"Tell me, for I am your lord now," Beren said, though the words seemed to stick in his throat.
"N-no one, I swear! I was just trying to save myself another trip," the youth said. His innocent reply flustered Beren. With a grunt, he sent the boy about his business, only to find another nearby servant eyeing him, obviously curious about his odd behavior. Beren drew a deep breath. He had reacted overmuch in this instance, but he knew all too well the back-breaking toil of one not born to the manor.
With that thought, the past crowded in on him again, and since he could go nowhere to escape it, he searched for what little comfort he could find. At last, he found Guenivere in the throng, his gaze touching upon her long, blond tresses with a kind of awe. Warmth, unbidden and long denied, seeped into him, driving away all the years of toil and war and proving of himself, almost as if they had never been. Dangerous thoughts, Beren acknowledged, with a frown. Some knights were enamored of tender emotions, and some even wrote poetry, but not working knights, not men who had to make their own ways in the world.
So Beren held at bay the tide of memory that threatened to engulf him, watching her now with new eyes, more calculating and less dewy with youth. And what he saw was a woman full-grown, past her girlhood, but possessing a rare beauty that was only enhanced by time. Why had she not married? What had Clement been thinking to leave his heritage in such disarray? Beren frowned once more. Guenivere said he had been ill. Perhaps he had not been thinking clearly.
Beren found it hard to concentrate himself as he watched her. She moved with an easy grace, as regal as her namesake, but with an open demeanor that encouraged small gifts from the children in the hall. Beren saw her bend down to receive a flower and give a kiss of thanks, and it seemed as though the path he had climbed for so long was shifting, altering the life he had led in some irrevocable fashion. He felt light-headed, like he was falling, dropping from dizzying heights. Or had he merely returned to the ground where he belonged?
Refusing to acknowledge such fancies, Beren held himself tall and straight and apart, as befitting the knight he was, surveying all about him in the long habit of a warrior warily assessing his surroundings. And as the evening wore on, Beren decided that he had good cause to be cautious. Indeed, he studied his bride with growing concern, for although she seemed to greet castle residents and servants and villeins alike with cordiality, she did not extend the same consideration to one of her guests, namely her husband. Even his own men were obviously entranced by the lady of Brandeth, and she did not hold them at a distance, but she stayed away from Beren.
At one point, he thought perhaps it was his own lingering on the edges of the gathering that caused his ostracism, and so he entered the fray, inching closer to Guenivere, only to see her slip away. It was not obvious to the casual observer, perhaps, but Beren could hardly ignore it. And his temper, barely leashed since his arrival here, began to tug at his restraint.
What was she about? At her command, he had married her. Did she intend to shut him out of her life, now and always? Immediately, old doubts and suspicions swamped him. Had she taken his name to protect her interests, while disdaining him as too ill-bred and lowborn to be her true consort? Beren's mouth tightened into a hard line. She was wrong, if she thought to dismiss him so easily.
She might be using him, but he would be her husband, for that was part of the bargain. Did she think to wed him and send him on his way? Did she not realize what happened between husband and wife?
Although Beren had not allowed himself to consider all the ramifications of his nuptials, his reaction to that acknowledgment was swift and sure. His body grew hard, his braies tightening around him, at the very thought of bedding Guenivere. Tonight. Every night. He drew in a harsh, unsteady breath and tried to master himself, for obviously his bride was not quite as eager as he.
Did she think to cuckold him? Beren's blood boiled. He had vowed to serve this family, but not to that extent, not to his own disgrace. And did he not deserve an heir? Why should he tender his hard-won lands back to the crown? Although he had rarely thought about passing on his holdings, now the vague idea became a very real possibility. And Beren was surprised at his own reaction as a fierce yearning shook him to the core. Suddenly, he wanted a son, and not just with anyone, but with this woman.
