Once Upon a Pillow

by Christina Dodd

  She had been overcome with guilt at his death, Nicholas thought, and found some comfort there. For if she felt guilty simply because she’d bought a husband she wanted dead, well then, didn’t it stand to reason that her conscience would never allow her to actually kill that same husband?

  If she did, her self-imposed penance would be enormous. He could not help grinning. A few years after his murder and St. Albion’s would rival Shrewsbury Cathedral.

  “I own myself amazed such a paragon has gone unclaimed in her widowhood,” Nicholas said casually.

  “Oh, there’s many a man thought to court her, Guy Moore being the most persistent, what with his lands abutting hers, er, yours, sir. But she has been most faithful to your memory.”

  So, it was not only priests and his wife whom he should have a care not to turn his back to. A surge of jealousy ripped through Nicholas.

  “She must be overjoyed that you have returned,” Keveran said sincerely.

  “Oh, she is,” Nicholas said. “She is.”

  Chapter Four

  You look like a servant,” Nicholas said.

  Jocelyn, looking over the list the weavers had left for Nicholas’s inspection, nodded distractedly, neither offended nor interested in his assessment of her clothing. She had other things to think about. In the week since his arrival, Nicholas had often asked her advice in his dealings with the people of Trecombe. She took the responsibility seriously.

  Besides, he could scarce fault her for one of his own most outstanding deficiencies. He didn’t dress any better than a servant either, though, she admitted grudgingly, he was a good deal cleaner—she shot a quick glance at her big, dark husband—and hairier.

  “Therefore,” he went on, seeing that she wasn’t going to respond, “I have sent for the seamstress in order to have some new gowns made for you.”

  Now, he had her attention. She put down the accounts. “Why would you do that? The coin can be put to better use than it would by augmenting my vanity.”

  “Whose vanity?” he inquired mildly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that impossibly boyish manner. His emerald gaze flowed along the lines of her shabby gown making her feel shabbier still, and a number of other things that she’d as lief ignore. “My vanity, Madame. Your image reflects on me as much as yourself. I would have it imbue the proper respect.”

  She vacillated miserably, knowing she should simply tell him she would not have a new gown. But the ignominious truth was that she wanted a new gown. Frankly, she lusted after a new gown.

  It had been years since she’d owned something pretty and frivolous and fine. Which is precisely why she lowered her eyes and crossed her hands piously. Because one ought to make every effort to resist prideful self-ornamentation. Oughtn’t one? “Men and women should command respect by their deeds, not by their apparel.”

  He smiled at her, and once again she had the odd notion that he knew and was amused by this, her latest in a series of increasingly frequent bouts of moral wrestling. She was being fanciful. How could he know her thoughts? It simply seemed so because his face was half obscured by his thick beard, thus making his green eyes seem brighter and more knowing.

  “Have her make three new gowns for you,” he said.

  She made one last feeble attempt at humility.

  “Why?”

  “Because I am the master and I say so,” he replied equitably.

  “Your will be done,” she demurred. After all, Father Timothy had specifically charged her to be accommodating and pleasant to her husband and well, though she had found it a ridiculously easy undertaking, there was no reason to arbitrarily make it harder.

  “Now, my lady, if you wouldst pour me more wine, I will fetch us a last bit of meat from the sideboard before leaving for the village.”

  “Leaving?” she echoed, surprised by the ripple of disappointment his statement provoked. True, he left her every day. Sometimes he went into town where she knew that as the lord of the holding and Master of Cabot Manor there were many things he needed to know about Trecombe.

  Oft times he and his new protégé, Keveran, spent the mornings on the second floor in a little used section of the manor where, from the poundings and occasional crash, she assumed Nicholas was tutoring the lad in swordplay. But usually, none of this occurred until after sexton. Mornings were hers.

  “I want to see if this tanner is fouling the water as the villagers contend or if, as he claims, the water runs as pure downstream from his shop as above.”

