by Susan King
Perhaps she had not thought this through as others might, who would judge property and gold and position gained or lost. She reacted with her heart instead. If she were a traveler offered the warmth of a hearth fire, would she refuse it for the icy cold? Providence had offered her a gift; she would accept it.
Tall and lean, his long dark hair catching a sheen of light as he shrugged off his cloak, he looked like some powerful angel come down to earth, equally capable of love or vengeance. In his broad shoulders, wide stance, and easy carriage, in the steady gleam in his green eyes, she saw resilient strength and unwavering courage: a hero from a legend, even without silvery armor or an ancestry of honor.
Drawn like a lodestone to his steadfastness, she could not help but follow him. Earlier, while they had walked together, she mused that perhaps she sought her own inner strength through touching his; surely being with Thorne had made her stronger.
Turning around in the shaded grove, she saw him watching her. “ ’Tis a beautiful place,” she said. “I have never seen lilies grow quite as they do here.”
He stepped toward her. “The lilies have grown wild here as long as anyone can remember. ’Tis said that the blood of some Christian martyr was spilled in the meadow over there, and the lilies first sprung from that spot and spread, as flowers do.”
Though it was still early morning, the day was warming quickly. She reached up to remove her heavy cloak. “We are close to the river here, are we not?” she asked.
“ ’Tis another two or three miles to the river, where we can hire a boat to take us to the abbey.”
She glanced up. “We still journey to Wistonbury?”
“Aye, my lady.” He placed his hands on her slender shoulders and looked down into her eyes. A curious, wonderful warmth began where his fingers touched her, and spread, tingling, throughout her body. “Our vows will ensure your safety should Whitehawke try to claim you. But you must stay with your uncle until the king has signed the new laws, at least. And I must go away, for a little while.”
“But—what of us?” She frowned up at him. She had assumed that they would stay together, once bound by vows.
“We will be married, and none can put that asunder,” he said. “But for a brief time, we must be apart.” He lifted a silky tendril of hair away from her brow. “Trust me to come for you.”
“Trust you,” she repeated quietly. His eyes were the greenish-gray of stones in a streambed, his lashes thick black lace. “I trust you well.”
“Aye.” He bent down to kiss her lips, a soft, dry, pulling kiss, his beard tickling her cheeks. She leaned into the kiss, but he broke away. “Come. We have a vow to make,” he said.
“Wait,” she said. “I would prepare myself for my wedding.”
“As you will. But hurry. We should not linger overlong.” He walked through the screen of trees to the outer meadow.
Rummaging in her pack, she found her ivory comb and sat down by the edge of the stream to comb the stubborn tangles from her hair, and in a few minutes the shining soft mass swayed in delicate ripples to her hips. Then she took the fine blue silk gown from her satchel, slipped out of the gray wool gown that she wore, and laced the rumpled blue silk over her chemise.
Picking several lilies, she worked quickly to weave the stems into a chaplet for her hair. “I am ready,” she called out, setting the flowered wreath on her head and standing by the edge of the little stream.
Watching Thorne walk quickly across the flower-strewn grass, Emlyn admired the graceful lope of his stride and the lean, muscular length of his body. He paused before her and slanted one black eyebrow, his eyes moving slowly up and down. She reached a hand shyly to her chaplet.
“Your beauty suits this heavenly place,” he said.
Emlyn smiled up at him, feeling, for an instant, like one of the lilies opening up to the morning light.
“I have something for you,” he said, holding out his hand.
In his palm lay a small ring of dark, dull metal. “A ring is appropriate, and will mark well our pledge. I pulled it off my hauberk and opened it to fit,” he explained, “if you will have it, my lady, for I have none else to give you now.”
“Aye,” Emlyn breathed, “I will have it.”
They moved toward the little spring that trickled from the rock, near the rectangular white menhir that slanted into the brook. “This place was once an ancient sanctuary,” he told her. “See, there, the fallen altar stone by the spring. These waters are said to have sacred healing powers.”
