Mistress to the Norman Lord

by Ling, Maria

  "Leave us." Guy gestured to Luke. "Bring wine or ale or something. Bread, maybe." He'd forgotten to eat. Had been too deep in discussion with the steward during the household meal. Meant to take a small bite alone later, but it had slipped his mind. "Send up whatever the cook recommends." Leftovers easy to hand, most likely. He'd fed on worse.

  The knight bowed and vanished. Guy turned to the woman, who was busy rubbing her arm.

  "I apologise for any bruising," Guy said irritably. This encounter hadn't gone well at any point. "What is the problem with whose uncle, and why do you suppose the matter is worth my attention?"

  Placed thus on the spot, she presented her case with admirable clarity. He liked to hear reports like that, crisp and factual. If she were a man, he'd ask if she could shoot. As it was, he merely promised to set things right in the morning. Another night in this mild weather would do no one any harm.

  "Now eat," he said as the food arrived. "Then I'll return you to a more suitable lodging."

  She hesitated. Watch the attendants slip away, took a seat when he bade her, picked at the food. Then said: "Do you not consider me attractive, my lord?"

  "Dazzling. Eat."

  She obeyed. He allowed himself a moment - one only - to admire the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Then he tore at his own chunk of bread like a famished man. Made short work of it, while she politely tugged a piece off hers and chewed it slowly. For all the impassioned ring of her voice as she spoke of the months of hunger she feared, she'd suffered no great deprivation yet. He could tell that by her well-nurtured frame and indifferent appetite.

  He'd seen hunger. Not known it himself, he'd been among the fortunate ones. But he'd seen humans tear at each other over a fallen scrap. Worse, he'd watched the blank fevered eyes and weary apathy of those who'd gone too long ill fed to know what to make of sudden plenty.

  The woman before him might have known fear, but suffering? Not yet, as far as he could tell. That much was a relief. Things had not gone so badly here in his absence, after all.

  Desire stirred within him. This place was not Normandy. He held power, granted, but English people still knew freedom, and stood upon their rights.

  "So you refuse this Osulf?" he probed. "Despite him being a man of some importance to your village. A constable, and close kin to my own bailiff. Many girls would appreciate his attentions."

  She didn't quite toss her hair, but it was a close thing. "Not me. I hate him."

  "For any particular reason?"

  "He's a horrible man."

  The same might be said of any man she did not care for. It cheered Guy, nevertheless. "There is someone else, perhaps? A different man."

  "No." She glanced up, and an odd expression passed across her face, almost of guilt. "I mean: no, my lord."

  "Yes, yes." The deference grated on his nerves. "Never mind about the courtesies. Talk to me in simple terms. You've seen no other man you care for better?"

  Again that hesitation. She lowered her gaze, just briefly, seemed on the point of confessing some secret desire but then changed her mind. "There's no one in the village I like in that way, my lord."

  In another village, then. Lucky bastard. Guy seized the last of her bread and finished it in one mouthful, watched her for a little longer, considered.

  "You would have gone with me." He knew why, of course. She'd thought to offer herself in return for his intervention, her favours for his. A fair trade, but not one to his liking. Even so, there had been a hint of emotion in her tone that caught and held him. It returned to him now, like the haunting memory of a dream. "It was worth that much to you?"

  "Of course." She sipped the ale he'd poured for her, set the cup down with dainty hands. Delicate fingers, half the thickness of his own, he could imagine their caress.

  Guy cleared his throat, which had unaccountably clotted. "Your family are lucky to have so devoted a sister and daughter."

  She gazed at him then, steadily, as if she were his equal. "It would have been no sacrifice, my lord."

  Desire flooded him, washed through his limbs and over his skin. "That's a fair compliment."

  She laughed a little, relief and amusement mingled. "Thank you."

  And perhaps it was not so great a sin, this: to lean across and kiss her - touch lips to lips, gently, and let her pull away if she chose. But she didn't, she let her hand drift up and touch his hair, rest over the back of his head and hold him, let her lips part under his. While he tasted her, tongues meeting in a light caress, and slid his hands across her waist.

