by Claudia Dain
He was older now and had the neglected look of a recluse; it was not how she remembered him. She only hoped he knew what he was about. She had need for good counsel, and there was no one in Warkham whom she trusted with the suspicions that had arisen within her when she had heard Hugh speak of Jerusalem and King Baldwin.
The hour of Sext ended, the incense rising to the vaulted beams above them, disappearing, merging with the mists of autumn. All rose and moved, eager to be back within the lofty hall, where the meal awaited them. All except Elsbeth.
Hugh remained kneeling at her side and whispered, "Will you pray on, Elsbeth? I will stay at your side, our prayers rising in one voice, if that is your will. But perhaps we could fill our stomachs and then return to pray?"
"You need not wait for me if your appetites call you elsewhere," she said, keeping her head bowed reverently.
"What? And have it said that my wife outprayed me? Nay, if you stay on your knees, your heart bound toward God, then I am at your side. I will not be outdone in so solemn a thing as prayer."
He was jesting. She could hear the laughter in his voice. His leaving would be nothing but pure blessing.
"I do not compete with you," she said, lifting her head just a bit, looking at him from downcast eyes.
"Nay, 'tis I who compete with you, little wife. I will not be found less holy than a maid from England; I, who walked in the path of Christ from the moment I could walk."
"I am sure there are many in my father's hall who would dearly cherish hearing of your holy walks in shining Jerusalem," she said, looking at him directly.
That had been a mistake. He looked distinctly challenged. Elsbeth sighed. Now he would never leave. No man left a challenge unanswered; it was the mark of their sex.
"I have wounded you," he said, taking her prayerful hands in his, turning what had been a holy exercise into an embrace most profane. "It is true, I love the land of my birth, but I have a great heart; I will love England with as fierce a love. If Elsbeth will instruct me in her finer points."
"If you will only go in to dinner, I will tell you all you wish to know of England. Later."
"Then you stay now to pray? I will stay with you."
He really was a most obstinate man. He was quite the match of her father.
"I do not stay to pray," she said, rising to her feet. He helped her up. She did not need his help. "I would speak with the good father on a matter—a private matter."
Hugh looked down at her and raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"
"'Tis not unusual," she said defensively.
"Nay? For a bride who has not been breached, it might be found unpleasantly predictable," Hugh said.
He looked stern. It was a new look upon his face that she had yet to learn. Still, there was no mistaking it; he was not pleased.
"There is no cause for you to be concerned," she said, lifting her arm from his hand.
He let her go, but he took a step nearer. She swallowed hard and looked up at the great mass of him. He was a goodly sized man, almost a giant by some measures.
"Ah, my little wife proclaims that I need not be concerned. Her blood flows, she is not breached, her heart is not in this marriage but in the convent, where she longs to fly," he said softly. It was the soft touch of whispered menace. "Nay, Elsbeth. I think you have it wrong. There is much to concern me."
The vault above them was dark with age and shadowy with smoke and mist. The softness of his voice echoed within the stone chamber, rising up to the dark to fall back down on her, a wave of sound that crashed against her with muted intent. Yet there was no mistaking his meaning. He thought she meant to have the marriage annulled, or feared she would. If he would only repudiate her, then she could let her suspicions sink back into shadow, leaving him as she had found him. Why would he not release her? Did he not always find her at her prayers? Aye, when she was not stripped and leaning into his hands and mouth, curse her weakness.
It was no easy thing to slip out of a marriage. Unfortunately.
But now did not seem the time to discuss any of that. They were alone, the priest long fled, and Hugh was looking most unhappily determined to keep her.
"I think you have misread my intent, my lord," she said. "Besides, the priest is at his meal by now, as is all of Warkham. Shall we not join them? I have missed my time."
"I hope I have misread you, Elsbeth," he said, his look still stern, his hands at his sides. "And it is I who have missed my time. I wed a woman, intent on making her a wife; time was against me. Yet I am a patient man and determined. I will have you, Elsbeth, Let there be no doubt in your mind as to that I will have you."
Yet she had many upon many doubts as to the nature of her husband. She only needed the priest to make things clear. But she held her tongue and said nothing to Hugh.
She was learning quite well the manner of a wife.
Chapter 10
After the meal, when she would have made straight for the priest of Warkham, an event of profound importance happened. At least, Hugh thought it so.
"Look, Elsbeth, the sun shines!"
Multiple shafts of warm yellow light spread through the air and onto the wooden floor of the hall, lighting the dark interior to a cheerful glow.
"Aye, my lord, as it does every day," she said.
"Every day you say?" he said, grinning and grabbing hold of her hand. "Nay, the sun may rise but it does not shine, not in this land of mist and cloud. Come, we must away and enjoy the white shine of it while it lasts."
So saying, he clutched her hand and all but dragged her from the hall. She could feel her father's sardonic amusement pressing against her back. That was enough to propel her out, no matter the pull of the sun.
