How to Marry Your Wife

by Stella Marie Alden

  Merry frowned, placed the roll on its end, and held it tight while Ann tied. “It’s more than just that. He called me a whore—a Magdalene— in front of little Tom. That’s what he thinks of me. And how can I face that along with living so far away from you?”

  Ann made a tight knot and cut. “I’ll hear no more of this. He’s your husband and the father of your child. Life is full of strange turns in the road.”

  “Aye. And I remember how you reacted to your forced marriage. Thomas showed me the scar on his arm where he caught the edge of your knife.”

  She glared as Ann put her weapon back, but her friend just giggled. “Trust in God, Merry. Thomas owns a large parcel of land near the borders and a hoard of gold. Think of all the good you can do with that.”

  “Oh, I don’t wish for any of this. He’s no longer the man I fell in love with.” Merry sniffed, liquid threatening to run from her nose.

  Watching the door, Ann sighed and leaned in with a whisper. “I promised Marcus I wouldn’t tell, but I’ve no other choice. The king has given your husband until the first snow to secure his estates. If he can’t, Edward will hand it to the Earl of Annandale, the steward of Carlisle. You have only until Christmastide.”

  “Why, that’s hardly just. It’s already spring.” Merry pouted and stomped her foot. Things just got worse and worse.

  “Indeed. While your husband protects your land, you must make right the affairs of the estate. What does he know of medicines, of farms, of windmills, and crops? I’ve taught you everything I’ve learned.” Ann grabbed the end of the roll and indicated for Merry to take the other half.

  When they let it down to take a breath, Ann said, “I understand the keep was well tended until recently. All you need do is make it profitable for taxing. Now. I’m sending many craftsmen with you who’re also versed with sword. A mason, a glazier, for you must have a few windows, a blacksmith, and a cook. Send me a pigeon once you arrive and I’ll send more men anon. When it comes time for faire, we’ll meet in Scarborough.”

  “But—”

  “I would go with you, but Marcus is most adamant that I must stay put while with child. I’ve the carts all packed. You’ll arrive in four weeks if the weather holds.”

  Four weeks? Meredith shuddered. “You do remember that I’ve never ridden a horse further than the north fields?”

  They passed through the hall where one of the knights jumped forward to take the tapestry from them. He put it over his shoulders like a lamb.

  “Think of it as an adventure. Your son, for one, is thrilled.”

  They walked under the great arched door, probably for the last time in her life. Meredith cried out, “Oh, Ann. How has my life come to this? Surely, I’ve paid heartily enough for my sins? Now I’m to be cast off to Scotland?”

  The edge of Ann’s soft wool tunic dried Meredith’s wet tears. With warm, firm hands on both cheeks, Ann stared with a stern countenance. “Not quite, dearest. You’ll still be under Edward’s rule. Now put on a happy face and go.”

  Merry’s home for many years was being taken away. God’s retributions for her sins were surely too many to bear. She wandered through the great hall knowing she’d never forget even the tiniest crack in the stone walls.

  “Come along, Mama, Papa is waiting.” Tom dashed around the tables and tugged at her hand. She smiled sadly at his enthusiasm. It was uncanny how much the boy resembled his father.

  At the thought of her husband, her hands balled into a fist. Magdalene indeed. She marched out to her steed, mounted without aide, and stared neither right nor left. Her chin jutted out at just the proper angle and her nose tilted up. Damn the man. She would become his wife. Her son would grow into a noble knight. And she’d hate, hate, hate her husband until the day she met her maker. Then she’d explain the circumstances to Saint Peter and make sure that Thomas wasn’t inside the pearly gates before she stepped one toe into heaven.

  He snickered, brought his fine black charger around so they were side by side, and whispered, “Why marry me, Merry, if you won’t be merry?”

  “Stop that hideous verse this instant. It’s ungodly.” She stared straight ahead.

  Little Tom overheard and clicked a tongue to his mount. “You’re very funny, Papa, can I try some?”

