Medieval Mistletoe - One Magical Christmas Season

by Laurel O'Donnell

  When Jocelyn finished his tale, he demanded she repay the favor and tell him of her life, one story in trade for another. She had protested that nothing interesting ever happened to her. When he pressed, she ended up telling him what she did during the day.

  After all the excitement he’d experienced in his life, it must have taxed him to listen to her list of chores. Still, listen he did, with far more interest than she expected. Once she fell silent, he surprised her by asking if she ever grew bored with the unchanging routine of her days. She replied with the truth, that she was never bored. Aye, her chores were repetitive, but each day she could choose what she did, whether it was spinning wool into yarn or making milk into cheese or preparing the herbs she and her mother used in their healing unguents and tinctures.

  At the end of her explanation, she’d taunted that not everyone wanted to live the way he did, on the brink of death at every instant. She had expected the jibe to win a laugh from him. Instead, he had stared at her for a long instant, his brow creased—an expression that she now knew meant he was thinking. Then their conversation veered away from their own lives to the lives and happenings of people they both knew, the usual chatter that folk shared when they came together after a long separation. Yawning, Avice finally began to relax beneath the blankets. She was just drifting back into sleep when a man’s roar of rage shattered the silence. She shrieked and flung herself up off the pallet. They were being attacked!

  The frigid air cut through her thin chemise, but fear cut deeper. Snatching up her top blanket, she threw it around her shoulders and yanked open the door.

  The hall was silent and empty. The only movement was the occasional smoky tendril escaping from beneath the clay cover on top of the hearth. Again, the man shouted, this time in pain as much as anger.

  It was Jocelyn!

  Her feet sliding on the cold tile floor, Avice flew to his bedchamber and threw open the door. The flame of his night candle bent, then flared, showing her the shadowy outline of the massive curtained bed that filled the room. She stopped a few feet inside the doorway.

  Nothing moved in here either. She released a relieved breath as she understood. Jocelyn was dreaming, and it seemed it was no idyll. But a dream was not a threat and she had no right to intrude. She took a backward step.

  From inside the closed bed curtains Jocelyn made a strangled sound. There was such grief and pain in that noise that Avice stayed where she stood, shifting from foot to foot on the cold floor. How could she leave him trapped somewhere that hurt him, even if that place was imaginary?

  “Jocelyn?” she called out timidly. “Awaken. You’re dreaming.”

  He gave another angry wordless shout, but this one broke off mid-cry into a curse so foul that Avice couldn’t stop her nervous giggle in reaction.

  “Who’s there!” he demanded.

  Startled by the threat in his voice, Avice took a backward step. Faster than she thought possible, he yanked back the bed curtain. He wore no shirt. Candlelight gleamed against his bare skin while showing her that every line of his body promised death to the one who disturbed him.

  Avice clutched her blanket close around her, afraid to move or even breathe. Dear God! She should never have intruded.

  “Oh, it’s only you,” Jocelyn said with a sigh, the tension draining from him as he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Aye, it’s only me,” she echoed in relief, her voice trembling along with the rest of her body. “You were shouting in your dream.”

  He gave a short, harsh laugh. “Apparently I do that from time to time now. More’s the pity for anyone who must sleep near me. My pardon for disturbing you.”

  Avice gave a half-hearted smile. “No need for an apology. I pray that the rest of your night is calmer.” She started to turn.

  “Stay,” he said.

  His request startled her. Her feet froze to the floor. For certain her toes were well on their way to ice. She looked over her shoulder at him, her lower lip caught in her teeth.

  “I shouldn’t. It isn’t meet,” she told him breathlessly. “Please?” he asked quietly, then extended his left hand in invitation. “Once I’m awake it takes me forever to find sleep again. Bear company with me for a little while.”

  Avice hesitated. She really shouldn’t. Then again, if neither her father nor her mother were worried about what happened to her while she was here, why should she be?

  “Just for a little while, then,” she told him.