The notion of Guenivere round with his child sent heat surging through him again, but it was not simply lust that affected him. Pride and hope and long-forgotten dreams pressed in upon him, constricting his chest. For a moment, Beren dared not breathe, so precious was the vision, but before long, he exhaled harshly, dismissing his fantasy. For how would such an idyll come to pass when his bride wanted naught to do with him?
Anger gave him more power than helpless desire, so Beren seized upon it, searching the throng for Guenivere once more. However, the crowd was thinning out now as villagers left and servants took away cups and food, and he did not readily see her. A few of his knights lingered near the hearth, toasting their liege, but few ladies still graced the room.
Then, abruptly, Beren felt a prickle on the back of his neck that roused all his awareness. He turned slowly, to find not Guenivere, but something else for which he had been searching this hall: an unfriendly face. It was Crispin, an older knight who had long served at Brandeth and made no effort to hide his displeasure at the sight of Beren.
They stared at each other across the space of tiles. Then, deliberately, Beren stepped forward, seeking out his old nemesis. Memories of jeers taunted him, but he ignored them, focusing on the here and now, where he would judge the knight anew.
"Well, Crispin?" he asked. "Have you no congratulations for me?"
The elder man nodded curtly. "Of course… my lord," he said, but his mouth was drawn into a sort of sneer that made his disapproval clear. Here, at last, was someone who did not want to see Guenivere wed to a man such as Beren. The two continued to face each other, Beren well aware of the other man's enmity. It was not a new sensation, but he was an adult now, grown beyond the sting of words. Wasn't he?
"You have done well for yourself, considering your origins," Crispin said. "But 'twould be perhaps better had you rested on your laurels at Edward's side, rather than return here."
"And why is that?" Beren asked.
"You may find that things are not unchanged here."
Beren affected a smile. "But that is to my advantage, is it not?" he asked, alluding to his own differing circumstances.
Crispin flushed, but did not retreat. "You may think that you have all you ever desired, Berenger, but I doubt that your wife shares those sentiments." The claim was too close to Beren's own suspicions for comfort. Perhaps Crispin sensed his weakness, for the man pressed his attack. "Indeed. 'Tis not the usual wedding night, is it, when the bride retires alone?" he asked, with a smirk.
Beren's temper flared. He was tempted to have done with this mockery of civility and challenge his old rival, but two things stopped him: consideration for Guenivere and Crispin himself. The man was no longer young, and whatever dreams he had once nurtured were long gone. He remained as he had always been, a bachelor knight with no lands or men of his own, serving a small demesne that was now owned by a man he professed to despise.
"I think, Crispin, that I, too, have grown weary," Beren said simply. With that, he turned away and headed for the narrow stair that led to the upper chambers. He strode forward with purpose and authority, having well learned the advantages of appearances, but he felt neither. Crispin's barb had cut deep. He might be the foremost knight in Britain and baron of his own great lands, but now he was perilously close to a past very different from his present, and it threatened to drag him back down to places he did not care to go.
Worse yet, he had been married only a few hours and already it seemed he was estranged from his wife. Guenivere. Although Beren still found it hard to believe that they were wed, he could all too readily accept the bitter truth of Crispin's words.
'Tis not the usual wedding night… when the br
ide retires alone…
* * *
two
As a knight, Beren had vowed to safeguard all women. Now he wondered bitterly if that included protecting his own wife—from himself. Both anger and pride warred within him, along with lingering remnants of old doubts that urged him not to force the issue of his marital rights, for how could he possibly deserve them?
Tense and uncertain, Beren felt a measure of relief when he reached the top of the stair and saw that the door to the great chamber was open. Perhaps Crispin's attack was as pointless as the dull thud of a bated weapon, and Guenivere was simply expecting him to join her here. The thought brought Beren's body back to life, and, heart hammering in his chest, he dared not imagine what awaited him.
Drawing a deep breath, he sought for control over himself and strode to the threshold only to pause in dismay once more. Although there was a fire in the hearth and his things were laid about the room, there was no trace of his wife, nor any signs of her presence.
