She couldn’t help herself; she shrank away in mortal terror. She had won a respite, and now he made this demand of her, as the price of ending his jealous scenes. She knew that her shrinking was hurting him, but she lowered her eyes and said, “No, Bard. I do not seek to—to pluck fruit from the blossoming tree, nor should you. All things come in their proper time.” She felt stupid, prim, as she mouthed the old proverb. “It is unseemly to ask me this at our handfasting!”
“You said you hoped you might come to love me—”
“At the proper time,” she said, and knew her voice was shrill.
He retorted, “This is the proper time, and you know it! Unless you know something I do not, that your father plans to play me false and give to another, meanwhile binding me to him!”
Carlina swallowed, knowing that he really believed this, and really sorry for him.
He saw her hesitation, sensing her pity, and put his arm around her, but she drew back with such distress that he let her go. He said bitterly, “It’s true, then. You do not love me.”
“Bard,” she begged, “give me time. I promise you, when the time has come, I will not shrink from you then. But I was not . . . not told of this, I was told I should have a year . . . perhaps when I am older—”
“Will it take a year to resign yourself to the horrible fate of sharing my bed?” he asked, with such bitterness that she wished she did not feel this dreadful reluctance.
“Perhaps,” she said, faltering, “when I am older, I will not feel this way—my mother says I am too young for wedding or for bedding, so perhaps when I am old enough—”
“That is folly,” he said scornfully. “Younger maidens than you are wedded every day, and bedded too. That is a ruse to reconcile me to waiting and then to losing you altogether; but if we have lain down together, my sweetheart, then no living person can separate us, not your father nor your mother. . . . I give you my word you are not too young, Carlina! Let me prove that to you!” He took her in his arms, kissing her, crushing her mouth under his; she struggled silently, in such dismay that he let her go.
She said bitterly, “And if I refuse you, will you put compulsion on me, as you did on Lisarda, who was also too young for such things? Will you put enchantment on me, so that I cannot refuse you whatever you want from me, so that I must do your will whether it is my own desire or no?”
Bard bent his head, his lips pressed bitterly together, a thin angry line. “So that is it,” he said. “So that little whore went wailing to you and filled your mind with evil lies against me?”
“She did not lie, Bard, for I read her thoughts.”
“Whatever she says to you, she was not unwilling,” Bard said, and Carlina said in real anger now, “No; that is what is worse; that you forced her will so that she did not want to resist you!”
“You would find as much pleasure in it as she did,” Bard said hotly, and she replied with equal anger, “And you could accept that—that I would not be Carlina, but only some wish of yours forced on my real self? No doubt I would do your will, and even do it willingly, if you put that compulsion on me—just as Lisarda did! And just as she does, I should hate you for every moment of the rest of my life!”
“I think not,” Bard said. “I think, perhaps, when you were rid of your silly fears, you would come to love me and know that I had done what was best for us both!”
“No,” she said, shaking. “No, Bard . . . I beg you . . . Bard, I am your wife.” A guileful thought touched her; she was ashamed of herself for trying to manipulate him this way, but she was frightened and desperate. “Would you use me as if I were no better than one of my maids?”
He let her go, shocked. He said, “All gods forbid that I should show you dishonor, Carlie!”
“Then,” she said, pressing her advantage swiftly, “you will wait until the appointed time.” She drew quickly out of reach. “I promise you,” she said, “I will be faithful to you. There is no need for you to fear you will lose me; but all things come in their proper time.” She touched his hand lightly and went away.
Bard, watching her as she went out of sight, thought to himself that she had made a fool of him. No, she was right; it was a matter of honor, that she, his wife, should come to him of her own free will and without compulsion. Yet he was excited, anger contributing to the uproar in his mind and body.