  He handed her his goblet and winked. Winked! Blood poured into her cheeks. She’d never been treated playfully before. She’d never been close enough to someone in either age or circumstance not to have one or both elements interfere with the relationship.

  But Nicholas was her equal, if not in birth, definitely in status. He could say things to her no other person dared. Such intimacy was intoxicating, freeing, and… And something she would have to do without, she forced herself to recall, fingering the vial of poison she’d secreted beneath her tunic. Nonchalantly, he rose to go to the carving table.

  Blast the man for providing her with so many opportunities to do him harm! It was almost as if he was daring someone to try to take his life. Had he no care for his person? Did he not realize that enemies lurked all about? That with the flick of her wrist she could empty this hideous elixir in his goblet and send him well and truly to his just reward?

  Only she didn’t want to send him anywhere. Not before lunch.

  She forced herself to recall all the reasons why Trecombe, St. Albion’s, and she were better off without her husband. But the only honest one she could come up with was that if something was not done soon, Sir Nicholas was going to impoverish them with his profligate ways. His years in that dungeon seemed to have bled from him all appreciation for the value of a coin.

  He ate apples fresh that should have been stored for winter. He’d sent a man to Glastonbury who’d returned with exotic spices such as ginger and cinnamon with which to flavor their food. The same man brought back the tapestries that now hung on the chamber walls, soaking up the cold and pleasing the eye.

  Jocelyn rotated her shoulders, working the twinge in her neck. The cold was helped greatly by the new hangings but a soft feather bed… Aye! That would be a luxury, indeed.

  She’d gifted the only one in the manor, despoiled as it was by the memory of the slatternly blond wench, to her husband. And while she had no regrets of that, she did regret there had been none to replace it. The pallet she lay on now was close to the cold floor, hard and mean. But beds, especially lofty, high feather beds, were prohibitively expensive. Even Nicholas would never waste money there.

  But he had ordered her dresses.

  Miserably, she studied her husband’s broad back. Wretched creature that she was, part of her wanted new gowns and fur-lined pelisses like the ladies from Teague Manor wore; wanted stockings to keep her legs warm; and candles, bright beautiful lights, to fill the halls.

  He’d brought those things.

  No. She reminded herself. He didn’t bring them. He simply took money she’d saved, money earmarked for the reliquary for St. Neot’s toe, and spent it on…on her.

  For, honesty compelled her to admit, he hadn’t spent it on himself. No fat destrier gobbled oats in her stable. No vain-glorious banners hung in the hall. No shiny new mail or freshly fashioned swords had appeared since his arrival.

  Everything he owned or bought or traded for he seemed content to share. Seemed. She must remind herself that it was young days yet, that Gerent had had occasional bouts of pleasantness. She frowned, disliking the comparison of Nicholas to Gerent. It felt too like betrayal. And there was no reason for her to feel that way. She’d betrayed no one. Yet.

  She looked up as Nicholas returned with a succulent slice of beef, the aroma of cloves hanging above it like incense, the opportunity to poison him lost. Happily, she regarded the plate he carried.

  Her eyelids narrowed in bliss and she inhaled. Spices. He loved sp
ices and had introduced them to her and now she loved them, too. Cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg were an indulgent revelation, a feast for the senses and a bounty for the palate. She’d never dreamed things could taste as pretty as their aroma, but they did.

  With one brow cocked inquiringly, Nicholas sawed off a piece of beef and speared it with the end of his knife. Enticingly, he dangled it before her mouth. She’d already eaten. To eat more would be gluttony.

  “My lady looks piqued,” he said, waving the meat nearer. “It would be a sin to waste this.”

  “It needn’t go to waste,” she answered faintly, trying not to lick her lips. “We could breakfast on the remains tomorrow.”

  He shrugged and popped the morsel into his own mouth, chewing thoroughly, savoring it. He did everything with such appreciation: eating, drinking, even the manner in which he listened was intent, paying full heed to what was said to him, giving the speaker a sense of importance.

