes, gittern, flute, drums and rebec.
As Remy took her hand and led her about in a pattern of intricate steps, she kept her eyes lowered. Yet still she was aware of him and he seemed so very tall and broad shouldered. Her hand disappeared in his large palm and she was acutely aware of the warmth and strength of his fingers as he twirled her about. He was a better dancer than she had been led to believe, and did not step on her toes or the hem of her trailing gown, a feat upon which Remy congratulated himself, his eyes watching her every move.
She looked so small, he thought, her head barely reaching to his collarbone. Her slender frame in the lovely golden gown seemed immensely fragile and he experienced a nervous twinge at the thought of doing with her what had been uppermost in his mind from the moment he had first kissed her, all those weeks ago at the Red Lion inn. He was now fearful that he might crush her dainty ribs, bruise her skin that appeared soft and pale and delicate like the dewy white petals of a magnolia. He forced away such heady thoughts and tried to concentrate upon the dance.
The evening wore on. They danced together several times, and then Beatrice danced with her brother and her uncle, and Remy danced with her aunt and her cousin Joanna. More toasts were drunk and the wine barrels depleted steadily. Beatrice and Remy began to lose their sobriety as they were plied with drink and delicious food and the laughing, happy company of all their guests could not help but make an impression.
Her cheeks were flushed and her hair dishevelled by the time Aunt Margaret called together some of her favoured ladies and Beatrice realised, with a jolt, that it was time for the bedding ceremony. There was some banter as Remy watched her go, with narrowed eyes and grim mouth, but in light of the fact of last night’s dreadful joke-gone-wrong and Beatrice’s recent loss of her father, her age and her quiet dignity, the usual coarse ribaldry was restrained.
She was led upstairs to her bedchamber, that now Remy, as her husband, would share with her. Elwyn’s pallet had been removed and this familiar, comfortable room, that she had known all the days of her life, suddenly seemed very different.
The flowers were removed from her hair, now sadly wilted. Her bridal gown was unlaced and set carefully aside. Beatrice slipped off her shoes and Elwyn rolled down her hose and set these aside too. Then she brushed Beatrice’s hair out and dabbed rosewater between her breasts. Standing in her muslin shift, Beatrice waited nervously while a noisy throng escorted the bridegroom along the stairwell and into her chamber.
As the men burst in the door, Beatrice avoided Remy’s eyes. Her glance slid to the four-poster bed, the covers turned down and strewn with rose petals. Her glance quickly slid away and remained firmly fixed upon the canopy of the bed.
Father Thomas came then and made the sign of the cross upon her forehead with his thumb. ‘May this union be blessed,’ he murmured, moving away to the far side of the room, where stood Remy.
He had been stripped of his belt and tunic, but he refused to remove his shirt and there were none brave nor large enough to argue the point. Father Thomas gave him the same blessing as he had given to Beatrice and then the guests were ushered away by Aunt Margaret. Being the last to leave, she turned to Beatrice and Remy, smiled at them across the width of the room and said softly, ‘Goodnight, dear children. Be good to each other.’
Then the door closed and there was silence. The candles ringed about the room on ornate wrought iron stands flickered and Beatrice could hear her own breath as it passed from nose to throat to lungs. Her heart was hammering very hard and she started when Remy spoke from the far side of the bed.
‘Beatrice?’
She tried to speak and then had to clear her throat of a nervous obstruction. ‘Aye?’
‘Will you not get into the bed?’
She felt frozen to the spot upon which she stood.
‘Are you afraid of me?’
‘Nay, of course not,’ she croaked in a husky voice and took a tentative step forwards, only to halt at the sound of his voice.
‘I have not forgotten our agreement,’ he said, his voice bleak of emotion, however much it cost him. ‘I will do nothing that you do not want me to.’
Beatrice shivered, partly cold from standing for so long barefoot and in just her shift, partly intrigued, alarmed and excited all at once. Stepping closer to the bed, she dusted off the rose petals and climbed beneath the covers, lying down quickly upon her back, her hands folded over her chest. She closed her eyes. She felt the mattress sag as Remy sat down upon its edge and pulled off his boots and his hose.