No woman had ever complained of his advances! How did that damned wench Lisarda have the presumption to complain of him? She hadn’t minded, the little slut, he had only given her a chance to do what she wanted to do anyway! He remembered her; yes, she had been frightened at first, but before he was done he had made her moan with pleasure, what right had she to change her mind afterward and go and bewail her precious virginity to Carlina, as if it had any particular value? She wasn’t an heiress who must keep it for honor and dowry!
And now Carlina had roused him, and left him in a state of need! Anger and resentment mingled in him; did the girl think he was going to await her convenience as patiently as a maiden?
Suddenly he knew what he should do to have proper revenge on them both, both damned women who had made a fool of him! Women were all alike, starting with the unknown mother who had been willing to give him up to his father’s wealth and position. And Lady Jerana who had poisoned his father’s mind and had him sent from his home. And that wretched little slut Lisarda with her whimpering and her tales to Carlina. And even Carlina herself was not free of the general damnableness of women!
In a rage he went out toward the galleries where the upper servants were watching the festivities. He saw Lisarda among them, a slender childish-looking girl with soft brown hair, her slight body just barely rounding into womanhood; Bard’s own body tightened with excitement, remembering.
She had been untouched, even ignorant, and frightened, but she had soon enough lost her reluctance. And yet she had the presumption to go complaining to Carlina, as if she had minded! Damned girl, he would show her better this time!
He waited until she was looking in his direction, then caught her eye. He saw her shiver and try to look away, but he reached out, as he had learned how to do, into her mind, touching something deep down in her, below the conscious will, the response of body to body. What did it matter what she thought she wanted? This was there and it was real too, and all her arrogant notions about her pridefully held innocence meant nothing in the face of this reality. He held her until he felt her senses stirring, watched with a detached, malicious amusement as she made her way toward him. Staying out of sight, he drew her behind a pillar, kissed her expertly, felt her response flooding them both.
Far away, in a detached corner of her mind, he could sense, could see in her eyes, the panic of the conscious mind, now in abeyance, her dread and horror that this thing was happening to her again in spite of what she wanted, that her body was responding to him when her will did not. Bard laughed soundlessly and whispered to her; watched her go, like a sleepwalker, up the stairs to his room, where, he knew, she would be waiting for him, naked and eager, whenever he chose to come.
He’d keep her waiting awhile. That would prove to her what she really wanted, make her wait for him; her tears and cries would remind her that she had really wanted it all along. That would teach her to go complaining to Carlina as if he had mishandled her, or taken her unwilling!
And if Carlina did somehow come to hear of it, well, that was her fault too. She was his wife, in law and in fact, and if she did not recognize that as a responsibility, she had no right to complain if he went elsewhere.
CHAPTER TWO
The year was well advanced, and early hay harvest had begun, when Bard di Asturien sought out King Ardrin in his presence-chamber.
“Uncle,” he said, for he had this privilege, the king being his foster father, “will we ride to war before apple harvest?”
King Ardrin raised his eyebrows. He was a tall, imposing man, fair-haired like most of the di Asturiens, and had once been powerful, but he had taken a wound in
the arm some years ago and it had left the arm paralyzed. He bore other scars too, the marks of a man who has had to keep his realm by force of arms for most of his life. He said, “Why, I had hoped not, foster son. But you know more than I of what is doing on the borders, since you have been there with the guardsmen these past forty days; what news?”
“No news of the border,” Bard said, “for all is quiet; after Snow Glens there is no question of rebellion in that area again. But this gossip I heard as I rode homeward; did you know that Dom Eiric Ridenow, the younger, has married his sister to the Duke of Hammerfell?”
King Ardrin looked thoughtful, but all he said was, “Go on.”
“One of my guardsmen has a brother-in-law who is a mercenary soldier to the duke,” Bard said. “He slew a man by misadventure, and went into exile for three years, so he took service in Hammerfell, and he has been released from his service oath. My guardsman said that when his brother-in-law took service at Hammerfell he made it a condition that he should not ride against Asturias; and I find it interesting that he should be released from his oath now, instead of at midwinter, which is customary.”