  She came to sit next to him on the bed. Bringing her knees up, she rested her feet on the edge of the mattress, then tucked her blanket around them for warmth. Leaning her cheek on her knees, she looked at him.

  The bedclothes covered him to the waist, leaving his torso exposed to the night’s cold air. Shadows marked the strong planes of his chest and hard curves of his arms. She eyed the livid line of the fresh scar that started at his shoulder, cutting down and across his chest. This was the injury that had nearly killed him, the wound he’d taken in August past.

  “Do you always curse like that in your dreams?” she asked.

  Jos blinked in surprise. He didn’t know if he cursed in his dreams or not. He rarely even remembered the dreams now. Then he realized her mistake.

  “You did that,” he said with a breath of amusement.

  Candlelight glided her brows and gleamed against her lush mouth as she frowned at him. “What do you mean? You said the words, not I.”

  “You called to me and startled me awake. I tried to draw my sword.”

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  Then, shifting beneath her blanket, she stretched her hand toward him. As Jos realized she was reaching for his right shoulder, he began to recoil from her touch only to catch himself, curious about what she intended. Her fingers were cold against his skin. Gently, carefully, she felt the line of his scar from the top of his shoulder to just below his collar bone, which was mending nicely compared to the rest of the wound. The way she touched his flesh suggested she had at least some of the same knowledge of wounds and healing as the monks of Bec.

  Her inspection done, she tucked her arm back into her blanket and shivered a little. “It’s very tight, your scar.” It wasn’t a question.

  He sighed. “Painfully so,” he agreed.

  “But it does allow you to move, aye?”

  He slowly lifted his right arm, stretching it upward as far as it would go, grimacing when he reached the end of his range of motion. As he lowered his arm, he said, “Aye, my arm moves.”

  “Good. That means the scar will eventually loosen and you will again have the use of your arm.” Her voice was filled with a confidence he didn’t own.

  “The monks in Normandy weren’t very encouraging in that regard,” Jos replied, surprised that he did so. The only one he’d spoken to about his injury was Gilliam. Then again, this was Avice. Once they were wedded, they would have to be bedded. That required them to disrobe before witnesses and examine each other for disabling flaws. If she didn’t accept him as whole in spite of his present infirmity, there would be no consummation of their marriage, leaving the way open for an annulment.

  “You will,” Avice repeated with a brisk nod. She hadn’t loosened her braid when she retired. At her movement, it slid over her shoulder, the end coiling on the space between them.

  “How can you be so certain of that?” Jos asked, taking her plait in his left hand. He twisted his hand until her bound hair curled around his arm. It felt like silk against his skin.

  She gave a tiny shrug. “Because my father took a similar injury years ago and he now has the use of his arm.”

  That surprised Jos. He knew so little of the family he would soon join. “He did?”

  “Aye, it happened when Papa was in Ireland with Lord John,” Avice said. Then she added, “That was back when our king’s father was still our king. I don’t know how Papa was wounded, for he doesn’t speak much of that time save to say that he’s glad he gave up any ambition to hold Irish lands.<
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  “Like your scar, his was very tight for a goodly while after he began to heal,” she continued. “When a year passed and he still couldn’t move his arm, my lady mother took matters into her own hands. Although I was very young then, I still remember the hours she spent moving his arm as she worked to loosen the scar. It went on for months, I think, but it was worth it, for eventually the hardened skin loosened.”

  Her smile was a quiet gleam in the night. “How he hated these exercises. I vow he threatened to kill her daily as she forced his arm through a series of motions. Each time he would spew the threat, Maman would just laugh and tell Papa that if he wanted to end her life, then he had to start moving his arm.” She paused, still smiling, her gaze focused on her distant memories. “Or she’d make me move his arm for him. He never cursed me. He loves me.”

  Her smile died. She turned her face away from Jos, once again bracing her chin on her knees. “Or I thought he did,” she whispered, shivering beneath her blanket.

