I almost spat in his face, but my growing rage needed a fuller—a bloodier—satisfaction. I had no weapon now and knew I could not kill him even if I had. I remembered how he carried himself with sword and shield under the weight of his armor when he burst through the door of my hall, and I had been watching him since I woke. There was an easy, fluid grace to his movements that told me he was too strong and too quick to be taken by surprise…when he was awake. I would need to wait until he slept. And I would need to appear half-witted and harmless…and find a knife.
Chapter 7
Bruno
I could have spared the effort to look as fine as the other noblemen. It would have made no difference if I had dressed in rags or come unshaven with my hair knotted in filthy tangles. All the thought and effort I had given to my appearance on my wedding day, to make myself as different as possible from the battle-stained person who had burst into the hall of Ulle, were wasted. Not once, from the time the queen brought her to the church door, did Melusine raise her head and look at me.
At first all I felt was relief. The thing that had haunted me at every odd moment all the time I was in Oxford, all the sleepless night before the wedding, and all the long day—for the king and queen had chosen that we be married just before vespers—was that Melusine would take one look at me and begin to scream. I knew the queen; the girl would be forced one way or another to go through with the marriage, but I did not know whether I could endure it, and it would ruin forever the small hope I had of bringing my wife to true acceptance.
I did nothing to draw her attention to me as Henry of Blois, bishop of Winchester, began the wedding service. But when I lifted her limp right hand to place the ring on her finger and even more when I had to lift her face to kiss her lips, I began to suspect that the queen had given Melusine some potion to keep her quiet. There was something wrong with her eyes—I cannot define what it was, only say that there seemed to be no soul behind them. I felt sad that Queen Maud thought it necessary because that implied that Melusine’s objections had been stronger than sullen acquiescence; however, I was not angry. Better to deal with the screams and tears in private. The whole court had attended the wedding, I suppose by the king’s request, and the last thing I needed was gossip among them about an unwilling bride.
The worst, the very worst, was taking the poor girl’s maidenhead. The king and queen did not permit any long delay over the disrobing, cutting short the usual spate of bawdy jest and comment which had broken out as soon as Melusine’s magnificent body was exposed. I have said before that I prefer women to be small and delicate, but no man could have found fault. Her skin was like pale, dull cream-colored satin; her breasts large and full but firm; her waist narrow; her hips broad and strong; her dark hair, glinting with red in the light of the torches, fell to her beautifully rounded buttocks. At another time and place I suppose I would have responded as any man to that lush invitation. On the day of my wedding, however, even that beautiful body could not arouse me, and my shaft was shriveled to nothing with disgust and dread. I have never been sure whether Melusine and I were hurried into our chamber, away from the guests, as soon as they acknowledged there could be no annulment for physical fault to conceal Melusine’s condition or to conceal mine.
The queen herself helped Melusine into the high bed, and the king came and put his hand on my shoulder, saying, “Be gentle with her.” He hesitated, glanced toward Maud and added, “But make her your wife beyond doubt or question.”
Stephen’s glance toward the queen saved me from utter consternation. If he had observed my distaste for himself, most of the other guests would have been equally aware, but that the queen had urged him to make sure I did not leave my bride a virgin did not surprise me. I thought of it nonetheless. A small cut could provide enough blood to give evidence of our mating and free me of the need to violate an unwilling woman. But I put the thought aside as Stephen and Maud went out. To do that would betray their trust.
The sounds from outside stopped suddenly, and I knew either the king or queen had shut the door. My first thought was that the drug must be wearing off—I was surprised that it had lasted so long—and the closed door was to conceal the shrieks of my bride. I shuddered, but when I glanced at Melusine she was sitting just as the queen had left her, apparently staring at her own fingers. My next thought was that it would be best to broach her while her senses were still dulled and that, drugged as she was, with her will weakened, her body might respond and make her ordeal easier or even a pleasure. With that in mind, I got into bed quickly and touched Melusine’s shoulder. It was smooth and cool—too cool.