“Then you think—”
“I think the Duke of Hammerfell is cementing his new kin tie to Ridenow of Serrais,” Bard said, “by gathering his army against Asturias. We might have expected that in the spring. If he strikes at us before the winter snow, he will hope to find us unprepared. Also, Beltran has a laranzu with his men, whose gift is for rapport with sentry bird; he said that although there were no armies on the road, men were gathering in the market town of Tarquil, which lies not all that far from Hammerfell. True, it is hiring fair there; but the laranzu said there were too few men with pitchforks and milking pails, and too many on horseback. It would seem that mercenaries are gathering there. And there was a train of pack beasts riding from Dalereuth Tower, and you know as well as I do what is made in Dalereuth. What does the Duke of Hammerfell want with clingfire, if not to ride against us with the Ridenow of Serrais?”
King Ardrin nodded, slowly. He said, “I am sure you are right. Well, Bard, you who have seen this campaign coming against us, what would you do if the command was yours?”
It was not the first time Bard had been asked this question. It had never meant anything, except that his foster father wished to see if he had a strong sense of military tactics; he would have asked Beltran and Geremy the same question, had they been present, and then would have gone to his ordinary advisers. Nevertheless, Bard gave his best thought to the problem.
“I would ride against them now, before they can gather their mercenaries, before ever they leave Hammerfell,” he said. “I would lay siege to Hammerfell, long before he expects us to know what is happening. He does not expect the war to come to his country, he is merely gathering mercenaries to send to the aid of Dom Eiric, so when the Ridenow come against us this summer, as they are sure to do, we will find his forces unpleasantly swollen. But if we strike at Hammerfell now, and lay siege to the duke until he is willing to take oath and send hostages not to move against you, you will confound Dom Eiric and confuse his advisers. Also, if I were in command, I would send a few of the troops south to capture and destroy the clingfire before it can be used against us; perhaps to add to our own stockpiles. And since it will certainly be guarded by sorcerers, I would send a laranzu or two in that party.”
“How soon could we be ready to move against Hammerfell?” King Ardrin asked.
“Within a tenday, sir. Roundup of the horse levies will be finished by then, and the men will be free to answer the war call,” Bard said. “But I would send it out in secret, rather than summoning men with the beacon fires; they may have wizards spying to see the beacons from afar. Then we can strike Hammerfell within a tenday of the time he knows we have crossed the border—if we can move swiftly, with a few picked men, we can cut off the bridges over the Valeron, and hold anyone who rides against us, sending one detachment inside to lay siege to the castle.”
King Ardrin’s stern face broke into a smile. He said, “I could not have made a better plan myself; in fact, Bard, I doubt I could have made one so good. Now I have another question for you: if I lead the troops north to Hammerfell, can you go south to capture the clingfire? I can give you some leroni, and three dozen picked horsemen—you may choose them yourself—but no more; will it be enough?”
Bard did not answer for a moment. He said, “Can you not spare four dozen, sir?”
“No; I shall need those extra dozen horsemen to ride to Hammerfell,” King Ardrin said.
“Then I shall have to make do with three dozen, sir. At least they can move swiftly when the need arises.” His heart was pounding. He had never been given an independent command before.
“Prince Beltran will lead you—officially,” King Ardrin said, “but the men will follow you. You understand me, Bard? I must give this command to Beltran. But I shall make it clear to him that you are the military adviser.”
Bard nodded. That was simply the reality of the matter; a member of the royal house must be in nominal command. King Ardrin was a seasoned war leader; but he, Bard, was being given a tricky fast mission with a picked striking force. “I will go and choose my men, sir.”
“A moment.” King Ardrin gestured him back. “A time will come when you, as my son-in-law, will be empowered to command. Your bravery is welcome to me, Bard; but I forbid you to run into too much danger. I need your skill at strategy more than I need your strong arm or your courage. Don’t get yourself killed, Bard. I have my eye on you; I am too old to be my own general for more than a few more years. You know what I am trying to say.”