On an ivy-covered ledge beside the rock, small crudely carved statuettes of faded, cracked wood perched beside a few polished stones. “Those offerings were left long ago for some god or goddess of the forest,” he said.
Emlyn dropped to her knees by the fallen stone and traced a fingertip along the faded runic designs of engraved spirals and crosses. She looked up and pointed beyond the tilted face of the stone. “Look there. A hawthorn tree, and next to it an oak tree—the oak, the thorn, the stone, the water, all come together here in this place. There was strong druidic magic here once.”
“And still may be,” he murmured. “Ancient druid magic was just a way to worship God, though the Church understands it not.”
Emlyn looked at him in surprise. “You know of such things?”
“Some. The people of the dale often live by both Christian and pagan beliefs. Maisry surely does. The old ideas are harmless enough, and speak of the goodness of God’s earth.”
She nodded. “ ’Tis a blessing when people can both worship the Lord and love the ancient bounty of the earth, and see God in all of it.”
Thorne knelt to face her by the ancient altar stone. “We make our bond in a holy place, then.”
He captured her hands and wrapped his long fingers, warm and dry and strong, around hers. “Emlyn, I take you for my wife in God’s eyes, forever. I pledge you love and protection, as my helpmate, for always.”
Emlyn’s blue eyes were caught in the depths of his mossy gaze. Words formed on her lips as if she knew exactly what to say. “I pledge unto you, Thorne, and I take you for my husband before the holy witness of God, his saints and his angels. I promise to love and care for you always.”
“Our vow is sealed by this ring.” He slipped the circlet onto her finger. “May our union be strong as this steel.”
“And as continuous as the circle,” she murmured. He lowered his head, and Emlyn leaned forward. Their lips lingered, warm and pliant, and he embraced her for a long, silent moment. “What offering shall we leave here?” he asked against her hair. “We will need the benisons of the forest gods as well as the saints, for what we have done this day.” She glanced quickly at him, and he lifted the lily wreath from her head. “Ah, this will do for our wedding token.”
He stepped away to set the flowers on the rocky shelf by the trickling spring, and came back to sit beside her at the edge of the stream.
“Take off your shoes,” he said. He began to unlace the thongs that held his high boots snug against his legs.
“What?”
“Remove your shoes, and your hosen as well,” he said, casting aside his own boots. Dipping his bare feet into the stream, he wiggled his toes, splashing a little as he waited.
Puzzled, she sat down and slowly did as he asked.
He splashed water at her, sprinkling her face and gown. Wrinkling her nose, she edged her feet into the shallow flow.
“It does feel nice,” she admitted.
“Now come here and we will consummate the marriage.”
“Thorne!” She stared, amazed at his callowness.
He smiled, a slight lift of the corner of his mouth, and held up his foot. “Here. Touch your foot to mine—just so—ahh, ’tis a tiny foot, lady wife, and so soft.” He pressed his much longer sole against hers.
“There,” he said, pushing a little harder, until she pushed back. He drew his foot slowly away, a caressing trace of his toes down her sole that sent deep shivers through her. “I suppose t
hat will do it,” he said.
“Do what?” She lowered her foot back into the stream.
“ ’Tis a way of sealing a marriage—the touching of bare feet serves as a consummation. Usually ’tis used in proxy marriages, when distance interferes with the wedding. But will do for us. We must leave and travel fast.” Pulling his feet up out of the water, he wiped them with his hands.
“Oh,” Emlyn said. She looked up. “Thorne.”
“Aye?”
She held up her other foot. “Here, seal this one as well.”
He laughed, then reached over and pulled her toward him by the shoulders until she leaned against his chest. “Mayhap we can linger in our wedding chapel for a few moments,” he murmured, and lowered his face to hers, his beard gently grazing her chin and cheeks until his lips found hers.
Wrapped in his embrace, Emlyn returned the kiss. Her heart set up a rapid beat, and an inner coil turned slowly in her body, a strange, hot, melting blend of apprehension and joy. She felt again that deep, powerful current whenever, wherever he touched her. Each time she felt his touch, heard his voice, the pull she felt between them was stronger, more poignant, more certain.
