Fire Song

by Roberta Gellis

  Now, of course, Aubery felt very silly, but also uncertain. Although nothing could have been more tender than Fenice’s touch as she washed his injury, her face did not betray her feelings. Nor did she neglect any other measure for his comfort, rubbing a pest-killing ointment into his hair before she began bathing him, and washing it out in a separate bowl. However, there were more subtle ways to display displeasure than overt rebellion, and if his wife chose to use a sly device, his difficulty in correcting her would be increased.

  Fenice would have been astounded had she been able to guess her husband’s thoughts. Anger and spite were no part of her nature. Behind her expressionless face, she was contemplating no more drastic measure than how to explain that it was dangerous to hide injuries from her, that if weeping or sympathy were displeasing to him, she would conceal them. But she found no opening for any explanation and was distracted by the pleasure of handling her husband’s body and by the task of fine-combing the lice from his hair.

  Between his abstraction and hers, they had not said a word to each other after the exchange that had set their minds on separate tracks. The servants had emptied and removed the tub before Fenice was satisfied that Aubery’s hair was clean. Then she said softly, still without perceivable expression, that he could get into bed.

  “And what will you do?” he asked quietly, more convinced than ever that Fenice’s reserve concealed resentment but less sure how she would express it.

  Fenice blinked. The answer to Aubery’s question was so obvious that she could not conceive why he asked it, but it was not her place to point that out, so she said, “I will take your clothing to the maids for washing and return the salve and comb.”

  That was not what Aubery meant, of course, but he was not able to think of a way to make himself clear and, to his mind, at least, not to look a fool before Fenice went out again. He waited impatiently for her to return so that the few minutes she was away seemed much longer, and he was contemplating going after her, except that he knew he would appear ridiculous. It did not improve his opinion of himself, and thus exacerbated his temper still further, when she reentered the room, snuffed all the candles except the night light, and immediately began to undress.

  There was only one way now Aubery could conceive of resentment being expressed, and he waited with a kind of cynical amusement for one of the excuses with which he was so familiar. But Fenice did not speak, nor did she get into bed on her side. Instead, she came around, leaned over, and kissed him, running her hand down the good side of his body and between his legs. Instantly all Aubery’s doubts and suppositions were wiped out in an explosion of desire. It was as if his passion had been hidden under a mask, growing greater and greater in that concealment until the delicate scratch of Fenice’s elegant nails tore the false skin, and the violence beneath it gushed out.

  He seized her and tried to pull her onto the bed so he could mount her, but she resisted, whispering, “Wait, you will hurt yourself. Let me come over you.”

  The words meant nothing to Aubery. He was so aroused that he had forgotten his bad arm. However, he had not forgotten anything connected with his intense physical need, and he well knew that Fenice’s suggestions always produced thrilling results. He relaxed his grip on her a trifle, allowing her to pull back the blanket he had forgotten—which would have frustrated his attempt to take her, and slide herself atop him. He started to lean left, expecting her to roll off, and gasped with pain as his weight came onto his bruised shoulder.

  The shock made him fall back and hesitate just long enough for Fenice to come upright, straddle him, rise up on her knees, and impale herself. Aubery gasped. Fenice lifted and slid down again. He stared up at her, at the closed eyes, the slightly parted lips, all colorless in the dim light of the night candle. The rapt expression, a mask of ecstasy, intensified the pleasure her movement gave him. His eyes slid down to the full breasts, swinging very slightly with her motion, where the upright nipples were dark in contrast to the creamy skin, and down again over her belly until he saw his own shaft appear and disappear.

  Seeing the source of his sensations brought a pleasure so exquisite, an excitement so intense, as to be nearly unbearable. Aubery shook with the need for fulfillment which struggled with the frantic desire to prolong this joy. Violence roiled in him, a desire to strike, to bite, but he was paralyzed by the intensity of his reaction. He could not move nor cry out. If he drew breath, he was unaware of it. The torment of pleasure seemed eternal, wave after wave reflecting from his groin to his eyes and back again, until Fenice fell forward, squirming and heaving and crying, “Come, my love, come.”

