by Lisa Hendrix
No mind. She had baited the bull, and now she would face him down. When Ivo’s fingers tightened again, she took a fortifying breath, composed her face, and looked up, hoping to appear as serene as the Holy Mother in the chapel triptych.
“Is something amiss, my lord?” she asked, honey sweet.
His eyes narrowed and she felt herself blanch. Then an odd glint made her look more closely at the way his jaw and mouth worked. Was that a smile he was trying to tame?
It was. God’s thumbs, it wasn’t anger that shook him, it was laughter, barely contained. He was laughing at her yet again.
Her resolve to submit obediently flashed away like rain on a hot coal. The Devil take him. She would not play his fool. She snatched her hand out of his and stepped forward to take up the quill.
“Would you not have the contract read out first, my lady?” asked Geoffrey in surprise.
“It would serve no purpose. The king commands this union, and I bend my will to his for the good of Alnwick.”
She scrawled her mark and threw the quill down, leaving a splatter of ink across the bottom of the parchment. Before she could back away, Ivo stepped up close behind her. The grin he’d been fighting spread across his lips with a wicked curl as he slid his arm around her waist.
“Patience, sweet leaf.” Voice rippling with amusement, he tugged her backward, bringing her hips firmly against his loins. “You will enjoy Alnwick’s deep appreciation soon enough.”
She gasped, and the watching men joined in the laughter that finally burst out of Ivo as he reached around her to scribe his name next to hers.
Pinned between him and the table, she could only stand there, held fast against his body, her face as red hot as the wax Ivo spilled over the blot she’d left. He pressed his ring into the puddle to imprint his seal, and three witnesses quickly stepped up to make their marks.
Still laughing, he led her off the dais. “Come, my lady. The priest awaits, and the sooner we say our vows, the sooner you can bend to my will.”
Another gale of laughter carried them across the hall and out the door, where Ivo let Alaida’s giggling women surround her, wrap her in her cloak, and sweep her off toward the manor’s little chapel. The men, full of bawdy good humor, grabbed up torches and trailed after them, their laughter echoing across the yard as Ivo’s words were repeated to those who hadn’t heard.
“You have an odd way of wooing a woman,” shouted Brand over the tumult as he and Ivo followed along after the others.
“She tweaked me.”
“Well, now she’s ready to slit your throat.”
“That will pass.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then better an angry woman in my bed than a fearful one.”
“Better yet a laughing one,” Brand pointed out.
“Aye,” Ivo agreed, then added with a wicked grin, “But best of all, a moaning one.”
Brand nodded ahead to where Alaida stood at the chapel door. “I wager my best arm ring you’ll draw neither laugh nor moan from those lips tonight.”
Ivo looked at his bride, at the fury that hardened her face and the clenched fists she held stiffly at her side. She was at least as angry as she had been last night.
And yet last night … That little hitch in her breath as he’d bent to kiss her—that wouldn’t be so hard to draw out again, to turn into a moan.
“That,” he said to his friend, “is a wager I will take.”
WHORESON. PAUTONNIER DE linage felon. Base-born pig swiver.
A life lived amid Norman knights and Saxon peasants had taught Alaida a multitude of curses in two languages. She ran through the entire litany in her mind without finding anything foul enough to describe Lord Ivo de Vassy.
God, that she were a man and a knight, she fumed as she watched him swagger toward her, his gray cloak flapping behind him like the wings of some great bird. She would beat that randy grin off his face, then take up the sword to ride against him and the king that had given him lordship over Alnwick. But she wasn’t a man, and de Vassy did have dominion, so when he reached the chapel step and took his place at her right, she bit back the stream of curses, pulled her cloak more tightly against the cold, and prepared to do what she must.
De Vassy leaned over as if to kiss her cheek. “Smile,” he whispered, half jest, half command. “Lest that scowl frighten the good father.”
A moment later Father Theobald, who had gone ahead of them to pray, came to the chapel door. His eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of her face. He hesitated.