She remembered that Tibbie had once haltingly explained to her the duties of a wife in the marriage bed, although at the time Emlyn had not understood how such an act could be pleasurable, or how it could inspire the poems and songs of troubadours. Tibbie had said, cheeks blushing fiercely, that the act was tender and joyful, and that a woman’s urges were as hearty and healthy as a man’s.
Last night, caught in his arms in the little cave, Emlyn had felt the vibrant, irresistible power of those urges. She tilted her head back, craving the return of those sensations, wanting the gentle flame of his touch so much at this moment that her body seemed to fill with limpid warmth at the very anticipation.
He traced soft kisses, tiny warm brushing contacts, down her neck to the flushed skin just above the rounded neck of her gown, and gently rolled her to the ground, where the cool, fragrant grass cushioned them. His long fingers, still damp from the stream, traced a feathery touch along her jaw and down her neck. She closed her eyes, sighing as he kissed her cheek, her ear, her jaw, then lifted her jaw to let his lips brush lower until he teased at the neck of her gown.
Loosening the ribbons of her chemise and silk gown, he dipped his fingers inside, sending her heartbeat into a deeper, stronger rhythm. As the garments slipped from her shoulders, his fingers found and explored the delicate, supple weight of her breasts, and his tongue, following, coaxed lightning shivers from her and sent them streaming down her body. Gasping softly, arching, she ran her hands through his long waving hair, her fingers seeking, flexing, pleading as he touched her. She felt as if she spun in a slow spiral, her breath and body entwining with his.
Thorne, she thought suddenly, fervently, I have loved you for years; but somehow she felt too shy to say it aloud, for the knowledge was too new, too precious. As he touched her, the hot, tingling glow that had already begun in her center spread outward in heated layers, in rippling, kindled waves, as if her soul rose up, beckoned by his touch.
He sighed and kissed her again and again, deep and deeper, his hands skimming over layers of silk, lifting them away. His fingers explored the lean length of her bare legs, drawing out the moment until he touched the nested threshold that he sought. As the small, fervent throb began to flicker under his coaxing fingers, she moaned softly against his lips.
Tugging at his tunic, suddenly yearning to feel his bare skin on hers, she shoved at his clothing until his torso pressed, hot and firmly muscled, against her cool skin. A vast relief washed through her, utter bliss at the feel of his body along the length of hers, solid, comforting and wholly pleasuring, each curve, each plane of her body melding to his.
He inhaled sharply when her stroking fingers drifted down along his left thigh. Taking her fingers, he lifted and kissed them, and then hastened to cover her questioning lips with his.
His hands slid down her back and slipped beneath her hips, and he drew her forward urgently, guiding her until she opened for him, lush channel yielding to silken core, cushioning his potent shuddering heat. Sighing, he buried his face in the soft curtain of her hair, where its satiny mass feathered over her shoulder. When his lips brushed her mouth, she opened there for him as tenderly as she welcomed his body into hers.
He urged her to move with him, an easy, supple rhythm at first, but the heated motion soon deepened and grew as the ember created between them became a firebrand, fervently ignited and eagerly tended. When his thrusts overtook the pace, when his breath quickened on her own, the simmering inner coil that had been spinning and pulsing inside her burst into a wild fire.
She surged with him in pursuit of a swirling, enticing vortex only glimpsed before. Meeting her, spinning through her like white flame, it whirled her awareness away. She grasped his shoulders, seeking the firm anchor of his presence, his strength.
Sweat-misted, he leaned his head to hers and exhaled, kissing her gently. She tilted her head and looked into his beautiful, kind, mossy-colored eyes, bright in the dappled light. Smiling, she reached up to push away an errant lock of his long hair.
Echoing his soft, breathy laughter, a ripple of pure love sang through her, like a cleansing wind after a storm. She had almost forgotten where she was, who she was. Until he frowned.
He angled his head, listening, looking away.
With a low curse, he slid from her, drawing the smooth silk down her legs. “Dear God. A fool’s paradise, this,” he murmured.