  Whether it was her words or the change in movement or the shutting off of the vision, Aubery was released. He closed his eyes at last as a pulse of ecstatic agony racked him, only to be followed by a still greater one. Aubery groaned as if he were being torn apart, his body convulsed with his giving. So fierce was his response that his very life seemed drained out in the spilling of his seed.

  Fenice was quite unaware of the violent reaction she had induced. Her eyes had closed as soon as she satisfied her need to be filled, so she had never seen her husband’s face. She was a trifle surprised when he did not take advantage of her position to handle her body more freely than was possible for him when he mounted her and needed his arms to support him, but she connected that with his absolute stillness beneath her. When Delmar wished to delay his climax, he would lie still, looking off into the distance and thinking of other things.

  Although Aubery had never done so before, an explanation was not hard to find. Fenice knew she was more eager than she had been since their wedding night. This had not been so long a starvation, but it was harder for a man than for a woman, she knew. It was not surprising that Aubery might need to employ various devices to delay his own satisfaction so that she might reach hers. Fenice was grateful and hurried to her own conclusion as fast as she could to reduce the strain on her husband.

  It was not until she was satisfied and lay resting, savoring the warm, powerful body beneath hers, that it occurred to Fenice that Aubery’s need to distract himself so as not to be too quick for her had a most delightful implication. If he were as eager as she, or more so, as was normal for a man, did that not mean that he had been as celibate as she? Men varied widely in their practices, she knew. Her grandfather had many women—fewer now that he was older, of course—but gave all his respect and his tenderness to his wife. The women were nothing, an outlet for a physical need her grandmother did not share. On the other hand, her father took no other woman—at least, not in any place where his wife might hear of it. Perhaps on a long campaign he was not perfectly faultless, Lady Alys had admitted to Fenice with a shrug, but he was a man, not a saint.

  Fenice had not previously thought about how Aubery might behave. She had been very hurt when she discovered that Delmar had taken one of the maids in Trets, but he had told her it was none of her business as long as he withheld nothing from her, and it was true that he had been as active and loving that day and night as any other. Still… Fenice lifted her head and looked down at Aubery’s face with her heart in her eyes, then touched his lips with her own as gently as a whisper, but he did not respond in any way.

  It was somewhat disturbing that he did not open his eyes or seem to notice when she finally lifted herself away from his body. Although not talkative during the act of love, Aubery often would talk afterward, oddly enough, of common things, almost as if he wished to forget or cover over their pleasure in each other. But that thought was silly, and Fenice put it away as she had done several times before, realizing that it had come to mind this time because she was concerned by Aubery’s stillness. She feared he was in pain but was afraid to ask.

  “My lord,” she whispered, but he only turned his head slightly away.

  Fenice had to accept that, but she was worried as she pulled the bedcurtains closed and settled down to sleep. This bruise was nothing, it would heal by itself although she could have eased his dis
comfort with warm and cold applications. But there had to be some way for her to explain that he must tell her if he were ill or hurt so that she could help him or seek more experienced help for him. A tremor of panic ran through her at the thought that Aubery might conceal a dangerous sickness or injury and die of it. No! This explanation could not be left to chance. She would have to ask Lady Alys to help her.

  Although Fenice drifted off to sleep as soon as she decided to transfer her problem to a wiser head, Aubery had no such easy pacifier. Everything that had happened had shocked and appalled him. The disclosure of the violence of his own craving and the way he had hidden it from himself was bad enough, but the exposure of Fenice’s true nature was unbearable. Aubery was so horrified that he could not weep. Her lust was so powerful that it made naught of the anger she had felt when he spoke sharply to her. She had not refused him, instead she had used him like…like some kind of inanimate instrument to satisfy herself.

