by Claudia Dain
"You put much power into a smile."
"Nay, only your smile."
She smiled then and shook her head at his extravagance and his arrogance. Her mother had warned her of this, of this deception, this lure. These words were empty, yet they glittered, and she was mesmerized by the glimmer of them and of him.
He was a strange man, unlike any other she had known; even wild Ulrich could not match the smooth beauty of his words. He spoke of wounding, but it was she who was in danger of being wounded. With all others, she had the possibility of retreat, but where and how could a wife retreat from a husband? She knew of no such place. He was the master of her body and her life, both church and king declared it.
"When we are far from this hall, I will breathe in rhythm with your smiles, Elsbeth," Hugh said, leaning toward her.
"I have not so many smiles in me to keep you breathing," she said, edging away from him.
"Ah! A parry and a thrust from my little wife. You are learning, little one," he said, grinning. "Soon you will be calling troubadours to your side to hear their golden praise of you. And none shall hinder them. You deserve songs, line upon line, describing your beauty and your purity. But perhaps a troubadour from the Levant would better serve you. I do not trust what cold words might spew from a man living in these northern climes."
"I cannot keep pace with you, my lord. Your words are too quick. I am a mudfrog to your eel."
"Rather say you are a pheasant to my hawk, Elsbeth. I would not be an eel, even for you."
"There is the proof. I cannot even keep pace when striving for a metaphor. You have won the field. I stand silenced."
"Nay, not silenced, only stand," he said, helping herto her feet with his hand on her arm. His hand was large and warm, even through her sleeve. "Stand and let all those in this hall feast their eyes upon you. We have tarried long here. Let us do what we are called by God to do. Have you the heart for it?"
She did not. Her inward parts were cold and watery, like the eel she had just named.
"Speak, Elsbeth," he urged, his head lowered to hers. "I would not drag you from the feast if you would stay."
She could not speak. She knew her duty was to obey, yet she could not. Had God led her here without a tower to hide her in? She knew it could not be so. God was not so unmerciful or unloving. With all her heart, she cast upward a prayer to heaven, praying as she sent it that God would listen.
God was silent.
"I have no wish to stay," she said.
"Then let us depart. We have an appointment, do we not?" he said.
"Do we?" she said, waiting for her miracle, certain it would come, that God had not deserted her to face what every bride must face upon the completion of her vows.
"Yea," he said. "Did we not agree to pray together after the meal?"
If he grinned at her in jest, enjoying her discomfort, she remembered again the pleasure men took in having women in their power. Still, God had answered. It was no miracle, but it was an answer. Yea, to pray. 'Twas what they had agreed upon. Hugh was not insisting upon his marital rights.
What she would do when he did insist, she was not certain. Nay, that was untrue. She was most certain. She would pray for a miracle.
* * *
The chapel was still when they entered it. They were alone and the light was dim. She was grateful for all. She needed time and privacy to cool the hot flush in her cheeks.
Her father had not let them leave the hall without comment. That his comments had been loud was to be expected. That his comments had been irreverent was also to be expected. That he had roused the hall to laugh and whistle upon learning that Hugh was taking her off to pray had been more than she expected and more than she was prepared to endure.
Hugh had not seemed to take offense, however, and for that she was grateful. Her father seemed to her to be a most offensive man. That her husband seemed somewhat fond of Gautier was a blessing. Familial discord was nothing to be wished for, though their home would be far from Gautier's. Another blessing.
"I do not know if it is the hour for Nocturn or Prime, the light is so uncertain. Does the sun never shine?" Hugh said as they walked toward the nave.
"The sun is shining now," she said.
"How can you tell?" he said, clasping her hand.
He had been holding on to her hand since they walked across the hall together; he had even squeezed her fingers as the whistles and catcalls of her father's men had risen to a din. She supposed he meant to comfort her. It was disturbing in the extreme that she was, indeed, comforted.
She looked up at him, at his smile, and saw his constant humor, his relentless efforts to make her smile. A most unusual man, to be so occupied and for so little cause. She did not need constant cheering. There was nothing amiss with her temper. Still, he did make her smile and feel light of heart. The look of him alone was enough to make a maid feel dreamy; he did not need to work so diligently. Yet when did temptation ever rest?
"The sun shines, even behind the clouds. You will soon learn to discern darkness from daylight," she said, trying to pull her hand free.
He lifted her hand to his mouth and lightly kissed her fingertips. "Until I do, you must help me lest I stumble into Compline when all else are at their rest."
"I do not think it in you to stumble," she said, ignoring the feel of his mouth on her. Or trying to.
"You flatter me. I am glad to see that, though we are married and settled, you still think to stroke my vanity. It shows a wifely devotion and concern which are touching."
"I..." she began. "I do not mean to flatter you, nor stroke any man's vanity into greater size. God forbid I fall into such a practice."
They were at the nave, and he pulled her down onto her knees at his side. "I do not think you encourage me to sin. I never would. Be at rest, Elsbeth. Rest in me as you rest in Christ. Now, shall we pray?"
