“What about the children?” Roderic watched the sunlight fall full across old Ben’s seamed face.
“They know, children do. The children all love the Lady Annandale. You’ve been so busy, Lord Prince, you don’t see. But the children have a sense about right and wrong, and there’s no more evil in the Lady Annandale than there was in her mother.” Ben held out two tunics. “Which would you prefer, Lord Prince? The green or the blue?”
Roderic ignored the question. He stared out the window, beyond the room. From his place by the door, he could not see the herb garden laid out in precise squares of sage and basil and rosemary and thyme, but the sultry air was heavy with the scent of the heat-drenched herbs. He fancied he could hear the buzzing of the bees in the tall stalks of lavender. He kept his eyes fixed on the blue sky. “What would you say, Ben, if I told you my father wanted me to marry her?”
“I’d say he was a wise King, Lord Prince.” The old man placed the blue tunic on the bed beside the underlinen and shook out a pair of clean trousers. “This belt, Lord Prince?”
Roderic smiled. “Then what would you say if I said I was going to do as he wished, Ben? If I said I was going to make the lady my wife?”
Ben paused in humming a little tuneless song. “Then, Lord Prince, I’d say you’d chose well.”
Chapter Twenty
Tober, 75th Year in the Reign of the Ridenau Kings (2747 Muten Old Calendar)
Steam drifted from the surface of the bath, sweetly scented with the essences of roses and lilies. Annandale leaned against the high back of the porcelain tub, listening to the excited chatter of the women in the dressing room, Tavia’s laughter ringing out over Jaboa’s gentle murmur. Her dark hair had been washed hours ago and now was piled on top of her head in a careless knot. Little tendrils trailed over her shoulders and floated in the water. The wedding was less than one hour away.
The candles threw huge shadows on the tiled walls of the bathroom, and on a wooden stand in the corner, the dark blue silk of her wedding dress shimmered. It was the most beautiful gown she had ever owned. Its simple, careful cut clung to the lines of her body, yet it was completely plain, without embroidery or any other adornment. A cool breeze blew from the partially opened window, and she shivered as the air touched the back of her neck. She crouched lower in the water and wondered if it were only the autumn chill which made her shiver.
In the six weeks since the day she had healed Roderic and revealed her secret, she had not been alone with him once. Since the court had returned to Ahga, she had not seen him at all, even at dinner. But always, since his healing, guards were present, four of them, following her from place to place, even posted outside the room in which she slept. She might have thought herself a prisoner, but her movements were in no way restricted, and they treated her with utmost deference and unfailing courtesy. She had realized that this was Roderic’s first attempt to protect her from a harm he did not yet understand.
She shut her eyes, remembering how she had cradled his head when he had lain unconscious in her arms. She had sensed the uncertainty born of his youth, his fear of the threat posed by Amanander, the awful weight of the responsibility the King had bequeathed him. His doubts were an attempt at self-preservation. If only she could break through those defenses.
She remembered how smooth his hair was, how it had fallen across his brow so that he looked more like a child asleep than a man injured. She remembered the weight of his body in her arms, the implicit strength in the long muscled limbs, and not for the first time wondered how it would feel to have his body pressed against her. “Are we born for each other, lady?” he had asked her. If only he knew just how true that was. She closed her eyes and sank down deeper in the tub, the water up to her chin, praying to whatever gods existed that their will might include some happiness for them both.
A discreet tap on the door roused her. “Annandale?” Tavia’s voice was muffled through the thick door. “It’s time— the Bishop’s here—we must dress you.”
Quickly, easily, the women got her dried and dressed, unpinning her hair and letting it fall in a dark cloud across her shoulders and down her back. “You’ve chosen well, child.” Jaboa smoothed the creases from the dark blue silk where it fell in shimmering folds from Annandale’s hips to puddle on the floor.
The door opened with a slam, and Peregrine peered into the room, her hair covered with a filmy coif of sheerest linen, the keys of the household jangling in a heavy mass on her belt. “The Bishop’s waiting. Is everything ready for her?”