“Quickly, priest,” grunted Sir Brand from his place at his friend’s side. “Before we all start pissing ice.”
Amid the hoots of laughter, Father Theobald quickly crossed himself and asked, a bit doubtfully to Alaida’s ear, “Do you both come willingly to be married in the sight of God and man?”
“We do,” said Ivo, not giving Alaida a chance to say otherwise. He twisted a ring off his little finger and took her hand. “I, Ivo, take you, Alaida …”
She let him slip the ring onto her finger and spoke her vows without emotion, and soon Father Theobald was sprinkling them with hyssop-scented holy water. “Ego conjugo vos in matrimonum. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
This time when Ivo bent, it truly was to kiss her. Alaida forced herself to remain still while his lips touched hers to seal their vows. It was no more of a kiss than the night before—but no less of one either, and once more she had to steady herself as he broke away. Ivo glanced over her head and grinned as though to share some jest with Sir Brand, and the big man’s chuckle mixed with the good wishes that rose from the witnesses.
And so they were wed, except for the Mass to be said in the chapel. Whether because of Brand’s earlier remark or his own frozen bones, Father Theobald raced through the Latin. They were back in the warmth of the hall almost before the last Amen. In behind them trooped the men and women of the manor and village, chattering and laughing and ready to feast.
Before anyone would eat, however, Alaida had one more trial to endure, one that would have taken place at the chapel but for the cold: to commend herself to her husband as lord of Alnwick by doing homage. This was the more difficult part, the act by which she would grant him power over her grandfather’s lands. Knowing it was mere show, that Lord Ivo had already made the vows that mattered by kneeling to the king, didn’t make it any easier to walk with him to the front of the suddenly quiet hall.
Kneeling, Alaida ignored the chill seeping into her bones and lifted her hands as if in prayer. Ivo enfolded them between his. His eyes locked with hers.
“Will you make yourself completely mine?”
A buzzing filled Alaida’s head, as though a hive of bees had suddenly swarmed out of the rafters and settled about her ears. She stared at Ivo dumbly. Completely his? The lord’s request for submission was part of doing homage, but he hadn’t asked the question in this manner last night when the men knelt to him. Not in these words, with their layers of meaning.
“My lady?” coaxed the priest.
It was mere formality, she told herself, ignoring the tightening low in her belly that said otherwise. It was part of the ritual. She shook off the noise in her head and lifted her chin.
“I will.” Her voice came out husky and low. She cleared her throat and spoke again, more firmly. “I, Alaida, do hereby become your liege woman in all things, holding to you against all men. I acknowledge you as rightful lord of Alnwick and”—her voice broke, and again she had to clear her throat—“and I will have you as my lord and be subject to you and submit myself to you. So I swear before God and these witnesses.”
“I accept your homage and hereafter call you mine,” said Ivo. He released her hands, but his eyes stayed on her, softer now. “In return I confirm your dower of one-third portion of my holdings as well as those gifts named in the marriage contract we each signed. For these, I ask only your oath of fealty. Will you give it?”
Dower? Gifts? She had assumed
the contract only confirmed Ivo’s rights, not her own. He held the advantage, after all. For what was she about to pledge? “Yes, my lord.”
Ivo cocked one eyebrow as if to ask, Don’t you wish you had let Geoffrey read it to you?
Father Theobald held out the huge volume of the Gospels for Alaida to kiss, and she laid both hands on the bejeweled cover. “I promise that from this day forward I will be a … a true and faithful vassal to you as my lord.” Caught off guard, she stumbled through the rest of the words. Then with Ivo’s nod, it was over. Alnwick was his, as was she in all ways but one.
As he put out his hand to help her rise, the knowledge of that final surrender made her belly clench again. Angrily, she pushed the thought away. She would have to deal with it soon enough, but she refused to let her mind travel that path now.
