by Claudia Dain
"'His mouth is full of sweetness. And he is wholly desirable,'" Cathryn quoted, pulling him down to her, kissing his throat and his jaw until she felt a tremor of passion pass through him.
"Cathryn, wait," William said in a throaty whisper. She was undoing him with her words and with her touch.
"'May he kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!''' she said against the curl of his ear, his black hair brushing against her face. "'For your love is better than wine.''' Her hand trailed down his torso to the pulsing evidence of his arousal. With gentle fingers, she rubbed the tip, as he rubbed the turgid thrust of her nipple.
With near savage force, he plunged his tongue into her mouth with all the thrusting beat he longed to visit elsewhere on her body. She would not relent in her attack upon his senses; she traced the length of him to cup the sac beneath and then ran both hands down the column of one leg, pulling him down to her with ever-increasing force and urgency.
"Cathryn," he whispered, his eyes alight with a holy fire.
"William," she answered with a smile, her voice seductively low, "I wait for thee."
With a laugh that was more a bark, he answered, "Then wait no longer."
William lifted his wife from her bath. He did not take her to the bed. He sat himself down and sat her atop him, her knees drawn up to his chest, the water sloshing over the sides of the small tub. It was a most odd position. But it worked.
She should have known that William le Brouillard would not relinquish his daily bath.
* * *
William loved the scarlet on her. He loved it so much that she had some difficulty keeping it on.
Cathryn could not have been more pleased.
It had taken voices of complaint raised to a near shout from the hall below, voices weakening from lack of food, or so it was claimed, to rouse them from their chamber and propel them below. The men who followed William and the people who served Greneforde stopped all activity to watch them enter. They had waited long to see her in the scarlet acca, and not a man or woman present felt the wait had been in vain.
Cathryn glowed in her scarlet and amber as brightly as a torch that fit one hand only, the hand of the man who held her elbow softly as he led her to the high table. They seemed of a piece, Greneforde's new lord and his lady, as if woven from a single thread, and woe to the man who dared raise a knife to cut them in twain.
William wore his bridal finery of white samite and gray to compliment Cathryn's brilliance, the ruby at his shoulder glowing hotly in the flickering light of the hall. They looked as they should have on the day of their marriage, clothed in richness and suffused with contentment at their state. William presented an image of cool strength to Cathryn's surging warmth as they moved through the hall. In some way common only to the married, they had changed positions.
William would always be courtly in his ways, that would not change, but there was something more guarded in his manner, as if the walls of his personal defenses had been raised to a more forbidding height. His gray eyes were pleasant as he surveyed the hall and his hand light upon Cathryn's arm, but his manner was one of battle readiness and tightly harnessed caution.
Cathryn seemed not aware of any change in her husband, the change in herself so overwhelmed her. Gone was the woman of cool regard and icy stillness. She looked upon the throng awaiting them with a smile teasing the corners of her mouth and her dark eyes shining merrily; she was amused by them and their faces of expectation. She was amused and confident and secure in all things of late. William was warm, very warm, toward her; he more than liked her in the scarlet, and the world was once again the safe place it had been before the death of her mother and the departure of her father. And if anyone heard a cry coming from the lord's chamber in the night, she would not hide her head in shame; rather, she would need to struggle to hide her smile of supreme satisfaction. Yes, William was pleased with her efforts on his behalf; the fact that they had delayed the serving of the meal by an hour was the clearest testimony to how well pleased he was.
It was a happy meal with smiles all around, and made happier still by the return of Rowland and Kendall.
"The sojourners return!" William called in greeting, beckoning them to the table with a wave of his hand. "Sit and eat and relate to me the success of your journey."
Rowland knew well that William spoke only of their reaching Henry; the news, or lack of it, concerning Lambert's whereabouts would wait for a room that housed fewer ears. But there was more to tell concerning William's hold on Greneforde than William knew.
"Our thanks," Rowland said simply.
William waited for Rowland, or Kendall at the very least—for who could muzzle him?—to relate that they had reached the king and told him that Greneforde was safe in his possession. Rowland's black eyes over the rim of his cup told him much.
Kendall's silence told him the rest. None but the most disastrous news could subdue Kendall.
William cast his eyes toward Cathryn, knowing that she sensed the disharmony and willing her not to. In vain. She was aware of the changed atmosphere as a bird is aware of a coming storm. Clasping one of the hands that she held so tightly in her lap, William lifted it to the table and caressed it there, in plain sight of all. Whatever would come, they would face together. Never again would he allow her to retreat into the cocoon that had sheathed her for so long, no matter how she longed to fly there. His winning of her warmth had been a battle too long waged to relinquish even one foot of ground, and though he feared the effect Rowland's words would have on her, he would not run from them. Nor would he allow her to run.
"You found Henry?" William asked bluntly, unwilling to delay the inevitable with pointless parrying.
"Aye, William," Rowland answered. "Henry was found."
And Lambert was not, William guessed, stroking with gentle familiarity the softness of Cathryn's hand.
"You were gone long," William commented, reaching for his cup. "Had he traveled far afield from London?"