Tavia and Jaboa exchanged another glance and Annandale nodded, hoping her face reflected a composure she did not feel. Nervousness dampened her hands and she clenched them tightly into fists, not wanting to stain the silk gown. “Yes, thank you, lady.” Her throat was dry, her voice a whisper.
Peregrine neither answered nor looked at Annandale. She pushed the door open farther and stepped out of the way, tugging her skirts aside with a gesture which might have been a curtsy.
Tavia offered her a reassuring smile. But there was no more time for reassurances, for the Bishop of Ahga lumbered into the room, her heavy scarlet cloak flapping off her bony frame like broken wings. She paused just inside the doorway, blinking as though the light blinded her. “The bride is ready?”
Her voice was hoarse and weary with age. Annandale stared, amazed. This was the woman who’d ordered her mother burnt as a witch—not once, but twice? Who’d dared to defy the King himself in his own city? Whose enmity was the reason the King had built the fortress of Minnis Saul?
The Bishop’s face was webbed with wrinkles, her brow so deeply furrowed the lines might have been etched by a chisel. “The bride,” she repeated.
“I’m here,” answered Annandale. She faced the Bishop across the room, as compassion for this aged wreck of a woman who shuffled across the floor with bent back, a battered leather case clutched in one age-spotted hand, replaced her apprehension at meeting this old enemy of her mother’s. Annandale stretched out her hand, instinctively responding to the woman’s acute loneliness running like a river through a deep channel, carving the striated rock bare and vulnerable.
The old woman paused a few feet from Annandale, her eyes narrow slits, and on her craggy face, Annandale recognized a ruthless, relentless pride. This woman would never bend, never yield. She held to her stubborn belief in an outdated creed with all the tenacity of a tree which clung by bare roots to the rock which ensured its death. Annandale dropped her hand and curtseyed, bending her head submissively. The Bishop might lack the spirit for another challenge to the temporal power of the Ridenaus, but there was no forgiveness in her. Briefly, Annandale wondered if there ever had been.
The Bishop coughed, clearing her throat, and the women all jumped. She fumbled with the worn clasp of her case and reached inside, withdrawing several yellow sheets of brittle paper. It was ancient, rare, and precious. Her mother had described it often enough. The print predated the Persecutions and Armageddon. The edges of the paper were ragged and torn, and even as they all watched, the ancient scripture crumbled between the Bishop’s fingers into dusty flakes which scattered in a random swirl upon the floor. Jaboa and Tavia gasped, both reaching in a futile attempt to catch the paper as it fell.
The Bishop had not taken her eyes off Annandale’s face. In the craggy hollows of her face, intractability carved the map of some deep and secret pain. The Bishop’s faith had betrayed her, offering an empty hope and an incomprehensible promise. The ache which ate upon the Bishop was her own empty heart, feeding upon itself. Soon it would be gone.
“Girl,” the Bishop rasped. She made a brief gesture with her hand which might have been a blessing.
“Lady Bishop,” gasped Tavia, from her knees, her hands full of the dusty scraps, “the scripture—“
“It doesn’t matter. Do you think I don’t know the words?” the Bishop muttered. “I know the words. Come.” She swept a glance over Annandale and paused. “Do I know you, girl? Your face … it seem
s I ought to know you,” she muttered, more to herself than to the women in the room. “Well. No matter. I know the words. Come.” The Bishop turned, the hem of her heavy scarlet cloak sweeping the fragments of the scripture into a swirl of dust. Silently, Annandale followed, her heart aching with the Bishop’s grief.
* * *
On the dais, Roderic fiddled with the gold buckle on his belt and fingered the design on the scabbard of his dagger. Phineas lay on his litter, his lids closed over his sightless eyes, his hands clasped loosely across his chest. He might have been sleeping, but the faint smile which lifted the corners of his mouth betrayed him. Roderic knew Phineas wouldn’t smile if he knew what Roderic was thinking, that he would marry this woman, this girl, this—this witch, his mind whispered. He would do as Abelard had wished, but he couldn’t stop thinking of her as something not quite human.