  “You may not. Not ever. There’s nary a merry thing about this morning.” Realizing she’d been caught in a rhyme, she clapped a hand over her mouth and her face heated. The whole entourage smirked or politely stared at the sky.

  “Now, you’re very funny, too.” Her son giggled until he had to right himself on his pony.

  Sir Jest-a-Lot ruffled his mass of black hair and whistled through his teeth. Twenty mailed men on chargers, thirty merchants, and two other women besides herself rode off along the path that followed the river north.

  Even though her mount was gentle, Meredith’s teeth clenched as she bounced in the saddle. One of the woman that rode with them raised an eyebrow at her discomfort. A half smile went over her lips as she sidled next to Thomas. She tossed her mane of dark gypsy hair and laughed at something he said. Her bodice lace was undone, showing a bit of her wares, and a slit in her tunic went up to her thigh. Dark skin and a warm laugh spoke of years of intimacy. Meredith stewed as the other woman continued to laugh pointedly in her direction.

  A cold wind blew from the north, trying to keep them from Scotland no doubt, and rain pelted their small caravan. Meredith’s wool cloak stuck to her, sodden and heavy. For certain, there wasn’t a dry spot in the entire country.

  If that were not bad enough, her husband gave little thought to her, as he made sure the carts came out of the mud and the stragglers caught up. He jested with Tom on his pony and several other youngsters. He jested with his men and the lovely woman with the almost bare chest. In fact, he had kind and encouraging words for everyone, but her. She gritted her teeth and counted the ways she might make him pay.

  After what must’ve been many miles, she could no longer feel her feet. A driving rain drenched through her tunic, wetting all the way to the blisters on her inner thighs. By the time they stopped to dismount for a meal, she couldn’t even move her legs.

  Thomas barked out orders and everyone entered a large tavern of sorts. She pulled up on her thigh but couldn’t lift it high enough to swing over the saddle.

  Thomas exited the tavern and approached. “Do your bodily necessities, come in, and get dry.”

  She tugged again at her leg, gave up, and grimaced. “I can’t.”

  “I know you’re angry, but this is bringing your childish pouting too far. We still have miles to go today.” He reached up for her.

  She moaned and swayed. “Miles? We’re not staying here overnight?”

  His already furrowed brows deepened and those lips, which had once loved her, pursed. “Here? Hells balls, no. The day is only half gone. What’s wrong with you?”

  Damn him. “I can’t move, Sir Jest-a-Lot. My leg is stuck. I can’t bring it about, or over, or anything. Mayhap I shall just sit here. That way I need not mount or dismount ever again.

  He cursed under his breath. “You don’t ride? Why didn’t you speak up?”

  “You demanded I ride, so I rode.” She crossed her hands over her chest, wobbled, and had to hold tight with her thighs. The pain of a thousand needles went piercing down her legs and she moaned.

  His hands went to her waist. “God’s blood, woman. Fall into me and I will catch you.”

  She did as told, and an inviting blackness encompassed her.

  Chapter 6

  With his new bride in his arms in the unrelenting downpour, Thomas scoured the area for some place other than the public house to set her down. Why the devil hadn’t Marcus let him know that she didn’t ride well? He chided himself at his misdirected anger. Her discomfort would’ve been obvious if he hadn’t been ignoring her.

  It was that haughty look, the one that said she deserved better, that’d caused him to behave so callously. For six long years
of trading in foreign lands, he’d done nothing without her visage urging him forward. All the gold he’d earned was for her. How ironic that now she loathed him.

  The attached stable with thatched roof had seen better days, but the only other place to set her down was under the ceiling created by the forest pines. Thomas ducked under a wood lintel. Inside, a gray haired man, with a matching tunic looked up. A younger serf with similar features stopped shoveling manure and waited, resting upon the tool’s handle.

  Thomas kicked some clean hay over the filth, put her upon it, and squatted while patting her cheeks. When she moaned and opened her eyes, he exhaled. Whatever ailed her, apparently wasn’t all that serious.

  He stood and handed the elder a farthing. “Good sirs, kindly have the mistress of the house send out clean rags, hot towels, and saddle-burn salve. Give me a few moments alone with my wife.”

