A True and Perfect Knight

by Rue Allyn

  The door to one of the confessional chambers remained cracked open on a wedge of blue material, like that of Gennie’s cloak. Were it not for that, Haven would have left by the other door and never found his wife’s destination. He turned to go, but quiet words held him in place.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  The response was indistinct, but Haven had no doubt that it was the friar who heard Gennie’s confession.

  Haven debated only a moment. If he stayed, he would have his own confession to make. But if he left, he might never know what his wife had done for which she sought God’s forgiveness. He stayed, creeping closer to the confessional.

  “I have lusted in my heart for a man.”

  Again the confessor murmured.

  “Oui, he is married.”

  Another response mumbled through the secure door on the prelate’s side of the confessional.

  “Oui, I have lain with him.”

  Haven’s rage blotted out all other sound. So she acted the innocent for him and spent her days in bed play with some other man. He wanted to put his fist through someone’s face. He turned and left, before he snatched open the confessional door and murdered his adulterous wife. He needed time to think, and a place to beat his anger into submission.

  Gennie exited the confessional. The friar had understood her problem, but the penance for a cardinal sin like lust was stiff. She must not only abstain from all carnal relations until after her woman’s flow, but she must wear a hair shirt next to her skin for all the days of her abstinence. The friar assured her that only in mortification of the flesh could her soul be purged of the stain that unrestrained lust had poured on it.

  She sought out the castle tanner. He had several hair shirts. One he pointed out was of soft lambswool and would do little harm to her skin. She would not shirk her duty to her soul, so she asked for the stiffest shirt he had.

  He shook his head and handed her a dark lump of material. The hairs felt more like boar bristles than fur. Gennie held it up to her body. The fit would be tight.

  So much the better. No one could possibly accuse her of cheating on her penance with such a garment. Her conscience at rest for the first time since her wedding, Gennie paid the tanner and departed for her room. Now all she had to do was inform Haven of the friar’s dictates.

  Haven had spent hours on the training field, exhausting his rage on the bodies of the castle garrison. He ached from the few blows that had gotten past his guard. As he had hoped, the pain cooled the first blaze of anger.

  His feet dragged on the stairs to his chamber, and he thought about the woman with whom he shared that space. On hearing her confession, the friar had probably assigned penance for the sake of her soul. But Haven doubted that hours on her knees at prayer would teach her body to respond to only one man—him.

  He was her husband, and by God’s holy shroud, he alone would stir Gennie to ecstasy. He imagined her naked, on her knees, begging and pleading for sexual release. He would refuse until she acknowledged that only he could satisfy her. Then he would keep her in bed until she forgot other men existed.

  Haven’s body hardened and his aches faded. He climbed the stairs faster, eager to teach his wife a much deserved lesson about lust.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Haven shut the door behind him, closing out the world. Lady de Sessions knelt at the prayer bench below the window of their chamber. Lady de Sessions indeed. Lady Deceit was more like. Haven listened to the clack of rosary beads and observed her still form.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, watching the play of firelight in that flow of red-black hair. Like her hair, she was never the same from moment to moment. Just hours ago in the bailey she had seemed colorless and drab. Yet in bed some inner light flashed, and her body at least came alive, despite her armor of almost complete silence. Haven found himself wondering what he would find, if he could pierce that armor. Would he discover a woman willing to risk her heart as well as her body? A woman who might trust him, as he longed to trust her? For he did wish to trust her, he realized. The knowledge that he could not hurt him more than he liked.

  Gennie rose from the prayer bench. She stood and extinguished the candles with great care, as if those simple movements caused great pain.

  Haven frowned.

  His wife turned and saw him. One hand flew to her lips, but a gasp emerged before she could silence herself.

  “Good even’, milady wife.”

  She dropped her hand. “Bon soir, sir. Have you been waiting long?”

  “Long enough. He walked up to her and took her hand, placing a kiss on the fingers that had so recently touched her mouth. “Do you pray for me?” He sent her a sideways glance.

  “N-non.”

  “Too bad. I’ve been thinking of you for hours.” He lapped at the pads of her fingers and felt her hand tremble. He hid his smile in her palm and breathed a question. “For what did you pray?”

  She tried to tug her hand from his tender assault.

  Haven held firm and whispered his lips over the delicate skin of her wrist.

  “For God’s mercy.” Her voice strangled on the words. “Please, husband. Do not touch me so.”

  It was a start. He let her fingers slide from his and turned to study her face. She looked like a wounded animal—too much in pain to run but too fear-filled to remain. Haven knew very well that passion and pain were close akin, but such a reaction from a mere kiss of the hand was very odd.

  Regardless, she wouldn’t escape him or his plans for her. He placed a hand on her shoulder to draw her close.

  She flinched.

  “What?” He grabbed her upper arm.

  A choked moan escaped her.

  “What is wrong? Are you hurt?” The memory of her feet, bloody and blistered, her bruised body and face, rose in his mind.

  “Nay,” she shrilled, tearing herself from his grasp with a sob. She threw herself across the room, placing the bed between them. “Do not touch me.”