Bard bowed deeply and said, “I am at your command, my king and my lord.”
“And a day will come when I will be at yours, kinsman. Go now and choose your men.”
“May I bid farewell to the Lady Carlina, my lord?”
Ardrin smiled. “You may, certainly.”
Bard thought, exultantly, about his good fortune. Now it seemed that his career was assured, and it might be that if he brought this mission successfully to an end, King Ardrin would grant him a further favor, that he might have Carlina at Midwinter festival. Or he might prevail upon her, at least, to consummate their marriage on that night of traditional license! Surely, when he was the king’s commander and champion, she would not continue to refuse him!
He admitted it to himself; he was tired of casual wenching. It was Carlina he wanted. At first he had cared for her only as a sign that the king regarded him highly, as a gateway to position and power in the realm, a power which a nedestro could not otherwise have within the realm of Asturias. But when she had spoken to him so gently at midsummer, he knew that she was the only woman he really wanted.
He was tired of casual wenching. He was tired of Lisarda, tired even of the game he played with her, making her unwilling body respond even while she wept and insisted she hated him. Wretched little spoilsport, when he had done his best to pleasure her! But now he no longer cared. He wanted no one but Carlina.
He found her in the sewing rooms, supervising the women who were making linen cushions, and beckoned her away from them. Again it struck him with wonder, why should he want this plain girl when there were so many pretty ones around her? Was it only that she was the king’s daughter, that she had been his playmate when they were children? Her hair had been hastily braided and shoved back out of the way, but even so, lint was clinging to it, and her blue tartan dress was one he had seen her wear, it seemed, every day since she was ten years old; or did she simply have another one made for her when she had outgrown or outworn the old one?
He said, “There are feathers in your hair, Carlina.”
She dabbed at it, preoccupied, laughed. “No doubt; some of the women are stuffing comforters for the winter to come, and making cushions and pillows; I rule over the feathers, while my mother’s women are salting and pickling the bird’s flesh for the winter.” She looked at the bits of feather fluff clinging to her fingers. “Do you
remember, foster brother, the year that you and I and Beltran got into the feather vats and feathers flew all over the sewing rooms? I felt so guilty, for you and Beltran were beaten, and I was only sent to my room without dinner!”
Bard laughed. “Then we had the best of it, for I would rather be beaten any day than go fasting, and I have no doubt Beltran feels much the same! And for all these years I have felt you had the worst of it!”
“But the prank was mine; you and Beltran, and Geremy too, were always being beaten for mischief that I thought up,” she said. “We had merry times, did we not, foster brother?”
“We did indeed,” Bard said, and took her hands in his. “But I would not call you foster sister now, Carlina mea. And I came to bear you great news!”
She smiled up at him. “What is it, my promised husband?” she asked, using the words shyly.
“The king your father has given me command of troops,” he burst out exultantly. “I am to go with three dozen picked men and capture a caravan of clingfire. . . . Beltran is nominally in command, but you know, and I too, that the command is truly mine. . . and I am to pick my own men, and to have leroni with us. . . .”
“Oh, Bard, how wonderful,” she said, warming against her will as he poured out his good news. “I am so glad for you! Surely this means, as you have hoped, I know, that from banner bearer you will rise to one of his captains, and perhaps one day to lead all his armies!”
Bard said, trying not to show too much pride, “Surely that day will be many years from now. But it does show that your father continues to think well of me; and I have thought, Carlina mea, that if this mission comes off well, then perhaps he will put forward our wedding by half a year and we can be married at midsummer—”
Carlina tried to control her involuntary flinching. She and Bard must be married; it was her father’s will, which was law in the land of Asturias. She genuinely wished Bard well; there was no reason they should be unfriends. There was not, after all, so much difference between midwinter and midsummer. Yet, however she tried to tell herself this, she was still, helplessly, reluctant.
Darkover: First Contact Page 23
