Helplessly the man shook his head “You are most beautiful. Beautiful beyond all words. And desirable. But . . .” He spread his hands. “What can I say? Only that you are young. Too young for this. Too young for me to take. Like this.”
“You wed me. Took me for your wife.”
“We both know why we wed, girl. It was not, not for this.”
“I wed you to be your wife. In all duty.”
“Aye, there you have it. In duty. You are dutiful indeed. But you do not, cannot, want me. If you had your wish, I swear, it would not be Will Douglas!” If he emphasised the Christian name, it was only very slightly. Worked up as he was, he kept himself from saying the unforgivable thing. “You offer what you have been told it is your duty to offer — offer most generously. I am grateful for your offer. But I cannot accept it.”
“You do not want me, then?” Her voice was level now. “You said, there, that I was desirable. But it was not the truth. You do not desire me.”
He found no answer for her.
“I am sorry . . .” she began. Suddenly she looked up. “Perhaps . . . perhaps it is you? That you are tired? It was a long day for you also.”
“No! No — not so.” Almost shocked, he spoke quickly. “I am . . . very well.”
“I should have thought of it. You must be weary. You have not spared yourself today. It was you, was it not, who beat down the Hamilton knight, this afternoon? I was sure that it was you. Despite all you said. Forgive me — I should have known that you would be tired.”
“No — by the Rude! I tell you, it is not true.” He glared. “I am not tired. I but think of you . . .”
They looked at each other helplessly. Then she turned away and flung herself face down on the bed, her back to him, her slender body racked with sobs.
Biting his lip he watched her till he could stand it no longer. He went to sit beside her.
“Margaret, lass — no tears, of a mercy!” he told her. “There is no need. No hurt in this.”
“There is,” she got out. “Oh, there is.”
“No. No. How can there be? You do not, you cannot, love me!”
She did not answer.
“If you do not love, why tears?” he insisted.
“We are wed. You are my husband.”
“Aye. But that is not why you weep?”
“It is. It is.” Never had she seemed more a child.
Almost he put out a hand to touch, to seek to comfort that white body, but drew back. “See, lass,” he said. “You cannot love me, that is certain. And you do not desire me, I think? Do you. The flesh, just? You!”
She made a smothered sound, which he took for a negative.
“Aye. Then, what? What is this hurt?”
“It means . . . that I have failed. Failed in my first duty as a wife. The first duty of our marriage. To pleasure you. In bed. Failed . . .”
“This is folly! You have failed in nothing. This day you have been Countess of Douglas indeed.”
“But not now. You do not want me.”
“And do you want me? Tell me that.” And as still she did not answer, he did touch her now, reaching out, less than gently, to turn her face to him. “Look at me, girl — tell me if you want me, lacking love? For, if you do, then you shall have me — that I swear!”
She stared at him, gulping, from swimming, blinking eyes, but did not speak. He held her so for silent moments on end. He did not know how fierce he looked.
“Aye,” he sighed, at last. “So be it. You do not want me. Only to do your duty. And your duty you have done, in the offering. As in all else. Let it content you.”
She made a small moaning noise. “It is not right. She said . . . I was assured . . . that you were a lusty man. Hot . . .”
“Who said so? Who told you your duty?”
“My mother.”
If Will had frowned before, he looked black now. The thought of that archly simpering, gaunt and ageing woman, dwelling on this night’s bedding, coaching her daughter on pleasuring him, going over it all, having him herself as it were at second hand, sickened him. But at least it had not been Meg Douglas.
“Aye.” He stood up. “Give me one cover, then. There has been talk enough, for one night.”
Margaret shook her head. “Not that,” she urged, almost pleaded. “Not the floor, Come into my bed, at least. On this wedding night. We can share a bed can we not? Husband and wife. Else I am ashamed. Do not touch me. But rest more at ease so . . .”
Almost he smiled at that. Only a child would believe that a man, any normal whole man, lusty or not, would rest more at ease in a bed with a naked girl than on the floor alone. But he could scarcely explain this to her, in the circumstances.
“Very well,” he agreed shortly. He doused the lamp, threw off his bed-robe, and in the half-dark climbed into the bed beside her, naked as she was. He kept well to his own side, however, so that they did not touch — and he carefully kept his back towards her.
So he lay, silent, stiff, desperately aware of the white body so close to its own, the warmth of which he could feel coming to him. He perceived that she trembled a little, though this could have been the reaction to her former sobbing. He had never felt less like sleep. Every breath she took, every least stir that she made, he was aware of. And every few moments he asked himself if he was a fool.
The longer he lay thus, the more agitated he grew, his masculinity an aching urgency. Almost he willed her to turn, to touch him, to reach out to him — and if she had done, she would have been left, however inexperienced, in small doubt as to his readiness. He sighed and sighed.
But she did not move. As his unease mounted, so hers seemed to diminish. Her breathing evened and became regular. Once or twice she murmured something. After a while he had no doubt that she slept.
He could have cried out on her then, in sheer exasperation and frustration. And on himself. Now he knew his folly. Only a sort of pride saved him.