  There was such pain in her last words that, without thought, Jos shifted closer to her to put his left arm around her. He expected resistance. Instead, she gave a watery sigh and leaned into his embrace, resting her cheek against his shoulder. He curled his hand around her, pressing her closer to him and liked the way it felt.

  “I want my arm back. Will you help me move it the way you and your lady mother did your sire’s?” he asked.

  She lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes glistened. “Will you curse me?”

  There was just enough amusement in her voice that he knew a jest was coming. “Probably.”

  She nodded. “Then I’ll definitely help you move your arm.”

  That startled laughter out of him. What a fool he’d been last year, expecting affection to come before the knowing. This was Avice, his wife, his to learn to cherish. And once he knew her, she’d be his to love.

  A stab of guilt followed. Avice was also his future. The moment he accepted her, he would be thrust back into the currents of his life, or rather the life he once expected to be his. When that happened, would he also turn his back on his past and those who had died in it?

  “We’ll begin in the morning, then,” she said, coming to her feet. “My aid with your injury must be your gift from me, not just for the first night of Christmastide but for all of the twelve nights. I’ve nothing else to give you.”

  He shook his head. “You cannot make it a gift, for I have nothing to give you in return.”

  She paused and cocked her head to the side as she considered him. “I am easy to please. Find me a garland of holly and ivy, as well as fir boughs for our table.”

  “Too simple,” he protested.

  “It’s what I want,” she replied over her shoulder as she started toward the chamber door. “I bid you good night and pray your sleep remains dreamless until dawn.”

  He watched her until she closed the door behind her. Of a sudden it felt empty and hollow inside the curtains of his bed.

  “But it’s Christmas Eve. I love the Angels’ Mass,” Avice protested. She knelt behind Jocelyn as he sat in the makeshift bathtub set near the blazing fire in the hall.

  As much heat as the flames gave off, the hall still remained cold. Against that and because they were easy to don by herself, Avice again wore her thick riding gowns. To protect them from the water, she also wore a rough linen overgown she’d found in one of the chests in the solar. The weather was colder today than yesterday, but there had been no snow. Instead, yesterday’s sleet and rain had frozen overnight, leaving the world glistening beneath a still-glowering sky that promised yet another storm.

  Early this morning, two strapping youths had appeared, their chore to tend both the kitchen and hall fires throughout the day. Although Avice was uncertain of Jocelyn’s approval, she’d asked the two to find the braces and planks for a second table. Then, while Freyne’s lord yet slept, she had taken the lady’s place at the high table while her household—the youths, Milly, the lads from Lina’s kitchen and the soldiers from the gatehouse—had occupied that second table as they broke their fast just like every other civilized house in this land. The normalcy of this event had offered Avice more satisfaction than the food. The meal had been only cheese and pottage, and the pottage had been bland. There wasn’t so much as a leaf of sorrel or stem of nettles to be found in Freyne’s barren garden, either of which would have added a bit of savor to the stewed beans and grains.

  Only after the meal was finished did Avice send one of the lads to rouse Jocelyn. He had chosen not to eat before they began to work his arm. As he’d promised last night, Jocelyn cursed profusely although he aimed his words at his arm and not her. And work he had, until his body was trembling and sweat coated him.

  When Avice finally agreed that they were finished, she’d order him to bathe to ease his aching muscles, only to discover there was no bathhouse at Freyne at present. That was how the lord of this castle ended up in a good-sized wooden kitchen tub filled with hot water before the fire, his knees cocked and exposed to the cold.

  “I don’t wish to go into the village, not even after dark.” Jocelyn sat still in the water, his head bowed and his eyes closed.

  “Why not?” Avice asked, leaning over his shoulder to wet the square of linen she used as a washcloth. She pressed it gently to the top of his shoulder where the scar crossed it.

  “I’m not yet ready to face my father’s and brother’s legacy,” her betrothed replied, his voice flat with exhaustion.