  Aye, and the way he walked, too, with his shoulders held back, his dark face lifted to the sun, or the breeze, or even the shadows, seemed as if he was the recipient of favors received. He was a rare pleasure to watch move.

  He was also a conundrum and Jocelyn had learned to be wary of puzzles. In the past, the answers were invariably not to her liking. Most likely, Nicholas was simply being pleasant preparatory to demanding his connubial rights.

  In truth, it relieved her that he troubled himself over that which he could simply take. Gerent certainly never bothered to court his women. If that was what all this pleasantness was about.

  She’d begun to have her doubts. Because for eight nights running now, she’d lain awake on her pallet, stiff with an anticipation that had never been answered. Each night she’d prayed he would simply come in, do the deed, and be done with it, done with the act, done with the sweetening, done with the questions that he created simply by all his cosseting and spoiling of her.

  Od’s bodkin! Why couldn’t he just reveal himself as the man she’d found drunk and malodorous in her bed with another wench, not this solicitous giant with his cool composure and his overwhelming patience and the infrequent smile that caused her heartbeat to race and her skin to flush?

  Besides, the fact that he hadn’t come to her pallet was beginning to vex her with decidedly worldly speculation. What would it be like to be bedded by a creature so overtly masculine, so big and muscled?

  Maybe, she should offer what he didn’t demand? Surely, she owed him that. Hadn’t Father Timothy all but suggested it?

  It was this conjecture that stayed with her after Nicholas bid her a respectful adieu and went off to town. Jocelyn left the table and wandered, uncharacteristically vague in her destination and uncertain of her plans, finding as the hours passed and the day wore on that a terrible fascination had taken root in her imagination, one impossible to ignore.

  Finally, her thoughts chased her from her room and down into the kitchen where the servants had already begun preparing the evening meal. A pair of girls washed and peeled vegetables while a lad was already turning the haunch spitted over the fire in the hearth. The head of the kitchen, Gwen, stopped kneading the dark mass of bread on the big table and looked up. “Aye?” the older woman asked.

  She had no real reason to be here. The staff was well-trained and loyal and the weekly tallying of food stores already done. “I…I came to make certain there was enough to eat this evening. Last night, Sir Nicholas looked like he could have eaten more.”

  “Oh, aye,” Gwen said complacently, returning to her kneading. A smile turned her lips, even though her gaze was fixed deliberately on the bread dough. “Tha’ one is a man with an appetite to be sure. And with a hungry look about ‘im. But I’m not certain it’s food he pines after. Mayhap, you can satisfy him where my cooking can’t, Milady.”

  The girls tittered and Jocelyn, unwilling to let them see how their words brought the blood boiling to her cheeks, cleared her throat, nodded sharply, and spun around, fleeing the warm kitchen.

  A few moments later, she found herself walking toward the sea path. Often when Gerent had been alive, she’d sought refuge here above the sea cliffs, where seabirds wheeled through the mist and plumes of water erupted on the breakers far below.

  She had nearly reached the path when she spotted a lone figure standing atop a prominent boulder, one foot resting higher, his hand on his hip. At once, she recognized her husband. The wind plastered his shirt against his broad chest and set his cape swirling about his shoulders. He looked so very masculine, so strong and dauntless. Something inside of her yearned to go nearer and, because she mistrusted that impulse, she’d been about to disobey it and turn around when he spied her.

  “Jocelyn,” he called. “Come. Join me.”

  Hesitantly, she approached the base of the boulder. He walked to the edge and leaned down, holding out his hand. His smile was brilliant against his dark beard. “Here. Hold on to my wrists with both your hands.”

  She did so, and with no noticeable effort at all, he lifted her to his side and released her. At once she stumbled on the sloping surface and he caught her to his side. He was solid and big, his arm a steel band about her waist.

  “Careful,” he whispered against her temple, his breath warm and sweet. “I wouldn’t want to become a widower before I was a husband.”