He made an endless night of it, aware of each hour. It was not that he did not doze over, frequently — but always he was soon fully awake again, tense, aware, demanding. The girl remained quietly asleep, absolutely still, at his side. Almost he hated her, as the night went on — until in the grey light of early morning, an outflung arm and hand came to rest on his chest. With injured, tight-lipped patience he suffered it to lie there — and after a while, strangely enough, a certain pity and regard grew in him for its owner. This, in time, gradually brought him the greatest easement of the night, and presently he fell into an honest sleep.
When he next awoke, the sun was shining into the little chamber, and he was alone in the great bed. He could hear Meg Douglas dressing her mistress in the next room. Long he stared up at the groined ceiling, before reaching for his robe.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE little town and the great abbey returned to their accustomed peace and quiet by degrees, wedding-guests and hangers-on of all qualities moving off as and when they would, with unlimited viands and entertainments available for those who chose to linger. Oddly enough, their host was amongst the first to go. It need not have been so — indeed it had not been arranged thus. But nothing would do that morning but that Will should be off, without delay, with a small hard-riding party, for Newark in Ettrick. It had been planned that he should redeem his early promise to King James to show him some wild-bull hunting in the forest, after the wedding, and preparations had to be made for the royal suite. There was no need, of course, for the Earl of Douglas to go ahead and make these personally; Pate Pringle, with Jamie or Rob Fleming, could have done it well enough. But Will insisted. He was concerned to remove himself from his bride of a day and a night.
So, with a tight little company of Fleming, Pate and his brothers Hugh and John, he set off before noon, on the sixty-five-mile ride. The royal entourage, with Margaret and the other ladies, escorted by Jamie, would come on later and more slowly, halting for the night in upper Annandale, probably at Moffat.
Will drove the ill hum
ours out of himself that day in sheer, unrelenting hard riding. If his companions thought it strange behaviour in a bridegroom, they were not rash enough to say so; indeed they were given little opportunity for saying anything, so hot was the pace maintained.
Eleven hours of this, on foundered horses and very weary, they threaded the quiet night-bound hills to Newark Castle above the rushing Yarrow. That night, in his own bed in Newark’s lofty garret-chamber within the parapet-walk, Will Douglas had no sleep problems.
The following evening, when the royal party arrived, all was in readiness for them. The tall square keep and its out-buildings were, of course, crowded as never before, and tents and pavilions had to be pitched for many a knight and gentle was well as for the men-at-arms. Which provided Will with excuse for denying himself a bridal chamber, for putting Margaret, her mother and his own, all in one room, the King, alone of all the company, being allotted a single apartment. If tongues wagged, their owners had little to go on.
So commenced a week of great hunting, great prowess and great feeding. As well as the bulls, wolves, boars and the big woodland stags were sought out, chased and brought low in large numbers. Will excelled himself, his brothers redeemed their names — save for Archie, who had to remain a disgruntled spectator — and King James was kept in an almost continuous state of excitement. There was little time, or opportunity, for connubial activities.
On only one occasion, when a thunderstorm and heavy rain drove the huntsmen home early, was Will longer than momentarily alone with his wife. Margaret, Meg in attendance, had gone hunting with the men most days, but had tended to turn back for Newark earlier, usually with Jamie as escort. This day, she had remained behind at the castle, and when the hunters were driven back by the rain, it was to discover that Margaret and Meg had gone off by themselves to visit a cave a mile or two off, where the hero Bruce was alleged to have hidden during his wanderings. Jamie at once announced that he would go fetch them home, and Will could hardly do other than accompany him.
The brothers, both soaked to the skin, found the two girls still sheltering in the fern-decked cave under a cliff that overhung the river. Their arrival was greeted with obvious and gratifying pleasure.
“Almost we had started back,” Meg told them. “But twice the rain looked about to stop. And I am afraid for the thunder. Or at least, for the lightning . . .”
“That is not true,” Margaret declared. “Meg is afraid for nothing. It is I am afraid. Always have been.”
“You need not be afraid, now we are here,” Jamie assured, stoutly.
“Aye — these two valiant knights will protect us from thunder bolts, like all else!” Meg exclaimed, mockingly. “We have naught to fear when they are near. The pity that they are not near more often!” And she looked directly at Will.
He said nothing, though Jamie protested that he was ever at their service, happier in their company than anywhere else soever.
The men had brought heavy hooded riding-cloaks to wrap the girls in, but wet as they were, they neither of them showed any urgent haste to be gone from the cave, for their own different reasons.
It was Meg who presently urged a move — and urged it pointedly on Jamie, not on his brother. “Will you be condescending enough to escort a poor tiring-woman back to the castle, Sir Jamie?” she asked. “And let a new husband and wife have at least a word with each other, in peace! Something rare for this marriage, I vow!”
Will had to bite back his hasty objection. It was not for this that he had waited.
Jamie looked only a little more enthusiastic “Oh, aye. To be sure,” he said, eyeing Margaret. “Just that.”
“Come, then. I have preparations to make for my lady, in that crowded castle. Dry clothing . . .”