Rest in him? She could not rest in him. There was no resting with temptation, and he was pure temptation. He had to know it. No man could look as he did or speak as he did and not know the temptation he was to every woman in his sphere. As his wife, her temptation was multiplied a hundredfold. She was his, and yet she could not be his. How God was going to save her from this was a puzzle, yet if God could manage for Joseph to rise from slavery to become ruler of all Egypt, He could surely manage Hugh of Jerusalem.
She could rest in that.
With that thought triumphant over all her fears, she set herself to her prayers.
* * *
Why she held herself aloof from him he could not fathom. He was her husband. He had taken on the part willingly and with good cheer. He was a well-favored man in appearance and connection. He was cordial and brimming with courtesy. That he would take her from her father's house was surely a blessing she should thank God in all His mercy for. Did not every maid yearn for her own domain?
Perhaps it was the intimacy of the marriage bed which held her still and solemn away from him. Aye, that was logical and fit what he knew of women. Well, he had time and patience; he would win her trust and her smiles. He was confident of that.
She was a timid little thing, unused to raucous humor and the ways of men. He could not and would not fault her for that. Nay, not when the women of the Levant were tutored and protected to display just such traits. He had not thought to find such in his travels north. The women of Henry's kingdom were given more freedom than the women of his home, and he could not see that there had been any benefit to the practice. Women were unlike men in all their ways; they wanted protection, and a man shouldered that task gladly.
That Elsbeth was modest and quiet was right and well within the order of the world.
That she needed him was a gift he accepted gladly.
The matter of Gautier he would handle gently. That Hugh was adept at handling difficult men and uncertain times was the gift he brought with him from a lifetime living in the Levant, where men strove constantly against both ally and adversary. Baldwin had set much to rig
hts when he took the throne, wresting it from the clenching grasp of his mother, Queen Melisende. She was a woman who understood nothing and learned nothing. Baldwin was as unlike his mother as a man could be, and Hugh his closest friend. There was much to understand of the world, and Hugh had been a willing pupil. The stakes were high: the very sanctity of Jerusalem.
But that was distant thinking, and his battle was here, with this wife, in this moment.
It would be a gentle battle. He would not harm her nor leave her scarred. Never would he hurt a woman, least of all his little wife who knelt so prettily at his side, her mouth moving in prayer.
Nay, he would not harm her, nor cause her the least distress. In that knowledge, he rested, his mind at ease, his purpose dear. He would leave England with no regrets.
* * *
There were only so many prayers she could say before praying was done. Nay, that was untrue. Did not the scriptures declare that all would praise God for the length of eternity and not run out of words proclaiming His greatness and His love? Aye, but there were no cold stone floors in heaven. She was becoming stiff. She was wanting to be done with praying, but the husband at her side prayed on. Could she let him outpray her, she who had a name for prayer and holiness that was finding its way into song?
Was it wise to make praying a competition?
She knew the answer, acknowledged it in her heart. And stayed kneeling on the floor. It was Hugh who complained of the cold, not she. He would rise first. She had only to wait.
The wait seemed overlong to her knees.
She shifted her weight and breathed a sigh she hoped he would not note. Let him think her unaware of earthly discomforts while her mind and soul dwelt on God. Let him know the nature of her devotion and her steelish bent toward all things heavenly. She would not make a good wife to any man. Her life must and would be found only within the cloister. Let him think on that and release her to it.
And soon, for her joints were like to crack.
"You tire, Elsbeth?" he asked, looking down at her. "Then let us depart. God knows the condition of our hearts, whether we be kneeling or walking."
"I do not tire," she said, ignoring the pain in her throbbing knees. "I could and will pray away the days and the nights. It is my calling."
"Ah," he said, smiling and lifting her to her feet despite her words, "but first you have been called to marriage, is that not so? And is not God's timing ever and always perfect? There are many hidden behind abbey walls who first have tasted of the world and then sought refuge. You may find yourself of that number. Perhaps."
Perhaps. He threw her a sop and she was supposed to cling to it. Well, she did not want to be a wife and then a nun. She would be all of nun and none of wife, no matter his charm or his look. It was most important that he believe that. He had to repudiate her. She was unfit to be a wife. She knew that well; it only remained to convince him of it before she was utterly lost in the temptation of him.
"It is also true that only God knows the future. Perhaps I will find my way into the nunnery sooner rather than later," she said, refusing his hand with as much dignity as she could manage.
"I think, Elsbeth," he said, taking her face in his hands, "that you will find your way into my bed before any nunnery has the gift of you."
Now was the time for God to deliver His miracle to her. Now, when Hugh's green eyes were looking down into hers, his smile soft and encouraging, his manner coaxing and light. Now, when the temptation of him rose up in her heart to wipe all wisdom and piety from her very soul.
To be in his bed. Aye, the vision of it was before her eyes, calling to her heart. She could feel her heart, traitor that it was, running hard to catch the vision of them twined together, his hands upon her, his mouth upon her, his heat filling her. She was pure, aye, but she was not made of stone.
She was adept at turning from many sins, many temptations, but not this one. Not the call of a man to the heart of a woman. Not the call of a husband to his wife. Not the call of Hugh of Jerusalem.
How well Ardeth had understood her. How well and ardently she had counseled her. How little it all seemed to matter now. Had her mother known this was how it would fall out?