  It had been so long. He craved a woman's body against his own, underneath him and around him. This woman, scented with mellow straw and ancient wood and the clean unbloodied soil of England.

  "You can say no," Guy murmured against her mouth, even as passion threatened to submerge him.

  "I know," she whispered back. "But I won't."

  He let himself fall then, into the whirl of desire. Raised her up and held her close to him, traced the contours of her body with his hands. Snagged eager fingers on rough linen, heard the faint crunch of a rip. Swore under his breath, promised her a new dress in the morning, felt her smile against his mouth. Fumbled with the cloth, clumsy from eagerness.

  Her hands eased his away. "Let me do it," she whispered. He held back, watched as she slipped out of dress and shift, caught his breath at the sight of her naked body revealed in the candlelight. Found his own shirt and hose, struggled out of those likewise, remembered he'd neglected to wash.

  Eh. She was only a peasant girl, after all. Beautiful, granted - but hardly one to cavil at sweat and grime. He pulled her to him, revelled in her fresh soft skin against his own, swung her down onto the bed. Entered her a little harder than he'd intended, she gasped and tensed in his arms, pushed him away. Which he wasn't having, not now. No blushing virgin this, she'd been ready to go with him at a word, it was no use pretending to coyness. Though he paused nonetheless, held her in his arms, stilled to look into her eyes. He'd never forced a woman, he'd always held a strict line with his own troops, it would be evil in him now to fail that essential test of manhood.

  "Forgive me," he whispered, ashamed of a sudden, and fearful. So close he'd come, after all, to betraying his own sacred values, merely because the woman underneath him was a peasant.

  "That hurt," she whispered back, in a tone almost reproachful. Which she had every right to be.

  He eased himself out then, laid her down on the bed, held her gently. Waited until she pulled him towards her, hands firm against his shoulder-blades. Kissed her, more softly than before, and prayed he was not yet so starved of physical affection as to lose control.

  "It's not supposed to hurt," she whispered. "Mother told me."

  Sweet Jesus.

  "No," he agreed, choking back the urge to plead his ignorance. More important to regain her trust, which he'd squandered so carelessly. "It isn't. The fault was mine."

  He kissed her again, slowly, and let his hands work their way across her body and into the gap between her thighs. Stroked the inside of her thighs, soft skin smooth under his hands, refused to probe further until she arched against him and begged him to. Then he bent down and searched for her with his tongue, licked until she gave one brief whimper and then came underneath him, alone, shuddering with pleasure. While he waited still, holding her, breathing in the scent of her ecstasy, and smiled for sheer delight at her enjoyment.

  Gradually she settled, reached up to caress the back of his neck, trailed her fingertips through his hair. He slid up to meet her, kissed her forehead and her cheek, and then her lips again, teased his way inside her mouth, let her taste the delicious sweetness of her own pleasure as he had already done. At which she gasped, then grew eager, licked her tongue to his until his arousal grew almost painful. Only then did he enter her again, slowly, gently, taking infinite care not to cause her any distress. They moved together, found a rhythm that suited them both, and rode that towards a crest of ecstasy that brought cries f
rom each of them, both at once, entirely united.

  Afterwards they sank into a mellow slumber, dozed lightly in each other's arms, drifted into a twilight of half-wakefulness to whisper endearments, give or receive a caress, and drift under again.

  He woke at dawn, sated and content, smiling at the warmth of her in his arms. This was a good waking, better than any he'd known for the past... he didn't care to recall how long. But to surface like this, in the peace of his own castle, with pallid light fingering its way past the curtains and a muted bustle sifting in from below, was a joy he'd missed. To know there would be no blood shed this day, no torment, no grief - not here, at least, on his own patch of earth, where he alone was king. To lie beside a woman, warm and delectable and achingly beautiful, watch her sleep trusting beside him and know that she was his to keep if he chose to.

