by Claudia Dain
Her hands clasped in front of her, the image of feminine submission, Cathryn responded softly.
"Yea; I, Cathryn, take thee for my husband."
Cathryn was his.
Father Godfrey produced a ring of gold studded with rubies and topaz that caught and held the flickering light of the candles.
"May the creator and preserver of all men, may the giver of grace and eternal life cause His blessing to descend on this ring."
William took the ring from the priest's hand and put it successively upon three fingers of Cathryn's right hand, gently pulling her clasped hands free of each other, and said each time, "In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."
Taking her left hand solemnly in his two large, callused ones, he looked into her eyes upon saying the final words of the contract. Dark brown eyes absorbed the glitter of gray as he said, "With this ring I thee espouse." Cathryn felt her stomach lurch.
His voice husky now, he continued, "With my body I thee honor." The stillness within her shattered like icicles when they struck ground.
"With my goods I thee endow."
Unable to look away from him, she could only try to recapture the peace of rigid control.
Then, with Father Godfrey leading them and Rowland following, they crossed the solar silently and climbed the stair to the chapel one floor above. Of all the rooms in the tower, it alone had the luxury of glass. Reaching the center of the nave, Cathryn felt William's gentle tug on her hand and then they lay prostrate, the extended hands of Father Gregory held over them.
The wooden floor was cold and rough against her cheek, and she welcomed the sensation. She wanted to block it all out: the poverty of Greneforde, the hunger, the fact that her home had been given to a stranger and that stranger was now her husband. But she couldn't. Emotions long suppressed rolled through her prostrate form until she thought she would be sick. This man would rule her, her life lay in his hands by the authority of both God and king. If she displeased him, he could beat her, imprison her, starve her. And she would displease him, of that there was no doubt at all. The priest's next words caught her off guard.
"May God bless you, and Himself teach you to worship one another in your bodies and in your souls."
Had God blessed her with William le Brouillard as husband? She had said as much to Marie and John and all the rest, but in her heart of hearts, did she believe it? Would God, indeed, instruct her in worshiping her husband—for he was husband now—with her body? How could her body, the house of her pain, be used in worship? It could not be, yet the priest had said so. The tremors that had begun with William's words rocked against her lungs and all her inward parts. Standing with William's aid, she clasped her hands tightly and stilled the tides that pounded against her. She was Cathryn of Greneforde and she would not falter.
Standing on William's right, close enough to his hand that she could almost detect the blood flowing through his veins, she heard the mass for the first time as a married woman.
And then it was finished, or she thought it was. William advanced to the altar, his black hair coldly shining in the faint light admitted through the glass above them. He was very tall. Why had she not noticed that before? He was beautifully clothed, his cloak falling smoothly from wide shoulders. She fingered the coarse texture of her wool bliaut; it was hardly fine enough for a wedding, yet it was the best she had.
William leaned down and received the kiss of peace from Father Godfrey, who was no small man himself. Tall and broad he was, yet not a bullish figure, but wide at the shoulder and narrow at the hip with thick arms and long legs... Why had she not seen the full measure of this man before? Because his cold gray eyes had captured her, she answered herself; his cold eyes and his winning smile and his black hair and... She was doing it again and she must not. Not now. Not when he was walking toward her, his eyes both solemn and joyous. And then she remembered. He would transmit the kiss of peace to her!
William towered over her in no way menacingly, for he was there to give the kiss of peace, after all; yet the shadow of the cross fell between and over them and she shivered. Smiling encouragingly, as though to soothe a frightened hound, William placed his hands on her shoulders. His movements were slow and deliberate and suffused with gentleness, and in spite of that, she jumped at first contact. He must think her doltish, she scolded herself silently. Breathing in slowly, she raised her face to accept his kiss.
It was a chaste kiss and meant to be nothing more.
