by Claudia Dain
“Thank you, my lord. You are generous of spirit," she said. "If your generosity will continue, I must again ask for privacy to tend my female needs."
He did not fight her this time. She managed all quickly. She bound herself well, using many layers to stanch the flow, and to keep her private parts well covered and still private to herself. How they would sleep, she did not know. Would he strip bare and require her to do the same? She should have a thought as to what she wanted, so that when he pressed for his way in this, she would have weapon-words of her own, sharp and ready for his attack.
The night lay before them, long and dark and cold with only a small fire and a stranger to keep the dark at bay. So it was for each of them, but she thought that he would find the night longer than she did. For her this night was a victory and a blessing; she did not doubt that a husband newly made would not see it so. Ah, well. It was in God's hands. Let Hugh of Jerusalem wrestle with God if he disliked her miracle.
She watched him as he bent to stoke the fire to greater heat and height, the colors swirling from gold to blue to white. He was a man upon whom the weight of legend rested lightly. A man of Jerusalem, a man of blood, a man of golden beauty with eyes the soft green of fir and hemlock, and he knelt within her chamber with no other thought than to spend time with her in gentle discourse.
Or so he said. Could any man of blood be so mild as that? So easy in his praise and so soft in his expectations?
Nay, it was not the way of men to be so. Yet he was so. Or seemed so, be it better said.
Well, she was ready for him, no matter what attack he chose. Her weapons were few: blood, prayer, and caution. Yet they would serve.
He turned upon his heels and looked up at her, his hair outlined in fire so that he seemed to glow from within, like sunlight through church glass, holy and bright and pure.
"This fire should last us," he said, "if we are well abed."
Well abed. That meant naked and huddling, or cuddling, as he would likely name it.
"You are to bed, then?" she asked, ignoring the cold floorboards against her feet; she was of sterner, stouter stuff than to be chilled by an October night.
"Aye, I am," he said, rising to his feet. He all but dwarfed her. Did the sun of Jerusalem grow all creatures to such heights? "And so are you, little wife. The day is done. It is time for—"
"Sleep."
"Rest," he said instead.
"The prayers of Compline await us both," she said.
"I think the prayers of None and Vespers have served us very well," he said. "God will surely forgive our lack on such a day as this."
Another hour of prayer lost. Another hour of showing him that she was not the stuff of which wives were made. Yet to argue it would give the lie to her perfect submission, and that she could not do. Submissive, prayerful, mild, otherworldly: those were the traits in her arsenal. He must see that she was not fit for the life her father had chosen for her. She would not be a wife. Hugh must release her from it.
"Will you assist, or must I call my squire?" he asked.
Call his squire and let another man see the signs of her flux? Nay, she was not eager for that. Then, perforce, she must assist him in his disrobing. She did not want to get that close, yet, if she was in assistance, could she not then determine how much of his clothing was stripped from him? Aye, that would help her. He could sleep in his tunic, far to his side of her bed; that would well suit her.
"I will assist, my lord, if you can but help me with your mail," she said.
"I will assist you in whatever manner I may, Elsbeth, but you will find my mail light—lighter than the rings they fashion here in the North."
"It is most fine," she said sincerely. It was. His mail was silvery and shining, the circles of steel small and thin, and so tightly woven together that from a distance of but feet the whole of it looked solid. Few men could afford mail so delicately and finely wrought; few armorers had the skill to fashion it. "I have never seen the like."
"It was a gift from Baldwin, given after the taking of Ascalon," he said, his voice heavy for once. She had never heard such tones of sadness and longing in a man, and never in this man of many smiles and bright looks.
"He must hold you in high value, my lord. That in itself is a gift of rare price."
He looked up at her from his seat on the low stool, his eyes suddenly the bright green of spring grass. "Aye, he does, and so I do him. He is a rare man. There a few like him in this world."
"So it is often said of great men. You are blessed by God that you have known him and been loved by him," she said.
He looked at her, and she saw something in his face, something of melancholy tinged with regret and even joy. She had never seen such a look. She did not know how to name it. She did not know how to respond to it.
"Thank you, Elsbeth," he said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.
His kiss was light and warm, and then was done. Yet the tingle on her skin lingered like a recent burn. She shook off the feeling and turned away from him to open his trunk on the side of the bed.
"Your trunk is also fine, fit to house the garments you wear," she said. It was red leather, to match his beloved boots, and tooled with scrolls and diamond shapes.
"All things are fine in holy Jerusalem," he said, pulling off one boot. "Possibly because there is little mud."
She turned to look and saw that his boot was wet and misshapen and brown to the ankle. She smiled and swallowed a laugh to see the look on his lace.
"Aye, I hear you laughing, little wife." he said, setting the boot by the fire and bending to examine its mate before he slid it off his foot. "You will not laugh so loud when the bride gift I have brought for you is riven and shriveled by English rain and English mud."
A bride gift? She turned to look at him, the memory of his kiss upon her hand still burning.
"I see I have your full attention now," he said, grinning. "In that, I deem that maids from Jerusalem to England are the same."
"Do you insult me?"