When they had washed and taken their places at table, the horn blew, and servants began carrying in the food, lading the tables with meats and savories until the trestles fair groaned. Considering how little time there had been to prepare, Geoffrey had done his new lord honor, Alaida noted without cheer. Those in the hall would eat almost as well as at Christmas, and those gathering at the gate—the poorest of the cottars and whatever beggars were in the area—would have rich orts to carry off. By morning, Ivo de Vassy would be known as a generous lord. Whether that held true over time, they would all see.
Being without a squire, Ivo asked Oswald to carve for them. Wielding the knife like the master bladesman he was, the marshal quickly piled their shared trencher with the choicest slices of mutton and pork. He laid a fillet of salmon and a pair of herrings on the side, then twisted off the leg of a goose like it was no more than a leaf and laid it among the rest. Finally, he cut into a plump pie.
“No pigeon,” said Ivo firmly. “Take it away.”
Oswald motioned for a boy to remove the pie, added a glistening eel to their portion, then placed the trencher between Ivo and Alaida and left them to their meal.
Ivo sliced off a bit of the crunchy, herbed rind of the pork and held the morsel out to Alaida. Such courtesy was the proper service of a knight for a lady, a swain for his lover, or a husband for his wife. He had probably been looking forward to it.
Alaida had not. She would sooner starve than eat out of the man’s hand.
Ivo shrugged and popped the sliver of pork into his mouth. “You will have to unclench sooner or later.”
She looked up sharply.
“Your hands,” he said, gesturing toward her lap. “And your jaw. I’m surprised it doesn’t pain you.”
“Only one thing pains me.”
“I have seen men die from a jaw less locked,” he said, ignoring her jab. He took a hearty drink of the perry and offered her the bowl, which she also refused. “Come, Alaida. You have had your jest, and I have had mine. Let us call truce before you starve.”
“Jest? Is that what you call it? Bend to your will. Do you think I didn’t know you meant your … ?” She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of his privates.
“You began this battle, my lady, with your nun’s robes and your little speech. I only returned blow for blow.” The grin crept back onto his lips. “Though with better humor.”
She glared at him even as her anger subsided a little. He was right. She had started this tonight, and for all that his gibes had embarrassed her, they were no worse than she’d heard at other weddings. What’s more, she had challenged him before the hall, for which some men would have struck out with a fist rather than words and laughter.
“As you wish, my lord. Truce.” She thought once more of what would come after supper and added, “For now.”
“For now,” he agreed. “But we must seal our pact.” He hooked a finger under her chin and leaned close. “With a kiss.”
No, she wanted to say, but in the spirit of truce, she once again closed her eyes and waited for him to take his kiss.
And waited.
She opened her eyes. He was still there, inches away, his finger still under her chin, grinning at her, clearly expecting her to kiss him. This was no truce. This was another demand for surrender.
He waited her out, and she felt every eye in the hall waiting with him.
“Come, Alaida,” he murmured. “Pax.”
Seething, she leaned forward and pecked the briefest possible kiss on his mouth. “There. And pax upon you.”
His laugh shook the air. “By God, woman, your kisses may lack, but as quick as that tongue is, I will enjoy teaching you better.”
When she thought of it later, she wasn’t sure what made her do it. All she knew was that in that moment, suddenly, she was tired. Tired of being at the disadvantage. Tired of being the butt of his humor. Tired of him being … him. She wanted that smirk off his face. And she wanted her hall back.
“Your lessons will not be necessary, my lord.” In one motion, she snatched her knife from its sheath and drove it into arm of his chair, inches from his thigh. Instinct brought his leg up to protect his groin, and in the eyeblink he was off balance, she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to her lips. His mouth opened in surprise. She slipped her tongue in, found his, and taunted him with a slow, circling, in-and-out until a growl of pleasure rumbled up beneath her hands. As soon as she felt it, she pushed him away, retrieved her knife, and turned back to the table, leaving Ivo hanging there, a stunned look about him.
Much like she must have looked in the solar, she thought with satisfaction.
“I said Neville had not kissed me,” she said lightly as she cut herself a bit of mutton. “I did not say no one had.”
The hall erupted in laughter, Sir Brand’s loudest of all. This time, gratifyingly, she found it didn’t bother her.