It was a chaste kiss, truly, yet too long and too warm and too... close. His breath was pleasantly warm and sweet, his lips firm and soft, his chin rough against hers. She did not like to be touched. She did not like the way she felt physically surrounded by him. She did not like his breath mixing with hers. She did not want to feel his body press against hers so that she could smell the essence of him. She did not want him to touch her. Breaking away, she ended it.
And now, surely, the ceremony was complete.
Father Godfrey smiled warmly at her. William's comrade, Rowland, clapped her husband on the back once and smiled with quiet humor. She watched them congratulate William, feeling for just a moment like an outsider at her own wedding, and then all three turned to her, expectantly.
Nodding firmly, she said, "The meal awaits," and without waiting for them, hurried to the stairs.
Rowland looked askance at William as he watched his new wife rush from the room.
"'Tis an efficient wife you have, William, and one who does not let emotion rule the day."
Pulling his eyes away from the spot where he had last seen Cathryn, William spared Rowland a glance.
"Yea, and what man would not wish for such a wife?" he asked, his voice unnaturally even.
"None in this room, surely," Rowland agreed pleasantly.
Nodding in unintentional mimicry of his wife, William marched to the stair and quietly descended with Rowland and Godfrey just a few steps behind. The meal was, in fact, waiting for them. Ulrich had produced the gold plate, at William's direction, and it added a richness to the meal that the food alone could not provide. The hall seemed to shine with the gleam of metal; the table glinted with silver, pewter, and gold, and the knights who were sworn to William cast their own dull sparkle with sleeves of mail and burnished swords.
If Cathryn was startled to find armed men at her wedding feast, she gave no outward indication of it, and that only tilted the scales of suspicion against her. If she was innocent of treachery, she would be insulted. If she was guilty, she would be dismayed and try to hide it.
Fie on wives, he growled silently; who could read the heart of a woman? Cathryn was a master of contained emotion, or perhaps possessor of none. No, he was being harsh in his judgment. She was anxious and eager for the meal to come off as planned; that much was obvious, and was so typically womanish. She stood off to one side, head-to-head with the steward, pointing and directing the stream of servants as they entered with their hot burden of food. And suddenly she was directing him.
"Sit, my lord. You have had a long journey in wet weather; sit and eat."
It was a kind offer, yet an offer he could not take. Cathryn was lady as he was lord. He would not sit at table without her. And, as eager as he was to sit at the lord's place in Greneforde Tower, he would not take that place; she would have to lead him to it and give it to him of her own will. He not only wanted her people to see her relinquish Greneforde in this public way; he wanted her to personally hand him Greneforde.
But she had already turned away, fully expecting him to do as she had bidden. Truly, the lady had been too long without a lord.
How many minutes had passed before she looked and saw that neither he, nor Rowland, nor Godfrey had moved a step deeper into the hall was uncertain, but the look of surprise on her face was one he would not forget. It was the first glimpse of any emotion that he had seen her display in all the hours he had known her.
"Is there aught amiss, my lord?" she asked quickly, her anxiety cle
ar.
"Yea," he answered softly, "we wait on thee, lady."
"There is no need," she assured him. "I am but seeing to—"
"Lady," he cut her off, his voice deep as it rumbled past his throat. "I wait on thee."
For Cathryn, the only gleam, the only glitter in the capacious hall originated in William's silver eyes. The air was charged between them. She could feel the force of his will upon her, even in the crowded room that had of a sudden grown very quiet. And she knew that she would do as he asked. No, he did not ask. He willed. But he was her husband and her lord and she would submit with good grace. In this.
And with graceful movements she drew near to him, her steps suddenly loud in the quiet hall. John came to her rescue when he called for the salt. The noise level escalated to its previous and normal level as the servants again jostled each other moving to and fro from the hall, down the stairs, to the kitchen and back again.