“Lie down,” I said, and then, hoping to excuse what might seem a peremptory order, I added, “You are chilled.”
For a long moment she did not respond, either to my touch or the words. Then, without lifting her head, she slid down and pulled the cover up. In that moment I became aware that her skin was soft and smooth and her hair and body had been scented with something sweet that was a delight to smell. The inviting odor gave me a spark of hope. If she had perfumed herself, was that not for me? Perhaps not. Perhaps that too was by the queen’s order.
I suppose I should have said something more. Had she reacted in any way, I would have known what to say. As it was, I was afraid anything I said would be wrong. I lay down beside her and stroked her arm and hair—but she responded to that no more than to my first touch, lying with closed eyes. Her face could have been carved of stone for all the expression it had. I did think of trying to arouse her, but I dared not play the rough games that delighted the little whore of Alnwick, nor invade her private parts as I did with that girl and others to make her ready. Slaps and tickles can only be exchanged between those who are fond and trusting, and to place fingers or lips to Melusine’s nether mouth without invitation would, to my mind, be worse than the forced coupling itself.
I am not sure why that notion was so fixed in my mind. It seemed to me that to couple by order would be equally unpleasant to both of us, but I would have had pleasure out of touching and fondling and if she was unwilling that was unfair. I was growing angry too over the sullen, passive resistance, over her stubborn refusal to recognize my presence at all. By the moment I grew more certain that it could not be all the result of the drug. No drug could keep its full power for so many hours, and I resented the fact that Melusine did not guess this was as hard for me as for her. That was foolish. Later I realized that most women think a man is always ready, but it was not so for me. I had never forced a woman in my life—I suppose because each time an opportunity arose I imagined Audris in the place of the terrified girl. But it did not occur to me then that Melusine could not know that.
The anger helped, although I still needed to handle myself to harden my shaft. That made me angrier, but it also led me to wet myself well with spittle to make entry easier. I did it for my own sake, not for Melusine’s; later I was glad I had hurt her as little as possible. It troubled me that she did not move or open her eyes when I mounted her and thrust her legs apart with my knees, but I dared not stop for I knew I would never again nerve myself to broach her if I did not finish.
The full horror of what I was doing did not overwhelm me until, at my first really hard thrust, when I burst her maidenhead, I felt her stiffen to fight me off. That response, the fact that she had made any response, even a kind I did not desire, encouraged me to thrust twice or thrice more, since her passage was now well-slicked with blood and my motion must hurt her less, perhaps even give her pleasure. And then I realized she had gone too lax. This was not the stillness of submission or pleasure; the poor girl had lost her senses.
I could not continue. It was like having ado with a corpse, and I found it no sacrifice to withdraw without spilling my seed. I looked at Melusine, and the light of the night candle was enough to show me that she was breathing evenly. She would soon revive, I thought, and turned my back intending to sleep, but a fear that had passed glancin
gly through my mind a few times took a stronger hold on me. What if Melusine’s behavior had not been caused by a drug? What if the queen was wrong and she was half-witted?
I felt the body beside me jerk and then lie stiffly still again. I knew I should turn and speak to her, but I could not bear to have my fear confirmed. If only she would rail at me, curse me, strike me—but she lay quiet without speech or movement. Later—I had almost drifted off to sleep despite my heartsickness—I felt her leaving the bed. I turned carefully, only enough to follow her with my eyes, hope rising again, but the poor creature only took a few steps toward the door, then a few more toward the chest on which her clothing lay. Then she stood still, as if she had not mind enough to understand where she was or what had befallen her. For a few minutes my sickness rose high in my throat so that I could not speak, but at last I forced myself to address her calmly, softly, slowly, so I would not frighten her and bade her to come back to bed.