  When she tried to sit up, he put a hand to each shoulder. “Lay back and raise your tunic.”

  “I will not.” Her arms crossed over her chest and she scowled.

  He glared. “No jest. ’Tis obedience that got you into this mess, my dutiful wife, and obedience will get you out.”

  Keeping her eyes closed, she turned her head and lifted her hips. “Oh, what difference does it make? Prithee, go ahead.”

  He tugged her sodden tunic up to her waist and splayed wide her alabaster legs. God’s blood, he hadn’t expected to find a knife sheath tied to her inner calf. Leaning upon her elbows and gazing between her knees, he was sure he detected a smirk that she immediately hid.

  Higher up, the skin of her inner thighs bubbled where it’d rubbed against the saddle all morning. Sighing, he took his knife, wiped it clean with her wet tunic, and popped open the flesh. She let out a small cry when he had to push to release the liquid.

  His throat constricted and his voice cracked. “You should’ve spoken up sooner.”

  Her ever-changing hazel eyes now reflected the brown of the aging straw and dark day. Her brows furrowed and the edges of her mouth tipped down. If time wasn’t so precious, he’d kiss that look away until her eyes shown wet with want and she begged like she had that night so long ago.

  “I’d be perfectly fine if you hadn’t dragged me away from my home.” She glared arrows at him as several bold hens approached, clucking and picking at her hair.

  He shooed the birds and pointed to her wounds. “End this battle with me. Look where it’s brought us.”

  “Oh, go back to your camp whore. No doubt that gypsy rides other things just as well as her horse.” She sank her head back down into the crunching hay. Above, sparrows scolded and twittered.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “What meaning does Christina have to this conversation?”

  “You’re an idiot.” She turned her head, closed her eyes, and pouted.

  He was saved from making yet another wrong response when the tavern master’s daughter returned with a salve that smelled like peppermint and cloves. He dabbed into the clay pot and slathered it on her inner thighs.

  Before he could finish, she shot up and his chin stung from her solid-fisted blow. “Serpents tongue and Adam’s rib. Enough of that. The cure will be the death of me.”

  The girl giggled as he made a face while wiggling his jaw. She handed him clean cloth which he ripped into long strips and wrapped Merry’s upper thighs, tucking in the edges.

  When he was content with his work he said, “We must be off. You’ll ride across my lap with your legs closed until healed.” He paused, then raised his eyebrows. “No angry retorts?”

  She fluttered her lashes, lifted her thighs, and thrust her tunic back down. “Me? Good heavens above. Why would you imply such a thing? I’ll ride as gentle as a fawn, my lord and master.”

  “Stay put. I’ll be back anon.” Shaking his head, he chuckled, and ducked under the small door frame into the drenching rain.

  Rowdy song had already started from the majority of his entourage who sat in the sturdy stone tavern. The soprano of the two camp women carried over the lower tenor of the armed men. Even Marcus’ solid bass voice joined in.

  Jacob-the-thief approached halfway, gnawing upon a leg of mutton. His white teeth contrasted with dark skin. “All is well with your wife?”

  “Guard her.” Thomas pointed to where she lay, put up the hood of his cloak, and plowed through the mud back to the tavern.

  Motioning to the proprietress, he handed her more than enough coin for their meal. “Could you pack bread and lamb for my wife and I to eat as we travel? Although we appreciate your fine hospitality, we must make haste.”

  A pleasant middle-aged face nodded under her white cap. She returned in a few breaths with a smile and a cloth satchel filled to the brim. “Here you are, good sir, with a sweet cake as a gift from us all. Come again any time.”

  After taking the bag with a wink, he whistled through his teeth over the raucous crowd. His people moaned, but were quick about departing. He checked out the door. Marcus purposefully slowed his pace, letting all get settled upon their chargers first. No doubt his wealthy friend had learned that all but the last to mount earned a farthing. He chuckled as he recalled the young silk merchant with slanted eyes who’d taught him that trick somewhere east of Istanbul.