As Ivo continued to gape, Alaida crooked a finger at the varlet who stood by to serve them and pointed at the mazer.
“See this stays full,” she commanded. “And bring that pie back.” She turned and gave her dumbfounded groom a scathing look. “My lord husband may not like pigeon, but I do.”
WHAT MAN HAD taught her to kiss like that?
A thousand questions churned through Ivo’s head as he sat bemused, watching Alaida eat her pigeon pie, but most of them amounted to the same thing. Who had kissed her? Why had she let him? Where could he find the whoreson, and how much would he scream as he died?
Some small corner of Ivo’s mind was grateful for the skill the unknown knight—he’d better be at least a knight— had taught Alaida, but the rest of him wanted to rip the man’s lungs out and fly them from the gate as pennants. Strangely, none of that fury spilled over to his thoughts of Alaida. Jealousy, yes, that some other man had tasted those lips before him, but not anger.
She was a puzzle, this wife of his, so changeable he couldn’t predict from one breath to the next what spirit possessed her. First she’d been angry, then resigned, then fearful, then outraged, and now … what?
Confident. That’s what it was. Confidence.
There she sat, enjoying her meal, ignoring him so thoroughly, he could be another servant. Somehow, that kiss had given her back a measure of the spirit that he’d admired in those first moments last night.
That made it a good kiss. One he could work with. One he just might parlay into a new armband.
That decided, Ivo settled back to watch his wife and figure out how best to approach her. How to woo her. How to make her laugh.
How, precisely, to make her moan.
CHAPTER 5
IGNORING THE PRICKLES of awareness that crawled over her flesh like so many mites, Alaida examined the sweets on the tray being offered her. She could see Ivo from the corner of her eye, leaning back as he studied her, his lips working in and out as though he puzzled over some deep riddle. She had seen the same look on her grandfather’s face a thousand times, over chess or merels or plans for war. They were all the same to men: games. The fact that one of their games involved violence and death mattered little.
Now she was the game. Or the battle, as the case may
be.
Fine. Better he think of her as an adversary than as property. At least her ill-considered kiss had bought her that much. She selected a wedge of almond gastel and nibbled at one corner as she considered a battle plan of her own.
She’d barely swallowed the first bite when Ivo set aside the bowl he’d been nursing and rose. “It grows late, my lady. We will retire.”
So. It began.
Conscious of the laughter that rippled down the tables, Alaida put down her cake, gathered her feet and her dignity, and rose. To her relief, the women swarmed forward and swept her upstairs before she had to take the hand he offered. The men followed, laughing and joking.
“The wedding posset,” said Bôte, holding up a large drinking horn. “Ale, spiced for desire, in the horn of a bull for my lord’s manhood. Drink up, both of you.”
She took a sip to show it wasn’t poisoned and offered it to Ivo. He drank deeply while the men cheered him on, then passed the horn to Alaida, whose reluctant sip drew hoots from all.
“Ach, that’s not enough, my lady,” scolded Bôte. She stood there, hands on hips, ’til Alaida downed a good swig, then a second and a third. “There. You’ll be wanting all that and more, if I judge your lord husband rightly.”
Her words brought yet more laughter. As it trailed off, Father Theobald was pushed forward to bless the bed. In the warmth of the solar, his prayer took on the flowery wording he had avoided in the chapel. With any luck, Alaida thought, he would go on all night.
But no. When he mentioned fruitful loins for the third time, Sir Brand cleared his throat in a pointed way. Father Theobald quickly found the end of his blessing and, naming the Trinity, swung the censer to send its smoke swirling over the furs.
“Fruitful loins,” mused Wat the Reeve into the silence after they’d all crossed themselves. “I’ve always thought that sounds like something they’d serve at a feast.”
“Aye,” agreed Edric. “With butter.”
“And sauce,” added a voice from somewhere in the back, with a lewd slurp that made the men laugh and the women squeal and cover their cheeks with their hands. Poor Father Theobald looked as though he’d like to go out the roof hole with the smoke.