  Guy halted there, abruptly. Bedding her was well enough, once or twice or even more, no one would count how often he used her. But to keep her - that was another matter entirely.

  Men of sense took wives, yes. Foolish men kept mistresses, but those must at least be women from the same sphere of life. The only term for a lord who kept a peasant girl would be 'ridiculous'.

  Or else 'bewitched'...

  Guy pondered. He didn't feel bewitched. She'd worked magic on him, certainly, the magic of the body, her flesh against his. But he'd wrought it on her also, and she had responded with such passion that even now it made him smile for sheer delight.

  No witch, this girl. But far too beautiful, and far too glorious a lover, to be returned to some shabby hut and made to serve the pleasure of the muddy lout within. She belonged in a lord's bed, as a lord's harlot and no other's, and certainly not as wife to some village clod.

  He would keep her for a while, Guy resolved. Why not? Any man of blood and fire would understand. Besides, there was no one here to judge him. Apart from his own troops - and he might lose standing in their eyes, it was a consideration.

  Men must have full respect for their commander. It was essential to maintaining good discipline. If they whispered or laughed behind his back, that could seriously weaken his grip on them. In which case God only knew what might happen. Men had refused to do battle when ordered, or fled when the tide turned against them, or even rebelled against their own lord.

  Guy had never experienced any of that, not from his own troops. But he'd known it happen - even led the force that rounded up the wrongdoers and punished them, with floggings and executions, as a warning to others. He knew what was necessary to keep order within the ranks.

  It wouldn't happen here. He'd make sure of that. Not one of his men would have cause to ridicule him. But if he let himself be entranced by a peasant girl, they might lose some of their awe - and after that, it could be a short step to insolence, which in turn could lead to outright insurrection. And then there would be killing work to do, here on his own land, in his own home, on English soil.

  The woman beside him stirred, her body smooth against his own. Guy swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, and decided his men could go hang for all he cared.

  He let his hand drift over her waist in a slow caress, thought to call her by name to wake and reassure her. Realised he'd forgotten what name it was, if he'd even been told. Didn't remember whether anyone had troubled to mention it.

  She was so very far beneath him. Under his body also, as he leaned over her, and that aroused him anew. Her warm curl of hairs touched his, and his member grew hard against her thigh. He could take her now, he thought, let her wake to find herself mastered, she might enjoy that, and he would even if she didn't -

  Ugly thoughts. He thrust them aside. They'd never plagued him before, not like this. There was something about this woman that woke an aspect of himself he had never before been aware of. Or denied always, perhaps. Rape was evil, that had been an article of faith with him, he'd never once acknowledged himself capable of it. And yet here he was, toying with the notion, as if the young woman underneath him was nothing but a phantom created for his own enjoyment.

  Seductive thought. He tried to shake it off, but it persisted. And he was lord, he owned her and everything she possessed, he could possess her in turn and it would be nothing but right, his right and God's right -

  She opened her eyes, dazzling like river water under a peaceful English sky. He fell then, knew exactly why he sought to hold and force and dominate her, because he wanted her to be his, to stay with him forever, to belong to him in body and mind and thought, and never leave him.

  "Good morning," he said, and his voice was hoarse with emotion. "I trust you had a pleasant night?"

  She smiled at that, reached up to touch his face in an impulsive caress. Entirely his equal in this moment, not yet fully awake and aware of the chasm between them. He didn't want to remind her, only wished he could forget it too.

  "I had a wonderful night," she said, shining at him. And then her lovely eyes clouded over, the smile faltered, she cowered where she lay. "My lord."

  "Yes, I know." Only too well, damn it. That stood between them, his power and her dependence, they could never truly meet as human beings across such a divide. "Never mind about all the deference. I'll tell you if you grow too proud for my taste."

  He bent to kiss her, slowly, eased out a response from her mouth and felt her body relax underneath him. Mounted her then, as gently as he knew how to do, felt his way through her responses, watched her eyes close and her lips tinge red as she shuddered and came. And lost himself in pleasure also, sank deep into her waters of delight, wished only to remain there for eternity.