“What?” She could not seem to clear her thoughts.
He sat up with a heavy sigh. Adjusting his clothing, he reached for his boots. “Look, beyond the glade there. Birds. A whole flock, driven out of the woods to the west. Riders come through there, my love.” He tossed her shoes and hosen to her. “We have miles to cover, and little time to get away.”
Emlyn sighed, too, in gusty impatience at having their idyllic moments spoiled yet again. While he gathered their cloaks and his bow and quiver, she scuttled to the edge of the little stream and cleansed herself with cooling water before pulling on her hose, securing them with wide garter bands of embroidered silk around her thighs. Shoving on her shoes, she stood, wobbling, her legs unsteady beneath her.
Thorne moved to stand behind her, settling her cloak gently around her shoulders. His hands lingered at her neck, and he traced a finger around the shell of her ear and the line of her jaw. With his forearm he pulled her back to rest against his chest, laying his cheek on her hair.
“We will have our proper bedding, my lady wife, with none to hurry us through it,” he murmured. He kissed her temple, a soft promise in his lips. “But for now, our marriage is made and cannot be put asunder.”
Chapter Thirteen
A faint jingle, like tiny flat-toned bells, resounded beneath high gray stone walls. Emlyn peered warily from under her wide linen wimple, tucking her chin down as she sat on the bench next to Godwin. The soft murmurings of serving people attending to various tasks in the great hall continued. Hearing the jingle again, she recognized the sound of keys and looked up.
In spite of vaulted ceilings and lofty, elegant proportions, Hawksmoor’s great hall seemed as cozy as a smaller room, filled with sunlight, embroidered hangings, petal-strewn rushes, and the warm gleam of polished oak tables and high-backed chairs.
Light poured from a row of tall, round-arched windows, spilling mullioned amber bars across the rushes on the planked floor. A huge fireplace with a high projecting stone hood dominated the far end of the hall, a roaring fire in its depth.
The jingling was louder now. Emlyn glanced toward the hearth end of the room. A woman entered through a side door. a heavy ring of keys jangling at her slim waist. Gliding to a chair near the fireplace, she sat, arranged her black skirts, and inclined her head toward the steward who had followed her.
“Lady Julian de Gantrou, the baron’s aunt,” Godwin murmured. Emlyn glanced up at h
er uncle, who leaned sideways toward her.
“Julian de Gantrou?”
“A countess, the widow of Earl John de Gantrou. Her sister was the baron’s mother. I have seen Lady Julian betimes at the abbey, when she has visited Abbot John.” Godwin rubbed his long chin thoughtfully, scratching at gray and white stubble. “The gateman said the Baron de Hawkwood would be away for some time. His lady aunt must be tending to matters in his absence. We shall have to present our request to her.”
Emlyn nodded nervously, twisting her fingers in the ends of the black woolen cord that served as her belt. A little ivory crucifix swung from one looped end of the cord.
“Becalm yourself, and stay your hands. You are skittish as a squirrel,” he said softly.
“Brother Godwin of Wistonbury,” the steward called.
Godwin stood, a folded letter in his hand, and crossed the room, his black-cowled white tunic swaying with his lanky walk, his sandaled feet quiet on the rushes. Sunbeams careened off the top of his pink scalp and the fuzzy aureole of graying blond hair, and highlighted his keen blue eyes.
“God give you good day, Brother Godwin,” Lady Julian said as he approached. She tilted her thin oval face. “Have we met?”
“Aye, my lady, in the scriptorium at Wistonbury.”
“Ah, you are the painter! I purchased one of your shop’s manuscripts for my daughter. Beautiful work. Welcome, Brother, to Hawksmoor. What brings you here?”
“My niece and I bring a letter from Abbot John,” he said.
Lady Julian squinted the length of the room, where Emlyn sat demurely on the bench. “Your niece is a nun?” she asked.
Godwin cleared his throat. “Ah, er, aye.”
“Come forward, Dame,” she called, motioning Emlyn to the table, then gestured to a servant. A silver jug and goblets were brought by a woman who had been stoking the hearth fire.