"Nay," he said, his smile fading. " 'Twas a compliment, Elsbeth. To be compared to a maid of Jerusalem is the best I can say of any woman. And in Jerusalem you would outshine them all. But enough of compliments. I forget, you care little for them. Care you to see the gift that has traveled continents and seas to find you?"
"I appreciate the effort," she said.
"That is fine, but I would rather have you appreciate the gift."
Appreciate the gift? Aye, how could she not? Never in her life had she been given a gift of any sort. If he pulled out a rusty and broken dagger, she would be delighted.
Hugh rose up and came toward his trunk. His boots were resting by the fire, steaming and smelling of mud. She backed up at his approach, boxing herself into the corner made by bed, trunk, and wall. He seemed very large of a sudden, very broad and tall and male. Her pulse trembled within her skin, and her breath came into her lungs hardly at all.
He bent down and lifted and poked and pulled forth something wrapped in blue damask. All of itself, the damask would have been a gift most fine. It was rare doth, catching the light and shining.
Hugh handed it to her and said, "May it please you, my wife."
She nodded her thanks and took the parcel from his hands. Her own were shaking. She coughed to hide her discomposure and opened the damask.
Inside was a cross. Small and golden and on a chain of finely worked links of hammered silver. The cross was inscribed with a strange and foreign script that held no meaning for her beyond its flowing beauty.
"It is lovely," she said, holding it in her hands, fingering the cross reverently.
"I thought so as well," he said. "Put it on."
She slipped the necklace over her head, and the cross lay against the rise of her breasts, warming instantly. She looked at it, her fingers touching it, memorizing the feel of it, the look of it, the beauty of it.
"Do you know what it says?" he asked.
"Nay."
"It says, 'It is finished.'"
"Ah, Christ's last words. I will treasure it all the days of my life. Thank you, my lord. It is a great gift. A great gift," she repeated, her eyes full of tears that did not fall. "I will never remove it."
But she would not be allowed to keep it when she went into the cloister; all of her past life must be cast away from her so that she might live her new life in poverty of all but spirit. Yet she would not think of that now. It was a gift unlike any other, and she cherished it. Besides, if she managed all well, she could finger her cross in her solitary life in Sunnandune, forgetting the giver while she cherished the gift.
"I rejoice that it finds such favor with you," he said.
"It does. It ever will. I will not forget this gift, my lord."
"Nor the giver?" be said, smiling, going back to his stool.
"How could I forget my first husband?" she said lightly.
"Ah, she wounds," he said, laughing. "Now I am to be the first of many? Yea, you would prick me with my own words, clumsily spoken, haltingly defended."
"You defended yourself very well," she said, coming out of her corner and into the light. Her hand still stroked the cross.
"I am pleased to hear you say so. Am I not a valiant warrior? I have learned to defend and to attack, but never against so soft an adversary and never with only words."
"Say not 'only words,' for words can be a mighty weapon, their meaning sharp and their weight heavy."
"Aye, 'tis so, yet never would I have my words wound you, Elsbeth," he said, lifting his hauberk from him, leaving his torso bare. "Say I have not."
"You have not."
He had not. He was a man, a mere man; he could not touch her with words. Yet her thoughts trailed away to nothing as he stripped off his clothing.
She could only stare, his words and hers a dim buzzing in the corners of her thoughts. He was a mighty man, wide and well muscled and as golden as her cross. Here the depth of difference between a woman and a man was revealed. Two, separate, as God had created them in His garden, yet made to come together. Out of man a woman had been formed. How they were to come together again she could not see, though Isabel had explained all very well and very enthusiastically. Yet he was too large, too strange. There was no place in her for him.
Yet was it not in every man to find his place in a woman?
But he would find no place in her. She bled, blocking him, shutting him out. She bled, and, as Christ had bled upon His cross, it was her salvation.
Her mother would have been most pleased.
Chapter 6
He had wooed her with soft words and gentleness and gifts. She knew him now as she had not known him at their joining. Her fears were lessened, her tongue loosened, her humor on the rise.
It was time they were to bed.
"Come, Elsbeth," he said. "Let us lie together."
"I have explained—"
"Keep your chemise and your virginity," he said, reaching out to take her hand. "I give them to you for this night and the next, for as long as your courses shall continue. Look well now, wife, for you shall see the man who claims you for his own."
He slid his braes off, baring himself to her. He was on the rise as well, his manhood high and hard with no release to be had in this chamber.
It would be a long, cold night.
Her eyes were on him and he rose higher. Let her look her fill. She needed to learn him; 'twould ease whatever maiden fears had settled in her heart.
"Come, be not afraid. I will not harm you, nor hurt you."
He stood before the fire, the warmth a welcome friend, and drew her to him. She was small; he could have lifted her with one hand or hidden her complete behind his back, which he would not do. He was saving the fire for himself. Elsbeth seemed to feel none of the chill of the room. Northern blood ran hot, mayhap. He was eager to find the truth of that.
"You are very hot," she said, echoing his thoughts. "Why do you say you are so cold?"