Aye, she had.
His mouth lowered to hers, and she could not even think to turn her head. He smelled like wine and bread, like holy sacrament and sacred wine; the blood and body of Christ in His very sanctuary. All the things a man could not be, he was, this man from shining Jerusalem.
His mouth touched hers, his hands on her cheeks, holding her fast to accept his kiss. She would not have turned. Her will was gone, stolen by the scent of him.
A kiss it was, a kiss like none she had ever had. A kiss of longing and of tenderness and of passion breathed to life. A kiss to mark her as his own. A kiss to tangle with her soul until all was shadow and flicker of dwindling light. The light of her reason gone, doused in a single kiss upon the very altar of God.
A temptation that ensnared her with a single, warm whisper.
He lifted his mouth from hers; it had not been so very long, and yet she gasped a breath.
"You will not faint?" he said, laying his hand under her chin, studying her face.
"I will not," she said, but she did not speak of fainting; she spoke of all he held out to her, tempting her. She would not succumb to this. She would not run from all her plans. She would not gamble with her life, not even for Hugh of Jerusalem.
It was time for her miracle, and the prayer she sent shooting to heaven was blinding in its fervor. With such a need behind the prayer, did she wonder if God would answer?
She did not.
In the next instant, all was answered, and as surely as Daniel had been delivered from ravenous lions, so was she delivered from the hot temptation of desire.
Her courses had begun; she felt the hot trail of blood winding its way down her leg.
Chapter 4
"What say you?"
"I said, my courses have begun. We cannot consummate the marriage," she said, enjoying the look of shock on his face. He did not look so composed now.
"Now? Just now? You are certain?"
"Yea, just now." Thanks be to God and the perfection of His time. "And I am certain. This is not the first time for me, my lord. I know what I am about," she said. If her grin was somewhat superior, she did not suppose she could be faulted for it.
"But... we are wed today," Hugh said.
He seemed to be having some difficulty grasping the fact that she would not share his bed. Perfect. His taunt about her fainting at his kiss was almost forgiven. Almost.
"Aye, we are; yet, if I had been consulted I could have told the priest, my father, and you that now was not the best time for it. Yet I was not consulted. I know my body's rhythms; my father does not."
"Aye," he said, running a hand through his golden hair, twisting the strands until all was a shimmering jumble of brown and gold and flaxen white.
He could do what he wished with his hair; he was not going to touch her. Not for a week at the very least. A week. A long week. Had God not created the world in a week? Surely it was well within His grasp to wrench her from this marriage in the same number of days.
It was the first time Hugh had not had to coax a smile from her. Nay, she smiled most freely. He did not seem to appreciate her good humor.
"You do not seem dismayed," he said, frowning slightly.
"Do I not?" she said, all sprightly cheer. "Well, I suppose I can wait a week for our bond to be set before God and church. Can you?"
He straightened at that and left off the ruffling of his hair. "I have been challenged," he said, looking down at her. She straightened and met his look; her own hair was perfectly ordered, as was her composure. "Aye, I can wait a week for you, little wife, but now I think that you will not be so content to wait a week for me."
"I do not know—"
"Ah, yea, you know," he said, cutting her off while he ran a fingertip over the waves of her hair. "I accept your challeng
e, wife. I will not be the one to pant after you; at least I will promise you not to be alone in my panting. Nay, for I shall wring a cry from you, and only when I have your cry upon my lips will I take possession of you."
The images were too strong, of taking and of crying out in passion and of his coming for her, pursuing her with all the relentless heat of dogs after a boar. She would be the boar for no man. He would not make her pant, and her only cries would be the soulful cries of devoted prayer. She would prove that to him, taking up the challenge he had set before her. He would not make her into something she was not. She would never be a woman who panted for a man.
"You will wait long, my lord. If that is your plan, then this marriage will never be consummated." Another oft-spoken prayer.
"You do not understand men, Elsbeth, if you say that. A man challenged is a man who must then win. What is more certain is that you do not understand me."
She did not want to understand him. She only wanted him out of her life so that she could escape the burden of men. Did he understand nothing of her wants and wishes? Nay, he did not. His thoughts were all of himself, which was very like a man.
"I cannot stand here," she said, wanting to be away from him and his vows and challenges. He was just like men as she knew them to be: self-serving, arrogant, and proud. She understood men well enough and had no wish to understand them better. "I bleed, I tell you. I must away."
"Then away, Elsbeth, and I with you. I am your husband, ever at your side, in need or without," he said, placing his arm about her and hurrying her from the chapel.
"I cannot walk so fast." she said, tripping over her skirts. "I do not need your assistance in this."
"Aye, but I am a husband of an hour. I need to be needed. I need to be with you, even if I cannot take you, planting my scent upon you and within you, feeling you shift beneath me, holding me within your heat."
"Stop! This is not speech a maid should hear," she said, putting her hands over her ears.
"Ah, maiden wife, you are right in that, but you shall hear it and feel the need for me grow in your belly and in your blood, until you beg to be freed of your maidenhead. Until you pant my name and cannot think beyond having my hands upon you. That is what this week will bring you. That is my task."