Out of the corner of his eye, Roderic caught sight of Peregrine, her belt heavy with the keys bright against the background of her drab green gown. With a quick pattering of steps, punctuated by the clink of metal against metal, she marched to the dais to take her place. Her lips were pinched, her face was pale, and he realized that she had lost weight in the last months. Something like regret slung him, that she should suffer on his account. I made her no promises, he thought, and instantly knew he was wrong. Peregrine’s pinched face was like a ghost’s, haunting his waking moments.
Then he forgot about Peregrine, for the trumpets blared from the musician’s mezzanine, and Brand, dressed in the full regalia of his rank, escorted Annandale to the dais.
Most of the ceremony was a blur in Roderic’s mind, but he noticed that Annandale wore a gown of dark blue silk which finally did her beauty justice. Her hair was long and unbound and fell in dark waves below her shoulders. The only ornaments she wore were the rings which had been the Queen’s— one of sapphire and one of pearl. He stood before the entire household, with her by his side, and took her hand. The pressure of her palm sent a reverberation like the beating of a muffled drum through his body. He remembered the light which had flared between them when he had touched her cheek the day she had healed him, and his mind went to later, after the ceremony, when they would be alone. He had not touched her or been alone with her since that day.
In the light of the hundreds of candles throughout the hall, her face was nearly incandescent. She looked up at him and her smile made his heart falter in mid-beat. Then the Bishop was speaking the sonorous words of the wedding vows, the ancient words which bound her to him more surely than the wishes of the King. He pushed the plain gold wedding ring on her finger, the one visible link in the chain.
They did not sit long at the wedding feast. Roderic rose, after only an hour and one of the three courses, and held out his hand to Annandale. She rose obediently, and the assembly exploded in cheers and ribald shouts. She put her hand in his, trustingly, like a child. He led her through the halls and up the stairs, into the chambers which had been prepared for them. By previous arrangement, guards blocked the company from following.
The chambers were the ones which Gartred had occupied: wide, graceful rooms near the top of the eastern tower which overlooked the sea. A fire burned in the great hearth of the outer room, and the air was scented with the bridal herbs strewn among the logs. The rooms had been completely redone in the last weeks, and now blue carpets covered the wooden floors, the curtains at the windows were of fine spun white linen that reminded him of fog, and the bed hangings were soft velvet of blue and white.
Roderic left Annandale in the outer chamber with a brusque:“You may call for your women, lady.” Perhaps it had been a mistake to have nothing to do with her all these weeks. His self-control was like a brittle shell; he could feel it cracking all around him. He went to his dressing room, where his personal things had been moved that day, and stripped, leaving his clothes in a heap. He went into the bedroom, got into bed and snuffed out the candle. He did not wait long.
She entered, her bare feet making little noise on the soft carpet. She paused by the side of the bed. Roderic kept his back to her. “Come to bed, lady. It has been a long day for both of us.”
“Roderic?” She said his name hesitantly. It was the first time she had so addressed him, except for the day in the audience room and at the ceremony that evening.
“Yes?”
“Will you not look—” She stopped. Before he had a chance to react, she moved to the other side of the bed and stood beside him. The full moon shone through the window, and she was bathed in a silver aura. He could not tear his eyes away from the outline of her breasts moving beneath the thin cotton of her gown. “Do you find me so repulsive?”
He studied her for a moment, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, pressure building in his loins, and he could not deny his need any longer. He held out his hand. “No,” was all he could manage.
Roderic wrapped his arm about her waist and pulled her up beside him on the bed. She quivered as he lifted her chin with his finger. He bent his head and kissed her, for the first time, on the mouth.
No other woman had ever affected him as she did with that one kiss. When he finally lifted his head, he too trembled. “Forgive me, lady,” he whispered, for he knew he had hurt her. It was not her he wanted to reject, it was the whole unbelievable circumstances surrounding her.
She reached up and smoothed a wayward lock of hair back from his face. “I wish—” she began, and stopped, biting her lip.