As she had done before when I addressed her, at first she did not respond, seeming almost not to hear, but then she slowly did my bidding. Then I understood, and I had some ado not to burst into tears—I am not sure whether out of pity for her or for myself. Poor thing, poor thing, she was slow to obey not out of sullenness or reluctance but because it took her so long to understand what was said to her. I felt her settle beside me and began to turn to her, thinking to comfort her like a child, but she shrank away, and remembering that I had hurt her, I decided to let her be until her feeble mind lost that memory of hurt. Then, knowing the worst, beyond hope or doubt, I slept.
The morning began with a confirmation of my unhappy knowledge. Melusine had to be told everything—to wash, to dress. The only action she took without my order was to use the pot. Yet there were also little things that kept pricking me into doubt and hope. True, sometimes she seemed confused about the simplest matters, standing as if bewildered when I pointed out the water for washing, yet she had sense enough to put aside her elaborate wedding garments and seek for plainer ones inside the chest.
I began to see why the queen had not been willing simply to thrust Melusine into a convent and forget her. But I had no time to devise any way to test my doubts, for Melusine was hardly dressed when the king and queen came with other guests to witness the consummation of our marriage. I do not know whether I could have faced Stephen and Maud without resentment if that small thread of doubt had not been woven into the blanket of sadness and disappointment that covered me. As it was I could barely keep myself from asking bitterly what I had done to deserve a half-witted wife. But I suppose none of my bitterness showed on my face. Maud looked well pleased and smiled at me as she held up the blood-smeared sheet.
I am still not certain why the queen was so intent at that time on having Melusine bound in marriage beyond any doubt. Perhaps the rebellions and the Scots invasion made her feel that one more trouble, even a small one, was unbearable. Or perhaps she believed that if Melusine escaped and made her way back to her own property, the lords of Cumbria would not only take her in and protect her but rise in rage against Stephen. I saw her take the sheet to store away, as if she might need proof that Melusine was well and truly a wife, and then the king came and struck me fondly, saying he had missed my service and I should come with him.
I saw no more of Melusine that day. The king dined privately with his brother Henry of Winchester and Roger, bishop of Salisbury, and commanded me to take the dishes at the door, as I had done as a squire when Stephen desired privacy. I do not think I looked surprised or indignant—I certainly did not feel either emotion—but a few minutes later Stephen suddenly broke off what he was saying to the bishop of Salisbury and beckoned to me.
“I forgot you were a Knight of the Body now,” he said contritely. “This service is not fit for you.”
“My lord,” I said, smiling—who could fail to forgive him when it was so clear he meant no insult?—and, after all, I had myself forgotten my new state, “any service you ask of me is fitting.”
But then Stephen began to draw me into the conversation. At first I was troubled, thinking that he was trying in that way to make up to me for asking a squire’s service of me. Soon, however, I saw he was not thinking of me at all, except as an escape from a greater unease. What that was I could not tell; there seemed no special subject that the king wished to avoid. It was as if the very presence of his brother and Salisbury made him uncomfortable, even when they had nothing over which to quarrel.
That idea made me so uneasy that I did not give Melusine another thought all day. I knew that Roger of Salisbury had been Henry I’s chancellor and justiciar, and with the assistance of his nephews (if they were nephews and not sons) Alexander, bishop of Lincoln, and Nigel, bishop of Ely, who was the king’s treasurer, Salisbury still managed almost the entire government of the country. I do not know whether they were good and honest men, but I did know that the chancery and exchequer performed their business smoothly. They had accepted Stephen and I thought served him well. I was sorry about the coolness between the king and his brother, but that had existed since the end of the siege of Exeter. It would be worse if Stephen’s anger was growing to involve Salisbury and his subordinates.
My concern was partly selfish. If Stephen now distrusted Salisbury and gave his offices to someone with little experience and ability, no doubt one of Waleran’s family or friends, it was possible that revenue to the exchequer would fall. I had little doubt that the first expense to be cut would be the payment of pensions. But after the bishops left, I felt ashamed of my thoughts. It seemed that the king had really missed me, for he kept me close the whole day. We rode out after dinner, hawking, the king flying the superb bird he had been given at Jernaeve. Between the flights, Stephen talked, mostly of how he had frustrated any hope of Robert of Gloucester and Empress Matilda coming to England—but it was Queen Maud who had the largest hand in that.