Yet when she was out and down the stair that led from hall to bailey, she could not fault her husband for his joy. It was a glorious day. The air was clean and sharp, the sky a bowl of lapis adorned by the golden specter of the sun. Clouds floated high and far above, white lambs in a scattered flock that raced happily across the sky. Aye, it was a day for gamboling and grinning, a day for walking out and skirting mud puddles, a day for—
Hugh pulled her straight into a wide puddle, sending mud up in all directions. Her bliaut was instantly sodden and stained. She jerked her hand from his and lifted her skirts away from her legs.
"My lord, have a care," she said tightly.
"My lady," he said, grinning like a boy, "I care only for the sun this day, and to take you out in it, sharing my joy with you."
"'Tis no joy for me to be soaked and sodden."
"'Tis naught that water and soap cannot cure," he said, reaching out for her again, taking her hand. Elsbeth, let your smile shine as free as the friendly sun. This is a day for play. Come play with me."
Of course, he would make her feel churlish for not wanting to cavort in the mud. Of course, he would speak softly in entreaty when other men would harangue a shrewish and ill-tempered wife. Of course, she would bow to his wish, because he was Hugh and because he smiled with all the shining splendor of the sun.
"As you wish, my lord," she said reluctantly. "I will cavort with you, but may I point out that my shoes will not withstand another puddle?"
"Yea, you may point that out to me, little wife. I will take care to keep you from puddles. I am a knight of some renown; I will destroy the next hostile puddle I see."
"Very well, my lord,' she said, fighting a traitorous grin. "I now feel safe with you for, you see, I did not know that you were at your best when fighting puddles. What is your name, then? Lord Hugh of the Muddy Water?"
"You can mock me now, wife, but when the next mud flies, we shall see who you turn to in your distress," he said, laughing back at her.
They were through the bailey and into the outer ward. A nod to the porter and they were out of Warkham and making their way across a well-trod path that led to the not-so-distant sea. The air smelled of salt, and gulls, white as cloud, flew above them, crying into the sky their own peculiar joy at so fine a day.
They walked together, her hand in his, and said nothing for a time. A peaceful time it was, his stride shortened to hers, though she could feel the urge in him to run for the pure pleasure of it. The wind blew stronger as they neared the sea, and with it came the smell of fish.
"It reminds me of Jerusalem, though the air here is brisk and the sun a weaker shadow of itself," he said, his face to the sky, "I could live all my life within the sound of the sea and count myself blessed."
"Is Jerusalem near the sea?"
"Nay, not so near as this. It cannot be walked, but the bounty of the sea comes to us yet, from the Sea of Galilee most near."
She watched him, watched the memories sliding over his face, moving behind his eyes.
"You miss it very much," she said.
"Jerusalem is home," he said, looking forward and then smiling down at her. "Yet with Elsbeth is where I want to be."
So he said upon the hour, yet... there was something in him when he spoke of Jerusalem and its king, Baldwin, something that no amount of talking of Elsbeth and England could mimic. He was a knight of the Levant, so he said with regularity, yet why was he in England? Sunnandune was in England, and Sunnandune was the only land they owned; he had come to her rich in money, but poor in land. Where would they live but in England? Would he spend his life loving Jerusalem from afar?
What did it matter where he spent his life as long as hers was left intact?
Yet it did bear thinking on. If he would not repudiate her, would he at least leave her safe in Sunnandune while he fought for Jerusalem's king? That would answer. He could live out his life in Outremer while she abided softly in Sunnandune, her husband only a name upon her lips, her body untouched. Her life untouched.
'Twas a possibility, if he would agree to it. Yet now was not the time to ask it. He was well set on having her, a man with his blood up and chasing after a maid. Time would cool that. Perhaps even before her flux was ended his blood would chill and he would look elsewhere, to other maids and other victories, leaving Elsbeth to herself.
Aye, it did bear thinking on.
"I think that where you want to be is running through the grass, the wind singing past your ears," she said instead, turning the conversation onto a smoother course. "Go your way, my lord. I will not hinder you."
He looked at her, a question in his brilliant eyes, half undecided and in doubt.
"Go, my lord. Away with you. I fear no puddle," she said on a rising laugh, anticipating his disappearance from her life.
"Well, if you think you can manage it..."
"Go!" she said, pushing him along.
With the word and a parting grin, he was away, running for the joy of it. His legs carried him far, for they were very long legs and his wind was good. He disappeared around a spur of wood, and then she was alone with the gulls and the wind. It was good.
When was the last time she had been alone, out from behind the curtain wall of hall and tower? When had she last breathed air that did not smell of woodsmoke or incense but only of the sea and sun? When last had her thoughts been free of all save the beauty of a perfect day?
So far back in time that she could not remember it. And suddenly, that seemed too long a time. Her mother had kept her close and then had kept her away at her fostering. Of freedoms, she had known few. Only the freedom and sanctuary of prayer had been her solace, with Ardeth's warm encouragement. A fitting occupation for a daughter. A better occupation for a nun.
At that thought, Hugh came running back from beyond the wood, his cheeks ruddy and his hair wild and tossed by the wind from the sea. And with the sight of him, all thoughts went flying to mingle with the gulls. He was a beautiful man. He was a plainly beautiful man, and he was hers. With a jolt of realization, she knew that she wanted him.
So temptation ran into her heart, straight and hard and with the smell of the sea to mark it.