  “Madame, I am your husband. Should I wish it, I will touch you.” He pursued her. Caged her with a hand placed on either side of her head. Stroked her body with the slow side-to-side movement of his own.

  She wept.

  Nothing felt right. Not her tears, not her protests, not her flight, not her body. Her body; what was it that didn’t feel right about her? Keeping his gaze on her face, he put his hand on her breast.

  She bit her lip, but Haven saw the effort that restraint caused her. He felt too the peculiar textures beneath his hand. Her breast was there, but between his hand and her flesh lay more than cloth.

  “What are you wearing?”

  Her eyes closed. Tears seeped from the corners. Her head moved from side to side.

  “Then I will find out for myself.”

  Haven unlaced her tunic and drew it over her head. The undergown quickly followed. He should have been staring at rose-tipped breasts and a dusting of auburn curls at the juncture of her thighs. Instead, ugly brown leather covered her from shoulder to elbow and knee.

  “A hair shirt? You are wearing a hair shirt!” Haven couldn’t get over the obvious. He was a good Christian, but this…this was sinful. “Why?”

  “P-penance.” She trembled, and even though he no longer touched her, another tear leaked from her eye.

  “Penance!” Haven grabbed the shirt and ripped it down the seam from neck to hem.

  Gennie moaned.

  Haven stared at her body. She could only have worn the shirt a few hours, yet her skin screamed an angry red everywhere the shirt had touched.

  “This isn’t penance. This is folly.”

  Gennie’s moans quieted to whimpers.

  “Get in bed.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  Gennie turned around.

  He should have known. That blistering red covered as much of her back as it did her front.

  “Stay there.” Haven strode t
o the chest, opened it and removed the salve for treating small wounds and burns. He had used it on Gennie’s feet. He hoped he had enough left to ease the worst of her pain. He grabbed his softest cloak and returned to Gennie.

  She remained as he had left her, braced on her forearms against the wall. Her head rested on her clenched fists.

  Anger warred with sorrow. He tossed the cloak on the bed. “I am going to put salve on your skin. It will hurt at fist. When I am done, you should be able to lie down.”

  Gennie nodded. Her body tensed.

  Haven placed a scoop of slave on her left shoulder and began to smooth the ointment across and down her back. He turned her round and repeated the process over the entire front of her body.

  As he knelt before her, stroking the cream into the reddened skin of her thighs, a furious pounding came at the door.

  The portal opened. Haven dropped the salve, tossed the cloak at Gennie and reached for his sword all in one motion. When he turned to face the intruders, it was clear that Soames had gotten a very good look at Haven’s wife before she had been able to cover herself.

  “What is it?” Haven snarled.

  “You asked that I attend you the moment I arrived.”

  Haven took in Soames’s mud-stained clothing and nodded. He placed his sword back in its scabbard. “Aye I did. Step outside. I will join you in a moment.”

  Soames left.

  Haven turned back to Gennie. “Madame, we are not finished.”

  “Non.”

  “I expect to find you in that bed when I come back.”

  “But…”

  “No. You will sleep. I will bring food and a priest and wake you when I return. Until then you will, for once, do as I tell you.”

  “Oui.”

  Haven turned on his heel and left. “Women,” he muttered as he closed the door.

  Across the hallway, Soames nodded.

  “So you find the widow attractive after all?”

  “Unless you want to lose all your teeth, you’ll close your mouth on that smile,” Haven ground out. “The widow is my wife.”

  Soames smile fled. “How?”

  “In the usual fashion, at a wedding. Ordered by Edward, so it was unavoidable.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Aye, that I will. But first we have the king’s business to prepare for.”

  Gennie didn’t see Haven again until the next day. She did receive a visit from a priest. Father Jonas arrived with servants and food in tow. The round little man refused to let her rise from the bed.

  “Sir Haven explained some of your problem to me. Please remain as you are. We will break bread together and see what may be done to set your conscience at ease.”

  Gennie wanted to protest, but the priest turned away to supervise the servants. He had them move a table and a stool near the bed and set the meal in place. Then they disappeared with a wink and a smile from Father Jonas.

  The priest served Gennie a small piece from the trencher and watched as she ate and swallowed. Before she could speak, he placed a goblet in her hand. “Drink.” His mild tone revealed an unshakable faith that his orders would be obeyed.

  Gennie drank.

  Father Jonas began to eat. Betwixt bites, he asked, “Do you wish to share your confession with me, child?”

  “I—I don’t know. I’ve already confessed.”

  “Yea, and done penance too from what I was told.”

  “Oui.”

  “Perhaps you have more on your mind than what you told your other confessor?”

  The priest’s perception comforted Gennie. “I hardly know where to begin.”

  “Start wherever you like, child. I will listen.”

  Gennie told the priest her entire story. From the moment she had left France to marry Roger, to the horrible embarrassment of lust for her new husband that had led to wearing the hair shirt. She even confessed that she had not yet told Haven that she must not lay with him for several weeks.

  The telling took a long time.

  When she was done, Father Jonas refilled her goblet and his own. He sipped at the wine, then sat back and folded his hands together across his large middle. “Child, child. Your zeal is admirable, but the friar counseled you to folly.”