She stood before him, a hand's breadth away, her breasts a dark weight he could see and almost feel through her thin chemise.
"I am hot only when you are near," he said. "You are the fire that warms me."
"I am not," she said, looking down at the floor. "I am no man's fire."
"You are mine," he said, lifting her face with his hands. Her eyes were dark pools of confusion and caution—a maiden's look, to be sure. "My fire. My wife."
"Aye, mayhap, for now," she said, her breath warm on his hands, her eyes sliding into chilly repose.
"Now is all we have, Elsbeth. The Lord does not promise more. Our future is in His keeping. What can we do but obey in each moment of life He grants us? What more than that?"
"Nothing more," she said. "You speak the truth. There is only now."
He could read her well. Only now when she was in flux and he could not touch her. Or so she thought. There was much a man could do to a woman that would leave her maidenhead intact yet pierce and claim her heart. And he was just such a man to perform just such a claiming.
"Come then, little wife, and let us claim our now together. The bed awaits. The fire is high, the blankets deep. Let us avail ourselves of all."
She said no more, but meekly followed where he led. He led her to the bed and lifted her onto it. She pulled the blankets up to her chin and watched him with wide and careful eyes. She was wise to be careful, for her life was on the brink of change.
* * *
She had to be careful, for some change was upon him. Gone was the gentle man of easy smiles and in his place a warrior with his battle before him. She knew well that she was to be his battle plain. A man could be counted on for certain things, and claiming a woman by laying his mark upon her was the surest yet.
He would not breach her maidenhead, but he would lay hands upon her, that she knew. His eyes betrayed all. And his manhood, high and hard and pulsing with intent. Aye, she knew what he would do if God had not taken the chance away from him. But what he would do while he waited for the days to pass she did not know. She only knew she was embattled and that her foe used his beauty as a weapon.
His beauty was formidable, and she knew enough of men to understand that he realized it. All men knew their weapons and kept them well honed. Even men from Jerusalem were only men, after all. Yet had her mother not warned her of this? Had she not said that sin entered through the eyes, consuming the soul? Elsbeth kept her eyes lowered in defense.
If the fire would die or the taper flicker out, her cause would be helped, but with his aversion to cold and dark, she did not see much hope. She closed her eyes, creating her own dark world.
It did not help much. She could feel his nearness and his heat as he slid into the bed. And then she felt his hands—nay, his fingertips—trailing down the center of her chest, between her breasts.
She drew a shaky breath and kept to her private darkness, ignoring the tremors he unleashed.
"The cross looks well on you," he said, touching it with his fingertips. "You have warmed it. It carries your heat, Elsbeth, and glows in the firelight."
She said nothing. All her effort was on breathing and keeping her eyes shut against him. The firelight would show the golden glow of his skin and hair. She did not seek out such an assault on her senses. Her battle plan was prudent and one of defense, her only recourse. Still, it would serve. It must.
"You hide from me, Elsbeth," he said, his tone amused.
"I am here. I do not hide," she said, pressing her lips together in irritation.
Ever and always the laughter was at her expense. Would that, just once, a man could feel the bite of her humor when it was aimed at him. It would be a gift indeed if she were able to attack. But she was a woman; that way was not open to her, not if she wanted to win her freedom from him. He held the key to all, and so she must fight softly, inching her way free. A bold attack would serve her ill.
"Nay, you do not hide. Only your sight is hidden. Or is it the sight of me you wish to hide from?" he
said, releasing the cross and touching a finger to the hollow of her throat.
"I do not hide, my lord," she said. "I am but weary. The day has been long."
"Aye, a full day we have had between us. But the night will be longer still," he murmured.
His touch was light, a whisper against her skin, yet she felt it as a weight that threatened to crush her. She could not draw a breath that she did not will into her lungs.
Her very heart was pressed and flattened by the weight of his presence in their shared bed. Why could he not find accommodations elsewhere? Why share a bed with her when there was naught he could do to fulfill their marriage contract?
Why? Because he was a man and he wanted to stay, tormenting her.
"Breathe, Elsbeth," he said, his mouth hovering over her ear. "Breathe. I will not hurt you. Nor will I leave you, no matter how still and quiet you keep yourself."
"Stay, then. I have said naught to encourage you to go."
"Nay, you have done all that a wife should do. None could fault you. But if you would only open your eyes?"
She would not. "Did you not say that it was the hour for sleep?" she said.
"I believe the word I used was rest," he said, trailing his hand over her breasts. Her nipples rose up in alarm, throbbing their outrage. "Let us each find our rest in our own ways, little wife. I have found mine." He leaned toward her again and said against her brow, "I could fondle you for an age and not weary of the task. Lie quiet and still for me, if it is your pleasure; I will not complain, not when I am so happily entertained."
She could not help it: One eye opened a slit, just enough to admit light and the vague outline of him in the shadowy chamber. "Am I your entertainment, my lord? Is that my function in your life?"
"Let us say instead that you are to be my pleasure," he said.
Aye, she could believe it. What man did not want a woman to share his bed and his body? What man would not want a woman to appease his lusts, satisfying his every base desire?