It could not be so. She had sworn in her youth never to submit to a man's touch, no matter what desires enflamed her blood. She had promised her mother that she would not fall into temptation with any man. But she had not conceived of such a man as Hugh of Jerusalem.
It was more urgent than ever that he leave her.
"No puddle has attacked you, I see," he said, laughing lightly, his breath coming out in well-spaced gasps. "I came hurrying back, certain you were in peril most grave."
She shook her desire from her, breathing deeply the clean air of the sea, forcing out the shallow breath of passion. She would not fall to this. She would not give herself over to this.
"I think, my lord, that you came back because you had run the length of your course."
"You think me doddering, to tire from such a jaunt as that?" he asked, still laughing.
Why was he always laughing? She had never known such laughter in her life. It seemed almost unnatural.
"I did not say doddering, my lord. You inflict yourself with such a word."
"Oh, Elsbeth, you know your words are daggers, though the knifing is so sweetly done that I cannot say I am ever offended."
"Nor ever do you bleed," she said, completely against her will.
She baited him, teasing him with words that maids used to catch the attention of a comely knight or squire. She was no such maid, nor ever had been. What was it about this man that made her want to throw herself into the wind, trusting that she would not fall to the rocky shore below?
He grabbed her round the waist and twirled her in the air, her skirts flying free behind her. She buried her face in his neck and held on, laughing softy, surreptitiously, hiding her mirth mostly from herself.
"Have a care, Elsbeth, or else I shall throw you into yon puddle and watch the mud wick its way up your skirts. Then where will you be, maiden of mud, defeated by water and earth?"
"Where will my knight and husband be, he of Muddy Water renown? Will his name not fail if it be known that I was defiled by mud and he so near to save me?"
"It is not mud which will mark you, little wife," he said, slowing his twirling and letting her feet touch to ground.
He bent his back low to set her gently down.
"Water, then?" she asked, looking up at him. His eyes were the deep green of a shadowy wood.
"Nay, not water, though you live in a land where water is in the very air you breathe. Nay, it is blood which will mark you, Elsbeth, as you know it must be."
Her mood settled at that, as did his. 'Twas for the best. Such laughing gaiety was unnecessary and only put her in harm's way.
"My blood marks me now, my lord."
"Aye, it does. A fine wall it is between us. Yet it will not last, though I begin to think you pray that it would." She started slightly, he was so close upon the mark, but she held her tongue. He continued, "Yet it is not your woman's blood but your maiden's blood which I want and which I will have."
She lowered her gaze and turned from him. He held her by one arm and turned her around to face him.
"There is no running from that, Elsbeth, no matter what you pray or how ceaselessly you pray it. I must have you. I will have you. Find your peace with it, I beseech you. I would not hurt you for the world."
"Then do not hurt me," she said, looking at the grass and stones beneath her feet.
"I cannot promise what I cannot control," he said. "That is the first of many lessons for a knight, and I learned it well. I can only promise that I will deal gently and that, if I could, I would take all pain upon myself. I must do no less as your husband, and I would do all that and more. Only trust me, Elsbeth. Trust me."
She wanted to. The temptation was strong. She wanted to lay down the burden she carried, letting him carry all. Trusting him as every wife must needs trust her lord and husband. But she could not. No matter what he said or how sweetly he said it, in the end, he was only a man.
He was the man of her temptation and he must leave her. He must return to Jerusalem. With a distance of a thousand miles between them, she would be safe. Only memory would haunt her, and she knew ho
w to manage memory.
"Do not ask what I cannot give," she said. "Let that be the vow which marks our union. You would not hurt me. I believe you. I would give you all that is in my power to give. Believe me, my lord. I withhold nothing from you out of a spiteful heart," she said, looking up into his eyes, letting him imagine that he could see into her, into her very heart.
He smiled slowly and then bent to kiss her on the mouth. It was a soft kiss of reconciliation and peace and even of trust.
Raising his lips from hers, he said, "I do trust you, Elsbeth, and I will endeavor not to ask of you what it is not in you to give. Are you content?"
Smiling up at him, she said, "I am content."
From the woods bordering the track, a pair of eyes watched them, taking their measure. Hidden and watchful, the man followed them as they made their way back to Warkham.
* * *
Hugh would, of course, see to it that she would want to give him all he asked. That was the very nature of every discourse between a man and a woman, even if that woman be a wife. To tempt her into wanting, that was his task, for, however lovely she was, she held herself aloof and wanted it to remain so. It could not. God and all His saints knew it could not. Mayhap even Elsbeth knew it could not, yet still she struggled to keep all as it was, to keep herself apart from him, her body and her life her own.
How that she thought she could have a marriage unlike every marriage under heaven?
But she did not want a marriage, did she? She wanted to be the bride of Christ. To be Hugh's bride held no appeal. Or so she wanted him to think.
What a rare battle this was; never had he thought that the wife he finally took unto himself would treat him with anything but love and gratitude. Elsbeth was not grateful; she was desperate, as her father had predicted. Gautier had been blunt in his appraisal of his daughter, and he had struck the mark soundly. Elsbeth yearned for the cloister, not the conjugal bed.
