by Claudia Dain
William, seeking her, appeared in the portal as silently as ever. Odd that it was William and not Father Godfrey that she was instantly aware of. His dark hair curled abundantly on his head; would it be soft or springy? Would it be as blue-black in the summer sun as it was in the winter fog? Catching her thoughts before they flew away with her, she laughed inwardly; it would be wiser to ask if his jaw would be as resolute and his eyes as penetrating six months hence. She did not know what she hoped for in answer to her unspoken question.
As William was coming to expect when he came upon her unexpectedly, he had eyes for none save her. He did not see the penitent pilgrim that Father Godfrey saw; he saw a strong woman, a woman in full command of herself and everyone else. But as cold as she seemed, she drew him in. It was folly—he knew it was—but she drew him to her as the earth draws the lightning bolt.
And then another thought struck him hard: she seemed ever to stand alone.
Godfrey broke the moment of intense contemplation between them. With a gesture, he welcomed William into the chapel, his expression unaccountably serious. Again, rising like the tides, the knowledge that something was amiss in Greneforde swept over him. The sensation never left him completely, but was only enhanced or subdued. The sensation was strong now.
"I am glad that you are both here, for there is something I would like to do before this day of your joining is over," Godfrey said.
Taking Cathryn's hand in his own, Godfrey held it tenderly, both hands surrounding hers as in a paternal caress; then he placed her hand in William's. Her husband's hand, far surpassing the priest's in both size and strength, engulfed hers so that all that was left visible was her protruding wrist.
Cathryn was not comforted.
But Godfrey spared her not a glance. His gaze—and it was a fixed gaze of serious intent—was reserved wholly for William.
"Remember you the scripture regarding how a husband should love his wife, William?"
William had not been expecting that, and it was a moment before he answered.
"Yea, Father, if you refer to Saint Paul's letter to the church at Ephesus, but now is not the time for one of your tests of my concentration and memory."
"'Tis more than that, William. I would hear you speak the words of our Lord concerning a husband's duty to his wife. I would wish for Lady Cathryn to hear them in your voice."
William searched Father Godfrey's face for an indication of where he was going with this odd request. He saw nothing there save earnestness. Cathryn was looking curiously at the priest, so she did not appear to have any clearer notion as to the cause. Normally William would have cheerfully and politely refused Godfrey's request, putting him off for another time, but today he had obtained a great prize after years of labor. He submitted to the priest with a smile. The sense of unease that he had had when first entering the chapel was waning and he was glad of it; he had Greneforde and he had Cathryn. What could be amiss?
"Yea, Father, I remember it, and if you seek proof I will gladly supply it."
William began, "'Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless.''' William stopped for breath and noticed that Cathryn had her hands clasped tightly in front of her gown and that she was staring wide-eyed and mute at Father Godfrey. Of course, that irritated him. What was wrong with the woman that she always looked to the priest and never to the husband God and king had given her? Eager to finish, William continued at a faster pace.
"'In this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. After all, no one ever hated his own body, but he feeds and cares for it, just as Christ does the church—for we are members of His body. For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh.'"
"Thank you, William," Father Godfrey interrupted as William stopped again for breath.
Cathryn's cheeks were flushed with color, and, though she had not looked at him since he began his recitation, William was enchanted by the sight of her. Perhaps Godfrey's request of a recitation of Holy Writ had not been ill founded; saying the familiar words had put him in mind of the pleasures of the marriage bed. Come morning, he was certain that he would make his wife's cheeks flush with becoming regularity. The longer he watched her, with her breath coming in near gasps, the more certain he was that Cathryn's blood would be warmed in bed.
"That is Holy Scripture?" she said softly, her eyes locked with Father Godfrey's.
"Yea, Cathryn," he answered seriously.
"How comes he to know it?"
More insulted at being so ignored than he cared to examine, William answered for himself with as much chivalry as he could summon.
"Nay, do not ask, Lady Cathryn, for this shepherd of God drives his lambs with a will. You would faint away if I related the hours he spent in drilling me and my comrades on the particulars of God's word, as I near fainted with weariness when he poured the words through me."
"'Twas not words, but the spirit of God that poured through you, William," Father Godfrey corrected pleasantly.
Cathryn had hardly looked at William as he spoke, which did nothing to sweeten his mood.
"You speak the word of God at... open fires?" she asked incredulously. God's ways were inscrutable to all save the clergy, God's anointed, fit for the people only in the solemnity of the mass... or so she had been taught.
Again William answered for Father Godfrey.
"Father Godfrey, in his youth," he said with a smile, "spent considerable time with Abelard."
At this piece of illuminating news, Cathryn could only stare blankly.
"You have not heard of Abelard?" Godfrey asked in surprise.
"Nay, I have not."
"Perhaps of his Heloise?"
"William! She was not 'his' Heloise, but the prioress of Argenteuil and highly respected..."
"Yea, Father"—William smiled cheerfully—"yet the tale of their love has already passed beyond the border of France..."
"And now into the heart of England," Godfrey finished.