He held his hand out to her and with hardly a shiver she placed her hand in his. His was warm and dry while hers felt cool and damp, but no matter, the table was before them and he did not hesitate to lead her to it. Such a fuss over her accompanying him to the high table; she had scarcely thought a fighting knight would trouble himself over so small a detail, but he was also unlike any knight she had ever known. He followed the code of etiquette and chivalry to the letter. He was an oddity in her experience, which was admittedly limited.
William was pleased—no, more than pleased that Cathryn had not balked in seating him at the high table in the lord's chair. What pleased him just as much, though he hardly spared a thought for it, was that she had rushed to his side at his request and was now seated placidly to his left. To his mind, they presented a united front to the people of Greneforde, both hers and his, and solidarity was his goal in image as well as fact. The contracts had been signed, the marriage vows spoken and witnessed, and Greneforde secured. Only one thing remained: consummation.
His loins burned at the word.
He had not expected that, but Cathryn had been a surprise. She was warm beauty and chill manner, delicate of bone and firm of will; he was drawn to her even as he felt her withdrawal. He wanted her and did not want to, sensing that she did not want him.
It was an entirely new experience for him.
He turned to look at her finely drawn profile, the burning in his loins clearly revealed in the gray sparks of his eyes. And Cathryn, feeling his gaze, turned and was impaled on the cold heat of those silver eyes. It was a look she recognized all too well. Without any marked effort, Cathryn retreated even more deeply into calm composure; the outer layers of her thoughts and wit folded inward as a turtle into its shell.
Married less than an hour and knowing her for less than a day, William still had no difficulty in seeing that she had withdrawn from him more fully, yet he could not reason why. She was safely married, her holding secure now that it was in his grip, and he was not unpleasant to look upon... Why should she not be gladdened by what this day had brought to Greneforde?
Lifting the goblet, he carefully raised it not to his own lips, but to hers. It would have been expected of him if she were a woman unknown to him; that she was his wife—and his wife of just minutes—made his act of chivalry imperative. Also, he would win a smile from her. His vanity demanded it. It was enough to sour the meal to have her behave so churlishly at the celebration of their joining. Cathryn reacted as if dazed. The look in her brown eyes labeled him either a lunatic or an imbecile. He was neither; at least he had not been before meeting her.
Smiling, his manner cajoling, he murmured for her ears alone, "I would serve you, Cathryn. 'Tis the French way, if not the English."
When she only stared into his eyes like a bayed deer, he added, "I would honor you, lady."
To his relief, she allowed him to give her a drink from the cup they would share for the feast. He did her honor, yet her manner did not warm to him. Taking back the goblet from her lips, he held her eyes with his while he drank from the portion of the cup that she had heated with her lips. She paled and stared at the hands she held so rigidly in her lap, the jeweled ring he had given her twinkling joyously against the white of her gown. It was the only thing about her that did shine with goodwill. Truthfully, she perplexed him.
"By law she is no more a maid," Rowland said softly into William's ear. "She now must wait until day's end for the fact of that to take place."
Of course. He was an imbecile not to think that she would be uneasy about the bridal bed. He suddenly almost felt pity for her. The day had a different look when seen from a maid's sheltered eyes. She was wed to a stranger, though that was not so unusual, yet hers had not been handpicked by a loving parent. Her betrothed had been decided by an unfamiliar sovereign with martial haste. It would be enough to cast any young girl's emotions adrift.
"Come, Cathryn," he said gently, his sympathy aroused now to mingle with his desire. "I have cut the finest portion for you." And he held it in his hand before her mouth. Her mouth remained firmly closed as the clear, red juice of the meat ran down the side of his hand. "'Tis a fine bridal feast, lady; I would have you taste of it."
Hesitantly, reluctantly, she opened her mouth to him, and as the meat grazed her lips, her tongue flicked out to meet it, and William knew that he had never fed a lady with such sensuous overtones. Yet such had not been his intention. Until now.
"Yea, Cathryn," he whispered encouragingly, "'twas moist and tender, was it not? The juice ran freely and fulfilled a hunger that grows keener with being fed, did it not? Do you desire more?"