"Nay, he was in London still, against all expectation, for we covered the leagues between here and there as does the wolf seeking prey, crisscrossing our own tracks," Kendall supplied, annoyance clear in his voice.
Rowland kept his dark eyes firmly on the plate in front of him; there was no need to explain this method of travel to William. His purpose would be well understood. But not what had been found; that William would not understand unless it was spelled out for him, and that Rowland was not willing to do in the presence of William's lady. Not so Kendall.
Kendall had hardly turned his gaze from Cathryn since entering the hall. She was different. He did not know if she was different in fact or only because he saw her with different eyes. Cathryn of Greneforde glowed with suppressed sensuality; her beauty was a beacon fire that was fueled by the lustrous garments that sheathed her. He could well believe, looking at her now, that she had lain with a man not her husband.
She was not fit for William le Brouillard.
"The king ushered us into his chamber as soon as our feet touched the earth," Kendall said.
"You received a warm welcome," William noted.
Kendall smiled coldly. "Nay, not warm, only quick."
Rowland cast a darkly forbidding glance at Kendall and then at William, his eyes beseeching. William returned the look with flinty eyes and raised Cathryn's fingers to his mouth for a chivalrous kiss. She shivered noticeably and reached with her free hand for her wine. William did not stop her.
For all his warmth of expression toward his wife, his manner was as cold as Rowland had ever seen it. William was set for mortal battle, and if Kendall did not watch his tongue, he would feel the force of William's outrage to the full.
Kendall, too immersed in his own outrage, did not note William's.
"Drink, Kendall; your journey has been long," William commanded. "There is time to tell of your audience with King Henry. We are just at the first course."
Kendall obeyed, reluctantly, and while his mouth was thus engaged, Rowlan
d spoke.
"The king was most eager to hear of your possession of Greneforde."
"And most pleased?" William asked with cool detachment.
Kendall plunked his goblet down with force, spilling some of the wine on the cloth. "Nay, for there—"
"Drink, Kendall!" Rowland ordered in a voice quite unlike him.
Startled, Kendall was silenced. But he did not drink.
"You informed Henry that Greneforde is mine?" William asked, his eyes glinting with silver sparks.
"Yea," Rowland answered simply, willing to let William control the conversation. Willing Kendall out of it.
"He knows that Cathryn is mine?"
Cathryn's shivering diminished upon those forcefully spoken words. Could aught harm her if she was so firmly William's? No, for he had delivered her from the black pit of her sin with his tender devotion; none could harm her, and she knew that none could take her from him. Unless it was the king.
"He was told of your marriage," Rowland answered precisely. Too precisely.
"And his reaction to this news that his orders had been carried out to the letter?" William pressed.
"Another has laid claim to Greneforde," Kendall blurted out, his eyes alighting on Cathryn, "and Greneforde's lady."
William kissed Cathryn's hand again with all the tenderness and intimacy of the bedchamber, breathing his warmth into the heart of her hand. He held her eyes with his own as he asked, "Who has dared to claim my lady?"
"Lambert of Brent," Kendall said with some satisfaction, watching Cathryn for her reaction.
He was disappointed, for all he saw was the Cathryn that he had always seen: a cold woman, icy in her manner, distant in her bearing. The doors of her warmth slammed shut with the mention of Lambert. She was no more William's wife; she was Cathryn of Greneforde, and the possession of either was in dispute.
The next course was forgotten in the hall as all eyes watched the play of emotion at the high table. Cathryn in her icy majesty was well known to them, and they all, Marie included, sorrowed at her return. Rowland, so quiet, looked at William with eyes so large and so black that they seemed unfathomable. And William. They had never seen him so. He was as quiet as the mist. There was no shout from his lips, no cry of denial or rage, no demands or questions. He was as chill as the winter dawn, as still as the frozen lake; he was a warrior. And he was seeking his adversary.
"Greneforde is mine," he stated with whispered force. "Cathryn is mine. There are no other claims."
Kendall, finally, sensed that he had misstepped and was silent.
"The king would hear you say it, though I said the same in your name at court," Rowland said softly. "The king has summoned you."
"Then he shall see me and hear me repeat what has already been declared. I will not relinquish what I hold," William said calmly, squeezing Cathryn's chill hand as he looked out on the faces of the people in the hall. It was a vow, a promise, to them all. He would not leave her or them. He would return when this threat against his possession had been canceled.
"The king waits in London. It would be best to leave quickly," Rowland suggested.
"Yea, I will depart on the morrow. I would have this settled," William agreed.
"Besides myself, who travels with you?" Rowland asked.
William stopped his measured stroking of Cathryn's hand to give Rowland his full attention. He understood the unspoken warning. William needed no escort to the king, unless some treachery was afoot. Lambert...
The undercurrents at the table swirled around Cathryn until she thought she would choke on her own breath. Ever since Kendall had voiced the name of Lambert, a chill had descended upon the room, seeping into her bones and her heart until she wondered if she would shake in its icy grip forever. Lambert. She could feel his hands upon her still, feel his weight pressed upon her, feel the licking unease that writhed through the hall at the mention of his name. He was here again, though William had banished him.