“What is it?”
“I wish I could make you believe I would never do you harm.” Her eyes filled with tears, and in that instant, he felt a depth of sorrow unlike anything he had ever known. “I know you’re afraid,” she whispered. “So am I.”
A raw tide of emotion swept through him, longing and need and fear, and over and under and through it all, he felt an acceptance at once so complete and unconditional, his heart seemed to swell inside his chest. He took her face in his hands and looked her full in the eyes. “I will make you my wife—” He hesitated, searching to put into words feelings he had never known before. “By the throne of my father, I will trust you with my life.” She closed her eyes and raised her mouth to his.
He pulled the gown off her shoulders and away, until she was naked, and he saw that her body was as perfect as her face, as if drawn by some architect with steady hand and perfect rule. He cupped a hand around one breast and flicked the pink nipple gently with his thumb. She rolled so they lay facing each other beneath the sheet. She reached out, touched his face, drew the tip of one finger down his chin, to his throat, and across his chest. She drew her fingers through the hair on his chest, like a comb, and continued down. His skin flared as if each nerve had only been partially awake before her touch.
He took her hand in his, before she could continue lower; he did not trust his control. He brought his hand beneath her neck and caressed the fall of her thick, dark hair and pressed her back. He threw the pillow to one side so she lay flat beneath him, and she opened her legs and wrapped one thigh over his hip.
He began to ache with desire. He kissed both breasts and took one taut nipple in his mouth and sucked until she moaned. She spread her legs wider and the head of his throbbing penis pressed against her hot, wet flesh. Involuntarily, he thrust forward and encountered resistance. She drew her hands down his back, cupped his buttocks, and arched beneath him. He thrust again, and again encountered resistance. Through the red haze of desire, he lifted his head. She was a virgin. Of course she was. She had spent her life in near seclusion. He lifted up and away from her. “Annandale.”
She opened her eyes and smiled. “Don’t stop.” Her breathing was as ragged as his own.
“I don’t want to hurt you. This—“
“You won’t—please—“
“You don’t understand, sweet.” His body ached to the bursting point; he could not trust himself. “If we do this now, there’ll be no pleasure in it for you—here, let me have your hand.” He wrapped it around his pulsing shaft an
d guided it up and down. In only a few strokes, his breathing quickened, his body shuddered, and his seed spilled onto the sheet. He opened his eyes. “Forgive me. I’ve wanted you too long and too much—that would have happened as soon as I entered you and there’d be no release for you.”
She had not let go her hold on him. She rose up on one elbow to lean over him. “Don’t you think I have wanted you, too?”
He smiled and took her hand away. He drew her close and kissed her long and hard, and as they pressed together, he felt again the first stirrings of desire. With his immediate demand satisfied, he concentrated all his effort into pleasing her. He turned her over, holding her close within the curve of his arm. Beneath the heavy fall of her hair, he planted light, teasing kisses from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. He drew slow circles around the firm mass of her buttocks, nudged her thighs apart.
With a deep sigh, she rolled over in his embrace. Roderic raised his head, and she reached down to hold his face with trembling hands. The force of his own desire overwhelmed him—never had he wanted a woman so much, never had he wanted so much to give her pleasure. It was as if he could feel her need as his. With lips and teeth, he teased the soft skin of her inner thighs, then gently, he parted the swollen lips between her legs and tasted the faint, salt moisture of her desire. She groaned as he probed with slow, deliberate strokes. She twined her fingers in his hair and tugged.
He eased up her belly, exploring with lips and hands and tongue, and this time, when he positioned himself between her thighs, he knew he could bring her pleasure. She arched her back, offering herself, and he pressed forward gently, easing in a little more with each thrust.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It won’t matter.” She arched against him urgently, drawing him in. Her breath was hot against his ear. With one short, quick thrust, he broke the membrane and penetrated. She gripped his shoulders. Her body felt like a hot silk sheath. “All right?” he murmured against her throat.
Children of Enchantment Page 22