  “What legacy?” Avice asked, glancing at the hall door. Although Freyne Village had no apothecary, the boys said there was both a healer and midwife. Avice had sent one of them out to purchase certain herbs and goose grease so she could make two unguents. One was to help soften the flesh of Jocelyn’s scar while she hoped the second would ease some of the pain his injury caused him.

  Jocelyn put his left hand over hers to adjust the pressure of her touch, then raised his head. His gaze was dark and his expression flat. Fie on her! She had definitely mistaken the hollowness of pain for scorn and dismissal yesterday.

  “Of those folk in the village who own less than a score of years, far too many are my kin. My brother and father were profligate in sowing their seed, and sometimes brutal in how they did their planting.” There was enough disgust in his voice to suggest that he did not approve of such behavior.

  “Ah,” Avice said and made a face. “Then I’m grateful you outlived your brother,” she added. Had Theobald not died, he would have been her betrothed instead of Jocelyn.

  That teased a smile from him. The warm lights reappeared in his gaze. His hand shifted atop hers until his fingers twined with hers. “Is that so?”

  His touch sent a bolt of heat through her. In that instant the act of bathing him ceased to be a routine chore, something she’d done regularly for her father and brothers as well as for Lavendon’s male guests when her mother was too busy to serve them, and became something else entirely.

  The longing for more drove her forward. As she pressed her front to his back, Jocelyn drew a sharp breath. The same heat she felt filled his gaze. It took but the slightest turn of his head to bring his lips against hers.

  As his mouth moved atop hers it was Avice’s turn to gasp. The tiny movements of his lips fed that heat within her. She slid her free hand over his uninjured shoulder and down the hard curve of his upper arm, pressing her breasts against his back. Lord help her, she liked this!

  The pressure of his mouth against hers increased, his lips begging her for more. Avice forgot she was in the hall where anyone could see. She forgot that she was a maiden still and should hold tight to at least the pretense of modesty. All that mattered was Jocelyn.

  Seeking to draw her closer, he eased to the side in the tub. His cheek rubbed against hers. Days’ worth of stubble rasped against her skin. That was enough to stir Avice from the spell he was weaving around her.

  She eased back from him even as her body protested. His hand on hers tightened. He
watched her, his dark eyes almost golden with the same desire she felt. She drew a shuddering breath as he used his finger to trace the edge of her sleeve above her wrist. This had to stop.

  “A razor or well-honed knife,” she said. Her reeling senses settled as she spoke. She breathed out in relief. “And a scissors,” she added.

  The corners of his mouth lifted as amusement replaced the heat in his eyes. “I’m to be made presentable so we can go to mass tonight no matter my reluctance, is that it?”

  She did her best to smile. It was hard to pretend ease when every fiber of her being wanted to feel his mouth against hers again. “Aye, my lord. You will attend with me.”

  His lips parted as his smile widened. Creases touched the corners of his eyes. Avice frowned. Why was he laughing at her?

  “Do your worst, my lady, and in return, I will brave my many bastard relatives to escort you to the church.”

  “Was the mass worth all your efforts on my behalf, my lady?” Jos asked, as he and his betrothed wife made their way back through the night-shadowed village toward Freyne’s gate.

  Their path was illuminated by one of Freyne’s soldiers carrying a lighted torch in his hands. Avice clung tightly to his left arm as they walked. She’d already slipped once on the icy ground beneath their feet. Nor had she been the only one to slide among their party.

  Their party. His new household, the one Avice was fashioning out of her will alone, included the four soldiers who had stayed at Freyne for the season, the children from the kitchen, the youths who had worked in his hall this day, and now, their sister. Apparently, Lavendon was serious about its food, for the cook had begged for an assistant to help prepare the meals over the next twelve days, now that Avice was committed to working with him on his arm. Indeed, the cook took her duties so seriously that she and one of the soldiers had left the mass before its end so their meal would be ready for them upon their return to the keep.