Beren stepped inside to look more closely, but no hairbrush or feminine personal items of any kind were to be found, and the pegs and chests were empty of clothing. His gaze settled upon his own gear, undoubtedly delivered by his squire, and his temper returned in full force. Slamming down the lid of the final coffer, he stalked out of the room.
In the narrow passage, he hesitated, wondering if his old nemesis had lied, taunting him, while Guenivere remained below. But there was no denying he had not seen her recently. So Beren continued until he stopped in front of her old chamber. He knew it well, and memories pressed upon him, urging his attention until he pushed them away forcibly. He pushed just as fiercely upon the door, but his efforts had far less effect, for it was barred against him.
Beren told himself that there was some mistake, yet he refused to knock. "Guenivere? Are you in there?" he asked. Her name sounded harsh in the quiet, and he swore under his breath. It was this place. If only they were somewhere else. If only he were someone else…
"Beren?" He heard her voice through the wood that separated them, and the sound of his true name, not his title, might have been welcome, but for what followed. "What do you want?" she asked.
"I want to retire," Beren answered, annoyed at her foolish question. He was also acutely aware that he stood in the narrow passage that ran along the upper rooms, having a conversation that anyone might overhear. On his wedding night. Outside his wife's bedchamber. How could she do this to him? Surely, she knew how it would look. Did she deliberately humiliate him?
"I, uh, had your possessions placed in the great chamber," she said, from behind her oaken shield. Was she so cowardly as to hide from him? Or was she feeling too superior in her bloodlines to open the wretched door to such as him?
"That is very thoughtful of you," Beren answered, through gritted teeth. " 'But I would sleep with my wife."
Silence came from the other side of the door, a horribly long, telling silence. "I really don't think that is wise," she said, at last. She paused, while his blood began to boil anew. "I want to assure you that you need feel no obligation here. You are free to go back to your own demesne and take up your most pressing duties."
Right now, the most pressing duty Beren was planning to take up was bedding his bride, his doubts having been driven away by her stark refusal to grant him an audience, let alone his rights. Perhaps another man, with less history here, might have accepted her terms, Beren thought angrily. But, no. One look at her, and any man who did not want to exercise his husbandly claims would have to be either blind or insane.
"For now, my duty is here with you," Beren said. "Or do you want your overlord questioning your marriage?"
There came another long pause as she considered that suggestion. "He wouldn't dare," she finally answered. "Acatour wouldn't deign to question you, an intimate of the king himself."
It was true, of course. Acatour was a minor landholder, with a few small fiefs like this one pledged to him. He would make no protest at having one of the most famous knights in the country, with great lands and men to serve him, as an ally. Guenivere was intelligent and clever and unyielding. The combination infuriated him.
"Open the door, Guenivere," Beren nearly bellowed, his patience running thin.
"That was not part of our bargain," she answered back.
"Nor was this!" Beren shouted. He could call for an ax and break down the door, of course. He had done no less in war, but he had no wish to do so here, among those who might remember his roots and nod sagely that blood willed out. Instead, turning on his heel, Beren strode away, along the passage and down the stairs, past whispering servants who had been drawn by the spectacle of the great knight brought low by a lady.
It sounded like a poor version of a troubadour's tale, but in such ballads, the cruel woman taunting the knight who loved her was always married to someone else. None of those songs and stories, as far as he knew, had the husband lusting helplessly after his own wife. And this one wasn't going to end that way, either, Beren decided grimly.
Reining in the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him, as well as the memories that pressed him for recognition, he focused instead upon his knight's training and just how to win the battle that lay before him.
The moon was with him, lighting the bailey enough that Beren need not carry a torch, which was just as well since he didn't want to draw attention to himself. Some knights thought it was enough to be able to wield lance and sword, but he had discovered that his most useful weapon was not a strong arm, but an agile mind.