When they were gone, Meg riding pillion behind Jamie, Will found Margaret’s calm and steady gaze on him. “Meg does not understand,” she said.
He frowned. “There is no great deal to understand.”
“Some might think that there was. When, only days married, you avoid me.”
“It is not that. I do not avoid you It is only, only that it is best. That we should not sleep together.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “That I understand. But perhaps others do not!”
At her flat tone, he made a gesture towards her. “See you, Margaret — let us not misunderstand. I said before, there is no hurt in this. I like you, lassie. I like you very well. I think you are the most beautiful creature that I have ever seen. We are wed, not because we desired each other, but because I am Douglas and you are Galloway. That had to be. You do not love me. I will not take you, young as you are, lacking love. In bed. But . . . that is all. We are still wed. We can be friends. Good friends in all else. You have good wits, a stout heart. Countess of Douglas indeed. Let us be friends, Margaret.” That was a long and difficult speech for Will Douglas.
After a moment or so, she nodded. “If you wish it so.”
“Not just because I wish it so,” he insisted. “It is right. Best. Wise. Is it not, Margaret?”
“Very well.”
“Well, aye.” He sighed with relief. “And more than well. I need the aid of a wise head and a sound heart. Douglas needs it. This realm needs it.”
“And I so young!” she remarked. As his face fell a little, she smiled. “But I will grow older. Nothing more sure. And I will be your friend. Come, then — take me back, Will Douglas.”
Will was much eased in his mind — until, that is, later that evening. Margaret and some of the other women had already retired, when a servitor came to murmur in Will’s ear, in the Hall, that Mistress Meg would speak with my lord, on my lady’s business. A summons form that source did not find him backward, and he followed the man out.
He found Meg waiting at a window alcove of the turnpike stair. She looked him up and down.
“What sort of man are you?” she asked him, without warning.
Surprised, he raised his brows. “A simple man, I think. Ordinary enough.”
“I wonder! Since you leave your wife to bed amongst old women! And yourself sleep amongst your brothers.”
“The house is full. You know that.”
“Aye.” She held out her hand. “Come you, my lord.”
It was now the man’s turn to wonder, but he took her hand, and she led him upwards.
They climbed three full storeys to the stair-head, and there, opposite the door that led into his own garret chamber, which he now shared with his brothers, she passed out on to the open stone-slabbed parapet-walk. Mystified, he was led along this narrow way, in the damp air of night, until, at the angle of the keep, a little gabled cap-house was corbelled out, to overhang the walling. Little more than a roofed-in square turret, it was there to cover the wall-faces below, for defence, and protect the approaches from that side, high above the river. She threw open its door, and entered.
“Well?” she said, turning to look at him.
He followed her in, glancing around him. The place was about eight feet square, with stark stone walls and floor, but it had windows on three sides, to command the walls, and a tiny fireplace, to comfort a sentry of a cold winter’s night.
“Well?” he gave back, in turn.
“It is clean. Dry. And could be comfortable enough,” she said. She shut the door behind them. “See — a pallet-bed could sit here. Kists there. An eager husband, I think, would not have left this empty, in a crowded house!”
“So! And you would have me an eager husband, Meg?”
“I would have you cherish and comfort my mistress,” she said, after a brief pause. “Your wife!”
“Cherish and comfort? These I shall do. Bedding is another matter.”
“Bedding is common comfort for a wife, is it not?”
“You make it that she seeks her comfort only between her legs!” he jerked, deliberately coarse.
“I did not say that. She is good. Pure . . .”
“Aye, pure! Too pure for Will Douglas! And young. A child.”
/> “Still you hold to that? I tell you, she is more woman than you know.”
“I know enough. Would you call her woman as you are woman?”
She moistened her lips. “Perhaps not. Not yet. But . . . what of that?”
“It is all-important. Do you not see? How can I desire half a woman, when you are there? You spoil me for all others, Meg.”
She turned away, to peer out of a window into the half-light of the gloaming. “You should not speak so,” she said.
“It is the truth.”
“Then . . . you shame me.”
“Why? How may that be?”
“You make me the cause of my lady’s hurt.”
“Hurt!” he cried. “This of hurt? What hurt is there? What hurt do I do her because I do not bed with her? She is but fifteen. A child. She does not love me, scarcely knows me. She does not desire my body. Tell me in what I hurt her?”
She turned back to him. “You make her of no attraction. As a woman. Which is something no woman, however young, can suffer.”
“I have told her that she is beautiful. She would attract many. I’ faith — she attracts my brother Jamie powerfully enough! Even she must see that.”
“But it was you who wed her.”
“The Earl of Douglas wed the Lady of Galloway.”
“You wed her . . . intending this?”
It was he who now looked away. “Aye,” he said.
“And that first night? Do you mean . . .? You shared her naked bed . . . and did not touch her?”
He nodded.
“Sakes — are you a man at all, then?”
“Aye, I am a man!” They stood very dose together in that confined space, lofty, remote from all. Her vivid woman’s presence was like a throbbing challenge to him, her scent, on the hot thundery night air, an almost unbearable incitement He reached and gripped her. “Need you ask that, damn you?”
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 22