William bowed deeply and murmured, "Your pardon. Father." The effect was completely ruined by his beaming smile.
Too much information coming at her too quickly, that was what was wrong with her. Abelard and Heloise, who was or was not "his." All that about being blameless and clean, washed and spotless—that was what had her pulse shooting through her body like a falling star. Who would have thought that a well-seasoned warrior would spout Holy Scripture like a bubbling fount? There was too much to absorb; that was why she could not seem to breathe. It was the power and surprise of those words from God in heaven to man below, for she had never imagined that the king of heaven would instruct that a husband love his wife's body as his own. How could William love her body and cherish her and even become "one flesh"? It was impossible. Impossible for her, and so impossible for him. She had to clear her mind of those words and the love and security they seemed to promise, for that promise was not for her. If she could bury those words deeply enough they would not entangle her and steal her resolve, her will, her control.
If William would not smile again, she just might survive.
Of her inner turmoil, the men saw just a rippling on the surface of the waters, which was quickly calmed to a glassy stillness. William did not let it discourage him; he had seen the fire in her cheeks. Her body coursed with blood, just as the rest of God's creations, and he was confident that he could make it rise again, with sweeter results.
"Supper will be called, my lord," Cathryn said meekly, then proceeded them out of the chapel and down the stairs, obviously fully expecting them to follow. They did. But William did not do so without a scowl. His wife was ever quick with her declarations and even quicker to expect his obedience; it was what happened whe
n a woman was not wed at a younger age. But she was not too old to learn; nor was he too old to teach her.
Supper had been laid: wine, plover, bread, and cheese—light, but pleasant. What was less pleasant was the atmosphere.
With the waning of the day, the servants had become more anxious than they had been upon his arrival. It was a curious response. Why the tension now? Now, after he had been welcomed by the lady and was now her husband, after the bridal banquet, meager as it was, had been eaten, and the mass read? Yet he could feel their tension, their... fear, it almost was, and he could feel their eyes upon him as he supped. Looking up, he caught John the Steward staring at him. The servant glanced quickly away, but the sense of being watched would not leave him.
William trusted his senses.
Did they worry that he would rage over the lack of dishes at his table? He did not hold them accountable. The poverty and struggle of Greneforde was obvious, though he did not want them to know that it was so easy to read. All men had pride. It was most likely that they feared he would slash their pride over the care they had given to his new home. Any words he offered on the matter would only defeat his purpose. He could only wait until they knew him better; then they would know his mind and be at ease.
Now, Cathryn... she showed as much anxiety as a cloudless day. Would that she had a little more of their emotion and they had less. He watched her as she ate lightly of the trencher they shared. For a woman who chimed the dinner hour as she did, she ate remarkably little. A small bite of cheese washed down with a great gulp of wine. A mouthful of bread and a healthy sip of wine. The longer he watched, the more he concluded that what she ate served only to bob around like gulls on the great ocean of wine she had swallowed. But she was a beauty. She also appeared to hold her wine well, sluggish wine that it was, and so full of grit that he used his teeth to strain away the worst of it.
When Cathryn had drunk her fourth cup, William could no longer ignore the uneasy atmosphere in the hall. Knowing that he would get no satisfaction from his wife, he turned to the man whose company she sought above all others, the man whose loyalty to him was beyond question: Father Godfrey.
"I ask you plainly," he began softly, "and I will have a plain answer: what has Cathryn said to you?"
Godfrey, in earnest prayer since Cathryn's third cup of wine, turned stricken eyes to William. This was not a conversation he wanted to have; in fact, he had been praying that his effort in the chapel had bridged the gap between them. That William sensed the tension surrounding them did not surprise him; William was too astute a warrior to miss it. That Cathryn was losing herself in wine surprised him, for she had so far displayed courageous self-control; yet, knowing now the whole tale, he should rather be surprised at her calmness. These circular thoughts rolled like troubled snakes in his mind so that he could only stare at William in something like shock.
"Does she plan how to worm her way out of the marriage before it is consummated?" William asked under his breath, his eyes lit with suppressed fire.
Relieved that he could answer truthfully, Godfrey answered, "Nay, William. She is not planning anything to endanger the marriage. Lady Cathryn is well set to obey the king's command. I put the three questions to her and she answered well; she is old enough to marry at ten and eight years, she has no parent or relative to hinder her union with you..."
"And the third requisite? Does she give her free consent to this marriage?"
Godfrey nodded readily, hoping to cool William's anxiety. "Yea, she has spoken her consent freely. The marriage is valid."
That, at least, set William's mind at rest, if only for the moment. The Church stipulated that unless a woman on the brink of marriage answered all three questions with the right answers, the marriage would not occur. It was a worthy attempt at preventing a young maid from being forced into a marriage not of her liking. But still, Father Godfrey was radiating waves of tension.
"Yet something regarding her troubles you. Father." Striking with blind accuracy, William asked, "Is it the girl's bedding?"
Father Godfrey jumped as if struck and looked at William with wide eyes.
William only laughed lightly and patted his old friend on the arm.