  “Do you tell me that lust is not a sin?”

  “Nay,” he chuckled. “I tell you that excess is a sin, even in penance. And such pain as you endured is excessive, especially when your sin, as you call it, is not so heinous. You have suffered enough. The church absolves you of all further penance in this matter.”

  “I do not understand, Father. I do not love my husband. How can my lust for him be anything other than sinful?”

  “Many married couples do not love one another. Had your mother been with you when you married, she might have taught you this.”

  “I do not know. My father loved my mother deeply. He told me stories about other men and women who loved as they did.”

  The priest patted her hand. “Yes, my child, but those are only wondrous stories. Fancies for entertainment. Were such fancies common they would not be wondrous, would they?”

  “No.” Gennie twisted her hands around her cup.

  “Lady Genvieve, the lust that men and women feel for one another has a holy purpose when sanctioned by marriage vows. That purpose is twofold. First to bring forth children to God’s glory. Second to strengthen the bond of marriage begun with the vows into a love that will last a lifetime.”

  “But I felt neither lust nor love for Roger Dreyford.”

  “Aye, and he had none for you.”

  “I doubt Sir Haven has either love or lust for me.”

  The priest regarded her in silence for a few moments. “Your marriage to Haven de Sessions is young yet. Give it and your husband time. Even if he does not bear tender feelings for you, accept the passion you have for your husband’s body. The blessings that come to you may surprise you.”

  Gennie wrinkled her brow. “You speak in riddles, Father.”

  The priest rose. “So Christ’s words often seemed to his apostles. Your faith is strong, milady. God rewards the faithful. Now, let us pray.”

  When the priest had gone, Gennie lay back in the bed. She believed what Father Jonas had said. But did her husband believe it too? They didn’t trust one another. She blamed him for Roger’s death as much as Haven blamed her. He saw loyalty to the king as the ultimate good. She believed in loyalty to more than a mere man, no matter how powerful. How could she and Haven ever surmount such differences and create a strong marriage? Without trust in each other, how could passion alone be enough to nurture love?

  If passion was not enough, could she survive another marriage like her first? At this time she had little choice in the matter. Suffice that for now she and Thomas were still alive and would soon be together. She must place her faith in God, as Father Jonas advised. But believing did not mean she understood. Her mind whirling with confusion, Gennie fell asleep.

  A day later, Gennie held her son’s hand and crossed the narrow plank to the boat that would carry them to Wales.

  “Will the boat sink, Mama?”

  “What makes you ask, Thomas?”

  “It’s raining. Won’t the boat fill up with water?”

  “That’s possible, but not very likely. Even Noah’s boat didn’t fill up with water when God made rain for forty days and forty nights.”

  Thomas nodded.

  Gennie followed him to the far side of the boat, where he clambered onto a coil of rope. They stood watching the harbor over the boat’s rim.

  “Mama,” Thomas broke the silence. “Becky says you married Sir Haven.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the king ordered it.”

  “Will the king order me to be Sir Haven’s son?” Gennie’s heart twisted. She placed an arm around Thomas’s small shoulders. Events had wiped clean his familiar life. Of course he wanted to know what his place was in his now uncertain world. What better place
for a boy than that of son to a man of strength and reputed honor?

  Haven appeared at the boy’s other side. “A knight does not take his own sons as warriors until they’ve been fostered to someone else. Since you are already one of my warriors, you cannot be my son.”

  Thomas’s lower lip trembled.

  Gennie tightened her hold on his shoulder. She prayed that young as he was, he would accept the place Haven offered.

  “Mama was my father’s wife. Now she is your wife. Does that not make me your son?”

  “Nay, Thomas. Being a wife or husband is a matter of man’s law. Being a son or daughter is a matter of God’s natural laws. Do you understand?”

  The boy raised his head. “I understand that I am your warrior, but whose son am I?”

  “You are your father’s son.”

  “But Papa is dead.”

  “That does not change who you are.”

  Thomas nodded and squared his shoulders. “I hope we see a sea monster.”

  Haven ruffled Thomas’s hair. “Go find Soames. He has work for all my warriors.”

  Thomas grinned up at him. Haven’s hand fell from the boy’s head to cover Gennie’s over her son’s shoulders. “Aye, Sir Haven.”

  With a speed possessed only by small boys, Thomas was gone. Gennie turned to make her way to the rear of the ship.

  “Stay a moment.” Haven’s hand still held hers. “I would talk with you.”

  “As you will, husband.”

  A voice called an order to loose all ropes. The ship lurched. Gennie wobbled a bit as the boat left the quay.

  An unhappy expression on his face, Haven grasped Genvieve and she held steady.

  “Did Father Jonas speak with you?”

  “Oui.”

  “I would know why you wore the hair shirt.”

  Gennie stared at the sea and gripped the ship’s rail with her free hand. “I told you. It was a penance.”

  Haven twined his fingers in hers and with his other hand turned her face toward him. “Do not try my patience too far, wife.” His cheeks paled and his mouth tautened.