  Contradictory memories stirred dimly. That featherlight kiss had nothing of lust in it, and further back the music of her voice saying, “You will hurt yourself.” But those memories made little headway against the image that filled the forefront of Aubery’s mind of Fenice’s beautiful body rising and falling above him. It would not have been so bad could he have felt disgust or indifference, but his body was already responding to that image, eager to renew sensations it craved. He fought the desire, a task made no easier by the acute awareness of Fenice’s presence generated by her even breathing and the dip in the mattress that seemed to tilt him toward her.

  Aubery was very strong. Despite the long, tiring ride from La Réole and the fatigue of his sexual outpouring, it was hours before exhaustion overcame his desire and he was able to sleep. Naturally, once it came, his sleep was very deep. He was not wakened when Fenice left their bed, nor did he stir later when Alys came in, alarmed by Fenice’s fear, to listen to his breathing and touch his forehead gently with her hand.

  “No, there is nothing wrong with him,” she said to Fenice outside the room. “He is only sleeping soundly. His breathing is fine, and he has no fever. You may be right, though, that he was in pain last night. Perhaps he could not sleep at once.”

  “Should I have asked?” Fenice’s eyes were full of anxiety. “He told me not to trouble him, so I did not. I knew there could be no real harm in this bruise. But if…”

  Alys shook her head. “If he was out of temper, which the pain might cause, he would only have beaten you.”

  “I do not care for that,” Fenice said, “if he would then have let me ease him.”

  Alys made a small sound of irritation. She accepted the right of a husband to chastise a wife for a fault, but she did not approve at all of Fenice’s willingness to allow Aubery to beat her to soothe an irritation she had not caused. In addition, she did not think it would work with Aubery, who had always been gentle with women because of his fondness for his mother. However, men did need to work off their tempers.

  “Then you are a fool,” Alys remarked tartly, “for Aubery is a kind man at heart. If he had struck you, he would have felt worse rather than better, ashamed for responding with a blow to an offer of help. Not that I think it wrong to provoke your husband into a quarrel so that he can spit out any bitter bile he has swallowed through the ill acts of fate or other men. That is good, and you would be at fault to withhold from him that relief. I have told you some thousands of times that too much meekness is as great a failing in a wife as shrewishness.”

  “I could have stood out of reach,” Fenice said, half jesting but still seeking a method to deal with the problem.

  Alys smiled, and said absently, as if she were considering something more important, “Yes, for a needful quarrel that is wise,” then after a brief hesitation she went on, “but this is different anyway, I think. I have never known Aubery’s temper to be overset by a little pain. I believe he expected you to act like that silly bird wit Matilda. She was just the kind to weep and wail and wring her hands and shriek that she could not look at such a hurt because it made her sick.”

  “I tried to tell him—”

  “No,” Alys interrupted, her voice sharp. “Never say anything to Aubery about his first wife.” Her lips tightened, and she looked away, past her stepdaughter. “Let me deal with this. In a way, it has nothing to do with you.”

  Fenice did not reply. She had never intended to speak ill of Aubery’s dead wife, although she had heard nothing much good of Matilda. Actually, until this moment she had hardly given Matilda a thought, having assumed from the way Lady Alys and her father spoke of her that Aubery had been married to her for her estate, perhaps without much liking on either side. But Lady Alys’s sharp warning implied that Aubery had felt strongly about Matilda, perhaps he had loved her deeply despite all her silliness.

  Suddenly Fenice remembered the odd looks her husband sometimes gave her after coupling and that he had never used a love-word to her, even at the climax of his pleasure. Fury seized her, an anger greater than any she had felt before in her whole gentle life. If Matilda had been alive and near, Fenice would have pulled out her hair and scratched out her eyes. The knowledge that the woman was dead and beyond reach only infuriated Fenice more. She did not wish to share her husband with anyone, but how could she wrest him from a wraith?