He was here.
Standing abruptly, Cathryn started to move away from the table. She looked down in stunned surprise to see that William's hand still held hers and that she had reached the end of the tether that was his arm.
"I will go and see what has delayed the meal," she informed him calmly. "Continue, my lord."
He released her regretfully, but there was much that Rowland had to tell him, and it was clear that he would not do so with Cathryn present. When she had looked into his eyes, he had not seen her within their velvet depths; he had seen only himself in distorted reflection. Cathryn was closed to him. As closed and chill as she had been upon their first meeting. Lambert was the door that barred her upon herself, away from him.
Lambert had much to answer for.
All eyes watched her as she walked the length of the hall, the shimmering scarlet acca skimming the curves of her body to froth at her feet. All eyes watched her, and she felt marked by the red, marked in a way not pleasing, not flattering. Yes, she was marked. She longed to rip it off.
Father Godfrey would have helped her in her frozen distress; he would have had the words to soften her spirit, but Father Godfrey was gone, gone with two of William's men to search the area for those who did not know of William's coming and who might have need of a priest, for with Greneforde's priest gone these last months it had been a hard time for all. No masses had been read, no confessions heard, and if there had been a death... then that man or woman had gone to face Almighty God unconfessed and unshriven. As Philip had gone.
Father Godfrey was gone; there was no use in running to the chapel, for it would be cold and deserted. But Lambert was here and he was everywhere, in every corner, in the stair tower, in the yard as she raced across it to the warmth of the kitchen—a kitchen that would hold no warmth for her because Lambert was here again, and with Lambert, there was no escape.
The men at the high table watched Cathryn leave in utter silence. When she had passed into the stair tower, Kendall spoke, his resolve to save William from his disastrous match renewed.
"Lambert had been at court, William. It was as plain as sun on sea, the nature of his claim on Greneforde."
William looked at Kendall fully for the first time since he had entered the hall, and Kendall sat back sharply at the steely expression in William's silver eyes.
"Are you saying that Lambert spoke of my wife in open court?"
Kendall swallowed heavily; this was not going well. He only wanted William to get what he deserved, and no man deserved a wife soiled at another's hand. It was possible that William did not know what had transpired between Cathryn and Lambert. Surely if he knew, he would distance himself from her.
"Aye, he was there before us and sang loud and sweet concerning her. His claim is solid. None disputed him," Kendall answered.
"He made for court when he left here, William." Rowland supplied softly, "to lay his claim firmly with the king. It is my guess that he did not know that Greneforde had already been pledged to you."
"But he does now." William smiled slightly in predatory anticipation.
"He does now," Rowland agreed.
"William," Kendall blurted, leaning closer, "an annulment has been suggested... the king would not stand against it... no one would say a word against you for leaving such a... such a"—he clearly had trouble finding a word to express his disgust and finally settled on—"holding."
Rowland, shaking his head ruefully at Kendall's blind insistence on a course that William would sooner die than follow, leaned back, well out of the way.
"An annulment?" William said low, turning again to Kendall.
"Yea," Kendall answered readily, leaning closer still. "Then you would be free to seek a richer holding sporting a cleaner wife. William, the king will give you his finest!"
"His finest," William repeated softly, and then with quiet force, he turned the power of his impaling eyes upon his comrade. Kendall was struck immobile at the raw power he saw there. "King Henry offers me the chance to bleed the blood from my bod
y."
Kendall could only stare uncomprehendingly into William's gray eyes. He had lost the power of speech.
"You do not understand?" William prodded. "Cathryn's blood and mine are commingled until death separates us, and only God shall decide the hour of our parting."
William leaned closer to Kendall in so menacing a way that if Kendall had been able to move, he would have, but William's eyes held him still.
"Our lives are one," he declared, his voice rising. "Our bodies are one. She is the blood running through every part of me, and I pray daily that I am so to her."
Leaning back in his chair, William looked away from Kendall, whereupon Kendall took his first breath in more than a minute. It was a shaky breath, but William had not finished.
"The Germans have a saying," he began almost conversationally, "'blood is thicker than water.' Lambert was the water." Looking again at Kendall, his eyes as dark as charcoal, he said hoarsely, "I am the blood."
Kendall, stricken, fell to his knees at William's feet. He was truly contrite. He had no knowledge of such depth of devotion as this that William showed to his wayward wife.
"I ask your pardon, Lord William, and will remain on my knees until I receive it."
William, his mind already on other, more urgent matters, tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Then rise and be pardoned, but talk to me no more of my wife."
"Who travels with you, William?" Rowland asked again.
"Who would obey me if I ordered them to stay?" William rejoined.
"Not I," Rowland quipped.
"'Tis so, but all others will," William said, "and all others will stay."
"You will not set the hounds upon him?"
"Nay"—William smiled—"I will come upon him quietly. I would have him caught unprepared."
"You would not share him," Rowland observed astutely.
"Nay, I would not," he agreed pleasantly.
"He knows a messenger was sent," Kendall added.
"Sent and not yet come," William observed. "We have the advantage. He does not know that I know."