"Nay," she answered abruptly when she had swallowed, almost choking.
"Nay?" He smiled slowly. "You eat sparingly, lady. I would have a wife with healthy appetite and feed her hunger till we are both satisfied."
Cathryn was breathing rapidly through her mouth. She was certain that if he did not stop staring at her with those eyes, those piercing steel eyes, that she was going to vomit all over the fine linen of the table. All his talk of meat and juice and hunger... It had her stomach in a coil. It would be his just due if she did spill her stomach in his lap. A fine bridal feast this would be then.
John saved her in the only way he could: he provided a much-needed distraction. Coming in close to William, he poured more wine, lifting his arm to just above William's face. The look of repugnance that swiftly crossed her husband's features restored her composure entirely; actually, it was an effort not to laugh. John took his time with the wine, moving his arms and clothing around much more than necessary for that simple act. Cathryn was ready for William's remark the moment John left the vicinity of the table.
"There is," he began, looking almost accusingly at her, "an odor of the unwashed mingling with that of the meal. Do you agree?"
What a fine knight she was married to, to find such distaste in a little healthy sweat. But she did not say so; nor did she reveal the direction of her thoughts in the expression on her face. Looking blandly at her husband, she answered, "The preparation of the bridal feast has quite consumed what time they had. Particularly with the delay," she added pointedly.
William did not pursue it. Instead he studied her face. It was a beautiful face, certainly, but without any warmth or sparkle in the eyes. Well, that would change, and right quickly. Cathryn was terrified of the bedding to come; once that was behind her, she would bloom like any other woman. Fear ruled her; he was sure of it.
Unfortunately, he was quite right.
Chapter 5
Cathryn stepped out of the small room that jutted off the chapel, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of the heavy wool she wore. It had been too long since she had spoken with a priest of God, and she felt better for it. At least for the moment.
Looking up at the simple cross, she remembered Father Godfrey's words. She and le Brouillard were one in God's sight; it was not such an unpalatable thought. Truly, she was bone weary of carrying the weight of all Greneforde on her shoulders. It would be good to share the burden and the decision
making. And William could travel the distance to Blythe Tower as she could not; who would attack a knight of such strength? Blythe Tower could be just a mass of rubble after so many— She pulled her scattering thoughts back. It did her no good to think of Blythe Tower, yet it was time to know just what remained and what could be salvaged. Having William le Brouillard as husband would be good for Greneforde.
Cathryn suddenly had a vision of his face as he had looked down upon her from the back of his warhorse; a shiver trailed down her spine that she struggled to control. He was a man of high pride; there was no disputing that. The priest had not even pretended to. Father Godfrey had also said that William was a godly knight with a keen devotion to God's inspired word and manifest will. There was comfort in those words, for was God not known for His forgiveness and mercy?
And His righteous anger?
She could not allow her thoughts to travel there. Truly, she had never had such trouble controlling her thoughts until the arrival of William le Brouillard. What was it about him that weakened her willpower? Whatever it was, it was most annoying. She did not think it unlikely that he did so on purpose; he was French and they were an obdurate race.
Father Godfrey had been kind and comforting. He knew her husband well and had not lost faith in him even after hearing her confession, although his own composure had slipped for just a moment. Shock had been in his eyes, swiftly drowned by compassion. He was a kind man. Surely, if her husband had been in the company of such a priest, having been instructed in spiritual matters by him for many years, surely some of that kindness had taken root in him? It was a logical, if unconvincing, argument, but it was useless to ponder it. All would be well because all must be well. The words comforted her, for she lived in a world not of should but of must.
Godfrey left the tiny room with slow steps that stopped completely upon seeing Lady Cathryn standing alone in the chapel. Dressed as she was in white, with hands clasped before her in meek supplication, she looked the penitent pilgrim. He thought it a particularly apt comparison.