When Walchelin Maminot, who held Dover, rebelled to give Gloucester a port of entry, the queen had bidden her ships from Boulogne to blockade Dover from the sea while she brought an army to besiege it from the land and forced Maminot to yield to her. Not that Stephen was trying to steal credit from his wife as so many men did; he valued her above anything on earth—or in heaven, for that matter. It was only a careless form of speech, partly because he truly considered himself and Maud one body and one soul and partly because he was in high spirits. There had been no new uprisings, and all the south of England, except the far west, seemed to lie quiet in his hand.
I could not help thinking of the Scots swallowing up the north, but I held my tongue. I knew well by now the king’s habit of setting aside unpleasant thoughts and dark prospects with an easy optimism. In this case, despite the pain I felt for my land, I could not blame him. It was impossible for Stephen to leave the rich, well-peopled south to drive the Scots away from a poor, barren shire. He had done so twice already, showing his good intentions toward Northumbria and Yorkshire, but times were more dangerous now. If the king took his army northward, there might be more rebellions. Then men who held other ports than Dover at which the earl of Gloucester and Empress Matilda might land could have second thoughts and welcome them ashore.
By the time I was free of service, it was dark. I fear my mind was so far from my marriage that I would have sought my old sleeping place had not the king dismissed me with a half-jesting apology for keeping me so long from the new delights of my marriage bed. I was fortunate that he turned away from me too quickly to notice the shudder I could not restrain at the memory his words called up. I thought of finding myself another place to sleep, but I could not leave the poor creature to whom I was married in doubt and perhaps fear—if she remembered me and the hurt she had suffered.
The door was open, but only the faint glow of the night light lit the chamber when I arrived. Melusine was already abed, either asleep or pretending to be so by the stillness of her body under the coverlet. I was glad of it, for it spared me the need t
o talk to her, and I undressed and lay down on my left side with my back to her, hoping that if she were only pretending my position would be sign enough that I would not trouble her.
Fortunately for me I was more accustomed to sleeping on my back or my right side and not at all accustomed to sharing my bed with anyone. Because I was not comfortable, I could not sleep, so after a time I turned gently to my back. Melusine gave no sign of being aware of my movement and I began to relax. Perhaps I was half asleep by then and my breathing changed its rhythm, but the presence of another in the bed kept me from letting go completely. A tiny shift in the sheet and mattress brought me more awake. Had the movement been swiftly over, I think I would have dismissed it and truly slept, but it was too slow and went on too long to be a natural shifting. I do not think I felt any suspicion, only a mild irritation because Melusine was not yet asleep and a sleepy reluctance to find words of reassurance. But suddenly the slow shifting changed to a swift lunge upright, and a shadow with a dully gleaming tip arced downward toward me.
Chapter 8
Melusine
The night when I first regained my senses had been so full of terror and my waking moments so full of rage that my head had no room for memories or my heart for grief. Perhaps too I closed Papa and my brothers out of my mind for fear of the agony remembering my loss would bring. I had played such tricks on myself in the past, when I was trying to forget what my thirteenth birthday had brought upon my family. That morning, although I did not deliberately refuse to think of my menfolk, I may have slipped into the old pattern out of hate and fear. I knew that my only chance for revenge would be lost if anyone suspected that I was no longer mad. Thus my entire attention was devoted to behaving as closely as I could to how I had acted before I recovered my wits.
Since no one seemed surprised when the queen brought me in among her ladies—and several who had not come to see the proof that my maidenhead had been wrested from me greeted me kindly—I assumed that there had been no need to confine me in the past. Beyond that I had no guide, but it seems that my hesitation to reply or act, bred out of the fear I would betray that I was in my right mind now, was considered normal for me. As soon as my terror of exposing myself was a little eased, I began to think where I could obtain a knife long enough, strong enough, and sharp enough to kill.
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