  Demon waited patiently under a group of five large pines and nickered. Thomas patted his mane, brought his nose close, and fed him a carrot. “I’ll have another rider with me today. Keep your footing sure and steady.”

  Placing one boot in the stirrup, he swung the other over the saddle and adjusted his weight. Jacob met him at the small barn, leading his limping wife forward, and handed her up.

  She snuggled close and glanced about, while his pintle swelled from her squirming atop it. She hugged him again and gave one of the camp whores a triumphant smirk. Thomas chuckled. So that’s why she agreed so readily to ride with me. What an odd breed be wives. He raised an arm and the entourage moved out at a pace better suited for plow oxen.

  Once she was fast asleep, he brought Demon alongside Marcus, who looked way too pleased for such a sour day. He gave his friend a solid hit to the shoulder to bring him about. “To grin is to hide sin.”

  Marcus snorted out a laugh and his massive charger underneath whinnied as if enjoying the jest as well. “I have to admit, I’m looking forward to something more interesting than sheep.”

  “Bahhhh. Not too much more interesting, I daresay.” Thomas smirked, but grew more serious as they approached a rickety wooden bridge where the flooded Nene rushed against it. Merry woke, clutched his side, and stared wide-eyed at the current. He shouted over the roar of the water, “Single file.”

  The bravest of his men slowly traversed the structure. When they waved all was well from the far bank, he followed. Halfway across, the drum in his chest stopped. Roots first, a tree larger than the whole of the bridge, rushed downstream.

  “Demon! Run!” He put spurs to his brave charger’s side and they bolted forward.

  Wood met wood with an awful crack and a section fell into the river. Merry screamed, Demon jumped for the bank, and the rest of the bridge fell away. As he leaned forward in the air, he prepared to let go his wife so his mail would not drown them both. Then hooves met muddy ground, she cried, and his men gathered about, slapping him upon his back.

  The rest of his entourage cheered from the other side. With his hands cupped to his mouth, Marcus shouted something.

  “What?” Damnation.

  Marcus tried repeatedly until the words carried in the wind, “Huntingdon.” Thomas signaled with a shrill whistle through his teeth that he understood. They would join ranks at the inn there.

  He turned them forward and tried to soothe his sobbing wife as the rain drenched them once again, this time with deafening cracks of thunder.

  Chapter 7

  Meredith opened her eyes and tried to focus into a night blacker than she’d ever known. Above, rain pelted upon canvas and her heart pounded while she tried to dispel
the notion she was drowning. Soft skins and furs met her reaching fingertips. Digging more, her nails met dirt.

  A large hand grabbed for her and she screamed, “Noooo.”

  Her covers fell away, steel met leather as it unsheathed, and Thomas’ voice spoke from out of the darkness, “God’s blood, woman. What is it?”

  “Where’s Tom? Where are we?”

  He cursed, the tent flap ripped, and he spoke softly to those that approached with small torches. Heavens above, he wore not even a thread of yarn upon him and neither did the rest who appeared like wraiths from out of the dark. Even the saintliest of women couldn’t help but compare the sizes of the various pintles. Her husband’s, by far, was the largest and although impressive, that wasn’t all that held her attention.

  His naked form was magnificent. Strong thighs were covered with small curls of dark hair. Firm back and shoulders led to arms that’d held her tenderly all day. She had to remind herself to continue breathing at the wonder of him.

  Men grumbled, torches went out one by one, then blackness surrounded them again. Cool damp air wet her face as he opened the flap to the tent. He settled beside her with a whoosh of vapors. She reached her hand forward, trying to find him, and met that large dangling pintle. Christ our Savior. She let go.

  He snickered and took her hand in his. With the other, he urged her back down under the covers. “Do you mean for us to join?”

  “Do you think my son fares well?” She spoke low, not wanting to be overheard by ears in the tents close by. Small frogs sang from a nearby creek while she waited.

  He sighed, took one of her hands, and brought it to his lips. “Our son is with Marcus. They’re taking another route better suited for wagons. Remember? The bridge?”