  She smelled so sweet. That was his first conscious thought, after. He held her close to him, felt the warmth of her flesh all down the length of his body, breathed in the honeyed sweetness of her climax. This he craved, a deeper longing than mere immediate satisfaction - though that had been glorious also, the sharp cold shock of pure ecstasy and then an all-encompassing splendour of delight. He'd take that again, and again, and make no complaint whatsoever. But to lie like this afterwards, close enough to touch his entire body against hers, and breathe in the sweet scent of her, and know that he had caused it, that her pleasure was his to grant - that was an altogether more seductive brew. He craved it, with a strength that stunned him.

  "My lord?"

  He wished she wouldn't call him that. Although spoken like this, on a breath, whispered almost like a lover's promise in the night, it was not so harsh a title. "What now?" And his own voice surprised him too, gentle and teasing. He was smiling, he realised. Not at her, particularly - she could not see him, he lay with his face buried in the long strands of her hair. At nothing, really, or all the world. Just smiling to himself for sheer contentment. "Is there aught else you would ask of me? Because you may do so, and freely."

  "Thank you," she whispered. "That was - it was - "

  "Yes." He hugged her to him, wished with a sudden fierce desperation that he need never let her go. "For me also."

  But there was a castle out there for him to run, men to command, an estate to rule. Problems to solve, disputes to arbitrate, fees and fines to collect. Orders to make concerning a thousand matters large and small, decisions of greater or lesser import to consider.

  He didn't want to do any of it. He wanted to linger here, in a comfortable bed, with the most delectable woman in the world.

  Whose name he did not know.

  Guy felt rather foolish. Couldn't very well ask it now, that would be such a pointed demonstration of contempt. Sought through his mind for the least trace of recollection. Surely it must have been mentioned. But he didn't remember, had only the haziest recollection of the events of the day before. The vision of her at the side of the road stood forth with absolute clarity. Beyond that, though, there had been a matter she begged him to look into. Whatever it was. Something about a bailiff...

  It came to him then, her entire report, crisp and factual. Naturally he would set that issue straight. It was no more than he'd do for any loyal tenant
. Or so he told himself.

  Her name floated into his awareness, like the memory of a dream. Aelfid. A Saxon name for a Saxon girl. But such a girl...

  Guy smirked. She was certainly fit for a lord's bed, she'd proved that much to him already. And perhaps she was of noble blood, in part at least. Norman lords had been known to honour peasant girls with their attentions before now. It was not so impossible, especially if the women among her forebears had rivalled her in looks.

  He might as well keep her. For now. He had no wife to injure, and neither mother nor sisters were here to offend. Men might stare, but a sharp word should cure them of that. Besides, they'd need only a glance to understand his reasoning.

  Yes. He'd keep her with him for the present. Order the farm restored to that mother of hers. It was a trivial matter, hardly worth a word from him, but one scrap of land or another could not make much difference. And this Osulf and his bailiff uncle must be removed from their posts at once. He had no patience with men of that ilk.

  Easy.

  He kissed her again, lingered with his lips on hers and their bodies pressed together. Then released her, regretfully, to roll over and out of bed and rise to face the day.

  "You'll remain here at the castle for now," he told her as he washed. "I trust you will be comfortable. Meanwhile, everything will be settled according to your wishes. I'll have words with my steward this morning."

  "Thank you, my lord." She sat up demurely, wrapped in a sheet and with that cascade of dark hair coiling wild around her. Desire rose within him anew, fierce still, unsated. She'd be the death of him. But what a path to take...

  "Did you say you had a brother in my service?" Guy recalled no man of notable beauty, but then he didn't have much of an eye for that. Men served or fought, nothing else mattered to him, and they might be as ugly as they pleased provided they did their work to his satisfaction. Though he rather thought he'd have noticed a youth like her, with that startling combination of darkness and brilliance.

  "Beorn," Aelfid said. "He's been here at the castle for three years now, my lord."