He shrugged off his shirt, looked with chagrin upon his hairless chest, and turned to slide beneath the covers. He lay on his side, his head propped on one hand, and surveyed the profile of Beatrice as she lay beside him, as though doomed and about to meet her fate. He smiled, and then stretched out a hand and stroked back a stray tendril of hair from her cheek.
At his touch Beatrice started. Her eyes flew open and she turned to stare at him. A cold shiver caused her to shudder and Remy exclaimed, as his fingers felt her arm and her clasped hands, ‘Why, you are freezing!’
His arms slipped about her and gathered her close against his cosy warmth. Still she quivered and remained stiff as a board. He knew then how very nervous she was and his heart contracted painfully. For nothing on earth would he have his Beatrice frightened, especially not of him. He kissed her temple chastely.
‘Goodnight, sweet little wife,’ he murmured. ‘I am tired, and I guess you must be too. For me it is a great pleasure just to sleep in a soft bed, as I have spent most of my nights rolled in a blanket upon the floor. I ask for no more than that. Tomorrow, when we have had a good night’s sleep and our minds are clear for proper thought, we will consider whether this marriage is to be, or not. Do you agree?’
Relief flooded through her and Beatrice nodded her head eagerly, her eyes lifting then to his in grateful acknowledgement.
Again a smile touched the curve of his mouth. ‘You look surprised, as well as relieved. Hardly flattering to a bridegroom on his wedding night. What did you expec
t I would do? Throw you down and force myself on you?’
She eyed him warily, ‘Is that not your right?’
‘I have no right to hurt or abuse you.’
As trust began to seep its way slowly with his warmth throughout her body she relaxed and snuggled against him, her cheek pillowed on his bicep. Her glance strayed to his bald chest and she raised her hand, gently touching the two little nicks here and there with her fingertips. ‘It will itch when it grows back.’
‘I must look a sight. I am sorry. The horror upon your face as you approached the chapel, I thought you were about to turn around and run away.’
‘It is not your fault. But it was a shock…’ her gaze moved to his head ‘…and it did cross my mind to run.’
‘But you did not.’
‘Hal had such a tight grip on my arm I could not,’ she confessed, with a rueful smile.
He sobered. ‘But would you have, if he had let go?’
She hesitated to answer him, and hedged. ‘I do not know.’ Her eyelashes fluttered down then, a wave of exhaustion passing over her. ‘Let us sleep.’
He murmured an agreement, but while she fell into slumber he remained awake for a long while, just watching her. His eyes roamed over her face, indulging himself in the uninterrupted luxury of minutely examining her nose, her cheeks, her eyebrows, her chin, her lips. Her full, lovely pink lips. Quickly he moved his glance away, tenderly giving attention to her ears and the way her hair grew at her temples. Then he went on to examine her throat and the pulse that beat at its base, the delicate bones of her clavicle. His gaze strayed further, to the soft mounds of her breasts, the dusky rose peaks just visible beneath the thin muslin of her shift.
He sighed and slid his arm from beneath her cheek, climbing out of the bed and moving around the chamber as he snuffed out the candles; many a fire had been caused by unattended candles. Besides, if he could not see Beatrice in the dark, then mayhap he too would be able to sleep. He climbed back into bed and noticed that she had turned over on to her side. He lay against her back, fitting himself to curve about her small, slender form. As he lay awake in the dark he thought there was much to be said for the teachings of Father Thomas. He mused that there was something pure and perfect about the way he felt for Beatrice and he reasoned that her innocence was part of that attraction. How would it be when he destroyed her virtue? There was nothing pure, innocent or perfect about his male body. He was a warrior who bulged with hard muscle and had scars from wounds inflicted on the battlefield; he had killed men and his hands were stained with blood. Since growing to manhood, he had bedded many women in many different ways. If there was no bed then it had been in a field, against a wall, or on a tabletop. He cringed now to think of all the things he had done with women. Slowly, inch by inch, he moved away from Beatrice. He was not worthy. He must not dare to ever blemish her with the rudeness of his carnal male lust.
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