Guenivere wasn't alone in her cleverness. Nor did the trait appear to be governed by birth, for Beren had cultivated it all of his life. Once he had been eager to listen to stories read by another, then he had learned to read and write himself, as did most knights. But he had not stopped there. He had devoured every treatise on knighthood as well as every book he could get his hands on, and he had exercised his brain, watching battle tactics, learning and formulating his own. And now he felt fully confident as he walked along the east wall of the castle, gauging his steps and locating his wife's chamber with ease.
She had left a candle burning, perhaps to be able to see any attack that came through her barred door or to keep a vigil by it. Instead, she had aided him in finding her window, something he was certain she had not intended. Beren stood beneath it now, smiling grimly as he judged the distance straight up to the softly glowing portal.
He could use a rope, of course, with an ax that would catch neatly upon the stone ledge. But Guenivere would notice such an intrusion, and there was always the chance that she might toss it back down, hopefully without him on it. Although she might not want to kill her new husband, lest she have to take another, Beren did not care to test her resolve or take any injury. Glancing up once more, he thought about using a ladder, another implement in time of siege, but that, too, could be seen and knocked aside.
Dismissing such devices, Beren began to consider the moonlit face of stone with careful deliberation, eyeing each crack and crevice. He soon found himself mentally mapping a route, using that first tiny outcropping for a handhold, then moving across and upward. It would not be that difficult, he decided swiftly with the seasoned judgment that accompanied experience, and so he approached the edifice, knowing that only one way would serve his purpose: to climb.
As a child, he had been fascinated by the cliffs, spending what little time he could spare exploring the jagged outcroppings, the tumbled boulders, and the sheer stone faces, always finding a foothold, always seeking a higher one, always moving upward. A useless waste of time, most deemed it, but his passion had proven the source of his good fortune, and later, the skill many dismissed had served him well when assailing another's defense.
Beren approached the wall, and in the darkness of the deserted bailey, he sought his first hold, carefully, but with confidence. Just like so much else in life, a man created his own destiny when climbing. If he thought about falling, he fell. Beren had learned that as a child and had
put that lesson to good use. He never saw himself failing, only succeeding; and so, always he had moved onward, upward, ever striving, unassailed by doubts until he came back here. Today.
Beren pushed that thought aside, for he needed all his concentration. He had not done this in a long while, his new lands being bereft of anything more than gentle slopes, and so his fingers did not have the strength they had had once. But still they held on to the most minute of crevices, and he found his way with ease, the sheer joy of the climb returning with each movement. And when, at last, he reached the window, he felt a sense of triumph unmatched by even the greatest of battle victories.
There, Beren paused just below the ledge to listen, though he heard no sound of Guenivere or her attendants. Hopefully, she was alone. But not for long. Putting more weight on his fingers, he pushed his body upward until he could see inside.
A candelabra stood at one side of room, but he could not espy his wife. Was she abed? The thought threatened his will, so he swiftly drew himself up and over the stone, dropping noiselessly inside. The chamber was so much smaller than he remembered that for a moment, Beren wondered if he had the right place. Surely, the vast, luxurious room of his youth was not this sparse and simple space?
And yet, recollection tugged at him. He gazed about, slowly recognizing the settle, the hearth, the heavy hangings that hid the bed. The sight of it caused a low sound to escape him, giving himself away, for he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and saw that Guenivere, standing at the foot, had stirred, turning round gracefully to gasp in surprise. She was not abed, Beren realized, uncertain whether he was relieved or disappointed by the discovery.
"Beren! How did you come here?" she asked, not bothering to hide her surprise and alarm.
"By the window," Beren answered, his expression neutral. He found himself unable to say much more as memories and feelings long buried pushed to the surface, begging an acknowledgment he would deny. So he stood, unmoving, while she ran past him to put her hands upon the ledge, as if to see for herself a ladder or implement of some kind.
Simmons, Deborah - The Bachelor Knight Page 2