  “I think I will ride out to the shepherd’s cottage and tell him to bring in as young a lamb as can be had in this season,” Fenice said. She thought her voice sounded strange, but although Lady Alys looked at her briefly, she made no comment.

  “Yes, do that,” Alys agreed with relief. “We will need more than hung beef with your papa and Aubery at home.”

  Alys had noticed that some strong emotion had gripped Fenice, but she thought it a spate of nervousness at the idea of being involved in a discussion her husband had forbidden. Actually, she had been wondering how to get Fenice out of the place because Raymond was out in the horse pasture looking over his stock and this was an ideal time to have a talk with Aubery. He had seemed less irritable after he and Fenice had been married, but his behavior was not normal. If he was still grieving over that brainless doll he had married, Alys intended to warn him that Fenice must not be hurt because of a woman dead and buried.

  Fortunately, she did not need to wake him. Although he had slept through her first entrance, her second was deliberately less noiseless, and a maid carrying water for washing came with her. Alys heard the bed leathers creak and told the maid to set down the water and bowl and go. Aubery pulled back the curtain and awkwardly heaved himself more upright, scowling when he saw her.

  “You are late abed,” Alys said. “I suppose you slept ill. Well, you deserve it for being a fool.”

  “That is a strange greeting,” Aubery growled, his voice thick with rage. He had thought, of course, that it was Fenice who had come in, and his mind had instantly produced the same sensual image that had kept him so long from sleeping. His immediate reaction had made him furious, particularly as Alys’s presence indicated to him that Fenice was not only still angry but had complained to her stepmother.

  Alys shrugged, aware that she had not been wise. “You are the brother of my heart,” she said more gently, coming to stand beside the bed, “and we know each other too long and too well for me to mince words. Perhaps I should have asked why first, but it irked me that you could confuse a girl of my training with Matilda. Fenice—”

  “Do not mention Matilda to me in the same breath with that whore to whom you bound me,” Aubery roared, driven by his guilt over preferring Fenice to Matilda, whose death he could not regret, to say more than he meant.

  Alys was not often reduced to speechlessness, but now she stood, eyes and mouth both agape with surprise.

  “How dare you call me brother,” he shouted, “and use me to rid yourself of a creature whose name no doubt was so befouled in her own country that you could not find a mate for her.”

  “Who?” Alys gasped. “Fenice? My Fenice? Why? Why should you say such a t
hing?”

  Enraged beyond restraint, Aubery told her, in detail. Alys’s eyes grew rounder and rounder, and her face turned red as fire. As he saw what he believed to be shock and embarrassment, Aubery’s angry voice faltered. He had accused Alys in the heat of his rage, but he had never really believed she would knowingly do anything to hurt him. They had loved each other as sister and brother from childhood. Because they were much alike in spirit, they had always had their battles, but each had been quick to defend the other against the rest of the world.

  There was a brief silence while Aubery regretted what he had said and Alys visibly struggled with some violent emotion. Oddly, now that Aubery was sure Alys had been unaware of her stepdaughter’s nature, what he regretted most bitterly was his betrayal of Fenice. Assuming that Alys’s suffused face indicated rage as well as shock, Aubery took breath to tell her that he had spoken in confidence and she should leave control of Fenice to him. However, before he could speak, Alys lost the struggle with herself and burst out laughing.

  “Who could believe it?” she whooped. “How can you be so much an innocent at your age? Did you never stray from that bucket of cold water you married?”

  It was fortunate that Alys had staggered back a few steps in her paroxysm of laughter. She was just out of reach of the blow Aubery launched and of his grab at her. Also fortunate was the fact that he was tangled in the bedclothes and, since he had struck out with his right and grabbed with his left hand, the shock of pain caused by his movement inhibited his ability to free himself. By then, Alys was bitterly sorry for what she had said. No man deserved such a blow to his pride, more particularly if his honor made him faithful to a cold, stupid wife.