  Her breathing stumbled as had her footing. His words too closely echoed her recent thoughts. What would it be like to be made love to by Sir Nicholas?

  She pulled away in confusion and he let her go.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He sighed, as if she’d disappointed him and then, smiled, biting back that disappointment. “I’m going to build a castle here,” he said.

  She stopped and stared at him. “A castle?” she asked disbelievingly. “Why? We’ve never been troubled by the barons. Indeed, few even know we exist.”

  He turned a troubled face toward her. “If there is one thing I have learned in my journeys, it is that what someone holds, no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential, others will want to take.

  “There are powers greater than barons, Jocelyn. Men who would steadily accrue loyalties and allegiances from all class and type of man, nobleman, merchant, and freeman. A time will come when we will be forced to choose between one great lord and another. We may not wish to make a choice, but we will be forced to it. And then…” He stopped and sighed again and this time his sigh was rife with weariness.

  “And then?” she prompted quietly.

  “Then I must be able to hold against those men that we will someday call enemies. We must be prepared.”

  He looked resolute but so saddened and troubled that before she realized what she had done, she touched her fingertips lightly to his cheek. “Then build your castle, Nicholas,” she said softly.

  She had never called him by his Christian name without his title attached. He gazed steadily into her eyes, communicating with her in ways she had never realized were possible. He turned his head slowly and pressed his lips to the tips of her fingers. His eyelids shut, the thick fringe of lash sweeping against his dark cheek.

  Her skin tingled and her pulse quickened. She felt her mouth grow moist and her lips part on a whisper of surprise. He stepped closer. His eyes opened, questioning. She did not have an answer. Not yet… Her hand dropped.

  “I…best leave. I have… I have duties to attend to.”

  “I would never have taken you for a coward, Jocelyn.”

  But she was a coward and they were standing in full sight of the manor and she was not yet ready to admit what she contemplated. Before he could react, she scrambled down off the boulder and started off at a brisk pace. He would probably follow her. Back to the manor. Up the stairs. To her room and from there? Her skin began to prickle all over again.

  Only when she’d gone a few dozen paces did she realize she didn’t hear his pursuit. Furtively, she glanced back over her shoulder. He was still standing where she’d left him, watching her wi
th an ironic smile on his darkly handsome face.

  Damnation!

  Back at the manor, the encounter with Nicholas provoked fleeting, unruly, and decidedly unholy imaginings. She tried earnestly to keep her thoughts pure, but the memory of his breadth and stature, his smile and his green eyes kept intruding until she finally gave up.

  To wonder about what sort of lover one’s husband might be was not unnatural, she told herself. She’d been a wife six years without having a wife’s knowledge. She had seen countless giggling and blushing girls turn into countless women, some whose eyes shone whenever their man was about, others wont to duck at the sight of anything that sprouted hair upon its chin. Jocelyn wanted to know why.

  She had no illusions about how she was viewed. Trecombe thought her a saint but she’d never desired sainthood. Sainthood had been foisted upon her by her convent training, her uncle’s depravity, and the wretchedness of the people she’d inherited.

  If she had wanted sainthood, her nature was more likely to have chosen a martial path to it, one with swords and confrontation and battles. She’d never have opted for sainthood via chastity.

  Yet, here she was, twenty-one years of age and still a maid. And decidedly not a saint, whatever Trecombe thought. Saints didn’t dwell on things like the size of their husbands’ hands or the oiled ease with which their hips moved when they walked, or the memory of their male organ.

  She did.

  And as the day turned into evening and her imaginings grew more fevered, frustration begat desperation. And desperation is the mother of sophistry.

  So that when Jocelyn considered it carefully, it became clear to her that Father Timothy had meant to address her unnatural state when he’d urged her to comfort Nicholas in every possible manner. No abbey wants an unnatural lady-lord as their patron, nor does a town wish to think its lady-lord an aberration and what was a wife who was a virgin, if not that?