"Worry not, Father. I shall be gentle with her. Lady Cathryn shall not receive rough handling from me."
Godfrey pounced on those words as a hunting hound on a hare.
"Woman is the weaker vessel, William; I am heartened that you remember it."
William turned upon hearing those words to find that Cathryn had risen and was making her way to the stair. The time for retiring had come. Her servants—nay, his now—made way for her, their eyes never leaving her. With measured step and head held high, she left the hall, her bliaut a heavy white wake rippling behind her. William had no desire to argue with Father Godfrey, but he thought his wife as weak as iron.
* * *
Cathryn brushed aside the drape concealing the door and entered the lord's chamber. The bed had been hung in cadis edged with silk banding of scarlet, amaranth, and aureate since she had last seen it. It was a bed that spoke eloquently of housing a wealthy lord. It was a bed to keep the warmth of fire and body. It was finer now than when her mother and father had lain in it. Marie, who had been waiting nervously for her since the beginning of the last meal of the day, hurried over and began to help her disrobe. There was enough daylight left that no candles were yet needed, but just barely. The sun sent its rays upward to slice through the bare treetops across the river, creating a pattern on the rough ceiling of the room. Dusk was approaching and subduing the harsh contours of the sleeping land and bleeding all color until every tree and bush and hillock was masked in murky gray. With full dark would come the bridal bedding.
"He has dressed the bed," Cathryn said.
"Aye, his squire was sent to see to it," Marie remarked. "What color is that called, that one that is more blooded than violet?"
"It is called amaranth," Cathryn answered.
"Lord William has noble tastes."
"Lord William has rich tastes," Cathryn corrected.
"Did he send you up?" Marie whispered sympathetically.
"Nay, he did not," Cathryn answered bluntly, then added wryly, "but I could read him easily enough."
"Ah, lady," Marie said with poorly sheathed pity, "it is this moment that I have feared since we first heard of this arranged marriage. Your bravery has left me breathless and terrified, for though the day brought the marriage, the night brings the marriage bed."
It may have been the large quantity of wine she had drunk with her scanty meal, or it may have been the tattered fingers of sunlight retreating across the room, but Cathryn could not listen to any more of Marie's well-meaning murmurs of sympathy. Her nerves were strung as tight as lute strings; now she needed the strength of calm reserve more than ever on this long day. It would not do. She must get Marie to speak of something else but the coming bedding.
"'Tis not bravery to obey a king, Marie, and that is all I have done. But tell me—I trust you have spent some of your time this day prowling the shadows. Do you know how William le Brouillard came by his name?"
If it had been Marie's wedding night, the last person in the world she would have wished to speak of would be her warrior husband, who might at any moment come bounding up the stairs, but she was not Lady Cathryn. If her lady wished to know more of this man she was wed to, then Marie would tell her all she knew and then keep her ear to the ground for more.
"'Tis said that he is silent in battle, not voicing cry as other knights do to heat their blood and strike fear into the enemy. Also," she added hesitantly, not comfortable with the subject matter, "he comes to envelop and encompass his opponent as silently and completely as the fog enshrouds the land."
"So they call him 'the Fog,''' Cathryn said softly; then she added under her breath, "I had thought it might have been for the color of his eyes."
Marie offered nothing more, sensing that Cathryn was lost in thought, but what those thou
ghts were, she could not say. Lifting her head suddenly, Cathryn spoke again.
"But tell me more. Surely you know more than I, for none of his people would dare to speak to me of him as they would speak among themselves, and I would know all I can of him."
Marie did know more, but it was not information she thought Lady Cathryn would be cheered to know. She had not come by her knowledge of William le Brouillard in any straightforward fashion; she had heard bits and pieces as she kept to the corners, and overheard even more as his men settled themselves in Greneforde. In truth, she had been nearly caught more than once, but she had escaped detection. If being prideful was not a mortal sin, she would have been proud of her ability to hide in plain view.
"Most of the talk was of his fighting skill, my lady."
"To be expected among knights, surely," Cathryn answered.
"But I heard little of—"
"Tell me," Cathryn pressed quietly. "There is nothing that you could say that would not be of keen interest to me."
"His fighting skill was spoken of most highly," Marie began hesitantly. "He has fought in the Holy Land and in many of the lands between here and there, and was always the victor. It is for this reason that King Henry values him so highly, that and for his loyalty." Seeing that she had Cathryn's rapt attention, Marie continued with more confidence. "His family lands, in Normandy, have been lost to him through some misstep of his father's. His childhood was spent wandering, and he has been land hungry since his accolade. The king knew this; in fact, I gathered that anyone who has spent even a little time with him would know his hunger for land of his own. Greneforde was gifted to him for his service to King Henry."
Marie had said nothing that Cathryn had not known or astutely guessed; in truth, his personal history was not unlike many, yet to hear the words—to hear that Greneforde was gifted to him—struck a nerve that she could little soothe.
"So," she began with thinly concealed pain, "Greneforde was given to him, and with Greneforde comes Cathryn."
